are the
Baileys; such, to take their great prototype, was Herbert Spencer (who
couldn't read Kant); such are whole regiments of prominent and entirely
self-satisfied contemporaries. They go through queer little processes of
definition and generalisation and deduction with the completest belief
in the validity of the intellectual instrument they are using. They are
Realists--Cocksurists--in matter of fact; sentimentalists in behaviour.
The Baileys having got to this glorious stage in mental development--it
is glorious because it has no doubts--were always talking about training
"Experts" to apply the same simple process to all the affairs
of mankind. Well, Realism isn't the last word of human wisdom.
Modest-minded people, doubtful people, subtle people, and the like--the
kind of people William James writes of as "tough-minded," go on beyond
this methodical happiness, and are forever after critical of premises
and terms. They are truer--and less confident. They have reached
scepticism and the artistic method. They have emerged into the new
Nominalism.

Both Isabel and I believe firmly that these differences of intellectual
method matter profoundly in the affairs of mankind, that the collective
mind of this intricate complex modern state can only function properly
upon neo-Nominalist lines. This has always been her side of our mental
co-operation rather than mine. Her mind has the light movement that
goes so often with natural mental power; she has a wonderful art in
illustration, and, as the reader probably knows already, she writes of
metaphysical matters with a rare charm and vividness. So far there has
been no collection of her papers published, but they are to be found not
only in the BLUE WEEKLY columns but scattered about the monthlies; many
people must be familiar with her style. It was an intention we did
much to realise before our private downfall, that we would use the BLUE
WEEKLY to maintain a stream of suggestion against crude thinking, and
at last scarcely a week passed but some popular distinction, some
large imposing generalisation, was touched to flaccidity by her pen or
mine....

I was at great pains to give my philosophical, political, and social
matter the best literary and critical backing we could get in London. I
hunted sedulously for good descriptive writing and good criticism; I
was indefatigable in my readiness to hear and consider, if not to accept
advice; I watched every corner of the paper, a