What Pragmatism Means

Some years ago, being with a camping party in the mountains, I returned from a solitary ramble to find everyone engaged in a ferocious metaphysical dispute. The corpus of the dispute was a squirrel—a live squirrel supposed to be clinging to one side of a tree-trunk; while over against the tree's opposite side a human being was imagined to stand. This human witness tries to get sight of the squirrel by moving rapidly round the tree, but no matter how fast he goes, the squirrel moves as fast in the opposite direction, and always keeps the tree between himself and the man, so that never a glimpse of him is caught. The resultant metaphysical problem now is this: DOES THE MAN GO ROUND THE SQUIRREL OR NOT? He goes round the tree, sure enough, and the squirrel is on the tree; but does he go round the squirrel? In the unlimited leisure of the wilderness, discussion had been worn threadbare. Everyone had taken sides, and was obstinate; and the numbers on both sides were even. Each side, when I appeared, therefore appealed to me to make it a majority. Mindful of the scholastic adage that whenever you meet a contradiction you must make a distinction, I immediately sought and found one, as follows: "Which party is right," I said, "depends on what you PRACTICALLY MEAN by 'going round' the squirrel. If you mean passing from the north of him to the east, then to the south, then to the west, and then to the north of him again, obviously the man does go round him, for he occupies these successive positions. But if on the contrary you mean being first in front of him, then on the right of him, then behind him, then on his left, and finally in front again, it is quite as obvious that the man fails to go round him, for by the compensating movements the squirrel makes, he keeps his belly turned towards the man all the time, and his back turned away. Make the distinction, and there is no occasion for any farther dispute. You are both right and both wrong according as you conceive the verb 'to go round' in one practical fashion or the other."

Some years ago, I was camping with a group in the mountains. I returned from a solitary walk to find everyone engaged in a fierce metaphysical dispute. The subject was a squirrel, a live squirrel imagined clinging to one side of a tree trunk. A person was imagined standing on the opposite side of the tree. The person tries to see the squirrel by moving quickly around the tree. But no matter how fast he goes, the squirrel moves just as fast in the opposite direction. The squirrel always keeps the tree between himself and the man, so the man never catches a glimpse of him. The resulting metaphysical problem is this: DOES THE MAN GO AROUND THE SQUIRREL OR NOT? He certainly goes around the tree, and the squirrel is on the tree. But does he go around the squirrel? With unlimited leisure in the wilderness, the group had exhausted the discussion. Everyone had taken a side, everyone was stubborn, and both sides had equal numbers. When I appeared, each side appealed to me to give it a majority. I remembered the scholarly saying that whenever you find a contradiction, you must make a distinction. I immediately looked for a distinction and found one. "Which side is right," I said, "depends on what you PRACTICALLY MEAN by 'going around' the squirrel. If you mean passing from north of him to east, then south, then west, and then north again, the man obviously does go around him. For the man takes each of these positions in turn. But suppose you mean being first in front of him, then on his right, then behind him, then on his left, and finally in front again. In that case, it is just as obvious that the man fails to go around him. For the squirrel moves to match him, keeping his belly turned toward the man and his back turned away. Make the distinction, and there is no reason for any further dispute. You are both right and both wrong, depending on which practical meaning you give the verb 'to go around'."

Altho one or two of the hotter disputants called my speech a shuffling evasion, saying they wanted no quibbling or scholastic hair-splitting, but meant just plain honest English 'round,' the majority seemed to think that the distinction had assuaged the dispute.

One or two of the more heated debaters called my speech a slippery evasion. They said they wanted no quibbling or hair-splitting, but meant 'round' in plain, honest English. Still, most seemed to think the distinction had eased the dispute.

I tell this trivial anecdote because it is a peculiarly simple example of what I wish now to speak of as THE PRAGMATIC METHOD. The pragmatic method is primarily a method of settling metaphysical disputes that otherwise might be interminable. Is the world one or many?—fated or free?—material or spiritual?—here are notions either of which may or may not hold good of the world; and disputes over such notions are unending. The pragmatic method in such cases is to try to interpret each notion by tracing its respective practical consequences. What difference would it practically make to anyone if this notion rather than that notion were true? If no practical difference whatever can be traced, then the alternatives mean practically the same thing, and all dispute is idle. Whenever a dispute is serious, we ought to be able to show some practical difference that must follow from one side or the other's being right.

I tell this trivial story because it is an especially simple example of what I now want to call THE PRAGMATIC METHOD. The pragmatic method is primarily a way to settle metaphysical disputes that might otherwise go on forever. Is the world one or many? Is it governed by fate or by freedom? Is it material or spiritual? Either answer to each question may or may not be true of the world, and disputes over such ideas never end. In such cases, the pragmatic method tries to interpret each idea by tracing its practical consequences. What practical difference would it make to anyone if one idea rather than another were true? If there is no practical difference at all, then the alternatives mean practically the same thing, and the whole dispute is pointless. Whenever a dispute is serious, we should be able to show some practical difference that would follow from one side or the other being right.

A glance at the history of the idea will show you still better what pragmatism means. The term is derived from the same Greek word [pi rho alpha gamma mu alpha], meaning action, from which our words 'practice' and 'practical' come. It was first introduced into philosophy by Mr. Charles Peirce in 1878. In an article entitled 'How to Make Our Ideas Clear,' in the 'Popular Science Monthly' for January of that year² Mr. Peirce, after pointing out that our beliefs are really rules for action, said that to develope a thought's meaning, we need only determine what conduct it is fitted to produce: that conduct is for us its sole significance. And the tangible fact at the root of all our thought-distinctions, however subtle, is that there is no one of them so fine as to consist in anything but a possible difference of practice. To attain perfect clearness in our thoughts of an object, then, we need only consider what conceivable effects of a practical kind the object may involve—what sensations we are to expect from it, and what reactions we must prepare. Our conception of these effects, whether immediate or remote, is then for us the whole of our conception of the object, so far as that conception has positive significance at all.

A look at the history of the idea will show you even more clearly what pragmatism means. The term comes from the same Greek word [pi rho alpha gamma mu alpha], meaning action, as our words 'practice' and 'practical.' Mr. Charles Peirce first introduced the term into philosophy in 1878. He did so in an article entitled 'How to Make Our Ideas Clear,' published in the 'Popular Science Monthly' in January of that year.² Mr. Peirce pointed out that our beliefs are really rules for action. He then said that to develop the meaning of a thought, we need only determine what conduct it is suited to produce. For us, that conduct is the thought's only significance. A tangible fact lies at the root of all the distinctions we make in thought, however subtle. None is so fine that it consists in anything other than a possible difference in practice. To make our thoughts about an object perfectly clear, then, we need only consider its conceivable practical effects. We must consider what sensations we can expect from the object and what reactions we must prepare for. Our conception of these effects, whether immediate or remote, is then our whole conception of the object. This is true for us, at least, insofar as our conception has any positive significance.

This is the principle of Peirce, the principle of pragmatism. It lay entirely unnoticed by anyone for twenty years, until I, in an address before Professor Howison's philosophical union at the university of California, brought it forward again and made a special application of it to religion. By that date (1898) the times seemed ripe for its reception. The word 'pragmatism' spread, and at present it fairly spots the pages of the philosophic journals. On all hands we find the 'pragmatic movement' spoken of, sometimes with respect, sometimes with contumely, seldom with clear understanding. It is evident that the term applies itself conveniently to a number of tendencies that hitherto have lacked a collective name, and that it has 'come to stay.'

This is Peirce's principle, the principle of pragmatism. No one noticed it for twenty years. Then I brought it forward again in an address to Professor Howison's philosophical union at the University of California. I applied the principle specifically to religion. By then, in 1898, the times seemed ready to receive it. The word 'pragmatism' spread, and it now appears throughout the pages of philosophical journals. Everywhere we find people speaking of the 'pragmatic movement', sometimes with respect, sometimes with contempt, and seldom with clear understanding. Clearly, the term conveniently applies to a number of tendencies that had previously lacked a collective name. It has 'come to stay.'

To take in the importance of Peirce's principle, one must get accustomed to applying it to concrete cases. I found a few years ago that Ostwald, the illustrious Leipzig chemist, had been making perfectly distinct use of the principle of pragmatism in his lectures on the philosophy of science, tho he had not called it by that name.

To understand the importance of Peirce's principle, you must get used to applying it to concrete cases. A few years ago, I discovered that Ostwald, the famous Leipzig chemist, had been using the principle of pragmatism quite explicitly in his lectures on the philosophy of science, though he had not called it by that name.

"All realities influence our practice," he wrote me, "and that influence is their meaning for us. I am accustomed to put questions to my classes in this way: In what respects would the world be different if this alternative or that were true? If I can find nothing that would become different, then the alternative has no sense."

"All realities influence how we act," he wrote to me, "and that influence is what they mean to us. I usually ask my classes questions like this: How would the world be different if one alternative or another were true? If I can find nothing that would be different, then the alternative has no meaning."

That is, the rival views mean practically the same thing, and meaning, other than practical, there is for us none. Ostwald in a published lecture gives this example of what he means. Chemists have long wrangled over the inner constitution of certain bodies called 'tautomerous.' Their properties seemed equally consistent with the notion that an instable hydrogen atom oscillates inside of them, or that they are instable mixtures of two bodies. Controversy raged; but never was decided. "It would never have begun," says Ostwald, "if the combatants had asked themselves what particular experimental fact could have been made different by one or the other view being correct. For it would then have appeared that no difference of fact could possibly ensue; and the quarrel was as unreal as if, theorizing in primitive times about the raising of dough by yeast, one party should have invoked a 'brownie,' while another insisted on an 'elf' as the true cause of the phenomenon."³

In other words, the rival views mean practically the same thing. For us, there is no meaning other than practical meaning. In a published lecture, Ostwald gives an example of what he means. Chemists have long argued over the internal structure of certain substances called 'tautomerous.' Their properties seemed equally consistent with two explanations. Either an unstable hydrogen atom moves back and forth inside them, or they are unstable mixtures of two substances. The controversy raged, but it was never settled. "It would never have begun," says Ostwald, "if the opponents had asked themselves what particular experimental fact could differ depending on which view was correct. They would then have seen that no difference in fact could possibly result. The quarrel was just as unreal as a dispute over what makes yeast cause dough to rise. Imagine that, in primitive times, one side had proposed a 'brownie' as the true cause. The other side might have insisted that an 'elf' was responsible."³

It is astonishing to see how many philosophical disputes collapse into insignificance the moment you subject them to this simple test of tracing a concrete consequence. There can BE no difference any-where that doesn't MAKE a difference elsewhere—no difference in abstract truth that doesn't express itself in a difference in concrete fact and in conduct consequent upon that fact, imposed on somebody, somehow, somewhere and somewhen. The whole function of philosophy ought to be to find out what definite difference it will make to you and me, at definite instants of our life, if this world-formula or that world-formula be the true one.

It is astonishing how many philosophical disputes become insignificant when you test them by looking for a concrete consequence. There can BE no difference anywhere that doesn't MAKE a difference elsewhere. No difference in abstract truth exists without showing itself in concrete facts and in the conduct those facts require of someone, somehow, somewhere, at some time. Philosophy's whole purpose should be to discover what definite difference it will make to you and me at particular moments in our lives if one account of the world or another is true.

There is absolutely nothing new in the pragmatic method. Socrates was an adept at it. Aristotle used it methodically. Locke, Berkeley and Hume made momentous contributions to truth by its means. Shadworth Hodgson keeps insisting that realities are only what they are 'known-as.' But these forerunners of pragmatism used it in fragments: they were preluders only. Not until in our time has it generalized itself, become conscious of a universal mission, pretended to a conquering destiny. I believe in that destiny, and I hope I may end by inspiring you with my belief.

There is absolutely nothing new about the pragmatic method. Socrates was skilled at it. Aristotle used it systematically. Locke, Berkeley and Hume used it to make important contributions to truth. Shadworth Hodgson keeps insisting that realities are only what they are 'known-as.' But these forerunners of pragmatism used the method only in fragments. They were merely setting the stage. Only in our time has the method become general, grown conscious of a universal mission and claimed a destiny of conquest. I believe in that destiny, and I hope to inspire you to believe in it too.

Pragmatism represents a perfectly familiar attitude in philosophy, the empiricist attitude, but it represents it, as it seems to me, both in a more radical and in a less objectionable form than it has ever yet assumed. A pragmatist turns his back resolutely and once for all upon a lot of inveterate habits dear to professional philosophers. He turns away from abstraction and insufficiency, from verbal solutions, from bad a priori reasons, from fixed principles, closed systems, and pretended absolutes and origins. He turns towards concreteness and adequacy, towards facts, towards action, and towards power. That means the empiricist temper regnant, and the rationalist temper sincerely given up. It means the open air and possibilities of nature, as against dogma, artificiality and the pretence of finality in truth.

Pragmatism represents a familiar attitude in philosophy: the empiricist attitude. But it seems to me more radical and less objectionable than any previous form of empiricism. A pragmatist firmly and permanently turns away from many entrenched habits dear to professional philosophers. The pragmatist rejects abstraction and inadequacy, verbal solutions, and poor reasons based on prior assumptions. The pragmatist also rejects fixed principles, closed systems, and supposed absolutes and origins. Instead, the pragmatist turns toward what is concrete and adequate, toward facts, action, and power. This means that the empiricist outlook prevails and the rationalist outlook is genuinely abandoned. It means the open air and possibilities of nature, rather than dogma, artificiality, and the pretense that truth is final.

At the same time it does not stand for any special results. It is a method only. But the general triumph of that method would mean an enormous change in what I called in my last lecture the 'temperament' of philosophy. Teachers of the ultra-rationalistic type would be frozen out, much as the courtier type is frozen out in republics, as the ultramontane type of priest is frozen out in protestant lands. Science and metaphysics would come much nearer together, would in fact work absolutely hand in hand.

At the same time, it does not promise any particular results. It is only a method. But if this method prevailed everywhere, it would greatly change what I called the 'temperament' of philosophy in my last lecture. Ultra-rationalist teachers would be pushed aside. They would be much like courtiers in republics or ultramontane priests in Protestant countries. Science and metaphysics would come much closer together. In fact, they would work completely hand in hand.

Metaphysics has usually followed a very primitive kind of quest. You know how men have always hankered after unlawful magic, and you know what a great part, in magic, WORDS have always played. If you have his name, or the formula of incantation that binds him, you can control the spirit, genie, afrite, or whatever the power may be. Solomon knew the names of all the spirits, and having their names, he held them subject to his will. So the universe has always appeared to the natural mind as a kind of enigma, of which the key must be sought in the shape of some illuminating or power-bringing word or name. That word names the universe's PRINCIPLE, and to possess it is, after a fashion, to possess the universe itself. 'God,' 'Matter,' 'Reason,' 'the Absolute,' 'Energy,' are so many solving names. You can rest when you have them. You are at the end of your metaphysical quest.

Metaphysics has usually pursued a very primitive kind of quest. You know how people have always longed for forbidden magic. You also know what a great part WORDS have always played in magic. If you have a spirit’s name, or the magic formula that binds it, you can control it. The same goes for a genie, an afrite, or whatever the power may be. Solomon knew the names of all the spirits. Because he had their names, he held them subject to his will. In much the same way, the universe has always seemed like a mystery to the ordinary mind. Its key must be some word or name that brings understanding or power. That word names the universe’s PRINCIPLE. To possess it is, in a way, to possess the universe itself. 'God,' 'Matter,' 'Reason,' 'the Absolute,' and 'Energy' are all names that offer a solution. Once you have them, you can rest. You have reached the end of your metaphysical quest.

But if you follow the pragmatic method, you cannot look on any such word as closing your quest. You must bring out of each word its practical cash-value, set it at work within the stream of your experience. It appears less as a solution, then, than as a program for more work, and more particularly as an indication of the ways in which existing realities may be CHANGED.

But if you follow the pragmatic method, you cannot treat any such word as the end of your search. You must draw out each word’s practical value and put it to work in your experience. The word then appears less as a solution than as a plan for further work. More specifically, it suggests ways in which existing realities may be CHANGED.

THEORIES THUS BECOME INSTRUMENTS, NOT ANSWERS TO ENIGMAS, IN WHICH WE CAN REST. We don't lie back upon them, we move forward, and, on occasion, make nature over again by their aid. Pragmatism unstiffens all our theories, limbers them up and sets each one at work. Being nothing essentially new, it harmonizes with many ancient philosophic tendencies. It agrees with nominalism for instance, in always appealing to particulars; with utilitarianism in emphasizing practical aspects; with positivism in its disdain for verbal solutions, useless questions, and metaphysical abstractions.

THEORIES BECOME TOOLS, NOT ANSWERS TO MYSTERIES THAT LET US REST. We do not sit back and rely on theories. We move forward and sometimes use them to reshape nature. Pragmatism makes all our theories more flexible and puts each one to work. It is not essentially new, so it fits with many old philosophical traditions. Like nominalism, it always appeals to particular cases. Like utilitarianism, it emphasizes practical matters. And like positivism, it rejects merely verbal solutions, useless questions, and metaphysical abstractions.

All these, you see, are ANTI-INTELLECTUALIST tendencies. Against rationalism as a pretension and a method, pragmatism is fully armed and militant. But, at the outset, at least, it stands for no particular results. It has no dogmas, and no doctrines save its method. As the young Italian pragmatist Papini has well said, it lies in the midst of our theories, like a corridor in a hotel. Innumerable chambers open out of it. In one you may find a man writing an atheistic volume; in the next someone on his knees praying for faith and strength; in a third a chemist investigating a body's properties. In a fourth a system of idealistic metaphysics is being excogitated; in a fifth the impossibility of metaphysics is being shown. But they all own the corridor, and all must pass through it if they want a practicable way of getting into or out of their respective rooms.

All these, you see, are ANTI-INTELLECTUALIST tendencies. Pragmatism is fully armed and militant against rationalism as a claim and a method. But, at least at the outset, it does not stand for any particular results. It has no dogmas and no doctrines apart from its method. As the young Italian pragmatist Papini put it well, pragmatism lies among our theories like a corridor in a hotel. Countless rooms open onto it. In one, you may find a man writing a book on atheism. In the next, someone is on his knees, praying for faith and strength. In a third, a chemist is investigating the properties of a physical object. In a fourth, someone is developing a system of idealistic metaphysics. In a fifth, someone is demonstrating the impossibility of metaphysics. But they all share the corridor. They must all pass through it if they want a practical way to enter or leave their respective rooms.

No particular results then, so far, but only an attitude of orientation, is what the pragmatic method means. THE ATTITUDE OF LOOKING AWAY FROM FIRST THINGS, PRINCIPLES, 'CATEGORIES,' SUPPOSED NECESSITIES; AND OF LOOKING TOWARDS LAST THINGS, FRUITS, CONSEQUENCES, FACTS.

So, for now, the pragmatic method means no particular results, but only a way of approaching things. IT MEANS LOOKING AWAY FROM FIRST THINGS, PRINCIPLES, 'CATEGORIES,' AND SUPPOSED NECESSITIES. IT MEANS LOOKING TOWARD LAST THINGS, FRUITS, CONSEQUENCES, AND FACTS.

So much for the pragmatic method! You may say that I have been praising it rather than explaining it to you, but I shall presently explain it abundantly enough by showing how it works on some familiar problems. Meanwhile the word pragmatism has come to be used in a still wider sense, as meaning also a certain theory of TRUTH. I mean to give a whole lecture to the statement of that theory, after first paving the way, so I can be very brief now. But brevity is hard to follow, so I ask for your redoubled attention for a quarter of an hour. If much remains obscure, I hope to make it clearer in the later lectures.

That is enough about the pragmatic method for now! You may say that I have praised the method rather than explained it. But I will soon explain it fully by showing how it works on some familiar problems. Meanwhile, the word pragmatism has come to have a broader meaning. It also refers to a particular theory of TRUTH. I plan to devote a whole lecture to explaining that theory, after first preparing the way. So I can be very brief now. But a brief explanation is hard to follow, so I ask you to pay extra attention for fifteen minutes. If much remains unclear, I hope to make it clearer in the later lectures.

One of the most successfully cultivated branches of philosophy in our time is what is called inductive logic, the study of the conditions under which our sciences have evolved. Writers on this subject have begun to show a singular unanimity as to what the laws of nature and elements of fact mean, when formulated by mathematicians, physicists and chemists. When the first mathematical, logical and natural uniformities, the first LAWS, were discovered, men were so carried away by the clearness, beauty and simplification that resulted, that they believed themselves to have deciphered authentically the eternal thoughts of the Almighty. His mind also thundered and reverberated in syllogisms. He also thought in conic sections, squares and roots and ratios, and geometrized like Euclid. He made Kepler's laws for the planets to follow; he made velocity increase proportionally to the time in falling bodies; he made the law of the sines for light to obey when refracted; he established the classes, orders, families and genera of plants and animals, and fixed the distances between them. He thought the archetypes of all things, and devised their variations; and when we rediscover any one of these his wondrous institutions, we seize his mind in its very literal intention.

One of the most successfully developed branches of philosophy today is called inductive logic. It studies the conditions under which our sciences have evolved. Writers on this subject have begun to show a remarkable agreement. They agree about what laws of nature and elements of fact mean when mathematicians, physicists, and chemists formulate them. When people discovered the first mathematical, logical, and natural patterns, the first LAWS, they were carried away. The discoveries brought such clarity, beauty, and simplicity that people believed they had decoded the eternal thoughts of the Almighty. His mind, too, thundered and echoed with syllogisms. He, too, thought in conic sections, squares, roots, and ratios, and did geometry like Euclid. He made Kepler's laws for the planets to follow. He made the speed of falling bodies increase in proportion to time. He made the law of sines for light to obey when it is refracted. He established the classes, orders, families, and genera of plants and animals, and fixed the distances between them. He imagined the archetypes of all things and devised their variations. Whenever we rediscover one of these wondrous creations, we grasp exactly what his mind intended.

But as the sciences have developed farther, the notion has gained ground that most, perhaps all, of our laws are only approximations. The laws themselves, moreover, have grown so numerous that there is no counting them; and so many rival formulations are proposed in all the branches of science that investigators have become accustomed to the notion that no theory is absolutely a transcript of reality, but that any one of them may from some point of view be useful. Their great use is to summarize old facts and to lead to new ones. They are only a man-made language, a conceptual shorthand, as someone calls them, in which we write our reports of nature; and languages, as is well known, tolerate much choice of expression and many dialects.

But as the sciences have developed, the idea has gained ground that most, perhaps all, of our laws are only approximations. The laws themselves have also become too numerous to count. And so many competing formulations have been proposed in every branch of science that researchers have grown used to an idea: no theory is an exact copy of reality, but any theory may be useful from some point of view. The main use of theories is to summarize known facts and lead to new ones. Theories are only a human-made language for reporting on nature, or, as someone calls them, a conceptual shorthand. And languages, as we know, allow many choices of expression and many dialects.

Thus human arbitrariness has driven divine necessity from scientific logic. If I mention the names of Sigwart, Mach, Ostwald, Pearson, Milhaud, Poincare, Duhem, Ruyssen, those of you who are students will easily identify the tendency I speak of, and will think of additional names.

Thus, human choice has replaced divine necessity in scientific logic. If I mention Sigwart, Mach, Ostwald, Pearson, Milhaud, Poincare, Duhem, and Ruyssen, those of you who study the subject will easily recognize the trend I mean. You will also think of other names.

Riding now on the front of this wave of scientific logic Messrs. Schiller and Dewey appear with their pragmatistic account of what truth everywhere signifies. Everywhere, these teachers say, 'truth' in our ideas and beliefs means the same thing that it means in science. It means, they say, nothing but this, THAT IDEAS (WHICH THEMSELVES ARE BUT PARTS OF OUR EXPERIENCE) BECOME TRUE JUST IN SO FAR AS THEY HELP US TO GET INTO SATISFACTORY RELATION WITH OTHER PARTS OF OUR EXPERIENCE, to summarize them and get about among them by conceptual short-cuts instead of following the interminable succession of particular phenomena. Any idea upon which we can ride, so to speak; any idea that will carry us prosperously from any one part of our experience to any other part, linking things satisfactorily, working securely, simplifying, saving labor; is true for just so much, true in so far forth, true INSTRUMENTALLY. This is the 'instrumental' view of truth taught so successfully at Chicago, the view that truth in our ideas means their power to 'work,' promulgated so brilliantly at Oxford.

Now, riding at the front of this wave of scientific logic, Messrs. Schiller and Dewey offer their pragmatic account of what truth means everywhere. These teachers say that 'truth' in our ideas and beliefs always means the same thing it means in science. They say it means nothing more than this: IDEAS ARE THEMSELVES ONLY PARTS OF OUR EXPERIENCE. THEY BECOME TRUE ONLY IN SO FAR AS THEY HELP US REACH A SATISFACTORY RELATIONSHIP WITH OTHER PARTS OF OUR EXPERIENCE. They help us summarize those other parts and navigate them by conceptual shortcuts, rather than following the endless succession of individual phenomena. Think of any idea we can ride, so to speak. It carries us successfully from one part of our experience to another, linking things satisfactorily, working reliably, simplifying, and saving effort. Such an idea is true to that extent, true in that respect, true INSTRUMENTALLY. This is the 'instrumental' view of truth taught so successfully at Chicago. It is the view, spread so brilliantly at Oxford, that truth in our ideas means their power to 'work.'

Messrs. Dewey, Schiller and their allies, in reaching this general conception of all truth, have only followed the example of geologists, biologists and philologists. In the establishment of these other sciences, the successful stroke was always to take some simple process actually observable in operation—as denudation by weather, say, or variation from parental type, or change of dialect by incorporation of new words and pronunciations—and then to generalize it, making it apply to all times, and produce great results by summating its effects through the ages.

In arriving at this general conception of all truth, Dewey, Schiller, and their allies have simply followed the example of geologists, biologists, and philologists. In establishing each of these sciences, the successful approach was to start with a simple process that could actually be observed. Examples include erosion by weather, variation from parental types, and changes in dialect through the addition of new words and pronunciations. The next step was to apply the process to all times. Its effects, adding up over the ages, would produce great results.

The observable process which Schiller and Dewey particularly singled out for generalization is the familiar one by which any individual settles into NEW OPINIONS. The process here is always the same. The individual has a stock of old opinions already, but he meets a new experience that puts them to a strain. Somebody contradicts them; or in a reflective moment he discovers that they contradict each other; or he hears of facts with which they are incompatible; or desires arise in him which they cease to satisfy. The result is an inward trouble to which his mind till then had been a stranger, and from which he seeks to escape by modifying his previous mass of opinions. He saves as much of it as he can, for in this matter of belief we are all extreme conservatives. So he tries to change first this opinion, and then that (for they resist change very variously), until at last some new idea comes up which he can graft upon the ancient stock with a minimum of disturbance of the latter, some idea that mediates between the stock and the new experience and runs them into one another most felicitously and expediently.

Schiller and Dewey focused on a familiar, observable process as a basis for a general principle. This is the process by which a person settles on NEW OPINIONS. The process is always the same. A person already has a stock of old opinions, but then has a new experience that puts those opinions under strain. Someone contradicts the opinions. Or, on reflection, the person discovers that the opinions contradict one another. Or the person hears facts that conflict with them. Or new desires arise that the old opinions no longer satisfy. The result is an inner trouble the person has never felt before. To escape this trouble, the person tries to modify the existing body of opinions. The person saves as much of that body of opinions as possible. When it comes to belief, we are all extreme conservatives. So the person tries changing one opinion and then another, since some opinions resist change more than others. At last, a new idea comes along that can be added to the old stock of opinions with minimal disruption. This idea bridges the gap between the old opinions and the new experience, bringing them together as smoothly and usefully as possible.

This new idea is then adopted as the true one. It preserves the older stock of truths with a minimum of modification, stretching them just enough to make them admit the novelty, but conceiving that in ways as familiar as the case leaves possible. An outree explanation, violating all our preconceptions, would never pass for a true account of a novelty. We should scratch round industriously till we found something less excentric. The most violent revolutions in an individual's beliefs leave most of his old order standing. Time and space, cause and effect, nature and history, and one's own biography remain untouched. New truth is always a go-between, a smoother-over of transitions. It marries old opinion to new fact so as ever to show a minimum of jolt, a maximum of continuity. We hold a theory true just in proportion to its success in solving this 'problem of maxima and minima.' But success in solving this problem is eminently a matter of approximation. We say this theory solves it on the whole more satisfactorily than that theory; but that means more satisfactorily to ourselves, and individuals will emphasize their points of satisfaction differently. To a certain degree, therefore, everything here is plastic.

We then accept this new idea as true. It preserves our existing truths with as little change as possible. It stretches them just enough to make room for the new fact. At the same time, it presents that fact in terms as familiar as the case allows. A bizarre explanation that violated all our preconceptions would never pass as a true account of a new fact. We would search hard until we found something less eccentric. Even the most dramatic changes in a person's beliefs leave most of their old beliefs intact. Time and space, cause and effect, nature and history, and one's own life story remain untouched. New truth always acts as a bridge, smoothing the transition. It joins old opinion to new fact with the least possible disruption and the greatest possible continuity. We consider a theory true to the extent that it succeeds in solving this "problem of maxima and minima." But success in solving this problem is very much a matter of approximation. We say that one theory solves it more satisfactorily overall than another. But that means more satisfactorily to us, and different people will value different points of satisfaction. To a certain degree, then, everything here is open to change.

The point I now urge you to observe particularly is the part played by the older truths. Failure to take account of it is the source of much of the unjust criticism leveled against pragmatism. Their influence is absolutely controlling. Loyalty to them is the first principle—in most cases it is the only principle; for by far the most usual way of handling phenomena so novel that they would make for a serious rearrangement of our preconceptions is to ignore them altogether, or to abuse those who bear witness for them.

The point I especially urge you to notice is the role played by older truths. Much of the unfair criticism of pragmatism comes from failing to recognize this role. The influence of older truths is absolutely controlling. Loyalty to them is the first principle. In most cases, it is the only principle. By far the most common response to phenomena so new that they would seriously rearrange our preconceptions is to ignore them altogether. Otherwise, we attack those who testify to them.

You doubtless wish examples of this process of truth's growth, and the only trouble is their superabundance. The simplest case of new truth is of course the mere numerical addition of new kinds of facts, or of new single facts of old kinds, to our experience—an addition that involves no alteration in the old beliefs. Day follows day, and its contents are simply added. The new contents themselves are not true, they simply COME and ARE. Truth is what we say about them, and when we say that they have come, truth is satisfied by the plain additive formula.

You no doubt want examples of how truth grows. The only problem is that there are so many. The simplest case of new truth is, of course, the mere addition of new kinds of facts to our experience. It can also be the addition of individual new facts of familiar kinds. Neither kind of addition changes our old beliefs. Day follows day, and its contents are simply added. The new contents themselves are not true. They simply COME and ARE. Truth is what we say about them. When we say that they have come, this simple statement of addition satisfies truth.

But often the day's contents oblige a rearrangement. If I should now utter piercing shrieks and act like a maniac on this platform, it would make many of you revise your ideas as to the probable worth of my philosophy. 'Radium' came the other day as part of the day's content, and seemed for a moment to contradict our ideas of the whole order of nature, that order having come to be identified with what is called the conservation of energy. The mere sight of radium paying heat away indefinitely out of its own pocket seemed to violate that conservation. What to think? If the radiations from it were nothing but an escape of unsuspected 'potential' energy, pre-existent inside of the atoms, the principle of conservation would be saved. The discovery of 'helium' as the radiation's outcome, opened a way to this belief. So Ramsay's view is generally held to be true, because, altho it extends our old ideas of energy, it causes a minimum of alteration in their nature.

But the day's events often force us to rearrange our ideas. Suppose I suddenly let out piercing shrieks and acted like a maniac on this platform. Many of you would revise your ideas about the likely worth of my philosophy. 'Radium' appeared the other day as part of the day's events. For a moment, it seemed to contradict our ideas about the whole order of nature. That order had come to be identified with what is called the conservation of energy. Radium seemed to give off heat indefinitely, paying for it out of its own pocket. The mere sight of this seemed to violate the conservation of energy. What were we to think? Suppose the radiation was simply the escape of unsuspected 'potential' energy already present inside the atoms. Then the principle of conservation would be saved. The discovery of 'helium' as a product of the radiation opened the way to this belief. So Ramsay's view is generally held to be true. It extends our old ideas about energy, but changes their nature as little as possible.

I need not multiply instances. A new opinion counts as 'true' just in proportion as it gratifies the individual's desire to assimilate the novel in his experience to his beliefs in stock. It must both lean on old truth and grasp new fact; and its success (as I said a moment ago) in doing this, is a matter for the individual's appreciation. When old truth grows, then, by new truth's addition, it is for subjective reasons. We are in the process and obey the reasons. That new idea is truest which performs most felicitously its function of satisfying our double urgency. It makes itself true, gets itself classed as true, by the way it works; grafting itself then upon the ancient body of truth, which thus grows much as a tree grows by the activity of a new layer of cambium.

I do not need to give more examples. A new opinion counts as 'true' to the extent that it satisfies a person's desire to fit new experiences into existing beliefs. It must draw on old truth and take in new facts. As I said a moment ago, each person must judge how well it does both. When old truth grows through the addition of new truth, it does so for subjective reasons. We are part of the process and follow those reasons. The truest new idea is the one that most successfully satisfies both of these pressing needs. The way it works makes it true and gets it classified as true. It then joins the existing body of truth, which grows much as a tree grows through the activity of a new layer of cambium.

Now Dewey and Schiller proceed to generalize this observation and to apply it to the most ancient parts of truth. They also once were plastic. They also were called true for human reasons. They also mediated between still earlier truths and what in those days were novel observations. Purely objective truth, truth in whose establishment the function of giving human satisfaction in marrying previous parts of experience with newer parts played no role whatever, is nowhere to be found. The reasons why we call things true is the reason why they ARE true, for 'to be true' MEANS only to perform this marriage-function.

Now Dewey and Schiller extend this observation to the oldest parts of truth. These truths, too, were once open to change. They, too, were called true for human reasons. They, too, connected still earlier truths with what were then new observations. Nowhere can we find purely objective truth, established without any role for human satisfaction in bringing earlier experiences together with newer ones. The reasons we call things true are the reasons they ARE true. For 'to be true' MEANS only to perform this connecting function.

The trail of the human serpent is thus over everything. Truth independent; truth that we FIND merely; truth no longer malleable to human need; truth incorrigible, in a word; such truth exists indeed superabundantly—or is supposed to exist by rationalistically minded thinkers; but then it means only the dead heart of the living tree, and its being there means only that truth also has its paleontology and its 'prescription,' and may grow stiff with years of veteran service and petrified in men's regard by sheer antiquity. But how plastic even the oldest truths nevertheless really are has been vividly shown in our day by the transformation of logical and mathematical ideas, a transformation which seems even to be invading physics. The ancient formulas are reinterpreted as special expressions of much wider principles, principles that our ancestors never got a glimpse of in their present shape and formulation.

The trail of the human serpent is thus over everything. Truth exists in great abundance that is independent, that we merely FIND, that human needs can no longer shape. In short, there is truth that cannot be corrected, or so rationalistically minded thinkers suppose. But such truth is only the dead heart of the living tree. Its presence means only that truth, too, has its ancient history and its 'prescription.' It can grow stiff through years of faithful service and become set in people's minds simply because it is so old. Yet recent changes in logical and mathematical ideas have vividly shown how flexible even the oldest truths really are. These changes even seem to be spreading into physics. Old formulas are being reinterpreted as special expressions of much broader principles. Our ancestors never glimpsed these principles in their present form.

Mr. Schiller still gives to all this view of truth the name of 'Humanism,' but, for this doctrine too, the name of pragmatism seems fairly to be in the ascendant, so I will treat it under the name of pragmatism in these lectures.

Mr. Schiller still calls this whole view of truth 'Humanism.' But the name pragmatism seems to be gaining ground for this doctrine too. So I will call it pragmatism in these lectures.

Such then would be the scope of pragmatism—first, a method; and second, a genetic theory of what is meant by truth. And these two things must be our future topics.

This, then, is the scope of pragmatism: first, a method, and second, a theory of how the meaning of truth develops. These two things will be our topics going forward.

What I have said of the theory of truth will, I am sure, have appeared obscure and unsatisfactory to most of you by reason of us brevity. I shall make amends for that hereafter. In a lecture on 'common sense' I shall try to show what I mean by truths grown petrified by antiquity. In another lecture I shall expatiate on the idea that our thoughts become true in proportion as they successfully exert their go-between function. In a third I shall show how hard it is to discriminate subjective from objective factors in Truth's development. You may not follow me wholly in these lectures; and if you do, you may not wholly agree with me. But you will, I know, regard me at least as serious, and treat my effort with respectful consideration.

I am sure that what I have said about the theory of truth has seemed unclear and unsatisfactory to most of you because I was brief. I will make up for that later. In a lecture on 'common sense', I will try to show what I mean by truths that have hardened with age. In another lecture, I will explore the idea that our thoughts become true to the extent that they successfully serve as go-betweens. In a third lecture, I will show how hard it is to distinguish subjective from objective factors in the development of truth. You may not follow me completely in these lectures. And if you do, you may not fully agree with me. But I know you will at least regard me as serious and give my effort respectful consideration.

You will probably be surprised to learn, then, that Messrs. Schiller's and Dewey's theories have suffered a hailstorm of contempt and ridicule. All rationalism has risen against them. In influential quarters Mr. Schiller, in particular, has been treated like an impudent schoolboy who deserves a spanking. I should not mention this, but for the fact that it throws so much sidelight upon that rationalistic temper to which I have opposed the temper of pragmatism. Pragmatism is uncomfortable away from facts. Rationalism is comfortable only in the presence of abstractions. This pragmatist talk about truths in the plural, about their utility and satisfactoriness, about the success with which they 'work,' etc., suggests to the typical intellectualist mind a sort of coarse lame second-rate makeshift article of truth. Such truths are not real truth. Such tests are merely subjective. As against this, objective truth must be something non-utilitarian, haughty, refined, remote, august, exalted. It must be an absolute correspondence of our thoughts with an equally absolute reality. It must be what we OUGHT to think, unconditionally. The conditioned ways in which we DO think are so much irrelevance and matter for psychology. Down with psychology, up with logic, in all this question!

You will probably be surprised to learn, then, that Schiller's and Dewey's theories have faced a hailstorm of contempt and ridicule. All rationalism has risen against them. In influential circles, Mr. Schiller in particular has been treated like a rude schoolboy who deserves a spanking. I mention this only because it sheds so much light on the rationalist temperament, which I have contrasted with the temperament of pragmatism. Pragmatism is uncomfortable when it is away from facts. Rationalism is comfortable only in the presence of abstractions. Pragmatists talk about truths in the plural, their usefulness and how satisfying they are, and how successfully they 'work.' To the typical intellectualist mind, this suggests a crude, weak, second-rate substitute for truth. Such truths are not real truth. Such tests are merely subjective. By contrast, objective truth must be something that has nothing to do with usefulness. It must be lofty, refined, remote, majestic, exalted. Our thoughts must correspond absolutely with an equally absolute reality. Objective truth must be what we OUGHT to think, without conditions. The conditions that shape how we DO think are irrelevant, a matter for psychology. Down with psychology, up with logic, in this whole question!

See the exquisite contrast of the types of mind! The pragmatist clings to facts and concreteness, observes truth at its work in particular cases, and generalizes. Truth, for him, becomes a class-name for all sorts of definite working-values in experience. For the rationalist it remains a pure abstraction, to the bare name of which we must defer. When the pragmatist undertakes to show in detail just WHY we must defer, the rationalist is unable to recognize the concretes from which his own abstraction is taken. He accuses us of DENYING truth; whereas we have only sought to trace exactly why people follow it and always ought to follow it. Your typical ultra-abstractionist fairly shudders at concreteness: other things equal, he positively prefers the pale and spectral. If the two universes were offered, he would always choose the skinny outline rather than the rich thicket of reality. It is so much purer, clearer, nobler.

What a striking contrast between these types of minds! The pragmatist sticks to facts and concrete things. He watches truth at work in particular cases and draws general conclusions. For him, truth becomes a general name for all kinds of specific, practical values in experience. For the rationalist, truth remains a pure abstraction. We must defer to the bare name alone. When the pragmatist tries to show exactly WHY we must defer, the rationalist cannot recognize the concrete things behind his own abstraction. He accuses us of DENYING truth. But we have only tried to trace exactly why people follow truth and why they always ought to follow it. Your typical extreme abstractionist practically shudders at concrete things. All else being equal, he actually prefers the pale and ghostly. If offered a choice between two universes, he would always choose the thin outline over the rich thicket of reality. It is so much purer, clearer, nobler.

I hope that as these lectures go on, the concreteness and closeness to facts of the pragmatism which they advocate may be what approves itself to you as its most satisfactory peculiarity. It only follows here the example of the sister-sciences, interpreting the unobserved by the observed. It brings old and new harmoniously together. It converts the absolutely empty notion of a static relation of 'correspondence' (what that may mean we must ask later) between our minds and reality, into that of a rich and active commerce (that anyone may follow in detail and understand) between particular thoughts of ours, and the great universe of other experiences in which they play their parts and have their uses.

I hope that, as these lectures go on, you will find pragmatism’s concreteness and closeness to facts its most satisfying feature. In this, pragmatism follows the example of its sister sciences, interpreting what is not observed through what is observed. It brings old and new together in harmony. It transforms the absolutely empty idea of a static relation of 'correspondence' between our minds and reality. We must ask later what such a relation might mean. In its place, pragmatism offers the idea of a rich and active exchange that anyone can follow in detail and understand. This exchange takes place between our particular thoughts and the great universe of other experiences, where those thoughts play their parts and have their uses.

But enough of this at present? The justification of what I say must be postponed. I wish now to add a word in further explanation of the claim I made at our last meeting, that pragmatism may be a happy harmonizer of empiricist ways of thinking, with the more religious demands of human beings.

But enough of this for now? I must wait until later to justify what I have said. I now want to explain further a claim I made at our last meeting. I said that pragmatism may offer a happy way to reconcile empiricist ways of thinking with people’s more religious needs.

Men who are strongly of the fact-loving temperament, you may remember me to have said, are liable to be kept at a distance by the small sympathy with facts which that philosophy from the present-day fashion of idealism offers them. It is far too intellectualistic. Old fashioned theism was bad enough, with its notion of God as an exalted monarch, made up of a lot of unintelligible or preposterous 'attributes'; but, so long as it held strongly by the argument from design, it kept some touch with concrete realities. Since, however, darwinism has once for all displaced design from the minds of the 'scientific,' theism has lost that foothold; and some kind of an immanent or pantheistic deity working IN things rather than above them is, if any, the kind recommended to our contemporary imagination. Aspirants to a philosophic religion turn, as a rule, more hopefully nowadays towards idealistic pantheism than towards the older dualistic theism, in spite of the fact that the latter still counts able defenders.

You may remember my saying that people who strongly love facts are likely to be put off by today’s fashionable idealism. That philosophy has too little sympathy for facts. It is far too intellectual. Old-fashioned theism was bad enough. It pictured God as an exalted monarch, made up of a collection of unintelligible or absurd ‘attributes’. But as long as theism held firmly to the argument from design, it kept some contact with concrete realities. Darwinism, however, has once and for all displaced design from the minds of the ‘scientific’. Theism has therefore lost that foothold. If any idea of a deity appeals to our imagination today, it is some kind of immanent or pantheistic deity working IN things rather than above them. People seeking a philosophical religion now usually look more hopefully to idealistic pantheism than to the older dualistic theism. They do so even though the older theism still has able defenders.

But, as I said in my first lecture, the brand of pantheism offered is hard for them to assimilate if they are lovers of facts, or empirically minded. It is the absolutistic brand, spurning the dust and reared upon pure logic. It keeps no connexion whatever with concreteness. Affirming the Absolute Mind, which is its substitute for God, to be the rational presupposition of all particulars of fact, whatever they may be, it remains supremely indifferent to what the particular facts in our world actually are. Be they what they may, the Absolute will father them. Like the sick lion in Esop's fable, all footprints lead into his den, but nulla vestigia retrorsum. You cannot redescend into the world of particulars by the Absolute's aid, or deduce any necessary consequences of detail important for your life from your idea of his nature. He gives you indeed the assurance that all is well with Him, and for his eternal way of thinking; but thereupon he leaves you to be finitely saved by your own temporal devices.

But, as I said in my first lecture, lovers of facts and empirically minded people find this kind of pantheism hard to accept. It is the absolutist kind, which scorns the dust and is built on pure logic. It has no connection at all with concrete things. It replaces God with the Absolute Mind, which it declares to be the rational presupposition of every particular fact, whatever that fact may be. So it remains supremely indifferent to what the particular facts of our world actually are. Whatever they are, the Absolute will father them. Like the sick lion in Aesop's fable, all footprints lead into his den, but none lead back out. With the Absolute's help, you cannot descend again into the world of particular things. Nor can you deduce from your idea of his nature any necessary consequences of detail that matter to your life. He does assure you that all is well with him and with his eternal way of thinking. But then he leaves you to find your own limited salvation by your own temporary means.

Far be it from me to deny the majesty of this conception, or its capacity to yield religious comfort to a most respectable class of minds. But from the human point of view, no one can pretend that it doesn't suffer from the faults of remoteness and abstractness. It is eminently a product of what I have ventured to call the rationalistic temper. It disdains empiricism's needs. It substitutes a pallid outline for the real world's richness. It is dapper; it is noble in the bad sense, in the sense in which to be noble is to be inapt for humble service. In this real world of sweat and dirt, it seems to me that when a view of things is 'noble,' that ought to count as a presumption against its truth, and as a philosophic disqualification. The prince of darkness may be a gentleman, as we are told he is, but whatever the God of earth and heaven is, he can surely be no gentleman. His menial services are needed in the dust of our human trials, even more than his dignity is needed in the empyrean.

I would never deny the grandeur of this idea. Nor would I deny that it can offer religious comfort to a highly respectable class of minds. But from a human point of view, no one can claim that the idea is not remote and abstract. It is very much a product of what I have dared to call the rationalistic temper. It looks down on the needs of empiricism. It replaces the richness of the real world with a pale outline. It is neat and polished. It is noble in the bad sense, the sense in which being noble means being unfit for humble service. In this real world of sweat and dirt, it seems to me that a 'noble' view of things should be presumed false. Its nobility should disqualify it as philosophy. The prince of darkness may be a gentleman, as we are told he is. But whatever the God of earth and heaven may be, he surely cannot be a gentleman. We need his humble service amid the dust of our human trials even more than we need his dignity in the highest heaven.

Now pragmatism, devoted tho she be to facts, has no such materialistic bias as ordinary empiricism labors under. Moreover, she has no objection whatever to the realizing of abstractions, so long as you get about among particulars with their aid and they actually carry you somewhere. Interested in no conclusions but those which our minds and our experiences work out together, she has no a priori prejudices against theology. IF THEOLOGICAL IDEAS PROVE TO HAVE A VALUE FOR CONCRETE LIFE, THEY WILL BE TRUE, FOR PRAGMATISM, IN THE SENSE OF BEING GOOD FOR SO MUCH. FOR HOW MUCH MORE THEY ARE TRUE, WILL DEPEND ENTIRELY ON THEIR RELATIONS TO THE OTHER TRUTHS THAT ALSO HAVE TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED.

Now pragmatism is devoted to facts, but it has none of the materialistic bias that burdens ordinary empiricism. Nor does it object at all to treating abstractions as real. That is, as long as abstractions help you navigate among particular things and actually get you somewhere. Pragmatism is interested only in conclusions that our minds and our experiences work out together. So it has no preexisting prejudices against theology. IF THEOLOGICAL IDEAS PROVE VALUABLE FOR CONCRETE LIFE, PRAGMATISM WILL REGARD THEM AS TRUE IN THAT SENSE. HOW MUCH FURTHER THEOLOGICAL IDEAS ARE TRUE WILL DEPEND ENTIRELY ON THEIR RELATIONS TO THE OTHER TRUTHS THAT MUST ALSO BE ACKNOWLEDGED.

What I said just now about the Absolute of transcendental idealism is a case in point. First, I called it majestic and said it yielded religious comfort to a class of minds, and then I accused it of remoteness and sterility. But so far as it affords such comfort, it surely is not sterile; it has that amount of value; it performs a concrete function. As a good pragmatist, I myself ought to call the Absolute true 'in so far forth,' then; and I unhesitatingly now do so.

What I just said about the Absolute of transcendental idealism is an example. First, I called it majestic and said it gave religious comfort to some people. Then I accused it of being remote and sterile. But insofar as the Absolute gives such comfort, it surely is not sterile. It has that much value and serves a concrete purpose. As a good pragmatist, I ought to call the Absolute true 'to that extent.' And I do so now without hesitation.

But what does TRUE IN SO FAR FORTH mean in this case? To answer, we need only apply the pragmatic method. What do believers in the Absolute mean by saying that their belief affords them comfort? They mean that since in the Absolute finite evil is 'overruled' already, we may, therefore, whenever we wish, treat the temporal as if it were potentially the eternal, be sure that we can trust its outcome, and, without sin, dismiss our fear and drop the worry of our finite responsibility. In short, they mean that we have a right ever and anon to take a moral holiday, to let the world wag in its own way, feeling that its issues are in better hands than ours and are none of our business.

But what does TRUE IN SO FAR FORTH mean in this case? To answer, we need only apply the pragmatic method. What do believers in the Absolute mean when they say their belief comforts them? They mean that finite evil is already 'overruled' in the Absolute. So, whenever we wish, we may treat what exists in time as if it were potentially eternal. We may be sure that we can trust the outcome. And, without sinning, we may set aside our fear and stop worrying about our finite responsibility. In short, they mean that we have a right to take a moral holiday now and then. We can let the world go its own way, feeling that its affairs are in better hands than ours and are none of our business.

The universe is a system of which the individual members may relax their anxieties occasionally, in which the don't-care mood is also right for men, and moral holidays in order—that, if I mistake not, is part, at least, of what the Absolute is 'known-as,' that is the great difference in our particular experiences which his being true makes for us, that is part of his cash-value when he is pragmatically interpreted. Farther than that the ordinary lay-reader in philosophy who thinks favorably of absolute idealism does not venture to sharpen his conceptions. He can use the Absolute for so much, and so much is very precious. He is pained at hearing you speak incredulously of the Absolute, therefore, and disregards your criticisms because they deal with aspects of the conception that he fails to follow.

The universe is a system whose individual members can sometimes set aside their anxieties. In this universe, a don't-care mood is also right for people, and moral holidays are in order. If I am not mistaken, that is at least part of what the Absolute is 'known-as'. It is the great difference that the truth of the Absolute makes in our particular experiences. It is part of the Absolute's cash-value when interpreted pragmatically. The ordinary reader with no professional training in philosophy who thinks well of absolute idealism does not try to make the idea any more precise. He can use the Absolute for this much, and this much is very precious. So he is hurt when he hears you speak skeptically of the Absolute. He disregards your criticisms because they deal with aspects of the idea that he cannot follow.

If the Absolute means this, and means no more than this, who can possibly deny the truth of it? To deny it would be to insist that men should never relax, and that holidays are never in order. I am well aware how odd it must seem to some of you to hear me say that an idea is 'true' so long as to believe it is profitable to our lives. That it is GOOD, for as much as it profits, you will gladly admit. If what we do by its aid is good, you will allow the idea itself to be good in so far forth, for we are the better for possessing it. But is it not a strange misuse of the word 'truth,' you will say, to call ideas also 'true' for this reason?

If the Absolute means this, and nothing more, who could possibly deny that it is true? To deny it would be to insist that people should never relax and that holidays are never appropriate. I know how strange it must seem to some of you when I say that an idea is 'true' as long as believing it benefits our lives. You will readily agree that the idea is GOOD, insofar as it benefits us. If what we do with its help is good, you will agree that the idea itself is good to that extent. After all, we are better off for having it. But you will ask: Is it not a strange misuse of the word 'truth' to call ideas 'true' for this reason?

To answer this difficulty fully is impossible at this stage of my account. You touch here upon the very central point of Messrs. Schiller's, Dewey's and my own doctrine of truth, which I cannot discuss with detail until my sixth lecture. Let me now say only this, that truth is ONE SPECIES OF GOOD, and not, as is usually supposed, a category distinct from good, and co-ordinate with it. THE TRUE IS THE NAME OF WHATEVER PROVES ITSELF TO BE GOOD IN THE WAY OF BELIEF, AND GOOD, TOO, FOR DEFINITE, ASSIGNABLE REASONS. Surely you must admit this, that if there were NO good for life in true ideas, or if the knowledge of them were positively disadvantageous and false ideas the only useful ones, then the current notion that truth is divine and precious, and its pursuit a duty, could never have grown up or become a dogma. In a world like that, our duty would be to SHUN truth, rather. But in this world, just as certain foods are not only agreeable to our taste, but good for our teeth, our stomach and our tissues; so certain ideas are not only agreeable to think about, or agreeable as supporting other ideas that we are fond of, but they are also helpful in life's practical struggles. If there be any life that it is really better we should lead, and if there be any idea which, if believed in, would help us to lead that life, then it would be really BETTER FOR US to believe in that idea, UNLESS, INDEED, BELIEF IN IT INCIDENTALLY CLASHED WITH OTHER GREATER VITAL BENEFITS.

I cannot fully answer this difficulty at this stage of my account. You have touched on the central point of Schiller’s, Dewey’s, and my own theory of truth. I cannot discuss it in detail until my sixth lecture. For now, let me say only this: truth is ONE KIND OF GOOD. It is not, as people usually suppose, a category separate from and equal to the good. WHAT IS TRUE IS WHATEVER PROVES GOOD TO BELIEVE, AND GOOD FOR SPECIFIC, IDENTIFIABLE REASONS. Surely you must admit this: if true ideas offered NO benefit to life, or if knowing them were actually harmful, and false ideas were the only useful ones, then the common belief that truth is divine and precious could never have arisen or become a doctrine. Nor could the belief that seeking truth is a duty. In such a world, our duty would be to AVOID truth instead. But in this world, some foods are not only pleasant to taste. They are also good for our teeth, stomach, and bodily tissues. Similarly, some ideas are not only pleasant to think about, or pleasant because they support other ideas we like. They also help us in life’s practical struggles. Suppose there is a way of life that it is truly better for us to lead. And suppose there is an idea that would help us lead that life if we believed it. Then it would be truly BETTER FOR US to believe that idea, UNLESS, OF COURSE, BELIEVING IT HAPPENED TO CONFLICT WITH OTHER, GREATER BENEFITS TO OUR LIVES.

'What would be better for us to believe'! This sounds very like a definition of truth. It comes very near to saying 'what we OUGHT to believe': and in THAT definition none of you would find any oddity. Ought we ever not to believe what it is BETTER FOR US to believe? And can we then keep the notion of what is better for us, and what is true for us, permanently apart?

'What would be better for us to believe'! That sounds a lot like a definition of truth. It comes very close to saying 'what we OUGHT to believe'. And none of you would find THAT definition strange. Should we ever refuse to believe what it is BETTER FOR US to believe? And can we really keep what is better for us permanently separate from what is true for us?

Pragmatism says no, and I fully agree with her. Probably you also agree, so far as the abstract statement goes, but with a suspicion that if we practically did believe everything that made for good in our own personal lives, we should be found indulging all kinds of fancies about this world's affairs, and all kinds of sentimental superstitions about a world hereafter. Your suspicion here is undoubtedly well founded, and it is evident that something happens when you pass from the abstract to the concrete, that complicates the situation.

Pragmatism says no, and I fully agree. You probably agree too, as far as the abstract statement goes. But you may suspect that if we actually believed everything that benefited our personal lives, we would indulge all kinds of fantasies about this world's affairs. We would also indulge all kinds of sentimental superstitions about a world after death. Your suspicion is undoubtedly well founded. Clearly, something happens when you move from the abstract to the concrete, and that complicates the situation.

I said just now that what is better for us to believe is true UNLESS THE BELIEF INCIDENTALLY CLASHES WITH SOME OTHER VITAL BENEFIT. Now in real life what vital benefits is any particular belief of ours most liable to clash with? What indeed except the vital benefits yielded by OTHER BELIEFS when these prove incompatible with the first ones? In other words, the greatest enemy of any one of our truths may be the rest of our truths. Truths have once for all this desperate instinct of self-preservation and of desire to extinguish whatever contradicts them. My belief in the Absolute, based on the good it does me, must run the gauntlet of all my other beliefs. Grant that it may be true in giving me a moral holiday. Nevertheless, as I conceive it,—and let me speak now confidentially, as it were, and merely in my own private person,—it clashes with other truths of mine whose benefits I hate to give up on its account. It happens to be associated with a kind of logic of which I am the enemy, I find that it entangles me in metaphysical paradoxes that are inacceptable, etc., etc.. But as I have enough trouble in life already without adding the trouble of carrying these intellectual inconsistencies, I personally just give up the Absolute. I just TAKE my moral holidays; or else as a professional philosopher, I try to justify them by some other principle.

I just said that what is better for us to believe is true UNLESS THE BELIEF HAPPENS TO CLASH WITH SOME OTHER VITAL BENEFIT. In real life, what vital benefits is any particular belief most likely to clash with? What else but the vital benefits provided by OTHER BELIEFS, when those beliefs prove incompatible with the first ones? In other words, the greatest enemy of any one of our truths may be the rest of our truths. Truths have this fierce instinct for self-preservation and desire to wipe out whatever contradicts them. My belief in the Absolute, based on the good it does me, must face the test of all my other beliefs. Grant that it may be true in giving me a moral holiday. Even so, as I understand the Absolute, it clashes with other truths of mine. I hate to give up the benefits of those other truths for its sake. Here, let me speak confidentially, so to speak, and simply for myself. The Absolute happens to be associated with a kind of logic that I oppose. I find that it involves me in unacceptable metaphysical paradoxes, and so on. But I have enough trouble in life already without adding these intellectual inconsistencies to my burdens. So I personally just give up the Absolute. I just TAKE my moral holidays. Or, as a professional philosopher, I try to justify them by some other principle.

If I could restrict my notion of the Absolute to its bare holiday-giving value, it wouldn't clash with my other truths. But we cannot easily thus restrict our hypotheses. They carry supernumerary features, and these it is that clash so. My disbelief in the Absolute means then disbelief in those other supernumerary features, for I fully believe in the legitimacy of taking moral holidays.

If I could limit my idea of the Absolute to its value in allowing moral holidays, it would not conflict with my other truths. But we cannot easily limit our hypotheses in this way. They carry extra features, and these features are what cause the conflict. So my disbelief in the Absolute means that I disbelieve those extra features. For I fully believe that taking moral holidays is legitimate.

You see by this what I meant when I called pragmatism a mediator and reconciler and said, borrowing the word from Papini, that he unstiffens our theories. She has in fact no prejudices whatever, no obstructive dogmas, no rigid canons of what shall count as proof. She is completely genial. She will entertain any hypothesis, she will consider any evidence. It follows that in the religious field she is at a great advantage both over positivistic empiricism, with its anti-theological bias, and over religious rationalism, with its exclusive interest in the remote, the noble, the simple, and the abstract in the way of conception.

You can now see what I meant when I called pragmatism a mediator and reconciler. As I said, borrowing a word from Papini, pragmatism makes our theories less rigid. In fact, pragmatism has no prejudices, no dogmas that stand in the way, and no rigid rules about what counts as proof. It is completely open and friendly. It will entertain any hypothesis and consider any evidence. This gives pragmatism a great advantage in religion over both positivistic empiricism and religious rationalism. Positivistic empiricism is biased against theology. Religious rationalism is interested only in ideas that are remote, noble, simple, and abstract.

In short, she widens the field of search for God. Rationalism sticks to logic and the empyrean. Empiricism sticks to the external senses. Pragmatism is willing to take anything, to follow either logic or the senses, and to count the humblest and most personal experiences. She will count mystical experiences if they have practical consequences. She will take a God who lives in the very dirt of private fact-if that should seem a likely place to find him.

In short, pragmatism broadens the search for God. Rationalism sticks to logic and the highest heavens. Empiricism sticks to the external senses. Pragmatism is willing to consider anything. It will follow either logic or the senses and take even the humblest, most personal experiences into account. It will count mystical experiences if they have practical consequences. It will accept a God who lives in the very dirt of private facts, if that seems a likely place to find him.

Her only test of probable truth is what works best in the way of leading us, what fits every part of life best and combines with the collectivity of experience's demands, nothing being omitted. If theological ideas should do this, if the notion of God, in particular, should prove to do it, how could pragmatism possibly deny God's existence? She could see no meaning in treating as 'not true' a notion that was pragmatically so successful. What other kind of truth could there be, for her, than all this agreement with concrete reality?

Pragmatism’s only test of probable truth is what guides us best. It asks what fits every part of life best and meets all the demands of experience, leaving nothing out. If theological ideas do this, and if the idea of God in particular proves to do it, how could pragmatism possibly deny God’s existence? Pragmatism could see no sense in calling an idea ‘not true’ when it worked so well in practice. For pragmatism, what other kind of truth could there be besides this complete agreement with concrete reality?

In my last lecture I shall return again to the relations of pragmatism with religion. But you see already how democratic she is. Her manners are as various and flexible, her resources as rich and endless, and her conclusions as friendly as those of mother nature.

In my last lecture, I will return to the relationship between pragmatism and religion. But you can already see how democratic pragmatism is. Its ways are as varied and flexible, its resources as rich and endless, and its conclusions as friendly as those of mother nature.