There is nothing new in all this.  I have merely put into modern language the issue raised by Descartes more than two centuries ago.  The philosophies of the Occasionalists, of Spinoza, of Malebranche, of modern idealism and modern materialism, have all grown out of the controversies which Cartesianism evoked.  Of all this the pseudo-science of the present time appears to be unconscious; otherwise it would hardly content itself with “making het again” the pseudo-science of the past.

In the course of these observations I have already had occasion to express my appreciation of the copious and perfervid eloquence which enriches the Duke of Argyll’s pages.  I am almost ashamed that a constitutional insensibility to the Sirenian charms of rhetoric has permitted me in wandering through these flowery meads, to be attracted, almost exclusively, to the bare places of fallacy and the stony grounds of deficient information, which are disguised, though not concealed, by these floral decorations.  But, in his concluding sentences, the Duke soars into a Tyrtaean strain which roused even my dull soul.

It was high time, indeed, that some revolt should be raised against that Reign of Terror which had come to be established in the scientific world under the abuse of a great name.  Professor Huxley has not joined this revolt openly, for as yet, indeed, it is only beginning to raise its head.  But more than once—­and very lately—­he has uttered a warning voice against the shallow dogmatism that has provoked it.  The time is coming when that revolt will be carried further.  Higher interpretations will be established.  Unless I am much mistaken, they are already coming in sight (p. 339).

I have been living very much out of the world for the last two or three years, and when I read this denunciatory outburst, as of one filled with the spirit of prophecy, I said to myself, “Mercy upon us, what has happened?  Can it be that X. and Y. (it would be wrong to mention the names of the vigorous young friends which occurred to me) are playing Danton and Robespierre; and that a guillotine is erected in the courtyard of Burlington House for the benefit of all anti-Darwinian Fellows of the Royal Society?  Where are the secret conspirators against this tyranny, whom I am supposed to favour, and yet not have the courage to join openly?  And to think of my poor oppressed friend, Mr. Herbert Spencer, ’compelled to speak with bated breath’ (p. 338) certainly for the first time in my thirty-odd years’ acquaintance with him!” My alarm and horror at the supposition that while I had been fiddling (or at any rate physicking), my beloved Rome had been burning, in this fashion, may be imagined.