That Plato was in some sense a poet is a fact which most of us are prepared to recognize without much hesitation. What is not always clear is how far any of his Dialogues, in whole or in part, may be justly described as poetry, and to what extent his “poeticalness” must affect our critical approach to, and hence our evaluation of, his philosophy as a whole. And this, in effect, is the problem to which I propose to address myself in this paper. Before, however, I attempt to discuss what is an exceptionally complicated issue, a few remarks of a more general nature will not perhaps be out of place-for the need of caution in any approach to Plato is obvious from the start.

I. Since the beginnings of philosophy, in all cultures which have produced any, religion and philosophy have been closely tied up together, and have often been uneasy yoke-fellows, each at times feeling it a duty to combat the other. I think there are two main reasons for this, (a) All higher religions develop a theology, or systematic statement of doctrine; the philosopher tends to regard this as a spurious kind of philosophy or science that deliberately neglects inconvenient facts; while the theologian in his turn suspects the philosopher of ignoring important data which he ought to consider, viz.: the phenomena of concrete religion, (b) Akin to this is the tendency of both parties to use the word “God” in a different sense; Pascal’s objection that the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob is not the God of the philosophers is prima facie justified. Nevertheless both parties might have a claim to use the word.

Positivism is the view that the only way to obtain knowledge of the world is by means of sense perception and introspection and the methods of the empirical sciences. Positivists believe that it is futile to attempt to deduce or demonstrate truths about the world from alleged self-evident premisses that are not based primarily on sense perception. They consider, on the contrary, that knowledge of things can only be advanced by framing hypotheses, testing them by observation and experiment, and reshaping them in the light of what these reveal. Thus they regard metaphysics, in so far as it is the effort to find out about the world by methods other than those employed in the empirical sciences, as a hopelessly misdirected activity. The method of hypothesis, they hold, is applicable to any field of factual enquiry, although they admit that differences of subject-matter may call for very considerable variations of emphasis. Such variations, however, important though they be, are, on their view, matters of detail, and do not detract from the essential sameness of the effective method. This method was first consciously analysed by reference to the sciences of nature, where its use has led to impressive results both in the theoretical and practical sphere.

The Swedish philosopher Hägerström, who was professor in Uppsala during the first quarter of the present century, devoted much attention to the philosophical and psychological analysis of moral and legal phenomena. Hägersträm is a difficult writer. He had steeped himself in the works of German philosophers and philosophical jurists, and his professional prose-style both in German and in Swedish had been infected by them so that it resembles glue thickened with sawdust. But he enjoys a very high reputation in his own and adjacent countries, and it seems to me that this is well deserved. I think, therefore, that it may be interesting and useful to try to provide English philosophers with an outline in my own words of Hägerström's doctrines, as I understand them, about the topic named in the title of this paper.

Poets, like other men, have their speculative moods. Some poets have been widely read in the literature of philosophy and have wrestled continuously with the intellectual problems of their times. From Euripides to Mr. Eliot large expanses of dialectical argument have appeared in verse, and in our own tongue Spenser, Shakespeare, Pope, Wordsworth and many other supreme writers have questioned the semblance of nature and mind, and have sought to trace the ideal forms of reality. Men of letters in every generation have naturally discussed the problems of knowledge and existence and have offered emphatic opinions on them. The views of poets have been accorded particular honour and attention. Illustrious poets have declared that poetry opens a more penetrating road to truth than that which is provided by science or academic philosophy. Certain modern critics repeat these claims. “The mind of man,” writes one, “has a knowledge of truth beyond the near-truths of science and society. Poetry tells us this truth.” I will not pause here to inquire whether anything of value can be observed of poetry in general any more than can be stated of prose in general. Nor do I wish to enter into the subject of poetic truth. The questions I desire to raise concern assumptions about the philosophical ideas of poets. Recent criticism has shown a notable tendency to fasten on these ideas. The tendency revives the practice of the nineteenth century when theologians, philosophers and literary thinkers were fond of expounding the rational systems of Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning. The present vogue of this prosaic treatment of poetry may be due to a strong recoil from the literary fashion prevalent a generation ago which minimized the intellectual feature in the art of poetry.

The most important question under this heading is the question whether states are subject to the moral law. That they are has sometimes been denied even in theory, and there are no doubt still countries in which it would be highly desirable to publish an article combating this denial. But, thank goodness, England is not one of these countries, and it will suffice to say briefly that I can find no even plausible argument for the contrary view. This view has often been associated with the doctrine that the State is a sort of super-person over and above the individual citizens, to whom the latter can appropriately be sacrificed as beings of little worth, as we sacrifice to our own welfare, if we can, without any compunction the myriad germs inhabiting our bodies. I cannot see any reason whatever for holding this view either, but I should have thought that, if it were adopted, the analogy of the individual thus applied to the State would suggest the contrary conclusion that the State should find its true good not in its own unscrupulous aggrandizement but in co-operation with other States. We have been taught the analogous doctrine in regard to the individual from the beginning of the Christian era or earlier, and we can look on it as generally accepted in regard to the individual by reflective people in theory, although not, of course, by any means always in practice. If we regard the State as just a group of individuals, there is still less excuse for making it out to be subject to no moral law. In that case actions of the State will always be actions by individual persons, differing only from other such actions because they are performed on behalf of certain groups of persons.

I Wish to suggest both that three (and not two) values are often used for the appraisal of moral judgments and also that there are some generally shared purposes which would be furthered if this usage became even more common. In doing this I shall by-pass two problems which have been not infrequently discussed in recent years:

“It is almost impossible for a working neurologist to think clearly about the functions of the highest centres because the counters of thought, the words he must employ—are often of psychological origin and for the most part meaningless.”

Until comparatively recently the complete text of the Opus Postutmum has not been available to students of the Kantian philosophy.Prior to the publication of Adickes’ commentary on this material in 1920, students of Kant were almost wholly dependent upon Reicke's incomplete and markedly inadequate edition of 1882–84.2 Adickes’ commentary, with its abundance of quoted passages, provided an access to a great deal of material hitherto unavailable. But it was not until the publication of the Academy Edition in 1936 that the complete text became available for independent study. Because of the recent publication of the full text, most accounts of Kant's position in the Opus Postumum have depended upon Reicke's inadequate edition or, as has been more frequently the case, upon Adickes’ commentary.3 In view of the considerable influence it has had upon Kant interpretation, Adickes’ analysis of the Opus Postumum warrants a careful and critical examination.

The third of October, 1949, was the 2,500th anniversary of Confucius’ birth. This date has been under dispute for more than 2,000 years. Early and reliable accounts state that the birth was on a certain day of the Chinese sixty-day cycle and that it was fifty days after an eclipse of the sun. But those same accounts list eclipses of the sun in two successive months, something that is impossible in China. Only recently has any one bothered to calculate which eclipse actually occurred and discover that, in a period of twenty years before and after the birth, only one eclipse of the sun occurred on that day of the cycle and was visible at Confucius’ birthplace. So this date can be fixed accurately by modern scientific methods.1

In his book The Right and the Good Professor W. D. Ross states a theory that ethics is concerned with two distinct conceptions which are logically quite independent of each other and must not be confused: the right, viz. the act which we are under an obligation to do irrespective of our motives, and the morally good, viz. the good motives, desires and so on, irrespective of what actions they lead us to. In a later book, Foundations of Ethics, he repeats this theory somewhat altered and enlarged. Professor Broad says about the first book that it is “the most important contribution to ethical theory made in England for a generation,” and for the second book he proposes the nickname “the righter and the better.”

Particular attention has been paid in the present century (notably by Mr. E. F. Carritt, the late Professor Pritchard, and Sir David Ross) to the question as to whether a man's duty is to do what is actually right, i.e. what his situation actually demands of him, or what he thinks is right. Mr. Carritt has pointed out that the former possibility bifurcates—a man's duty may be to do what is actually demanded by his actual situation, or what is (or would be) actually demanded by what he believes to be his situation. (The latter possibility also bifurcates—a man's duty may be to do what he thinks is demanded by what he believes to be his situation, or what he would think was demanded by his actual situation, if he knew it; but only the first of these alternatives has been or needs to be seriously considered.) I do not propose in the present paper to carry this discussion any further, but rather to consider how it has been carried on in the past, as there seems to be a little confusion on this point.

There are, I think, three distinct senses in which Rousseau uses the term “general will.” He means by it, as the nineteenth century Idealists used to point out, something very like Kant's “good will,” which all men have in common and which cannot conflict with itself. But he also means, quite as often, the Utilitarian compromise, The mean between divergent interests which takes account of all of them and satisfies as many as possible. And, thirdly, he means something like the “culture pattern” of the modern anthropologists. I want to show that Green inherits this ambiguity, and that his argument in the Principles of Political Obligation is plausible only because he does not distinguish between these three meanings of “general will.”

Ever since they were first published, the works of Bernard Mandeville have met with a few careful readers as well as with a larger number of stupid or unscrupulous assailants. Both classes are faithfully recorded at the end of F. B. Kaye's splendid edition of The Fable of the Bees (Oxford, 1924), which has helped to revive interest in Mandeville, and which has moulded the current estimate of his ideas: the treatment of Mandeville in such a work as Basil Willey's Eighteenth Century Background (London, 1940) is confessedly based almost entirely on Kaye. My purpose in this paper is to suggest some modifications of the account given by Kaye, and to make claims for Mandeville's importance in one particular field, the relation of ethics to politics.

It is the purpose of the following pages to reconsider the basic problem of induction. According to Hume the concomitance of A with B on one or more occasions gives no valid presumption that A will be accompanied by B on any other occasion. The data of experience may give rise to an association of ideas or set up mental habits, but they provide no reasonable grounds for expecting similar concomitances or sequences in future. If this is correct, we have no starting point for the formation of any valid opinions about matters of fact; we remain ice-bound in a region of total scepticism.

In my previous paper I endeavoured to illustrate the different ways in which Plato used poetry for philosophical purposes, and it now remains to attempt a final appraisal of the success or failure of Plato considered specifically as a poetic philosopher. But before I embark on what will prove a somewhat complicated task it is necessary for me to refer briefly to certain theories concerning Plato's use of myth, since they vitally affect (though in different ways) the philosophical significance of his poetic method—and it is this philosophical significance which is our principal problem in any final evaluation.

In this paper, I want to show, by the examination of a well-known paradox, how failure to attend to ordinary usage leads to confusion and perplexity.

Locke's contribution to the discussion was fourfold: First, he saw the importance of the problem; Second, he realized that the puzzle cases, the “strange suppositions,” were relevant; Third, he maintained “same” had a different meaning when applied to “person” from its meaning in other contexts; and, Fourth, he offered his much criticized solution of the problem.

Almost all the original philosophers, from Socrates to the verificationists of the present day, have tried to provide some universally applicable method of eliminating confusion and error from our discourse: this provision of a method of ‘correcting the understanding’ is at least one, and perhaps the principal, of the continuous threads which can be traced in Western philosophy. There was the Socratic method, which requires us to look for real definitions of our fundamental abstract terms: the Cartesian methods of rejecting as possible candidates for knowledge any propositions which do not consist of clear and distinct ideas: the Humean or Empiricist method of dismissing as nonsense any non-tautologous statement which cannot be justified as referring to the order of our sensations: Kant's transcendental method of critical philosophy, whichit would certainly be imprudent to characterize in a phrase, but which was equally intended to be a safe protection against empty metaphysics and meaningless questions: lastly, the verification principle, which provides a general method of determining which of our statements conform to some scientific standard of intelligibility, and which are to classed as tautologies or as playing with words. New movements in philosophy have in general been new methods of correcting the understanding, methods which are further generalized and applied in the interval before another great philosopher appears with another general method of showing that all previous metaphysics is nonsense.