I have tried, and failed, to disbelieve in progress. The question of progress is not whether, but how. To build or to make is in vain, and to live is insupportable, without the idea. The twentieth century—and let us only say of it that every worst thing that has ever happened, happened in the twentieth century—killed the metaphysical notion of its provident inevitability, of Progress as the slope down which History flows. But the worth of a faith in progress is proved not in society, but in the individual.

Not everyone need be rooted in the present. You may more or less share the sensibility of your age; you may find it unsympathetic, or unapproachably alien. You may fly to the remnants and inheritance of another age for the company of like souls. But however alone in it, there is something unworthy and childish in abandoning your own age for the past. What is too harsh to be said of the cowardice of someone who would volunteer for such an amputation, as to leave off access to—if not adoption of, which is a separate question—the latest developments, discoveries, creations, thought? Of someone who would turn from the unknown, who could live out his life happily within some foreknown and mapped-out stretch of time? We rightly curse those who would burn old books because they hold them worthless, mistaken, or dangerous. The attempted escape from new books and their authors rises from the same vanity and is, in truth, as misled. To surrender or deny any part of human experience is to cheapen the whole.

Progress is not by levels, but by accumulation. We find that every age, every generation, every city, every circle and school and subculture has its characterizing contribution, it work and its problems. What does not meet them is either addressed to the past, which cannot answer; or to the future, which cannot reward. But only to share the work of others is to be held back by them. Whatever work you propose to do, if you do not mean to keep it only to yourself and God—or to contribute only a footnote to your age—you must allow for progress as a tactical consideration.

In science there is much which seems valuelessly obsolete: ætheric vortices, caloric fluid, absolute time. But these retain their place as begetters in a genealogy of ideas: they were mistakes, but not barren ones. And what were wrong turns for those who made them become signs and stories of warning for the rest of science against naïve materialism, against the applicability throughout the cosmos of the experience of Earth, against the applicability throughout the æons of Earth of the experience of mankind. Even crank theories have psychological moment—at the edges, in work which bears that appearance, but is not taken from that well, like Ramanujan or Dalton; and in how ready power is to champion them, like Lysenkoism. Science has eddies, where in the pursuit of a strange end, a familiar thought rings out ahead of its time—Bruno's inhabited cosmos, Boscovitch's grains of energy; and science has tragedies, where it takes the wrong path so long that it cannot find its way back, and a good idea must be re-invented—like the nebular hypothesis or heliocentrism. Under the appearance of successions of obsolescence, science proceeds by accumulation. It even has heroes, like Archimedes who, millennia dead, can make the front cover of a physics journal. Worked out systems of ideas have an imperishability and a transposability which can deposit them far from their original purpose: how the Hippocratic system of humors, intended to explain disease, has become the model for modern analyses of personality.

Art is not, in any obvious way, ever obsolete. Still, we are told that art is inextricable from the class, the sex, the generation that created it; that our distant appreciation must be inferior—at best, second-hand. Art, certainly, cannot mean for you what it meant for those who made it, and for those it was made for. You cannot catch all the puns and allusions, or interpret all the symbols. In the age of photography, you cannot recapture the sense of the miraculous in the meticulous realism of the Dutch Masters. But the notion that your circumstances fully determine the reach of your meaningful reaction to art is an injury to individuality. To any given artwork, you will not react like a person of another generation; nor would another person of that same generation have reacted in the same way as the first; nor would another person of your own generation react as you do. Art that is not valent between individuals does not endure. And the change is not all lessening. We may without regret say that after Walter Pater, the Mona Lisa means more to us than it did to Leonardo, or to Lisa Gherardini, or to her husband—as long as remember that it meant something different to each of those. We do not only make progress by accumulating art, and subjects for art; or by widening the range of subjects and sensibilities that art can address (Nature and ectasy with the Romantics, horror and terror with the Moderns); but also by allowing every work and every milieu to acquire an ever-lengthening wake of associations.

Progress is real gain; but change in the world is less by introduction, than by different emphasis. Each age is distinguished by the kind of human natures which characterize it; but all kinds of human nature are always with us. On the street, you may pass or meet a man whose gravitas would have fitted him to be a senator of Rome; another, hard and hungry, fit to pillage with Huns; another, patient and subtle, a born Schoolman; another, willing and pitiless, a wild-west gunslinger. They will likely be undistinguished, for (outside of the arts) in any given time, only a few kinds of people have full room to unfold themselves; only a few can have or find a place of their own in the world. But they are all always with us as the armory of mankind against the uncertainty of a future as unknowable as (it is to be hoped) very long. The lesson of history is less of cause and effect, than it is a promise and threat which are the same: that whatever we are, some have been before; and therefore, that whatever we have been, at worst or best, we may yet be again.