Cast a backward glance over the last hundred years and it will be seen at once where the greatest advance has been. We cannot claim, I fear, that it has been in philosophy. Nor yet has it been in the sphere of religion; nor in politics; nor in the arts. Plainly enough, it is in science that this age has excelled; and in industrial production through the help of science.

It has long been the habit of philosophers, and is still a common failing of ordinary playgoers, to see tragedy through the coloured spectacles of an acquired philosophical or religious outlook, and to commend or condemn rather from the standpoint of partiality for a certain view about life in general than from that of one assessing the intrinsic merits of a work of art. Because we all, whether laymen or specialists, theorize about the nature and destiny of that mysterious universe which, for a brief span, our minds illumine, and because the working hypothesis so engendered is inevitably tinged by our personal idiosyncrasies of temperament and taste, there have been—and, building on such a foundation, there must be—almost as many different theoretical explanations of the tragic as theoreticians speculating on this high theme. Besides introducing that personal equation which has always been anathema to science, the distorted vision for which philosophical preconceptions are responsible brings with it minor illusions that are scarcely less injurious; the reading into a play or a novel of notions that had never entered the poet's brain, or the interpolation of history with incidents that never really occurred, the discarding of much that is genuinely tragic because it happens not to fit into the mould shaped by our own ideas, and the acceptance of much that is not merely untragic, but actually inartistic—pacifist, or communist, or feminist, or religious propaganda—because it happens to display the native hue of our own convictions.

Nicolas Malebranche was born in Paris on August 6, 1638, and died there on October 13, 1715. According to Fontenelle he was a tenth, according to André a thirteenth child, and his “machine” (i.e. his body) was persistently refractory. He was tall—about six feet—but something misshapen from rickets or some other such cause. His spine, according to the unprofessional P. Adry, was “tortueuse dans toute sa longueur,” his clavicles too large, while his arms “n'étaient point attachés à l'ordinaire.” Besides he had “all the maladies known in his time,” including severe acidity of the stomach from the age of twenty-five onwards (probably arising from a duodenal ulcer). Nevertheless, he used to chew tobacco and was one of the earliest Parisians to become a coffee-drinker. For the most part, however, he tried to “manage his machine” by drinking water copiously. His portraits show him to have been strange, gaunt, intense, high-browed, and small-chinned.

On page 95 appears a review of a book by Professor E. A. Milne in which is described a new theory of the metrical character of the world and the interpretation, in the light thereof, of many important astronomical phenomena. Although the author states that his object is not to criticize the general form of the principle of relativity, there appears to be a fundamental distinction between the viewpoints of Einstein and Milne which is frequently emphasized and which it is profoundly important to examine as minutely as possible, for if Professor Milne's claim is established the foundations of physics are essentially modified. The purpose of this article is to compare the outlooks implicit in Milne's theory and the theory of relativity, respectively, in order to see how far, if at all, current ideas require alteration. It should, be mentioned that, although Professor Milne speaks of his theory as “the principle of relativity in a much weaker form” (weaker, that is, in its power of restricting natural possibilities, not in its power of representing phenomena) and frequently uses the word “relativity” to describe it, we shall here, to prevent misunderstanding, restrict the meaning of the word to Einstein's theory.

Moses Maimondes, born March 30, 1135, the eight hundredth anniversary of whose birth we now commemorate, is one of those universal spirits who mastered the whole realm of knowledge of their time. His fruitful and extensive literary activity covered many fields: astronomy, medicine, Talmud, and philosophy. His works on medicine were in former tunes highly esteemed. In the field of philosophy he strove for the synthesis of Aristotelianism and revealed religion, an endeavour which was of paramount importance for the later development of philosophic thought. His influence as a philosopher is not confined to the sphere of Jewish thought, but has left a lasting impression on the history of philosophy in general.

The question of political sovereignty must at all times be of acute academic interest, since it is practically impossible to say anything about the state without implying something about sovereignty, or vice versa. Political theory has very generally found this conception central to its inquiry; but in recent years the notion has been thrown into sharp relief by political events. In Fascism and Nazism the doctrine of state sovereignty is “made flesh” in startlingly substantial forms. These modern incarnations of Leviathan, and their threat to much which has come to be deeply valued, give unprecedented importance to an age-long discussion. Political theory is not to-day, if it has ever seemed, a simply academic issue, or an “arm-chair” branch of philosophy. Not all of those who carry through revolutions, who build barricades and defend them with their lives, have a clear philosophical theory of the state; but powerful beliefs and motives they certainly have; and it daily becomes more manifest that unless the world is content to allow its political future to be determined more and more by obscure visceral impulses or crude economic motives a more intense effort to achieve and to apply true beliefs in the political field is imperative.

Describing and explaining; tracing the outlines and smoothing out the folds; making clear and making plain; in either case hoping that our hearer may be able to say, “Yes, I see it better now.” Is there really a fundamental difference between these two? Common parlance uses both words for the same kind of process. We may be asked either to “explain” or to “describe” the working of a machine, answering the English boy's question “Why does it do this?” or the Scotch “What's the go of it?” To account for a sum of money is to explain its absence by describing its expenditure. We say, “Why is that man offended?” or, equally, “What's the matter?” and a brief description of the man's character and history, showing on what structure a casual remark has impinged, may lead us to say, “That explains it.” Even where purpose enters we may vary the words we use. “Why on earth did you do that?” “What was your idea in doing that?” “Describe what you had in your mind.” “Please explain”.

History and Legend are, Professor Robin believes, traditionally misconceived in being conceived as in conflict. To write history is either to destroy utterly the claim of some legend to be veridical, or else to rediscover, behind what is imaginary or fabulous in it, indications of what the facts really were. Such is the accredited view. But, asks M. Robin, is not legend, on the contrary, a positive element in history? And he answers in effect that nowhere is legend more regular, indeed more necessary, than in its contribution to the history of philosophy, ancient and modern. This history has a wholly original character. It does not resemble the history of the sciences; for this relates either the checkmates in research—instructive to be sure, but dead for future science—or else its victories—equally instructive, though only their results survive. Nor does it resemble literary history; for even if this be accompanied by evaluatory criticism, seldom is interpretation of doctrine admitted. Interpreting a philosophy is seizing not only its literal sense, but above all its import and efficacy. It is a continuously creative and reflective activity which unceasingly quickens the materials on which it reflects. But since what is called objectivity cannot be attained by the historian of philosophy except by shutting his eyes to the limits of his powers, he must candidly confess—and without admitting that the confession impairs the value of his effort—that objectivity cannot be his chief end. No great philosophy can really be considered dead, its sincere and sympathetic evocation is always possible. The history of philosophy is philosophy; it is philosophy philosophizing on its past efforts, and contemplating itself in the perenniality of its changing existence.

Karl Popper's aim in Logik der Forschung is to consider the method of investigation used by the empirical sciences. Many people would say that their procedure is marked by the use of induction, and accordingly that the logic of scientific investigation is the logical analysis of induction. But Popper disagrees. Scientific procedure consists of two steps, an hypothesis is formed, and then it is tested. Logic is only concerned with questions of validity, and thus is only concerned with the second of these steps. But every method of testing validity is deductive, and thus the logic of scientific investigation is the study of deduction as used by the empirical sciences.