Conscious feelings are connections. A man fears an enemy (although perhaps he has no enemy to be feared); he hopes for a rise in salary, he wishes he were twenty years younger, or that he could construct a square which could be proved to be equal in area to a given circle.

There has been a very lively renewal of interest in religion of late, especially among intellectuals. The part which philosophers take in this is reflected in a number of popular discussions of religion by philosophers, in radio talks and symposia, conferences on the philosophy of religion, as well as in subtle contributions to learned journals. The reasons for this interest in religion are many, but prominent among them is the peculiar position of philosophy today. As is well known, the dominant strain in philosophy, in English–speaking countries at present, is a severely empiricist one, and this has as one of its most distinctive features the technique by which it is claimed to show that assertions which seem to be of a non–empirical character, other than strictly logical or mathematical ones, gain their apparent plausibility through linguistic confusions of various kinds, notably our proneness to hypostatize abstractions. This development in philosophy has led to concern with religion in a number of very different ways, of which the following seem to be the most important.

IN delivering this lecture I am to speak on some aspect of truth. The practice of examining the various contexts in which a word may be used, in order to disclose what its usages have in common as a clue to its meaning, is of respectable antiquity. If I indulge this practice I find an “embarras de richesse” in modern philosophical literature under two headings, the truth of analytic propositions and the truth of synthetic propositions: the first deals with criteria of consistency and the second with criteria of verifiability.

The “Hyde” character of fear has been so widely, and generally so exclusively, dwelt upon, that a review of what can be truthfully said in praise of its “Jekyll” character is, I trust, not untimely. I shall proceed on the assumption that all the natural passions, with-out exception, are essential, ineradicable factors in our human make-up, each allowing of both use and abuse. This, as I shall endeavour to show, is no less true of fear than of what we quite justly call the higher emotions.

Professor Ayer's new book1 is of very great interest. All the discussion is skilful, much of it is ingenious; the arguments ramify, but never get out of control; the prose is pleasant, the presentation polished and civilized. Once before, Professor Ayer investigated the foundations of empirical knowledge; and the central topics of his new book are, to a large extent, the same as those of his earlier one. These are topics which have been much discussed since 1940. Ayer takes account of many of these discussions, and his views, in consequence, have changed. They have not changed quite so radically as one might have expected. Ayer thinks that the old-style sceptic ought still to be given a run on the old course against the old competitors. If I am not mistaken, it is important to keep this guiding thought in mind in trying to understand his book. For it is easy to glide comfortably over the smooth surface of this prose without noticing transitions and modulations which, in a less expertly composed treatise, might have given one a jolt.

The words “free will” have uses in ordinary talk as in “free will offering” and, most commonly, in the expression “of my (your, etc.) own free will.” We all know what states of affairs make this expression applicable, and its standard use is defined by this application. Yet philosophers discuss, or used to discuss, whether the will is free, libertarians saying that it is and determinists denying this. Are they, or were they, asking whether anyone ever acts of his own free will? If so, the question asked was absurd.

Today the questions most commonly asked by philosophical critics of religion, at least in this country, relate not to the truth or falsity of religious assertions but to their meaning. To be fair to the philosophers, however, we must of course realize that very few, if any, of those who have denied “meaningfulness” to religious statements were using “meaning” in other than a technical sense. They did not mean that the sentence “God loves us” conveys nothing at all, that it is like “schwarzibarshinee.”

One of the most serious pre-occupations of post-medieval philosophy has been to distinguish those kinds of assertion which are either true or false from those which are neither true nor false. A solution to this problem would be of the highest importance. It would indicate in what areas rational inquiry has some hope of success and in what areas it is doomed to frustration. It would tell us, for example, whether it is worth trying to think about the possible mistakenness of our moral principles, or whether such thinking is bound to be ineffective since no truth or falsity attaches to them.

“NATURAL theology” is generally used as the name of a study which seeks to “get at religious truth” by the use of man's reasoning powers, and not to expound revelation. But I want to limit its application to part of this field. By natural theology I mean here a study which seeks to “get at religious truth” by an empirical examination of things, and not by “pure reason.” It is a (would–be) “scientific” theology. An example of a natural theologian in this sense would be, I suppose, the author of any one of the Bridgewater Treatises, or Paley, or F. R. Tennant. Perhaps I might have called this kind of theology “empirical theology” (or “empiricist theology”); but I do not want to invent new terms more than I have to.

Every case of knowing that S is, was or will be P involves, when analysed, some decision or the acceptance of some decision. This applies equally when you are discussing the so-called tautological propositions of logic and pure mathematics; for you can only claim to “know” that some logical or mathematical proposition is true because you have previously decided to accept that certain meanings shall be attached to certain words, or that certain symbols shall function in a certain way. When we examine what philosophers are doing who demand that we prefix “we know” to this or that part of their analyses of perceptual situations, we find that they are often using “know” in a question-begging manner in order to buttress some particular, and usually contentious, analysis. Nor is any philosopher in a position to lay down rigid and precise rules for the proper use of “know” in ordinary conversation; although he can usefully debate the nature and cogency of the grounds on which decisions, issuing in “know”-statements, are generally made. Lastly, Austin is quite right in claiming that when I say “I know” I give my authority and pledge my word, which I do not do when I merely say “I believe”; but I give my authority and pledge my word only because I have decided, or accepted a decision, that so and so is the case.

Vladimir JankéLéVitch, who teaches philosophy at the Sorbonne, is one of the most highly individual philosophical writers in France today. He has been publishing books for some quarter of a century on both philosophy and music, of which the most recent, entitled La Rhapsodie: Verve et improvisation musicale, unites his two specialities. It is with his philosophical work that I want to deal here.

The House of Lords debate of July last on the Death Penalty Abolition Bill1 may prove to have been a landmark in British constitutional and legal history; certainly it was of the greatest interest as a specimen of current moral thinking and moral conflicts on the death penalty; and it is in this latter light that I shall discuss it here. Socialists and radicals might of course complain that a predominantly Conservative House of Lords could not be representative of current thinking; and they might contrast the voting for the second reading of Mr. Silverman's Bill in the Lords—Contents 95, Non-contents 238—with the votes that had previously been recorded in the Commons.

In a recent article In Mind, called A Religious Way of Knowing, Mr. C. B. Martin considers the claim made by some theologians to know the existence of God on the basis of direct experience of God. His paper is, he says, “an attempt to indicate how statements concerning a certain alleged religious way of knowing betray a logic extraordinarily like that of statements concerning introspective and subjective ways of knowing. It is not my wish (he continues) to go from a correct suggestion that the logic is very, very like to the incorrect suggestion that the logic is just like.”

An important part of ethics consists in the attempt to find a theoretical framework for the sincere moral discourse of ordinary people; to present, if possible, a consistent account of the ways in which such terms as “good,” “right,” “duty,” “obligation” are used in moral contexts. It is surprising that it should ever have been thought possible to account for such utterances as expressions of emotion. For the most part nothing could be less like the sighs, groans, shouts, and chuckles with which we normally express emotion than are our assertions about right and wrong, good and bad; these are usually the outcome of careful consideration and they are almost invariably expressed in cognitive terms. That is, we describe ourselves as “thinking out what we ought to do,” “coming to a conclusion as to what is right,” “knowing the difference between right and wrong,” “recognizing our obligations,” “seeing our duty.” When we do employ “emotive” words in these contexts it is almost always for the purpose of expressing anger or remorse or disgust with regard to our own moral lapses or those of others. Moral utterances, in short, have all the appearance of being statements of fact, and statements, moreover, which cannot be made in other than moral terms.

I propose to elaborate some hints dropped by Mr. Strawson2 in order to relieve those pressures of language that have led philosophers to pose and attempt to answer the pseudo-question, “How is induction justified?” Once the source of these pressures is exposed we can turn our attention to the real problems of induction, namely how particular inductive procedures are justified, without feeling that a deeper problem remains always to be solved.

The central task to which contemporary moral philosophers have addressed themselves is that of listing the distinctive characteristics of moral utterances. In this paper I am concerned to propound an entirely negative thesis about these characteristics. It is widely held that it is of the essence of moral valuations that they are universalisable and prescriptive. This is the contention which I wish to deny. I shall proceed by first examining the thesis that moral judgments are necessarily and essentially universalisable and then the thesis that their distinctive function is a prescriptive one. But as the argument proceeds I shall be unable to separate the discussion of the latter thesis from that of the former.

In Chapter 4 of his essay Utilitarianism, “Of what sort of Proof the Principle of Utility is susceptible,” J. S. Mill undertakes to prove, in some sense of that term, the principle of utility. It has very commonly been argued that in the course of this “proof” Mill commits two very obvious fallacies. The first is the naturalistic fallacy (the fallacy of holding that a value judgment follows deductively from a purely factual statement) which he is held to commit when he argues that since “the only proof capable of being given that an object is visible, is that people actually see it. The only proof that a sound is audible is that people hear it: and so of the other sources of our experience. In like manner … the sole evidence it is possible to produce that anything is desirable, is that people do actually desire it.”1 Here Mill appears to hold that “X is desirable (=fit or worthy to be desired)”—a value judgment—follows deductively from “People desire x”—a factual statement. And the second is the fallacy of composition (i.e. an illicit transition from a statement about each several member of a collection to a statement about the collection as a whole) which seems to be involved in Mill'zs argument that since “each person's happiness is a good to that person … the general happiness (is), therefore, a good to the aggregate of all persons.”2

The question I have asked, whether or not we can have a duty to believe in God, must be clearly distinguished from the question whether or not there is a God. It is possible to hold that there is a God and that I have a duty to believe that there is, but it is also possible to hold that there is a God, and I do not have a duty to believe that there is; that there is not a God, and I do not have a duty to believe there is; and that there is not a God, but I do have a duty to believe that there is. This last statement is somewhat implausible—though people have held that though there is not a God, we have a duty to produce belief that there is in others— and anyone making it would be showing thereby, if he believed it, that he himself had not done his duty. It should be noticed that any one trying to convince an atheist that he has a duty to believe in God must be trying to persuade him to accept this statement: that he, the atheist, has a duty to believe in God, although there is no God. That his belief that there is no God is false, if it is false, does not make the task any the more easy.