al and practical
Northern mind. Our duty is, instead of sneering at them as pedantic
dreamers, to thank Heaven that men were found, just at the time when
they were wanted, to do for us what we could never have done for
ourselves; to leave to us, as a precious heirloom, bought most truly
with the lifeblood of their race, a metaphysic at once Christian and
scientific, every attempt to improve on which has hitherto been found a
failure; and to battle victoriously with that strange brood of theoretic
monsters begotten by effete Greek philosophy upon Egyptian symbolism,
Chaldee astrology, Parsee dualism, Brahminic spiritualism-graceful and
gorgeous phantoms, whereof somewhat more will be said in the coming
chapters.

I have, in my sketch of Hypatia and her fate, closely followed authentic
history, especially Socrates' account of the closing scene, as given
in Book vii. Para 15, of his _Ecclesiastical History_. I am inclined,
however, for various historical reasons, to date her death two years
earlier than he does. The tradition that she was the wife of Isidore,
the philosopher, I reject with Gibbon, as a palpable anachronism of at
least fifty years (Isidore's master, Proclus, not having been born till
the year before Hypatia's death), contradicted, moreover, by the very
author of it, Photius, who says distinctly, after comparing Hypatia and
Isidore, that Isidore married a certain 'Domna.' No hint, moreover, of
her having been married appears in any contemporary authors; and the
name of Isidore nowhere occurs among those of the many mutual friends
to whom Synesius sends messages in his letters to Hypatia, in which,
if anywhere, we should find mention of a husband, had one existed. To
Synesius's most charming letters, as well as to those of Isidore, the
good Abbot of Pelusium, I beg leave to refer those readers who wish for
further information about the private life of the fifth century.

I cannot hope that these pages will be altogether free from anachronisms
and errors. I can only say that I have laboured honestly and
industriously to discover the truth, even in its minutest details,
and to sketch the age, its manners and its literature, as I found
them-altogether artificial, slipshod, effete, resembling far more the
times of Louis Quinze than those of Sophocles and Plato. And so I
send forth this little sketch, ready to give my hearty thanks to any
reviewer, who, by exposing my mistakes, shall teach me and the public
some