Genes cannot be selfish or unselfish, any more than atoms can be jealous, elephants abstract or biscuits teleological. This should not need mentioning, but Richard Dawkins's book The Selfish Gene has succeeded in confusing a number of people about it, including Mr J. L. Mackie. What Mackie welcomes in Dawkins is a new, biological-looking kind of support for philosophic egoism. If this support came from Dawkins's producing important new facts, or good new interpretations of old facts, about animal life, this could be very interesting. Dawkins, however, simply has a weakness for the old game of Brocken-spectre moralizing—the one where the player strikes attitudes on a peak at sunrise, gazes awe-struck at his gigantic shadow on the clouds, and reports his observations as cosmic truths. He is an uncritical philosophic egoist in the first place, and merely feeds the egoist assumption into his a priori biological speculations, only rarely glancing at the relevant facts of animal behaviour and genetics, and ignoring their failure to support him. There is nothing empirical about Dawkins. Critics have repeatedly pointed out that his notions of genetics are unworkable. I shall come to this point later, but I shall not begin with it, because, damning though it is, it may seem to some people irrelevant to his main contention. It is natural for a reader to suppose that his over-simplified drama about genes is just a convenient stylistic device, because it seems obvious that the personification of them must be just a metaphor. Indeed he himself sometimes says that it is so. But in fact this personification, in its literal sense, is essential for his whole contention; without it he is bankrupt. His central point is that the emotional nature of man is exclusively self-interested, and he argues this by claiming that all emotional nature is so. Since the emotional nature of animals clearly is not exclusively selfinterested, nor based on any long-term calculation at all, he resorts to arguing from speculations about the emotional nature of genes, which he treats as the source and archetype of all emotional nature. This strange convoluted drama must be untwisted before the full force of the objections from genetics can be understood.

Suppose that a jury in a murder trial brings in a verdict of guilty and one of the jurors still wonders whether the verdict is a good one, although he is not inclined to try to have it reversed. Is his attitude coherent?

Once upon a time, when there was no psychoanalysis or cultural anthro-pology or meta-ethics, most philosophers believed that there was objective truth in such statements as, ‘Murder is wrong’, ‘One should not steal’, and ‘Heliogabalus was an evil man’. Many philosophers still believe that there is, and though their view is not wholly respectable in most English-speaking philosophical circles, it probably has the important merit of being true. There are serious reasons for worrying about the traditional view: it is not clear how an ‘ought’ can be derived from an ‘is’; there are problems s e in trying to translate evaluative terms into descriptive ones; reflective men disagree profoundly on ethical issues; ethical judgments appear to have an emotive component; etc. Still, there are also very good reasons for believing that murder is wrong and that Heliogabalus was an evil man. I shall not defend the objectivity of statements of the form, ‘X is good (bad, evil, right, wrong)’, for I am not at all worried about such statements passing out of the language of rational men. Even behaviourists and relativists and emotivists still make reasonably intelligent statements of this form. But I am worried about the future of a related class of statements, those of the form, ‘X is civilized (barbarous)’. These statements have been gradually disappearing from our discourse; perhaps they have been casualties of recent revolutions in social science and philosophy. And this state of affairs is a tragic one indeed, for not only is there a need for statements of this form, but of all ethical statements, these are the ones whose descriptive content is most incontrovertible. Non-cognitivistic moral philosophers generally dismiss statements about the ‘civilized’ and ‘barbarous’ along with statements about the ‘good’, ‘evil’, ‘right’, and ‘wrong’. But social scientists have made statements about the ‘civilized’ and ‘barbarous’ special objects of attack. They have even suggested that people who make such statements are narrow-minded, naive, and ‘ethnocentric’. ‘Ethnocentrism’, an eminent social scientist tells us, ‘is the technical name for this view of things in which one's own group is the center of everything, and all others are scaled and rated with reference to it.’ Ethnocentrism is innocent enough up to a point, but reflective men should be careful not to allow it to blind their moral sense. The noted anthropologist, Herskovits, has given us the following warning:

Cultures are sometimes evaluated by the use of the designations ‘civilized’ and ‘primitive’. These terms have a deceptive simplicity, and attempts to document the differences implied in them have proved to be of unexpected difficulty.

In a famous text Descartes has written this:

Whenever the thought of God's supreme power occurs to me, I cannot help feeling that he might easily, if he so wished, make me go wrong even in what I think I see most clearly with my mind's eye. On the other hand, whenever I turn to the matters themselves which I think I perceive very clearly, I am so convinced by them that I burst out: ‘let who will deceive me, he can never bring it about that I should be nothing at the time of thinking that I am something, nor that it be true that I never existed if it is true that I exist now; nor even that two and three together make more or less than five, or any such thing in which I see manifest contradiction’ (AT VII, 36; HR I, 158–159).

The following beliefs can be ascribed to Hume on the basis of his writings:

(1) There is no more to our idea of cause and effect than constant conjunction and a resulting habit of mind.

(2) There is more to it than that, namely the interaction of bodies.

(3) Behind the constant conjunctions, including the interactions of bodies, there are ‘secret’ causes, not knowable by man.

(4) The principle of causality (nothing happens without a cause) is true.

(5) Our belief in the principle arises from experience.

(6) There is no justification for believing in the principle.

It is obvious that there are inconsistencies between these beliefs. (1) is contradicted by (2) and (3), and (3) appears to contradict (2). (4) and (5) are consistent, but (4) cannot be asserted consistently together with (6). There is apparently a contradiction between (5) and (6), although (as often happens when discussing Hume) the question arises whether ‘arising from experience’ is to be regarded as a justification. In the next section I shall offer support for ascribing these beliefs to Hume and in sections III-V I shall try to say why Hume wanted to hold all of them in one way or another and how they fit together in the context of his philosophy. What I shall say will I be broadly in line with Passmore's views about the diversity of Hume's intentions and Kemp Smith's thesis about Hume's primary interest in ethics.

If killing another human being is morally wrong on at least some occasions (as it clearly is), what precisely makes it wrong on those occasions? I have framed the question thus to indicate that I shall not be considering the view that killing another human being is always and everywhere morally wrong. I take it as read that there are at least some morally justifiable killings (for instance, in self-defence where no other means of disarming one's attacker is available). Once it is clear what is wrong with killing on some occasions it should become possible to explain why it is not wrong on others. My immediate concern is with the killing of another human being, and with applying my answer to cases of voluntary and non-voluntary euthanasia, but light will be shed on whether and, if so, why it is wrong to kill oneself, to kill unborn human beings, and to kill non-human animals especially those whose life has most in common with the life of human beings.

In his article, ‘Milgram's Shocking Experiments’, in Philosophy 52 (1977), Professor Steven C. Patten rejects Milgram's evidence for a Hobbesian view of human nature on three grounds: that the claim that a large number of the subjects in the experiments were not deceived is not convincing, that there is a conceptual conflation by Milgram of two senses of obedience, and that a proper understanding of kinds of authority will explain in an acceptable way the behaviour of most of the small number of subjects who might remain to support Milgram's conclusions. Patten's arguments in support of all three grounds are unsatisfactory.

An attempt to vindicate Retributivism as a moral theory has been made by Professor Winch in the context of a discussion of punishment and reward as non-institutional concepts. His method is to divorce the concepts from the institutions of punishment and reward by considering them as they feature in the recipient's consciousness. It is in the area of the agent's awareness of his relation to his past actions that Retributivism can be made to flourish again and its moral content revealed. I am in sympathy with Winch's attempt to reinstate the theory but, whatever the strengths of his position, there seem to be insuperable difficulties for the approach that takes the recipient's state of mind as having priority over the institutions. I shall examine Winch's argument in order to show that the Utilitarian theory cannot be so easily jettisoned and that the truth would seem to lie in a compatibilism between the two.

Most people believe that extraterrestrial beings or porpoises or computers could someday be recognized as persons. Given the significant constitutional differences between these entities and ourselves, the general assumption appears to be that ‘person’ is not a natural kind term. David Wiggins offers an illuminating challenge to this popular dogma in ‘Locke, Butler and the Stream of Consciousness: and Men as a Natural Kind’. Wiggins does not claim that ‘person’ actually is a natural kind term; but he argues hard for the advantages of regarding it as something like a natural kind classification. The problem is that, whatever its merits, there are obvious and fatal objections to the view that person is a natural kind. My aim is to present a modification of the natural kind thesis which avoids these objections and retains the attractions of the basic position.

These comments on Professor Gallie's paper, ‘Kant's View of Reason in Politics’ (Philosophy January 1979) are focused on a particular issue, and I shall explain at the outset what it is and why I have concentrated on it. Gallie's account of the details of Kant's political philosophy and his specific comments on them strike me as interesting and reasonable and I have, therefore, little to add. Instead I want to question Gallie's assumptions about, and dissatisfactions with, the philosophic framework on which Kant's political philosophy rests. There is, firstly, his complaint that reason is insufficiently defined (p. 23) though he takes a somewhat more positive view later. There is, secondly, his claim that Kant's moral philosophy is inferior to his epistemology (i.e. ‘less original, less illuminating, less architectonic’, p. 24). On these points Gallie is, in my view, not convincing and not even completely clear. Without disagreeing totally with Gallie's assessments—still less claiming that Kant is invariably right—I want to argue that Kant's conclusions are formidably supported by, and can best be understood in terms of, his own arguments. To me the question about the cogency of his case is more interesting than the details of his political philosophy. How rational are, in fact, his conclusions? So, at the risk of covering some familiar ground, I want to stress some of the general features of Kant's philosophy and argue, in particular, that his political philosophy is based on and, in turn, supplements, his moral one. The latter seems to me to be as intricate, interesting and fruitful as his epistemology and exhibits a similar architectonic. (This would also account for the parallel between the roles of reason in politics and knowledge on which Gallie comments (p. 28).)

Your correspondents protesting in April 1979 against the all-female issue of Philosophy in April 1978 mystify me somewhat, first by making so much fuss about it, and second by their unrealistic attitude to the force of prejudice.