Natural obstacles oppose themselves to this mission of philosophically raising the world to nobler ideas by the social religion of beauty. The French are a matter-of-fact, practical, sceptical people; between the peasant and his cattle, the lord and the peasant, there exists a solid and after all a pleasant relationship. Further, the French are specially hostile to ideas of an intellectual hierarchy, they lack sensibility, the beautiful displeases and shocks them, and when a revolution gives them what they call a moment’s freedom, they amuse themselves by defacing as many statues as possible, destroying their cathedrals, burning their historical monuments with all the enthusiasm of hate a personal grievance can inspire. Likewise, in regard to love, modesty, the ideal, and all refined and aesthetic sentiments, we experience a certain pleasure in scouting them; when we have won any sort of diploma, that is the use we make of it. And yet, do what we may, lofty things alone can elevate us: on the mountain-top we breathe a different air from that in the valley. We must raise on heights above us eminent women who will crucify themselves, if need be, to draw soil-stained men to them, according to Christ’s words, “I will draw all things unto me”—women endowed with all that glorifies—money (to scorn money is the luxury of the rich); a noble blood clarified on stricken fields, or through intellectual wrestlings, a spirit original and pure. Christ was at once the son of kings and the Son of God! This is the consecration of happiness through a philosophy of emotion and sentiment. Plato said that what was needed for the happiness of humanity, was “philosophers who rule, or kings who philosophise.” Do not believe it! What is wanted is kings who govern, and women who philosophise. Men will always imagine that liberty and equality are established by act of Parliament; philosophy is to them only a means of livelihood. Cremonini, a famous professor, but a wit, said when he took leave at the close of his lectures: “All that I have taught you is true according to Aristotle, but not in an absolute sense: you might as well believe St. Roch or St. Anthony.” Nifo[140] contradicted himself with charming serenity, though he allowed no one else to contradict him. In truth, how were these excellent professors of philosophy to know that, three and a half centuries later, a Mabilleau, a Fiorentino, or a Ferri would doggedly set themselves to unearth their unpublished lucubrations from the dust of libraries, and throw on them the searchlight of criticism?