If I were asked to put forward an ethical principle which I considered to be especially certain, it would be that no one can be responsible, in the properly ethical sense, for the conduct of another. Responsibility belongs essentially to the individual. The implications of this principle are much more far-reaching than is evident at first, and reflection upon them may lead many to withdraw the assent which they might otherwise be very ready to accord to this view of responsibility. But if the difficulties do appear to be insurmountable, and that, very certainly, does not seem to me to be the case, then the proper procedure will be, not to revert to the barbarous notion of collective or group responsibility, but to give up altogether the view that we are accountable in any distinctively moral sense.

The tendency towards analysis and criticism, realism and pluralism, which has been evident in general philosophy during the present century has had important effects on recent ethical discussion. Its influence is to be seen in the two theories which on account of their prominence and the number of their disciples may be said to be most characteristic of the period—Ideal Utilitarianism and the New Intuitionism—theories which no less an authority than Sir David Ross described as the rival theories. However different these theories are in many respects they have a tendency towards ethical pluralism, if not atomism—a tendency not only to emphasize distinctions but even to harden the distinguishable elements into independent, if not even unrelated, entities. The one leaves us with a series of independent goods and the other with a series of prima facie duties, with the result that neither gives us any unitary principle to help us in one of the principal tasks of the moral life, the attempt to discover what in particular circumstances we ought to do.

In a previous article I considered Aristotle's view of God as final cause and its relation to the philosophy of Plato; and at the end of the article I remarked on the affinity of both doctrines with that of Spinoza. The present paper is concerned with Spinoza's doctrine of God as it is related to his conception of causality and seeks, inter alia, to show that his explicit rejection of final causes does not prevent his philosophy from having in it something like the true principle of final causation. In each section I first quote the chief relevant definitions or propositions in Spinoza's Ethics, and then state what seems needful in the way of interpretation or comment.

This paper contains the substance of a lecture delivered to the Institute under the title “World Peace and World Morals” in November 1947. It is now published in Philosophyon the suggestion of members of the audience at that lecture.

The essence of Wordsworth's creed appears, at first glance, to be simple and unambiguous: if we train the eye and ear to become receptive to the influence of natural objects, we come in time to receive “authentic tidings of invisible things,” intuitive knowledge of a Spirit which informs both Nature and the mind of man. This Spirit is a source of spiritual power; communion with it brings serenity and joy. But for all the apparent simplicity of this creed, we are soon forced to ask difficult questions about it. For example, how, precisely, are we to conceive of this universal Spirit? It is “a motion and a spirit” which informs all things; but what else is it? If it can elevate the thoughts of man, is it itself possessed of moral attributes? Is it, for instance, a Spirit of Love? In order to understand more precisely how Wordsworth believed the Spirit, particularly as it manifested itself in the works of Nature, could influence and shape the mind of man, it will be necessary to turn chiefly to The Prelude and, by reference to it, to endeavour to answer the following questions:

(1) What, besides motion and infinitude, did Wordsworth consider the properties of the Universal Spirit to be?

(2) How did he believe man acquires knowledge of it? And

(3) In what precise sense did he maintain that Nature can educate man morally?

All quotations from The Prelude, unless otherwise stated, will be drawn from the 1805–6 version of the poem.

I Take it that my part in this series is not to set forward some particular world outlook, or even to describe different kinds of world outlook. That will have been done already much more adequately by the lecturers who precede me. My part is to discuss what in general is meant by world outlooks, why it is so difficult to arrive at agreement on them, and what kind of considerations should be taken into account in deciding for one rather than another.

Few people would care to deny, whether within India or without, that Buddha is the greatest Indian of all times. Whether from the standpoint of the purity of his life, the daring originality and novelty of his thought, or the extent of his influence in shaping the culture of the world, it would be hard to beat the record of Buddha. Even making every allowance for the common idea that no man is a prophet in his own land, it is difficult to believe that for the last thousand years Buddha has been practically an exile from the land of his birth. It is nothing short of an irony of history, and nothing short of a tragedy for India, that the great unifying force that he represented in his time and does represent even to-day has been allowed to run waste and the great moral stamina that he sought to supply failed in its historic mission.

To treat existentialism as a philosophy is no more possible than to treat idealism as a philosophy. The reason is obvious. Jean-Paul Sartre is an existentialist and Gabriel Marcel is also an existentialist; but the philosophy of Sartre is not the same as the philosophy of Marcel. One can no more speak of the philosophy of Kierkegaard, Jaspers, Heidegger, Sartre, Marcel and Berdyaev, as though they maintained the same system, than one could speak of the philosophy of Plato, Berkeley and Hegel, as though one philosophy was common to the three thinkers. Of course, if one took idealism in the sense in which the Marxist uses the term, as meaning the doctrine that mind is prior to matter, i.e. as opposed to materialism (with the suggestion that realism and materialism are equivalent), one would have a definite theme to consider; but one would be forced to recognize as idealists thinkers who would never call themselves by that name and who would not be generally recognized as such. Similarly, if one said that existentialism is the doctrine that man is free and that what he makes of himself depends on himself, on his free choices, one would doubtless have mentioned a doctrine which is common to the existentialists and which they insist upon; but one would at the same time be forced to include in the ranks of the existentialists philosophers whose inclusion would be manifestly absurd.

The aim of this article is to show that there are two distinct ethical theories in the writings of Bishop Butler. This is something that his critics do not seem to have realized. One or two of them have seen that the Dissertation on Virtue contains ideas which do not harmonize very well with those of the Rolls Sermons, but no one has made a detailed study of the differences. It has been usual to dismiss them with the remark that Butler is an inconsistent writer and we should not worry too much over details.

The title of this lecture, as it stands now, is “Psychology and the Moral Problems of Our Time.” When I received the extremely flattering invitation to address you, the proposed title was “Light from Psychology on the Moral Problems of Our Time,” and as I am not by any means sure that Psychology throws a very clear light upon our problems, I begged that the title might be toned down. I say this at the outset, because I am afraid that you may be disappointed by the emptiness of the psychological cupboards—at any rate so far as illumination upon the moral problems of our times is concerned, and if I were to appear before you claiming to be a torchbearer, you would be justified in accusing me of false pretences.

This paper will endeavour to present an outline of the Organic Philosophy associated with the name of Whitehead. Whitehead resembles Spinoza and Leibniz in that he is a philosopher who has tried to construct a world-outlook that will do justice to science and to the other aspects of life and knowledge. Moreover, just as in his day Leibniz was an eminent mathematician and scientist, so Whitehead in our day enjoys the same distinction. But Whitehead's philosophy differs both from that of Spinoza and from that of Leibniz. Spinoza based his philosophy upon the monistic substance, of which the actual events in the world are the inferior modes. Whitehead bases his philosophy upon the actual events themselves and derives the solidarity of the world as a whole from their mutual interplay. Thus the organic philosophy is pluralistic in contrast with Spinoza's monism. In comparing Whitehead's philosophy with that of Leibniz, we find that they agree in both being pluralistic, but they differ in the emphasis placed upon the notion of mentality. Leibniz's monads are best conceived as generalizations of the notion of mentality, and the conception of physical bodies only enters into his philosophy subordinately and derivatively. Whitehead, however, in his philosophy of organism endeavours to hold the balance between the physical and mental more evenly, and thus does justice to both aspects of reality.

Theism is a modern word, meaning belief in God. But there is no unanimity about the attributes of God. The Greek theos meant a superhuman and in particular an immortal Being. For the Platonists he was a “Soul,” and there may be more than one soul. The Christian Fathers—Augustine as well as the Greeks, could say without reproach that God became man in order that man might become divine. The Logos in the Fourth Gospel is God, but not the Godhead. “My Father is greater than I.”

Professor Ayer's lecture is not only a most auspicious inauguration; it is also an important contribution to philosophy. It is perhaps the best and the most exciting work he has written, and that is saying a good deal. There is a certain theory about thought and its objects which is often hinted at in the utterances and the writings of contemporary empiricist philosophers, but so far as I know it has never before been stated in print. Mr. Ayer has stated it, clearly and in detail, with all his well-known force and felicity of style. It is a strange and rather shocking theory, very different (in appearance at any rate) from the one which most philosophers hitherto have believed. But if we are shocked by it, the shock will be salutary. The dragon has at last come clearly into view. If we resolve to accustom ourselves to it and treat it kindly, we may hope that it will transform itself by degrees into a nice gentle domestic pet, as other philosophical dragons have before.

It may sometimes be useful in philosophy to state a method of argument in very simple and even over-simplified terms; it may at a certain stage be useful to ignore for the moment the details and difficulties of particular philosophical arguments, and to try to state simply what is commonly assumed in a variety of different and even opposing arguments.

Metaphysics as a human enterprise is for ever called upon to vindicate its claim to be entitled “knowledge.” Sometimes the challenge is issued in the name of irritated common sense. Sometimes metaphysics is relegated into insignificance by a supercilious estheticism. Sometimes metaphysics is excommunicated for daring to trespass on the holy domain of religion. Here its death sentence is pronounced by an all-embracing scepticism, and there by the confident faith in the universal adequacy and exclusive validity of the methods of science. The attacks on metaphysics throughout the ages have been so numerous and so severe that one would expect the victim to have expired long ago. Yet the inextinguishable will-to-live exhibited by metaphysics has been as remarkable a phenomenon as the perennial tenacity of her would-be executioners. And although the bells have been tolled many times for metaphysics, she is still able to announce with Mark Twain that the rumours of her demise have been slightly exaggerated. In the long run, history seems to reveal a singular indocility with respect to the arguments of the enemies of metaphysics, and as Gilson has pointed out, one of the lessons to be derived from the study of the history of philosophy is that metaphysics always buries its undertakers.

“ ‘Tell me, Protagoras,’ he said, ‘does a single grain of millet or the ten-thousandth part of a grain make any sound when it falls?’ And when Protagoras said it did not, ‘Then,’ asked Zeno, ‘does a bushel of millet make any sound when it falls or not?’ Protagoras answered that it did, whereupon Zeno replied, ‘But surely there is some ratio between a bushel of millet and a single grain or even the ten-thousandth part of a grain'; and when this was admitted, ‘But then surely,’ Zeno said, ‘the ratios of the corresponding sounds to each other will be the same: for as the bodies which make the sounds are to one another, so will the sounds be to one another. And if this is so, and if the bushel of millet makes a sound, then the single grain of millet and the ten-thousandth part of a grain will make a sound.’ This was the way Zeno used to put his questions”