Ir, as has sometimes been said, the laws of a nation indicate, with much accuracy, its progress in civilization, and intellectual and moral culture; the remark, we think, might now be made with more pertinency of its current literature. For whatever may have been true of the legislation of past times, it certainly would not be safe at present to draw very broad inferences concerning the real condition of a people from the laws enacted by their legislators. The rich and influential in the community have come to regard modern legislation much in the same light as did King Philip of Macedon the walls of the cities he wished to conquer. It was enough for him, he said, if he could only succeed in making a breach in them large enough for an ass laden with gold to pass through. And this is all that now seems recessary, in most instances, for either an individual or a particular interest or party, to secure just such legislation as the exigencies of the occasion may require. The barriers and defences of law are of but slight account when a bribe-which may assume as many shapes as the fabled Proteus can find so ready a passage through them. But the books of a nation are at this day a more reliable index of its character than its legislation. Here comes into operation the great law of demand and supply. Books are produced, as a rule, to meet existing and known wants. This is not, however, invariably the case. Some are written more to gratify an author's love of fame than at the behest of the public. A young poet, for instance, feels that he has only to display his genius in print in order to win the renown of a Byron, a Tennyson, or a Longfellow; and the result is, he spoils many reams of white paper, and assures the book-stalls of a new supply of heavy stock. Other men have succeeded in convincing themselves, and believe they can convince others, that their opinions on matters of finance, philosophy, or government are of importance to the world, and must therefore be embodied in a book, which will hand down their name to posterity. At least

the burden lies so heavy upon their hearts, that they can find no rest until a public judgment is passed upon their pet theories; and should they fail to secure that wide recognition to which they think their opinions justly entitle them, they can safely count upon the praise of a few admirers. This of itself is a sufficient stimulus to their industry-an ample reward for their efforts. Others still, cherish the belief that they have a peculiar aptitude to shine in the field of fiction, and the result is that they contribute to swell the long list of novels that make up the huge auction catalogue.

But such writers as these are no proper index of the popular demand for current literature. Still it will not do to pass them over in silence, or ignore their existence. Their individual significance may be small, yet the aggregate is by no means contemptible. They indicate the rills, however obscure or turbid the fountains from which they take their rise, that help to swell the great stream of literary production. Their vagaries may not inaptly be compared to the comets of the solar system, completing while slightly disturbing it. At intervals their odd or fanciful opinions, especially if connected with the subject of religion, ignite the tinder element in society much as a spark will the dry leaves of the forest, and produce a combustion more or less extended. Sometimes these work sad havoc among the weak-minded, and those of unstable principles, but possibly harming only their authors.

A journalist is oftentimes entertained, but more frequently saddened as he notices the books which are submitted to his critical judgment. He soon learns that, as a general thing, their external appearance betrays somewhat their internal character. For books have a physiognomy as well as men. There is the ponderous 8vo in black muslin, containing a serious discussion of grave themes an elaborate commentary on Scripture, or perhaps a compendious history-which belongs to the conserva

tive, aristocratic class of books, and which will be honored with a conspicuous place in the library. of the theologian or scholar. There is the subscription book, portly and plethoric, reminding one by its large, staring type, of an octogenarian with his big spectacles, seemingly very wise and profound; or the sprightly looking, gilded volume, in blue, or green, or red, and for which we have a personal friendship growing out of long familiarity, and to which we feel like saying, in the language of Webster to the veterans of Bunker Hill, "Venerable men, ye have come down to us from a former generation." Then there is the spruce 12mo, which we at once see was designed to be read with ease, at the fireside or in the railroad car, and treating of some matter of popular interest, but in its dark muslin covers leaving the critic quite in the dark as to its real merits, and forcing him to do as much at least as to read over a single chapter before expressing an opinion as to the nature of its contents. These may stand as the type of a class of men, who with closed lips are often a difficult problem to their neighbors, and whose words are necessary for the revelation of their true character.

Then comes another class that is known at first sight, the 12mo novel, with a profusion of tinsel, and infinitely varied in shades and color. These are the dread of critics who have any conscientious estimate of the value of time. They form, however, an interesting study for the philosophic mind. Such an one knows full well their general worthlessness, but he knows also that they form the staple reading of thousands; and as he sees with what eagerness they are devoured by the youth of both sexes, he can scarcely repress the frightful calculation of the amount of money that has been wasted in their production, or the time squandered in their perusal. These serve to entertain their possessors for a few, vacantless hours, and are then cast aside like old clothes, which a change in fashions has rendered useless, and on their way to oblivion find a temporary shelter in some corner book-stall.

There is still another class of books, which carry their characters on their very face. These are paper-covered romances or novels, ranging from the modest 12mo to the Victor Hugo huge 8vo, with hues varying from brick to orange, and ornamented or disfigured with woodcuts, portraits, mottoes, &c., designed to arrest the attention and gratify the perverted taste of those who find pleasure in such productions. Books like these— if indeed they deserve the name in their undignified dishabille-are on the whole perhaps the most nauseous things for a sober-minded critic to encounter. He instinctively turns away from them. They are not gold leaf, beaten thin from a single grain of the precious metal; they are rather tin foil or lead rolled down to such tenuity that a single breath would rend them, and possessing no intrinsic value. The idea that tens of thousands read such stuff as this by the light of the midnight lamp, to the detriment of sight, health, peace of mind, and frequently principle, is simply appalling. The market should be closed to all such productions. Or if sold at all, they should be labelled, as are certain poisonous drugs, so that no one can mistake their character. Though they contain more opium than strychnine, still wherever they go they can work nothing but mischief. What false ideal worlds do they create, to which the feelings, the tastes, the imaginations and the purposes of the reader adjust themselves! And just in proportion as they accept as real the painted images of the author, are they unfitted for the stern realities of the world in which they dwell. So far as the soul yields to these influences, it becomes distorted and mis-shapen. It creates for itself inevitable disappointments, and the discontent which springs up sours the temper, and disqualifies the individual for the proper duties of life. Many of the heroes of our popular romances and novels are of just that peculiar and impracticable class whom peaceable and orderly society would be thankful to dispense with. It disowns them as models for the everyday expe

rience of mankind, and recognizes them as simply abnormal, when they are not detestable.

Now works of this kind are not to be ignored or passed by, on the ground that they produce no appreciable influence. On the contrary, it is widespread and disastrous. They are extensively read, as published statistics prove, and as their own soiled and well-worn appearance testifies. Ainsworth's "Jack Shepherd" has made a multitude of heroic thieves, as their own confessions witness, having educated them in their youth to the false belief that the highest virtue is to bid defiance to all the restraints of law, and trample on all the common virtues on which the welfare of society depends. The susceptible age of the readers of this class of fiction, renders it the more pernicious. Were they persons of mature years, or independent thinkers, they might discriminate more readily between the chaff and the wheat. But they are the young and inconsiderate-those whose tastes are unformed, whose characters are still plastic, and who are at that transition period in life, when the impressions received are apt to become permanent, with the strong probability that they will carry their distorted notions through all their future years. They thus become not only unfitted for the responsibilities of practical life, but it will be well if, dissatisfied with their condition, and with their morals vitiated, they do not prove in the end a pest to society.

A scarcely less severe judgment, in some respects, many would be disposed to pronounce upon the class of books designed especially for youth, which are written with a laudable purpose, and which frequently contain good moral or religious instruction. Some few may be read with profit, but their warp and woof are fiction, and as they are so rapidly multiplied by the press of the country, their infliction is only less grievous than the plagues of Egypt. Their standard style is the 16mo, with variously colored muslin covers, set off by a few indifferent wood-cuts, and with well-leaded pages, whose perusal leaves neither a sense

of weariness nor satisfaction to the reader, who has, perhaps, already devoured scores of equally flimsy productions.

Now it is not difficult to predict what must be the result where youth are trained to a fondness for this kind of literature. They read merely for the sake of the story, and for nothing else. The goodishness of the book is the salvo to their consciences for perusing it on the Sabbath, just as it has served to recommend it to Committees as worthy a place on the shelves of the Sunday school library. Most of these books contain the smallest possible amount of profitable truth, and but little, if anything, to form a truly manly, robust Christian character. Read hastily, and in great numbers, each can only leave the faintest ripple mark on the memory; and if at the end of a year, more than the mere name can be recalled, it is a marvel. The minds of our children are thus made a beaten path for many hoofs, and each succeeding one tramples out the track or impression of its predecessor. A taste, moreover, is thus formed that rejects more substantial food. Facts and principles are too dry and uninteresting to secure attention; and the mind wearies of every subject that requires thought, and never acquires the muscle and gristle of robust, manly strength. It is an education that enervates, and leaves it weak and infantile. We doubt not that we express the feeling of thousands of parents in wishing that nine-tenths of the books in even our Sunday-school libraries were committed to the flames, and the youthful mind left more free to deal with themes and scenes in which more of Scripture truth is embodied, and to be brought face to face with the trials, and struggles, and triumphs of those who are living or have lived the life of faith in the Son of God. What we would have, is more of the Spartan element in our processes of education, only of a Christian, not a heathen type. The favorite scheme of too many now seems to be that youth shall be kept blissfully ignorant of the stern, uncompromising principles and duties which they must sooner or later encounter, and be borne to heaven on

"flowery beds of ease; and consequently the granite points of duty and of doctrine are covered over with all the picturesque beauty and prettinesses of style that prove so attractive to shallow minds.

We know the excuse is made that the public demand these juvenile works of fiction, and that if one publisher declines to furnish them, others will do it. This may be admitted, and still not furnish the justification sought; since those who now offer the plea have, by their own acts, largely created the taste which they claim the privilege of gratifying. Our difficulty is not specially with the multiplication of juvenile books, but with their character, and the unbecoming concession made to the vicious popular demand. There are some writers whose names give assurance that the right kind of literature is attainable, and that the public is capable of appreciating it-books in which the reader finds all the necessary interest in the story, but which convey truth-the truth of fact, history, doctrine, or a wise experience, and that too in an impressive manner. The attempt to name the writers of this class of books would be considered invidious, since some worthy of honorable mention would inevitably be overlooked. Surely the success of the few proves, however, that the world, at this late age, is not so deficient in genius, that if parents and teachers should use a proper discrimination and assert their just prerogatives, such a demand might not be created for a better class of children's books, as would stimulate our authors to supply it. We might not be favored with another inimitable allegory, such as Bunyan penned, or a new and more perfect story of the Robinson Crusoe type, but we might at least have books almost equally adapted to charm and instruct, with vivid pictures of truth and life, which would fix themselves in the memory of children. As it is, we are pained when we think of the bran instead of the wheaten-flour that our youth must eat, or else go hungry; and of the vitiated taste that calls for the present enormous supply of skim-milk literature

that deluges our Sunday-schools and our homes.

It were easy to show that others feel quite as deeply as we do on this subject. A discriminating writer on Sunday-school literature " says: "We have often been pained to find so large a proportion of these books of a wholly fictitious character. Now we know that books for children ought not to be too didactic and elaborate, but simple and childlike in spirit and style. But must we then draw so largely upon the imagination for religious juvenile instruc tion? Our Sunday-school libraries are crammed with moral chaff, where it requires all the powers of mature wisdom to find the few grains of truth concealed therein. These little volumes usually purport to teach a certain moral by detailing the life of some good being, which the author's fancy has made. They speak of men, women, and children who have never lived, of good deeds never done, of a piety which the writer has made. The little particle of gold is hammered and beaten out into a leaf inconceivably thin, too delicate for any one to grasp. The little drop of wine is diluted with so much 'milk and water,' that all the flavor and virtue are lost. They excite a great passion for reading, but only this kind of reading. Children eagerly pore over one and two books every week, sometimes read at one Sunday afternoon-sitting, and so far as our experience goes, we cannot find one in ten who can give us two ideas from a whole volume. The great mass of these books have nothing to remember, nothing to nourish, only a pious tissue of fancy's weaving, a dish of moral 'floating island.''

One of the most imperative needs of our current literature is a class of books, which, while keeping clear of the license of fiction on the one hand, and dry, general statements on the other, will combine a genial humor with pure morals, and a proper reverence for sacred things. Of theological treatises and volumes of sermons we have a large supply, but we fear the day has gone by when these can form the staple of popular reading. The