Now in his 89th year, Viscount Samuel, who with advancing age has had progressively to restrict the activities of his many-sided life, has reluctantly decided not to stand this year for election to the Presidency of The Royal Institute of Philosophy. It is but fitting, before he vacates the Presidential Chair in June, that PHILOSOPHY, as the official organ of the Institute, should pay a small tribute to one who has served its interests so devotedly, and whose claims on its gratitude cannot be exaggerated.

Professor Braithwaite’s inaugural lecture, here published in book form,1 is a trial run at a Platonic definition of the concept of dianemetic justice; or, as he himself would put it, a rational reconstruction of the concept “sensible-prudent-and-fair”. Aristotle left it that dianemetic justice was an equality and a matter of ratios. A just distribution of őoα µεριστ? τoς κoινωνoσι τς πoλιτείαѕ2 (Greek for “Co-operators’ Surplus”) was one in which each had an equitable share, no one having either more or less than he should. Professor Braithwaite goes further and replaces Aristotle’s ordered scale of the-more-and-the-less in which only imprecise and unhelpful answers could be given, by a numerical scale in which he can frame the question “Exactly how much is a fair share?” and propound his s own solution.

Logical positivists describe certain classes of propositions as analytic or synthetic. Their position would be unassailable if they left the matter at that. Unfortunately they add a rider to the effect that all propositions are one or the other. Pseudo–propositions, being neither one nor the other, are described as nonsense. The above rider itself appears to fall into neither class and an immediate objection may be made to the positivist's standpoint on the ground that it commits him to nonsense by his own definition.

The strongest argument which convinced adherents of determinism put forward is that the admission of freedom of the will does away with the principle of causality within the sphere of personal existence, and makes human activity incomprehensible. “I understand” and “I explain” mean: I apprehend the presentations of experience in terms of the basic forms of thought, and in this way I assimilate them, I register them in the system of knowledge which makes up my intellectual capital. One of these forms of thought, and one of the very highest importance, is the concept of causality: without it the mind would remain perpetually bemused before an orderless world of phenomena, displaying no rhyme or reason, like the world of magic or that of dreams. If, therefore, freedom of the will excludes a principle on which our intellectual well-being depends so “much, it must be rejected by the philosophical mind and given no place amongst the truths which that mind recognizes. There is a lasting validity in Immanuel Kant's observation:“If we grant that morality necessarily presupposes freedom (in the strictest sense) and if at the same time we grant that speculative reason has proved that such freedom does not allow of being thought, then the former supposition— that made on behalf of morality—would have to give way to this other contention, the opposite of which involves a palpable contradiction.”.

Richard Price argued for democratic institutions on the ground that each individual has a moral responsibility for the good government of his community. This assumption that political responsibilities are moral responsibilities was in turn derived from the belief that each individual has a continuous duty to create in his own personality and in his relations with his fellow men the conditions of the virtuous life. Popular political responsibility was thus defended by the extension of a rigorous moral athleticism into the sphere of social arrangements. The dominating feature of this demand for comprehensive reform and reconstruction is the attempt to construe the moral life as a process in which the individual struggles to recreate himself in the light of his most mature conceptions. These conceptions, Price maintained, are determined rationally, and that they are so is presented in two different ways. Either as in the case of the principles of moral judgment they are held to be the objects of a rational intuition; or as in the defence of democratic institutions they are derived from an abstract construction of the demands of moral personality.

In a pair of very important papers, namely “Space, Time and Individuals” (STI) in the Journal of Philosophy for October 1955 and “The Indestructibility and Immutability of Substances” (IIS) in Philosophical Studies for April 1956, Professor N. L. Wilson began something which badly needed beginning, namely the construction of a logically rigorous “substance-language” in which we talk about enduring and changing individuals as we do in common speech, as opposed to the “space-time” language favoured by very many mathematical logicians, perhaps most notably by Quine. This enterprise of Wilson's is one with which I could hardly sympathize more heartily than I do; and one wishes for this logically rigorous “substance-language” not only when one is reading Quine but also when one is reading many other people. How fantastic it is, for instance, that Kotarbinski1 should call his metaphysics “Reism” when the very last kind of entity it has room for is things—instead of them it just has the world-lines or life-histories of things; “fourdimensional worms”, as Wilson says. Wilson, moreover, has at least one point of superiority to another rebel against space-time talk, P. F. Strawson; namely he (Wilson) does seriously attempt to meet formalism with formalism—to show that logical rigour is not a monopoly of the other side. At another point, however, Strawson seems to me to see further than Wilson; he (Strawson) is aware that substance-talk cannot be carried on without tenses, whereas Wilson tries (vainly, as I hope to show) to do without them. Wilson, in short, has indeed brought us out of Egypt; but as yet has us still wandering about the Sinai Peninsula; the Promised Land is a little further on than he has taken us.

MR. A is a liar. He repeatedly tells untruths, sometimes with malicious intent, sometimes for the purpose of dramatizing himself. Although he is perfectly aware of telling these untruths, he none the less ardently proclaims to himself and to others his complete honesty. In doing so it is no part of his intention to deny or to overlook the facts of the case. On the contrary he confesses his misdeeds with an embarrassing frankness. Mr. A's intention is to explain and to excuse these misdeeds. He says that each of his lies has been required by some accidental or unusual external circumstance, that his true inner self is in no way responsible for them and in no way affected by them. By nature, in his essence, he is absolutely honest.

The vocabulary of the art-critic seems to consist of two groups of words, those that refer to the formal or surface properties of the work of art, and those which refer to properties we can at first loosely term imaginative. The first group consists of words and phrases like “unity” (sometimes “organic unity”), “coherence”, “consistency”, “compactness”, “elegance”, and so on. The way such words are cashed will consist in an analysis of the determinate formal qualities of the work of art as evidence of the skill of the artist as a craftsman.

Sometimes we draw conclusions about a thing's existence or its value by considering what are thought to be its consequences. I shall say that an argument is pragmatic when it consists in estimating an action, or any event, or a rule, or whatever it may be, in terms of its favourable or unfavourable consequences; what happens in such cases is that all or part of the value of the consequences is transferred to whatever is regarded as causing or preventing them.

In the Tractatus 4.126 Wittgenstein introduces the notion of a formal concept which, he says, needs to be distinguished from the notion of a proper concept, i.e. a concept such as that of “man” which has an ordinary empirical application. The sense in which formal concepts are formal is not that they have anything in particular to do with formal logic or logical form, but that they are concerned with what Wittgenstein called the “form of representation”. That is to say that they are concerned with the ways in which expressions can represent the world. To put it in another way, they are concerned with the use or application to which expressions might be put. (It is sufficiently clear, I think, that a large part of the Tractatus might be rewritten in these terms, in such a way as to leave it consistent with the later Wittgenstein.) Now, it is well known that for the Wittgenstein of the Tractatus it was impossible to say anything about the form of representation of any expression: this could only be shown. Hence Wittgenstein calls these formal concepts “pseudo–concepts”, meaning by this not that there are not such concepts, but that they are incompatible with his theory.

Utilitarianism has been attacked many times and from many points of view. Among other objections has been the charge that it cannot account for the moral phenomena connected with justice; we are interested, it is said, not only in producing as much good as possible, but also in distributing it in a certain way. The Utilitarian usually replies that these phenomena either can be deduced from Utilitarianism or are illusory, but a natural reluctance to go against the data of our moral experience usually inclines him to the first alternative. One of the most interesting of the Utilitarians from this point of view is Sidgwick, because he makes Utilitarianism his philosophical basis, but at the same time he has a set of maxims (ME 3.13)2 part of whose purpose is to cover the common-sense views on justice. In this article I shall consider the relations between these maxims and Utilitarianism, and shall try to show by means of an example that some of them do go beyond Utilitarianism, and that in so far, at any rate, as these maxims do represent the common-sense view, it and Utilitarianism are not in all cases strictly reconcilable.

How can naïve realism defend itself in face of the illusion of the penny which looks elliptical when it is seen obliquely? Of late many philosophers have tried to deny that a penny looks elliptical when viewed obliquely: they have claimed that it still looks round. It may be true to say this of a small object like a penny, but it cannot be denied that the surfaces of objects in general do look different in shape when viewed from different angles: a large circular object, like a round table, does not look round but elliptical when viewed obliquely. Nevertheless, for convenience, I shall use the example of the penny. The reader may suppose, if he wishes, that the penny is viewed from a considerable distance, say ten feet.

In the summer of 1953 a lecture-course organized by the British Council was given at Peterhouse, Cambridge. The Faculty of Moral Science were responsible for the programme of lectures and discussions, and Miss Margaret Master man and Dr. Theodore Red path were appointed by the Faculty as joint directors. The lectures must have been well received by the teachers of philosophy who attended and participated in the discussions— representatives from the Continent, the United States and even China were on hand; and the suggestion arose quite naturally that they be published in a single volume. However, some of the lecturers wished to redraft the papers they had read and hence the essays now presented, under the editorship of C. A. Mace, in the volume British Philosophy in the Mid-Century, A Cambridge Symposium (George Allen and Unwin Ltd., 1957) are in a number of instances dressed up and greatly expanded versions of the lectures actually given. Further, it is worth noting that the essay by G. E. Moore was written specifically for this volume and is based on a discussion held with some students who attended the sessions at Peterhouse. Thus it is that the papers now published vary greatly in length from the welcome ten pages contributed by G. E. Moore to the seventy-nine pages from Miss Master man. This disparity is, of course, an anomaly in a volume explicitly designed to reflect trends in very recent British philosophy and to convey, to those relatively unfamiliar with it, some reliable picture of its condition at mid-century. But this volume records a present-day Cambridge symposium and as such it must in some measure reflect quite local interests and conditions. However, most of the contributors are very well known and the essays now presented to the public contain a good deal that will interest and profit the reader.

There is now a well-established distinction recognized in the ways simplicity considerations enter into science. Laws of nature (and theories built out of laws of nature) may be graded either with regard to their simplicity of form or with regard to the fewness of the concepts employed to express them. I shall distinguish these as formal simplicity and conceptual simplicity respectively. Dr. J. O. Wisdom suggests that it should be fewness of non-instantial concepts that serves as the guide for making judgements of relative simplicity; a “non-instantial” concept being a concept which is constructed for the purpose of theory, its meaning not being derived simply from experience. Hence non-instantial concepts are, from a logical point of view, to be contrasted with the concepts used to express and record observations directly, that is with instantial concepts representing observables. This seems to be too narrow a restriction on the reduction of concepts. Clearly an advance towards simplicity has been made not only when e.g. a non-instantial concept like “force of gravity” is eliminated from our technical language, but also when the number of instantial concepts is reduced by redefinition, in terms of a smaller number of observables. For example a great simplification was surely made when space-traversed, time taken and mass were chosen as the dynamic “simples”, for the multiplicity of kinds of motion were found to be expressible as functions of these concepts. “Motion” is not non-instantial in the same way as “force of gravity” or “kinetic energy” is non-instantial. However, once this extension to instantial concepts is made there is no need to quarrel with the form/concept distinction as marking a pritma facie difference in criteria of some methodological importance; for a choice say to concentrate on using the fewest concepts does, and one would be inclined to think must, lead to a “decrease” in the formal simplicity of the laws of nature.

In recent years sense–datum theories have received much criticism, but there is one type of error frequently involved in the sense–datum concept which is in need of further consideration. This error consists in a category confusion of such a nature that what is properly regarded as perceptual mode is treated as though it were the attribute of a thing. The mode or manner of perception is mistakenly transferred to the sense–datum with results which a little careful reflection shows to be absurd. In what follows a specific case of this error connected with the notion of phenomenal organization will be discussed.

The questions traditionally known as ontological have sometimes been summed up in the deceptively simple interrogative: “What is there?” But this formulation is notoriously misleading, because it suggests that we are already quite clear as to what “Being” is, i.e. as to what we mean when we say of something, that it exists. And this is not always so. Moreover, when we make statements like, “Time exists”, “redness exists”, it is almost never so. Statements of this kind, of course, are very uncommon. We could imagine a situation in which they could have a use, but only a rhetorical use. We would be hard put to say how to go about answering them or debating them.

“The pattern is new,” T. S. Eliot has written, “at every moment”: for our past and the history of our culture forms a pattern for us, and each new step that we take implies a revaluation of all that has gone before. Professional philosophers are no longer much given to sayings of this sort; they leave it to poets to make them. Yet surely if these words apply anywhere they apply to the history of Philosophy. A new philosophy or a new position in Philosophy, genuinely new, involves the adoption of different categories, a new orientation; it involves the re-writing of its history and a changed outlook on a whole landscape of problems. The perspective is altered, we find; the masses re-group themselves and the relations fall differently into place.

The problem I shall discuss is What reason have we for believing that there are physical objects? My purpose is not either to raise or to dispel doubts as to the existence of physical objects; this doubt constitutes a medical rather than a philosophical problem. The point of asking the question is that, while there can be no reasonable difference of opinion as to whether there are physical objects, there can be and is reasonable difference of opinion as to how the notion of a physical object is to be analysed; and if we are clear as to what grounds there are for believing in physical objects, we shall also be clearer as to what sort of physical objects we have grounds for believing in. Also, it is worth while to inquire which other beliefs are logically connected with, and which are logically independent of, the belief in physical objects.

I am going to take the statement: “Value judgements are simply expressions of emotion”, as the kernel of the Emotive Theory and any variant of the Emotive Theory not covered by this statement is left untouched by what I have to say.

Some readers, even though well versed in philosophy, may be bewildered by Wittgenstein's posthumous book on the philosophy of mathematics and unable to find a dominant theme running through even a part of it; to list the main contents–headings would make them none the wiser. Although two main themes may in the end be discerned in it, they do not pervade the book after the usual manner of themes; one has rather the sense of wandering about the corridors of a maze; and, to add to the reader's perplexity, the maze has no definite centre. This mode of presentation, leading one through a maze, whose “centre” is the discovery that there is no centre, in itself conveys some philosophical message. Can we possibly say what Wittgenstein was trying to do? To answer this, seeing that this work is largely in line with the rest of his philosophizing, I propose to bid the present book a long farewell, to take an excursion into the field of Wittgensteinian and related philosophy, and against this background to try to give some picture and assessment of the contents of the work.