no. Instead of heroic martyr
Conduct, and inspired and soul-inspiring Eloquence, whereby Religion
itself were brought home to our living bosoms, to live and reign
there, we have "Discourses on the Evidences," endeavouring, with
smallest result, to make it probable that such a thing as Religion
exists. The most enthusiastic Evangelicals do not preach a Gospel, but
keep describing how it should and might be preached: to awaken the
sacred fire of faith, as by a sacred contagion, is not their
endeavour; but, at most, to describe how Faith shows and acts, and
scientifically distinguish true Faith from false. Religion, like all
else, is conscious of itself, listens to itself; it becomes less and
less creative, vital; more and more mechanical. Considered as a whole,
the Christian Religion of late ages has been continually dissipating
itself into Metaphysics; and threatens now to disappear, as some
rivers do, in deserts of barren sand.

Of Literature, and its deep-seated, wide-spread maladies, why speak?
Literature is but a branch of Religion, and always participates in its
character: however, in our time, it is the only branch that still
shows any greenness; and, as some think, must one day become the main
stem. Now, apart from the subterranean and tartarean regions of
Literature;--leaving out of view the frightful, scandalous statistics
of Puffing, the mystery of Slander, Falsehood, Hatred and other
convulsion-work of rabid Imbecility, and all that has rendered
Literature on that side a perfect "Babylon the mother of
Abominations," in very deed making the world "drunk" with the wine of
her iniquity;--forgetting all this, let us look only to the regions of
the upper air; to such Literature as can be said to have some attempt
towards truth in it, some tone of music, and if it be not poetical, to
hold of the poetical. Among other characteristics, is not this
manifest enough: that it knows itself? Spontaneous devotedness to the
object, being wholly possessed by the object, what we can call
Inspiration, has well-nigh ceased to appear in Literature. Which
melodious Singer forgets that he is singing melodiously? We have not
the love of greatness, but the love of the love of greatness. Hence
infinite Affectations, Distractions; in every case inevitable Error.
Consider, for one example, this peculiarity of Modern Literature, the
sin that has been named View-hunting. In our elder writers, there are
no paintings of scenery for its own