Vive la Révolution!

V. H. DUDMAN

There hardly seems any difference between (A) and (B):

	(A)   If she misses the last bus the Countess will walk home

	(B)   If she missed the last bus the Countess will walk home

Both advert to walking home in the future.  It is just that (A) posits a future missing of the bus and (B) a past. Certainly they are much more like each other, intuitively, than either is to 

	(C)   If she missed the last bus the Countess walked home

Yet according to me (A) and (B) are as different grammatically as it is possible for two sentences to be, whereas (B) and (C) are grammatically congruent.  This crux for my theory is exposed by Jonathan Bennett in his exuberant and generous ‘Farewell to the Phlogiston Theory of Conditionals’ (Mind, 1988, pp. 509-27).  Intuition clamours, he justly observes, that (A) and (B) belong together and apart from (C).  Given my grammatical persuasions, he awaits my explanation.
     I am indebted to Bennett for his critical attention, and when he credits me with leading a revolution in that little corner of philosophy that worries about conditionals, I count it a great honour.  Clambering upon the platform he has fraternally provided, let me try to foment my revolution by showing how my theory predicts his intuition, and then, at the end, by a diatribe against the present order.

1.  First things first.  I have been speaking as if it were the sentences (A), (B) and (C) that were in question.  This must cease.  We all know that (A) has, besides the future interpretation m1 we have tacitly preferred above, a present-habit interpretation (‘...she will often walk home’).  Similarly, (C) has a past-habit interpretation, cognate with the present interpretation of ‘If she misses the last bus she walks home’, as well as the interpretation m3 I had in mind above, which relates to a single past occasion.  Nor are these isolated incidents: English is always at it.  ‘The express departs at 8’: tonight or every night? ‘We must have the greatest collection of Monets in Europe’: aspiration for the future, or inference about the present?  ‘He might have been killed’: perhaps he was, or lucky he wasn’t?  English is perfectly happy encoding different informational burdens into the same sentence, and the establishment policy of focusing on sentences stands revealed as inadequate.  The proper objects of our scrutiny are what I call the messages, the informational burdens encoded in the sentences and conveyed from mind to mind by broadcasting the sentences.  English speakers convey messages by broadcasting sentences which do not determine them.  Rather, the determination is in the opposite direction: English is a system for putting ideas into words, messages into sentences.  When a message m is encoded in a
sentence S, I call m an interpretation of S.  It is a mistake to think messages inscrutible: quite soon we shall be analysing some, as I seek to explain why the natural interpretation m2 of (B) is like m3 and unlike m1 grammatically, but the other way round intuitively.
     English grammar, recommended revolutionary accomplishment, is the scientific study of how English generates sentences from their interpretations.  Its bedrock informational data are pairs (m, S) with the former found conveyed by a broadcast of the latter.  The aim is to be able to say how m determines S, the approach that of a code-breaker. 
     True sons and daughters of the revolution will never conflate the realm of messages with the realm of sentences.  This enjoins the utmost care when it comes to terminology, old or new, so that it is never left unclear whether a given term applies  to ideas or to words.

2.  Let me begin with a technical terminology for describing things at the level of words.  Subject-predicate sentences (simple sentences, for short) divide into those whose predicates contain a finite inflectional form of a verb and those whose predicates contain a secondary auxiliary followed by the base of a verb: ‘The Countess hates Sir Jasper’; ‘The Countess would hate Sir Jasper’.  F.R. Palmer assigned them to the primary pattern or the secondary pattern accordingly.  Finite forms of verbs can be defined as aboriginal or (with thanks to Timothy Smiley) transported: call the ‘general’ form (as in ‘I/you/we/they agree’) and the ‘V-s’ form both aboriginal and the ‘V-ed’ form transported.  Secondary auxiliaries are inflectional forms of modals, and can also be classified as aboriginal or transported, as follows:

					Secondary Auxiliary
		Modal
				     Aboriginal	       Transported

		WILL			will		would
		CAN			can		could
		MAY			may		might
		SHALL		shall		should2
		MUST			must		
		SHOULD		should1
		OUGHT		ought
		NEED			need
		DARE			dare

A simple sentence is called phase-modified if it contains an inflectional form of HAVE followed by the ‘V-en’ inflectional form of some verb: ‘She had fallen/died/left’; ‘She would have hated Sir Jasper’.  Pausing only to emphasize that these new terms of ours presuppose absolutely nothing as to informational content, let us turn to grammar and semantics.

3.  The primary-pattern sentence

	(D)  The Countess walked home

is ambiguous between a habitual interpretation m4 (cf. ‘She often walked home’) and an interpretation m5 relating to a single past occasion.  Under each of these
interpretations, (D) divides into the same subject and predicate, the latter obtained by inflicting a certain form on the verb-phrase ‘WALK home’.  Now, in my design, the subject ‘The Countess’ is chosen to identify the flesh-and-blood Countess as the notional subject s of the message, the transported form of WALK is chosen to register the tense t of the message, and the verb-phrase is chosen to specify a certain root condition r, here that of walking home.  (Unlike the Countess, root conditions are conceptual affairs, and doubly unsaturated, satisfiable by a notional subject at a time.  Acquaintance with a particular root condition r amounts to knowing what it would be like for r to be satisfied by a notional subject on a single occasion).  So m4 and m5 each have the same r, the same s, and the same t.  And the difference between them?  Plainly, m5 depones satisfaction of r by s at t, while m4 depones the currency at t of a propensity – not working that term too hard – on the part of s to satisfy r.  I say that m4 depones the satisfaction by s at t of a certain predication condition P(r).  (Predication conditions are conceptual elaborations out of root conditions, and again doubly unsaturated).  It is convenient to recognize a predication condition in m5 as well, albeit of the simplest kind.  We can then say that each of m4 and m5 depones satisfaction by s at t of a different P(r).  I need hardly add that, as claims of historical fact, m4 and m5 count as traditional propositions.

4.  Each of the several secondary-pattern sentences

	(E)  The Countess will/can/may/shall/must/should1/ought to/needn’t/daren’t 	           walk home

	(F)    The Countess would/could/might walk home 

	(G)    The Countess would/could/might have walked home

has an interpretation concerning the Countess’s walking home at a future time y.  For instance, one says (G) about the future upon learning that the Countess has been assassinated.  Cursory examination discovers these sentences encoding four informational factors.  One is responsible for he choice of subject, another for the choice of verb phrase, a third for the choice of form, and the fourth for the choice of modal.  The same structure is found also in, for example, the present interpretation of (H), the present interpretation of (I), and the past interpretations of (G) and (I):

	(H)    (But for Granny’s meddling) the Countess would/could/might be in 	                 	          prison 

	(I)    (But for Granny’s meddling) the Countess would/could/might have been 	         in prison 

In my design, we must recognise in all these messages an s, a P(r), and a t as before, together with a verdict v conditioning the choice of modal.  And the message as a whole is a judgement concerning the predication condition’s satisfaction by a notional subject.  A judgement is a  tensed verdict.
    As regards tense, my theory, intended for primary and secondary pattern alike, is that always aboriginality is chosen to register presentness and transportation to register pastness and that,  when the latter alternative is preferred, it is sometimes permitted to register pastpastness by phase modifying.  And that, to my best awareness, is the first unified temporal solution ever proposed for the problem of tense for English (cf. R.F. Huddleston, Introduction to the Grammar of English, Cambridge University Press, 1984, p. 176).
    Granted this theory of tense, our recent batch of specimens share the feature, patently essential, that t < y.  In the primary pattern, t and y are always identical – hallmark, in my submission, of a proposition.  For these messages, however, t and y are different points – hallmark of a judgement.  And these judgements, as I have said, concern the satisfaction of P(r) by s at a time y which is later than t.  I call such messages projective.
    Obviously, any account of projective messages is going to have to explain why it is that t < y.  My own, declaimed in extenso elsewhere, distinguishes two independent pieces of thinking behind the judgement.  One piece of thinking produces the verdict.  But this verdict is obtained by scrutinizing the productions of another piece of thinking, and the reason t < y is that this other piece of thinking is essentially anticipatory.  It consists in imagining developments to unfold from historically factual beginnings in ways nature has taught us to expect.  The factual beginnings, located at t in the present, past or past past, originate an imagined train of events which unfolds up until y in a causally continuous sequence. In short, the fantasy unfolds from t to y.  And then, as I say, the verdict is arrived at by scrutinizing the fantasy, mooting the question of s’s satisfying P(r) in the imagined situation at y.
    This is not the place to argue for these doctrines, but in brief confirmation that the fantasy sets out from realities of t, consider the observation that we switch from saying (E) or (F) to saying (G) upon learning that the Countess has been assassinated.  In my submission t moves to the past past so as  to be past  with respect to the already past assassination.  After all, the fantasy has to set out from realities in which the Countess is still alive if she is to walk home tonight in it alive.
    English encodes another kind of judgement, and it is instructive to compare the two.  The other kind embraces messages like the natural interpretations of

    The Countess will / can’t/ may/ must/ should1/ ought to/ needn’t/ daren’t/ would/
    could/ might be [have been] hiding in the cellar, 

and its defining property is that the location of y, past or present is registered respectively by phase or its absence. I call these messages practical.  Here, too, had I the space to explain it, t and y are different points; indeed for practical messages the two points are quite independent.  But on, on: the comparison.  Whereas a practical message is a judgement about P(r)’s actual, historical satisfaction by s in the past or present, a projective message is a judgement about P(r)’s satisfaction by s in a situation past, present, or future, which can only be imagined.
    A semantics for judgements would include an exact account of the verdicts which trigger the various modals, something not to be attempted here.  But I hope the outermost grammatical structure of a projective message has now emerged.

5.  Each of the various sentences (J), (K), and (L) has a future interpretation:

	(J)    If she misses the last bus the Countess will/ can/ may/ must/ should1/ 	          	        ought to/ needn’t/daren’t walk home
	(K)    If she missed the last bus the Countess would/could/might walk home

	(L)    If she had missed the last bus the Countess would/could/might have 	           	         walked home

Which brings me to a maximally insurgent tenet.  Under these future interpretations, (J), (K), and (L) are simple sentences, in this regard indiscernible from (E), (F), and (G) under their future interpretations.  In all six cases, the sentence divides into a subject, ‘The Countess’, and a predicate containing everything else.  This predicate is fixed by choosing a modal, a form, a verb phrase, and, in the case of (J), (K), and (L), an entire subordinate clause whose first word is ‘if’.  If this is right, then all talk here of ‘antecedents’ and ‘consequents’ is confused, as I shall additionally explain in due course.
    Now, a clause is by nature internal to a sentence and accordingly encodes merely a component of a message – a complication of a message, let us say officially.  Cursory examination discovers four informational factors in these complications, one responsible for ‘if’, one for subject, one for verb phrase, one for form.  In my design we must recognize a notional subject s´, a predication condition P´(r´), a tense t´, and something to trigger the conjunction.  And how does the complication complicate the message?  In my submission, thus.  The simpler judgements encoded as (E), (F), or (G) are sustained by fantasies which start from realities of t and unfold futurewards up until y.  The fantasies for the complicated judgements do all of this too, but they also include, as an event gratuitously intruding upon that otherwise simpler development, the satisfaction by s´ of P´(r´) at a time x which is later than t´, so that the situation at y is product of two causal strands, resulting as it does from the intrusion at x upon the situation developing from realities of t.  And then the verdict concerning P(r)’s satisfaction by s is reached by inspecting that situation at y.  The verdict becomes confined:

 	The Countess will-if-she-misses-the-last-bus walk home.

    I call messages like the future interpretations of (J), (K) and (L) conditionals.  Conditionals also include the present interpretations of (M) and (N), and the past interpretations of (L) and (N):

	(M)    If she was alive the Countess would/could/might be in prison

	(N)    If she had been alive the Countess would/could/might have been in 		          prison.

And, I need hardly add, m1.
    Concerning the relation of t´ to t in a conditional I must be brief.  The forms of both predicates, containing and contained, are chosen to locate the same factual basis of the judgement.  Occasionally this basis is located as past past in one place and merely past in another:

	If she was alive today the Countess would/could/might have been in prison

	If she had been alive today the Countess would/could/might be in prison.

There is of course no inconsistency in this, because the past past is past.
    Contemporary wisdom wastes an excellent term by applying ‘conditional’ to sentences.  I am proposing honest work for it, connoting projective interpretations of secondary-pattern sentences with subordinate clauses beginning with ‘if’ embedded in their predicates.

6. Not all messages encoded as ‘if’-sentences are conditionals. Recall, for example, the single-past-occasion interpretation m3 of (C).  Grammatically, m3 differs from a conditional in outermost structure: the most fundamental way possible. An ‘if’-sentence under a conditional interpretation is a simple sentence.  But (C) under m3 is a compound sentence, a sentence compounded using the prior sentences ‘The Countess walked home’ and ‘She missed the last bus’.  Indeed, each variant of

	(O)    Because/as/(al)though/while/since/if/whether or not/provided that/unless 	          she missed the last bus, the Countess walked home

has just such an interpretation.
    Now, observe that (O), (P), and (Q) are merely ‘stylistic variants’, differently arranged sentences encoding the same message:

	(P)    The Countess, because/if/etc. she missed the last bus, walked home

	(Q)    The Countess walked home because/if/etc. she missed the last bus.

Cursory reflection discerns in these sentences (not three but) two immediate constituents. The conjunction, ‘because’, ‘if’, or whatever, has already been prefixed to a thereupon dependent sentence ‘She missed the last bus’ before the resulting string is disposed, here or there, about the independent sentence ‘The Countess walked home’.  The immediate constituents of ‘If P, Q’ are the subsidiary string (let us say) ‘If P’, and the independent sentence ‘Q’.
    The semantic import of sentences is that they encode messages, and the semantic import of the prior sentences in a compound sentence is that they encode ‘prior’ messages – an independent message, let us say, and a dependent message.  These prior messages are components of the overall compound message.  Ingredient in the compound message m3, for example, are the propositions that the Countess walked home and that she missed the last bus.
    As Frege remarked, compound messages highlight the question of assertion or affirmation.  Ever respectful of the message-sentence distinction I regiment the double terminology and say that the speaker affirms m by asserting S under it.  To affirm a judgement is personally to endorse it. To affirm a proposition is to personally claim its truth.
    It emerges that independent sentences are nearly always asserted.  For one thing, separate sentences – independent sentences par excellence – are all asserted as a matter of course, and indeed communication proceeds by the speaker’s asserting each succeeding separate sentence.  (By a separate sentence I mean one, however long, alone between full stops.)  But even when an independent sentence is accompanied, as in (O), by a subsidiary string, by and large it is still asserted outright.  It is only when the conjunction is ‘if’, ‘provided etc. that’ or ‘unless’ that anything happens to the contrary, and sometimes not even then:

	(R)    If the Countess wasn’t dead/pregnant/a blonde/disposed in your 	  	         favour/etc. before, she is now

	(S)    If you’re going out, it’s raining.

I conclude that independent sentences are presumptively asserted, that is, asserted unless there is rational reason otherwise.  This, indeed, is the first of two basic principles I invoke to explain the facts about compound interpretation of ‘if’-sentences.
    The other basic principle concerns the meaning of ‘if’ when externally prefixed to a sentence.  ‘If’ is selected here, I submit, in order to announce that the dependent message is being treated as an ‘hypothesis’ in the sense that it is being treated as true (or, if a judgement, accepted) regardless of whether it really is. 
    The most popular compound interpretation, especially with philosophers, are the ones I call hypotheticals.  In a hypothetical, the independent message is the conclusion and the dependent message the premiss of a little argument.  Usually there are further premisses or grounds, sometimes stated, sometimes not, but in general readily identifiable:

	If she missed the last bus the Countess walked home (because on that 	particular night no other transportation was abroad at that hour).

    The grounds are of course commitments of the speaker, implicitly if not explicitly affirmed.  But the dependent message is a premise which is not affirmed, with the result that the conclusion is left depending on the dependent message’s truth or acceptance, and rationality withholds from the independent message its presumed affirmation.  This conforms with observation: hypotheticals are paradigm when it comes to having the independent message unaffirmed.  Incidentally, hypotheticals ‘contrapose’, or to put it more strictly they have intuitively equivalent contrapositives.  This we expect, in view of the principle of antilogism.
    But there are various other kinds of compound interpretations, and an adequate theory of ‘if’ is going to need an answer of some kind for every last one of them.  Let me mention just a few.  My own general answer will be that fundamental differences among compound interpretations of ‘if’-sentences reflect fundamentally different ways in which a hypothesized dependent message can bear upon a presumptively affirmed independent one, conceptually.
    Sometimes the dependent sentence is a presupposition of the independent, rather than a premiss: 

	If the Mayor is married, his wife did not accompany him

	When he stops at Mountfichet, he will know where all the lavatories are – if 	there is, indeed, more than one, a matter upon which I cannot speak with 	certainty.  (Anthony Powell)

Here too the independent message per se remains unaffirmed, but this time because of some scruple as to its very propriety.  The primary intent is plainly to affirm the independent message outright; but the hypothesis is there to disarm some more or less serious challenge to its integrity so that, overall, the independent message is affirmed, but encumbered with an undetachable reservation about its own propriety in some regard.  In effect, the subsidiary string is there to legitimize some expression – ‘his wife’, ‘all the lavatories’ – in an independent sentence which occurs asserted on exactly that understanding.  Now, as a matter of observation, scruple interpretations do not ‘contrapose’.  But then, treating a message as false regardless while presumptively affirming the failure of one of its presuppositions is quite unlike presumptively affirming it while treating that presupposition as satisfied regardless.  I should add that scruples about an independent message can take many forms.  Besides the scruples of propriety we have just seen, there are scruples of detail, for example:

	The dog, if it was a dog, ran off.

    Sometimes the hypothesized dependent message has no bearing at all upon the independent, whereupon the latter is affirmed outright:

	‘It’s a matter of principle,’ he said, ‘if you have any.’  (Anthony Powell)

This, indeed, is plainly the explanation of the natural interpretation of (R).  As philosophers well know, the de facto relationship between first not being dead/etc. and then being dead/etc. is precisely nil.  So the hypothesis is impotent, an irrelevance.  She is dead/etc. now whether or not she was before.
    Messages like the natural interpretation of (S) are named after J.L. Austin, who observed that their independent messages are affirmed outright.  Not for want of a connection between the two prior messages, however.  It is clear on all sides that the dependent message of an Austinian interpretation is meant to relate to the independent.  But obliquely: it is somehow meant to justify its affirmation.  Some postulate elision, construing (S) as short for

	If you’re going out,  you will be interested to know that it’s raining,

or something of the sort.  But I deprecate this reaction.  The genuinely wayward is not profitably reduced to normalcy.  And this idiom is wayward, witness the fact that: 

	Then it’s raining whether I’m going out or not

is a justified if trite cavil at (S).  Not just a silly joke got by wilfully ignoring some elision.  I diagnose misuse of ‘if’.  After all, to justify telling someone it’s raining, if that is why the subsidiary string is supposed to be there, it would never be enough just to be treating her as going out regardless of whether she really was.  You would need to think that she really might be going out, which is something utterly different.  In short, this was never really a job for ‘if’ in the first place; it is being misused.  Just as ‘and’ is misused in ‘Touch that wire and you’re dead’.
    Sometimes the hypothesized dependent message, worse than impotent, is positively inimical to the independent:

	Even if she knew the goods to be stolen the Countess  need/can/may not be 	guilty of fraud.

But with ‘even’ opening the shutters onto a whole new dimension, this seems a convenient point at which to abandon my exposition of the compound category.  I hope I have achieved a representative selection.  Let me resume my thread.
    As the reader had doubtless observed long since, m2 is every bit as compound as m3.  ‘Because’, ‘as’, ‘although’, and so on make as much sense plugged into (B) as into (C).  Plainly m2 and m3 are encoded by the same overall encoding programme.  The only difference is that the independent sentences are generated by different encoding programmes.
    Semantically, m2 is rather like a hypothetical.  Comparing it with the undoubted hypothetical m3, we find that each has its dependent message understood as a  hypothesized premise of its independent.  But the in-between reasoning is likely to be different.  Underlying m3 we can have a deductive argument from accidental historical facts: ‘She missed the last bus; quite by chance no other traffic crossed the moor on that particular night, yet she arrived home; therefore she walked’.  But the accidents of the future are unavailable as premisses.  In m2 we rather have a verdict reached by imagining developments from present realities under the hypothesis that the Countess missed the bus.  Arguing for a projective message is very different from arguing for a proposition.  Recoiling from the assimilation, I enact that a hypothetical must have a proposition for its independent message, and say m2 is as like a hypothetical as can be, given the difference between a judgement and a proposition.  And with that, I am at last ready to grapple with Bennett’s observation.

7.  I think what weighs with intuition when it assimilates m2 to m1 and not to m3 is the distinction between propositions and judgements, and in particular between propositions and projective messages.  Intuition assimilates m2 to m1 because each in its own way involves a projective message.  In fact m1 is a projective message, while m2’s independent message is projective.  Whereas m3’s independent message is only a proposition.  This is also Bennett’s diagnosis, I feel sure.  When he speaks on his final page about ‘futurizing auxiliaries’, he is in hot pursuit of the projective category.
    Meanwhile, the gross grammatical distinction between m1 and m2 fails to register with native intuition.  This I could have guessed.  In m2, according to me, a judgement about the Countess walking home at a future y is premissed on the hypothesis that she actually missed the last bus, while m1 is a judgement about the Countess walking home at a future y in the imagined future event of her missing the last bus.  A not unsubtle distinction.  This is one of those cases where totally different constructions brush wings.  By and large, conditional interpretations of ‘if’-sentences are greatly different from compound ones: compare sections 5 and 6.  But m1 and m2 illustrate how close they can be steered.

8.  All told, I recognize four grammatical categories of ‘if’-sentence interpretations: compound, habitual, conditional, and those wholly egregious ones (like the natural interpretation of ‘if Tom was fat his sister was immense’) which rigidly insist that the subsidiary string  precede the independent sentence.  This taxonomy leaves no room for the natural interpretation m6 of 

	(T)    If you die in the next five minutes, that was an overdose you just took,

another problem raised for me by Bennett (p. 526).  I seek leave to treat these examples as exceptional, hybrid between compound and conditional.  Grammatically, m6 is monstrous.  Under it, ‘If you die in the next five minutes’ occurs, impossibly, as a subordinate clause which is not embedded in anything.  For plainly the complication encoded in that cause finds no place in the proposition encoded in the string ‘that was an overdose you just took’.  The complications encoded in conditional clauses are for complicating judgements, not propositions.  Hence some people’s tendency to want ‘you will know that’ inserted into (T).
    Conceding that m6 defies my system, I take comfort in the suspicion that such messages are intuitively problematic.  The animating idea is of a factual conclusion drawn from an imagined future development, but the nexus between future contingency and past fact would be delicate to expound in detail.

9.  Take the nearest logic book.  Does it rely, explicitly or implicitly, upon a ternary analysis of ‘if’-sentences?  Diagnose an ‘antecedent’, a ‘consequent’ and an operator?  Write ‘P Q’, ‘p  q’, ‘Cpq’, or ‘A C’?  Then tch, tch: at the most fundamental level, it has the wrong picture about how ‘if’ works.  For the fact is that ‘if’ never joins things.  Rather it attaches to the front of just one thing.  Sometimes it is externally prefixed to a sentence.  Sometimes it is the first word of a subordinate clause.  But never does it join two items together.  A pervasive and deeply entrenched assumption stands revealed as baseless.  The ternary analysis is wrong for compound interpretations of ‘if’-sentences, where, as we have seen, the correct analysis is binary.  And it is wrong for conditionals, in which we have discovered five factors, none of them an ‘antecedent’ or a ‘consequent’.  Success for my revolution would mean the demise of the whole ternary industry.  Every technical treatment on the shelf would become obsolete.

10.  Revising the outermost structure means revising the way more extended structures are built up.  Ternary systems build by iterating whole sentences, along the lines of ‘A (B C)’.  Exactly that form, for example, is customarily ascribed to each of (U) and (V):

	(U)    If she misses the last bus she will walk home if it stops raining

	(V)    If she missed the last bus, then if she nevertheless arrived home, the 		         Countess must have walked there.

Wrong both times.  (U) is a subject-predicate sentence, with two co-equal ‘if’ clauses embedded in its predicate.  We have already seen that the programme for generating projective messages permits the insertion of a subordinate clause into the predicate.  For ‘a’ now read ‘one or more’.  And (V) is a compound sentence incorporating two co-equal subsidiary strings.  It is generated by the same encoding programme as are (B) and (C), a programme permitting the formation of a compound sentence by draping an independent sentence with one or more subsidiary strings.  Neither (U) nor (V) has one ‘if’ within the scope of another, then.
    Not that this arrangement is by any means impossible.  Just take a subject-predicate ‘if’-sentence as dependent sentence in a compound one:

	If the Countess would/could/might have walked home if she had missed the 	last bus we ought to have delayed her.
It is even possible to make a compound ‘if’-sentence dependent in a wider compound ‘if’-sentence.  In the natural interpretation of

	If the Countess is older than the President if the President is younger than 	Granny, then the Countess must be at least as old as Granny,

for example, a judgement is inferred from a ‘hypothetically’ entertained hypothetical by considering what could be its ground, and we have a sentence of the form ‘{If [(if A) B]} C’.  Still a far cry from ‘A (B C)’, of course.
    We can construe (W) as having a compound ‘if’-sentence for its independent sentence, the speaker concluding a hypothetical from a hypothetically entertained sufficient ground:

	(W)    If every Tyrant deserves death then Caesar deserves death if he is a 		          tyrant.

Alternatively, we can construe it as having two co-equal subsidiary strings, in the manner of (V).  With the distinction so delicate, it comes as a relief to realize that these two analyses come out logically equivalent.

11.  This final section is bent upon naked provocation.
    In our corner of philosophy, technical terms are often deployed with great casualness, not to say abandon.  I shall give two examples where otherwise repellent doctrines have been glamourized by terms of art which are steadfastly never defined or explained.
    For the first, we return to the matter of classifying interpretations of ‘if’-sentences.  The received taxonomy classifies the present tense conditional m1 with compound interpretations like m3 instead of with past tense conditionals.  This is an astonishing decision.  It means ignoring not only striking family resemblances between m1 and other conditionals but also tell-tale differences between m1 and m3.  For one thing, because/(al)though/as/since/while’ can replace ‘if’ in (C) under m3 without nonsense, but not ‘if’ in (A) under m1.  For another, there is an implicit order of events in m1 but none in m3, witness the fact that ‘the previous night’ makes sense appended to (C) under m3 but none appended to (A) under m1.  And in both these regards, m1 plainly resembles other conditionals.  It is this cross-grained taxonomy that Bennett compares to belief in phlogiston.  What could possibly motivate it?  The answer is that nothing does, apparently, except two empty words.  ‘Indicative’ and ‘subjunctive’ come from traditional classical grammar.  No-one says what they are supposed to mean in application to English.  But such is their authority, in application to English, that the astonishing is rendered commonplace.  Take away the words, and the whole idea collapses.
    My other example also relates to a matched pair of antique terms of art.  Can the reader guess, I wonder?  Applied to compound interpretations of ‘if’-sentences ternary analyses are wrong, but not wildly wrong.  At least the basic compound interpretation does contain two prior messages and an operator, even if the ternary theorist has them coupled together wrongly.  But ternary treatment of conditionals is wildly wrong.  The basic conditional has five informational factors, none of them a prior message.  Conditionals have no prior messages.
    Mais hoop-lá: our spectral prior messages are no sooner called ‘consequent’ and ‘antecedent’ than accorded all the rights and privileges of existence.  This is in spite, or perhaps because, of the fact that no-one ever says what the words are supposed to mean in application to conditionals.  Two things are left owing.  One is exact identification of the prior messages for all the various kinds of conditional, beginning with those illustrated in section 5.  That these identifications are bound to be ugly we know in advance.  The ternary analysis of m1 is bound to associate with the string ‘she misses the last bus’ in (A) a prior message which is not an interpretation of it, and similarly for every conditional.  The ternary theorist is going to be recognizing messages which are nowhere encoded in the ‘if’-sentence.  So the other thing left owing is an explanation of how these prior messages can nevertheless be components of the conditional encoded in the ‘if’-sentence.  (The confronting difficulty here is that each prior message is going to have to have its own tense, whereas there is no encoding capacity left in the ‘if’-sentence for these tenses, because the forms of the predicates are given over to locating something quite else.)  I suspect that no-one would have incurred these debts who had seriously attempted to define ‘antecedent’ and ‘consequent’ in application to conditionals.
    Incidentally, having no prior messages, conditionals are wrongly expounded in terms of either the probabilities of their ‘antecedents’ and ‘consequents’ or the truth of them in possible worlds.  But there would not be the same grammatical objection to a theory of conditionals if its probabilities were probabilities of notional subjects satisfying predication conditions or its possible worlds possible worlds in which notional subjects satisfied predication conditions.  I would personally be unhappy on other grounds with a theory of either stamp, and would certainly want to see it handle other modals than WILL and explain why t < y.  But undoubtedly such a theory could respect the grammatical fact that an ‘if’-sentence under a conditional interpretation is a simple sentence.
    Finally.  We cannot hope to understand how ‘if’ works without understanding, at least in a general way, how ‘because’, ‘unless’, ‘before’ and ‘lest’ work, and all the other conjunctions, or without taking account of habitual interpretations of ‘if’-sentences.  Nor can we hope to understand how WILL works without understanding how the modals work in general.  Here in our corner of philosophy, we are amateurs of the English language, and proud of it.  But amateur or not, we need to approach it scientifically.