I propose to bring fresh evidence here for my theory of knowledge and expand it in new directions. We shall arrive most swiftly at the centre of the theory, by going back to the point from which I started about twenty years ago. Upon examining the grounds on which science is pursued, I saw that its progress is determined at every stage by indefinable powers of thought. No rules can account for the way a good idea is found for starting an inquiry; and there are no firm rules either for the verification or the refutation of the proposed solution of a problem. Rules widely current may be plausible enough, but scientific enquiry often proceeds and triumphs by contradicting them. Moreover, the explicit content of a theory fails to account for the guidance it affords to future discoveries. To hold a natural law to be true, is to believe that its presence may reveal itself in yet unknown and perhaps yet unthinkable consequences; it is to believe that such laws are features of a reality which as such will continue to bear consequences inexhaustibly.

The dictum ‘“ought” implies “can”’ has a status in moral philosophy in some respects like that of ‘a good player needs good co-ordination’ in talk about ball-games. Clearly, you say something important but not conclusive about proficiency in playing a ball-game when you say that it requires good co-ordination: similarly, you say something important but not conclusive about obligation when you say that it implies a certain possibility or power or ability. Each dictum is a reminder: the one about such courses of physical instruction, the other about such exhortations to duty, as are worth persevering with. It would be hopeless to keep on teaching a boy the moves and tricks of rugby football if he could never co-ordinate well enough to get his eye in, so to speak. Correspondingly, it would be meaningless to recommend that someone ought to do something the specification of which involved a contradiction, and pointless to suggest that he ought to do something which, for quite general reasons, was not, and was certain to remain not, within his power. So each dictum expresses a bluff, no-nonsense wisdom which we should count on before involving ourselves in certain more detailed commitments. But probably this is as far as the comparison between the two sayings can well be taken.

Although the literature on the logic of historical enquiry is already vast and still growing, it continues to polarise overwhelmingly around a single disputed point—whether historical explanations have their own logic, or whether every successful explanation must conform to the same deductive model. Recent discussion, moreover, has shown an increasing element of agreement—there has been a marked trend away from accepting any strictly positivist view of the matter. It will be argued here that both the traditional polarity and the recent trend in this debate have tended to be misleading. The positiviste (it will be conceded) have been damagingly criticised. But their opponents (it will be suggested) have produced no satisfying alternative. They have tended instead to accept as proper historical explanations whatever has been offered by the historians themselves in the course of trying to explain the past. But a further type of analysis must be required (and will be attempted here) if some account is to be given of the status, and not merely the function, of the language in which these explanations are offered. Such an analysis, moreover (it will finally be suggested) has implications of some importance in considering the appropriate strategy for historical enquiries.

The optimist may be secretly envied, but he is publicly despised. His pronouncements are regarded as expressions of simple-minded blindness or as cynical propaganda. Optimism is not regarded as intellectually respectable. It was not always so: there have been times when optimism was not merely considered worthy of rational argument, but was widely accepted by thinking men. Now, however, we react with a growing embarrassment to passages such as these:

The time will therefore come when the sun will shine only on free men who know no other master but their reason;… All the causes that contribute to the perfection of the human race, all the means that ensure it must by their very nature exercise a perpetual influence and always increase their sphere of action … the perfectibility of man is indefinite.

It is a surprising fact that moral philosophers have rarely examined the distinction between what I shall call ‘positive’ or ‘social’ morality on the one hand and ‘autonomous’ or ‘individual’ morality on the other. Accordingly, conceptual and moral issues of the greatest importance have been neglected. The distinction is, I take it, recognised by Hegel, when he contrasts Sittlichkeit with Moralität. However, the rival sides who give a conceptual or a moral preference to one concept over the other rarely come to grips with one another, and the deep conflicts between them are concealed instead of being brought out into the open. Only in Burke's diatribe against Rousseau, Bradley's critique of Sidgwick (Collected Essays I, 122), Hobhouse's crusade against Bosanquet (Metaphysical Theory of the State), Prichard's attack on Green (Moral Obligation, p. 75), Hart's criticism of Hare (‘Legal and Moral Obligation’ in Essays in Moral Philosophy, edited by Melden), and above all in Oakeshott's onslaught on Rationalism (Rationalism in Politics, passim) do we get a glimpse of one of the main issues of moral philosophy and of morality. For just as we have two concepts, so we have two moral conceptual schemes, each of which gives a central place to one concept at the expense of the other. Those who suppose that morality is or ought to be wholly or mainly a social concept may recommend submission to a tradition. Those, on the other hand, who suppose morality to be primarily an individual or independent concept will recommend independent decisions. I want in this paper, firstly, to explain the differences between the two concepts, secondly, to show that neither of them is conceptually illegitimate or degenerate, and lastly, to determine what place, if any, each ought to have in a rational morality.

It will, I suppose, be readily agreed that questions concerning the scope of moral principles are of vital importance for the moral philosopher. If we are to accept a view, such as Professor Hare's, that there are formal criteria for any morality if it is to count as a morality, then it is necessary to know what is left outside the fence. Are Egoism and Caste Morality to count as moralities, restricted to the interests of one and of a limited group of persons respectively; or is there a logical absurdity in calling them moralities at all?

Hare's thesis of ‘prescriptive universalisability’, as definitive of the formal structure of any moral system, rules out such restricted ‘moralities’. Using ‘ought’ as a key-concept in moral discourse, Hare suggests that the word has two basic functions:

(i) to prescribe: meaning to commend courses of action sincerely to oneself and others.

(ii) to prescribe consistently, or universalisably; that is, in the same way, on relevantly similar occasions, to anyone, including oneself, unless valid reasons for discrimination of persons can be offered.

My aim in this article is threefold: First, I wish to challenge the view put forward by A. Flew and H. L. A. Hart which has won widespread recognition, namely, that the concept of punishment entails a legal or quasi-legal system of punishment. In my view all that is necessary for a case of punishment to occur is that a person (or body of persons) inflicts deliberately and not primarily for the sake of any beneficial consequences which may flow from his action, anything likely to cause discomfort to a victim who is capable of experiencing it, provided that the person inflicting the discomfort would claim, if asked to give a reason for his action, that he is inflicting it because of something (such as an act, event, state of affairs, or disposition) for which he holds the victim accountable. If I am right it follows that punishment is not necessarily retributive, and that utilitarian ‘punishment’ like reformative and compensatory ‘punishment’ is not true punishment, since the discomfort inflicted in these cases is merely ancillary to another end. Secondly, I hope to show that Hart does not succeed in discrediting the retributive theory, and that his treatment of punishment, though functional in aim, perpetuates the confusion between the meaning of punishment and its justification. Thirdly, I shall contend that retribution is not a proper aim of a legal system, whatever place it may actually have or ought to have in our moral code. Looking to the future, I shall venture to predict that the legal institution of punishment will sooner or later give way to a system designed to reduce crime and to rehabilitate offenders. Such a system will be adjusted to the needs of the community and of individual offenders, and will not involve the infliction of discomfort as an end. Hence, it would be wrong to call it a system of punishment.

It is probable that few critics, if directly challenged, would admit to believing that a work of literature which was, in some sense, morally objectionable was therefore necessarily totally lacking in literary merit. Nevertheless, it is not uncommon for a man—in the language he uses, in the conclusions he draws, in his obiter dicta—to seem yet to hold a view which, in its bald statement, he has denied. Certainly, those critics who most vehemently wish to dissociate themselves from any claims that art exists for art's sake, or that there are peculiarly ‘aesthetic’ criteria, and who believe that such claims lead to irresponsibility, such critics often use moral concepts extensively in their criticism. Furthermore, they often do this in such a way as to suggest that if a work is morally objectionable, then there is no way of redeeming it aesthetically; for, it would seem, moral criticism exhausts the critical possibilities; no aesthetic saving graces are allowed.

Freud is often assumed to have given an explanation of how human beings acquire a morality, especially as it is manifested in the phenomenon of moral conscience. Freud himself certainly lends credence to such an interpretation of his theory, as the following passage testifies.

In Part I of this paper I attempt to present, in more or less summary fashion, some well-known difficulties in the concept of deontic morality (i.e. the moralty of duty, obligation, what is morally wrong, and what one morally ought to do), as shown by certain features of deontic moral discourse. I make no great claims for originality here, although perhaps there may be some virtue in the presentation and ordering. In any case, Part I is a necessary preliminary to Part II, where I attempt to defend the rationality of and the necessity for deontic language against some recent (direct and indirect) attacks.

For a century or so after his death Hegel's system excited, if not wider diversity of interpretation and more bitter controversy, then certainly more bewilderment, than had ever before befogged the battlefields of speculative thought. A few fervent disciples maintained that their master had achieved a system substantially if not in all detail final and complete, a philosophy destined to set at rest forever all serious philosophic doubt. Others agreed that this claim to finality was inherent in the system, but mocked openly, proclaiming Hegel an arrogant megalomaniac.

I want to concentrate on two kinds of talking about the arts. One concerns those aspects of the language of philosophical aesthetics in which generalisations about ‘art’ and ‘the arts’ are made. The other concerns the language of the critic in so far as it can be stated as having a very particular aim: ‘the stimulation’ (in, say, a reader) ‘of interest and the heightening of insight and the education of his ability to make his own appreciative judgments from direct experience’.

‘When a dog runs, the dog is moving his legs; when a sea urchin runs, the legs are moving the sea urchin.’ Philosophers have come to appreciate the importance of understanding what action is. Their attempts at the clarification of ‘action’ have led them to talk of arms going up, muscles contracting, psychokinesis, bodies moving. They want to distinguish between sea urchins and dogs. Joined with the concept of action there is that of the person. Some are inclined to say we fail to understand action when we treat the agent as the responding organism; in such a view there is no room for ‘responsibility’, ‘duty’, ‘ought’, ‘intention’, ‘volition’. Man as responding organism cannot be distinguished from sea urchins or from complex mechanisms.

Ideologies of progress sprout from an inextinguishable hope that one day things will be better. Somewhere ahead life will be more abundant and there will be less pain and fear. Somewhere ahead there will be more rationality, objectivity, and truth. Somewhere ahead there will always be more love and compassion for others. Any combination of these and of other values could easily be extracted from the literature of progress. When writers begin with the thesis, ‘there is progress in the realisation of values’, they assume two things. Firstly, they put forward a sociological-historical hypothesis according to which social changes proceed in a set direction and fall into some sort of sequential pattern, and secondly, they contrive to find that, on the whole, in this sequence, there is a linear increase in the realisation of some values which they regard as essential to humanity. A careful inspection of the second of these two assumptions discloses the belief that not only things will be getting better and better but people too. Those, then, who are ideologists of progress are committed to a coherent directionality not only in the betterment of circumstances but also in the betterment of people; in brief, social changes will be accompanied by changes in the ‘modal’ personality as well.

A. Pascal's statement of his wager argument is couched in terms of the theory of probability and the theory of games, and the exposition is unclear and unnecessarily complicated. The following is a ‘creative’ reformulation of the argument designed to avoid some of the objections which have been or might be raised against the original.

After-images, I believe, hold the key to certain much-debated issues regarding meaning and verification. In particular, an analysis of the relevant features of our discourse shows that views often held to be untenable or unintelligible or avoidable regarding our discourse about pain and similar sensations are not so easily escaped in the context of after-images.

It sometimes happens that a philosopher will develop a view on some topic and then later come to reject it. J. L. Austin was perhaps unique in that he not only rejected a philosophical view of which he himself was the author, he patiently developed the view and then showed it to be ultimately unsatisfactory within the compass of the same work. And he did this not once but three times, in material intended for publication. I am thinking, of course, of his notion of performative utterances: the view that there is a class of utterance, the members of which would on standard grammatical grounds be classed as statements, yet whose proper business is not to state anything but to perform some act. For example, to say ‘I promise to be there’ is to promise to be there, and not (or at least not merely) to state that one promises nor even to state that one will be there.

There is a story about a distinguished mathematician who had been invited to deliver a course of advanced lectures to other high-powered students of mathematics on a subject about which he was known to have some original ideas. The course, however, got off to a slow start. He devoted three lectures to discussing whether a certain proposition P was or was not self evident. The proposition P was essential to the argument he wanted to develop. Happily, he was able to announce at the opening of his fourth lecture that he had decided that P was self evident. There was an audible sigh of relief. It was now known, on the highest authority, that P was self evident. From that the argument proceeded briskly and with irresistible logic to the lecturer's surprising and devastating conclusions.