My terror at the accident brings me back to my senses. I see I have turned idyllic. You must pardon me. A patch of greensward, a moss or heather forest with its tiny inhabitants have incomparably more charms for me than many a bit of literature with its apotheosis of human character. If I had the gift of writing novels I should certainly not make John and Mary my characters. Nor should I transfer my loving pair to the Nile, nor to the age of the old Egyptian Pharaohs, although perhaps I should choose that time in preference to the present. For I must candidly confess that I hate the rubbish of history, interesting though it may be as a mere phenomenon, because we cannot simply observe it but must also _feel_ it, because it comes to us mostly with supercilious arrogance, mostly unvanquished. The hero of my novel would be a cockchafer, venturing forth in his fifth year for the first time with his newly grown wings into the light, free air. Truly it could do no harm if man would thus throw off his inherited and acquired narrowness of mind by making himself acquainted with the world-view of allied creatures. He could not help gaining incomparably more in this way than the inhabitant of a small town would in circumnavigating the globe and getting acquainted with the views of strange peoples. * * * * * I have now conducted you, by many paths and by-ways, rapidly over hedge and ditch, to show you what wide vistas we may reach in every field by the rigorous pursuit of a single scientific fact. A close examination of the two eyes of man has conducted us not only into the dim recesses of humanity's childhood, but has also carried us far beyond the bourne of human life. It has surely often struck you as strange that the sciences are divided into two great groups; that the so-called humanistic sciences, belonging to the so-called "higher education," are placed in almost a hostile attitude to the natural sciences. I must confess I do not overmuch believe in this partition of the sciences. I believe that this view will appear as childlike and ingenuous to a matured age as the want of perspective in the old paintings of Egypt does to us. Can it really be that "higher culture" is to be gotten only from a few old pots and palimpsests, which are at best mere scraps of nature, or that more is to be learned from them alone than from all the rest of nature? I believe that both these sciences are simply parts of the same science, which have begun at different ends. If these two ends still act towards each other as the Montagues and Capulets, if their retainers still indulge in lively tilts, I believe that after all they are not in earnest. On the one side there is surely a Romeo, and on the other a Juliet, who, some day, it is hoped, will unite the two houses with a less tragic sequel than that of the play.