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Your god, sir, is the World. In my eyes, you, too, if not an infidel, are an idolater. I conceive that you ignorantly worship: in all things you appear to me too superstitious. Sir, your god, your great Bel, your fish-tailed Dagon, rises before me as a demon. You, and such as you, have raised him to a throne, put on him a crown, given him a sceptre. Behold how hideously he governs! See him busied at the work he likes best - making marriages. He binds the young to the old, the strong to the imbecile. He stretches out the arm of Mezentius and fetters the dead to the living. In his realm there is hatred - secret hatred: there is disgust - unspoken disgust: there is treachery - family treachery: there is vice - deep, deadly, domestic vice. In his dominions, children grow unloving between parents who have never loved: infants are nursed on deception from their very birth: they are reared in an atmosphere corrupt with lies ... All that surrounds him hastens to decay: all declines and degenerates under his sceptre. Your god is a masked Death. ? Charlotte Bronte, Shirley

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Your god sir is the World In my eyes you too if not an infidel are an idolater I conceive that you ignorantly worship: in all things you appear to me too superstitious Sir your god your great Bel your fish tailed Dagon rises before me as a demon You and such as you have raised him to a throne put on him a crown given him a sceptre Behold how hideously he governs See him busied at the work he likes best making marriages He binds the young to the old the strong to the imbecile He stretches out the arm of Mezentius and fetters the dead to the living In his realm there is hatred secret hatred: there is disgust unspoken disgust: there is treachery family treachery: there is vice deep deadly domestic vice In his dominions children grow unloving between parents who have never loved: infants are nursed on deception from their very birth: they are reared in an atmosphere corrupt with lies All that surrounds him hastens to decay: all declines and degenerates under his sceptre Your god is a masked Death Charlotte Bronte Shirley

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