Among all the sorrows and anxieties of the present crisis in human affairs, none has caused so much consternation to thoughtful people as the open and scornful repudiation, by two of the most civilized nations of Europe, of all the moral principles, all the decent conventions, which for two thousand years have enabled human societies to live together in some degree of contentment and security. Almost all things which once seemed sacred and immutable have now become unsettled—truth and humanity, justice and reason. An apprehension of impending doom, of the break up of a great civilization, has become general.

Descartes's general rule that “whatever is clearly and distinctly perceived is true” has traditionally been criticized on two closely related grounds. As Leibniz, for example, puts it, clearness and distinctness are of no value as criteria of truth unless we have criteria of clearness and distinctness; but Descartes gives none. And consequently, the standards of judgment which the rule in fact evokes are purely subjective and psychological. There must hence be set up analytic, logical “marks” by means of which it can infallibly and without arbitrariness be recognized whether any ideas or propositions are or are not clear and distinct.

The aim of psychology is first of all to describe how we think, or the flow of our consciousness, and then to sum up the facts in terms of principles, generalizations, or “laws” which “govern” our thinking. These laws must enable us to foretell what a man will think and how he will act when we know his environment and the state of his thought at any given moment, provided that no unforeseeable exercise of free will intervenes. Psychology has also to inquire whether interventions of “free will” ever do occur and, if they do, what is their nature and scope.

An Indian student, returning, after completing his course at a British university, to his own land, told his tutor that in India at least he would find once more that truth was one and indivisible. On being asked what he meant, his reply was that in England everyone separated scientific from religious truth, but that to Indian thought they were one. So familiar is this dualism of truth to us that we pass over its strangeness without question. In the Middle Ages Europe was of the same opinion as India is now. What then is the reason for the rent we have torn in the seamless vesture of truth? The answer is found by retracing our steps to the days when the old wineskins of theology were bursting under the pressure of the Revival of Learning, and, more important still, the layman was becoming the scholar. The Reformation issued no general licence to every man to think as he liked, but it at least allowed freedom of thought within certain bounds. Had Thomas Hobbes, for example, been born in 1488 instead of 1588, he would hardly have lived to die abed at the age of 91. Hobbes was not a great thinker, but he was a great iconoclast, and he created a critical temper of thought which showed itself in many who were in no sense Hobbists.

Your founders were men of vision. They built for the future. Dr. Birkbeck, Lord Brougham, Francis Place, and the rest—they must sometimes have wondered what this London would be—and England, Europe, the world—a hundred years or so after their time. When, on December 2, 1823, they opened the doors of the London Mechanics Institution, destined to grow, through many vicissitudes, to become the renowned College in which we meet to-day, they may well have let their imagination guess what might be the changes and developments in which this enterprise of theirs, according to its measure and scope, might play a part. That was a time when modern science was in its brilliant youth; when the movement for popular education was beginning to take hold, opening great prospects for the future; when, after twenty years of war, the British nation was gathering its forces for a sustained effort to remedy the great social evils that afflicted it, while in the political field, the powerful campaign was beginning that was destined to win victory in the Great Reform Bill of 1832. We may be sure that those men, of the sort—as a present-day poet writes:

“Who watch the world with pity and pride

And warm to all mankind,”

that those men would have had visions, hopes, expectations, an assurance even, that in later days a wiser and better instructed people, having established full political liberty, would have used their power to cure those social evils; with the help of a developed science, would have got rid of poverty; clasping hands with other free peoples, would have established securely the reign of peace, and so made possible an age of high material prosperity and brilliant intellectual splendour.

In an interesting article on Kierkegaard and the “Existential” Philosophy, contributed to the number of Philosophy for July 1941, Miss Dorothy Emmet counselled her readers to make themselves acquainted with the Journals of the famous Danish thinker, now rendered accessible to Englishmen ignorant of his language by the translation of Mr. Dru. I have taken her advice and am grateful to her for it. I am not indeed convinced that this self-revelation of a remarkable personality can be ranked among the great autobiographies of the world. It seems to me to fall, if only on account of its lack of unity as a work of literary art, below the standard which such an estimate of it would imply. But it is undoubtedly both impressive in itself and important in view of the influence which its author, little known in his lifetime beyond a circle of the parochial narrowness of which he was painfully conscious, has come, long after his death, to exert upon the spiritual and intellectual life of Europe to-day. The present article, however, will not be concerned with the exposition or criticism of this or other writings of Kierkegaard, but with thoughts, more or less suggested by my reading of him, respecting the notion of God and its significance for philosophy.