new earth, and a new God. In America, however, the mind is recommended
rather as an unpatented device for oiling the engine of the body and
making it do double work.

Trustful faith in evolution and a longing for intense life are
characteristic of contemporary sentiment; but they do not appear to be
consistent with that contempt for the intellect which is no less
characteristic of it. Human intelligence is certainly a product, and
a late and highly organised product, of evolution; it ought apparently
to be as much admired as the eyes of molluscs or the antennae of ants.
And if life is better the more intense and concentrated it is,
intelligence would seem to be the best form of life. But the degree of
intelligence which this age possesses makes it so very uncomfortable
that, in this instance, it asks for something less vital, and sighs
for what evolution has left behind. In the presence of such cruelly
distinct things as astronomy or such cruelly confused things as
theology it feels _la nostalgie de la boue_. It was only, M. Bergson
tells us, where dead matter oppressed life that life was forced to
become intelligence; for this reason intelligence kills whatever it
touches; it is the tribute that life pays to death. Life would find it
sweet to throw off that painful subjection to circumstance and bloom
in some more congenial direction. M. Bergson's own philosophy is an
effort to realise this revulsion, to disintegrate intelligence and
stimulate sympathetic experience. Its charm lies in the relief which
it brings to a stale imagination, an imagination from which religion
has vanished and which is kept stretched on the machinery of business
and society, or on small half-borrowed passions which we clothe in a
mean rhetoric and dot with vulgar pleasures. Finding their
intelligence enslaved, our contemporaries suppose that intelligence is
essentially servile; instead of freeing it, they try to elude it. Not