I conceive those to be altogether wrong who say that such a state would be one of any wild license, or anything that we should call very revolting depravity.
Offences, certainly, that we consider the most abominable would doubtless be committed continually and as matters of course.

Such a feeling as shame about them would be altogether unknown.

But the normal forms of passion would remain, I conceive, the most important; and it is probable, that though no form of vice would have the least anathema attached to it, the rage for the sexual pleasures would be far less fierce than it is in many cases now.

The sort of condition to which the world would be tending would be a condition rather of dulness than what we, in our parlance, should now call degradation.

Indeed the state of things to which the positive view of life seems to promise us, and which to some extent it is actually now bringing on us, is exactly what was predicted long ago, with an accuracy that seems little less than inspired, at the end of Pope's _Dunciad_.
_In vain, in vain: the all-composing hour Resistless falls! the muse obeys the power.
She comes! she comes! the sable throne behold Of night primaeval and of chaos old.
Before her, fancy's gilded clouds decay, And all its varying rainbows die away.
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, The sickening stars fade off the ethereal plain; As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppress'd Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest; Thus, at her felt approach and secret might, Art after art goes out, and all is night.
See skulking truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of casuistry heap'd o'er her head.
Philosophy, that lean'd on heaven before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more._ _Physic of metaphysic begs defence, And metaphysic calls for aid on sense! See mystery to mathematics fly.
In vain: they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires; And, unawares, morality expires.
Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine, Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine.
Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restor'd, Light dies before thy uncreating word, Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all._ Dr.Johnson said that these verses were the noblest in English poetry.
Could he have read them in our day, and have realised with what a pitiful accuracy their prophecy might soon begin to fulfil itself, he would probably have been too busy with dissatisfaction at the matter of it to have any time to spare for an artistic approbation of the manner.
FOOTNOTES: [27] Mr.Frederic Harrison.
[28] The case of J.S.Mill may seem at first sight to be an exception to this.