The recent discussions on “The Right and the Good” show that the reconciliation between formalism and teleology is still a problem. Some of the contending parties lean more strongly towards formalism, others towards teleology; but neither side has, I believe, done equal justice to formalism and teleology. To review the whole discussion is beyond the scope of this paper. Instead, I propose to suggest in outline a theory which may possibly harmonize the essential tenets of both parties.

Since the death of Cézanne in 1906, there has been throughout the world of European art a general reawakening of a sense of the necessity for constructive qualities in painting. Whereas our fathers were content to speak of the “composition” of a picture, in our own day it is more usual to speak of its construction. Composition, after all, is a comparatively loose and elastic term implying a generally harmonious arrangement of the massed effect of light and dark, a juxtaposition of contrasting and balanced tones, sufficiently logical in their placing as to give a general sense of repose and unity to the work as a whole. Composition was generally understood to be dependent upon instinct and good taste on the part of the painter, and, as such, it was looked upon as a thing that could not be taught by rule of thumb. Like a sense of colour, a student either had it or he had not; and, beyond attempting to guard him from glaring error, there was little that a teacher of art could do for him in this department of his training. Perspective, which is governed by definite mathematical rules, could be taught in detail as an aid to composition, but the sense of composition itself must be allowed to develop in the student according to his talent for this side of his work. Composition classes were indeed a part of his curriculum, but the criticism which a student received at such classes amounted, in practice, to little more than general advice, given by the teacher, from his ripe experience and his developed sense oftherightandwrong in this matter, to the unmatured taste of the student. It was understood that composition could not exist without a general sense of order, but it was understood in a much looser sense than is implied by the comparatively modern use of the word “construction” that has replaced it. The artist of the modern school or schools of thought (for there is no one modern school) will have none of the old happy-golucky, loose thinking in the matter of construction.

The question of political sovereignty must at all times be of acute academic interest, since it is practically impossible to say anything about the state without implying something about sovereignty, or vice versa. Political theory has very generally found this conception central to its inquiry; but in recent years the notion has been thrown into sharp relief by political events. In Fascism and Nazism the doctrine of state sovereignty is “made flesh” in startlingly substantial forms. These modern incarnations of Leviathan, and their threat to much which has come to be deeply valued, give unprecedented importance to an age-long discussion. Political theory is not to-day, if it has ever seemed, a simply academic issue, or an “arm-chair” branch of philosophy. Not all of those who carry through revolutions, who build barricades and defend them with their lives, have a clear philosophical theory of the state; but powerful beliefs and motives they certainly have; and it daily becomes more manifest that unless the world is content to allow its political future to be determined more and more by obscure visceral impulses or crude economic motives a more intense effort to achieve and to apply true beliefs in the political field is imperative.

In his Introduction to McTaggart's Philosophical Studies, Dr. S. V. Keeling complains that in the interests of a prejudice in favour of science and scientific methods, Russell and his followers have denied the possibility of solving metaphysical problems without giving any philosophical reason for this proscription. And by “metaphysical problems,” Dr. Keeling seems to mean (as against Russell and in agreement with McTaggart) ethical problems about the amount of good and evil in the world, the nature of human beings and their destiny, the hopes of men about immortality, and hence the “ultimate analysis of Time,” etc. Science is not concerned with such problems, and moreover it is the business of philosophy to “justify” induction and cannot itself employ a scientific method. Dr. Keeling therefore urges a return to the rationalism of McTaggart and the attempt to solve such problems by the deductive method. I want to say why this seems to me impossible and why such problems are insoluble unless they can be interpreted empirically and left to the investigation of the special sciences. I shall refer first to the most important feature of present empirical philosophy, then discuss metaphysical and other deductive systems, and finally dispute McTaggart's claim that the Self must be known by acquaintance and not by description, which Dr. Keeling regards, mistakenly, as it seems to me, the final refutation of this part of “positivistic phenomenalism.“ By this procedure I do not intend to justify or defend analytic philosophy but merely to re-compare its method with that of McTaggart.

The older of us are agreed that never before within our memory has there been a time in which men's souls have been so filled with anxiety as to the condition of the world. The Afghanistan and the Boer Wars as we look back come into our minds. But these were on the outskirts of civilization, and no one really believed that they threatened that of our own country, not to speak of Europe. The period before the Great War was one of violent conflicts, but, as contrasted with those wider and more subterranean conflicts out of which the war rose, they may be said to have been household matters, and only required a little more resolute goodwill on the part of the nation itself for their solution.

Describing and explaining; tracing the outlines and smoothing out the folds; making clear and making plain; in either case hoping that our hearer may be able to say, “Yes, I see it better now.” Is there really a fundamental difference between these two? Common parlance uses both words for the same kind of process. We may be asked either to “explain” or to “describe” the working of a machine, answering the English boy's question “Why does it do this?” or the Scotch “What's the go of it?” To account for a sum of money is to explain its absence by describing its expenditure. We say, “Why is that man offended?” or, equally, “What's the matter?” and a brief description of the man's character and history, showing on what structure a casual remark has impinged, may lead us to say, “That explains it.” Even where purpose enters we may vary the words we use. “Why on earth did you do that?” “What was your idea in doing that?” “Describe what you had in your mind.” “Please explain”.

Of late yeaxs Benedetto Croce's interpretation of the philosophy of G. B. Vico has been exposed to continual criticism from Catholic writers anxious to claim for themselves the figure of the great eighteenth-century thinker, wrested from them by Croce for inclusion in a setting of secular and immanentistic philosophy. The Catholic polemic was founded partly on a false supposition: it derived from the idea that Croce meant to deny entirely Vico's Catholicism. Instead, Croce made a distinction between Vico the man and Vico the philosopher. While he recognized that the man cherished Catholic sentiments and beliefs, he denied that the philosopher could reenter the circle of dogmatic and confessional philosophy. To confirm the accuracy of his interpretation, Croce has now republished an interesting monograph by an eighteenth-century Catholic writer, a little later than Vico, G. F. Finetti,1 who subjects the doctrine of Vico to a lively criticism. The motive of this exhumation is plain: “The protest of eighteenth-century Catholic criticism against the doctrines of Vico, or rather, against the doctrines of an author well known to be a blameless observant throughout his life, is of considerable importance because it is the first real acknowledgment of the revolutionary spirit, the anti-Catholic and generally anti-religious spirit, which informed his doctrines.”

History and Legend are, Professor Robin believes, traditionally misconceived in being conceived as in conflict. To write history is either to destroy utterly the claim of some legend to be veridical, or else to rediscover, behind what is imaginary or fabulous in it, indications of what the facts really were. Such is the accredited view. But, asks M. Robin, is not legend, on the contrary, a positive element in history? And he answers in effect that nowhere is legend more regular, indeed more necessary, than in its contribution to the history of philosophy, ancient and modern. This history has a wholly original character. It does not resemble the history of the sciences; for this relates either the checkmates in research—instructive to be sure, but dead for future science—or else its victories—equally instructive, though only their results survive. Nor does it resemble literary history; for even if this be accompanied by evaluatory criticism, seldom is interpretation of doctrine admitted. Interpreting a philosophy is seizing not only its literal sense, but above all its import and efficacy. It is a continuously creative and reflective activity which unceasingly quickens the materials on which it reflects. But since what is called objectivity cannot be attained by the historian of philosophy except by shutting his eyes to the limits of his powers, he must candidly confess—and without admitting that the confession impairs the value of his effort—that objectivity cannot be his chief end. No great philosophy can really be considered dead, its sincere and sympathetic evocation is always possible. The history of philosophy is philosophy; it is philosophy philosophizing on its past efforts, and contemplating itself in the perenniality of its changing existence.

Karl Popper's aim in Logik der Forschung is to consider the method of investigation used by the empirical sciences. Many people would say that their procedure is marked by the use of induction, and accordingly that the logic of scientific investigation is the logical analysis of induction. But Popper disagrees. Scientific procedure consists of two steps, an hypothesis is formed, and then it is tested. Logic is only concerned with questions of validity, and thus is only concerned with the second of these steps. But every method of testing validity is deductive, and thus the logic of scientific investigation is the study of deduction as used by the empirical sciences.