anything, if spirit be absolute, is to invent it. Even those philosophies
of history which the idealist may for some secret reason be impelled to
construct would be superstitious, according to his own principles, if he
took them for more than poetic fictions of the historian; so that in the
study of history, as in every other study, all the diligence and sober
learning which the philosopher may possess are non-philosophical, since
they presuppose independent events and material documents. Thus perfect
idealism turns out to be pure literary sport, like lyric poetry, in which
no truth is conveyed save the miscellaneous truths taken over from common
sense or the special sciences; and the gay spirit, supposed to be living
and shining of its own sweet will, can find nothing to live or shine upon
save the common natural world.

Such at least would be the case if romantic superstition did not
supervene, demanding that the spirit should impose some arbitrary rhythm
or destiny on the world which it creates: but this side of idealism has
been cultivated chiefly by the intrepid Germans: some of them, like
Spengler and Keyserling, still thrive and grow famous on it without a
blush. The modest English in these matters take shelter under the wing of
science speculatively extended, or traditional religion prudently
rationalised: the scope of the spirit, like its psychological
distribution, is conceived realistically. It might almost prove an
euthanasia for British idealism to lose itself in the new metaphysics of
nature which the mathematicians are evolving; and since this metaphysics,
though materialistic in effect, is more subtle and abstruse than popular
materialism, British idealism might perhaps be said to survive in it,
having now passed victoriously into its opposite, and being merged in
something higher.