A training in natural science tends to make one objective. But the objective man, in Nietzsche's opinion, distrusts his own personality and regards it as something to be set aside as accidental, and a detriment to calm judgment. The temperamental philosopher thinks the scientist serene, but that his serenity springs not from lack of trouble, but from incapacity to grasp and deal with his own private grief. His is merely disinterested knowledge, according to Nietzsche. The scientist is emotionally impoverished. His love is constrained, and his hatred artificial; he is less interesting to women than the warrior. "His mirroring and externally self-polished soul no longer knows how to affirm, no longer how to deny; he does not command; neither does he destroy." As we see in the case of Leibnitz, the scientist contemns scarcely anything (_Je ne méprise presque rien_). The scientist is an instrument, but not a goal; he is something of a slave, nothing in himself--_presque rien!_ There is in the scientist nothing bold, powerful, self-centered, that wants to be master. He is for the most part a man without content and definite outline, a selfless man. This educational product, which the builders of modern aristocracy reject, and describe after their fashion, we accept as the ally of the masses of the people, and we term it democratic culture. The objective man, at the same time, may find even in the vehement pages of Nietzsche warnings and criticisms which the friends of democracy should not disregard. Extreme, almost insane, as his doctrine undoubtedly is, it may have value as a corrective influence, an antidote for other extreme views. It serves to remind us that democracy may be misled by feelings in themselves noble, and may, by grasping what seems good, miss what is best. For example, there are in the United States about three hundred thousand persons, defective or subnormal mentally; there is a smaller number of persons exceptionally gifted mentally. It is a poor form of social service that would exhaust the resources of science and philanthropy to care for the former without making any special provision for the latter. Genius is too great an asset to be wasted or misapplied. All culture would have suffered if Newton had been held, in his early life, to exacting administrative work; or if Darwin had devoted his years to alleviating the conditions of the miners of Peru whose misery touched him so profoundly; or if Pasteur had been taken from the laboratory and pure science to make a country doctor. Nor can democracy rest satisfied with any substitute for culture which would disregard what is great in literature, in art, and in philosophy, or which would ignore history, and the languages and civilizations of the past, as if culture had its beginning yesterday.