of the unity of humanity, or, it may be, of the perpetuation of the species.

As a carefully premeditated expression of the Epicurean view I quote the following from Mr. Santayana :

"In my adolescence I thought this earthly life (not unintelligibly considering what I had then seen and heard of it) a most hideous thing, and I was not disinclined to dismiss it as an illusion for which perhaps the Catholic epic might be substituted to advantage, as conforming better to the impulses of the soul; and later I liked to regard all systems as alternative illusions for the solipsist; but neither solipsism nor Catholicism were ever anything to me but theoretic poses or possibilities; vistas for the imagination, never convictions. I was well aware, as I am still, that any such vista may be taken for true, because all dreams are persuasive while they last; and I have not lost, nor do I wish to lose, a certain facility and pleasure in taking these points of view at will, and speaking those philosophical languages. But though as a child I regretted the fact and now I hugely enjoy it, I have never been able to elude the recurring, invincible, and ironic conviction that whenever I or any other person feign to be living in any of those non-natural worlds, we are simply dreaming awake."

גיי

"And now I hugely enjoy it." After what has been said, I need do little more than put the question. What does Mr. Santayana enjoy? The dreams as dreams (i.e. as sensuous images) or the freedom of taking them critically? I can conceive that either may be enjoyed by itself; or both alternately, according to mood. Can both, however, be enjoyed by the same person in one moment of consciousness? The trouble with the dreams seems to be that they "are persuasive while they last". This means that they are not mere pictures, or merely ornamental arrangements of colour on the wall, but that they suggest a reference to reality. And thus to the critical mind they have the power of raising questions. The questions may conceivably leave the enjoyment untroubled-so long as they are only halfindolent questions and do not force the issue, whether the 1 From the essay, "On My Friendly Critics".

dream is only a dream. Little as I am fitted temperamentally to enjoy "the Catholic epic" there are times when I find it impressive-because I suspect that nothing so catholic could be quite without significance. On the other hand one may banish the questions; but not, I should say, in the same breath in which one claims to be sophisticated. One may indeed be too resolutely sophisticated for the traditionally Epicurean repose of mind; but this will mean only that he who makes sophistication his profession should not expect repose. He should not expect to enjoy facts as facts or sensations as sensations.

§ 53

Accordingly for one who professes sophistication I can see no escape from a certain participation in what is called a "serious view" of life ("earnest" is Mr. Santayana's deprecatory word). The only escape, if that be possible, is to profess nothing whatever; that is, to stop thinking. And "serious" I mean in the sense in which Thackeray speaks, half jestingly, half sympathetically, of "a person of serious views", and tells us that the worldly Major Pendennis became "very serious" in his last days. Hence I am not interested in denying, but I would rather affirmsimply as a derivation from the Epicurean demand for the enjoyment of life that a certain preoccupation with "eternal life" (Socratic, if we remember) is a positive mark of intelligence. After all I wonder what can be more characteristic of the critical life than wonder about the eternal

significance of the life that is in us. It may be likewise intelligent to foresee that the wonder will not be satisfied; it will be no less true that to cease to wonder is to cease to think and thus to place an artificial limit, or to accept the limit of mental weariness, upon the exercise of sophistication.

The popular mind is likely to mistake a "stern and austere" dogmatism for a serious view of life. To the really serious view dogmatism is abhorrent. And thus of any

ostensibly "serious" person I would ask always how far his seriousness stands for imagination and critical intelligence; and if not for a cultivated intelligence, yet for a native sympathy and understanding; how far, in short, it stands for an Epicurean sense of the variety and richness of life and of what each man's life means for himself. I seem to find none of this in the dull and stern dogmatism so often exhibited by "persons of serious views", or in the type of "seriousness" exemplified by many of Carlyle's "heroes". To me they are less serious than primitive. Without a critical appreciation of life I can conceive of no true seriousness, no real stirring of soul within the man; and any critical appreciation of life contains within itself the issues of "earnestness" and conscientiousness". No person destitute of imagination is entitled to be called either "serious" or "moral".

And this in spite of the obvious tendency of the critical attitude towards the sceptical and even towards the cynical. I will not pretend to understand the connection of motive here. It is one of the deeper perplexities of human life that the self-consciousness which begets the search for truth is no less the parent of that scepticism which despairs of truth or scoffs at truth. But the two are by no means divergent. There is a scepticism which is mainly indolence or helplessness and a scepticism which is responsible and intelligent. I suspect that, in Freudian fashion, all religious scepticism of the worthier sort is based upon positive religious feeling. Religious scepticism may thus easily stand for a juster sense of the meaning of religion than that religious pragmatism which so readily changes the character of God to suit the needs of the times. A man may say that "there is no God", not at all because he is a "fool", but because, precisely in his "heart", he knows too certainly what he is seeking.

Likewise of the relation between the serious attitude and the sense of humour. Here again there is a difficulty. Theories of humour constitute the least enlightening chapters of psychology, though nothing, it seems, is more in

timately connected with the function of intelligence. But here again the distinction is to be drawn between a vulgar and an intelligent sense of humour. Not every sense of humour is equally a mark of intelligence. It depends upon what you find humorous—perhaps upon the breadth of view revealed in the sense of humour. Yet I should say that apart from a fine sense of humour there can be no deep sense of truth. The most deeply religious soul I have ever known, a scholar of world-wide reputation, was at the same time, of all men whom I have known personally and intimately, the most brilliant and the wittiest. And if this seems paradoxical let us remember that by common agreement (how properly I will not say) the critical life finds its type and spokesman in the person of Socrates. It seems to me not too much to say that Socrates is presented to us as the subtlest of Greek humorists, finer indeed, to my sense, than either Aristophanes or Lucian. Yet for Plato Socrates is at the same time the embodiment of religious seriousness, while in Xenophon he seems rather oppressively "Victorian". And it is likewise interesting to note that Augustine in his "Confessions", perhaps the classical expression of reverential devotion, attributes a sense of humour to God.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SUBSTANCE OF LIFE

§ 54. The particular nature of man. § 55. Biological evolution and the experience of thinking. § 56. Thinking and imagination. § 57. Imagination and human life. § 58. Imagination, morality, religion. § 59. Imagination and the metaphysical problem.

$ 54

MONG the deservedly classical documents of moral philosophy are Bishop Butler's "Fifteen Sermons

A

upon Human Nature", written in reply to Shaftesbury. Shaftesbury had derived morality from "human nature". True, is Butler's reply, but what, then, is human nature? What is "the particular nature of man"? His answer to this question was given in terms of "reflection or conscience". Butler's question will be the question of the present chapter, and the answer to be given I conceive to be substantially in accord with the answer that Butler gave.

The question may take various forms; among others the form of question implied in the distinction of the natural and the spiritual. Now the moral life I have defined in its various aspects as the critical, the thoughtful, the selfconscious life; and again as the spiritual life. But here a question may be raised. It may be objected that "the spiritual life" conveys an implication not to be found in any of these other terms. For none of these other terms"critical", "thoughtful", "self-conscious"-implies more than what is known as a temporal and worldly point of view restricted to the contemplation of natural fact, or a mental process which is more than the operation of a