Never was vagary of mediaeval faith so groundless as this.

The Earthly Paradise that the mediaeval world believed in was not more mythical than the Earthly Paradise believed in by our exact thinkers now; and George Eliot might just as well start in a Cunard steamer to find the one, as send her faith into the future to find the other.
Could it be shown that these splendid anticipations were well founded, they might perhaps kindle some new and active enthusiasm; though it is very doubtful, even then, if the desire would be ardent enough to bring about its own accomplishment.

This, however, it is quite useless to consider, the anticipations in question being simply an empty dream.

A certain kind of improvement, as I have said, we are no doubt right in looking for, not only with confidence, but with complacency.

But positivism, so far from brightening this prospect, makes it indefinitely duller than it would be otherwise.