It is a pleasure to all of us to hold forth upon subjects about which we know very little. It is particularly a temptation to university professors to get away from the subjects of their own chairs and lecture as dogmatically as their nature demands on subjects of other people's chairs. That is why I am speaking to-night about Psychology. As to Vice, the case is a little different. Even if my own experience is regrettably limited, I have for some years studied the Chairman, and I bring my observations before a society full of persons whose range and profundity of knowledge will be sufficient to correct any hasty generalizations on my part.

My subject is the place of myth in philosophy, not in religion. If I were dealing with the philosophy of religion, I should, of course, have much to say on the place of myth in theology; and what I have to say may have some bearing on this subject; but I am not dealing with particular dogmas of Christianity or of any other religion. My thesis is that when the mind communes with the world of values its natural and inevitable language is the language of poetry, symbol, and myth. And, further, that philosophy has to deal with a number of irreducible surds which cannot be rationalized. They must be accepted as given material for reason to work upon. For example, we do not know why there is a world; we cannot unify the world of what we call facts and the world of values; there are antinomies in space and time which do not seem to disappear when we put a hyphen between them. Our reason–some would say reason itself— has reached its limits. We are driven to mythologize, confessing that we have left the realm of scientific fact. We give rein to the imagination, not exactly claiming with Wordsworth that it is reason in her most exalted mood, but hoping that the creative imagination may reveal to us some of the real meaning of questions which we cannot answer.

Cast a backward glance over the last hundred years and it will be seen at once where the greatest advance has been. We cannot claim, I fear, that it has been in philosophy. Nor yet has it been in the sphere of religion; nor in politics; nor in the arts. Plainly enough, it is in science that this age has excelled; and in industrial production through the help of science.

One of the marks of our times is a new eruption of the personal. Systems and institutions of politics are clouded over. The impersonal principles on which these systems and institutions depend are still more deeply obscured. Men turn for their inspiration to the living flow of personality. Some leader who has burst from hidden and elemental depths commands a passion of personal loyalty. Leadership has always been a great factor in the history of human communities. The deification of the ruler was the cement of the Hellenistic monarchies and of the Roman Empire which inherited their tradition. It may seem a strange atavism that we should now be apparently recurring, in the twentieth century, to a similar practice. But there are exigencies of contemporary life which explain the new vogue of leadership, and there is a tide of contemporary thought which leads on to the current doctrine of the emergent leader.

It has long been the habit of philosophers, and is still a common failing of ordinary playgoers, to see tragedy through the coloured spectacles of an acquired philosophical or religious outlook, and to commend or condemn rather from the standpoint of partiality for a certain view about life in general than from that of one assessing the intrinsic merits of a work of art. Because we all, whether laymen or specialists, theorize about the nature and destiny of that mysterious universe which, for a brief span, our minds illumine, and because the working hypothesis so engendered is inevitably tinged by our personal idiosyncrasies of temperament and taste, there have been—and, building on such a foundation, there must be—almost as many different theoretical explanations of the tragic as theoreticians speculating on this high theme. Besides introducing that personal equation which has always been anathema to science, the distorted vision for which philosophical preconceptions are responsible brings with it minor illusions that are scarcely less injurious; the reading into a play or a novel of notions that had never entered the poet's brain, or the interpolation of history with incidents that never really occurred, the discarding of much that is genuinely tragic because it happens not to fit into the mould shaped by our own ideas, and the acceptance of much that is not merely untragic, but actually inartistic—pacifist, or communist, or feminist, or religious propaganda—because it happens to display the native hue of our own convictions.

The student of Spinoza is faced by a peculiar difficulty. On opening the Ethics—Spinoza's chief work, completed for publication shortly before his death in 1674—he finds a system of metaphysics set forth in geometrical form, starting from definitions, axioms, and postulates, and advancing synthetically from first principles to a detailed interpretation of the universe. The difficulty lies not in the language— Spinoza's Latin is easy to construe, and there are translations—nor in the lack of literary graces; his style indeed is singularly impressive in its austere dignity. It lies rather in this, that the method of exposition conveys a misleading suggestion of dogmatism and finality, and conceals almost all traces of the patient inquiries that issued in the finished structure. If once the principles of the system are admitted, the rest appears to follow by logical necessity. But by what processes of thought was Spinoza led to those principles? This is the problem that besets the reader: in order to understand the Ethics, he must penetrate behind the text of the propositions to their significance as answers to the questions that were stirring in Spinoza's mind.

This paper is concerned with the study of economic activity from two points of view; the first is that of the man of business, and his problem is “Of what use or value is the study of the activity to those who are actually engaged in the activity?” He has continually to grapple with individual and concrete situations and thus feels the clash between them and the abstract general pronouncements of certain economic studies: consequently he is bound to ask whether the latter have in fact any relevance for him at all.

It was in 1686, in what has since been given the title of the Discourse on Metaphysics, that Leibniz wrote the first systematic exposition of his philosophy. The central conception of the Discourse is the conception of individual created substance. Each complete individual in the world is active, but entirely self-contained. In it are to be found traces of all its past activities, and the ground of its present and future activities. Though all created substances are completely independent of one another, yet their activities are in thoroughgoing correspondence, and between them they make up a universe which is a perfect harmony.

The connection of value-experience with activity has led to the widespread modern tendency to interpret value in terms of interest. To value a thing is certainly to take an interest in it, and there can be no doubt that the value any object has for us tends to vary with the interest we take in it. The suggestion readily arises, therefore, that the value of any object simply is the interest we take in it. The difficulty with views of this type is that interest is a distinctly subjective category while value is persistently spoken of as if it were somehow objective. Indeed, the term “value” would lose the most essential element of its meaning if it could not be applied to objects of common knowledge in such a way that two people could significantly discuss the question as to whether the object A is not more valuable than the object B and each, on the basis of his own interest and experience, defend a different view. I do not think the subjectivity of value can be as easily disposed of as does Laird1 in discussing the argument, “Beauty is not in the aurora. Therefore it is in the beholder's mind.” This, he says, leads to the absurdity, “Therefore the beholder's mind is beautiful.” The apparent absurdity is due to the ambiguity of the term “beautiful.” It is applied either to an experience or to the object of that experience.

Nicolas Malebranche was born in Paris on August 6, 1638, and died there on October 13, 1715. According to Fontenelle he was a tenth, according to André a thirteenth child, and his “machine” (i.e. his body) was persistently refractory. He was tall—about six feet—but something misshapen from rickets or some other such cause. His spine, according to the unprofessional P. Adry, was “tortueuse dans toute sa longueur,” his clavicles too large, while his arms “n'étaient point attachés à l'ordinaire.” Besides he had “all the maladies known in his time,” including severe acidity of the stomach from the age of twenty-five onwards (probably arising from a duodenal ulcer). Nevertheless, he used to chew tobacco and was one of the earliest Parisians to become a coffee-drinker. For the most part, however, he tried to “manage his machine” by drinking water copiously. His portraits show him to have been strange, gaunt, intense, high-browed, and small-chinned.

In a little book of 155 pages the late John Scot Haldane gave the world his final message. Much as his friends and admirers must regret his recent death, we may rejoice that in these few pages he has succeeded in presenting in clear and unmistakable fashion the philosophy which, throughout his long life of highly successful detailed research in physiology combined with equally effective and untiring application of his findings to practical problems, he slowly developed into the outlines of a comprehensive and rounded system.

One of the strangest of the many strange habits of philosophers, which mark them out as the Ishmaels of the scientific world, is their refusal to agree as to the precise meaning of the words they use. No philosopher, it seems, is bound by the definitions given by predecessors or contemporaries of even the most central terms: each has to define his terms for himself. The resulting situation certainly lends itself to ridicule and caricature, as in the legend of the theological disputants who arrived after long argument at the conclusion that when the one said ‘God’ he meant what the other meant when he said ‘Devil.’ Still it is probable that this idiosyncrasy of philosophers has some real ground in the special nature of the task on which they are engaged, and is not a mere exhibition of aimless malice or sheer incompetence. Whether that is so or not, one of the consequences of this situation is that the titles of philosophic discourses are apt to be singularly unilluminating: as an indication of the problem to be raised they are, to say the least, highly ambiguous. How the reader may understand the title of this paper I do not know; but the question which I had in mind in choosing it was this.

On page 95 appears a review of a book by Professor E. A. Milne in which is described a new theory of the metrical character of the world and the interpretation, in the light thereof, of many important astronomical phenomena. Although the author states that his object is not to criticize the general form of the principle of relativity, there appears to be a fundamental distinction between the viewpoints of Einstein and Milne which is frequently emphasized and which it is profoundly important to examine as minutely as possible, for if Professor Milne's claim is established the foundations of physics are essentially modified. The purpose of this article is to compare the outlooks implicit in Milne's theory and the theory of relativity, respectively, in order to see how far, if at all, current ideas require alteration. It should, be mentioned that, although Professor Milne speaks of his theory as “the principle of relativity in a much weaker form” (weaker, that is, in its power of restricting natural possibilities, not in its power of representing phenomena) and frequently uses the word “relativity” to describe it, we shall here, to prevent misunderstanding, restrict the meaning of the word to Einstein's theory.

There is no such opposition between mind and spirit for Santayana as for Descartes existed between matter and mind, provoking him to uncompromising fireside dichotomy. For spirit is born out of an achieved harmony, Santayana says, and this harmony is the psyche. There can be then, it will be seen, no direct opposition. Actually, mind yields spirit. But there is some degree of conflict, precisely the conflict between ethereal flying and material wings, the one achieved through the agency of the other, but checked by their weight.

In Book VII, p. 520, Socrates describes the arguments by which the philosophers must be induced to “return to the cave,” that is to say, to resume the practical business of politics from which they have escaped into the better life of contemplation. They must be shown that this sacrifice is a debt which they owe to the city in return for the opportunity which it has afforded them of becoming philosophers. “Will our pupils,"1 he continues, “when they hear this, refuse to share in turn the toils of state, when they are allowed to spend the greater part of their time with one another in the heaven of ideas?” “Impossible,” Glaucon replies; “for they are just men, and the commands which we impose on them are just; there can be no doubt that every one of them will take office as a stern necessity, and not like our present ministers of state’.

In a scientific discussion of the processes which we (or some of us) designate “vital,” attention is concentrated on an interpretation of that which happens within a relational system of physical influence. In a scientific discussion of the processes which we reflectively distinguish as “mental,” attention is directed to what occurs in a relational system of psychological reference. We should seek to distinguish each from the other in any given context where both are in evidence.

The quickening of interest in the great philosophical figure of Aquinas which has taken place during the last few years is a wellattested phenomenon. Of recent years there has been a distinct recognition that this mediaeval period was a most important time in the development of the human race, and that it has many urgent lessons for a modern age which has begun to realize that science and industry and mechanical efficiency have not succeeded in building such a perfect society as the optimistic Victorians had hastily hoped.

Professor Toynbee observes in his Study of History that as he walked down Whitehall one day in the spring of 1918, and passed the Board of Education offices which had been commandeered for a new department of the War Office, “improvised in order to make an intensive study of trench warfare,” he found himself repeating the passage from St. Matthew's Gospel:

He upon whom has descended the “amor intellectualis Dei” must make up his mind to walk much alone. In the world of “intellectuals” he is at present “out of the swim,” and his work must be done against the prevailing current. And among the generality of religious people, he is regarded as rather a disturbing presence in matters of faith, apt to fall short, apparently, of their own standards in the service of God. “The love of the mind for God” has little popular esteem in English-speaking Christianity. The nineteenth century valued feeling as the chief element in religion, and the emphasis of to-day is on the practical service of the will. But in our tradition, from Colet and the Cambridge Platonists to Westcott and von Hiigel, the “amor intellectualis Dei” has produced a line of great men of God, and surely will never be without its witnesses. Their message is a two-fold one. First that every experience of life can be “produced” into an experience of God by an effort of personality in which creative thought and constructive imagination has its part, second that this “love of the mind” is natural in some degree to all men, and an end in itself, giving to each lover an original vision. “It is Origen,” writes Dean Inge, “who in words thrilling alike by their humility and confidence, proclaims that ‘as the eye seeks the light, as our body craves for food, so our mind is impressed with the natural desire of knowing the truth of God and the causes of what we observe.’”

Moses Maimondes, born March 30, 1135, the eight hundredth anniversary of whose birth we now commemorate, is one of those universal spirits who mastered the whole realm of knowledge of their time. His fruitful and extensive literary activity covered many fields: astronomy, medicine, Talmud, and philosophy. His works on medicine were in former tunes highly esteemed. In the field of philosophy he strove for the synthesis of Aristotelianism and revealed religion, an endeavour which was of paramount importance for the later development of philosophic thought. His influence as a philosopher is not confined to the sphere of Jewish thought, but has left a lasting impression on the history of philosophy in general.