Assuming the utmost that can be claimed for physics, it does not tell us what it is that changes, or what are its various states; it only tells us such things as that changes follow each other periodically, or spread with a certain speed. Even now we are probably not at the end of the process of stripping away what is merely imagination, in order to reach the core of true scientific knowledge. The theory of relativity has accomplished a very great deal in this respect, and in doing so has taken us nearer and nearer to bare structure, which is the mathematician’s goal—not because it is the only thing in which he is interested as a human being, but because it is the only thing that he can express in mathematical formulæ. But far as we have traveled in the direction of abstraction, it may be that we shall have to travel further still. In the preceding chapter, I suggested what may be called a minimum definition of matter, that is to say, one in which matter has, so to speak, as little “substance” as is compatible with the truth of physics. In adopting a definition of this kind, we are playing for safety: our tenuous matter will exist, even if something more beefy also exists. We tried to make our definition of matter, like Isabella’s gruel in Jane Austen, “thin, but not too thin.” We shall, however, fall into error if we assert positively that matter is nothing more than this. Leibniz thought that a piece of matter is really a colony of souls. There is nothing to show that he was wrong, though there is also nothing to show that he was right: we know no more about it either way than we do about the flora and fauna of Mars.