the visible universe.

The knowledge that is possible to the empiricist, then, is merely that which is derived from direct experience, and simple summations or generalisations into a single assertion of a number of similar assertions, all of which were individually derived from experience. This is the position scientists as such, and believers in the theory of naturalism, take up as to the possibility of the knowledge of truth to the human mind. They are entirely consistent, therefore, when they arrive ultimately at the agnostic position, and contend that our knowledge must necessarily be confined to the world of experience, and that nothing can be known of the world beyond. But they are fundamentally wrong in overestimating the place of the sense organs, and forgetting that while these have a part to play in life, they do not constitute the whole of life.

A far more satisfactory theory is that of Rationalism. It is a theory that admits that the human mind has some capacity for working upon the data presented to it by the sense organs. Man is no longer quite so helpless a creature as empiricism would make him. He is able to weigh and consider the facts that are presented to the mind. The method rationalism uses to arrive at truth is that of logical deduction, and the test of truth is that the steps in the process are logically sound. We may start from the data "All dogs are animals" and "Carlo is a dog," and arrive very simply at the conclusion "Carlo is an animal." The conclusion is correct because we have reasoned in accordance with the laws of logic, with the laws of valid thought. All logical reasoning is, of course, not so simple as the example given, but it may be stated generally that when there is no logical fallacy, a correct conclusion may be arrived at, provided, too—and herein lies the difficulty—provided that the premises are also true. These premises may be in themselves general statements—how is their truth established? They may be, and often are, the generalisations of the empirical sciences, and must then possess the same degree of uncertainty that these generalisations possess. Some philosophers have contended that certain general ideas are innate, but few would be found nowadays to accept such a contention. At other times mere definitions of terms may serve as premises. One might state as a premise the definition "A straight line is the shortest distance between two points," and the further statement that "AB is a straight line between A and B," and conclude that the line AB represents the shortest distance between two points A and B. In a manner similar to this Euclid built his whole mathematical system upon the basis of definitions and postulates, a system the complexity and thoroughness of which has caused all students of mathematics at one time or another to marvel and admire. But, of course, a definition is little more than assigning a definite term to a definite thing. It is when we begin to consider the premises that are necessary for arriving at the profound truths of the universe that we find the weakness of rationalism. How are we going to be provided with premises for this end? Shall we begin by saying "There is a God" or "There is no God"? How is the pure reasoning faculty to decide upon the premises in the matter of the great Beyond? We may weigh the arguments for and against a certain position, and we may think that the probability lies in a certain direction, but to decide finally and with certainty by mere cold logical reasoning is impossible. We may bring out into prominence through logical reasoning truths that were previously only implicit, but to arrive at absolute truth with regard to the invisible world, through intellect alone, has long been admitted to be an impossibility. The illusion of those who would believe that truth which was not already implied in the premises could ever be obtained by mere intellectual reasoning has long since been dispelled.

Perhaps it comes as a shock to the reader who has always insisted upon a clear intellectual understanding and a rigid reasoning upon all things, to find within what narrow limits, after all, the intellect itself has to work—it can do little more than make more or less certain generalisations concerning the world of experience, and then to argue from these, or from definitions that it itself has framed. Of course some of the ancient philosophers did try through a course of rigid reasoning to solve the great problems, and for a long time it was customary to expect that all philosophers should proceed in the same way.

Modern philosophers, of whom William James, Bergson, and Eucken are conspicuous examples, have appreciated the futility of such a task, and have sought other means of solving the problem. The mistake in the past has been to forget that the intelligence is but one aspect of human life, and that the experience of mankind is far more complicated a matter than that of mere intellect, and not to be solved by intellect alone. Intellect has to play a definite part in human life, but it does not constitute the whole of life. Life itself is far greater than intellect, and to live is a far more important thing than to know. The great things are life and action; knowledge is ultimately useful in so far as it contributes to the development of life and the perfection of action. Philosophers have for too long a period made knowledge an aim in itself, and have neglected to take proper account of the experiences of mankind. Their intellectual abstractions have tended to leave actual life more and more out of consideration, with the result that they have been baffled at every turn. The more we think about it, the more we become convinced that the mysterious universe in which we live will only divulge just enough of its secrets to enable us to act, and this it gives us with comparatively little trouble on our part. If we consider an ordinary piece of wood, we find it is hard and offers a certain resistance, and our knowledge of these elementary facts enables us to put it to use, but we shall never really solve the mysteries of its formation and growth. These lead of course to very interesting speculations, but their solution seems to be as far off as ever. We can know little but that which we require for life. The making of life and action the basis of truth rather than trusting to the intellect alone, is the great new departure in modern philosophy.

One of the theories of knowledge that springs from laying emphasis upon life and action is that of Pragmatism, of which the late Professor William James was one of the greatest exponents. Pragmatists contend that the test of truth is its value for life—if the fact obtained is the most useful and helpful for life, then it is the true one. Suppose we are endeavouring to solve the great question, "Is there a God?" We weigh the arguments for and against, but find it difficult to arrive at a definite conclusion, because the arguments on both sides seem equally plausible. How are we to decide? We cannot postpone the decision indefinitely—we are forced to make a choice, for upon our decision depends our aim and ideals in life. We are faced with a "forced option," and must choose one or the other. We ask ourselves the question, "Which will be of the greatest help to our lives—to believe that there is, or that there is not a God?" and we decide or will to believe the option that will help life most. It is a striking theory, but space forbids our discussing it in detail.

The position Eucken adopts is that of Activism. In common with pragmatism it makes truth a matter of life and action rather than of mere intellect, and considers fruitfulness for action a characteristic of truth. He differs from the pragmatic position in that he contends that truth is something deeper than mere human decision, that truth is truth, not merely because it is useful, that reality is independent of our experience of it, and that truth is gained intuitively through a life of action.

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