C. One is familiar by this time with the distinction drawn by some Platonists between the dialogues written by Plato while he was still under the influence of Socrates, and the later ones alleged to contain the fruits of his own independent thought. Even if, however, we accept this distinction, for me there would still remain a question as to the emancipation of Plato from other thinkers than Socrates.

A passing remark may at times be a clearer indication of basic conceptions or misconceptions than a well-pondered dissertation, and the present article had its inception in a passing remark of Professor Dewey's, to the effect that no man has as yet seen an atom, although it is quite possible that atoms might be observed in the future.

Among all the sorrows and anxieties of the present crisis in human affairs, none has caused so much consternation to thoughtful people as the open and scornful repudiation, by two of the most civilized nations of Europe, of all the moral principles, all the decent conventions, which for two thousand years have enabled human societies to live together in some degree of contentment and security. Almost all things which once seemed sacred and immutable have now become unsettled—truth and humanity, justice and reason. An apprehension of impending doom, of the break up of a great civilization, has become general.

In earlier articles an account has been given of some of the chief notions in the Organic Philosophy, namely Creativity, Actual Entities, Eternal Objects, God. In the present article the writer will endeavour to present Whitehead's doctrine concerning the space-time continuum and the nature of enduring objects implicated therein.

To the question ‘Why do you try to realize this?’ your answer may be ‘Because I desire that and I think that the realization of this would involve the realization of that.’ Or your answer may be ‘Because I desire this.’ If ‘Why?’ is interpreted as ‘Desiring what?’ the question ‘Why do you desire this?’ is improper. The word ‘desire’ is, however, frequently used in such a way as to countenance the impropriety. It is so used not only when what is pursued only as a means is said to be desired, but also when a desire for what possesses one character is said to be a desire for what possesses a a concomitant character. Strictly, perhaps, an object of desire is describable in terms only of the character immediately relevant to the desire. The expression ‘to desire what is X qua X’ is perhaps redundant; and the expression ‘to desire what is X qua Y’ is perhaps self-contradictory. But those who think, so must admit that such expressions are current among even careful speakers.

Descartes's general rule that “whatever is clearly and distinctly perceived is true” has traditionally been criticized on two closely related grounds. As Leibniz, for example, puts it, clearness and distinctness are of no value as criteria of truth unless we have criteria of clearness and distinctness; but Descartes gives none. And consequently, the standards of judgment which the rule in fact evokes are purely subjective and psychological. There must hence be set up analytic, logical “marks” by means of which it can infallibly and without arbitrariness be recognized whether any ideas or propositions are or are not clear and distinct.

In these grim and heavy years, despite all their inroads upon leisure, it seems likely that Shakespeare is read more widely and loved more deeply in this country than for many generations past, and since foreign communiqués as well as British ministers of the crown have been known to quote from him, it may be conjectured that the world as well as these islands is sensible of a part of the debt that humanity owes him. Be that as it may, there is perennial refreshment in the blended wit and wisdom and fancy of his immortal pages, and a timely privilege for his countrymen in the fact that his Histories dealt with anguished, bitter years. To be sure, we read him more for his timelessness than for his timeliness, and allow, with the speaker in King John that ‘He is but a bastard to the times, That doth not smack of observation.’ Such observation is just philosophy; but even philosophy reacts to the stimulus of its immediate environment.

Auguste Comte, writing of one of his forerunners, Montesquieu, said that the great merit of the latter's memorable work L'Esprit des Lois appeared to him to be in its tendency to regard political phenomena as subject to invariable laws like all other phenomena. Comte himself writes with regard to sociology: “the philosophical principle of the science being that social phenomena are subject to natural laws, admitting of rational prevision, we have to ascertain what is the precise subject, and what the peculiar character of those laws.” “Such prevision,” says Comte in another place, “is a necessary consequence of the discovery of constant relations between phenomena, and it is the unfailing test which distinguishes real science from that erudition which mechanically accumulates facts without aspiring to deduce them one from another.” Elsewhere he speaks of “rational prevision, the principal characteristic of true science.” And Branford and Geddes quote his saying: “Savoir pour prévoir, prévoir pour pourvoir.”

New concepts, or new and better formulations of old concepts, are essential for scientific progress. This paper is intended to focus attention on two phases of natural processes and human activities which have a variety of names, and by giving them neutral names, to deprive them of their emotional flavour. As a result I hope that two evolutionary principles of some generality will become apparent.

In recent years ethical discussion has centred round the problem of the relation between the idea of right and the idea of good. Previously it had been more or less generally assumed that moral philosophy was principally concerned with the idea of good, and followed its course by asking such questions as: What is the meaning of good? or, What are the characteristics which anything must have in order to be good? or even, What things are good? The idea of right was generally regarded as subordinate, and it was perhaps more often implied than stated that an action was right if by it something good was realized.

The aim of psychology is first of all to describe how we think, or the flow of our consciousness, and then to sum up the facts in terms of principles, generalizations, or “laws” which “govern” our thinking. These laws must enable us to foretell what a man will think and how he will act when we know his environment and the state of his thought at any given moment, provided that no unforeseeable exercise of free will intervenes. Psychology has also to inquire whether interventions of “free will” ever do occur and, if they do, what is their nature and scope.

“The well-intentioned person…must…assume the being of a moral author of the world, that is, a God” (Critique of Judgement, B. 391). Since Kant wrote those words, the so-called Moral Argument has been a battleground. In our day, at least three eminent Gifford lecturers have attested the view that the facts of the moral life are such as to warrant the belief that when truly analysed and their implications brought to light, certain quite definite theistic conclusions emerge. I refer, of course, to Professors Taylor and De Burgh and to the late Professor Sorley. But, whilst a more recent holder of that illustrious office, Professor Laird, has expressed his scepticism, no less an authority than Professor N. Hartmann on the other hand holds the opinion that far from morality implying any sort of theistic conclusion, in actual fact a living authentic morality suggests quite the opposite and seemingly postulates the non-existence of God. This somewhat startling divergence of view is accentuated by their common agreement on one all-important point, namely, that the moral consciousness recognizes an unconditional obligation to realize certain moral values which are absolute and ultimate.

William James in his Problems of Philosophy speaks about the Faith Ladder, enumerating a whole scale of standpoints individuals are likely to take with respect to a particular view of the world from “there is nothing absurd in a certain view of the world being true, nothing contradicting,” up to the remark “It must be true,” or “It shall be true, at any rate true for me.”

An Indian student, returning, after completing his course at a British university, to his own land, told his tutor that in India at least he would find once more that truth was one and indivisible. On being asked what he meant, his reply was that in England everyone separated scientific from religious truth, but that to Indian thought they were one. So familiar is this dualism of truth to us that we pass over its strangeness without question. In the Middle Ages Europe was of the same opinion as India is now. What then is the reason for the rent we have torn in the seamless vesture of truth? The answer is found by retracing our steps to the days when the old wineskins of theology were bursting under the pressure of the Revival of Learning, and, more important still, the layman was becoming the scholar. The Reformation issued no general licence to every man to think as he liked, but it at least allowed freedom of thought within certain bounds. Had Thomas Hobbes, for example, been born in 1488 instead of 1588, he would hardly have lived to die abed at the age of 91. Hobbes was not a great thinker, but he was a great iconoclast, and he created a critical temper of thought which showed itself in many who were in no sense Hobbists.

Your founders were men of vision. They built for the future. Dr. Birkbeck, Lord Brougham, Francis Place, and the rest—they must sometimes have wondered what this London would be—and England, Europe, the world—a hundred years or so after their time. When, on December 2, 1823, they opened the doors of the London Mechanics Institution, destined to grow, through many vicissitudes, to become the renowned College in which we meet to-day, they may well have let their imagination guess what might be the changes and developments in which this enterprise of theirs, according to its measure and scope, might play a part. That was a time when modern science was in its brilliant youth; when the movement for popular education was beginning to take hold, opening great prospects for the future; when, after twenty years of war, the British nation was gathering its forces for a sustained effort to remedy the great social evils that afflicted it, while in the political field, the powerful campaign was beginning that was destined to win victory in the Great Reform Bill of 1832. We may be sure that those men, of the sort—as a present-day poet writes:

“Who watch the world with pity and pride

And warm to all mankind,”

that those men would have had visions, hopes, expectations, an assurance even, that in later days a wiser and better instructed people, having established full political liberty, would have used their power to cure those social evils; with the help of a developed science, would have got rid of poverty; clasping hands with other free peoples, would have established securely the reign of peace, and so made possible an age of high material prosperity and brilliant intellectual splendour.