what a reality life was to them.  Caesar certainly had little religion enough; and what he may have had, played no part in making his life earnest.  He took the world as he found it, as all healthy men have taken it; and, as it is said, all healthy men will still continue to take it.  Nor was such a life as Caesar’s peculiar to himself.  It represents that purely human life that flourished generally in such vigour amongst the Romans.  And the consideration of it is said to be all the more instructive, because it flourished in the face of just the same conditions that we think so disheartening now.  There was in those times, as there is in ours, a wide disintegration of the old faiths; and to many, then as now, this fact seemed at once sad and terrifying.  As we read Juvenal, Petronius, Lucian, or Apuleius, we are astounded at the likeness of those times to these.  Even in minute details, they correspond with a marvellous exactness.  And hence there seems a strange force in the statement that history repeats itself, and that the wisdom learnt from the past can be applied to the present and the future.

But all this, though it is doubtless true, is in reality only half the truth; and as used in the arguments of the day, it amounts practically to a profound falsehood.  History in a certain sense, of course, does repeat itself; and the thing that has been is in a certain sense the thing that shall be.  But there is a deeper and a wider sense in which, this is not so.  Let us take the life of an individual man, for instance.  A man of fifty will retain very likely many of the tastes and tricks that were his, when a boy of ten:  and people who have known him long will often exclaim that he is just the same as he always was.  But in spite of this, they will know that he is very different.  His hopes will have dwindled down; the glow, the colour, and the bright haze will have gone from them; things that once amused him will amuse him no more:  things he once thought important, he will consider weary trifles; and if he thinks anything serious at all, they will not be things he thought serious when a boy.  The same thing is true of the year, and its changing seasons.  The history of a single year may be, in one sense, said to repeat itself every day.  There is the same recurrence of light and darkness, of sunrise and of sunset:  and a man who had lived only for a month or two, might fancy that this recurrence was complete.  But let him live a little longer, and he will come to see that this is not so.  Slowly through the summer he will begin to discern a change; until at last he can contrast the days and nights of winter with the days and nights of summer, and see how flowers that once opened fresh every morning, now never open or close at all.  Then he will see that the two seasons, though in many points so like each other, are yet, in a far deeper way, different.