It is easy to call such a phenomenon absurd, improbable.  It is rather rational, probable, say certain to happen.  Rational, I say; for the reason of man tells him, and has always told him, that he is a supernatural being, if by nature is meant that which is cognisable by his five senses:  that his coming into this world, his relation to it, his exit from it—­which are the three most important facts about him—­are supernatural, not to be explained by any deductions from the impressions of his senses.  And I make bold to say, that the recent discoveries of physical science—­notably those of embryology—­go only to justify that old and general belief of man.  If man be told that the microscope and scalpel show no difference, in the first stage of visible existence, between him and the lower mammals, then he has a right to answer—­as he will answer—­So much the worse for the microscope and scalpel:  so much the better for my old belief, that there is beneath my birth, life, death, a substratum of supernatural causes, imponderable, invisible, unknowable by any physical science whatsoever.  If you cannot render me a reason how I came hither, and what I am, I must go to those who will render me one.  And if that craving be not satisfied by a rational theory of life, it will demand satisfaction from some magical theory; as did the mind of the eighteenth century when, revolting from materialism, it fled to magic, to explain the ever-astounding miracle of life.

The old Regime.  Will our age, in its turn, ever be spoken of as an old Regime?  Will it ever be spoken of as a Regime at all; as an organised, orderly system of society and polity; and not merely as a chaos, an anarchy, a transitory struggle, of which the money-lender has been the real guide and lord?

But at least it will be spoken of as an age of progress, of rapid developments, of astonishing discoveries.

Are you so sure of that?  There was an age of progress once.  But what is our age—­what is all which has befallen since 1815—­save after-swells of that great storm, which are weakening and lulling into heavy calm?  Are we on the eve of stagnation?  Of a long check to the human intellect?  Of a new Byzantine era, in which little men will discuss, and ape, the deeds which great men did in their forefathers’ days?

What progress—­it is a question which some will receive with almost angry surprise—­what progress has the human mind made since 1815?

If the thought be startling, do me the great honour of taking it home, and verifying for yourselves its truth or its falsehood.  I do not say that it is altogether true.  No proposition concerning human things, stated so broadly, can be.  But see for yourselves, whether it is not at least more true than false; whether the ideas, the discoveries, of which we boast most in the nineteenth century, are not really due to the end of the eighteenth.  Whether other men did not labour, and we have only entered into their labours.  Whether our positivist spirit, our content with the collecting of facts, our dread of vast theories, is not a symptom—­wholesome, prudent, modest, but still a symptom—­of our consciousness that we are not as our grandfathers were; that we can no longer conceive great ideas, which illumine, for good or evil, the whole mind and heart of man, and drive him on to dare and suffer desperately.