Before an aggregation of persons can be said to constitute a community there must exist a sharing of a body of norms or values, or asystem of beliefs or morals. In sociology this conception frequentlyappears in the term “consensus,” and in political science a similar conception goes by the phrase “social contract.” The two conceptions are not identical and an important point of difference will be touched on later, but according to this position knowledge of and adherence to the fundamental rules is necessary to group unity or cohesion.

The general thesis which I should wish to sustain on this topic is by no means new. It is, briefly, that even in the Republic, where the views on art which Plato propounds are notoriously unsatisfactory to the modern mind, this unsatisfactoriness is not due to any lack of aesthetic sympathy on Plato's part, but on the contrary to what is almost an excess of it. The position as far as I can understand it is this: the true artist (at least for the period of Platonic thought of which the Republic marks the culmination) is the philosopher, and true artistic insight is episteme. The work of art par excellence is primarily the philosopher's own life-that is, the philosopher himself.

It is with no feigned modesty that I acknowledge, as a limited and superficial student of philosophy, the honour you have done me by your invitation to deliver the Manson Lecture. But if the honour is undeserved, it is by fortuitous circumstance the more appreciated. Dr. Manson was a family doctor in Warrington, Lancs., with whom I was privileged to have close professional associations. He was a man of many parts who regarded the isolation of medicine from philosophy as an unintelligible and lamentable phenomenon of our time. He wished to see philosophy restored to its earlier and rightful basic rôle in medical education. He recognized that medicine and, indeed, the cognate basic sciences were occupying themselves almost exclusively with so rapidly accelerating an accumulation of facts, that little time remained for reflection and interpretation, and for pondering on the place of medicine in, and its contribution to, the general corpus of knowledge. And he was especially interested in the topic which I have chosen for this commemorative lecture, for he recognized, and translated into practice, the dictum that “No disease is wholly physical, and none wholly mental.” He saw in his patient the “whole” man, not a summation of such isolates as body, mind, environment, and family.

Sense-perception is a hackneyed topic, and I must therefore begin by craving your indulgence. I was moved to make it the subject of this evening's lecture by the fact that I have lately been reading the book in which the most important of the late Professor Prichard's scattered writings on Sense-perception have been collected by Sir W. D. Ross. Like everything that Prichard wrote, these essays are extremely acute, transparently honest, and admirably thorough. I shall not attempt here either to expound or to criticize Prichard, but he may be taken to be hovering, perhaps somewhat disapprovingly, in the background during the lecture.

The traditional business of Aesthetics has been the study of the aesthetic experience and activity of mankind, in order to show what it is and how it can be distinguished from other experiences and activities. The assumption commonly made is that we ourselves, like others before us, have had a specifically aesthetic experience in the enjoyment of art or the beauty of nature, or have been engaged in the making of something unquestionably artistic. This basic assumption has been challenged recently by I. A. Richards, who calls aesthetic experience “a phantom.” His view is shared by other contemporary philosophers, who also maintain that there is no appreciable difference between an aesthetic reaction and any other frame of mind, or between artistic behaviour and other forms of creative work. We can certainly appeal to experience for the support of a postulate usually taken for granted and say that most artists, authors, and ordinary people in fact regard their aesthetic experience as something entirely distinct from what they do or feel at other times. Analysis will show whether this common-sense opinion is illusory.

Philosophers are often asked whether they can provide a defence against hostile theories which are said to be “undermining the foundations of morality,” and they often try to do so. But before anything of this kind is attempted we should surely ask whether morality could be threatened in this way. If what people have in mind is simply that the spread of certain doctrines leads to the growth of indifference about right and wrong there is no philosophical problem involved. So long as we treat the matter as a case of cause and effect it will belong rather to the psychologist than the philosopher, and we have no reason for questioning that correlations of this kind may exist. But this is not the assumption, or not the only one, for people undoubtedly do think that if certain doctrines could be proved then moral judgment would have been shown to be “nonsensical,” “meaningless,” or “invalid,” so that thereafter it would be not merely difficult but positively irrational to formulate and attempt to follow moral principles. It would be simple enough if the attack was supposed to be against some particular moral code, for there are recognized ways of arguing that a thing is not right but wrong. But when it is morality in general which is to be disproved or discredited it is difficult to see what this means or how it could be done. What would have to be shown is not that this or that is not right, but that nothing is—or not in the old sense so that attacking moral judgment is not like attacking a theory but more like attacking theorizing itself, which shows where the difficulty lies. If something is stated it can be denied or disproved, but a moral judgment does not contain statements except about what in particular is right or wrong. Yet many people, though they would probably reject a request for a justification of morality in the form of some argument as to why we should do our duty, feel that morality would be in a positive sense unjustifiable if certain supporting truths were knocked away from the structure. This may indeed be so, but we are unable to show that it is, or to explain the matter by appealing to “presuppositions” of morality, which besides being far too vague would too easily include much that was linked merely psychologically to the recognition of obligation. I propose, therefore, to look at some specific arguments which are supposed by those who resist them to constitute a threat to morality, and to ask whether this supposition is justified.

In this article I want to consider a short passage from R. G. Collingwood's The Idea of History. I have chosen the passage in question both because it seems to me, for reasons which will become clear later, to contain the kernel of much that Collingwood himself wished to say on the subject of historical knowledge, and also because it implies a still widely held (and, I shall maintain, incorrect) conception of the nature of such knowledge.

If a rational argument is to be advanced for the existence of God, it must be some form of the cosmological, depending on the concept of causation, or the ontological, an elaboration of the concept of being. The metaphysical fertility of the axiological approach to theism consists in its reformulation of the ontological argument—viz., that the nature of existent reality itself is indicative of supra natural being.

In his article on “The Nature and the Status of the Study of Politics”1 Professor White raises, whether explicitly or by implication, some of the most important and, probably permanent problems of the subject. The solutions that he attempts to provide seem to me, however, to be less satisfying than might be expected.

The history of Western Thought since the seventeenth Century leaves little doubt as to the practical validity of the method of natural investigation discovered by Galileo, interpreted by Descartes, and variously generalized by Newton and Einstein. The repercussions of its success on every level of human activity, religious, political, commercial, and educational (to mention only the more obvious ones) have awakened the most diverse ánd even contradictory speculations as to the nature of this science and the objectives of the scientist. Often enough one gets the impression that these speculations are founded on an arbitrary and unjustifiable conception of the nature of modern science; a conception formulated in terms of what one thinks or wishes to think science is from its effects upon the extra-scientific domain (which, in this context, includes philosophy) rather than in terms of a patient and critical penetration of its intrinsic structure.

Mr. T. H. Mcpherson has given, in a recent article in PHILOSOPHY (Vols. XXIII, 1948, and XXIV, 1949), various reasons for supposing that there was a development in Butler's ethics from the Sermons to the Analogy. He argues that Butler was in the Sermons a “rational egoist” or “Ethical Eudaemonist,” and in the Analogy an Intuitionist. By “Ethical Eudaemonism” he seems1 to mean that “the ground or criterion of rightness is conduciveness to the agent's interest” (XXIII, pp. 327, 330, 331; XXIV, p. 18, etc.) or that “it is the happiness-producing character of acts that makes them right” (XXIII, p. 327). I shall use the phrase “McPherson's view” to denote the theory that this was Butler's view in the Sermons.

The first aim of this paper is to try and determine what St. Anselm meant in his original argument in the Proslogion (ch. 2). This needs to be done because not only are the writers who expound his demonstration divided in their interpretations of it, and these interpretations quite different, but, very strangely, one does not find that they mention that there is any ambiguity and that other writers construe Anselm's words differently from themselves. Since there are in fact two arguments in the classical formulation of his proof, I want to try and disentangle them, decide which of them Anselm intendedand what is its connection with the demonstration in the third chapter of the Proslogion, and thus to offer an opinion on what exactly the ontological argument of St. Anselm is. Then on the basis of the clarification, I hope to show what it was that Gaunilo and St. Thomas attacked, to touch briefly on the relation of the 17th century ontological argument to Anselm's, and in general to indicate the curious round-aboutness of the historical criticism of Anselm. Anselm argued and Gaunilo and Thomas refuted something, though not, I think, precisely what Anselm meant, or, at any rate, not all that he meant. Actually it was Descartes that Thomas refuted by refuting half of Anselm. Kant refuted the other half of Anselm in an irrelevant criticism of Descartes. So that it could properly be said that Anselm's proof has been broken by philosophers who were either only partly aware of what he was maintaining, or who never had him in mind at all. Finally, because the important thing about the ontological argument, in my opinion, is not whether it is a demonstration of God's existence, but whether its refutation is a demonstration of the impossibility of God's existence, and because this question seems to arise most sharply in connexion with Anselm's position, I want to say something about that.

In a short article, published in an earlier volume of Philosophy1 under the title “Philosophy and Mathematics,” I tried to explain the current conception of pure mathematics as the study of abstract structure by construction and elaboration of appropriate axiomatic formalisms. In the present paper I propose to consider certain philosophical problems, of interest to philosophers and mathematicians alike, which have their origin in the relation between such formalisms and any applications to experience that they may possess. Consideration of problems of this kind is no new undertaking, and in Reichenbach's Wahrscheinlichkeitslehre, for instance, a considerable amount of space is devoted to the Anwendungsproblem or problem of application of the formal calculus under consideration. Most such discussions, however, are at bottom an appendage to an account of the formalism itself, and the author's interest is primarily mathematical. The result is that the philosophical issues involved are not given due weight; and it is these philosophical issues that I wish to discuss in the present paper.

Personality may be defined as “that aspect of human beings where by we are recognized by others, ” that is, “that which constitutes recog-nizability.” The term therefore implies a subject-object field in which the object is another person or persons. There exist as many criteria of personality assessment as there are significant viewpoints of human beings, but there seems little doubt that the human voice is that which impresses us most about our fellows, closely followed by facial expression. Both these convey that whereby we assess “purpose” which is a most important matter about which we habitually assess others.

In his recent book, English Poetry; A Critical Introduction, Mr. F. W. Bateson makes the observation that as romantic criticism is now dead it should receive “decent and final interment.” By “romantic” criticism he seems to have in mind either what he calls the Pure Sound theory of poetry, which would have us believe that meaning has nothing to do with poetry, that poetry makes nothing but an emotional or physiological impact upon us; or the suggestion theory which argues that “a good poem should mean very little while suggesting a good deal.” Both of these, according to Mr. Bateson, attempt “to justify the exclusion of meaning from poetry.”

Few people, I imagine, would be disconcerted to learn that it is not very easy to provide a philosophical account of their activities; and this holds no less when these activities are of an intellectual nature. Historians and mathematicians and scientists do not wait in that fashion upon the deliberations of philosophers; and a good thing it is for them, too. For their patience might otherwise be rather severely tried, since disagreement and dispute appear to be the life-blood of philosophy. Nonetheless philosophical questions about these and other activities are not irrelevant to practice.

I am grateful for the attention which Philosophy has given to my little book Essay in Physics. The review by Professor McCrea brings out clearly its essential point, and criticizes it in a manner so wellbalanced and fair, and at the same time so penetrating, that it calls for a reply.

Mr. A. M. Turing was quoted in The Times about a year ago as saying it would be interesting to discover the degree of intellectual activity of which a machine was capable and to what extent it could think for itself. He has now pressed this suggestion further and given the results of his researches in an article called “Computing Machines and Intelligence,” together with a brief account of a “child-machine” which he has attempted to educate (Mind, October 1950). I intend to discuss this article in some detail and examine his claim that “machines can think.”

There is, naturally, no more ambiguous factor in all human knowledge than the possible bearing of what we do not know on what we do know.