of their impulses.  More than one novelist of the twentieth century has already yielded to this tendency.  No doubt, this is only the negative defect accompanying a positive quality,—­yet it indicates an imperfect appreciation of the artist’s duty.  “In every art,” so Taine reminded us, “it is necessary to linger long over the true in order to attain the beautiful.  The eye, fixing itself on an object, begins by noting details with an excess of precision and fulness; it is only later, when the inventory is complete, that the mind, master of its wealth, rises higher, in order to take or to neglect what suits it.”

The attitude of the literary critic will be modified by the constant use of the scientific method, quite as much as the attitude of the literary creator.  He will seek to relate a work of art, whether it is an epic or a tragedy, a novel or a play, to its environment, weighing all the circumstances of its creation.  He will strive to estimate it as it is, of course, but also as a contribution to the evolution of its species made by a given people at a given period.  He will endeavor to keep himself free from lip-service and from ancestor-worship, holding himself derelict to his duty if he should fail to admit frankly that in every masterpiece of the past, however transcendent its merits, there must needs be much that is temporary admixt with more that is permanent,—­many things which pleased its author’s countrymen in his own time and which do not appeal to us, even tho we can perceive also what is eternal and universal, even tho we read into every masterpiece much that the author’s contemporaries had not our eyes to perceive.  All the works of Shakspere and of Moliere are not of equal value,—­and even the finest of them is not impeccable; and a literary critic who has a scientific sincerity will not gloss over the minor defects, whatever his desire to concentrate attention on the nobler qualities by which Shakspere and Moliere achieved their mighty fame.  Indeed, the scientific spirit will make it plain that an unwavering admiration for all the works of a great writer, unequal as these must be of necessity, is proof in itself of an obvious inability to perceive wherein lies his real greatness.

Whatever the service the scientific spirit is likely to render in the future, we need to be on our guard against the obsession of science itself.  There is danger that an exclusive devotion to science may starve out all interest in the arts, to the impoverishment of the soul.  Already there are examples of men who hold science to be all-sufficient and who insist that it has superseded art.  Already is it necessary to recall Lowell’s setting off of “art, whose concern is with the ideal and the potential, from science which is limited by the actual and the positive.”  Science bids us go so far and no farther, despite the fact that man longs to peer beyond the confines.  Vistas closed to science are opened for us by art; and science fails us if we ask too much; for it can provide no satisfactory explanation of the enigmas of existence.  Above all, it tempts us to a hard and fast acceptance of its own formulas, an acceptance as deadening to progress as it is false to the scientific spirit itself.  “History warns us,” so Huxley declared, “that it is the customary fate of new truths to begin as heresies, and to end as superstitions.”