Is it possible to say anything on the well-worn theme of human freedom or unfreedom which has not been ahready better said by someone else before us? It may be doubted; yet it is always worth while to see whether we cannot at least set what is perhaps already familiar to us in a fresh light and so come to a clearer comprehension of our own meaning. This, at any rate, is all that will be attempted in these pages; I have spoken in an earlier essay of the “practical situation” in which we find ourselves whenever we have to make a decision as involving indetermination, and my purpose is simply to make it plainer to myself, and so incidentally perhaps to a reader, what I mean by such an expression. I shall start, then, by adopting what we may perhaps agree to call a phenomenological attitude to the subject; that is, I will try to describe the facts in a way which anyone who recalls occasions when he has been driven to take a decision will recognize as faithful to his experience, without imparting into the description any element of explanatory speculative hypothesis. The description is meant to be one which will be admitted to be true to the “appearances,” independently of any theory about the “freedom of the will”—to describe correctly that which it is the object of all such theories to explain.

Belief is the affirmation of reality, but not all affirmations of reality are beliefs, for if we have, or have had, perceptual experience of a reality, we do not say, “I believe,” but “I see, hear, perceive, or remember.” Similarly, of the realities involved in our inner experience, we say, “What I had in mind, desired, hoped, or felt was…” or else say, more simply, “I was much moved, was in pain, felt affection or hatred, longed for, was thinking about, knew.” On the other hand, there are realities of the perceptual order in which we may express belief, as when we say, “I believe that New Zealand exists, that nitrogen is a gas, that the earth is round, that William the Conqueror crossed the Channel in 1066, that Jesus Christ suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, was buried, and rose again.” The realities in which we thus express belief are not realities which we ourselves have observed, but are such that they could have been observed by a person appropriately situated in time and in place. Hence in this case it is not the nature of the realities affirmed that differentiates belief from experience of either the perceptual or the inner type. The difference lies elsewhere. When we affirm a reality of which we ourselves have, or have had, perceptual experience, it is the reality itself, present to our perceiving mind, which alike determines the content of our affirmation and justifies us in making it.

Fifty or sixty years ago anyone fluttering the pages of one of the many magazines which then catered for the cultivated and intelligent English reader would have been fairly certain to come upon an article bearing somewhat the same title as that of the present paper. The author would probably be an eminent scientist, such as Huxley or Clifford; a distinguished scholar, such as Frederic Harrison or Edmund Gurney; or a politician of cabinet rank, such as Gladstone or Morley. Whichever side he might take, he would write with the moral fervour of which Englishmen at that time had an inexhaustible supply. Nowadays the so-called “conflict between Religion and Science,” which was then appetizingly hot from the oven, has acquired something of the repulsiveness of half-cold mutton in halfcongealed gravy. There seems to be a widespread opinion that Sir Arthur Eddington and Sir James Jeans, with some highly technical and not readily intelligible assistance from Professor Whitehead, have enabled the lion to lie down with the lamb. Well, I have no wish to pipe a discordant note in this scene of Messianic harmony. But I cannot help reflecting that psychology, anthropology, and psychical research have made considerable advances as well as mathematical physics; and that they seem prima facie much more likely to be relevant to religion. Even the ordinary common sense of the lawyer and the historian may still have something useful to say on such topics.

The subject on which I am to address you this evening is one which, though it is of fundamental importance both for philosophy and for practice, cannot but present the gravest difficulties for such treatment as falls within the limits of this occasion. Philosophical problems are always difficult, but those of ultimate metaphysics are in this respect egregious. For the simplifications that are open to the scientific phenomenologist who can rest content with a spatiotemporal world, or to the analyst who concentrates on the objective content with which the human understanding most conspicuously concerns itself, are not open to the metaphysician. He must meet the full complexity of things: not limiting himself to their appearances as objects within human experience, nor to a reflective analysis of their objective content, but taking them as they must be in themselves in order that they may appear as they empirically and reflectively do appear for the special cognitive faculties of man. I ask, therefore, for your patience and attention as I try first of all to lead you into, and then, as I hope, out of, the metaphysical labyrinth. For what I have to describe is something of a metaphysical adventure, or, if you like, a metaphysical ghoststory, in which the ghosts assume such reality as to make the solid things “give up the ghost”—which is just as it should be in a good ghost-story!

There are many difficulties connected with the notion of punishment, but perhaps it is not disputed that it is at least a deliberate infliction of pain of one kind or another. Of course, that is not an adequate description of its nature, but so far as it goes it seems to be a true one.1 And the idea that it could be morally right deliberately tp inflict pain on another, unlike, for example, the idea that it is morally right to tell the truth, is so manifestly intolerable unless we look beyond the infliction of pain itself that we are tempted to leap forward to the question, “What is the justification of such action?” before making quite explicit to ourselves what it is, over and above its being the deliberate infliction of pain, that constitutes the action punishment at all. The questions “Why hurt?” and “Why punish?” are confused with one another. No doubt some distinction between them is present vaguely in everyone's mind and the confusion may not be in fact serious: but anyhow it is a defect and should be remedied.

I Venture to take as the subject for our consideration the philosophical study of politics. However imperfect the treatment of such a subject, it seems to me opportune that attention should at this point of time be directed to the question. The study of politics is of increasing importance in the curricula of our universities and in general adult education. There is also the plain fact that we live in times when a deep unrest of spirit and a great variety of experiment challenge ideas and institutions which have received wide acceptance. There has been, in short, a return to politics. It is well that we should consider afresh the value of the study and the methods by which it is studied.

Can there be such a thing as moral science, or a science of morality? And if so, what sense has the word science in such a connection? In the middle of the last century such a question would probably have seemed superfluous. Utilitarians, Comtists, and not a few “evolutionists” would all have claimed to be moralists, with this advantage over the metaphysical or theological moralists of an earlier day that their own moral doctrines were “scientific” (which meant apparently that they formed an integral part of a wider view of things for which the principles of the natural sciences provided the foundations).

It is a widely held doctrine at the moment that metaphysical propositions are meaningless, are, in fact, not genuine propositions at all. This doctrine is supported by the contention that only propositions which are verifiable are significant: and it is held that metaphysical propositions do not fulfil this condition, and are consequently pseudo-propositions. Those who hold this view divide propositions into three classes: (I) Tautologies; which are analytic, certain, and are guaranteed by the principle of contradiction. (2) Factually significant propositions; which are synthetic, hypothetical, and are capable of empirical verification. (3) Pseudopropositions, which only appear to be propositions and are, in reality, meaningless nonsense.

Those, like the present writer, for whom the late Samuel Alexander unlocked doors to new realms of wisdom and delight, or who basked in the sunshine of encouragement and kindly advice he gave so readily to younger men, will understand with what alacrity this opportunity was seized of paying a small tribute to the memory of so unusual and attractive a personality. To resurrect the mind that has built of its own fabric a mansion so vast that its chambers have room for every fact of experience and every theory of science will always provide a happy and appropriate memorial to one whose main business in life was the disinterested speculation idolized by the Greeks as the worthiest employment to which the human spirit can devote its powers. My own share in this labour of love is small and limited in scope; I want to fill in one corner of the picture of Alexander's philosophical system, drawn by Professor Muirhead in the last number of Philosophy, by describing in some detail what he thought about Art and Beauty in their most important aspects and relations.

In my book, A Hundred Years of British Philosophy, in connection with Cook Wilson and his Oxford followers I briefly mentioned a new line of ethical research that has made its mark within the last decade. Its representatives are differently labelled, as “Oxford Moralists,” “Intuitionists,” “Neo-Intuitionists,” “Objectivists,” and with other names as well. But I could not give more than a few very insufficient hints about the new school: a fuller treatment would have exceeded the compass of my book, and, further, at the time the book was written, things were not settled enough to be made the subject of a historical review. Even now the time has hardly come for a final appreciation. Nevertheless, the discussion is so far advanced that it may be worth while to take stock of it in order to exhibit not only the new tendency itself, but also the various cross-currents which have been called forth by its appearance. Such an attempt is greatly furthered by the fact that some preliminary work has already been done in this direction by writers who have taken part in the discussion.

In studying the problems of philosophy, it is commonly considered an advantage to approach them through the history of philosophy, But to be compelled to spread one's sails, and take one's solitary course, “as if no Plato or Kant had ever existed,” has perhaps its advantages too.

My purpose in this paper is to maintain that “justice” represents an objective and impersonal recognition of the nature of moral personality, and as such should retain its identity at all levels of human relationship. It is not, as certain idealist philosophers, and notably Bosanquet, have maintained, inappropriate at the deeper levels, at which it is said to be superseded by love.

If, as we are told, Hume's essay on Miracles was an irrelevant insertion in his Enquiry to gain it the notoriety which the Treatise had missed, the artifice has certainly been successful. Hume's thesis has been hotly debated from that day to this. Neither side it seems can claim complete victory, for both make important concessions. Green, his mostly adverse critic, agrees with Mill and L. Stephen that the argument against miracles is “irrefragable” in itself, though not consonant, he thinks, with Hume's own principles: on the other hand, Huxley whilst declaring it on the historical side “irrefragable,” demurs at least to the presentation of the formal side.

What is the Critique of Pure Reason about? The terminology of the work is so perplexing, its argument so obscurely expressed, that the ordinary reader may be forgiven if he puts it down at the end very much in the dark as to what it all means. He will have seen that in it Kant has attempted to establish certain conclusions: the subjectivity of space and time, the existence and objective validity of a number of a priori concepts or categories, the falsity of the arguments used to defend the metaphysical system most widely favoured in German learned circles in the eighteenth century; but though he has grasped all this he may yet have failed to make sense of the work as a whole. It is the old story of not seeing the wood for trees; and in this case the fault is more excusable than in most, for the individual trees each demand so much attention and are so difficult to get round that it is all too easy to forget the very existence of the wood. At the worst, one may think that there is no wood at all; only a miscellaneous aggregate of individual trees which have nothing to do with each other.

Objective communication—the principal aim of languages of any kind—meets with its greatest measure of success in science and art, which can both be precise, and therefore immune to misunderstanding born of vagueness or ambiguity, by giving specific expression to ideas. But, paradoxically, in order to reach specificity science and art must be developed along two opposite directions: in the first technical terminology replaces imagery-bearing words, in the second images are cultivated to the utmost. The scientist's procedure is entirely justified. For it is undeniable that words are often misleading. because they are clouded with different images in the minds of different people.

It has been said that in Plato the intuitive mode of receiving knowledge is accepted implicitly, and that it is left to Aristotle to make a clear-cut distinction between Intuition and Reason.

So much for the Aesthetic. We can now proceed to the Analytic, the philosophical importance of which is much greater. Kant's main contentions in this part of his work can be summed up in; two propositions: (i) human understanding contains certain a priori concepts, and on these are based certain non-empirical principles; (ii) these concepts are only general concepts of a phenomenal object, and therefore the principles in question are only prescriptive to sense-experience. As has already been said, interest in the first proposition has distracted attention from the fact that the important thing Kant has to say is contained in the second.