In the world as we know it to-day it may seem foolish even to speak of such a thing as justice among nations. Whatever we may say about justice within the nation—and even within nations justice seems to have disappeared over a large portion of the globe—it appears obvious that the relation of one nation to another is determined, not by justice, but by force. The state of nature so gloomily described by Hobbes as the condition out of which men have emerged, a state in which there is “continual fear and danger of violent death,” seems to be embodied in the international situation as it actually exists. In such a state of war, as Hobbes remarks, “this also is consequent, that nothing can be unjust. The notions of right and wrong, justice and injustice, have there no place. Where there is no common power, there is no law; where no law, no injustice.”

Two types of conception of a Way of Life are important for a consideration of the question of the forming and testing of ideals of conduct, and consequently for a consideration of our questions regarding the relation of ideals to practice. The one type is more, the other type less general. The one has reference to man as man, the other to particular classes of man, with relation to their specific function in society. The former issues in the idea of a universal ethic, the latter in the idea of a professional code. Thus the former has a wider generality, the latter has a greater concreteness. Ethical progress seems to me to require that both types should be kept in view, and used to guide man's efforts.

Real and Personal Rights.—In different systems of legal nomenclature the term “right” has different meanings, some writers applying it in a restricted, and others in a wider, sense. I shall use it in its wider sense as including “personal rights,” “proprietary rights,” “powers,” “liberties,” “licences,” and so on. The precise meaning of these various kinds of right need not be discussed here, because all legal rights can be broadly divided into two main classes—“personal rights” and “real rights.” As reference will occasionally be made to this broad distinction, a brief explanation of its character is necessary. According to Gloag and Henderson, the difference between real rights and personal rights is correlative to the distinction between duties and obligations. Thus, if I have the full proprietary right in a certain article, including possession and use, this is called a Real Right; and I can make the demand against men in general, or “the world at large,” that my possession and use should not be interfered with. The world at large owes me the Duty of non-interference. I may, however, lend my property to someone for a stated period; and at the end of this period I have the right that he in particular should perform the specific act of returning my property to me. Here it is said that I have a Personal Right against him, and that he has an Obligation to perform this specific act.

The problem of the relation of ideals to practice comes with a new urgency at the present time. Ought we to put our ideal into practice here and now without compromise, or should we follow it as far as we are able, making concessions to human weakness? Or does it rather stand before us as an end to be achieved, so that our main task is to discover by what practicable steps we can work towards it?

The troubles of our time have many causes, economic, political, cultural. All are intimately connected. Of the cultural causes, one of the most important has been disillusionment about human nature. The old view which exalted man to something a little lower than the angels has given way in many quarters to the conviction that in essentials he is no higher than the beasts, and that anyhow the very notion that anything can be ethically higher than anything else is illusory. I believe that in each of these attitudes to human nature there is a distorted half-truth, in both a blindness to the half-truth of the other. In this essay I shall try to map out the main contours of human nature, so as to emphasize that, although man is at bottom identical with the beasts, he is also in a limited but all-important manner unique. I shall also argue that one consequence of his uniqueness is moral experience, and that in human nature properly understood, a moral goal is very clearly revealed.

In an essay entitled “Freedom and Personality” (Philosophy, XIV, 55, July 1939) I have contended that “intelligence (or rationality) is a principle of indetermination within us.” As I find that my argument, though to myself it appears incontrovertible, has not produced conviction in some quarters where I had hoped it might be effective, I can only suppose that, presumably by my own fault, it was not stated as clearly as it should have been. This must be my excuse for returning to the subject; in doing so I shall try to be, to the best of my power, at once brief and lucid.

Plato's thought on the question of the immortality of the soul, in the sense of the existence after death of an individual personality, is stated by Constantin Ritter in his book on The Essence of Plato's Philosophy as follows: “I must admit that for Plato personal immortality was a serious problem and that his whole exposition and especially the trend of his argument in the Phaedo, urges us to accept it” (page 119); and again—“The notion of immortality in the sense that we understand it, viz. the survival of personality beyond the limits of earthly existence, was for Plato a serious problem; but it never became a dogma with him, even though he gives us a strong hint in the Phaedo to affirm this notion” (page 301).

Those who have advocated belief in immortality have often spoiled their case by arguing for different theories without realizing that they were different. Those who have opposed the belief have been apt to think that when they had disposed of one theory they had done all they set out to do. The first condition for clarity of thought on the subject is therefore to distinguish the different types of theory which have been put forward. This is my primary aim in the following discussion. If, in the course of it, I speak more favourably of one theory and less favourably of others, it must be understood that this bias is incidental to my present theme, which is to examine assertions rather than to assert.

There are two main questions which it is possible to ask about war. The first is, whether it is inevitable; the second, whether it is desirable. The former question is one of fact, the latter one of value. In the discussions of ordinary conversation the two are frequently-confused and obscured; arguments to prove war desirable may be heard based upon the supposed fact of its inevitability, and conversely. It is worth while considering how the two are related.

In this paper I wish to discuss a problem which, though it has not in the recent past attracted the attention of many philosophers, nevertheless, in my opinion, belongs quite clearly to that branch of the subject which should rightly be called “philosophy of history”: the problem, namely, of history's intelligibility. Two main questions can be asked about this which it is important that philosophers should answer. The first is that of whether history is intelligible in the sense that we can find intelligible connections bètween all or any of its parts. The significance of this question is apparent enough; for has not one of the philosopher's most pressing problems since Hume's time been that of whether any such connections are traceable in the world of fact? It is true that almost every theory on this subject has been put forward after a consideration of the sphere of physical nature only; but because this procedure has been universally followed, it is not therefore to be accepted as right. For history too offers us facts, and it is at least possible that these differ in important ways from those to be met with in nature, with the result that we can discover other sorts of connection between them than those which the physical sciences recognize. The possibility would seem to be worth investigation, and it is with it that I shall be concerned in the first part of my paper. In the other half I deal with the second main question about historical intelligibility. Supposing that we can (as I argue we can) find some cases of historical events being intrinsically, i.e. intelligibly related, we can go on to ask whether history is intelligible in a more ultimate sense. Is history, we can now inquire, a thing which is essentially rational, or is the rationality we can find in it of a merely superficial character? To put the problem somewhat more fully, is the historian able to do more than see intrinsic connections between the events (or some of the events) which he investigates: can he go further and understand the course of history as a whole, so that he is able to say, in the popular phrases, that history “makes sense,” is “meaningful” and “has rhyme and reason” in it? It seems to me that this is a matter which certainly ought to be discussed by philosophers, if only for the assertion of history's rationality which some philosophers have made.

Many people who have never read the works of Nietzsche possess some vague notion of what he taught. For them the philosophy of Nietzsche is represented by a few floating ideas—“Superman,” “Will to Power,” and even perhaps “blond beast.” Others again have learnt a little more about Nietzsche and perhaps read something of what he actually said; yet the net result is an impression of a passionate and destructive thinker, who launched his attacks on this side and on that, without any regard for consistency. For them there can be no philosophy of Nietzsche: they know that he often wrote in the form of aphorism and they picture his thought in general as a series of detached utterances, many of which are mutually exclusive. It may then be of use to some, if we attempt to set forth the guiding inspiration and leading ideas of Nietzsche, for when these have been grasped, it will be seen that it is by no means absurd to speak of a philosophy of Nietzsche. It may well be impossible to reconcile all his utterances, at least so far as the words are concerned—though Nietzsche is of course not the only philosopher who betrays inconsistency in his thought—but it should be remembered that Nietzsche was not given to standing still: his thought developed. Moreover, he often spoke in an exaggerated form, so that some of the apparent inconsistencies may be ascribed to over-emphasis. In any case, even granting the presence of irreconcilable inconsistencies in his thought, Nietzsche's various theories not only may, but must, be seen as a whole, if they are seen in the light of his guiding ideas and inspiration.

In this article I shall employ the word “spiritual” for want of a better. It is not a particularly good word, for it is “emotive,” stirring up sentimental feelings in some people and causing the sympathies of others to shut up like clams. “Personal” is in some ways less objectionable, but a title like “The Personal Basis of Democracy” might suggest a thesis other than I have in mind. Nor is the word “moral” nearly wide enough. As to the meaning of “spiritual” all I can say now is that my readers will have at least some idea of what I am referring to by the time they reach the end of the article.

The nature of tragedy has always been felt to be a problem, not only by the philosopher, but also, and perhaps even more, by the ordinary man. The question so often asked is: why, if there is so much suffering already in the world, do we want to go to a theatre or read a story describing more suffering? Why indeed should the spectacle of suffering ever be pleasing to us? Yet it is obvious that olarge numbers of ordinary people do like reading or seeing tragedies; and that there are some tragedies which are generally judged to be the most valuable works of literary art ever produced. What then is the nature of the value which we extract from these works? That is the question to which I would like to address myself.

It is frequently contended that one of the gravest dangers of the future of civilization is that the organization of society will be carried so far as to imperil, if not indeed to destroy, social and individual liberty. If this is actually true, we seem compelled to choose between these two ends—either, that is to say, to subordinate or sacrifice freedom, or to minimize organization.

The Universe cannot be exhaustively analysed if we stop at actual entities or even societies of actual entities which, as we shall see later when we discuss the notion of ‘nexus,’ are equivalent to what we ordinarily mean by enduring objects such as a stone, a tree, or a man. There is another class of entities which plays an important part in the constitution of the Universe called ‘eternal objects,’ and we must now proceed to an understanding of these.

(The following article is the substance of a chapter of an autobiographical account by the late John Henry Muirhead, in which with characteristic modesty the author gives the “recollection of a Journeyman in Philosophy of some movements of life and thought in his time.” Professor Muirhead was closely connected with the Institute of Philosophical Studies and its Journal from its inception, and it was thought that readers of Philosophy would appreciate this account of visitors, philosophical and other, to Birmingham in the early years of the present century. The volume John Henry Muirhead will be published shortly by Messrs. George Allen and Unwin, and will include a short biographical completion and memoir together with a bibliography of Muirhead's writings.)

Over ten years ago Professor A. E. Taylor pointed out that one of the most unfortunate effects of that philosophical conquest of England by Germany in the nineteenth century was the almost complete neglect of the great line of British moralists from Cumberland to Price. Little has been done since then to remedy this defect. There is a widespread study of Bishop Butler by students in our Universities, but as regards the other members of the series, there appear no signs of a renaissance. The selections of Mr. Selby-Bigge are admirable, but they serve, as all selections from the authors of a period must, to focus attention on historical similarities, not to stimulate to an examination of individual philosophies.

The positions which are offered for consideration in this paper may be summarized in the following four points:

First, there is a civilized type of mind which may be clearly distinguished from a primitive type.

Second, the civilized mind developed from the primitive under certain economic and ethnological conditions which are to be described.

Third, this emergence of the civilized mind from the primitive took place at a fairly definite period and reached its height in the remarkable efflorescence of genius between the ninth and fourth century b.c., over an area from Egypt to China. This was the appearance in that period of a mind essentially one in character, with natural variations, in the Greek thinkers, the Hebrew prophets, the early Hindu mystical philosophers and the Buddha in India, and the ethical teachers of China of the Confucian school.

Fourth, this type of mind with its characteristic powers was achieved once for all and was never lost. In spite of the decay of most of the ancient civilizations, the civilized mind has been transmitted, chiefly through the survival of Greek and Graeco-Hebraic thought, into science, philosophy, and theology to become the modern mind for the world of culture of to-day.

“The will is nothing but practical reason.” In other words choice, without being any kind of judgement, resembles inference in being either valid or invalid. Moral lightness is validity of choice.