The Current Dilemma in Philosophy

In the preface to that admirable collection of essays of his called 'Heretics,' Mr. Chesterton writes these words: "There are some people—and I am one of them—who think that the most practical and important thing about a man is still his view of the universe. We think that for a landlady considering a lodger, it is important to know his income, but still more important to know his philosophy. We think that for a general about to fight an enemy, it is important to know the enemy's numbers, but still more important to know the enemy's philosophy. We think the question is not whether the theory of the cosmos affects matters, but whether, in the long run, anything else affects them."

In the preface to his admirable collection of essays called 'Heretics,' Mr. Chesterton writes: "Some people, and I am one of them, think a person's view of the universe is still the most practical and important thing about him. We think that a landlady considering a lodger needs to know his income. But we think it is even more important for her to know his philosophy. We think that a general about to fight an enemy needs to know the enemy's numbers. But we think it is even more important for the general to know the enemy's philosophy. We think the question is not whether a theory of the universe affects things. The question is whether, in the long run, anything else affects them."

I think with Mr. Chesterton in this matter. I know that you, ladies and gentlemen, have a philosophy, each and all of you, and that the most interesting and important thing about you is the way in which it determines the perspective in your several worlds. You know the same of me. And yet I confess to a certain tremor at the audacity of the enterprise which I am about to begin. For the philosophy which is so important in each of us is not a technical matter; it is our more or less dumb sense of what life honestly and deeply means. It is only partly got from books; it is our individual way of just seeing and feeling the total push and pressure of the cosmos. I have no right to assume that many of you are students of the cosmos in the class-room sense, yet here I stand desirous of interesting you in a philosophy which to no small extent has to be technically treated. I wish to fill you with sympathy with a contemporaneous tendency in which I profoundly believe, and yet I have to talk like a professor to you who are not students. Whatever universe a professor believes in must at any rate be a universe that lends itself to lengthy discourse. A universe definable in two sentences is something for which the professorial intellect has no use. No faith in anything of that cheap kind! I have heard friends and colleagues try to popularize philosophy in this very hall, but they soon grew dry, and then technical, and the results were only partially encouraging. So my enterprise is a bold one. The founder of pragmatism himself recently gave a course of lectures at the Lowell Institute with that very word in its title-flashes of brilliant light relieved against Cimmerian darkness! None of us, I fancy, understood ALL that he said—yet here I stand, making a very similar venture.

I agree with Mr. Chesterton on this matter. I know that each of you, ladies and gentlemen, has a philosophy. The most interesting and important thing about you is how your philosophy shapes your view of the world. You know the same is true of me. Yet I confess that I tremble a little at the boldness of the task I am about to begin. The philosophy that matters so much to each of us is not a technical subject. It is our often unspoken sense of what life truly and deeply means. We get only part of our philosophy from books. It is our individual way of seeing and feeling the total force and pressure of the cosmos. I have no right to assume that many of you study the cosmos in a classroom. Yet here I stand, hoping to interest you in a philosophy that requires a good deal of technical discussion. I want you to sympathize with a current movement in which I deeply believe. Yet I must talk like a professor to people who are not students. Whatever universe a professor believes in must, at least, be one that allows for lengthy discussion. The professorial mind has no use for a universe that can be defined in two sentences. No faith in anything so cheap! I have heard friends and colleagues try to make philosophy accessible in this very hall. But they soon became dry, and then technical, and the results were only partly encouraging. So my task is a bold one. The founder of pragmatism himself recently gave a course of lectures at the Lowell Institute, with that very word in the title. There were flashes of brilliant light against Cimmerian darkness! I imagine none of us understood ALL that he said. Yet here I stand, undertaking something very similar.

I risk it because the very lectures I speak of DREW—they brought good audiences. There is, it must be confessed, a curious fascination in hearing deep things talked about, even tho neither we nor the disputants understand them. We get the problematic thrill, we feel the presence of the vastness. Let a controversy begin in a smoking-room anywhere, about free-will or God's omniscience, or good and evil, and see how everyone in the place pricks up his ears. Philosophy's results concern us all most vitally, and philosophy's queerest arguments tickle agreeably our sense of subtlety and ingenuity.

I risk it because the very lectures I mentioned DREW crowds. They attracted good audiences. I must admit that hearing people discuss deep subjects has a curious appeal, even though neither we nor the people arguing understand them. We feel the thrill of wrestling with a problem, and we sense the vastness of it all. Start an argument in any smoking room about free will, God's omniscience, or good and evil. See how everyone there starts listening. The results of philosophy matter deeply to us all. Even its strangest arguments pleasantly appeal to our appreciation of subtlety and ingenuity.

Believing in philosophy myself devoutly, and believing also that a kind of new dawn is breaking upon us philosophers, I feel impelled, per fas aut nefas, to try to impart to you some news of the situation.

I believe deeply in philosophy, and I believe a new dawn is breaking for us philosophers. So I feel compelled, by fair means or foul, to share some news with you about the situation.

Philosophy is at once the most sublime and the most trivial of human pursuits. It works in the minutest crannies and it opens out the widest vistas. It 'bakes no bread,' as has been said, but it can inspire our souls with courage; and repugnant as its manners, its doubting and challenging, its quibbling and dialectics, often are to common people, no one of us can get along without the far-flashing beams of light it sends over the world's perspectives. These illuminations at least, and the contrast-effects of darkness and mystery that accompany them, give to what it says an interest that is much more than professional.

Philosophy is both the most lofty and the most trivial of human pursuits. It explores the smallest corners and opens up the widest views. As people have said, it 'bakes no bread,' but it can fill our souls with courage. Ordinary people often dislike philosophy's ways: its doubts and challenges, its quibbling and arguments. Yet none of us can do without the far-reaching beams of light philosophy casts across our view of the world. These flashes of insight, and the contrasting darkness and mystery that accompany them, make philosophy interesting to more than just professionals.

The history of philosophy is to a great extent that of a certain clash of human temperaments. Undignified as such a treatment may seem to some of my colleagues, I shall have to take account of this clash and explain a good many of the divergencies of philosophers by it. Of whatever temperament a professional philosopher is, he tries when philosophizing to sink the fact of his temperament. Temperament is no conventionally recognized reason, so he urges impersonal reasons only for his conclusions. Yet his temperament really gives him a stronger bias than any of his more strictly objective premises. It loads the evidence for him one way or the other, making for a more sentimental or a more hard-hearted view of the universe, just as this fact or that principle would. He trusts his temperament. Wanting a universe that suits it, he believes in any representation of the universe that does suit it. He feels men of opposite temper to be out of key with the world's character, and in his heart considers them incompetent and 'not in it,' in the philosophic business, even tho they may far excel him in dialectical ability.

The history of philosophy is largely the history of a clash between different human temperaments. Some of my colleagues may think it undignified to approach philosophy this way. But I must consider this clash and use it to explain many of the differences between philosophers. Whatever a professional philosopher's temperament, he tries to put it aside when he philosophizes. Temperament is not a conventionally accepted reason, so he offers only impersonal reasons for his conclusions. Yet his temperament gives him a stronger bias than any of his more strictly objective premises. It tips the evidence one way or the other, just as a fact or principle would. It leads him toward a more sentimental or a more hard-hearted view of the universe. The philosopher trusts his temperament. He wants a universe that suits it, so he believes in any account of the universe that does. He feels that people of the opposite temperament are out of tune with the character of the world. In his heart, he considers them incompetent and 'not in it' when it comes to philosophy. He feels this way even though they may far surpass him in their skill at argument.

Yet in the forum he can make no claim, on the bare ground of his temperament, to superior discernment or authority. There arises thus a certain insincerity in our philosophic discussions: the potentest of all our premises is never mentioned. I am sure it would contribute to clearness if in these lectures we should break this rule and mention it, and I accordingly feel free to do so.

Yet in public debate, he cannot claim superior insight or authority based solely on his temperament. As a result, there is a certain insincerity in our philosophical discussions: our most powerful premise is never mentioned. I am sure it would make these lectures clearer if we broke this rule and mentioned that premise. So I feel free to do so.

Of course I am talking here of very positively marked men, men of radical idiosyncracy, who have set their stamp and likeness on philosophy and figure in its history. Plato, Locke, Hegel, Spencer, are such temperamental thinkers. Most of us have, of course, no very definite intellectual temperament, we are a mixture of opposite ingredients, each one present very moderately. We hardly know our own preferences in abstract matters; some of us are easily talked out of them, and end by following the fashion or taking up with the beliefs of the most impressive philosopher in our neighborhood, whoever he may be. But the one thing that has COUNTED so far in philosophy is that a man should see things, see them straight in his own peculiar way, and be dissatisfied with any opposite way of seeing them. There is no reason to suppose that this strong temperamental vision is from now onward to count no longer in the history of man's beliefs.

Of course, I am talking here about men with strongly distinctive personalities. These men have left their personal mark on philosophy and have a place in its history. Plato, Locke, Hegel, and Spencer are thinkers of this kind. Most of us, of course, have no very definite intellectual temperament. We are a mixture of opposing traits, each present only moderately. We hardly know our own preferences in abstract matters. Some of us are easily talked out of those preferences. We end up following fashion or adopting the beliefs of the most impressive philosopher around us, whoever he may be. But what has COUNTED in philosophy so far is a man's ability to see things clearly in his own distinctive way and to be dissatisfied with any opposing view. There is no reason to suppose that such a strong personal vision will no longer count in the history of human beliefs.

Now the particular difference of temperament that I have in mind in making these remarks is one that has counted in literature, art, government and manners as well as in philosophy. In manners we find formalists and free-and-easy persons. In government, authoritarians and anarchists. In literature, purists or academicals, and realists. In art, classics and romantics. You recognize these contrasts as familiar; well, in philosophy we have a very similar contrast expressed in the pair of terms 'rationalist' and 'empiricist,' 'empiricist' meaning your lover of facts in all their crude variety, 'rationalist' meaning your devotee to abstract and eternal principles. No one can live an hour without both facts and principles, so it is a difference rather of emphasis; yet it breeds antipathies of the most pungent character between those who lay the emphasis differently; and we shall find it extraordinarily convenient to express a certain contrast in men's ways of taking their universe, by talking of the 'empiricist' and of the 'rationalist' temper. These terms make the contrast simple and massive.

The particular difference in temperament I have in mind has mattered in literature, art, government, and manners, as well as philosophy. In manners, we find formalists and easygoing people. In government, we find authoritarians and anarchists. In literature, we find purists or academics, and realists. In art, we find classicists and romantics. You will recognize these as familiar contrasts. Well, in philosophy we have a very similar contrast in the terms 'rationalist' and 'empiricist.' An 'empiricist' loves facts in all their raw variety. A 'rationalist' is devoted to abstract and eternal principles. No one can live an hour without both facts and principles, so the difference is really one of emphasis. Yet people who place their emphasis differently can develop the sharpest dislike for one another. We will find these terms extraordinarily convenient for expressing a contrast in how people see the universe. We can speak of the 'empiricist' and the 'rationalist' temperament. These terms make the contrast simple and striking.

More simple and massive than are usually the men of whom the terms are predicated. For every sort of permutation and combination is possible in human nature; and if I now proceed to define more fully what I have in mind when I speak of rationalists and empiricists, by adding to each of those titles some secondary qualifying characteristics, I beg you to regard my conduct as to a certain extent arbitrary. I select types of combination that nature offers very frequently, but by no means uniformly, and I select them solely for their convenience in helping me to my ulterior purpose of characterizing pragmatism. Historically we find the terms 'intellectualism' and 'sensationalism' used as synonyms of 'rationalism' and 'empiricism.' Well, nature seems to combine most frequently with intellectualism an idealistic and optimistic tendency. Empiricists on the other hand are not uncommonly materialistic, and their optimism is apt to be decidedly conditional and tremulous. Rationalism is always monistic. It starts from wholes and universals, and makes much of the unity of things. Empiricism starts from the parts, and makes of the whole a collection-is not averse therefore to calling itself pluralistic. Rationalism usually considers itself more religious than empiricism, but there is much to say about this claim, so I merely mention it. It is a true claim when the individual rationalist is what is called a man of feeling, and when the individual empiricist prides himself on being hard-headed. In that case the rationalist will usually also be in favor of what is called free-will, and the empiricist will be a fatalist—I use the terms most popularly current. The rationalist finally will be of dogmatic temper in his affirmations, while the empiricist may be more sceptical and open to discussion.

Simpler and more clear-cut than the people to whom these terms are usually applied. Human nature allows every kind of permutation and combination. I will now explain more fully what I mean by rationalists and empiricists, adding some secondary characteristics to each label. But please recognize that my choices are somewhat arbitrary. I choose combinations that nature offers very often, but by no means always. I choose them solely because they help me with my ultimate purpose of describing pragmatism. Historically, we find 'intellectualism' and 'sensationalism' used as synonyms for 'rationalism' and 'empiricism.' Nature seems to combine intellectualism most often with a tendency toward idealism and optimism. Empiricists, on the other hand, are often materialistic. Their optimism tends to be decidedly conditional and uncertain. Rationalism is always monistic. It starts from wholes and universals and places great importance on the unity of things. Empiricism starts from the parts and sees the whole as a collection. It is therefore willing to call itself pluralistic. Rationalism usually considers itself more religious than empiricism. But there is much to say about this claim, so I merely mention it. The claim is true when the individual rationalist is what is called a person of feeling. It is also true when the individual empiricist prides himself on being hard-headed. In that case, the rationalist will usually also favor what is called free will, and the empiricist will be a fatalist. I use these terms in their most common senses. Finally, the rationalist will be dogmatic in what he affirms, while the empiricist may be more skeptical and open to discussion.

I will write these traits down in two columns. I think you will practically recognize the two types of mental make-up that I mean if I head the columns by the titles 'tender-minded' and 'tough-minded' respectively.

I will list these traits in two columns. I think you will recognize the two types of mindset I mean if I label the columns 'tender-minded' and 'tough-minded', respectively.

THE TENDER-MINDED

THE TENDER-MINDED

Rationalistic (going by 'principles'), Intellectualistic, Idealistic, Optimistic, Religious, Free-willist, Monistic, Dogmatical.

Rationalistic (guided by 'principles'), intellectualistic, idealistic, optimistic, religious, believing in free will, monistic, dogmatic.

THE TOUGH-MINDED

THE TOUGH-MINDED

Empiricist (going by 'facts'), Sensationalistic, Materialistic, Pessimistic, Irreligious, Fatalistic, Pluralistic, Sceptical.

Empiricist (guided by 'facts'), based on sensory experience, materialistic, pessimistic, nonreligious, fatalistic, pluralistic, skeptical.

Pray postpone for a moment the question whether the two contrasted mixtures which I have written down are each inwardly coherent and self-consistent or not—I shall very soon have a good deal to say on that point. It suffices for our immediate purpose that tender-minded and tough-minded people, characterized as I have written them down, do both exist. Each of you probably knows some well-marked example of each type, and you know what each example thinks of the example on the other side of the line. They have a low opinion of each other. Their antagonism, whenever as individuals their temperaments have been intense, has formed in all ages a part of the philosophic atmosphere of the time. It forms a part of the philosophic atmosphere to-day. The tough think of the tender as sentimentalists and soft-heads. The tender feel the tough to be unrefined, callous, or brutal. Their mutual reaction is very much like that that takes place when Bostonian tourists mingle with a population like that of Cripple Creek. Each type believes the other to be inferior to itself; but disdain in the one case is mingled with amusement, in the other it has a dash of fear.

Please set aside for a moment the question of whether the two contrasting mixtures I described are internally consistent. I will soon have a good deal to say about that. For now, it is enough that both tender-minded and tough-minded people, as I have described them, exist. Each of you probably knows a clear example of each type. You also know what each thinks of the person on the other side. They have a low opinion of each other. In every age, their antagonism has been part of the philosophical atmosphere whenever their individual temperaments have been intense. It is part of the philosophical atmosphere today. The tough-minded think the tender-minded are sentimentalists and soft-headed. The tender-minded feel that the tough-minded are unrefined, callous, or brutal. Their reactions to each other are much like those of Bostonian tourists mingling with a population like that of Cripple Creek. Each type believes the other is inferior. But the disdain of one is mixed with amusement, while that of the other has a touch of fear.

Now, as I have already insisted, few of us are tender-foot Bostonians pure and simple, and few are typical Rocky Mountain toughs, in philosophy. Most of us have a hankering for the good things on both sides of the line. Facts are good, of course—give us lots of facts. Principles are good—give us plenty of principles. The world is indubitably one if you look at it in one way, but as indubitably is it many, if you look at it in another. It is both one and many—let us adopt a sort of pluralistic monism. Everything of course is necessarily determined, and yet of course our wills are free: a sort of free-will determinism is the true philosophy. The evil of the parts is undeniable; but the whole can't be evil: so practical pessimism may be combined with metaphysical optimism. And so forth—your ordinary philosophic layman never being a radical, never straightening out his system, but living vaguely in one plausible compartment of it or another to suit the temptations of successive hours.

As I have already insisted, few of us are purely tenderfoot Bostonians in philosophy, and few are typical Rocky Mountain toughs. Most of us want the good things from both sides. Facts are good, of course, so give us lots of facts. Principles are good, so give us plenty of principles. The world is undoubtedly one if you look at it one way. But it is just as undoubtedly many if you look at it another way. It is both one and many, so let us adopt a kind of pluralistic monism. Everything is of course necessarily determined, and yet of course our wills are free. A kind of free-will determinism is the true philosophy. The evil in the parts is undeniable, but the whole cannot be evil. So practical pessimism may be combined with metaphysical optimism. And so on. The ordinary nonprofessional philosopher is never a radical and never makes his system consistent. Instead, he lives vaguely in one plausible part of it or another, as the temptations of each passing hour suggest.

But some of us are more than mere laymen in philosophy. We are worthy of the name of amateur athletes, and are vexed by too much inconsistency and vacillation in our creed. We cannot preserve a good intellectual conscience so long as we keep mixing incompatibles from opposite sides of the line.

But some of us are more than mere beginners in philosophy. We deserve to be called amateur athletes, and too much inconsistency and wavering in our beliefs bothers us. We cannot have a clear intellectual conscience as long as we keep mixing incompatible ideas from opposite sides of the divide.

And now I come to the first positively important point which I wish to make. Never were as many men of a decidedly empiricist proclivity in existence as there are at the present day. Our children, one may say, are almost born scientific. But our esteem for facts has not neutralized in us all religiousness. It is itself almost religious. Our scientific temper is devout. Now take a man of this type, and let him be also a philosophic amateur, unwilling to mix a hodge-podge system after the fashion of a common layman, and what does he find his situation to be, in this blessed year of our Lord 1906? He wants facts; he wants science; but he also wants a religion. And being an amateur and not an independent originator in philosophy he naturally looks for guidance to the experts and professionals whom he finds already in the field. A very large number of you here present, possibly a majority of you, are amateurs of just this sort.

Now I come to the first truly important point I want to make. Never have there been so many people with a distinctly empirical bent as there are today. You might say that our children are almost born scientific. But our respect for facts has not erased all our religious feeling. Our respect for facts is itself almost religious. Our scientific outlook is devout. Now consider a man of this kind who is also an amateur philosopher. He is unwilling to throw together a hodgepodge of ideas as an ordinary layman might. What situation does he find himself in during this blessed year of our Lord 1906? He wants facts and science, but he also wants a religion. And because he is an amateur, not an independent philosophical thinker, he naturally looks for guidance from established experts and professionals. A great many of you here, possibly a majority, are amateurs of just this kind.

Now what kinds of philosophy do you find actually offered to meet your need? You find an empirical philosophy that is not religious enough, and a religious philosophy that is not empirical enough for your purpose. If you look to the quarter where facts are most considered you find the whole tough-minded program in operation, and the 'conflict between science and religion' in full blast. Either it is that Rocky Mountain tough of a Haeckel with his materialistic monism, his ether-god and his jest at your God as a 'gaseous vertebrate'; or it is Spencer treating the world's history as a redistribution of matter and motion solely, and bowing religion politely out at the front door:—she may indeed continue to exist, but she must never show her face inside the temple. For a hundred and fifty years past the progress of science has seemed to mean the enlargement of the material universe and the diminution of man's importance. The result is what one may call the growth of naturalistic or positivistic feeling. Man is no law-giver to nature, he is an absorber. She it is who stands firm; he it is who must accommodate himself. Let him record truth, inhuman tho it be, and submit to it! The romantic spontaneity and courage are gone, the vision is materialistic and depressing. Ideals appear as inert by-products of physiology; what is higher is explained by what is lower and treated forever as a case of 'nothing but'—nothing but something else of a quite inferior sort. You get, in short, a materialistic universe, in which only the tough-minded find themselves congenially at home.

What kinds of philosophy are actually offered to meet your need? You find an empirical philosophy that is not religious enough, and a religious philosophy that is not empirical enough for your purpose. If you look where facts receive the most attention, you find the whole tough-minded program at work. You also find the 'conflict between science and religion' in full blast. On one side is Haeckel, that Rocky Mountain tough, with his materialistic monism and his ether-god. He mocks your God as a 'gaseous vertebrate'. Or there is Spencer, who treats the world's history solely as a redistribution of matter and motion. He politely shows religion out the front door. Religion may continue to exist, but she must never show her face inside the temple. For the past 150 years, scientific progress has seemed to enlarge the material universe and diminish humanity's importance. The result is what one may call the growth of naturalistic or positivistic feeling. Man does not make nature's laws, he absorbs them. Nature stands firm, and man must adapt to her. Let him record the truth, however inhuman it may be, and submit to it! The romantic spontaneity and courage are gone. The outlook is materialistic and depressing. Ideals appear as inactive by-products of physiology. What is higher is explained by what is lower and always treated as a case of 'nothing but', nothing but something else of a much inferior kind. In short, you get a materialistic universe in which only the tough-minded feel comfortably at home.

If now, on the other hand, you turn to the religious quarter for consolation, and take counsel of the tender-minded philosophies, what do you find?

On the other hand, what if you turn to religion for comfort and seek advice from tender-minded philosophies? What do you find?

Religious philosophy in our day and generation is, among us English-reading people, of two main types. One of these is more radical and aggressive, the other has more the air of fighting a slow retreat. By the more radical wing of religious philosophy I mean the so-called transcendental idealism of the Anglo-Hegelian school, the philosophy of such men as Green, the Cairds, Bosanquet, and Royce. This philosophy has greatly influenced the more studious members of our protestant ministry. It is pantheistic, and undoubtedly it has already blunted the edge of the traditional theism in protestantism at large.

Among English-speaking readers today, religious philosophy takes two main forms. One is more radical and aggressive. The other seems to be slowly retreating. By the more radical form, I mean the so-called transcendental idealism of the Anglo-Hegelian school. This is the philosophy of thinkers such as Green, the Cairds, Bosanquet, and Royce. It has greatly influenced the more studious members of the Protestant ministry. It is pantheistic, and it has undoubtedly already weakened traditional theism throughout Protestantism.

That theism remains, however. It is the lineal descendant, through one stage of concession after another, of the dogmatic scholastic theism still taught rigorously in the seminaries of the catholic church. For a long time it used to be called among us the philosophy of the Scottish school. It is what I meant by the philosophy that has the air of fighting a slow retreat. Between the encroachments of the hegelians and other philosophers of the 'Absolute,' on the one hand, and those of the scientific evolutionists and agnostics, on the other, the men that give us this kind of a philosophy, James Martineau, Professor Bowne, Professor Ladd and others, must feel themselves rather tightly squeezed. Fair-minded and candid as you like, this philosophy is not radical in temper. It is eclectic, a thing of compromises, that seeks a modus vivendi above all things. It accepts the facts of darwinism, the facts of cerebral physiology, but it does nothing active or enthusiastic with them. It lacks the victorious and aggressive note. It lacks prestige in consequence; whereas absolutism has a certain prestige due to the more radical style of it.

That theism remains, however. It is the direct descendant of dogmatic scholastic theism, having made one concession after another. Dogmatic scholastic theism is still taught rigorously in the seminaries of the Catholic Church. For a long time, we called this the philosophy of the Scottish school. It is what I meant by the philosophy that seems to be fighting a slow retreat. On one side, the Hegelians and other philosophers of the 'Absolute' are gaining ground. On the other, the scientific evolutionists and agnostics are gaining ground. Between them, the advocates of this philosophy must feel rather tightly squeezed. These include James Martineau, Professor Bowne, Professor Ladd, and others. This philosophy may be as fair-minded and candid as you please, but it is not radical in spirit. It is eclectic, a collection of compromises that seeks above all to find a way to coexist. It accepts the facts of Darwinism and cerebral physiology, but does nothing active or enthusiastic with them. It lacks a tone of victory and aggression. As a result, it lacks prestige. Absolutism, on the other hand, has a certain prestige because of its more radical style.

These two systems are what you have to choose between if you turn to the tender-minded school. And if you are the lovers of facts I have supposed you to be, you find the trail of the serpent of rationalism, of intellectualism, over everything that lies on that side of the line. You escape indeed the materialism that goes with the reigning empiricism; but you pay for your escape by losing contact with the concrete parts of life. The more absolutistic philosophers dwell on so high a level of abstraction that they never even try to come down. The absolute mind which they offer us, the mind that makes our universe by thinking it, might, for aught they show us to the contrary, have made any one of a million other universes just as well as this. You can deduce no single actual particular from the notion of it. It is compatible with any state of things whatever being true here below. And the theistic God is almost as sterile a principle. You have to go to the world which he has created to get any inkling of his actual character: he is the kind of god that has once for all made that kind of a world. The God of the theistic writers lives on as purely abstract heights as does the Absolute. Absolutism has a certain sweep and dash about it, while the usual theism is more insipid, but both are equally remote and vacuous. What you want is a philosophy that will not only exercise your powers of intellectual abstraction, but that will make some positive connexion with this actual world of finite human lives.

These are the two systems you must choose between if you turn to the tender-minded school. And if you love facts, as I have assumed you do, you find traces of the serpent of rationalism, of intellectualism, everywhere on that side. You do escape the materialism that comes with the prevailing empiricism. But you pay for that escape by losing touch with the concrete parts of life. The more absolutist philosophers stay at such a high level of abstraction that they never even try to come down. They offer us the absolute mind, which creates our universe by thinking it. But for all they show us to the contrary, that mind could just as well have created any of a million other universes. You cannot deduce a single actual detail from the idea of the absolute mind. The idea is compatible with any state of affairs here below. The God of theism is almost as unproductive a principle. You must turn to the world he created to get any hint of his actual character. He is the kind of god who has, once and for all, made that kind of world. The God of theistic writers lives on heights just as abstract as those of the Absolute. Absolutism has a certain sweep and dash, while ordinary theism is more bland. But both are equally remote and empty. What you want is a philosophy that exercises your powers of intellectual abstraction. But it must also make some positive connection with this actual world of finite human lives.

You want a system that will combine both things, the scientific loyalty to facts and willingness to take account of them, the spirit of adaptation and accommodation, in short, but also the old confidence in human values and the resultant spontaneity, whether of the religious or of the romantic type. And this is then your dilemma: you find the two parts of your quaesitum hopelessly separated. You find empiricism with inhumanism and irreligion; or else you find a rationalistic philosophy that indeed may call itself religious, but that keeps out of all definite touch with concrete facts and joys and sorrows.

You want a system that combines two things. On one hand, you want scientific loyalty to facts and a willingness to take them into account. In short, you want a spirit of adaptation and accommodation. But you also want the old confidence in human values and the spontaneity that follows from it, whether religious or romantic. This is your dilemma: you find the two parts of what you seek hopelessly separated. You find either empiricism joined with a disregard for humanity and religion, or a rationalistic philosophy that may call itself religious. But that rationalistic philosophy keeps itself entirely out of touch with concrete facts, joys, and sorrows.

I am not sure how many of you live close enough to philosophy to realize fully what I mean by this last reproach, so I will dwell a little longer on that unreality in all rationalistic systems by which your serious believer in facts is so apt to feel repelled.

I am not sure how many of you are familiar enough with philosophy to fully understand my last criticism. So I will spend a little more time on the lack of reality in all rationalistic systems. This lack of reality is likely to repel anyone who takes facts seriously.

I wish that I had saved the first couple of pages of a thesis which a student handed me a year or two ago. They illustrated my point so clearly that I am sorry I cannot read them to you now. This young man, who was a graduate of some Western college, began by saying that he had always taken for granted that when you entered a philosophic class-room you had to open relations with a universe entirely distinct from the one you left behind you in the street. The two were supposed, he said, to have so little to do with each other, that you could not possibly occupy your mind with them at the same time. The world of concrete personal experiences to which the street belongs is multitudinous beyond imagination, tangled, muddy, painful and perplexed. The world to which your philosophy-professor introduces you is simple, clean and noble. The contradictions of real life are absent from it. Its architecture is classic. Principles of reason trace its outlines, logical necessities cement its parts. Purity and dignity are what it most expresses. It is a kind of marble temple shining on a hill.

I wish I had saved the first couple of pages of a thesis a student gave me a year or two ago. They illustrated my point so clearly that I’m sorry I can’t read them to you now. The young man had graduated from a Western college. He began by saying he had always assumed that entering a philosophy classroom meant entering a different universe. It was entirely separate from the one you left behind in the street. The two worlds, he said, were supposed to have so little to do with each other that you couldn’t possibly think about both at once. The world of concrete personal experience, the world of the street, is varied beyond imagination. It is tangled, muddy, painful, and confusing. The world your philosophy professor introduces you to is simple, clean, and noble. The contradictions of real life are absent from it. Its architecture is classical. Principles of reason define its outlines, and logical necessities hold its parts together. Above all, it expresses purity and dignity. It is like a marble temple shining on a hill.

In point of fact it is far less an account of this actual world than a clear addition built upon it, a classic sanctuary in which the rationalist fancy may take refuge from the intolerably confused and gothic character which mere facts present. It is no EXPLANATION of our concrete universe, it is another thing altogether, a substitute for it, a remedy, a way of escape.

In fact, it is far less an account of the actual world than a clear addition built on it. It is a classical sanctuary where the rationalist imagination may take refuge from the intolerably confused and gothic character of mere facts. It is no EXPLANATION of our actual universe. It is something else altogether: a substitute for the universe, a remedy, a way of escape.

Its temperament, if I may use the word temperament here, is utterly alien to the temperament of existence in the concrete. REFINEMENT is what characterizes our intellectualist philosophies. They exquisitely satisfy that craving for a refined object of contemplation which is so powerful an appetite of the mind. But I ask you in all seriousness to look abroad on this colossal universe of concrete facts, on their awful bewilderments, their surprises and cruelties, on the wildness which they show, and then to tell me whether 'refined' is the one inevitable descriptive adjective that springs to your lips.

Its temperament, if I may use that word here, is utterly unlike the temperament of existence as we actually experience it. REFINEMENT characterizes our intellectualist philosophies. They beautifully satisfy the mind's powerful hunger for something refined to contemplate. But I seriously ask you to look out at this vast universe of concrete facts. Consider their terrifying confusion, their surprises and cruelties, and their wildness. Then tell me whether 'refined' is the one word you cannot help using to describe them.

Refinement has its place in things, true enough. But a philosophy that breathes out nothing but refinement will never satisfy the empiricist temper of mind. It will seem rather a monument of artificiality. So we find men of science preferring to turn their backs on metaphysics as on something altogether cloistered and spectral, and practical men shaking philosophy's dust off their feet and following the call of the wild.

Refinement certainly has its place. But a philosophy that offers nothing but refinement will never satisfy an empiricist. Instead, it will seem like a monument to artificiality. So we find scientists turning their backs on metaphysics, as if it were entirely removed from life and ghostly. Practical people, meanwhile, shake the dust of philosophy off their feet and follow the call of the wild.

Truly there is something a little ghastly in the satisfaction with which a pure but unreal system will fill a rationalist mind. Leibnitz was a rationalist mind, with infinitely more interest in facts than most rationalist minds can show. Yet if you wish for superficiality incarnate, you have only to read that charmingly written 'Theodicee' of his, in which he sought to justify the ways of God to man, and to prove that the world we live in is the best of possible worlds. Let me quote a specimen of what I mean.

There is something a little disturbing about how satisfied a rationalist can be with a system that is pure but unreal. Leibnitz was a rationalist, but he had infinitely more interest in facts than most rationalists can show. Yet if you want to see superficiality in person, you need only read his charmingly written 'Theodicee'. In it, he tried to justify God's ways to humanity and prove that our world is the best of all possible worlds. Let me quote an example of what I mean.

Among other obstacles to his optimistic philosophy, it falls to Leibnitz to consider the number of the eternally damned. That it is infinitely greater, in our human case, than that of those saved he assumes as a premise from the theologians, and then proceeds to argue in this way. Even then, he says:

Among the other obstacles to his optimistic philosophy, Leibnitz must consider the number of people condemned to eternal damnation. He accepts the theologians’ premise that infinitely more people are damned than saved. He then argues as follows. Even then, he says:

"The evil will appear as almost nothing in comparison with the good, if we once consider the real magnitude of the City of God. Coelius Secundus Curio has written a little book, 'De Amplitudine Regni Coelestis,' which was reprinted not long ago. But he failed to compass the extent of the kingdom of the heavens. The ancients had small ideas of the works of God. ... It seemed to them that only our earth had inhabitants, and even the notion of our antipodes gave them pause. The rest of the world for them consisted of some shining globes and a few crystalline spheres. But to-day, whatever be the limits that we may grant or refuse to the Universe we must recognize in it a countless number of globes, as big as ours or bigger, which have just as much right as it has to support rational inhabitants, tho it does not follow that these need all be men. Our earth is only one among the six principal satellites of our sun. As all the fixed stars are suns, one sees how small a place among visible things our earth takes up, since it is only a satellite of one among them. Now all these suns MAY be inhabited by none but happy creatures; and nothing obliges us to believe that the number of damned persons is very great; for a VERY FEW INSTANCES AND SAMPLES SUFFICE FOR THE UTILITY WHICH GOOD DRAWS FROM EVIL. Moreover, since there is no reason to suppose that there are stars everywhere, may there not be a great space beyond the region of the stars? And this immense space, surrounding all this region, ... may be replete with happiness and glory. ... What now becomes of the consideration of our Earth and of its denizens? Does it not dwindle to something incomparably less than a physical point, since our Earth is but a point compared with the distance of the fixed stars. Thus the part of the Universe which we know, being almost lost in nothingness compared with that which is unknown to us, but which we are yet obliged to admit; and all the evils that we know lying in this almost-nothing; it follows that the evils may be almost-nothing in comparison with the goods that the Universe contains."

"Evil will seem like almost nothing compared with good if we consider the true size of the City of God. Coelius Secundus Curio wrote a short book, 'De Amplitudine Regni Coelestis,' which was reprinted not long ago. But he failed to grasp the full extent of the kingdom of heaven. The ancients had a limited idea of God's works. ... They thought only our earth had inhabitants, and even the idea of people living on the opposite side of the earth gave them pause. For them, the rest of the world consisted of a few shining globes and crystalline spheres. But today, whether we believe the Universe has limits or not, we must recognize that it contains countless globes. They are as big as ours or bigger, and have just as much claim as Earth to support rational inhabitants. Though it does not follow that all these inhabitants must be human. Our earth is only one of the six principal satellites of our sun. All the fixed stars are suns, so we can see how small a place our earth occupies among visible things. It is only a satellite of one of those suns. Now, all these suns MAY be inhabited by nothing but happy creatures. And nothing requires us to believe that the number of damned people is very great. For VERY FEW INSTANCES AND EXAMPLES ARE NEEDED FOR GOOD TO DRAW BENEFIT FROM EVIL. Moreover, there is no reason to suppose that there are stars everywhere. So might there not be a great space beyond the region of the stars? And this immense space surrounding the whole region ... may be filled with happiness and glory. ... What, then, are we to think of our Earth and its inhabitants? Does our Earth not shrink to something incomparably smaller than a physical point? For it is only a point compared with the distance of the fixed stars. Thus the part of the Universe we know is almost lost in nothingness compared with the part we do not know, but must still admit exists. And all the evils we know lie within this almost nothing. So these evils may be almost nothing compared with the good things the Universe contains."

Leibnitz continues elsewhere: "There is a kind of justice which aims neither at the amendment of the criminal, nor at furnishing an example to others, nor at the reparation of the injury. This justice is founded in pure fitness, which finds a certain satisfaction in the expiation of a wicked deed. The Socinians and Hobbes objected to this punitive justice, which is properly vindictive justice and which God has reserved for himself at many junctures. ... It is always founded in the fitness of things, and satisfies not only the offended party, but all wise lookers-on, even as beautiful music or a fine piece of architecture satisfies a well-constituted mind. It is thus that the torments of the damned continue, even tho they serve no longer to turn anyone away from sin, and that the rewards of the blest continue, even tho they confirm no one in good ways. The damned draw to themselves ever new penalties by their continuing sins, and the blest attract ever fresh joys by their unceasing progress in good. Both facts are founded on the principle of fitness, ... for God has made all things harmonious in perfection as I have already said."

Leibnitz continues elsewhere: "There is a kind of justice that aims neither to reform the criminal nor to set an example for others. It does not aim to repair the harm either. This justice rests on pure fitness, which finds a certain satisfaction in the punishment of a wicked deed. The Socinians and Hobbes objected to this punitive justice. It is properly called vindictive justice, and God has reserved it for himself on many occasions. ... It always rests on the fitness of things. It satisfies not only the offended party but all wise observers. In the same way, beautiful music or a fine piece of architecture satisfies a well-formed mind. Thus the torments of the damned continue, even though they no longer turn anyone away from sin. And the rewards of the blessed continue, even though they no longer confirm anyone in good ways. The damned bring ever new penalties upon themselves through their continuing sins. The blessed attract ever fresh joys through their constant progress in good. Both facts rest on the principle of fitness, ... for God has made all things perfectly harmonious, as I have already said."

Leibnitz's feeble grasp of reality is too obvious to need comment from me. It is evident that no realistic image of the experience of a damned soul had ever approached the portals of his mind. Nor had it occurred to him that the smaller is the number of 'samples' of the genus 'lost-soul' whom God throws as a sop to the eternal fitness, the more unequitably grounded is the glory of the blest. What he gives us is a cold literary exercise, whose cheerful substance even hell-fire does not warm.

Leibnitz's weak grasp of reality is too obvious to need any comment from me. Clearly, he had never come close to imagining what a damned soul actually experiences. Nor had he considered that the fewer 'samples' of the 'lost-soul' kind God sacrifices to eternal fitness, the more unfair the basis for the glory of the blessed becomes. What Leibnitz gives us is a cold literary exercise. Even hellfire cannot warm its cheerful content.

And do not tell me that to show the shallowness of rationalist philosophizing I have had to go back to a shallow wigpated age. The optimism of present-day rationalism sounds just as shallow to the fact-loving mind. The actual universe is a thing wide open, but rationalism makes systems, and systems must be closed. For men in practical life perfection is something far off and still in process of achievement. This for rationalism is but the illusion of the finite and relative: the absolute ground of things is a perfection eternally complete.

And do not tell me that I had to go back to a shallow, wig-wearing age to show how shallow rationalist philosophy is. To a mind that loves facts, the optimism of present-day rationalism sounds just as shallow. The actual universe is wide open, but rationalism builds systems, and systems must be closed. In practical life, people see perfection as something far off, something still being achieved. For rationalism, however, this view is only an illusion of finite and relative existence. The absolute foundation of things is a perfection that is eternally complete.

I find a fine example of revolt against the airy and shallow optimism of current religious philosophy in a publication of that valiant anarchistic writer Morrison I. Swift. Mr. Swift's anarchism goes a little farther than mine does, but I confess that I sympathize a good deal, and some of you, I know, will sympathize heartily with his dissatisfaction with the idealistic optimisms now in vogue. He begins his pamphlet on 'Human Submission' with a series of city reporter's items from newspapers (suicides, deaths from starvation and the like) as specimens of our civilized regime. For instance:

I find a fine example of rebellion against the airy, shallow optimism of today's religious philosophy in a publication by the brave anarchist writer Morrison I. Swift. Mr. Swift's anarchism goes a little further than mine, but I confess that I sympathize with him a good deal. And I know that some of you will wholeheartedly share his dissatisfaction with the idealistic optimism now in fashion. He begins his pamphlet on 'Human Submission' with a series of newspaper reports from city reporters. These describe suicides, deaths from starvation, and similar events as examples of life under our civilized system. For instance:

"'After trudging through the snow from one end of the city to the other in the vain hope of securing employment, and with his wife and six children without food and ordered to leave their home in an upper east side tenement house because of non-payment of rent, John Corcoran, a clerk, to-day ended his life by drinking carbolic acid. Corcoran lost his position three weeks ago through illness, and during the period of idleness his scanty savings disappeared. Yesterday he obtained work with a gang of city snow shovelers, but he was too weak from illness and was forced to quit after an hour's trial with the shovel. Then the weary task of looking for employment was again resumed. Thoroughly discouraged, Corcoran returned to his home late last night to find his wife and children without food and the notice of dispossession on the door.' On the following morning he drank the poison.

"'John Corcoran, a clerk, trudged through the snow from one end of the city to the other, hoping in vain to find work. His wife and six children had no food. They had also been ordered to leave their upper east side tenement home because they had not paid the rent. Today, Corcoran ended his life by drinking carbolic acid. He had lost his job three weeks earlier because of illness. During that time without work, his small savings ran out. Yesterday he found work with a city snow-shoveling crew. But he was too weak from illness and had to quit after trying to shovel for an hour. He then resumed the exhausting search for work. Thoroughly discouraged, Corcoran returned home late last night. He found his wife and children without food and an eviction notice on the door.' The following morning, he drank the poison.

"The records of many more such cases lie before me [Mr. Swift goes on]; an encyclopedia might easily be filled with their kind. These few I cite as an interpretation of the universe. 'We are aware of the presence of God in His world,' says a writer in a recent English Review. [The very presence of ill in the temporal order is the condition of the perfection of the eternal order, writes Professor Royce ('The World and the Individual,' II, 385).] 'The Absolute is the richer for every discord, and for all diversity which it embraces,' says F. H. Bradley (Appearance and Reality, 204). He means that these slain men make the universe richer, and that is Philosophy. But while Professors Royce and Bradley and a whole host of guileless thoroughfed thinkers are unveiling Reality and the Absolute and explaining away evil and pain, this is the condition of the only beings known to us anywhere in the universe with a developed consciousness of what the universe is. What these people experience IS Reality. It gives us an absolute phase of the universe. It is the personal experience of those most qualified in all our circle of knowledge to HAVE experience, to tell us WHAT is. Now, what does THINKING ABOUT the experience of these persons come to compared with directly, personally feeling it, as they feel it? The philosophers are dealing in shades, while those who live and feel know truth. And the mind of mankind-not yet the mind of philosophers and of the proprietary class-but of the great mass of the silently thinking and feeling men, is coming to this view. They are judging the universe as they have heretofore permitted the hierophants of religion and learning to judge THEM. ...

"The records of many more such cases lie before me [Mr. Swift continues]. An encyclopedia could easily be filled with cases like them. I cite these few as an interpretation of the universe. 'We are aware of God's presence in his world,' says a writer in a recent English Review. [Professor Royce writes that the very presence of evil in the temporal order is the condition for the perfection of the eternal order ('The World and the Individual,' II, 385).] 'The Absolute is richer for every discord and for all the diversity it embraces,' says F. H. Bradley (Appearance and Reality, 204). He means that these slain men make the universe richer, and that is Philosophy. But Professors Royce and Bradley and a whole host of innocent, well-fed thinkers are unveiling Reality and the Absolute. They are explaining away evil and pain. Meanwhile, this is the condition of the only beings we know of anywhere in the universe with a developed consciousness of what the universe is. What these people experience IS Reality. It gives us an absolute aspect of the universe. It is the personal experience of those most qualified, among all those we know of, to HAVE experience. They are the ones most qualified to tell us WHAT is. Now, how does THINKING ABOUT these people's experience compare with feeling it directly and personally, as they do? The philosophers deal in shadows, while those who live and feel know the truth. And humanity is coming to this view. I do not yet mean philosophers or the property-owning class. I mean the great mass of people who think and feel in silence. They are judging the universe, just as they have until now allowed the high priests of religion and learning to judge THEM. ...

"This Cleveland workingman, killing his children and himself [another of the cited cases], is one of the elemental, stupendous facts of this modern world and of this universe. It cannot be glozed over or minimized away by all the treatises on God, and Love, and Being, helplessly existing in their haughty monumental vacuity. This is one of the simple irreducible elements of this world's life after millions of years of divine opportunity and twenty centuries of Christ. It is in the moral world like atoms or sub-atoms in the physical, primary, indestructible. And what it blazons to man is the ... imposture of all philosophy which does not see in such events the consummate factor of conscious experience. These facts invincibly prove religion a nullity. Man will not give religion two thousand centuries or twenty centuries more to try itself and waste human time; its time is up, its probation is ended. Its own record ends it. Mankind has not sons and eternities to spare for trying out discredited systems...."¹

"This Cleveland workingman who killed his children and himself (another of the cases cited) is one of the fundamental, immense facts of the modern world and this universe. All the treatises on God, and Love, and Being cannot gloss over or diminish this fact. They stand helpless in their proud, monumental emptiness. This is one of the simple, irreducible elements of life in this world. It remains after millions of years of divine opportunity and twenty centuries of Christ. In the moral world, it is like atoms or subatomic particles in the physical world: fundamental and indestructible. It proclaims to humanity the ... fraud of all philosophy that does not see such events as the most important factor in conscious experience. These facts prove beyond doubt that religion is worthless. Humanity will not give religion another two thousand centuries or even twenty centuries to test itself and waste human time. Its time is up, its trial is over. Its own record condemns it. Humanity has no sons or eternities to spare for testing discredited systems...."¹

Such is the reaction of an empiricist mind upon the rationalist bill of fare. It is an absolute 'No, I thank you.' "Religion," says Mr. Swift, "is like a sleep-walker to whom actual things are blank." And such, tho possibly less tensely charged with feeling, is the verdict of every seriously inquiring amateur in philosophy to-day who turns to the philosophy-professors for the wherewithal to satisfy the fulness of his nature's needs. Empiricist writers give him a materialism, rationalists give him something religious, but to that religion "actual things are blank." He becomes thus the judge of us philosophers. Tender or tough, he finds us wanting. None of us may treat his verdicts disdainfully, for after all, his is the typically perfect mind, the mind the sum of whose demands is greatest, the mind whose criticisms and dissatisfactions are fatal in the long run.

This is how an empiricist mind reacts to what rationalism offers. Its answer is an absolute 'No, thank you.' "Religion," says Mr. Swift, "is like a sleepwalker to whom actual things are blank." That is also the verdict of every seriously inquiring amateur philosopher today, though perhaps with less intensity of feeling. Such a person turns to philosophy professors for something that will satisfy the full range of his nature's needs. Empiricist writers offer him materialism. Rationalists offer him something religious, but to that religion "actual things are blank." He thus becomes the judge of us philosophers. Whether tender or tough, he finds us lacking. None of us may dismiss his judgments with contempt. After all, his is the typically perfect mind, the mind with the greatest sum of demands. Its criticisms and dissatisfactions are fatal in the long run.

It is at this point that my own solution begins to appear. I offer the oddly-named thing pragmatism as a philosophy that can satisfy both kinds of demand. It can remain religious like the rationalisms, but at the same time, like the empiricisms, it can preserve the richest intimacy with facts. I hope I may be able to leave many of you with as favorable an opinion of it as I preserve myself. Yet, as I am near the end of my hour, I will not introduce pragmatism bodily now. I will begin with it on the stroke of the clock next time. I prefer at the present moment to return a little on what I have said.

This is where my own solution begins to take shape. I offer a philosophy with an odd name, pragmatism, that can satisfy both kinds of demand. Like rationalism, it can remain religious. But like empiricism, it can also stay as close as possible to the full richness of the facts. I hope I can leave many of you with as favorable an opinion of pragmatism as I have myself. But my hour is nearly over, so I will not present pragmatism in full now. I will begin with it as soon as the clock strikes next time. For now, I would rather return briefly to what I have said.

If any of you here are professional philosophers, and some of you I know to be such, you will doubtless have felt my discourse so far to have been crude in an unpardonable, nay, in an almost incredible degree. Tender-minded and tough-minded, what a barbaric disjunction! And, in general, when philosophy is all compacted of delicate intellectualities and subtleties and scrupulosities, and when every possible sort of combination and transition obtains within its bounds, what a brutal caricature and reduction of highest things to the lowest possible expression is it to represent its field of conflict as a sort of rough-and-tumble fight between two hostile temperaments! What a childishly external view! And again, how stupid it is to treat the abstractness of rationalist systems as a crime, and to damn them because they offer themselves as sanctuaries and places of escape, rather than as prolongations of the world of facts. Are not all our theories just remedies and places of escape? And, if philosophy is to be religious, how can she be anything else than a place of escape from the crassness of reality's surface? What better thing can she do than raise us out of our animal senses and show us another and a nobler home for our minds in that great framework of ideal principles subtending all reality, which the intellect divines? How can principles and general views ever be anything but abstract outlines? Was Cologne cathedral built without an architect's plan on paper? Is refinement in itself an abomination? Is concrete rudeness the only thing that's true?

If any of you here are professional philosophers, and I know some of you are, you have probably found my talk so far unforgivably crude. Perhaps you have found it almost unbelievably crude. Tender-minded and tough-minded, what a barbaric division! Philosophy is full of delicate ideas, subtleties, and careful distinctions. Every possible combination and transition can be found within it. So what a brutal caricature it is to portray its conflicts as a rough-and-tumble fight between two hostile temperaments! What a reduction of the highest things to their lowest possible form! What a childish view from the outside! And how stupid it is to treat the abstract nature of rationalist systems as a crime. How stupid to condemn them because they offer shelter and escape rather than an extension of the world of facts. Aren't all our theories remedies and places of escape? And if philosophy is to be religious, how can it be anything but an escape from the crude surface of reality? What better thing can philosophy do than lift us above our animal senses? What better thing can it do than show our minds another and nobler home? That home is the great framework of ideal principles underlying all reality, which the intellect perceives. How can principles and general views ever be anything but abstract outlines? Was Cologne cathedral built without an architect's plan on paper? Is refinement itself an abomination? Is crude concreteness the only thing that is true?

Believe me, I feel the full force of the indictment. The picture I have given is indeed monstrously over-simplified and rude. But like all abstractions, it will prove to have its use. If philosophers can treat the life of the universe abstractly, they must not complain of an abstract treatment of the life of philosophy itself. In point of fact the picture I have given is, however coarse and sketchy, literally true. Temperaments with their cravings and refusals do determine men in their philosophies, and always will. The details of systems may be reasoned out piecemeal, and when the student is working at a system, he may often forget the forest for the single tree. But when the labor is accomplished, the mind always performs its big summarizing act, and the system forthwith stands over against one like a living thing, with that strange simple note of individuality which haunts our memory, like the wraith of the man, when a friend or enemy of ours is dead.

Believe me, I fully feel the force of the criticism. The picture I have given is indeed shockingly oversimplified and crude. But like all abstractions, it will prove useful. If philosophers can treat the life of the universe abstractly, they must not complain when philosophy itself receives the same treatment. In fact, however rough and sketchy my picture is, it is literally true. People’s temperaments, with their desires and refusals, do determine their philosophies, and always will. The details of systems may be worked out bit by bit through reasoning. While studying a system, a student may often lose sight of the forest for a single tree. But when the work is done, the mind always takes the whole system in at once. The system then stands before us like a living thing. It has that strange, simple mark of individuality that haunts our memory like the ghost of a dead friend or enemy.

Not only Walt Whitman could write "who touches this book touches a man." The books of all the great philosophers are like so many men. Our sense of an essential personal flavor in each one of them, typical but indescribable, is the finest fruit of our own accomplished philosophic education. What the system pretends to be is a picture of the great universe of God. What it is—and oh so flagrantly!—is the revelation of how intensely odd the personal flavor of some fellow creature is. Once reduced to these terms (and all our philosophies get reduced to them in minds made critical by learning) our commerce with the systems reverts to the informal, to the instinctive human reaction of satisfaction or dislike. We grow as peremptory in our rejection or admission, as when a person presents himself as a candidate for our favor; our verdicts are couched in as simple adjectives of praise or dispraise. We measure the total character of the universe as we feel it, against the flavor of the philosophy proffered us, and one word is enough.

Walt Whitman was not the only one who could write "who touches this book touches a man." The books of all the great philosophers are like people. Each has an essential personal flavor that we can recognize but cannot describe. Our sense of that flavor is the finest result of a completed philosophical education. A philosophical system claims to be a picture of God’s great universe. What it actually reveals, and oh so plainly, is how intensely odd a fellow human being’s personal flavor is. Once we see systems in these terms, we respond to them more informally, with an instinctive human satisfaction or dislike. All our philosophies come down to these terms in minds made critical by learning. We accept or reject a system as readily as we accept or reject someone seeking our favor. We express our verdicts in equally simple words of praise or disapproval. We compare the overall character of the universe as we feel it with the flavor of the philosophy offered to us. One word is enough.

"Statt der lebendigen Natur," we say, "da Gott die Menschen schuf hinein"—that nebulous concoction, that wooden, that straight-laced thing, that crabbed artificiality, that musty schoolroom product, that sick man's dream! Away with it. Away with all of them! Impossible! Impossible!

"Instead of living nature," we say, "into which God created human beings": that vague concoction, that stiff, rigid thing, that strained artificiality, that musty schoolroom product, that sick man's dream! Away with it. Away with all of them! Impossible! Impossible!

Our work over the details of his system is indeed what gives us our resultant impression of the philosopher, but it is on the resultant impression itself that we react. Expertness in philosophy is measured by the definiteness of our summarizing reactions, by the immediate perceptive epithet with which the expert hits such complex objects off. But great expertness is not necessary for the epithet to come. Few people have definitely articulated philosophies of their own. But almost everyone has his own peculiar sense of a certain total character in the universe, and of the inadequacy fully to match it of the peculiar systems that he knows. They don't just cover HIS world. One will be too dapper, another too pedantic, a third too much of a job-lot of opinions, a fourth too morbid, and a fifth too artificial, or what not. At any rate he and we know offhand that such philosophies are out of plumb and out of key and out of 'whack,' and have no business to speak up in the universe's name. Plato, Locke, Spinoza, Mill, Caird, Hegel—I prudently avoid names nearer home!—I am sure that to many of you, my hearers, these names are little more than reminders of as many curious personal ways of falling short. It would be an obvious absurdity if such ways of taking the universe were actually true. We philosophers have to reckon with such feelings on your part. In the last resort, I repeat, it will be by them that all our philosophies shall ultimately be judged. The finally victorious way of looking at things will be the most completely IMPRESSIVE way to the normal run of minds.

Studying the details of a philosopher’s system gives us our overall impression of the philosopher. But it is to that overall impression that we react. Expertise in philosophy is measured by how clearly we sum up our reactions. An expert can immediately find a perceptive word to capture such complex subjects. But it does not take great expertise to find such a word. Few people have clearly worked out philosophies of their own. But almost everyone has a personal sense of the universe’s overall character. Almost everyone also feels that the philosophical systems they know do not fully match that character. These systems just do not cover THEIR world. One system will be too neat, another too pedantic, a third too much like a grab bag of opinions. A fourth may be too morbid, a fifth too artificial, and so on. In any case, they and we know at once that such philosophies are off balance, out of tune, and out of ‘whack.’ They have no business speaking in the universe’s name. Plato, Locke, Spinoza, Mill, Caird, Hegel. I prudently avoid names closer to home! I am sure that, for many of you listening to me, these names are little more than reminders of distinct and curious ways of falling short. It would be obviously absurd if such views of the universe were actually true. We philosophers have to reckon with such feelings on your part. In the end, I repeat, all our philosophies will ultimately be judged by those feelings. The view that finally wins out will be the one that makes the strongest IMPRESSION on ordinary minds.

One word more—namely about philosophies necessarily being abstract outlines. There are outlines and outlines, outlines of buildings that are FAT, conceived in the cube by their planner, and outlines of buildings invented flat on paper, with the aid of ruler and compass. These remain skinny and emaciated even when set up in stone and mortar, and the outline already suggests that result. An outline in itself is meagre, truly, but it does not necessarily suggest a meagre thing. It is the essential meagreness of WHAT IS SUGGESTED by the usual rationalistic philosophies that moves empiricists to their gesture of rejection. The case of Herbert Spencer's system is much to the point here. Rationalists feel his fearful array of insufficiencies. His dry schoolmaster temperament, the hurdy-gurdy monotony of him, his preference for cheap makeshifts in argument, his lack of education even in mechanical principles, and in general the vagueness of all his fundamental ideas, his whole system wooden, as if knocked together out of cracked hemlock boards—and yet the half of England wants to bury him in Westminster Abbey.

One more word about the fact that philosophies must be abstract outlines. Some outlines are better than others. There are outlines of buildings the architect has imagined as FAT, three-dimensional structures. And there are outlines of buildings designed flat on paper with a ruler and compass. Even when built in stone and mortar, these remain skinny and emaciated. Their outlines already suggest that result. An outline is thin in itself, certainly, but it does not necessarily suggest a thin thing. What leads empiricists to reject the usual rationalistic philosophies is the essential thinness of WHAT THOSE PHILOSOPHIES SUGGEST. Herbert Spencer's system is a good example. Rationalists feel the terrible number of its shortcomings. Spencer has the dry temperament of a schoolmaster and the monotony of a hurdy-gurdy. He prefers cheap shortcuts in argument. He lacks education even in mechanical principles, and all his fundamental ideas are vague. His whole system is wooden, as if knocked together out of cracked hemlock boards. And yet half of England wants to bury him in Westminster Abbey.

Why? Why does Spencer call out so much reverence in spite of his weakness in rationalistic eyes? Why should so many educated men who feel that weakness, you and I perhaps, wish to see him in the Abbey notwithstanding?

Why? Why does Spencer inspire so much reverence despite his weakness in the eyes of rationalists? Why do so many educated people who recognize that weakness still want to see him in the Abbey? Perhaps you and I do too.

Simply because we feel his heart to be IN THE RIGHT PLACE philosophically. His principles may be all skin and bone, but at any rate his books try to mould themselves upon the particular shape of this, particular world's carcase. The noise of facts resounds through all his chapters, the citations of fact never cease, he emphasizes facts, turns his face towards their quarter; and that is enough. It means the right kind of thing for the empiricist mind.

Simply because we feel that his heart is IN THE RIGHT PLACE philosophically. His principles may be all skin and bones, but at least his books try to fit the particular shape of this particular world's carcass. The noise of facts echoes through all his chapters. He never stops citing facts. He emphasizes facts and turns toward them. And that is enough. For the empiricist mind, this shows the right kind of approach.

The pragmatistic philosophy of which I hope to begin talking in my next lecture preserves as cordial a relation with facts, and, unlike Spencer's philosophy, it neither begins nor ends by turning positive religious constructions out of doors—it treats them cordially as well.

I hope to begin discussing pragmatic philosophy in my next lecture. It is just as open to facts as Spencer's philosophy. But unlike Spencer's philosophy, it does not reject positive religious ideas at the start or the end. It welcomes them too.

I hope I may lead you to find it just the mediating way of thinking that you require.

I hope I can help you see that it is exactly the middle way of thinking you need.