To resuscitate the Eighteenth Century, or call into men's view,
beyond what is necessary, the poor and sordid personages and
transactions of an epoch so related to us, can be no purpose of
mine on this occasion. The Eighteenth Century, it is well known,
does not figure to me as a lovely one; needing to be kept in mind,
or spoken of unnecessarily. To me the Eighteenth Century has
nothing grand in it, except that grand universal Suicide, named
French Revolution, by which it terminated its otherwise most
worthless existence with at least one worthy act;--setting fire
to its old home and self; and going up in flames and volcanic
explosions, in a truly memorable and important manner. A very
fit termination, as I thankfully feel, for such a Century.
Century spendthrift, fraudulent-bankrupt; gone at length utterly
insolvent, without real MONEY of performance in its pocket,
and the shops declining to take hypocrisies and speciosities any
farther:--what could the poor Century do, but at length admit,
"Well, it is so. I am a swindler-century, and have long been,--
having learned the trick of it from my father and grandfather;
knowing hardly any trade but that in false bills, which I
thought foolishly might last forever, and still bring at least
beef and pudding to the favored of mankind. And behold it ends;
and I am a detected swindler, and have nothing even to eat.
What remains but that I blow my brains out, and do at length one
true action?" Which the poor Century did; many thanks to it,
in the circumstances.

For there was need once more of a Divine Revelation to the torpid
frivolous children of men, if they were not to sink altogether
into the ape condition. And in that whirlwind of the Universe,--