leading straight to its gate. It sounds its own praises and celebrates
itself at all opportunities. But with all this there is a wholesome
recognition of responsibility. Nobility obliges, it is prompt to
confess, and to act accordingly. It sees flaws in its regal diamonds,
spots that still sully on its ermine; and is not slow to address
itself to the duty of their removal.

If the century understands itself, it may be said likewise to
understand the others better than they did themselves. It collects
their respective autobiographies and their mutual criticisms. The real
truths, half truths and delusions each has added to the accumulating
common stock it sifts and weighs, mercilessly piling a dustheap beyond
Mr. Boffin's wildest dreams, and rescuing, on the other hand, from
the old wastebasket many discarded scraps of real but till now
unacknowledged value. Busy in gathering stores of its own, it is able
to find time for digesting those bequeathed to it, and for executing
both tasks with a good deal of care. It brings skepticism to its aid
in both, and subjects new and old conclusions to almost equally close
analysis. Each new pebble it picks up upon the shore of the Newtonian
ocean it holds up square and askew to the light, and cross-examines
color, texture and form. Now and then, being but mortal after all, it
chuckles too hastily over a brilliant find, but the blunder is not apt
to wait long for correction. Just now it appears to be overhauling its
accounts in the item of science, taking stock of its discoveries in
that field, balancing bad against good, and determining profit and
loss. Some once-promising entries have to undergo a black mark, while
a few claims that were despaired of come to the fore. This proceeding
is only preparatory, however, to a new departure on a bolder scale.
Scientific progress knows only partial checks. Its movement is that of
a force _en échelon_: one line may get into trouble and recoil, while