of the man of science could not be met (for only science can cast out science) the only thing left was to abuse him. This was magnificently done by Nietzsche, and rather less magnificently by Dostoevsky and Tolstoi. Nietzsche pointed out that the man of science was not a human being. He was merely an instrument, the most costly, the most exquisite, the most easily tarnished of instruments. He was incapable of love; he was incapable of hate. His one purpose was to “reflect” such things as he was tuned to receive. The philosophy evolved by such a creature would be expressive of nothing but his own limitations. He would be incapable of understanding the problems that concerned a man. This was also the line taken, more or less, by Dostoevsky and Tolstoi, and it became very popular with artists of all kinds. Wordsworth’s scorn for the botanist became the general attitude towards all men of science. It must be admitted that, judging from biographies of scientific men, there is much to be said for this view. Their favourite authors appear to be Shakespeare and Ella Wheeler Wilcox: they are kind fathers and faithful husbands; in their social relations they are simple-minded snobs; and they are really amused by “lecture-room humour”. It seems unlikely that such people know much of the fierce vitality that sent Saints to rot on pillars and in dungeons, that sent martyrs to the stake, or even that weaker form of vitality that causes our Divorce Court judges to be overworked. That they can understand the universe, when it is obvious they do not understand Clapham, does not seem likely. That, briefly, was the case of the artist against the man of science. The artist was conscious of more things in heaven and earth, staring him in the face, than he believed the man of science had ever dreamt of in his philosophy.