The question as to the relation of the Socrates of the Platonic dialogues to the historical Socrates, over which an apparently endless and irreconcilable controversy has raged, is well raised by a passage from Cornford, Plato’s Theory of Knowledge, at page 28: “Anamnesis appears first in the middle group of dialogues and provides the link between the two Platonic doctrines—the eternal nature of the human soul and the ‘separate’ existence of Forms, the proper objects of knowledge. The probable inference is that Anamnesis was a theory which squared the professions and practice of Socrates with Plato’s discovery of the separately existing Forms and his conversion from Socratic agnosticism to a belief in immortality.”

The founder of Psychical Research, though he has not yet received the honour due to him, seems to have been King Croesus of Lydia, who reigned from 560 to 546 B.C. He carried out an interesting experiment, recorded in detail by Herodotus,2 to test the clairvoyant powers of a number of oracles. He sent embassies to seven oracles, six Greek and one Egyptian. They all started on the same day. On the hundredth day each embassy was instructed to ask its oracle, “What is King Croesus, the son of Alyattes, now doing?” The answer was to be written down and brought back. The oracle of Delphi replied as follows, in hexameters, as its custom was: “I know the number of the sands and the measures of the sea. I understand the dumb, and I hear him who does not speak.” Then it went on: “There comes to my mind the smell of a strong-shelled tortoise, which is being cooked along with lamb's flesh in a brazen vessel; brass is spread beneath it, and with brass it is covered.” As a matter of fact, this answer was perfectly correct. Herodotus tells us that “having considered what would be the most difficult thing to discover and to imagine,” Croesus “cut up a tortoise and a lamb, and himself boiled them together in a brazen pot.” What happened afterwards illustrates the difficulties of this sort of investigation, difficulties which still perplex us to this day. Croesus argued, reasonably enough, that if the Delphic priestess had clairvoyant powers, she probably also had the precognitive powers, she probably also had the precognitive powers which she claimed to have. But when he consulted the oracle later about his forthcoming expedition against the Persians, he received two answers, one of which was ambiguous—“When Croesus crosses the Halys he shall destroy a great empire”—and the other correct, but too obscure to be easily interpreted.

There are times when we are so much in harmony with our surroundings that we are content to bask in the sunshine and to say to the passing hour, like Faust, “Stay with us; you are so fair.” There have been times when whole nations, or the most vocal part of them, have believed themselves to be living in a world which, if not the best of all possible worlds, is an abode from which they have no desire to escape. They are being challenged, for, as Walt Whitman says, “it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.” But the challenge is unheeded, and the price is demanded later. Ubi nil timetur, quod timeatur nascitur.

I want in this paper to enter a protest against the preoccupations of many contemporary philosophers, and to put in a plea for a return to the classical tradition in philosophy. According to this tradition, philosophy is, or at least should be, concerned with the whole conduct of life. It has two main functions, to clarify the wisdom of common-sense people, and to increase it. To put it technically, philosophy, as traditionally conceived, is an activity of self-conscious beings which seeks, among other things, critically to examine the manifestations of human consciousness and the principles which guide human activity; to examine not disinterestedly, but in order to illuminate, to assist, and to reform. Philosophy has, therefore, the dual purpose of revealing truth and increasing virtue. One of the methods traditionally employed for achieving these two purposes consists in the attempt to discover those values which are ultimate in the sense that, while other things are desired for the sake oi them, they alone are desired for their own sakes, to uncover by a process of analysis the values which underlie the judgments commonly passed by contemporary society—as for example, in our own society, the values implied by the judgment that increase of efficiency in slaughter is desirable, especially if combined with a readiness to undertake it whenever the State to which one happens to belong deems the moment expedient for the mass slaughter of the citizens of some other State—and to show how the latter deviate from the former.

When we climb in the high places of the earth, plodding slowly at mountaineer's pace with crampons on our boots, that we may keep foothold on the blue ice, we should stop from time to time and, steadying ourselves with our ice-axe for a moment, raise our downbent eyes, weary with guiding our steps between crevasses, to the great peaks we would conquer, and see, too, the foot hills we have left behind. Only by gazing thus can the Alpine climber find values, and often he catches too, just then, a glimpse of beauty. So it is profitable to turn from our work in laboratories and among the sick, to survey the general state of our knowledge in larger sweep. We cannot hope to have added by our deliberations to-day anything of solving value in this ultimate problem. But we clarify to ourselves the state of our small knowledge and the extent of our nescience, and, though we may throw on these matters no more light than that which Milton tells us shines in Hell, “enough to make darkness visible,” yet it were well done.