more pith and moment than any particular beliefs to which the license may give the rights of access.  Suppose, for example, that a philosopher believes in what is called free-will.  That a common man alongside of him should also share that belief, possessing it by a sort of inborn intuition, does not endear the man to the philosopher at all—­he may even be ashamed to be associated with such a man.  What interests the philosopher is the particular premises on which the free-will he believes in is established, the sense in which it is taken, the objections it eludes, the difficulties it takes account of, in short the whole form and temper and manner and technical apparatus that goes with the belief in question.  A philosopher across the way who should use the same technical apparatus, making the same distinctions, etc., but drawing opposite conclusions and denying free-will entirely, would fascinate the first philosopher far more than would the naif co-believer.  Their common technical interests would unite them more than their opposite conclusions separate them.  Each would feel an essential consanguinity in the other, would think of him, write at him, care for his good opinion.  The simple-minded believer in free-will would be disregarded by either.  Neither as ally nor as opponent would his vote be counted.

In a measure this is doubtless as it should be, but like all professionalism it can go to abusive extremes.  The end is after all more than the way, in most things human, and forms and methods may easily frustrate their own purpose.  The abuse of technicality is seen in the infrequency with which, in philosophical literature, metaphysical questions are discussed directly and on their own merits.  Almost always they are handled as if through a heavy woolen curtain, the veil of previous philosophers’ opinions.  Alternatives are wrapped in proper names, as if it were indecent for a truth to go naked.  The late Professor John Grote of Cambridge has some good remarks about this.  ‘Thought,’ he says,’is not a professional matter, not something for so-called philosophers only or for professed thinkers.  The best philosopher is the man who can think most simply. ...  I wish that people would consider that thought—­and philosophy is no more than good and methodical thought—­is a matter intimate to them, a portion of their real selves ... that they would value what they think, and be interested in it....  In my own opinion,’ he goes on, ’there is something depressing in this weight of learning, with nothing that can come into one’s mind but one is told, Oh, that is the opinion of such and such a person long ago. ...  I can conceive of nothing more noxious for students than to get into the habit of saying to themselves about their ordinary philosophic thought, Oh, somebody must have thought it all before.’[3] Yet this is the habit most encouraged at our seats of learning.  You must tie your opinion to Aristotle’s