Age after age, and often from the depths of human nature, the question has arisen whether there is some transcendental Purpose in the making of the world. Is there some recondite meaning in it all, and if so, can we get any glimpse of what it is? More especially, is it legitimate to say that Nature is Nature for a Purpose? Was there a Purpose, or something dimly analogous to a Purpose, in the origination of the process of Evolution? Is Evolution permeated by or immediately controlled by Purpose? Or does it simply express a purpose which determined its direction from the first? We know a little about the tactics of Evolution, but is there a strategy? If not, why are we always groping after it?

After the disturbing announcements of previous communications, the Executive Committee thinks it owes to the members of the Institute that they should be apprised of the measures that have been taken to deal with the crisis caused by the sudden death of Mr. Emile Garcke, who was so generous a supporter. As a result of that event the Committee found itself committed to an expenditure which would leave a deficit at the end of the year ended March 31, 1931, of approximately £1,000. Two problems faced the Committee: first, that of providing for this deficit; secondly, that of reducing expenditure for succeeding years so as to keep it within the limits of present income.

The subject of the present paper is the central conception of a philosophy that has been particularly dominant and influential, and the following remarks are prompted because of difficulties experienced in the attempt to understand that philosophy. The aim of the paper is to point out what seems to be a serious defect in that type of philosophy; but it is even more its aim to emphasize the danger into which philosophy in all its forms may easily fall, and against which it must exercise precautions.

In these days, when, if the words of constitutions can be trusted, sovereign Parliaments based on manhood or adult suffrage are rapidly extending their sway over the greater part of the world, there is surely no conception more deserving of the attention of the political theorist than that of Representation. There was a time when government for most men meant monarchy, when ruler meant king or king's minister. To-day for most men ruler means Parliament or ministers responsible to Parliament, and government means representative government. In those former times the political theorist would naturally take the king or prince for his centre-piece, and devote himself to expounding the nature and attributes of the office. “For from the prince, as from a well spring, cometh the flood of all that is good or evil upon the people” (Sir T. More). In our own day he would perhaps do well to devote himself first and mainly to reflection on the meaning of this term representation, standing as it does for something which is taken by general consent to constitute the distinctive feature of the normal modern type of government. He may run the risk of speaking merely for his own day; but he should at least be sure of remaining near the centre of his subject.

In Process and Reality Professor A. N. Whitehead formulates a Cosmology which embodies a resolute attempt to combine in one philosophical synthesis a scientific account of Concrescence with a metaphysical explanation thereof in terms of Creativity.

Berkeley is commonly regarded as an idealist whose system is saved from subjectivism only by the advent of a God more violently ex machina than the God of any other philosopher. I hope to show that this accusation rests on a misunderstanding of his central theory, a misunderstanding which gives God a place both inconsistent with his main premisses and useless in his system. I hope also to display by quotation the real Berkeley, whose theory of God's place and nature is directly supported by argument and consistent with his premisses, and makes (with his account of self) a system which, if it is less than a completely coherent philosophy, is more than an episcopal assumption.

Contacts between Italian and English thought of late years have been both frequent and effective.

It is a momentous venture to attempt to frame an hypothesis of the universe. But if we reflect upon the meaning of life, we are forced to make such an effort. The only way we can escape the responsibility is to be guilty of the great refusal—the refusal to think. If we frame an hypothesis, it should be such as to assign the proper significance to all the facts of human experience—not merely the physical facts, but the biological and mental as well; not merely our scientific interests, but our æsthetic, ethical, and religious interests as well. And it should do so in the simplest possible way. It would be futile and impossible to examine all possible solutions. Henri Poincaré proved long ago that if there is one explanation of a class of phenomena, there are an infinite number of explanations.

Any attempt to construct a philosophy of Value must presuppose some general understanding of what Value is. And so it might seem natural to begin with a precise definition of the concept we are about to investigate. What, we might ask ourselves, is the characteristic peculiar to all those situations in the description of which we are accustomed to use the word “value” or its cognate terms, and distinguishing them as a class from all those situations to which we do not apply the word? Proceeding empirically in this way, from an inspection of the “field of application” of the word “value” we might reasonably hope to discover a “highest common factor” of all the data, which would be the required definition of the concept “Value.” But we should be met at the outset by radical differences of opinion about the scope of the relevant data.

All candid philosophers, in setting out on their great task of coordinating and criticizing the whole range of human thought, must often feel embarrassed by the limitations of their own knowledge. Their difficulties in dealing with scientific thought have increased very greatly during the last thirty years. For, while science has been rapidly growing more complex and abstruse, philosophers have been tending to require a more intimate knowledge of it. They are no longer interested only in scientific methods (which, it is often assumed, can be studied apart from their applications); they are beginning to find significance in particular propositions and principles. Some of these cannot be comprehended in their entirety by anyone who has not submitted himself to a training so specialized and so severe as to be almost incompatible with the width of outlook that makes the philosopher. Accordingly, philosophers have abandoned all attempts to acquire their knowledge of certain branches of science (particularly physics) from the original memoirs and expository treatises addressed to scientists; they have recourse to interpreters.

Those who still interest themselves in problems connected with God, Freedom, and Immortality are not accustomed to look to natural science for any light on these dark places. It is usually admitted that the scientific method operates with basic assumptions which are far from binding on philosophers, and which indeed have no very satisfactory metaphysical authority. In spite of a few protests by philosophers, scientific thinkers have on the whole felt entitled to neglect the philosophical consequences of their theories, and have gone ahead in the investigation of nature by accepting only such hypotheses as explained the maximum number of known facts, irrespective of their possible results on other fields of work. When a strictly scientific theory is invested with philosophical importance, some form of materialism, however well disguised, usually results.

The phrase “Cosmic Purpose” and others akin to it are familiar enough, particularly in the literature of edification. It is the aim of this article to examine the idea the words convey rather more closely than we do in our common use of them; to deflate the expression, so to speak, of those gaseous suggestions of “uplift” which too often hang about it. The question involved is, of course, in what sense, if in any, purpose may be attributed to the Cosmos, to the universe in its totality. And we have to ask, in case the term so used should turn out to be really misused, Is it a sheer error that dissolves away under criticism, or is there some valid core of meaning which may be restated in other terms? If these are well-worn questions, yet the problem is too fundamental for them ever to be altogether trite.

It is very unfortunate that the philosopher who, as would be generally agreed, has had the greatest influence on modern thought is a writer whose style presents a particularly formidable barrier to the layman, or indeed to any reader tackling him for the first time; and this makes it all the more necessary that an effort should be made by those who have read and studied his works to communicate what they take to be the essential parts of his message. The present article is an attempt to fulfil a part of this function, i.e. to convey a few of the leading ideas of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, while leaving aside altogether his other writings. I hope Kantian scholars will forgive me if in the attempt to make some of Kant's ideas clear in a very small space to readers who have not specialized in the subject but are interested in philosophy I seem not to do justice to the complexity of his finer distinctions. Also I had better add that this article is simply an attempt to state Kant's doctrine; it is not intended as an expression of my own views, and refrains from criticism.

Is there really such a thing as moral progress? Do we get any better as time goes on? It is a question which must often exercise the minds of those who reflect on moral questions at all. And it is a frequent topic of discussion, both in private conversations and in the written contributions of a good many of our popular philosophers. Of some of these contributions one may safely say that their chief value is as a warning against the dangers of hasty generalization on a subject such as this. And, taking advantage of such a warning, I shall make no attempt to give a final or dogmatic answer to this question. All I can try to do, within the limits of a single lecture, is to disentangle some of the most important considerations that seem to be in people's minds in discussing this question, and to estimate their importance as arguments on one side or the other.

The Upanishadic thinkers arrived at the conception of the Atman—the self—through psychological reflection. By an analysis of consciousness, they concluded that the self was the primary reality. Further, they discovered that it was the same primary reality—the same principle—that formed the basis of the Universe. In this capacity the self was called the Brahman This psychological approach to the problem of ultimate reality is characteristic of the Upanishadic philosophy. It is interesting to note that the writers of the Upanishads have also offered cosmological speculations which led them independently to the positing of absolute existence.

I wish to discuss the nature and the relation to one another of two kinds of mental activity, and I can most clearly indicate what they are if I take some illustrations from familiar experience.

The two basic forms of action distinguished in the preceding articles, viz., moral action, where praxis is for praxis sake, and action for a good, where praxis is for the sake of theôria, are found in close relationship to one another in human life. The part they play is rather that of abstract moments in a practical process than that of self-contained and isolable bits of conduct. No philosopher is likely to discount the importance of thus analysing the concrete into its factors before he rectifies the abstraction by showing how they co-operate in actual experience. In any individual biography we can find acts and courses of action in which duty is the dominant motive, and others in which the dominant motive is desire of good. Similarly, when we compare different biographies with one another, some exemplify most strikingly the struggle for righteousness against unruly passion, others the spontaneous aspiration of the soul to attain the goal of its desire. But neither the moral law nor the summum bonum wields an exclusive sovereignty. St. Paul and Luther, in their warfare against carnal desire, drew strength from the ideal vision; nor were St. Bernard or Spinoza, for all their absorption upon union with the divine, strangers to the call of moral obligation. In the lives of ordinary men, the types of conduct are, perhaps, more evenly balanced; yet here also the distinction is discernible. Moreover, it is easy to see how, despite their intrinsic difference, they come to be associated and “by just exchange” to effect a mutual enrichment.

On page 157 of Bradley's Ethical Studies (the second edition) the following passage occurs: “There are few laws a breach of which (in obedience to a higher law) morality does not allow, and I believe there is none which is not to be broken in conceivable (imaginable) circumstances, though the necessity of deciding the question does not practically occur.” And Bradley added the extremely significant footnote: “Except, of course, the universal law to do the best we can in the circumstances.”

The title of this paper may, at first glance, somewhat surprise the casual reader. That the writings of a philosopher who was, by his own confession, an atheist should contain a trenchant critique of the theistic position is only to be expected; but the suggestion that any positive contribution to the philosophy of religion can be found in them may appear somewhat startling, and even paradoxical.

It is the true function of thought, Lotze said, to show “how absolutely universal is the extent, and at the same time how completely subordinate the significance, of the mission which mechanism has to fulfil in the structure of the world.” I do not propose to discuss the problem of mechanism versus teleology, but rather to point out and emphasize the importance of a distinction, drawn alike by Plato and Kant, between a narrower and a wider kind of determination, and to indicate the subordinate character of the former.