In describing morality as an art, I do not merely mean that there is a fine art of conduct, of which good manners are an obvious instance: the delicate adjustment of behaviour to small or subtle changes in our circumstances, the variation of our responses with differences in the age, standing, consideration of the persons with whom we talk. That there is such an art of good life is true, but it only means that in the instruments of life, as with our microscopes and telescopes, there are fine as well as coarse adjustments. Nor do I mean merely that, as Plato said, living is a craft, like weaving or carpentering, and that virtue is its technique. I mean something more than an analogy; and that the best way to understand morality is to see what it has in common with fine art, and at the same time the differences which, leaving it still an art, separate it from fine art.

1. (a) Conceptions of the nature of value are of two main types: they are either objective, or realistic, or else subjective, that is, psychological. The immediately following pages are devoted to the critical consideration of the first of these, the realistic conception of value as “an indefinable quality which attaches to things independently of consciousness.” According to this view, things have value as they have form or colour or volume. A rose, for example, has the qualities of redness, of fragrance, and also of beauty; a book has the qualities of rectangularity, of twelve-ounce weight, and also of truth; a negro has the qualities of erectness, of brownness, and also of moral goodness or badness. Beauty, truth, and moral goodness, grouped together as ‘values,’ or ‘worths,’ or ‘goods,’ are from this point of view as indefinable and ‘absolute’ as the primary and secondary qualities: indeed, they are together known as “tertiary qualities.’ In G. E. Moore's words, a value or “ ‘good’ is a simple notion, just as ‘yellow’ is a simple notion”; and “just as you cannot, by any manner of means, explain to anyone who does not already know it what yellow is, so you cannot explain what good is.”

It is often said to-day that mathematics is nothing but an extension or development of logic; indeed, the identity of logic and pure mathematics is alleged so confidently by persons whose mathematical attainments entitle them to consideration when they talk about the subject-matter of mathematics, as to be in danger of being ranked with the truths that an educated man should accept on the authority of the specialist. Yet a little reflection might at least make one hesitate. For whatever else may be said about logic, it is generally allowed to study thinking. Some would say merely that it studies inference; but inference is thinking. Now the mathematician thinks and infers, but he does not study the activity of thinking and inferring; and a study of that activity would never make the discoveries credited to the mathematicians.

The words “idea” and “concept” have been, and still are, the source of so much confusion in psychology that we shall do well to banish them from the vocabulary of that science. I have urged this reform and have endeavoured to promote it by writing a psychology without ideas.It has seemed to me that the word “concept” plays a no less pernicious rôle in logic. But it was not until I began to look into the matter with a view to writing this article that I became aware of the desperate degree and extent of the confusion obtaining in all that pertains to the concepts of logic.

In this paper I propose to take certain notions which we constantly use in our judgments of right and wrong, good and bad, and to analyse them so far as I can and bring out their connexions with each other. The subject is, of course, rather a hackneyed one; but I cannot help thinking that there still remains a good deal which may profitably be said about it. I do not suppose for a moment that my analysis is adequate, and it may well be in part positively mistaken. But I am inclined to think that it may be useful as a beginning of a more adequate and more correct analysis.

The guiding idea of Palágyi's Monism is what he has called the Principle of Polarity. This is made clear in Palágyi's own preface to the second edition of his main work, the Naturphilosophische Vorlesungen (N.V.). The lectures were originally given in 1908. The Second Edition and the Preface date from 1924. In this preface we learn that the quest for the creative on the one hand, and for unity through polarity on the other, were ever the two leading motives of his thought. Both are pervasive and permanent, and they support each other; but in so far as the intellectual urge towards unity prevails over the more artistic impulse to creative freedom, it is the principle of polarity that receives the main stress and exercises the greater influence. For Palágyi, as for Hegel, it is the main principle of mental evolution. “ Polarity,” so Palágyi tells us (N.V., p. vii), does not simply mean “ opposition,” the

Readers of the Journal may know little of Melchior Palágyi (pronounced Pallargee) (1860–1924). Even on the Continent his work has been very inadequately recognized. It is not that he has written little: he published some books and many articles during his lifetime, in German as well as in Magyar, and since his death, Barth of Leipzig has issued an edition of his selected works, including his most important contribution, Naturphilosophische Vorlesungen, also the Wahrnehmungslehre and Zur Weltmechanik. He has many enthusiastic admirers, and those who care to look up the Preussische Jahrbücher, March 1926, will find there a most informative and highly appreciative article on his general philosophy by Werner Deubel, who in the same journal, some two years previously (October 1924), discussed the work of a kindred spirit, Ludwig Klages. It was Deubel's article that first roused my interest in Palágyi and led me to study his more important writings.

THE word “ Organicism,” although it may seem unfamiliar to the younger generation of biologists, is not a new one, and has been heard of already in that shadowy limbo where philosophical and biological conceptions meet on common ground. The genius of its original minting is not known, but it figured largely in the great work of Yves Delage, the French zoologist, in which he attempted to survey and criticize every important biological theory which had ever been seriously produced. Hisl'Hérédité et les grands Problèmes de la Biologie appeared in 1903, and in it he classified all biological theories, past, present, and future, under the four heads of

§ 22. Logic for Bradley, who follows the Kantian tradition, means primarily a theory of judgment. His definition of judgment is made so wide that it really covers inference as well. The “reference of an ideal content to reality,” as soon as that content is taken as complex and as not atomic, covers inference denned as ideal self-development of an object. Though the definition of judgment has a subjective flavour due to the way in which Bradley finds it necessary to distinguish it from psychical fact, he does not mean to imply that it is any less objective than inference. We learn from the second edition of the Logic that judgment so far as it is mediated is inference, and that mere unmediated judgment is nothing. Judgment, he says, though distinct from inference in form, is everywhere inference really though not explicitly; and almost the first words of the Terminal Essay on Judgment are: “Whatever else and however much else an inference may be, an inference still is a judgment.”

The problem before us is the question: How far is the term ‘ instinct ‘ applicable in ethics? How far is it true to say that instincts are the determinants of the good, or moral, life? And if it is true at all to say they are determinants, how Far is it true?

That European and American philosophy at the opening of the twentieth century should have been sharply controversial was not an accident of politics, any more than it was accidental that persecutions and inquisitions should have attended the history of Christianity. The jealous God of Christianity was by definition an only god whose claims implies the rejection or subordination of every other god. Those who were not exclusively with him were counted against him. “ Christian “ and “ anti-Christian “ constituted a complete disjunction. Similarly, the effect of the philosophy of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was to define sharp and conflicting antitheses. Its gods were jealous gods. Differences were irreconcilable oppositions, which could be overcome only through the conquest of one by another, or through their joint abdication in favour of a third party. But there are many signs of a changed temper of mind. The most recent philosophy seeks to escape such hostilities by avoiding the initial antitheses, or by bringing to light original communities and identities which have been lost sight of in the excessive sharpening of distinctions.

§ 1. The purpose of this paper is to inquire what distinction can or should be drawn between logic on the one hand and on the other psychology, so far as psychology concerns itself specifically with the problem of knowledge. The suggestions I have to make are very provisional, and are based mainly on a criticism of the late Mr. Bradley's views of the nature and scope of logic and psychology. For this reason I have for my title adapted from Bradley's article on “Association and Thought” a famous phrase which seems to me to illustrate fairly well the meeting-point of these two sciences in his thinking. At the same time this very criticism is itself chiefly founded upon philosophical considerations with which Bradley at least as much as any other writer has taught me to sympathize. In short, I assume some sort of Absolute Idealism; and my excuse must be the further assumption—which I hope the reader will more readily tolerate— that the proper criticism of any theory is that which it can be shown to pass upon itself in the course of its own development.

Few current problems have become so confused as that of Value. Its increasing importance in all departments of modern thought has made it the focal point of so many diverse aspects that the result seems a mass of formidable contradictions. But these can never be overcome by attempting to simplify the situation, which must on the contrary be recognized from the outset as presenting an extreme complexity that will inevitably advance pan passu with the advancing complexities of human experience. If, then, simplification is impossible, the only alternative is to attempt to grasp the salient features and present these in their true relation, in the same way that an invading army seizes the principal bases of hostile territory.

The current conception of liberty is both negative and individualistic. It rests upon obsolete assumptions. Philosophers may be conscious of the defects of such assumptions, but even that is doubtful; and clearly the average journalist or politician is by no means aware of them, for the advocates of “ liberty,” in the old sense, have a very weak case, and its opponents attack it on the wrong grounds. The controversy in the lecture-room is not important. The quarrels of commentators are trivial. But there is a mortal conflict between the advocates and opponents of liberty in the sphere of government, industrial organization, and education. In the policies of those who have social power the conflicting conceptions of liberty are operative; and the battle is still uncertain, because it is normally fought upon the basis of unexamined assumptions.

(1) It is a commonly accepted view that men think to live, and do not live to think, that conation, and not cognition, is the primary object of living. Impression, affect, and expression constitute the complete psychic process. The term philosophy, the love of wisdom, also suggests that man's thought has a practical and not a theoretical objective. In this connection, however, two errors must be avoided: on the one hand an exaltation of the intellect as in rationalism, and on the other hand a depreciation of the intellect as in pragmatism.

This year we have been celebrating our centenary, and, when so much has been said, and justly said, of the contributions to various branches of science and learning that have emanated from University College, it seems fitting that the part which the College has played in the advancement of philosophical research should not be left out of account. For in spite of the manifold difficulties that stood in the way of instituting a school of philosophical study in London, what has been achieved here, both in the way of original investigation and of effective teaching, constitutes a record of which we may well be proud.

There is a sense, perhaps, in which our present topic is like Mrs. Harris, or snakes in Ireland, or the reigning King of Portugal—that is to say that there is no such thing. For if by communist one means simply a “ red,” it is at least permissible to argue that Moscow and Leningrad are places where there can be no ethics at all. In saying this I do not mean to refer to any particular actions whose object has been to establish the dictatorship of the proletariat, or in other words the next immediate step in the policy of these communists. What Zinoviev and others of them say is that they are engaged in a war against all bourgeois administrations, and that, being at war, they are not bound to accept the rules of French duelling,i.e. any outworn conventions, whether these are called ethical or not. Since it is admitted, I suppose, by nearly every

English Philosophy owes much that is most characteristic of it to the assiduous toil of men whose vocation has not been that of academic teaching and research. Many of them have been engulfed in the routine of business life, and such hours as they could devote to philosophic reflexion have been snatched from intervals of leisure which the majority of business men relinquish to recreation and rest. The friend to whose memory I wish to pay my humble tribute would not have claimed for himself, nor have permitted his associates to claim for him, the distinction of having initiated a new line of speculative reflexion. But, if he did not propound any original metaphysical theory, he possessed, in quite unusual measure, the

Time was when the proofs of the existence of God formed an essential part of any self-respecting system of Philosophy. But for many years now this has ceased to be the case. It may be due to the gradual increase of the influence of Kant that the idea seems to have become accepted, tacitly, in the main, but none the less very widely, that proof or disproof of a belief such as this was hardly a fit subject for philosophical discussion at all. At any rate, it is noteworthy how rarely the question is faced directly in the philosophical discussions of the last forty years or so. What we have had, much more frequently, is discussion about how the God of religion might be thought of and what sort of place He might have in reality as conceived in this or that philosophical system. And certainly discussions on these lines have done much to clarify our conception of the Divine, even if they have sometimes seemed to explain it only by explaining it away altogether, or at any rate to present us with the idea of something which, whatever it is, is certainly not the God of any religion. But of recent years I seem to detect a growing readiness to face the question as squarely as the old theologians, who propounded the first proofs of God's existence, did.