Only now and then, and especially toward the latter half of the eighteenth century, when thought began to revive, and men dreamed of putting the world to rights once more, there rose before them glimpses of an Arcadian ideal.  Country life—­the primaeval calling of men—­how graceful and pure it might be!  How graceful—­if not pure—­it once had been!  The boors of Teniers and the beggars of Murillo might be true to present fact; but there was a fairer ideal, which once had been fact, in the Eclogues of Theocritus, and the Loves of Daphnis and Chloe.  And so men took to dreaming of shepherds and shepherdesses, and painting them on canvas, and modelling them in china, according to their cockney notions of what they had been once, and always ought to be.  We smile now at Sevres and Dresden shepherdesses; but the wise man will surely see in them a certain pathos.  They indicated a craving after something better than boorishness; and the many men and women may have become the gentler and purer by looking even at them, and have said sadly to themselves:  “Such might have been the peasantry of half Europe, had it not been for devastations of the Palatinate, wars of succession, and the wicked wills of emperors and kings.”

LECTURE III—­THE EXPLOSIVE FORCES

In a former lecture in this Institution, I said that the human race owed more to the eighteenth century than to any century since the Christian era.  It may seem a bold assertion to those who value duly the century which followed the revival of Greek literature, and consider that the eighteenth century was but the child, or rather grandchild, thereof.  But I must persist in my opinion, even though it seem to be inconsistent with my description of the very same era as one of decay and death.  For side by side with the death, there was manifold fresh birth; side by side with the decay there was active growth;—­side by side with them, fostered by them, though generally in strong opposition to them, whether conscious or unconscious.  We must beware, however, of trying to find between that decay and that growth a bond of cause and effect where there is really none.  The general decay may have determined the course of many men’s thoughts; but it no more set them thinking than (as I have heard said) the decay of the Ancien Regime produced the new Regime—­a loose metaphor, which, like all metaphors, will not hold water, and must not be taken for a philosophic truth.  That would be to confess man—­what I shall never confess him to be—­the creature of circumstances; it would be to fall into the same fallacy of spontaneous generation as did the ancients, when they believed that bees were bred from the carcass of a dead ox.  In the first place, the bees were no bees, but flies—­unless when some true swarm of honey bees may have taken up their abode within the empty ribs, as Samson’s bees did in that of the lion.  But bees or flies, each sprang