It has been asked by a great author, “What does it signify whether you
deny a God or speak ill of Him?”—a question well answered by another
sage, when he declares, “I would rather men should say that there never
was such a man as Plutarch, than that Plutarch was an ill-natured,
mischievous fellow.”
Nearly eighty years ago Mr. Sharp wrote, “There can be no reasonable
doubt that it is better to believe too much than too little; since, as
Boswell observes (most probably in Johnson’s words), ‘A man may breathe
in foul air, but he must die in an exhausted receiver.’”
Much of the scepticism that we meet with is necessarily affectation or
conceit; for it is as likely that the ignorant, weak, and indolent
should become mathematicians as reasoning unbelievers. Patient study and
perfect impartiality must precede rational conviction, whether ending in
faith or doubt. Need it be asked, how many are capable of such an
examination? But whether they come honestly by their opinions or not, it
is much more advisable to refute than to burn, or even to scorch them.
It has been shrewdly remarked by a contemporary:
All the voices which have any real influence with an Englishman in
easy circumstances combine to stimulate a low form of energy, which
stifles every high one. The newspapers extol his wisdom by assuming
that the average intelligence which he represents is, under the name
of public opinion, the ultimate and irresponsible ruler of the
nation. The novels which he and his family devour with insatiable
greediness have no tendency to rouse his imagination, to say nothing
of his mind. They are pictures of the every-day life to which he has
always been accustomed,—sarcastic, sentimental, or ludicrous, as the
case may be,—but never rising to any thing which could ever suggest
the existence of tragic dignity or ideal beauty. The human mind has
made considerable advances in the last three-and-twenty centuries;
but the thousands of Greeks who could enjoy not only Euripides, but
Homer and Æschylus, were superior, in some important points, to the
millions of Englishmen who in their inmost hearts prefer Pickwick to
Shakspeare. Even the religion of the present day is made to suit the
level of commonplace Englishmen. There was a time when Christianity
meant the embodiment of all truth and holiness in the midst of a
world lying in wickedness. It afterwards included law, liberty, and
knowledge, as opposed to the energetic ignorance of the northern
barbarians. It now too often means philanthropic societies—excellent
things as far as they go, but rather small. Any doctrine now is
given up if it either seems uncomfortable or likely to make a
disturbance. It is almost universally assumed that the truth of an
opinion is tested by its consistency with cheerful views of life and
nature. Unpleasant doctrines are only preached under incredible
forms, and thus serve to spice the enjoyments which they would
otherwise destroy.[122]
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Footnote 122:
_Cornhill Magazine._
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