No, if we want to get at genuine, unadulterated primitive man we must go much further back in time than the mere trifle of 250,000 years with which Dr. Croll and the cosmic astronomers so generously provide us for pre-Glacial humanity.  We must turn away to the immeasurably earlier fire-split flints which the Abbe Bourgeois—­undaunted mortal!—­ventured to discover among the Miocene strata of the calcaire de Beauce.  Those flints, if of human origin at all, were fashioned by some naked and still more hairy creature who might fairly claim to be considered as genuinely primitive.  So rude are they that, though evidently artificial, one distinguished archaeologist will not admit they can be in any way human; he will have it that they were really the handiwork of the great European anthropoid ape of that early period.  This, however, is nothing more than very delicate hair-splitting; for what does it matter whether you call the animal that fashioned these exceedingly rough and fire-marked implements a man-like ape or an ape-like human being?  The fact remains quite unaltered, whichever name you choose to give to it.  When you have got to a monkey who can light a fire and proceed to manufacture himself a convenient implement, you may be sure that man, noble man, with all his glorious and admirable faculties—­cannibal or otherwise—­is lurking somewhere very close just round the corner.  The more we examine the work of our old master, in fact, the more does the conviction force itself upon us that he was very far indeed from being primitive—­that we must push back the early history of our race not for 250,000 winters alone, but perhaps for two or three million years into the dim past of Tertiary ages.

But if pre-Glacial man is thus separated from the origin of the race by a very long interval indeed, it is none the less true that he is separated from our own time by the intervention of a vast blank space, the space occupied by the coming on and passing away of the Glacial Epoch.  A great gap cuts him off from what we may consider as the relatively modern age of the mound-builders, whose grassy barrows still cap the summits of our southern chalk downs.  When the great ice sheet drove away palaeolithic man—­the man of the caves and the unwrought flint axes—­from Northern Europe, he was still nothing more than a naked savage in the hunting stage, divinely gifted for art, indeed, but armed only with roughly chipped stone implements, and wholly ignorant of taming animals or of the very rudiments of agriculture.  He knew nothing of the use of metals—­aurum irrepertum spernere fortior—­and he had not even learnt how to grind and polish his rude stone tomahawks to a finished edge.  He couldn’t make himself a bowl of sun-baked pottery, and, if he had discovered the almost universal art of manufacturing an intoxicating liquor from grain or berries (for, as Byron, with too great anthropological truth, justly remarks, ’man, being reasonable, must get drunk’), he at least drank his aboriginal beer or toddy from the capacious horn of a slaughtered aurochs.  That was the kind of human being who alone inhabited France and England during the later pre-Glacial period.