erism, Byronism, even
Brummelism, each has its day. For Contemplation and love of Wisdom, no
Cloister now opens its religious shades; the Thinker must, in all
senses, wander homeless, too often aimless, looking up to a Heaven
which is dead for him, round to an Earth which is deaf. Action, in
those old days, was easy, was voluntary, for the divine worth of human
things lay acknowledged; Speculation was wholesome, for it ranged
itself as the handmaid of Action; what could not so range itself died
out by its natural death, by neglect. Loyalty still hallowed
obedience, and made rule noble; there was still something to be loyal
to: the Godlike stood embodied under many a symbol in men's interests
and business; the Finite shadowed forth the Infinite; Eternity looked
through Time. The Life of man was encompassed and overcanopied by a
glory of Heaven, even as his dwelling-place by the azure vault.

How changed in these new days! Truly may it be said, the Divinity has
withdrawn from the Earth; or veils himself in that wide-wasting
Whirlwind of a departing Era, wherein the fewest can discern his
goings. Not Godhead, but an iron, ignoble circle of Necessity embraces
all things; binds the youth of these times into a sluggish thrall, or
else exasperates him into a rebel. Heroic Action is paralysed; for
what worth now remains unquestionable with him? At the fervid period
when his whole nature cries aloud for Action, there is nothing sacred
under whose banner he can act; the course and kind and conditions of
free Action are all but undiscoverable. Doubt storms-in on him through
every avenue; inquiries of the deepest, painfullest sort must be
engaged with; and the invincible energy of young years waste itself in
sceptical, suicidal cavillings; in passionate "questionings of
Destiny," whereto no answer will be returned.

For men, in whom the old perennial principle of Hunger (be it Hunger
of the poor Day-drudge who stills it with eighteenpence a-day, or of
the ambitious Placehunter who can nowise still it with so little)
suffices to fill up existence, the case is bad; but not the worst.
These men have an aim, such as it is; and can steer towards it, with
chagrin enough truly; yet, as their hands are kept full, without
desperation. Unhappier are they to whom a higher instinct has been
given; who struggle to be persons, not machines; to whom the Universe
is not a warehouse, or at best a fancy-bazaar, but a mystic temple and
hall of doom