artistic luxury; but more virtue, more knowledge, more self-control, even though I earn scanty bread by heavy toil; and when I compare the Caesar of Rome or the great king, whether of Egypt, Babylon, or Persia, with the hermit of the Thebaid, starving in his frock of camel’s hair, with his soul fixed on the ineffable glories of the unseen, and striving, however wildly and fantastically, to become an angel and not an ape, I will say the hermit, and not the Caesar, is the civilised man.

There are plenty of histories of civilisation and theories of civilisation abroad in the world just now, and which profess to show you how the primeval savage has, or at least may have, become the civilised man.  For my part, with all due and careful consideration, I confess I attach very little value to any of them:  and for this simple reason that we have no facts.  The facts are lost.

Of course, if you assume a proposition as certainly true, it is easy enough to prove that proposition to be true, at least to your own satisfaction.  If you assert with the old proverb, that you may make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, you will be stupider than I dare suppose anyone here to be, if you cannot invent for yourselves all the intermediate stages of the transformation, however startling.  And, indeed, if modern philosophers had stuck more closely to this old proverb, and its defining verb “make,” and tried to show how some person or persons—­let them be who they may—­men, angels, or gods—­made the sow’s ear into the silk purse, and the savage into the sage—­they might have pleaded that they were still trying to keep their feet upon the firm ground of actual experience.  But while their theory is, that the sow’s ear grew into a silk purse of itself, and yet unconsciously and without any intention of so bettering itself in life, why, I think that those who have studied the history which lies behind them, and the poor human nature which is struggling, and sinning, and sorrowing, and failing around them, and which seems on the greater part of this planet going downwards and not upwards, and by no means bettering itself, save in the increase of opera-houses, liquor-bars, and gambling-tables, and that which pertaineth thereto; then we, I think, may be excused if we say with the old Stoics—­[Greek text]—­I withhold my judgment.  I know nothing about the matter yet; and you, oh my imaginative though learned friends, know I suspect very little either.

   Eldest of things, Divine Equality: 

so sang poor Shelley, and with a certain truth.  For if, as I believe, the human race sprang from a single pair, there must have been among their individual descendants an equality far greater than any which has been known on earth during historic times.  But that equality was at best the infantile innocence of the primary race, which faded away in the race as quickly, alas! as it does in the individual child.  Divine—­therefore it was one of the first blessings which man lost; one of the last, I fear, to which he will return; that to which civilisation, even at its best yet known, has not yet attained, save here and there for short periods; but towards which it is striving as an ideal goal, and, as I trust, not in vain.