I Am grateful for the honour of being invited to give the second Manson Lecture. Dr. Manson believed that the study of sick people leads into the widest fields of thought, but that increasing specialization within medicine diverts the doctor from seeing man and his nature whole: the chief question seems to be (he wrote in 1930), “whether medicine is in the bondship of practice, whether it is a skilled art, or whether it can emerge to give its own contribution to abstract thought and philosophy.” Indeed, pleading with doctors to join this Institute of Philosophy, he declared that medicine should be the most philosophic of the professions. In this he was reviving an ancient claim: the arguments for it have lately been restated with much Aristotelian piety by Scott Buchanan. Now here I find myself in a difficulty at the outset: I am to speak of the relationship between philosophy and medicine, at a lecture founded by a passionate believer in their conjunction, yet I am engaged in a particular branch of medicine which was for longer than any other preoccupied with philosophy and dependent on it, but had so little profit from its fidelity that it reckons progress from the time when it struggled away from this allegiance. Psychiatry has not been able to refrain since then from many a backward glance at the older philosophy she once swore by, and she has been much influenced by the philosophies of later times: she has—doubtless in punishment for her defection—become entangled now and then in bad, unrecognized philosophy of her own making. She has, at all events, never achieved more than a temporary indifference to philosophic thought.

I will begin this paper by stating in rough outline what I consider to be the relevance of psychical research to philosophy, and I shall devote the rest of it to developing this preliminary statement in detail.

Most critics of Butler's ethics have ignored the text of the Analogy, and have confined their attention to the short Dissertation on Virtue which is printed as an appendix to that work. This is a mistake. The Dissertation can only be really understood when it is read in its proper context. Butler tells us that the Dissertation was originally intended to form part of the third chapter of the first part of the Analogy. It is indeed an integral part of that chapter, as that chapter is an integral part of the book. The whole work must be considered if we would know Butler's mind at this time.

In seeking to follow Butler's thoughts on ethics as set out in the Analogy we are met with fewer inconsistencies than are to be found in the Sermons, but a good deal more in the way of obscurity and difficult phrasing. Butler reasons very closely, and gives few concessions to the hasty reader. Also, his cautious mind leads him to qualify his statements lest he commit himself to more than he is prepared to say, with the result that his sentences often contain many dependent clauses which cloud his meaning. But, although there may be passages of a contrary tendency, the view which will be developed here seems to represent the general drift of the Analogy.

By the Parmenidean dogma I mean the proposition that “something cannot come put of nothing.” If you like to add the other half of the common statement it is that “something cannot become nothing.” But in this paper I shall be thinking mainly of the first proposition. I call it the Parmenidean dogma because, although it may have been implicit in much human thought before Parmenides, it was he, so far as I know, who first made it explicit in the form of an abstract metaphysical proposition.

The object of this paper is to examine the concept of intuition and to determine what part, if any, it should play in Christian philosophy. It is a complex inquiry, and I shall have to save space by a certain economy of purely historical detail, and also, if you will allow me, by by-passing the vexed question of Revelation and Natural Theology. It seems to me that whatever the issue of this debate may prove to be, it will not prevent philosophers from plying their trade; and whether they, or some of them, are to be dignified with the title of Natural Theologians is a problem they can leave to others. The only remaining question is, whether it is lawful for a Christian minister to engage in philosophy. As philosophy is not an openly scandalous pursuit, and there is no canon against it, I take the answer to be “Yes.” I would have you regard this paper as an essay in philosophy and allow me to investigate certain aspects of human knowledge, and the light they throw on man's knowledge of God, without presupposing a self-revelation of God to man. Without presupposing, but also without excluding it; revelation cannot be a primary datum for the philosopher, but it may well turn out to be his only ultimately satisfactory conclusion.

Adopting this standpoint, we shall inevitably be traversing that current of thought which reached England about fifty years ago and which, with its eddies and counter-currents, is still a moving force: I mean the insistence on religious experience, and more particularly the analysis of religious experience by the methods of psychology. In practice this method tended to concentrate on the experiences of the individual, and to disregard the far richer store of experience which lay crystallized in historic documents and liturgies—except in so far as these acted as a stimulus to individual piety.

North.—What is the trouble about moral facts? When someone denies that there is an objective moral order, or asserts that ethical propositions are pseudo-propositions, cannot I refute him (rather as Moore refuted those who denied the existence of the external world) by saying: “You know very well that Brown did wrong in beating his wife. You know very well that you ought to keep promises. You know very well that human affection is good and cruelty bad, that many actions are wrong and some are right”?

West.—Isn't the trouble about moral facts another case of trouble about knowing, about learning? We find out facts about the external world by looking and listening; about ourselves, by feeling; about other people, by looking and listening and feeling. When this is noticed, there arises a wish to say that the facts are what is seen, what is heard, what is felt; and, consequently, that moral facts fall into one of these classes. So those who have denied that there are “objective moral characteristics” have not wanted to deny that Brown's action was wrong or that keeping promises is right.

Is the State organic? Does it, or should it, in some way transcend the individual natures of its citizens, so as itself to be an individual more complete and of higher value than the singular individuals who compose it? Is it thus in some sense an organism, and are its citizens in some sense organs of it which gain for themselves a higher value and significance in subserving it?

The prediction of future events from our knowledge of past events is one of the main functions of Science. Such predictions are made possible by inferring causal relations between events from observed regularities. These relations are then codified into “laws of nature,” and it is through knowledge of these laws that prediction becomes possible. The concept of “causal relation” is thus a fundamental one in the structure of science. Now recent advances in physics have led scientists to modify considerably their views of this concept. It has been found necessary to abandon the idea of rigidly deterministic causal relations, and substitute in its stead relations that are only determined with a certain degree of probability. The main purpose of this paper is to analyse the meaning of these changes in our concepts of causality.

In this article I propose to examine Bishop Butler's view of the nature of moral judgment, the epistemological problem which so greatly exercised some of the British moralists of his age. I have discussed the views of four of them in The Moral Sense. The problem seems to have been peculiarly lacking in interest for Butler. This may seem at first sight an odd statement: the moral faculty, or conscience, it would be said, is the chief subject of Butler's moral writings. This is true enough. But although Butler's description of the working of conscience is unsurpassed, he gives no clear definition of the faculty. That is, he does not clearly consider the question whether the moral faculty can be said to be identical with some faculty usually called by another name, or whether it is sui generis.

One Morality or many? Liberal morality and Socialist morality; bourgeois morality and Georges Sorel's “morality of producers”; Protestant morality and Catholic; Greek morality and Christian; “aristocratic” morality and “slave” morality, “open” morality and “closed” morality—what, if any, is the relevance of such distinctions as these to moral philosophy?

Belief in the ultimacy and distinctiveness of ethical principles has been challenged in many ways to-day. The advance of science, especially in the fields of psychology and anthropology, has provided the relativist and the sceptic with many new weapons to put in their armoury; and the positivist has launched a very subtle attack. The present state of society, both in the internal affairs of the peoples of the world and in their inter-relations, has brought many moral principles into contempt. But there have also been notable advances, especially where more self-effacing virtue is concerned. Philosophers have also rebutted the attacks of the sceptic with peculiar incisiveness and vigour; indeed we know better to-day than at any other time just what we must hold if the objectivity of ethics is to be maintained. How the battle is going is by no means easy to determine. But there is one corner of the field, and that the one from which the most powerful attack of all may be delivered, which the upholder of the ultimacy of moral truths has left almost wholly undefended, so lightly does he estimate the danger from that quarter. That is the religious one. Account has been taken of the arguments of the sociologist and the Freudian psychologist, but it has been assumed, with astonishing naïveté, that religion is an ally to be wholly relied upon. But morality and religion have often been in conflict, and they seem to be so as much as ever to-day. For some of the most powerful forces in our religious life, and those which are in some ways most attuned to our needs, seem to be wholly inimical to the moral life. It is with this aspect of the vast problem of morality and religion that we can best concern ourselves in a course with the general title of “Moral and Political Conflicts of Our Time.”.

I believe we could learn more about freedom if we talked less about freedom. Because “freedom” is a word with singular prestige, various moral philosophers have embodied it in their teaching and claimed to set forth its true characteristics. Many words employed in philosophical controversy are ambiguous. “Freedom,” I think, is one of the most troublesome. I propose to attempt some disentanglement.

To begin with, there is a sense in which the meaning of “freedom” seems to present no difficulties. This sense occurs in such a remark as: “That animal was in captivity and now it is free.” I shall call this “simple freedom” and what it means is the absence of constraint. Thus applied there would probably be general agreement about the word. The difficulties arise when we come to consider freedom as pertaining to human persons. Here the distinction between simple freedom and the more philosophical definitions of the word will emerge.

On the simple definition a man is free if constraint is absent, and that is all there is to it. But this will not do for most philosophers.

It is pointed out that man is a special case in that he experiences conflicting desires. He wills a thing and he does not will it; or he wills something and at the same time he wills something else which is incompatible with it. Man, we are reminded, is a rational creature, but besides his rational will he is subject to the solicitations of impulses and desires which are not rational. Therefore, it is argued, the mere absence of constraint is not a sufficient condition of human freedom and hence not a sufficient definition of the word “freedom” as applied to human persons.

When a rainbow spans the sky the eye may rest with simple rapture on the arch of colours, or the mind may interpret it as an interplay between raindrops and light. This perceptibly separates the aesthetic relish of the colours from the scientific understanding of the bow. Archbishop Temple distinguished the restfulness of art from the restlessness of science. This applies to the wider aesthetic which includes natural products, such as snow-scenes or daffodils or rainbows, with the pictures, statues, buildings, poems, and other products of man-made art. The rainbow clearly separates the understanding sought by science from the immediate contemplative aesthetic satisfaction with the colours.

Modern ethics has been chiefly concerned with the analysis of the conditions and principles of morality; and, in particular, one of its most important achievements has been the further elucidation of the Kantian dictum that “I ought” implies that I can. On the face of it Kant's contention seems perfectly straightforward, but, on examination, it becomes apparent that the simple word “can” covers a somewhat complicated ambiguity. When it is said that I ought to do act A, it may rightly be taken that I can do act A; but the question arises whether or not this in turn involves that I am aware that I can do act A. There is clearly some significance in the assertion that I can do many acts which, however, never occur to me, either because I am ignorant of certain facts or because I have a mistaken opinion about the facts. On the other hand, it may quite properly be said that I cannot perform any act of the possibility of which I am unaware. The problem then is to determine and examine the sense of the word “can” which is a pre-condition of moral obligation.

Two rival passions are at work in men's hearts to-day, the cult of individuality and the cult of society. They give rise all too often to extravagant praise of liberty and to a no less extravagant insistence on discipline for society's sake.

It is impossible to form a balanced idea of the functions of liberty and discipline, or of the right relation between the individual and his social environment, without having a clear view of the nature of personality and community. I offer a brief and dogmatic sketch of this subject.

A personality is the product of the impact of the objective universe, past and present, on a particular experiencing subject.

I do not wish to imply that a “subject” is necessarily a substance (in the philosophical sense) or a metaphysical ego, or an immortal soul. Whether such eternal individual spirits exist or not, I do not pretend to know. I do not even, by the word “subject,” pledge myself to what Professor Broad has called a “centred theory” of the nature of mind, I do not know whether a mind is a system of experiences united in an enduring centre, as the spokes of a wheel are united in the hub; or whether it is a centreless “net” of experiences all related together in a special way. By “subject” I mean only “that which experiences,” whatever the true philosophical account of it. I mean the seeming focus or centre of experience and action. This focus is in some sense located in time and space, in fact it is located within the organism. For my purpose the subject is simply that to which experience happens, and that which responds with conscious behaviour. I do not wish to raise the epistemological problem. I merely assume the rejection of solipsism, and the reality of an objective universe which the individual experiences, however imperfectly.

Philosophy, I know, is philosophia perennis. A “dated” philosophy, therefore, would appear almost to amount to a contradiction in terms. In this sense the “challenge” implied by the title of this paper seems out of place. A challenge to philosophers—well, perhaps. But a challenge to philosophers in the atomic age (or, for that matter, in any specific age)—no!

In general such an objection is well taken. But we are, of course, never confronted with a situation “in general,” but always with a very specific—and to-day, moreover, with a unique—situation. It is a situation which has changed radically even since the close of official hostilities at the so-called end of World War II. True enough, the history of the two world-wars had already brought home to us the fact that, with the accelerating development of applied science and technology, wars were rapidly approaching a tremendous scale of destructive power. Thus it became difficult to imagine any possibilities of still more powerful implements of devastation.

Contemporary philosophical activity in India is influenced not only by India's traditional philosophy but also by Western Philosophy. One of the results of the introduction, by Macaulay, of the Western system of education into India is the popularization of the study of Western Philosophy, and Indians took to it quite enthusiastically. Sanscrit philosophical texts were at first regarded as sacred, and Europeans could have no access to them. But in time, the prejudice abated, and Sanscrit texts began to be translated into English. At the beginning, the motives behind Western interest in Indian Philosophy were mainly of two kinds: the rulers wanted to understand the culture and religions of the ruled in order to govern them without hurting their religious sentiments, and thus with the least friction; and secondly. Christian missionaries wanted converts and studied the religions and philosophies of the latter in order to find out defects in them and uphold the superiority of Christianity. But whatever be the motives and however biased the scholarship in the beginning, genuine academical interest in the philosophical literature of India came to be evinced, thanks to the work of men like Max Müller, Deussen, Rhys Davids, etc., and vast stores of Hindu, Buddhist and Jaina philosophical literature were unearthed not only in India but also outside. It should, however, be said that academical philosophers of the West did not take serious interest in Indian Philosophy as such; and not a single Indian philosophical concept has entered till now the discussions of Western technical philosophy, Schopenhauer was an exception: he made serious use of the concept of Maya.

If I utter the sentence: Hitler caused the outbreak of the second world war, some interested logician may translate my sentence into the words: Hitler necessitated the outbreak of the second world war, If that translation be made I do not accept it, unless the dragoman makes it clear to me that by the word “necessitate” he means nothing more than I mean by the word “cause.” In which case I can dispense with his services. But if he is embodying in his translation the thought that the outbreak of war followed from the existence of Hitler at a given moment of time, as the equality of the angles in a triangle follows from the equality of the sides (I assume that that follows), then I repudiate his translation, because I do not agree that a statement or proposition such as event x caused event y is a hypothetical proposition of the type if x then y. A fortiori it cannot be regarded by me as a reciprocal hypothetical proposition: if x then y if y then x; nor, to complete the possibilities, can I infer what I call the cause from the effect.