The Romantic Reaction

My last lecture described the influence upon the eighteenth century of the narrow and efficient scheme of scientific concepts which it had inherited from its predecessor. That scheme was the product of a mentality which found the Augustinian theology extremely congenial. The Protestant Calvinism and the Catholic Jansenism exhibited man as helpless to co-operate with Irresistible Grace: the contemporary scheme of science exhibited man as helpless to co-operate with the irresistable mechanism of nature. The mechanism of God and the mechanism of matter were the monstrous issues of limited metaphysics and clear logical intellect. Also the seventeenth century had genius, and cleared the world of muddled thought. The eighteenth century continued the work of clearance, with ruthless efficiency. The scientific scheme has lasted longer than the theological scheme. Mankind soon lost interest in Irresistible Grace; but it quickly appreciated the competent engineering which was due to science. Also in the first quarter of the eighteenth century, George Berkeley launched his philosophical criticism against the whole basis of the system. He failed to disturb the dominant current of thought. In my last lecture I developed a parallel line of argument, which would lead to a system of thought basing nature upon the concept of organism, and not upon the concept of matter. In the present lecture, I propose in the first place to consider how the concrete educated thought of men has viewed this opposition of mechanism and organism. It is in literature that the concrete outlook of humanity receives its expression. Accordingly it is to literature that we must look, particularly in its more concrete forms, namely in poetry and in drama, if we hope to discover the inward thoughts of a generation.

My last lecture described how a narrow and effective set of scientific concepts influenced the eighteenth century. The eighteenth century had inherited this framework from the seventeenth. The framework was the product of a mentality that found Augustinian theology highly congenial. Protestant Calvinism and Catholic Jansenism portrayed human beings as powerless to cooperate with Irresistible Grace. The scientific framework of the time portrayed human beings as equally powerless to cooperate with nature’s irresistible mechanism. The mechanism of God and the mechanism of matter were the monstrous products of limited metaphysics and clear logical reasoning. The seventeenth century also had genius, and it cleared the world of muddled thinking. The eighteenth century continued this work with ruthless efficiency. The scientific framework has lasted longer than the theological one. Humanity soon lost interest in Irresistible Grace, but it quickly appreciated the competent engineering made possible by science. Also, in the first quarter of the eighteenth century, George Berkeley launched a philosophical criticism of the system’s entire foundation. He failed to disturb the dominant current of thought. In my last lecture, I developed a similar line of argument. It would lead to a system of thought that bases nature on the concept of organism, not matter. In this lecture, I propose first to consider how educated people have viewed this opposition between mechanism and organism in their actual thinking. Literature expresses humanity’s outlook in concrete form. So if we hope to discover a generation’s inward thoughts, we must look to literature. We must look especially to its more concrete forms, poetry and drama.

We quickly find that the Western peoples exhibit on a colossal scale a peculiarity which is popularly supposed to be more especially characteristic of the Chinese. Surprise is often expressed that a Chinaman can be of two religions, a Confucian for some occasions and a Buddhist for other occasions. Whether this is true of China I do not know; nor do I know whether, if true, these two attitudes are really inconsistent. But there can be no doubt that an analogous fact is true of the West, and that the two attitudes involved are inconsistent. A scientific realism, based on mechanism, is conjoined with an unwavering belief in the world of men and of the higher animals as being composed of self-determining organisms. This radical inconsistency at the basis of modern thought accounts for much that is half-hearted and wavering in our civilisation. It would be going too far to say that it distracts thought. It enfeebles it, by reason of the inconsistency lurking in the background. After all, the men of the Middle Ages were in pursuit of an excellency of which we have nearly forgotten the existence. They set before themselves the ideal of the attainment of a harmony of the understanding. We are content with superficial orderings from diverse arbitrary starting points. For instance, the enterprises produced by the individualistic energy of the European peoples presupposes physical actions directed to final causes. But the science which is employed in their development is based on a philosophy which asserts that physical causation is supreme, and which disjoins the physical cause from the final end. It is not popular to dwell on the absolute contradiction here involved. It is the fact, however you gloze it over with phrases. Of course, we find in the eighteenth century Paley’s famous argument, that mechanism presupposes a God who is the author of nature. But even before Paley put the argument into its final form, Hume had written the retort, that the God whom you will find will be the sort of God who makes that mechanism. In other words, that mechanism can, at most, presuppose a mechanic, and not merely a mechanic but its mechanic. The only way of mitigating mechanism is by the discovery that it is not mechanism.

We quickly discover that Western peoples show, on a colossal scale, a peculiarity popularly thought to be especially characteristic of the Chinese. People often express surprise that a Chinese person can have two religions, being a Confucian on some occasions and a Buddhist on others. I do not know whether this is true of China. Nor do I know whether, if it is true, these two attitudes are really inconsistent. But there can be no doubt that something similar is true of the West, and that the two attitudes involved are inconsistent. A scientific realism based on mechanism exists alongside an unwavering belief that humans and higher animals are self-determining organisms. This basic inconsistency in modern thought explains much that is half-hearted and uncertain in our civilization. It would be going too far to say that it distracts us from thinking. Rather, the inconsistency lurking in the background weakens our thought. After all, people in the Middle Ages pursued an excellence whose existence we have nearly forgotten. Their ideal was to achieve harmony in their understanding. We are content to arrange things superficially, starting from various arbitrary points. For example, the enterprises created by the individualistic energy of European peoples presuppose physical actions directed toward final causes, or ends. But the science used to develop these enterprises rests on a philosophy that gives physical causation supreme authority. This philosophy separates the physical cause from the final end. It is not popular to dwell on the absolute contradiction involved here. Yet the contradiction remains, however much we cover it up with phrases. Of course, in the eighteenth century we find Paley’s famous argument that mechanism presupposes a God who created nature. But even before Paley put the argument into its final form, Hume had written a reply. Hume argued that the God you find will be the kind of God who makes that mechanism. In other words, that mechanism can at most presuppose a mechanic. And it presupposes not merely a mechanic, but its mechanic. The only way to soften mechanism is to discover that it is not mechanism.

When we leave apologetic theology, and come to ordinary literature, we find, as we might expect, that the scientific outlook is in general simply ignored. So far as the mass of literature is concerned, science might never have been heard of. Until recently nearly all writers have been soaked in classical and renaissance literature. For the most part, neither philosophy nor science interested them, and their minds were trained to ignore it.

When we move beyond theology that defends religious beliefs and turn to ordinary literature, we find what we might expect. The scientific outlook is generally ignored. As far as most literature is concerned, science might never have been heard of. Until recently, nearly all writers had been immersed in classical and Renaissance literature. For the most part, neither philosophy nor science interested them, and their minds were trained to ignore both.

There are exceptions to this sweeping statement; and, even if we confine ourselves to English literature, they concern some of the greatest names; also the indirect influence of science has been considerable.

There are exceptions to this sweeping statement. Even if we consider only English literature, some of its greatest names are exceptions. Science has also had a considerable indirect influence.

A side light on this distracting inconsistency in modern thought is obtained by examining some of those great serious poems in English literature, whose general scale gives them a didactic character. The relevant poems are Milton’s Paradise Lost, Pope’s Essay on Man, Wordsworth’s Excursion, Tennyson’s In Memoriam. Milton, though he is writing after the Restoration, voices the theological aspect of the earlier portion of his century, untouched by the influence of the scientific materialism. Pope’s poem represents the effect on popular thought of the intervening sixty years which includes the first period of assured triumph for the scientific movement. Wordsworth in his whole being expresses a conscious reaction against the mentality of the eighteenth century. This mentality means nothing else than the acceptance of the scientific ideas at their full face value. Wordsworth was not bothered by any intellectual antagonism. What moved him was a moral repulsion. He felt that something had been left out, and that what had been left out comprised everything that was most important. Tennyson is the mouthpiece of the attempts of the waning romantic movement in the second quarter of the nineteenth century to come to terms with science. By this time the two elements in modern thought had disclosed their fundamental divergence by their jarring interpretations of the course of nature and the life of man. Tennyson stands in this poem as the perfect example of the distraction which I have already mentioned. There are opposing visions of the world, and both of them command his assent by appeals to ultimate intuitions from which there seems no escape. Tennyson goes to the heart of the difficulty. It is the problem of mechanism which appalls him,

We can shed some light on this troubling inconsistency in modern thought by examining several major, serious English poems. Their broad scope gives them a purpose of teaching. The poems are Milton’s Paradise Lost, Pope’s Essay on Man, Wordsworth’s Excursion, Tennyson’s In Memoriam. Milton writes after the Restoration, but he expresses the theological outlook of the earlier part of his century. That outlook was untouched by scientific materialism. Pope’s poem represents the effect on popular thought of the sixty years between the two poems. Those years include the first period when the scientific movement had clearly triumphed. Wordsworth’s whole being expresses a conscious reaction against the mentality of the eighteenth century. That mentality was simply an acceptance of scientific ideas at their full face value. Wordsworth was not troubled by any intellectual conflict. What moved him was moral revulsion. He felt that something had been left out, and that it included everything that mattered most. Tennyson speaks for the waning romantic movement in the second quarter of the nineteenth century. He expresses its attempts to come to terms with science. By then, the two elements in modern thought had revealed their fundamental differences. Their interpretations of nature and human life clashed. In this poem, Tennyson is a perfect example of the conflict I have already mentioned. He sees opposing visions of the world, and both command his assent. Each appeals to fundamental intuitions that seem impossible to escape. Tennyson goes to the heart of the difficulty. It is the problem of mechanism that appalls him.

“‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘blindly run.’”

“‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘move blindly.’”

This line states starkly the whole philosophic problem implicit in the poem. Each molecule blindly runs. The human body is a collection of molecules. Therefore, the human body blindly runs, and therefore there can be no individual responsibility for the actions of the body. If you once accept that the molecule is definitely determined to be what it is, independently of any determination by reason of the total organism of the body, and if you further admit that the blind run is settled by the general mechanical laws, there can be no escape from this conclusion. But mental experiences are derivative from the actions of the body, including of course its internal behaviour. Accordingly, the sole function of the mind is to have at least some of its experiences settled for it, and to add such others as may be open to it independently of the body’s motions, internal and external.

This line states plainly the whole philosophical problem implied by the poem. Each molecule moves blindly. The human body is a collection of molecules. Therefore, the human body moves blindly, and no individual can be responsible for its actions. Suppose you accept that what a molecule is has already been determined, independently of any influence from the body as a whole. Suppose you also accept that general mechanical laws determine its blind movement. Then there is no escaping this conclusion. But mental experiences come from the body’s actions, including, of course, its internal behavior. Accordingly, the mind’s only function is to have at least some experiences determined for it. It can also add whatever other experiences may be open to it independently of the body’s internal and external movements.

There are then two possible theories as to the mind. You can either deny that it can supply for itself any experiences other than those provided for it by the body, or you can admit them.

There are, then, two possible theories about the mind. You can deny that the mind can have any experiences except those provided by the body. Or you can admit that the mind can have other experiences.

If you refuse to admit the additional experiences, then all individual moral responsibility is swept away. If you do admit them, then a human being may be responsible for the state of his mind though he has no responsibility for the actions of his body. The enfeeblement of thought in the modern world is illustrated by the way in which this plain issue is avoided in Tennyson’s poem. There is something kept in the background, a skeleton in the cupboard. He touches on almost every religious and scientific problem, but carefully avoids more than a passing allusion to this one.

If you refuse to admit these additional experiences, then all individual moral responsibility disappears. If you do admit them, then a person may be responsible for their state of mind, though not for their bodily actions. Tennyson’s poem illustrates the weakness of thought in the modern world by avoiding this plain issue. Something is kept in the background, like a skeleton in the closet. He touches on almost every religious and scientific problem, but carefully makes only a passing reference to this one.

This very problem was in full debate at the date of the poem. John Stuart Mill was maintaining his doctrine of determinism. In this doctrine volitions are determined by motives, and motives are expressible in terms of antecedent conditions including states of mind as well as states of the body.

This very problem was being actively debated when the poem was written. John Stuart Mill was defending his doctrine of determinism. According to this doctrine, motives determine our choices. Those motives can be explained in terms of earlier conditions, including states of mind and states of the body.

It is obvious that this doctrine affords no escape from the dilemma presented by a thoroughgoing mechanism. For if the volition affects the state of the body, then the molecules in the body do not blindly run. If the volition does not affect the state of the body, the mind is still left in its uncomfortable position.

Clearly, this doctrine offers no escape from the dilemma posed by a fully mechanistic view. For if an act of will affects the body, then the molecules in the body do not move blindly. If an act of will does not affect the body, the mind is still left in its uncomfortable position.

Mill’s doctrine is generally accepted, especially among scientists, as though in some way it allowed you to accept the extreme doctrine of materialistic mechanism, and yet mitigated its unbelievable consequences. It does nothing of the sort. Either the bodily molecules blindly run, or they do not. If they do blindly run, the mental states are irrelevant in discussing the bodily actions.

Mill’s doctrine is widely accepted, especially among scientists. They accept it as though it somehow lets them embrace the extreme doctrine of materialistic mechanism while softening its unbelievable consequences. It does nothing of the sort. Either the molecules of the body move blindly, or they do not. If they do move blindly, mental states have no bearing on bodily actions.

I have stated the arguments concisely, because in truth the issue is a very simple one. Prolonged discussion is merely a source of confusion. The question as to the metaphysical status of molecules does not come in. The statement that they are mere formulae has no bearing on the argument. For presumably the formulae mean something. If they mean nothing, the whole mechanical doctrine is likewise without meaning, and the question drops. But if the formulae mean anything, the argument applies to exactly what they do mean. The traditional way of evading the difficulty—other than the simple way of ignoring it—is to have recourse to some form of what is now termed ‘vitalism.’ This doctrine is really a compromise. It allows a free run to mechanism throughout the whole of inanimate nature, and holds that the mechanism is partially mitigated within living bodies. I feel that this theory is an unsatisfactory compromise. The gap between living and dead matter is too vague and problematical to bear the weight of such an arbitrary assumption, which involves an essential dualism somewhere.

I have stated the arguments briefly because the issue is really very simple. A longer discussion would only cause confusion. The question of what molecules are in a metaphysical sense does not come into it. Saying that molecules are merely formulae has no bearing on the argument. Presumably, the formulae mean something. If they mean nothing, the whole mechanical doctrine is also meaningless, and the question falls away. But if the formulae mean anything, the argument applies to exactly what they mean. Apart from simply ignoring the difficulty, the traditional way to avoid it is to turn to some form of what is now called ‘vitalism.’ This doctrine is really a compromise. It gives mechanism free rein throughout all of inanimate nature, but holds that mechanism is partly limited within living bodies. I feel that this theory is an unsatisfactory compromise. The distinction between living and dead matter is too vague and uncertain to support such an arbitrary assumption. That assumption involves an essential dualism somewhere.

The doctrine which I am maintaining is that the whole concept of materialism only applies to very abstract entities, the products of logical discernment. The concrete enduring entities are organisms, so that the plan of the whole influences the very characters of the various subordinate organisms which enter into it. In the case of an animal, the mental states enter into the plan of the total organism and thus modify the plans of the successive subordinate organisms until the ultimate smallest organisms, such as electrons, are reached. Thus an electron within a living body is different from an electron outside it, by reason of the plan of the body. The electron blindly runs either within or without the body; but it runs within the body in accordance with its character within the body; that is to say, in accordance with the general plan of the body, and this plan includes the mental state. But this principle of modification is perfectly general throughout nature, and represents no property peculiar to living bodies. In subsequent lectures it will be explained that this doctrine involves the abandonment of the traditional scientific materialism, and the substitution of an alternative doctrine of organism.

My argument is that materialism applies only to highly abstract entities, which are products of logical analysis. Concrete, enduring entities are organisms. The plan of the whole influences the very character of each smaller organism within it. In an animal, mental states are part of the plan of the whole organism. They therefore modify the plans of the smaller organisms within it, down to the smallest organisms, such as electrons. Thus an electron inside a living body differs from one outside it because of the body's plan. An electron moves blindly, whether inside or outside the body. But inside the body, it moves according to its character within the body. In other words, it moves according to the body's general plan, which includes the mental state. But this principle of modification applies throughout nature. It is not peculiar to living bodies. In later lectures, I will explain how this doctrine requires us to abandon traditional scientific materialism. In its place, we must adopt an alternative doctrine of organism.

I shall not discuss Mill’s determinism, as it lies outside the scheme of these lectures. The foregoing discussion has been directed to secure that either determinism or free will shall have some relevance, unhampered by the difficulties introduced by materialistic mechanism, or by the compromise of vitalism. I would term the doctrine of these lectures, the theory of organic mechanism. In this theory, the molecules may blindly run in accordance with the general laws, but the molecules differ in their intrinsic characters according to the general organic plans of the situations in which they find themselves.

I will not discuss Mill’s determinism because it falls outside the scope of these lectures. The preceding discussion has aimed to give either determinism or free will some relevance. It has sought to do so without the difficulties introduced by materialistic mechanism or the compromise of vitalism. I would call the doctrine of these lectures the theory of organic mechanism. In this theory, molecules may blindly follow general laws. But their intrinsic characteristics differ according to the overall organic plans of the situations in which they find themselves.

The discrepancy between the materialistic mechanism of science and the moral intuitions, which are presupposed in the concrete affairs of life, only gradually assumed its true importance as the centuries advanced. The different tones of the successive epochs to which the poems, already mentioned, belong are curiously reflected in their opening passages. Milton ends his introduction with the prayer,

As the centuries passed, the conflict between science’s materialistic view of the world as a mechanism and the moral intuitions assumed in everyday life only gradually took on its full importance. The opening passages of the poems already mentioned reflect, in a curious way, the different tones of the periods in which they were written. Milton ends his introduction with a prayer,

To judge from many modern writers on Milton, we might imagine that the Paradise Lost and the Paradise Regained were written as a series of experiments in blank verse. This was certainly not Milton’s view of his work. To ‘justify the ways of God to men’ was very much his main object. He recurs to the same idea in the Samson Agonistes,

From many modern writers on Milton, we might imagine that Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained were written as experiments in blank verse. This was certainly not how Milton saw his work. His main goal was to ‘justify the ways of God to men’. He returns to the same idea in Samson Agonistes,

We note the assured volume of confidence, untroubled by the coming scientific avalanche. The actual date of the publication of the Paradise Lost lies just beyond the epoch to which it belongs. It is the swansong of a passing world of untroubled certitude.

We notice the strong, assured confidence, undisturbed by the coming avalanche of scientific discoveries. Paradise Lost was published just after the period to which it belongs. It is the swansong of a passing world of untroubled certainty.

A comparison between Pope’s Essay on Man and the Paradise Lost exhibits the change of tone in English thought in the fifty or sixty years which separate the age of Milton from the age of Pope. Milton addresses his poem to God, Pope’s poem is addressed to Lord Bolingbroke,

A comparison of Pope’s Essay on Man and Paradise Lost shows how the tone of English thought changed. The two works were written fifty or sixty years apart, in the ages of Milton and Pope. Milton addresses his poem to God. Pope addresses his poem to Lord Bolingbroke,

Compare the jaunty assurance of Pope,

Compare Pope's cheerful confidence,

“A mighty maze! but not without a plan.”

“A vast maze! But not without a plan.”

with Milton’s

with Milton’s

But the real point to notice is that Pope as well as Milton was untroubled by the great perplexity which haunts the modern world. The clue which Milton followed was to dwell on the ways of God in dealings with man. Two generations later we find Pope equally confident that the enlightened methods of modern science provided a plan adequate as a map of the ‘mighty maze.’

But the important point is that Pope, like Milton, was not troubled by the great puzzle that haunts the modern world. Milton sought an answer by focusing on how God deals with humanity. Two generations later, Pope was equally confident that the enlightened methods of modern science provided an adequate map of the ‘mighty maze.’

Wordsworth’s Excursion is the next English poem on the same subject. A prose preface tells us that it is a fragment of a larger projected work, described as ‘A philosophical poem containing views of Man, Nature, and Society.’

Wordsworth’s Excursion is the next English poem on the same subject. A prose preface says the poem is part of a larger planned work. The preface describes that work as ‘A philosophical poem containing views of Man, Nature, and Society.’

Very characteristically the poem begins with the line,

Characteristically, the poem begins with the line,

“’Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high:”

“It was summer, and the sun was high in the sky:”

Thus the romantic reaction started neither with God nor with Lord Bolingbroke, but with nature. We are here witnessing a conscious reaction against the whole tone of the eighteenth century. That century approached nature with the abstract analysis of science, whereas Wordsworth opposes to the scientific abstractions his full concrete experience.

The romantic reaction began with nature, not with God or Lord Bolingbroke. It was a conscious reaction against the whole tone of the eighteenth century. That century approached nature through the abstract analysis of science. Wordsworth, by contrast, set his full, concrete experience against scientific abstractions.

A generation of religious revival and of scientific advance lies between the Excursion and Tennyson’s In Memoriam. The earlier poets had solved the perplexity by ignoring it. That course was not open to Tennyson. Accordingly his poem begins thus:

A generation of religious revival and scientific progress separates the Excursion from Tennyson’s In Memoriam. The earlier poets had dealt with the puzzle by ignoring it. Tennyson could not do that. So his poem begins:

The note of perplexity is struck at once. The nineteenth century has been a perplexed century, in a sense which is not true of any of its predecessors of the modern period. In the earlier times there were opposing camps, bitterly at variance on questions which they deemed fundamental. But, except for a few stragglers, either camp was whole-hearted. The importance of Tennyson’s poem lies in the fact that it exactly expressed the character of its period. Each individual was divided against himself. In the earlier times, the deep thinkers were the clear thinkers,—Descartes, Spinoza, Locke, Leibniz. They knew exactly what they meant and said it. In the nineteenth century, some of the deeper thinkers among theologians and philosophers were muddled thinkers. Their assent was claimed by incompatible doctrines; and their efforts at reconciliation produced inevitable confusion.

The note of perplexity is struck at once. The nineteenth century was perplexed in a way that no earlier century of the modern period had been. In earlier times, opposing camps disagreed bitterly over questions they considered fundamental. But, except for a few stragglers, each camp was wholehearted in its beliefs. The importance of Tennyson’s poem lies in how exactly it expressed the character of its period. Each individual was divided against himself. In earlier times, the deep thinkers were also clear thinkers: Descartes, Spinoza, Locke, Leibniz. They knew exactly what they meant and said it. In the nineteenth century, some of the deeper thinkers among theologians and philosophers were muddled thinkers. They felt compelled to accept incompatible doctrines. Their efforts to reconcile those doctrines produced inevitable confusion.

Matthew Arnold, even more than Tennyson, was the poet who expressed this mood of individual distraction which was so characteristic of this century. Compare with In Memoriam the closing lines of Arnold’s Dover Beach:

More than Tennyson, Matthew Arnold was the poet who expressed the mood of personal disquiet so characteristic of this century. Compare In Memoriam with the closing lines of Arnold’s Dover Beach:

Cardinal Newman in his Apologia pro Vitâ Suâ mentions it as a peculiarity of Pusey, the great Anglican ecclesiastic, “He was haunted by no intellectual perplexities.” In this respect Pusey recalls Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, as in contrast with Tennyson, Clough, Matthew Arnold, and Newman himself.

In his Apologia pro Vitâ Suâ, Cardinal Newman notes a distinctive trait of Pusey, the great Anglican churchman: “He was haunted by no intellectual perplexities.” In this respect, Pusey resembles Milton, Pope, and Wordsworth. He contrasts with Tennyson, Clough, Matthew Arnold, and Newman himself.

So far as concerns English literature we find, as might be anticipated, the most interesting criticism of the thoughts of science among the leaders of the romantic reaction which accompanied and succeeded the epoch of the French Revolution. In English literature, the deepest thinkers of this school were Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Shelley. Keats is an example of literature untouched by science. We may neglect Coleridge’s attempt at an explicit philosophical formulation. It was influential in his own generation; but in these lectures it is my object only to mention those elements of the thought of the past which stand for all time. Even with this limitation, only a selection is possible. For our purposes Coleridge is only important by his influence on Wordsworth. Thus Wordsworth and Shelley remain.

As we might expect, English literature’s most interesting criticism of scientific thought comes from the leaders of the romantic reaction. This reaction accompanied and followed the era of the French Revolution. In English literature, the deepest thinkers of this school were Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Shelley. Keats is an example of literature untouched by science. We may set aside Coleridge’s attempt to express his ideas in an explicit philosophy. That attempt was influential in his own generation. But in these lectures I aim to mention only those elements of past thought that stand for all time. Even with this limitation, I can only make a selection. For our purposes, Coleridge is important only for his influence on Wordsworth. That leaves Wordsworth and Shelley.

Wordsworth was passionately absorbed in nature. It has been said of Spinoza, that he was drunk with God. It is equally true that Wordsworth was drunk with nature. But he was a thoughtful, well-read man, with philosophical interests, and sane even to the point of prosiness. In addition, he was a genius. He weakens his evidence by his dislike of science. We all remember his scorn of the poor man whom he somewhat hastily accuses of peeping and botanising on his mother’s grave. Passage after passage could be quoted from him, expressing this repulsion. In this respect, his characteristic thought can be summed up in his phrase, ‘We murder to dissect.’

Wordsworth was passionately absorbed in nature. Spinoza has been described as drunk with God. It is equally true that Wordsworth was drunk with nature. But he was a thoughtful, well-read man with philosophical interests, and so sensible that he could even be dull. He was also a genius. His dislike of science weakens his evidence. We all remember his scorn for the poor man he rather hastily accuses of peeping and studying plants on his mother’s grave. Passage after passage could be quoted in which Wordsworth expresses this dislike. His characteristic view of science can be summed up in his phrase, ‘We murder to dissect.’

In this latter passage, he discloses the intellectual basis of his criticism of science. He alleges against science its absorption in abstractions. His consistent theme is that the important facts of nature elude the scientific method. It is important therefore to ask, what Wordsworth found in nature that failed to receive expression in science. I ask this question in the interest of science itself; for one main position in these lectures is a protest against the idea that the abstractions of science are irreformable and unalterable. Now it is emphatically not the case that Wordsworth hands over inorganic matter to the mercy of science, and concentrates on the faith that in the living organism there is some element that science cannot analyse. Of course he recognises, what no one doubts, that in some sense living things are different from lifeless things. But that is not his main point. It is the brooding presence of the hills which haunts him. His theme is nature in solido, that is to say, he dwells on that mysterious presence of surrounding things, which imposes itself on any separate element that we set up as an individual for its own sake. He always grasps the whole of nature as involved in the tonality of the particular instance. That is why he laughs with the daffodils, and finds in the primrose “thoughts too deep for terms.”

In this later passage, Wordsworth reveals the intellectual basis of his criticism of science. He accuses science of being absorbed in abstractions. His consistent theme is that important facts of nature escape the scientific method. We must therefore ask what Wordsworth found in nature that science failed to express. I ask this in the interest of science itself. For a main position in these lectures is a protest against the idea that scientific abstractions cannot be revised or changed. Wordsworth emphatically does not leave inorganic matter to the mercy of science while focusing on a belief that living organisms contain some element science cannot analyze. Of course, he recognizes that living things differ from lifeless things in some sense. No one doubts that. But it is not his main point. It is the brooding presence of the hills that haunts him. His theme is nature in solido, that is, he dwells on the mysterious presence of surrounding things. That presence makes itself felt in any separate element we regard as an individual in its own right. He always sees the whole of nature as involved in the character of each particular instance. That is why he laughs with the daffodils and finds in the primrose “thoughts too deep for terms.”

Wordsworth’s greatest poem is, by far, the first book of The Prelude. It is pervaded by this sense of the haunting presences of nature. A series of magnificent passages, too long for quotation, express this idea. Of course, Wordsworth is a poet writing a poem, and is not concerned with dry philosophical statements. But it would hardly be possible to express more clearly a feeling for nature, as exhibiting entwined prehensive unities, each suffused with modal presences of others:

Wordsworth’s greatest poem is, by far, the first book of The Prelude. The whole book is filled with a sense of nature’s haunting presences. A series of magnificent passages, too long to quote, express this idea. Of course, Wordsworth is a poet writing a poem, not making dry philosophical statements. But it would hardly be possible to express more clearly a feeling for nature as a web of entwined prehensive unities, each suffused with modal presences of the others:

In thus citing Wordsworth, the point which I wish to make is that we forget how strained and paradoxical is the view of nature which modern science imposes on our thoughts. Wordsworth, to the height of genius, expresses the concrete facts of our apprehension, facts which are distorted in the scientific analysis. Is it not possible that the standardised concepts of science are only valid within narrow limitations, perhaps too narrow for science itself?

By citing Wordsworth, I want to make this point: we forget how strained and paradoxical the view of nature imposed by modern science is. With exceptional genius, Wordsworth expresses the concrete facts of our experience, which scientific analysis distorts. Could it be that the standard concepts of science are valid only within narrow limits, perhaps too narrow for science itself?

Shelley’s attitude to science was at the opposite pole to that of Wordsworth. He loved it, and is never tired of expressing in poetry the thoughts which it suggests. It symbolises to him joy, and peace, and illumination. What the hills were to the youth of Wordsworth, a chemical laboratory was to Shelley. It is unfortunate that Shelley’s literary critics have, in this respect, so little of Shelley in their own mentality. They tend to treat as a casual oddity of Shelley’s nature what was, in fact, part of the main structure of his mind, permeating his poetry through and through. If Shelley had been born a hundred years later, the twentieth century would have seen a Newton among chemists.

Shelley’s attitude toward science was the exact opposite of Wordsworth’s. He loved science and never tired of expressing the thoughts it inspired in his poetry. To him, science symbolized joy, peace, and enlightenment. A chemical laboratory was to Shelley what the hills were to Wordsworth in his youth. Unfortunately, Shelley’s literary critics have little of Shelley’s attitude to science in their own thinking. They tend to treat his love of science as a minor quirk. In fact, it was a central part of his mind and ran through all his poetry. If Shelley had been born a hundred years later, the twentieth century would have seen a Newton among chemists.

For the sake of estimating the value of Shelley’s evidence it is important to realise this absorption of his mind in scientific ideas. It can be illustrated by lyric after lyric. I will choose one poem only, the fourth act of his Prometheus Unbound. The Earth and the Moon converse together in the language of accurate science. Physical experiments guide his imagery. For example, the Earth’s exclamation,

To assess the value of Shelley’s evidence, we need to understand how absorbed he was in scientific ideas. Lyric after lyric illustrates this. I will choose just one poem, the fourth act of Prometheus Unbound. The Earth and the Moon speak to each other in scientifically accurate language. Physical experiments guide Shelley’s imagery. For example, the Earth’s exclamation,

“The vaporous exultation not to be confined!”

“The misty joy that cannot be contained!”

is the poetic transcript of ‘the expansive force of gases,’ as it is termed in books on science. Again, take the Earth’s stanza,

is the poetic version of what science books call ‘the expansive force of gases.’ Now consider the Earth’s stanza,

This stanza could only have been written by someone with a definite geometrical diagram before his inward eye—a diagram which it has often been my business to demonstrate to mathematical classes. As evidence, note especially the last line which gives poetical imagery to the light surrounding night’s pyramid. This idea could not occur to anyone without the diagram. But the whole poem and other poems are permeated with touches of this kind.

Only someone who had a specific geometric diagram in mind could have written this stanza. I have often had to demonstrate this diagram to math classes. As evidence, notice the last line in particular. It turns the light surrounding night’s pyramid into poetic imagery. This idea could not occur to anyone without the diagram. But touches like this appear throughout the whole poem and other poems.

Now the poet, so sympathetic with science, so absorbed in its ideas, can simply make nothing of the doctrine of secondary qualities which is fundamental to its concepts. For Shelley nature retains its beauty and its colour. Shelley’s nature is in its essence a nature of organisms, functioning with the full content of our perceptual experience. We are so used to ignoring the implications of orthodox scientific doctrine, that it is difficult to make evident the criticism upon it which is thereby implied. If anybody could have treated it seriously, Shelley would have done so.

The poet is so sympathetic to science and so absorbed in its ideas. Yet he cannot make anything of the doctrine of secondary qualities, which is fundamental to science’s concepts. For Shelley, nature retains its beauty and color. Shelley’s nature is essentially a nature of organisms, functioning with the full content of our perceptual experience. We are so used to ignoring the implications of orthodox scientific doctrine that the implied criticism is hard to make clear. If anyone could have taken the doctrine seriously, Shelley would have done so.

Furthermore Shelley is entirely at one with Wordsworth as to the interfusing of the Presence in nature. Here is the opening stanza of his poem entitled Mont Blanc:

Furthermore, Shelley agrees entirely with Wordsworth that the Presence permeates nature. Here is the opening stanza of his poem Mont Blanc:

Shelley has written these lines with explicit reference to some form of idealism, Kantian or Berkeleyan or Platonic. But however you construe him, he is here an emphatic witness to a prehensive unification as constituting the very being of nature.

Shelley wrote these lines with explicit reference to some form of idealism, whether Kantian, Berkeleyan, or Platonic. But however you interpret him, he strongly affirms that prehensive unification makes up the very being of nature.

Berkeley, Wordsworth, Shelley are representative of the intuitive refusal seriously to accept the abstract materialism of science.

Berkeley, Wordsworth, and Shelley represent the intuitive refusal to take science's abstract materialism seriously.

There is an interesting difference in the treatment of nature by Wordsworth and by Shelley, which brings forward the exact questions we have got to think about. Shelley thinks of nature as changing, dissolving, transforming as it were at a fairy’s touch. The leaves fly before the West Wind

There is an interesting difference between how Wordsworth and Shelley treat nature. This difference brings out the exact questions we need to consider. Shelley sees nature as changing, dissolving, and transforming, as if touched by a fairy. The leaves fly before the West Wind.

“Like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing.”

“Like ghosts fleeing from a sorcerer.”

In his poem The Cloud it is the transformations of water which excite his imagination. The subject of the poem is the endless, eternal, elusive change of things:

In his poem The Cloud, the changing forms of water excite his imagination. The poem is about the endless, eternal, elusive change of things:

“I change but I cannot die.”

“I change, but I cannot die.”

This is one aspect of nature, its elusive change: a change not merely to be expressed by locomotion, but a change of inward character. This is where Shelley places his emphasis, on the change of what cannot die.

One aspect of nature is its elusive change. This change is not merely a matter of movement, but also a change in inward character. Shelley emphasizes this change in what cannot die.

Wordsworth was born among hills; hills mostly barren of trees, and thus showing the minimum of change with the seasons. He was haunted by the enormous permanences of nature. For him change is an incident which shoots across a background of endurance,

Wordsworth was born among hills. Most had few trees, so they changed very little with the seasons. He was haunted by the vast, enduring features of nature. For him, change was a passing event that flashed across a lasting background,

Every scheme for the analysis of nature has to face these two facts, change and endurance. There is yet a third fact to be placed by it, eternality, I will call it. The mountain endures. But when after ages it has been worn away, it has gone. If a replica arises, it is yet a new mountain. A colour is eternal. It haunts time like a spirit. It comes and it goes. But where it comes, it is the same colour. It neither survives nor does it live. It appears when it is wanted. The mountain has to time and space a different relation from that which colour has. In the previous lecture, I was chiefly considering the relation to space-time of things which, in my sense of the term, are eternal. It was necessary to do so before we can pass to the consideration of the things which endure.

Every approach to analyzing nature must face two facts: change and endurance. There is a third fact to set beside them, which I will call eternality. A mountain endures. But when ages of erosion have worn it away, it is gone. If an exact copy appears, it is still a new mountain. A colour is eternal. It haunts time like a spirit. It comes and goes. But wherever it appears, it is the same colour. It neither survives nor lives. It appears when it is wanted. A mountain has a different relation to time and space from the relation a colour has. In the previous lecture, I focused on how things that are eternal, in my sense of the term, relate to space-time. I needed to do this before we could consider things that endure.

Also we must recollect the basis of our procedure. I hold that philosophy is the critic of abstractions. Its function is the double one, first of harmonising them by assigning to them their right relative status as abstractions, and secondly of completing them by direct comparison with more concrete intuitions of the universe, and thereby promoting the formation of more complete schemes of thought. It is in respect to this comparison that the testimony of great poets is of such importance. Their survival is evidence that they express deep intuitions of mankind penetrating into what is universal in concrete fact. Philosophy is not one among the sciences with its own little scheme of abstractions which it works away at perfecting and improving. It is the survey of sciences, with the special objects of their harmony, and of their completion. It brings to this task, not only the evidence of the separate sciences, but also its own appeal to concrete experience. It confronts the sciences with concrete fact.

We must also remember the basis of our approach. I believe that philosophy is the critic of abstractions. Its role is twofold. First, it brings abstractions into harmony by giving each its proper relative status as an abstraction. Second, it completes them by comparing them directly with more concrete intuitions of the universe. In this way, philosophy helps develop more complete systems of thought. The testimony of great poets is especially important for this comparison. Their lasting influence shows that they express deep human intuitions that reach what is universal in concrete facts. Philosophy is not just another science, working to perfect and improve its own small system of abstractions. It surveys the sciences, aiming especially to bring them into harmony and make them more complete. For this task, it draws on evidence from the individual sciences and on its own appeal to concrete experience. It confronts the sciences with concrete facts.

The literature of the nineteenth century, especially its English poetic literature, is a witness to the discord between the aesthetic intuitions of mankind and the mechanism of science. Shelley brings vividly before us the elusiveness of the eternal objects of sense as they haunt the change which infects underlying organisms. Wordsworth is the poet of nature as being the field of enduring permanences carrying within themselves a message of tremendous significance. The eternal objects are also there for him,

The literature of the nineteenth century, especially its English poetry, shows the conflict between humanity’s aesthetic intuitions and the mechanism of science. Shelley vividly portrays the elusive eternal objects of sense as they haunt the changes affecting underlying organisms. Wordsworth is the poet of nature as a realm of enduring permanences. These permanences carry within themselves a message of tremendous significance. The eternal objects are also there for him,

“The light that never was, on sea or land.”

“The light that never existed on sea or land.”

Both Shelley and Wordsworth emphatically bear witness that nature cannot be divorced from its aesthetic values; and that these values arise from the cumulation, in some sense, of the brooding presence of the whole onto its various parts. Thus we gain from the poets the doctrine that a philosophy of nature must concern itself at least with these five notions: change, value, eternal objects, endurance, organism, interfusion.

Both Shelley and Wordsworth strongly affirm that nature cannot be separated from its aesthetic values. These values arise, in some sense, from the accumulated influence of the whole's brooding presence on its various parts. Thus, the poets teach us that a philosophy of nature must address at least these five notions: change, value, eternal objects, endurance, organism, interfusion.

We see that the literary romantic movement at the beginning of the nineteenth century, just as much as Berkeley’s philosophical idealistic movement a hundred years earlier, refused to be confined within the materialistic concepts of the orthodox scientific theory. We know also that when in these lectures we come to the twentieth century, we shall find a movement in science itself to reorganise its concepts, driven thereto by its own intrinsic development.

We see that the literary romantic movement began in the early nineteenth century. Like Berkeley’s philosophical idealist movement a hundred years earlier, it refused to be confined by orthodox scientific theory’s materialistic concepts. We also know what we will find when these lectures reach the twentieth century. Science itself will be moving to reorganize its concepts, driven by its own internal development.

It is, however, impossible to proceed until we have settled whether this refashioning of ideas is to be carried out on an objectivist basis or on a subjectivist basis. By a subjectivist basis I mean the belief that the nature of our immediate experience is the outcome of the perceptive peculiarities of the subject enjoying the experience. In other words, I mean that for this theory what is perceived is not a partial vision of a complex of things generally independent of that act of cognition; but that it merely is the expression of the individual peculiarities of the cognitive act. Accordingly what is common to the multiplicity of cognitive acts is the ratiocination connected with them. Thus, though there is a common world of thought associated with our sense-perceptions, there is no common world to think about. What we do think about is a common conceptual world applying indifferently to our individual experiences which are strictly personal to ourselves. Such a conceptual world will ultimately find its complete expression in the equations of applied mathematics. This is the extreme subjectivist position. There is of course the half-way house of those who believe that our perceptual experience does tell us of a common objective world; but that the things perceived are merely the outcome for us of this world, and are not in themselves elements in the common world itself.

However, we cannot proceed until we decide whether to reshape these ideas on an objectivist or a subjectivist basis. By a subjectivist basis, I mean the belief that our immediate experience results from the particular ways we perceive. In other words, according to this theory, what we perceive is not a partial view of a complex of things generally independent of the act of knowing. Instead, what we perceive merely expresses the individual characteristics of that act. According to this view, what different acts of knowing have in common is the reasoning associated with them. So, although there is a common world of thought associated with our sense perceptions, there is no common world to think about. What we think about is a common conceptual world that applies equally to our individual experiences, which are strictly personal. Such a conceptual world will ultimately find its complete expression in the equations of applied mathematics. This is the extreme subjectivist position. Of course, there is also a middle position. Some believe that our perceptual experience does tell us about a common objective world. But they believe that the things we perceive are merely how that world affects us. They believe those things are not in themselves elements of the common world.

Also there is the objectivist position. This creed is that the actual elements perceived by our senses are in themselves the elements of a common world; and that this world is a complex of things, including indeed our acts of cognition, but transcending them. According to this point of view the things experienced are to be distinguished from our knowledge of them. So far as there is dependence, the things pave the way for the cognition, rather than vice versa. But the point is that the actual things experienced enter into a common world which transcends knowledge, though it includes knowledge. The intermediate subjectivists would hold that the things experienced only indirectly enter into the common world by reason of their dependence on the subject who is cognising. The objectivist holds that the things experienced and the cognisant subject enter into the common world on equal terms. In these lectures I am giving the outline of what I consider to be the essentials of an objectivist philosophy adapted to the requirement of science and to the concrete experience of mankind. Apart from the detailed criticism of the difficulties raised by subjectivism in any form, my broad reasons for distrusting it are three in number. One reason arises from the direct interrogation of our perceptive experience. It appears from this interrogation that we are within a world of colours, sounds, and other sense-objects, related in space and time to enduring objects such as stones, trees, and human bodies. We seem to be ourselves elements of this world in the same sense as are the other things which we perceive. But the subjectivist, even the moderate intermediate subjectivist, makes this world, as thus described, depend on us, in a way which directly traverses our naïve experience. I hold that the ultimate appeal is to naïve experience and that is why I lay such stress on the evidence of poetry. My point is, that in our sense-experience we know away from and beyond our own personality; whereas the subjectivist holds that in such experience we merely know about our own personality. Even the intermediate subjectivist places our personality between the world we know of and the common world which he admits. The world we know of is for him the internal strain of our personality under the stress of the common world which lies behind.

There is also the objectivist position. This view holds that the actual elements we perceive through our senses are in themselves elements of a common world. This world is a complex of things. It includes our acts of knowing, but extends beyond them. From this point of view, the things we experience are distinct from our knowledge of them. To the extent that either depends on the other, the things make knowledge possible, rather than vice versa. But the point is that the actual things we experience enter into a common world. This world extends beyond knowledge, though it includes knowledge. Intermediate subjectivists would hold that the things we experience enter the common world only indirectly. They do so because they depend on the subject who knows them. The objectivist holds that the things experienced and the knowing subject enter the common world on equal terms. In these lectures, I outline what I consider essential to an objectivist philosophy. This philosophy is adapted to the requirements of science and to concrete human experience. Apart from my detailed criticism of the difficulties raised by subjectivism in any form, I have three broad reasons for distrusting it. One reason comes from examining our experience of perception directly. This examination suggests that we are within a world of colours, sounds, and other objects of the senses. These are related in space and time to enduring objects such as stones, trees, and human bodies. We ourselves seem to be elements of this world in the same sense as the other things we perceive. But the subjectivist makes the world, as described here, depend on us. This applies even to the moderate intermediate subjectivist. This dependence directly contradicts our ordinary, unexamined experience. I hold that our final appeal must be to this unexamined experience. That is why I place such emphasis on the evidence of poetry. My point is that, through our senses, we know things outside and beyond our own personality. The subjectivist, by contrast, holds that through such experience we know only about our own personality. Even the intermediate subjectivist places our personality between the world we know and the common world he acknowledges. For the intermediate subjectivist, the world we know is the internal strain on our personality under pressure from the common world behind it.

My second reason for distrusting subjectivism is based on the particular content of experience. Our historical knowledge tells us of ages in the past when, so far as we can see, no living being existed on earth. Again it also tells us of countless star-systems, whose detailed history remains beyond our ken. Consider even the moon and the earth. What is going on within the interior of the earth, and on the far side of the moon! Our perceptions lead us to infer that there is something happening in the stars, something happening within the earth, and something happening on the far side of the moon. Also they tell us that in remote ages there were things happening. But all these things which it appears certainly happened, are either unknown in detail, or else are reconstructed by inferential evidence. In the face of this content of our personal experience, it is difficult to believe that the experienced world is an attribute of our own personality. My third reason is based upon the instinct for action. Just as sense-perception seems to give knowledge of what lies beyond individuality, so action seems to issue in an instinct for self-transcendence. The activity passes beyond self into the known transcendent world. It is here that final ends are of importance. For it is not activity urged from behind, which passes out into the veiled world of the intermediate subjectivist. It is activity directed to determinate ends in the known world; and yet it is activity transcending self and it is activity within the known world. It follows therefore that the world, as known, transcends the subject which is cognisant of it.

My second reason for distrusting subjectivism is based on the particular content of experience. Our knowledge of history tells us of past ages when, as far as we can see, no living being existed on earth. It also tells us of countless star systems whose detailed histories remain beyond our knowledge. Consider even the moon and the earth. Think of what is happening inside the earth and on the far side of the moon! Our perceptions lead us to infer that something is happening in the stars, inside the earth, and on the far side of the moon. They also tell us that things happened in distant ages. But all these things that apparently did happen are either unknown in detail or reconstructed through evidence and inference. In light of this content of our personal experience, it is difficult to believe that the experienced world is a feature of our own personality. My third reason is based on the instinct to act. Sense perception seems to give us knowledge of what lies beyond the individual. Similarly, action seems to express an instinct to go beyond the self. Our activity passes beyond the self into the world we know beyond it. This is where ultimate ends matter. For this activity is not simply pushed from behind, passing out into the hidden world of the intermediate subjectivist. It is directed toward specific ends in the known world. Yet it is activity that goes beyond the self and takes place within the known world. It follows, then, that the world as we know it extends beyond the subject who knows it.

The subjectivist position has been popular among those who have been engaged in giving a philosophical interpretation to the recent theories of relativity in physical science. The dependence of the world of sense on the individual percipient seems an easy mode of expressing the meanings involved. Of course, with the exception of those who are content with themselves as forming the entire universe, solitary amid nothing, everyone wants to struggle back to some sort of objectivist position. I do not understand how a common world of thought can be established in the absence of a common world of sense. I will not argue this point in detail; but in the absence of a transcendence of thought, or a transcendence of the world of sense, it is difficult to see how the subjectivist is to divest himself of his solitariness. Nor does the intermediate subjectivist appear to get any help from his unknown world in the background.

The subjectivist view has been popular among philosophers interpreting recent theories of relativity in physics. They find it easy to express those theories by saying that the world we sense depends on each individual perceiver. Of course, almost everyone wants to work back toward some kind of objectivist view. The exceptions are those content to be the entire universe themselves, alone amid nothing. I do not understand how people can share a world of thought without sharing a world of sense. I will not argue the point in detail. But unless thought or the world of sense transcends the individual, it is hard to see how the subjectivist can escape being alone. Nor does the intermediate subjectivist seem to get any help from an unknown world in the background.

The distinction between realism and idealism does not coincide with that between objectivism and subjectivism. Both realists and idealists can start from an objective standpoint. They may both agree that the world disclosed in sense-perception is a common world, transcending the individual percipient. But the objective idealist, when he comes to analyse what the reality of this world involves, finds that cognitive mentality is in some way inextricably concerned in every detail. This position the realist denies. Accordingly these two classes of objectivists do not part company till they have arrived at the ultimate problem of metaphysics. There is a great deal which they share in common. This is why, in my last lecture, I said that I adopted a position of provisional realism.

The distinction between realism and idealism is not the same as the distinction between objectivism and subjectivism. Both realists and idealists can start from an objective standpoint. Both may agree that the world revealed through our senses is a shared world, extending beyond any individual perceiver. But the objective idealist goes on to analyze what makes this world real. In doing so, the idealist finds that the knowing mind is somehow inseparably involved in every detail. The realist denies this. So these two kinds of objectivists do not part company until they reach the fundamental problem of metaphysics. They have a great deal in common. That is why, in my last lecture, I said that I had adopted a position of provisional realism.

In the past, the objectivist position has been distorted by the supposed necessity of accepting the classical scientific materialism, with its doctrine of simple location. This has necessitated the doctrine of secondary and primary qualities. Thus the secondary qualities, such as the sense-objects, are dealt with on subjectivist principles. This is a half-hearted position which falls an easy prey to subjectivist criticism.

In the past, the objectivist position has been distorted by the supposed need to accept classical scientific materialism and its doctrine of simple location. This has made it necessary to distinguish between primary and secondary qualities. As a result, secondary qualities, such as sense-objects, are treated according to subjectivist principles. This half-hearted position is easily undermined by subjectivist criticism.

If we are to include the secondary qualities in the common world, a very drastic reorganisation of our fundamental concepts is necessary. It is an evident fact of experience that our apprehensions of the external world depend absolutely on the occurrences within the human body. By playing appropriate tricks on the body a man can be got to perceive, or not to perceive, almost anything. Some people express themselves as though bodies, brains, and nerves were the only real things in an entirely imaginary world. In other words, they treat bodies on objectivist principles, and the rest of the world on subjectivist principles. This will not do; especially, when we remember that it is the experimenter’s perception of another person’s body which is in question as evidence.

If we are to include secondary qualities in the shared world, we must radically reorganize our basic concepts. Experience clearly shows that our perceptions of the external world depend absolutely on what happens within the human body. By manipulating a person’s body in the right ways, one can make him perceive, or fail to perceive, almost anything. Some people speak as if bodies, brains, and nerves were the only real things in a wholly imaginary world. In other words, they treat bodies according to objectivist principles and the rest of the world according to subjectivist principles. This approach will not do. It is especially inadequate when we remember that the evidence in question is the experimenter’s perception of another person’s body.

But we have to admit that the body is the organism whose states regulate our cognisance of the world. The unity of the perceptual field therefore must be a unity of bodily experience. In being aware of the bodily experience, we must thereby be aware of aspects of the whole spatio-temporal world as mirrored within the bodily life. This is the solution of the problem which I gave in my last lecture. I will not repeat myself now, except to remind you that my theory involves the entire abandonment of the notion that simple location is the primary way in which things are involved in space-time. In a certain sense, everything is everywhere at all times. For every location involves an aspect of itself in every other location. Thus every spatio-temporal standpoint mirrors the world.

But we have to admit that the body is the organism whose states govern our awareness of the world. The unity of the field of perception must therefore be a unity of bodily experience. In being aware of bodily experience, we must also be aware of aspects of the whole world of space and time as reflected in the life of the body. This is the solution to the problem that I gave in my last lecture. I will not repeat myself now. I will only remind you that my theory requires us to abandon the idea that simple location is the primary way things exist in space and time. In a certain sense, everything is everywhere at all times. For every location has an aspect of itself in every other location. So every standpoint in space and time reflects the world.

If you try to imagine this doctrine in terms of our conventional views of space and time, which presuppose simple location, it is a great paradox. But if you think of it in terms of our naïve experience, it is a mere transcript of the obvious facts. You are in a certain place perceiving things. Your perception takes place where you are, and is entirely dependent on how your body is functioning. But this functioning of the body in one place, exhibits for your cognisance an aspect of the distant environment, fading away into the general knowledge that there are things beyond. If this cognisance conveys knowledge of a transcendent world, it must be because the event which is the bodily life unifies in itself aspects of the universe.

If you try to imagine this doctrine through our conventional views of space and time, it seems highly paradoxical. Those views assume that things have a simple location. But if you think of the doctrine in terms of our direct experience, it simply describes the obvious facts. You are in a certain place, perceiving things. Your perception takes place where you are and depends entirely on how your body is functioning. But your body’s functioning in one place lets you perceive an aspect of the distant environment. That perception fades into the general knowledge that there are things beyond it. If this perception gives you knowledge of a world beyond yourself, it must be because the event that is your bodily life brings together aspects of the universe within itself.

This is a doctrine extremely consonant with the vivid expression of personal experience which we find in the nature-poetry of imaginative writers such as Wordsworth or Shelley. The brooding, immediate presences of things are an obsession to Wordsworth. What the theory does do is to edge cognitive mentality away from being the necessary substratum of the unity of experience. That unity is now placed in the unity of an event. Accompanying this unity, there may or there may not be cognition.

This theory fits closely with the vivid expressions of personal experience found in the nature poetry of imaginative writers such as Wordsworth or Shelley. Wordsworth is preoccupied with the brooding, immediate presence of things. The theory moves cognitive thought away from being the necessary foundation for the unity of experience. It places that unity instead in the unity of an event. Cognition may or may not accompany this unity.

At this point we come back to the great question which was posed before us by our examination of the evidence afforded by the poetic insight of Wordsworth and Shelley. This single question has expanded into a group of questions. What are enduring things, as distinguished from the eternal objects, such as colour and shape? How are they possible? What is their status and meaning in the universe? It comes to this: What is the status of the enduring stability of the order of nature? There is the summary answer, which refers nature to some greater reality standing behind it. This reality occurs in the history of thought under many names, The Absolute, Brahma, The Order of Heaven, God. The delineation of final metaphysical truth is no part of this lecture. My point is that any summary conclusion jumping from our conviction of the existence of such an order of nature to the easy assumption that there is an ultimate reality which, in some unexplained way, is to be appealed to for the removal of perplexity, constitutes the great refusal of rationality to assert its rights. We have to search whether nature does not in its very being show itself as self-explanatory. By this I mean, that the sheer statement, of what things are, may contain elements explanatory of why things are. Such elements may be expected to refer to depths beyond anything which we can grasp with a clear apprehension. In a sense, all explanation must end in an ultimate arbitrariness. My demand is, that the ultimate arbitrariness of matter of fact from which our formulation starts should disclose the same general principles of reality, which we dimly discern as stretching away into regions beyond our explicit powers of discernment. Nature exhibits itself as exemplifying a philosophy of the evolution of organisms subject to determinate conditions. Examples of such conditions are the dimensions of space, the laws of nature, the determinate enduring entities, such as atoms and electrons, which exemplify these laws. But the very nature of these entities, the very nature of their spatiality and temporality, should exhibit the arbitrariness of these conditions as the outcome of a wider evolution beyond nature itself, and within which nature is but a limited mode.

At this point, we return to the great question raised by our examination of Wordsworth’s and Shelley’s poetic insight. This single question has become a group of questions. What are enduring things, as distinct from eternal objects such as colour and shape? How are enduring things possible? What is their status and meaning in the universe? The question comes down to this: What is the status of the enduring stability of the order of nature? One broad answer points to a greater reality behind nature. In the history of thought, this reality has gone by many names: The Absolute, Brahma, The Order of Heaven, God. Describing the ultimate truth of metaphysics is not part of this lecture. My point is that we cannot simply jump from our conviction that nature has an order to an easy assumption. That assumption is that an ultimate reality can somehow be invoked to clear up our confusion, without explaining how. Such a conclusion is a great refusal to let reason claim its rights. We must ask whether nature, in its very being, does not show itself to be self-explanatory. By this I mean that a simple statement of what things are may contain elements that explain why they are. We may expect those elements to point to depths beyond anything we can clearly grasp. In one sense, all explanation must end in something ultimately arbitrary. I ask that the arbitrary matters of fact from which we start should reveal the same general principles of reality that we dimly discern. These principles seem to stretch into regions beyond what we can explicitly discern. Nature shows itself as an example of a philosophy in which organisms evolve under definite conditions. These conditions include the dimensions of space and the laws of nature. They also include definite enduring entities, such as atoms and electrons, that exemplify these laws. But the nature of these entities, and of their existence in space and time, should reveal something more. It should show that these arbitrary conditions result from a wider evolution beyond nature itself, in which nature is only a limited mode.

One all-pervasive fact, inherent in the very character of what is real is the transition of things, the passage one to another. This passage is not a mere linear procession of discrete entities. However we fix a determinate entity, there is always a narrower determination of something which is presupposed in our first choice. Also there is always a wider determination into which our first choice fades by transition beyond itself. The general aspect of nature is that of evolutionary expansiveness. These unities, which I call events, are the emergence into actuality of something. How are we to characterise the something which thus emerges? The name ‘event’ given to such a unity, draws attention to the inherent transitoriness, combined with the actual unity. But this abstract word cannot be sufficient to characterise what the fact of the reality of an event is in itself. A moment’s thought shows us that no one idea can in itself be sufficient. For every idea which finds its significance in each event must represent something which contributes to what realisation is in itself. Thus no one word can be adequate. But conversely, nothing must be left out. Remembering the poetic rendering of our concrete experience, we see at once that the element of value, of being valuable, of having value, of being an end in itself, of being something which is for its own sake, must not be omitted in any account of an event as the most concrete actual something. ‘Value’ is the word I use for the intrinsic reality of an event. Value is an element which permeates through and through the poetic view of nature. We have only to transfer to the very texture of realisation in itself that value which we recognise so readily in terms of human life. This is the secret of Wordsworth’s worship of nature. Realization therefore is in itself the attainment of value. But there is no such thing as mere value. Value is the outcome of limitation. The definite finite entity is the selected mode which is the shaping of attainment; apart from such shaping into individual matter of fact there is no attainment. The mere fusion of all that there is would be the nonentity of indefiniteness. The salvation of reality is its obstinate, irreducible, matter-of-fact entities, which are limited to be no other than themselves. Neither science, nor art, nor creative action can tear itself away from obstinate, irreducible, limited facts. The endurance of things has its significance in the self-retention of that which imposes itself as a definite attainment for its own sake. That which endures is limited, obstructive, intolerant, infecting its environment with its own aspects. But it is not self-sufficient. The aspects of all things enter into its very nature. It is only itself as drawing together into its own limitation the larger whole in which it finds itself. Conversely it is only itself by lending its aspects to this same environment in which it finds itself. The problem of evolution is the development of enduring harmonies of enduring shapes of value, which merge into higher attainments of things beyond themselves. Aesthetic attainment is interwoven in the texture of realisation. The endurance of an entity represents the attainment of a limited aesthetic success, though if we look beyond it to its external effects, it may represent an aesthetic failure. Even within itself, it may represent the conflict between a lower success and a higher failure. The conflict is the presage of disruption.

One fact runs through everything and is inherent in the very nature of reality: things pass into one another. This passage is not merely a straight succession of separate entities. However we define a particular entity, it always presupposes something more narrowly defined. There is also always a wider reality into which the entity fades as it passes beyond itself. Nature as a whole is expansive and evolutionary. These unities, which I call events, are the emergence of something into actuality. How are we to describe what emerges? The name ‘event’ draws attention both to a unity and to its inherently passing nature. But this abstract word cannot fully describe what the reality of an event is in itself. A moment’s thought shows that no single idea can be enough. For every idea that has meaning in each event must represent something that contributes to what realization is in itself. So no single word can be adequate. Yet nothing must be left out. When we consider the poetic expression of our concrete experience, we see that value must not be omitted. An event, as the most concrete actual thing, is valuable. It has value, is an end in itself, and exists for its own sake. ‘Value’ is the word I use for the intrinsic reality of an event. Value permeates the poetic view of nature. We need only recognize value in the very fabric of realization itself, as readily as we recognize it in human life. This is the secret of Wordsworth’s worship of nature. Realization, then, is in itself the attainment of value. But there is no such thing as mere value. Value results from limitation. A definite, finite entity is the selected form that gives shape to attainment. Without this shaping into an individual matter of fact, there is no attainment. A mere fusion of all that exists would be the nonentity of something without definite form. What saves reality is its stubborn, irreducible, matter-of-fact entities. Their limits make them what they are and nothing else. Neither science, art, nor creative action can escape stubborn, irreducible, limited facts. The endurance of things matters because something retains itself and asserts itself as a definite attainment for its own sake. What endures is limited, obstructive, intolerant, and spreads its own aspects into its environment. But it is not self-sufficient. The aspects of all things enter into its very nature. It is itself only by drawing the larger whole around it into its own limits. Conversely, it is itself only by lending its aspects to that same surrounding whole. The problem of evolution is the development of enduring harmonies among enduring forms of value. These harmonies merge into higher attainments of things beyond themselves. Aesthetic attainment is woven into the fabric of realization. The endurance of an entity represents a limited aesthetic success. Yet if we look beyond the entity to its effects on other things, it may represent an aesthetic failure. Even within itself, it may represent a conflict between a lower success and a higher failure. This conflict is a sign of disruption to come.

The further discussion of the nature of enduring objects and of the conditions they require will be relevant to the consideration of the doctrine of evolution which dominated the latter half of the nineteenth century. The point which in this lecture I have endeavoured to make clear is that the nature-poetry of the romantic revival was a protest on behalf of the organic view of nature, and also a protest against the exclusion of value from the essence of matter of fact. In this aspect of it, the romantic movement may be conceived as a revival of Berkeley’s protest which had been launched a hundred years earlier. The romantic reaction was a protest on behalf of value.

Further discussion of the nature of enduring objects and the conditions they require will be relevant to the doctrine of evolution. That doctrine dominated the second half of the nineteenth century. In this lecture, I have tried to make clear that the nature poetry of the romantic revival defended an organic view of nature. It also protested against excluding value from the essence of matters of fact. In this respect, the romantic movement may be seen as a revival of Berkeley’s protest, made a hundred years earlier. The romantic reaction was a protest on behalf of value.