Yet it is precisely the poor, farcical and futile view of life that is taken by thousands of European and American people in our present period. Both press and pulpit reflect it; it is openly shown in the decadence of the drama, of art, of literature, of politics, and of social conduct. The “blight” is over all. The blight of atheism, infidelity, callousness and indifference to honourable principle,--the blight of moral cowardice, self-indulgence, vanity and want of heart. Without mincing matters, it can be fairly stated that the aristocratic Jezebel is the fashionable woman of the hour, while the men vie with one another as to who shall best screen her from her amours with themselves. And so far as the sterner sex are personally concerned, the moneyed man is the one most sought after, most tolerated, most appreciated and flattered in that swarm of drones called “society” where each buzzing insect tries to sting the other, or crawl over it in such wise as to be the first to steal whatever honey may be within reach. And worst of all things is the selfish apathy which pervades the majority of the well-to-do classes. As little sympathy is shown among them for the living, as regret for the dead. The misfortunes of friends are far more often made subject for ill-natured mockery than for compassion,--the deaths of parents and relations are accepted with a kind of dull pleasure, as making way for the inheritance of money or estates. No real delight is shown in the arts which foster peace, progress and wisdom; and equally little enthusiasm is stirred for such considerations of diplomacy or government which help to keep nations secure. A great man dies one day, and is forgotten the next,--unless some clumsy and scandalous “biography” which rakes up all his faults and mistakes in life, and publishes private letters of the most intimate and sacred character, can be hawked to the front by certain literary vultures who get their living by tearing out the heart of a corpse. Say that a dire tragedy is enacted,--such as the assassination of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria, or the atrocious murder of the late King and Queen of Servia,--or, what is to many minds almost as bad,--the heartless and un-Christian conduct of Leopold, King of the Belgians, to his unhappy daughter Stéphanie,--and though each event may be as painful and terrible as any that ever occupied the attention of the historian, they appear to excite no more human emotion than a few cold expressions of civil surprise or indifference. Feeling,--warm, honest, active, passionate feeling for any cause, is more difficult to rouse than the Sloth from its slumbers. It would, in truth, seem to be dead. The Church cannot move it. The Drama fails to stir it. Patriotism,--National Honour,--have no power to lift it from the quagmire of inertia. But let there be a sudden panic on the Stock Exchange,--let the Paris Bourse be shaken,--let Wall Street be