My darling, who dares say, Yes, I in God believe? Question or priest or sage, and they Seem, in the answer you receive, To mock the questioner. _Marguerite_: Then thou dost not believe? _Faust_: Sweet one! my meaning do not misconceive! Him who dare name And who proclaim, Him I believe? Who that can feel, His heart can steel To say: I believe him not? The All-embracer, All-sustainer, Holds and sustains he not Thee, me, himself? Lifts not the Heaven its dome above? Doth not the firm-set earth beneath us lie? And beaming tenderly with looks of love Climb not the everlasting stars on high? Do I not gaze into thine eyes? Nature’s impenetrable agencies, Are they not thronging on thy heart and brain, Viewless, or visible to mortal ken, Around thee weaving their mysterious chain? Fill thence thy heart, how large soe’er it be; And in the feeling when thou utterly art blest, Then call it what thou wilt-- Call it Bliss! Heart! Love! God! I have no name for it! Feeling is all; Name is but sound and smoke Shrouding the glow of heaven.[215] The upshot of this enthusiasm that overflows all boundaries and spurns definition as mere smoke that veils its heavenly glow is the seduction of a poor peasant girl. Such is the romantic contrast between the “ideal” and the “real.” Those to whom I may seem to be treating the nature cult with undue severity should remember that I am treating it only in its pseudo-religious aspect. In its proper place all this refining on man’s relation to the “outworld” may be legitimate and delightful; but that place is secondary. My quarrel is only with the æsthete who assumes an apocalyptic pose and gives forth as a profound philosophy what is at best only a holiday or week-end view of existence. No distinction is more important for any one who wishes to maintain a correct scale of values than that between what is merely recreative and what ministers to leisure. There are times when we may properly seek solace and renewal in nature, when we may invite both our souls and our bodies to loaf. The error is to look on these moments of recreation and relief from concentration on some definite end as in themselves the consummation of wisdom. Rousseau indeed assumes that his art of mixing himself up with the landscape is identical with leisure; like innumerable disciples he confuses revery with meditation--a confusion so grave that I shall need to revert to it later. He parodies subtly what is above the ordinary rational level in terms of what is below it. He thus brings under suspicion the most necessary of all truths--that the kingdom of heaven is within us.