Most of our scientific men
are in this last class; our popular authors either set themselves
definitely against all religious form, pleading for simple truth and
benevolence (Thackeray, Dickens), or give themselves up to bitter and
fruitless statement of facts (De Balzac), or surface-painting (Scott),
or careless blasphemy, sad or smiling (Byron, Beranger). Our earnest
poets and deepest thinkers are doubtful and indignant (Tennyson,
Carlyle); one or two, anchored, indeed, but anxious or weeping
(Wordsworth, Mrs. Browning); and of these two, the first is not so
sure of his anchor, but that now and then it drags with him, even to
make him cry out,--
Great God, I had rather be
A Pagan suckled in some creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn.[114]
In politics, religion is now a name; in art, a hypocrisy or affectation.
Over German religious pictures the inscription, "See how Pious I am,"
can be read at a glance by any clear-sighted person. Over French and
English religious pictures the inscription, "See how Impious I am," is
equally legible. All sincere and modest art is, among us, profane.[115]
This faithlessness operates among us according to our tempers,
producing either sadness or levity, and being the ultimate root alike
of our discontents and of our wantonnesses.
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