Gathered Leaves from the Prose of Mary E. Coleridge, with a Memoir by Edith Sichel
(London: Constable and Company Ltd., 1910), p. 233:
How dull is the Life of Dean Church! How much
worse than dull the Life of Dr. Pusey! I think the devil
writes religious biography. There's much more real
religion in the Bacchae of Euripides, which is simply
glorious—a sort of Greek Salvation Army business, all
drums and cymbals and ecstasy. Macaulay says he
hasn't the least idea whether Euripides meant to run up
or run down fanaticism, but it's one of the finest things
going. The revel of vine and ivy and bryony and wind—blown torches and roofless rocks and wild delirious joy
in freedom and music and open air—is quite intoxicating.
Then there's Bacchus himself, the god come down in the
likeness of man, the men of Thebes refusing to understand, obstinate not to worship him, punished accordingly. There's no real tipsiness as far as I can make out. The Hallelujah Lasses get drunk on the wine of
the spirit, not the wine of the grape.