It is a curious fact—of which relativity is not the only illustration—that, as reasoning improves, its claims to the power of proving facts grow less and less. Logic used to be thought to teach us how to draw inferences; now, it teaches us rather how not to draw inferences. Animals and children are terribly prone to inference: a horse is surprised beyond measure if you take an unusual turning. When men began to reason, they tried to justify the inferences that they had drawn unthinkingly in earlier days. A great deal of bad philosophy and bad science resulted from this propensity. “Great principles,” such as the “uniformity of nature,” the “law of universal causation,” and so on, are attempts to bolster up our belief that what has often happened before will happen again, which is no better founded than the horse’s belief that you will take the turning you usually take. It is not altogether easy to see what is to replace these pseudo-principles in the practice of science; but perhaps the theory of relativity gives us a glimpse of the kind of thing we may expect. Causation, in the old sense, no longer has a place in theoretical physics. There is, of course, something else which takes its place, but the substitute appears to have a better empirical foundation than the old principle which it has superseded. The collapse of the notion of one all-embracing time, in which all events throughout the universe can be dated, must in the long run affect our views as to cause and effect, evolution, and many other matters. For instance, the question whether, on the whole, there is progress in the universe, may depend upon our choice of a measure of time. If we choose one out of a number of equally good clocks, we may find that the universe is progressing as fast as the most optimistic American thinks it is; if we choose another equally good clock, we may find that the universe is going from bad to worse as fast as the most melancholy Slav could imagine. Thus optimism and pessimism are neither true nor false, but depend upon the choice of clocks. The effect of this upon a certain type of emotion is devastating. The poet speaks of One far-off divine event To which the whole creation moves. But if the event is sufficiently far off, and the creation moves sufficiently quickly, some parts will judge that the event has already happened, while others will judge that it is still in the future. This spoils the poetry. The second line ought to be: To which some parts of the creation move, while others move away from it. But this won’t do. I suggest that an emotion which can be destroyed by a little mathematics is neither very genuine nor very valuable. But this line of argument would lead to a criticism of the Victorian Age, which lies outside my theme.