cover his world.  One will be too dapper, another too pedantic, a third too much of a job-lot of opinions, a fourth too morbid, and a fifth too artificial, or what not.  At any rate he and we know offhand that such philosophies are out of plumb and out of key and out of ‘whack,’ and have no business to speak up in the universe’s name.  Plato, Locke, Spinoza, Mill, Caird, Hegel—­I prudently avoid names nearer home!—­I am sure that to many of you, my hearers, these names are little more than reminders of as many curious personal ways of falling short.  It would be an obvious absurdity if such ways of taking the universe were actually true.  We philosophers have to reckon with such feelings on your part.  In the last resort, I repeat, it will be by them that all our philosophies shall ultimately be judged.  The finally victorious way of looking at things will be the most completely impressive way to the normal run of minds.

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

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

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

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