ABSTRACT
The epoch, the crisis, is almost self-evident. They who hope, they who dream, look with increasing fatigue and a growing despair across the face of the world.
Faiths have been crumbling these fifty years, have they not ? And democracies, quite or nearly without shame, have shown us their cloven hooves, have they not ? Plutocracy is fat and sensual; aristocracy is incompetent and faineant. Expert taste decides that there is even a dearth of poets. The one light is science, but is she a light ? She enslaves philosophy, religion of the imagination, and in her duel with faith, religion of the senses, faith gasps with loss. In the wreck even romanticism is crushed or forgotten.
