But the danger is for those who have no such unselfish
enthusiasm, and who are tempted, under the guise of religion, to yield
themselves with a sense of fastidious complacency to what are, after
all, mere sensuous delights. Is it right to countenance such error? If
piety frankly said, "These things are no part of religion at all; they
are only a pure region of spiritual beauty, a garden of refreshment
into which a pilgrim may enter by the way; only a mere halting-place, a
home of comfort,"--then I should feel that it would be a consistent
attitude. But if it is only a concession to the desire of beauty, if it
distracts men from the purpose of Christ, if it is a mere bait for
artistic souls, then I cannot believe that it is justified.
While I thus pondered, the anthem rose loud and sweet upon the air; all
the pathos, the desire of the world, the craving for delicious rest,
stirred and spoke in those moving strains--round a quiet minor air,
sung by a deep grave voice of a velvety softness, a hundred mellow
pipes wove their sweet harmonies: it told assuredly of a hope and of a
truth far off; it drew the soul into a secret haven, where it listened
contentedly to the roar of the surge outside. But the error seemed to
be that one desired to rest there, like the Lotos-eaters in the
enchanted land, and not to fare forth as a soldier of God. It spoke of
delight, not of hardness; of acquiescence, not of effort.
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