Part I is about valuing fairness, II chiefly about not valuing it. Equally, I is about knowing fairness or taking yourself to know what it is, while II is chiefly about not knowing what it is: absolutely not knowing what it is, or not knowing what it is except when it is thought of in a narrow way. I want to know what all those states involve, e.g. whether knowing what fairness is involves valuing it, and most of all (in Part II) whether those two aforesaid ways of not knowing what fairness is involve some knowably undesirable kind of ignorance; in that sense, incur a cognitive penal sanction. But I begin elsewhere.

No one who is interested in the problem of value and attempts to read through the literature on the subject can fail to be struck by the extraordinary diversity of opinion. Some of this difference of view is traceable to ambiguities in language; there are various terms employed, each of which, of course, may or may not express any valid idea—terms like value, values, kinds of value, sorts of things that have value, value-objects, things that have value. The terms value and values are subject to and lead to much confusion, even on the part of those who are aware of the existence of such a danger. Much of the difference may probably be due to two other important factors: first, the education and training in earlier years whereby emotional reactions to words instead of intelligent understanding of their meaning and validity are induced, and, second, the continual reliance upon moral experience, which reliance may seem to be necessary, but which may be invalidated by the consideration, generally overlooked and unappraised, that moral, like social, experience might not be what it is if certain views were not entertained and did not prevail. The latter possibility would put moral and social studies on a plane quite different from that of physical investigations, for the moral and social inquirer would always have to bear in mind that the facts with which he is confronted, and to which he seeks to appeal, may exist to confront him and his fellowmen only in the sense that they arise from the acceptance and effectuation of a belief or theory, and would not be but for the effectuation of the belief or theory. The other factor, that of the influence of education and training upon emotional reactions, is also important in relation to a study of value, for it is necessary to be on guard against confusing reactions to words and reactions to objects, things, or situations.

It will, I suppose, be readily agreed that questions concerning the scope of moral principles are of vital importance for the moral philosopher. If we are to accept a view, such as Professor Hare's, that there are formal criteria for any morality if it is to count as a morality, then it is necessary to know what is left outside the fence. Are Egoism and Caste Morality to count as moralities, restricted to the interests of one and of a limited group of persons respectively; or is there a logical absurdity in calling them moralities at all?

Hare's thesis of ‘prescriptive universalisability’, as definitive of the formal structure of any moral system, rules out such restricted ‘moralities’. Using ‘ought’ as a key-concept in moral discourse, Hare suggests that the word has two basic functions:

(i) to prescribe: meaning to commend courses of action sincerely to oneself and others.

(ii) to prescribe consistently, or universalisably; that is, in the same way, on relevantly similar occasions, to anyone, including oneself, unless valid reasons for discrimination of persons can be offered.

I shall show that there are two concepts of God in Hume's Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, both of which conform to the main epistemo-logical tenets in his earlier writings. Firstly, Hume considers the notion of God as an explanatory cause, and rejects it; secondly, he considers the notion of God as the name of a private sentiment, and whilst not rejecting the notion, emphasises that it has no explanatory power.

In a famous passage in her book, Intention, Professor G. E. M. Anscombe argues that we can only render intelligible the idea of someone wanting a thing if we know under what aspect the person sees the thing as desirable. The wanted thing must be characterized by the wanter as desirable in some respect. ‘[What] is required for our concept of “wanting”’, she says, ‘is that a man should see what he wants under the aspect of some good’ (p. 74). And furthermore, ‘the good (perhaps falsely) conceived by the agent to characterize the thing must really be one of the many forms of good’ (p. 76). Thus, while the object of desire need only be conceived as good by the wanter, and need not be really good, this can only be because the object does not have the desirable character the wanter believes it to have, not because the character supposed to be desirable is not really so. Desire cannot but be for one of the real forms of good.

The distinction between mental illness and bodily illness would seem to presuppose some sort of distinction between mind and body. But dualist theories that the mind is a substance separable from the body, or that mental events could occur without any bodily events, raise ancient conceptual problems, which I do not propose to review here. What I want to do is to examine the psychiatric implications of materialist theories, which hold that the mind is the brain, or a function of the brain. If all character has a basis in chemistry, can we still attribute some mental distress to character and some to chemistry, as if the two categories were different?

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?

Metaphysics as a human enterprise is for ever called upon to vindicate its claim to be entitled “knowledge.” Sometimes the challenge is issued in the name of irritated common sense. Sometimes metaphysics is relegated into insignificance by a supercilious estheticism. Sometimes metaphysics is excommunicated for daring to trespass on the holy domain of religion. Here its death sentence is pronounced by an all-embracing scepticism, and there by the confident faith in the universal adequacy and exclusive validity of the methods of science. The attacks on metaphysics throughout the ages have been so numerous and so severe that one would expect the victim to have expired long ago. Yet the inextinguishable will-to-live exhibited by metaphysics has been as remarkable a phenomenon as the perennial tenacity of her would-be executioners. And although the bells have been tolled many times for metaphysics, she is still able to announce with Mark Twain that the rumours of her demise have been slightly exaggerated. In the long run, history seems to reveal a singular indocility with respect to the arguments of the enemies of metaphysics, and as Gilson has pointed out, one of the lessons to be derived from the study of the history of philosophy is that metaphysics always buries its undertakers.