I Want to discuss and illustrate in this paper certain fallacies which we are all very liable to commit in our thinking about political and social questions. Perhaps “thinking” is rather too high-sounding a name to attach to the mental processes which lie behind most political talk. It is at any rate thinking of a very low grade, for a considerable proportion of such discussion in Press and Parliament and private conversation hardly rises above the intellectual level of disputes between boys at a preparatory school.

What kind of subject is Politics? Is it a science, an art, a religion or a philosophy? Is the study of politics an independent subject—a subject in its own right—or is it simply a branch of some other and, presumably, superior subject?

These questions require to be answered because there is obvious uncertainty at the moment about the nature and status of the study of politics. The uncertainty is shown by the fact that Politics goes under different names and is associated with different subjects in different universities. Politics is sometimes called Political Philosophy and sometimes Political Science. Some universities confine the study of politics to History. Others make it a branch of Ethics. The latest tendency is to associate Politics and Economics and regard the economic as the most important of the relations of politics.

Among the objections to the independence of Politics, one deserves to be noted. Politics, it is said, is an aspect of a total social situation which it shares with Ethics and Economics. Thus it is a mistake to try to disentangle the political factor and view it in itself.

In two previous articles I have considered (1) the significance of Aristotle's conception of God and its relation to the philosophy of Plato and (2) Spinoza's central doctrine as related to his view of causation. Both articles were especially concerned with the question of the relation of God to the World or Universe. The purpose of the present paper, which is the concluding one of the series, is to inquire what contribution toward a solution of the problem is made by the theory of Creative Evolution.

I. In the early part of the sixth century a.d. Boethius defined the person as “an individual substance of rational nature” (rationalis naturae individua substantia). This definition, which became classical and was adopted by, for example, St. Thomas Aquinas, obviously implies that every human being is a person, since every human being is (to employ the philosophical terms of Boethius) an individual substance of rational nature. If one cannot be more or less of a human being, so far as “substance” is concerned, one cannot be more or less of a person. One may act as a human person ought not to act or in a way unbefitting a human person; one may even lose the normal use of one's reason; but one does not in this way become depersonalized, in the sense of ceasing to be a person. According to St. Thomas, a disembodied soul is not, strictly speaking, a person, since a disembodied soul is no longer a complete human substance; but every complete human substance is always and necessarily a person.

I am addressing you this evening in a somewhat unfamiliar theme: that of “logical values” or “values in speaking.” I do so since the points I want to raise come up very constantly in contemporary discussion, and yet are seldom made the object of explicit reflection. There are, it is plain, a large number of qualities which appeal to us in our utterances, whether in the setting forth of our notions in words, or in the weaving of such words into sentences. And they may be said to appeal to us in a peculiar manner, and to satisfy a special set of interests in us, which we may group together as the “logical side” of our nature. Thus most people would say that clarity, relevance, coherence, solid significance and simplicity were merits in speaking, and that so also was truthful conformity to the facts of experience, whether in their general outline or their concrete detail. And everyone would admit readily that such excellences “belonged together,” that they were somehow akin, and that they differed profoundly from such virtues in speaking as poetic felicity, practical helpfulness, or moral and religious inspiration. And most people would also be willing to say, with a great deal of obscurity and most puzzling conviction, that the appeal of such qualities wasn't “merely momentary and personal,” but had something “solid” and “universal” about it, that a man would be foolish not to value such qualities, and that he couldn't help valuing them if he only thought of them sufficiently. And we should recommend such qualities to the approval of others with an air of earnestness and authority, setting them on a level, in this respect, with those other excellences that are called “ethical” and “aesthetic.” But while we could back our recommendation in the last two types of case with a great deal of systematic doctrine, built up in centuries of reflection, we should have little to bring forward in the former case, since the excellences that I want to call “logical,” though often acknowledged, have seldom been made the objects of systematic reflection. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the “true” has generally been ranged alongside of the “good” and the “beautiful” as a species of “ultimate value.”

In his 1947 British Academy lecture on Naturalistic Ethics, Mr. W. F. R. Hardie is concerned to ask himself whether a naturalistic theory of ethics can give a “satisfactory account of our moral knowledge or convictions,” or whether some form of non-naturalism is demanded by our moral experience. It will be remembered that after a careful sifting and examination of certain features of our moral knowledge or convictions, Mr. Hardie suspends judgment between naturalism and non-naturalism, observing that “on the one hand philosophers who start from the ostensible facts of our moral experience and thinking, and are most careful and accurate in their rendering of these facts, have tended to be led to objectivist and anti-naturalistic conclusions. Where they least carry conviction is in the moral epistemology which they assume or defend. When we reflect, with the epistemological issue in mind, on the actual process in ourselves of moral reflection and decision, we are more inclined to sympathize with a ‘moral sentiment’ theory than we ought to be if the rationalists are wholly in the right.” In what follows I wish to consider another feature of our moral experience which Mr. Hardie did not examine in his lecture and which appears to be of considerable importance, namely the situation where, to put it very roughly for the moment, we find ourselves at variance with another person or persons on a moral issue, where, for instance, I hold that a certain course of conduct is right, and the other person or persons hold that it is wrong, or vice versa, and where further we may pursue divergent courses of action accordingly. I wish to ask myself whether the naturalistic commentary on this situation of ethical disagreement is altogether satisfactory when we consider it in the light of “the ostensible facts of our moral experience and thinking,” whether, in fact, to use another phrase of Mr. Hardie's, it squares altogether with “our fundamental moral convictions” in regard to such a situation. The naturalistic commentary with which I am primarily concerned is that which is now sometimes labelled “the emotive theory of ethics,” and is to be found admirably developed, for example, in Professor Stevenson's book Ethics and Language.

The title of this paper is in many ways a bad one, but it does have the advantage of familiarity, and so indicates a well-known group of questions. The questions which philosophers who have talked about “Reason and Conduct” have really been discussing and which they help us to answer have been these: “What are the various ways in which the words “reasonable,” ‘wise,’ ‘foolish,’ etc., are used?” “In what senses may actions and choices be called ‘reasonable,’ and are these senses of ‘reasonable’ connected in any way, and if so in what way, with the senses in which beliefs and inferences may be called ‘reasonable’?” In other words our questions are, in a broad sense of the word, logical questions, not empirical ones. It is misleading to say, therefore, as philosophers commonly do, that we are discussing the relationship between Reason and Conduct, or that we are going into the question of whether Reason can or cannot be practical. Reason is the faculty of acting reasonably. If under “acting reasonably” we include only “inferring properly,” then Reason can only be logical. If under “acting reasonably” we also include making correct inductions and concocting good theories then Reason can also be scientific. If under “acting reasonably” we include “acting morally” or “doing one's duty,” then Reason can be practical. The dispute about whether Reason can be practical is not merely verbal but trivial, and only appears not to be trivial when we hypostatize this faculty Reason and suppose it to be a thing. It then looks as though our dispute is an empirical one about what this thing Reason can do.

I have chosen my topic for this evening with an eye to something rather more than its intrinsic philosophical interest. Modern man, as we are all painfully aware, is facing a crisis of peculiar gravity. Perhaps the odds are not so very heavy against a third world war followed by world collapse into anarchy and barbarism. At such a time the philosopher is bound to ask himself whether there is no contribution which his science can make towards the succour of civilization.

It is a sobering experience to be giving my first Sir Samuel Hall Oration in the line of succession of Samuel Alexander. Some of his Sir Samuel Hall Orations have been published in his book on Beauty and the Other Forms of Value and the Philosophical and Literary Pieces, and they must indeed have been a joy to his audiences. I think it is fitting that I should devote this first lecture to Samuel Alexander, taking one of the central ideas of his philosophy and considering it. If some of what I have to say is critical, I think he would have thought that was all in order. “Pitch into me,” he used to say. After all, the best tribute one can pay to a philosopher is to try to go on with one's own thinking helped by the stimulus of his ideas, and often not least helped by finding oneself impelled to criticize them.

I propose to examine what I take to be the point at issue between subjectivist and objectivist theories of ethics and to explain that the controversy between them is unreal. It springs from a misunderstanding of the nature of appraisal sentences. What I hope to show is that if such sentences were really analysable in the way in which the critics and many of the supporters of subjectivist theories suppose, then those theories would indeed, as it is sometimes put “fail to do justice to the facts of moral experience.” But it seems to me that objectivist theories are no better off. They make exactly the same mistake though in a more sophisticated way. I therefore propose to see whether any useful results can be achieved by construing appraisal sentences on rather different lines.

By appraisal sentences I mean (a) sentences of the form “I approve of …, I think well of …, I commend …, etc.” I shall call these simple appraisals, (b) sentences of the form “… is good, … is meritorious, … is praiseworthy, etc.” I shall call these moral appraisals. In these terms, subjectivist theories assert that moral appraisals can always be expressed without change of meaning by simple appraisals, though perhaps the addition of an imperative sentence of some kind is required to complete the translation. Objectivist theories deny this possibility and claim that moral appraisals assert truths about the independent world and not psychological facts about the speaker.

It seems to me certain that the perception of foreign bodies of a certain sort, although a necessary, is not the only, part of the basis of our belief in other persons. The greatest disagreement with this view that I know of has been expressed by Professor Aaron in a paper published in Philosophy, XIX, 72. He claims that, since one does not really know “what it means to be a mind in one's own case,” the question whether we can be certain that there are other minds is meaningless except as reducible to the question whether such propositions as “Robinson exists” are propositions which we can be certain about. And he tries to show that no more is involved in the analysis of “Robinson exists” than would be involved in the analysis of propositions of whose truth we can be perceptually certain, such as “That table over there exists” or “The Eiffel Tower exists.” My assurance that Robinson exists is not the assurance that something called Robinson's mind exists. It is the perfectly ordinary perceptual assurance that ‘the person over there’ exists. “You ask me how I am certain that Robinson exists and I answer, ‘Well, look, there he is.’ It would be absurd for anyone to say that he does not exist when I see him here before me and hear him talk and watch him move that chair.”

In all ethical discussion there is an implicit assumption that in our everyday experience we are often able to recognize, as if by direct perception, that the situation confronting us is indubitably bad or unquestionably good in an ethical sense. If, e.g., on a bright afternoon we meet a capable Scout leader with a troop of healthy-minded boys on a hiking expedition through a beautiful district, sharing with one another as they go botanical information, and all obviously happy together, we know without question that the situation, as we see it, is good. We are as certain about that fact as we are that the sun is shining and the grass green. If, however, on another occasion we witness an act of wanton cruelty perpetrated on a small boy by a bully, we immediately and indubitably see that the situation presented to us is bad. Here again we are as certain of the ethical character of what we see as we are of the fact that two people are involved in the mischief. It would be superfluous to quote illustrations to show that moral philosophers, in seeking to establish their conclusions, invariably rely on their judgment regarding the ethical character of situations such as these, the ethical character of which is so perspicuous that, to deny it would be, in Bishop Butler's phrase, “too glaring a falsity to need being confuted.”

In the most recent edition of Language, Truth and Logic, Professor A. J. Ayer still maintains that pure mathematics is analytic, being in fact merely a vast system of tautology. He is much more confident about this than are most contemporary professional mathematicians who have investigated the foundations of their subject. Following the breakdown of the efforts both of Frege and of Russell and Whitehead to derive pure mathematics from logic, i.e. to prove that the denial of any one proposition of mathematics would necessarily be self-contradictory, Hilbert attempted to prove the more modest thesis that pure mathematics is consistent, i.e. that no two propositions of mathematics can contradict each other; but in 1931 Gödel discovered that even this thesis was undecidable according to the “rules of the game.” As Weyl has recently lamented, “From this history one thing should be clear: we are less certain than ever about the ultimate foundations of (logic and) mathematics.”

The sense in which Ayer uses the terms analytic and tautology implies also that in his view the activities of pure mathematicians lead to nothing new. It is true that he remarks that “there is a sense in which analytic propositions do give us new knowledge. They call attention to linguistic usages of which we might otherwise not be conscious, and they reveal unsuspected implications in our assertions and beliefs.” But, he continues, “we can also see that there is a sense in which they may be said to add nothing to our knowledge. For they may be said to tell us what we know already. ” This denial of novelty in mathematics is as typical of contemporary positivism as the prophecy of Comte that the composition of the stars would never be revealed to us and the objections of Mach to the atomic hypothesis were characteristic of nineteenth century positivism. Indeed, one wonders why the term positivism should have been appropriated by successive philosophers whose common outlook could be so much more fittingly described as negativism.

It is remarkable that we have to-day a number of philosophers who call themselves subjectivists in moral philosophy. For, although the name “subjectivist” is by no means new, philosophers have reserved it hitherto for their opponents, and usually for imaginary opponents at that. Perhaps the chief cause of the change which has taken place in recent years is the discovery of a distinction between descriptive and emotive meaning. In the past the only form of subjectivism considered by writers on moral philosophy was the suggestion that moral sentences such as “You ought to do that” were statements about the speaker's own attitude; and it was easy to refute this by pointing out that we discuss questions of morals in a way which would be unintelligent, and even unintelligible, if moral judgments were only reports of introspection. But those who now call themselves subjectivists maintain that the peculiarity of moral words is their expressive and evocative power. According to their analysis, a speaker who uses one of these words in an indicative sentence may be stating nothing at all, but is undoubtedly trying to influence others (and perhaps also himself) to adopt a certain attitude. This, they say, explains how there can be genuine disagreement about questions of morals and why discussion may produce results. If A tries to evoke one attitude in his hearers and B tries to evoke an incompatible attitude, their utterances are opposed, not indeed like contradictory statements, but rather like the efforts of men engaged in a tug-of-war.

During the later years of his life, the late Professor Alexander devoted much of his time to the study of our aesthetic and moral experience. In regard to the latter, Alexander was impressed by Adam Smith's treatment of the Moral Sentiments and especially with what he considered his sure insight in seeking for the ground of obligation in the causes of conduct, rather than in its effects. These causes were the passions. In this he was in sympathy with his contemporary Hobhouse, who asserted with conviction that action rested on impulse feeling, and that it was useless to look for anything whether it was called Practical Reason or anything else, that stood outside the body of impulse feeling and controlled it. I think it was the considered opinion of Alexander, as it was that of Hobhouse, that if Psychology had anything to teach us bearing upon Morals, it was that the springs of human conduct must be looked for in our inherited tendencies with their associated emotions. Fear, sorrow, joy, repulsion, curiosity, pugnacity, self-assertion, the sex instinct, and (in some species) acquisitiveness and constructiveness, are present, not only in men of all living races, but also in most of the higher animals. These specific tendencies and emotions, with certain complex passions such as admiration, reverence, scorn and the rest; together with one or two general tendencies such as sympathy and imitativeness, arising out of the nature of mental processes, must have played a leading role in the determination of human conduct, both in its lower and higher grades.

1. It is a commonplace that contemporary empiricism, or antimetaphysical philosophy, at least in this country, is a re-statement of the essentials of Hume's position with the aid of the more complete analysis of a priori reasoning provided by logicians within the last fifty years; what logical empiricism has most substantially added to Hume's sceptical method is the means of stating and applying his distinction between purely analytic sentences and sentences conveying information about matters of fact more precisely than he was able to state or apply it. It was Hume's governing purpose in every part of his writing to defend what is now generally called the language of common-sense, which is essentially what he called natural belief, against every kind of philosophical theory, whether rationalist or professedly sceptical. By “philosophical theory” is meant in this context any attempt by the use of logical or a priori arguments either to justify or to amend our common-sense beliefs or assertions; Hume tries to show that all such attempts are mistaken in logic and ineffective in fact. The work of the genuine sceptic, who is the true philosopher, is repeatedly to draw attention to the limits of human reason; to draw attention to the limits of human reason is to point to the logical impossibility of answering philosophical demands for some general, and therefore non-empirical, justification of our natural beliefs; such demands involve the substituting of some single, imposed criterion of justification in the place of the various and shifting criteria which we in fact habitually use.

It is fashionable nowadays to discredit the theory of the general will, and an attempt to rehabilitate it is not likely to receive much sympathy. Nevertheless, I propose to give some reasons for adopting a more lenient attitude towards the theory, and to indicate some possible lines along which a rehabilitation might be conducted.

The present state of ethical theory and practice is disquieting. Objectivism, in all its varieties, is unconvincing, and subjectivism, hedonic or emotive, is intellectually incredible and socially intolerable. No one is ethically content—except the dogmatist and the sceptic, who act willy nilly with the exponents of “might-cum-persuasion makes right.” Can we find a happier middle region between these inhospitable poles? Perhaps the very limitations of human valuation will provide the ground that ethics requires.

Let us begin by considering the conditions which must hold if ethical action is to be possible:

1. Only if the agent can provide a justifying reason for his choice of action can he claim to act ethically. For ethical action is a species of purposive action, and to act purposively entails the ability to give justifying reasons for one's choice of action. (“Justifying” here is to be understood as “putatively justifying”). Thus ethical action presupposes putatively grounded ethical judgment.

2. Justifying reasons must be acknowledgeable by all competent judges, i.e. by all persons who (I) are acquainted with all relevant knowledge of the nature and consequences of the alternative courses of action, (2) allow as far as possible for congenital, cultural and idiosyncratic bias, (3) are capable of sane and serious reflection, and (4) are able to make survey of their experience and to draw conclusions from it. For the judgment “the action A is ethically preferable to its alternatives B (in this situation)” entails “A ought to be done” which in turn entails “every competent judge is capable of acknowledging the ground of the judgment ‘A is ethically preferable to B’ and consequently would be able to set himself to perform A as an ethical act, (i.e. an autonomous act for which the agent can provide a justifying reason).” We can assure ourselves of this requirement of acknowledgeability by observing that whenever we resolve, and not merely settle, an ethical disagreement, we have achieved not only a factual, predictive, valuational and attitudinal agreement between the disputants, but a joint acknowledgment of the ground of the ethical judgment. Without this, the agreement could not be said to be ethical, whether the judgment be right or wrong or neither, but merely an agreement to disagree, ethically. Unless ethical disagreement is in principle resolvable, ethical judgment is impossible, for we should be unable to claim that our choice ought to be acted upon.

I think that to Lord Kelvin is attributed the saying that the scientific attitude to a thing, if you can't do anything else with it, is to measure it. This is the attitude I propose to adopt towards Time. The situation is to some extent analogous to the situation with regard to electricity. Science is unable to say what electricity is, and so it almost denies the word any entrance into a treatise on the subject. It replaces it by the word charge, which is something that can be measured. It is important to avoid hypostatizing time into a thing-in-itself. Instead of trying to say what time is (e.g. Plato's description of it as “the moving image of eternity”) we try to find a way of measuring it.