Arthur James Balfour was born at Whittinghame, East Lothian, on July 25, 1848. He was barely ten years old when his father died, and he succeeded to the estate. He entered Eton in 1862, and there met Lord Rosebery. In 1866 he went to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he studied philosophy under Henry Sidgwick. In 1869 he obtained a second-class in the Moral Sciences Tripos. In an autobiographical note, written long afterwards, Lord Balfour made the following reference to his mental attitude as an undergraduate: “I went to Cambridge with a very small equipment of either philosophy or science, but a very keen desire to discover what I ought to think, and why. For the history of speculation I cared not a jot. Dead systems seemed to me of no more interest than abandoned fashions. My business was with the groundwork of living beliefs: in particular with the groundwork of that scientific knowledge whose recent developments had so profoundly moved the world.” Considering his attachment to the past in matters of Church and State, Lord Balfour's contempt for the history of philosophy seems to betray a curious limitation. Unfortunately for him, the history of philosophy was not an important feature in the Cambridge philosophical curriculum, and the defect avenged itself by marring his subsequent philosophy in various ways. No doubt Sidgwick did all he could to encourage and develop Balfour's critical powers. Cambridge philosophy, under the influence of Sidgwick, was critical rather than imaginative, just as Oxford philosophy, under the influence of Green, was imaginative rather than critical.

It has been explained how science, with the freedom which makes it an art, uses ideas of its own construction, and that they are verified by nature shows them to be, directly or indirectly, at differing degrees of remoteness, congenial to and so far inherent in the material which is the subject-matter of the science. Take, for an instance, velocity. It is expressed by the ratio of two integers which measure distance and time respectively. Now a ratio is a construction of the mind, and it does not exist in external things in the sense in which universals must be said to belong to them and have in one way or another been held to belong to them since the time of Socrates, or at least Plato. Even if we agree that the integers themselves are given to mind and not created by mind, their ratio implies the intervention of mind, and does not inhere in the integers themselves. But though velocity does not inhere in things, it corresponds to and stands for something which is found alike in all moving things and varies in the moving tram and the sea-plane in a Schneider race.

The main problem which I wish to discuss in this paper may be set out in the form of a very simple question. It is this: What makes an artist—whether he be painter, sculptor, musician, poet, or anything else—desire to produce a work of art and to go on working until he has done so?

The problem of the nature and scope of Causation has again been raised into prominence by recent research on atomic structures and processes, the result being that many physicists maintain that the causational principle must now be restricted to macroscopic changes regarded as the averaged outcome of microscopic events, each of which alone may not be causally determined, or at least not completely so. Of this markedly new departure Professor Eddington is perhaps the best-known advocate. “Physics,” he asserts, “is no longer pledged to a scheme of deterministic law; the search for a scheme of strictly causal law (is) not practical politics.” But the issue concerns not Physics only, for Dr. Eddington at once proceeds to interpret his viewpoint by contending that “science withdraws its opposition to free will”; and thus the realms of consciousness and conduct are once more brought into intimate connection with the realm of physical phenomena. It must of course be recognized that the question still remains highly debatable; for, as Sir Oliver Lodge has recently urged, “break down causality, and we are left with chance. That is wholly unsatisfactory. Chance is no solution”; and he likewise expands his survey beyond Physics by adding, “not in that way would I aim at freedom.” It is scarcely necessary to refer to current controversy in the biological sphere, between those who regard living processes as falling, if only to some degree, outside the domain of causal action, and those who insist that such action is universal, the indubitable proof of their position being prevented only by the difficulties of investigation.

Just three years ago I contributed to this Journal a few remarks on the problem of the relation of “God” to “the World.” I propose in the present article to add some observations on the closely connected (and, indeed, overlapping) problem of the relation of “God” to “Man”; especially in view of the theory, by no means a new one, but at the moment much in evidence (and that in more shapes than one), that when we speak of God what we have really in mind is our own human nature or some part or aspect of it, imaginatively objectified as a distinct or independent reality.

The psychologist finds himself in disagreement with a method of treating religious dogma current amongst many philosophers and theologians who regard it as a purely intellectual matter with an entirely intellectual history. This tradition belongs not only to philosophers and theologians; students of comparative religions have, in the past, erred in the same way. Tylor, for example, lays it down as the first condition for research into primitive religions that “the religious doctrines and practices examined … are treated as belonging to theological systems devised by human reason, without supernatural aid or revelation.” Elsewhere he says that the student will “search for the reasonable thought which once gave life to observances now become in seeming or reality the most abject and superstitious folly.”

By an “organism” I mean a living thing, in the most ordinary sense. There is an “organic theory of nature” in which the term “organism” is extended so as to include atoms, molecules, crystals, colloidal micelles, etc.; such constellations of parts have been called “inorganic organisms” by Driesch. I shall regard them as the “results of organization.” As we know them they are “models” (variant with the progress of physics), and they exist in the minds of physicists just as differential equations are in the minds of mathematicians. They express arrangements just as a trade union (an organization) is an arrangement, and just as artifacts, such as the nest of a chaffinch or the sleeping-bag of an Arctic explorer, are expressions of arrangements.

We were led, at the close of the last paper, to the conclusion that the moral judgment lays claim to a knowledge of what is unknowable. It is not merely that our volition is imperfect, that the act of necessity falls short of what we know to be right. This seems bad enough; but the plight in which we actually find ourselves is even worse. The paradox is that we never know, and never can know, in any particular situation, what it is really right to do. We know indeed that it is always right, really and absolutely right, to do what we believe to be right. For a man to act “against his conscience,” after all possible thought has been taken for its enlightenment, we know to be morally wrong. But this knowledge is purely formal and gives no clue to the matter of moral obligation. It tells us what is common alike to any and every case of moral duty; it does not tell us what we ought to do. For the right that we will cannot be merely the rightness of willing it. What I ought to do cannot be merely that I ought to do it. Now our beliefs and judgments as to material rightness, i.e. as to what it is right to do in a concrete situation, are notoriously liable to error. So we seek for a criterion by which to test our variable and fallible judgments, a criterion of what is really right. But the search is doomed to failure; we can only test beliefs by beliefs, our former beliefs by our later, the beliefs of one man or society or age by those of others.