I want to discuss philosophically, to glance at the logic of, the parts of this expression “the justification of punishment” and then to draw from this discussion one or two morals for discussions of the justification of punishment. This paper is based on one originally given to the Scots Philosophy Club at its Aberdeen meeting in 1953, as the third part of a symposium on The Justification of Punishment (no inverted commas).

THE problem of religious knowledge may be stated very simply. If there is (or is not) a real God, how can we find out that fact? The present discussion assumes that this is just what we must find out, if there is to be any possibility of a philosophically valid religion; for the essential element in religion is God, and consequently the essential philosophical question in regard to religion is that of the reality of God.

A distinguished French scholar has recently set himself to delineate the history of Greek thought, from the time of Plato through the formation of the Hellenistic systems to the days of the empire, distinguishing two opposing tendencies, one towards pantheism and the other towards a philosophy of transcendence. But that distinction can be traced also in earlier periods than those with which Fr. Festugière is concerned, and it can be applied to theories of the soul equally with theories of God; this theme I hope to illustrate on a tiny scale in the early part of my paper, drawing attention to tendencies on the one hand to treat the soul as part of nature, on the other to place it outside nature. The former of these is the earlier.

I believe the time is come for a re-estimation of the status of minds in the universe. I use the word mind quite naïvely at first, in the belief that it has a nucleus of meaning that is sufficiently clear. I do not wish its meaning to be restricted to the phenomena of clear consciousness, still less of self-consciousness.

I. “Our reason must be consider'd as a kind of cause, of which truth is the natural effect.”1 In these quaint words, David Hume expresses the Philosophers’ point of view. By means of reason we must be able to see the truth of principles and to see that truth without any possibility of error. This view has been so long and so firmly held that it may be called the philosophical ideal of knowledge. Reason is not truly reason, unless by it we can come to know truths that are absolutely certain; truths of principle that are absolutely universal. It has always been admitted that much that is called “knowledge” in ordinary conversation, much that passes for knowledge in the schools, is neither absolutely certain nor absolutely universal. But it has been held that knowledge has been achieved or might be achieved in certain sciences: in ethics (according to some), or in metaphysics, or in physics or in mathematics.

This article must open with a Warning. In face of the positive information which the sciences supply, the philosophical contribution to this problem will seem disappointingly negative, or at least mine will do so. For I shall insist, and I think we can only rightly insist, that the philosopher is not yet in a position to produce a satisfactory positive theory of the relation between mind and body. And I shall annoy many of you further by insisting that the old-fashioned “dualism” has not really been disproved. However, even if you do not agree with me, it is at any rate a good general piece of advice that, when we are confronted with a philosophical view which has maintained its ground for a very long time but seems to ourselves or to our generation very unreasonable, we should look specially carefully to find the positive grounds which have made so apparently unplausible a doctrine seem true to so many competent thinkers.

There has of late been a revival of interest in the problem of practical reason. One of the causes of this revival has been, I think, a reaction against the radical subjectivism to which the emotive theory seemed to lead. Philosophers have wished to show that the method of linguistic analysis can account for that kind of objectivity, whatever kind that might be, which is possessed by our moral opinions, criticisms, etc. The question in what this objectivity consists has, however, remained obscure and recent writing has failed to distinguish at least two quite distinct issues. I hope to show what these are and that they are distinct.

The concepts of pleasure and good, both separately and in their relation to one another, have for centuries been a favourite and fruitful subject of philosophical discussion. The contrasting concepts of pain and evil, however, though by no means entirely neglected, have been, and still are, less popular among philosophers. The reason for this disparity is not altogether clear. The title of a recent autobiography, “Philosophers lead sheltered lives,” might support the explanation that philosophers are (no doubt very properly) reluctant to write on matters of which they have little or no first-hand knowledge. Pleasure and good, it may be said, form part of their own personal experience: but their academic seclusion has little place for either pain or evil. A more serious reason is the assumption, often made but rarely defended, that, since pain and pleasure, evil and good, are in some sense pairs of “opposites,” a full discussion of all four concepts is unnecessary. The nature of pain, it is thought, can easily be inferred from the nature of pleasure, and that of evil from that of good. But even if this were true, it ought not to be taken for granted; the belief (it is more often implicit than explicit) that these concepts are symmetrically disposed opposites ought to be held (if at all) only after an investigation into all of them. And in fact the belief is not true. It does not need profound insight or observation to see that we cannot (as some of the utilitarians once thought) construct a simple hedonic scale on which pleasure appears as a plus, and pain as a minus quantity. Contemporary hedonists have often paid more attention to the psychological complexities involved in this problem than did their classical predecessors. A. L. Hilliard, for example, distinguishes carefully between pain and unpleasantness. Pain he describes as a sensitivity, “correlated with the excitation of specific receptors in the nervous system”: unpleasantness is an affectivity (i.e. roughly, an emotion) to which physiological correlates, though they must be assumed to exist, have not yet been discovered.

The revolutionary ideas introduced into ethical theory by G. E. Moore in his Principia Ethica, and advanced independently about the same time by Rashdall in his Theory of Good and Evil, have not, I feel, always been given the place they deserve by recent investigators of the subject.

I DO not have to apologize for entering upon a discussion of intelligence and intelligence tests; it is a field which comes within the purview of philosophy as well as psychology. Any method of testing intelligence is therefore of common interest, especially as the methodology employed is usually based upon some definite theory as to its nature. The very word intelligence covers a wide range of meanings and psychologists seem to select sections of this range at will in accordance with their particular interest. It may include most of the behavioural activities of man, or be narrowed down so that it refers to certain quantitative or relational aspects of experience. To take the case of the factor analyst, after his concept of intelligence has been analysed and classified into g's and s's, it becomes not a description of the mind, but rather a closed cognitive model of it.

A tendency towards diffuse and piecemeal linguistic analysis threatens to overwhelm Anglo-Saxon philosophy to-day. Stringent linguistic analysis can indeed be valuable, but much that has been written recently, for instance, in Mind, the stronghold of linguistic analysis, shows no trace of clearly grasped method and well understood aims. The result is meandering discursiveness, the collection of trivial anecdotes and the random mixing of linguistic, psychological and sociological reflections leading to no clear conclusions.

(I) Whenever we speak with someone in everyday life, when we write a letter or read a novel, we are said to use natural language. We have a historically given language like English or French; we consider familiar things and events; and we use the language more or less as most members of the same community use it.

Reinhold Niebuhr, approaching the ethical field as a theologian rather than as a philosopher, has maintained that the Christian ethic is not single and indivisible, but that, on the contrary, it consists of what one might call an absolute ethic (‘the law of love’) and a kind of interim ethic in which the notion of justice is prominent. Without commenting on Niebuhr's work I wish to put forward a view which, although more general than his, is perhaps not without a superficial resemblance to it.

There is a wide gap, at any rate in the English-speaking world, between the people whose business it is to talk about the nature of poetry and those who are concerned with the critical analysis of language. Although both subjects are legitimate topics for philosophical discussion, there are few philosophers who combine a deep and effective interest in aesthetics with a concern in the problems of linguistic analysis. The analytical philosopher is only too ready to relegate poetry to the field of “emotive” meaning; and, although “emotive” is a convenient term for marking off aspects of meaning with which the scientist (for example) is not concerned, it is also a means for keeping questions closed which ought to be opened. For it conceals the enormous differences which exist between various nonscientific uses of language. It does this behind an implicit suggestion that, since “emotions” are the province of the psychologist, any sort of inquiry into these uses of language will be merely a psychological inquiry. Poetry, of course, falls into this category of non-scientific uses of language, and a few psycho-analysts have accepted the commitment to discuss it; but on the whole its discussion is left to a very small band of aestheticians and a very large fraternity of literary critics.

THE cult of “art for art's sake,” which had a great vogue at the end of the last century, was, in pictorial art, set aside, or rather absorbed between the two wars by other cults of a similar nature, such as the cult of pure form, of plastic form, of cubism, and these in their turn have been pushed into the background by the sinister spectre of the unconscious. There are genuine problems behind these cults, and they are by no means easy problems. The cult of art for art's sake fell into disrepute; but this was not so much because of its artistic products as because of the kind of life which the devotees of this cult thought they were entitled to lead.

Utilitarianism has had an unfortunate history. Its most influential exponents, Bentham and John Stuart Mill, set it out in such a way as to expose it to facile criticism and even to ridicule, and it has never fully recovered from this ill-omened start. In spite of the criticism and the ridicule, however, it still bulks large in ethical studies, and many people still have a hankering sympathy with it.

This paper is a discussion and a criticism of the account of the Philosophy of Resemblances which appears in the first chapter of Professor H. H. Price's Thinking and Experience.

Professor Lewis's paper, which appeared in a recent issue of this journal, raised many interesting problems. I propose, however, to deal only with the principal question which Mr. Lewis himself stated as follows: Just what is theology, what does it do? Mr. Lewis's own answer as to what it does—or rather what it should do to-day—an answer which came rightly enough at the end of his paper, was, briefly, that theology should become creative as opposed to static. That is to say, it should, on the analogy of art criticism, “‘render’ the religious experiences of the past by performing upon them as a whole, and with all the help which careful scholarship can provide, an operation not dissimilar to that performed in the complete symbolism of the original experience upon the elements of more overt meaning within it.”