Aesthetic theories, like theories of morals, are roughly divisible into those that maintain an analytic neutrality and those that attempt to arrive at “first-order”, practical judgments. A philo sopher of language may confine the legitimate task of aesthetics to the clarification of talk about works of art and about the fashioning of works of art. But other aestheticians, perhaps a more numerous group, see their study as far more intimately related to art criticism, and as able, without the committing of naturalistic or any other fallacies, to reach particular aesthetic value-judgments. Between these extreme positions lies a great diversity of theories which, while clearly differentiating aesthetics from art criticism, still carry practical implications of a general kind. The conceptual scaffolding into which they fit the art-forms, their notion of what is central to aesthetic experience and what peripheral, their account of artistic creativity-all these can be indirectly evaluative, can subtly influence and alter one's responses to actual aesthetic objects.

The story that is told in Lord Russell's recent book My Philosophical Development (Allen and Unwin, 18s.) is one that has been told before, by him and by others, but this particular presentation of it stands out by reason of its comprehensiveness and its authority. It is a rather austerely intellectual autobiography, sticking firmly to the topic announced in its title, and the non-philosophical aspects of the author's character and interests take as modest a place in it as Collingwood's do in his not altogether dissimilar Autobiography. What makes a comparison of these two intellectual self-portraits so tempting is the almost diametrical opposition of their authors. Russell is an aristocrat, an influential public figure too lively and multifarious to be contained for long in a university, a communicator who writes to be understood and believed, a mathematician still despite many years away from mathematics, a moral and political radical, an atheist and a lifelong defender of science as the most solid and enduring achievement of the human intellept. Collingwood was a scholarship boy, the son of an unsuccessful literary man, a pure example of the obscure and ineffectual don, who made out that he was too busy to answer criticism or to take part in college administration or university politics, an elaborately conscious stylist, almost as much a historian and an archaeologist as he was a philosopher, essentially a reactionary for all his autumnal flirtation with Marxism, a Christian (up to a point) and an embattled critic of the pretensions of science.

In Part I of this discussion I considered the nature and validity of the principle of respect for persons as distinguished from its practical import and application. Before I proceed to that second topic let me draw together in summary fashion the main points of the view I have put forward.

My discussion of this theme falls into two parts. In the first part, starting from the assumption that we do in fact tend to respond favourably to the idea, vague though it may be, that “persons are to be respected, simply as persons”, I endeavour to clear my mind a little about our warrant for speaking in this way; and to do this is at the same time to clarify in some measure our understanding of what such language means. But of course, since it is the language of practical principle, or precept, there can be no full understanding of its meaning without a grasp of its “working value”, of its significance as a clue to the proper directing and assessing of conduct. The second, and briefer, part of the discussion, accordingly, which is reserved for a subsequent article, is devoted to the question of the practical import of the principle of respect, the sort of guidance that it may provide in the actual business of life.

The word “beautiful” plays a surprisingly unimportant part in the language of sophisticated artistic appreciation; I mean in the informed criticism and comparison of specific works of art. Though in ordinary conversation it can be used naturally and easily, it does not serve readily as a technical term in expert writing or discussion. To become a technical term of this kind it would have to be definable, and definable in terms which commanded sufficient agreement: but attempts to define “beauty” and “beautiful” may well have become restrained by the popularity of philosophical discussion about the significance of these words. No philosophical question is discussed more commonly or from more firmly held opposite positions than the question whether beauty is “objective” or not. Discussion of this and related topics, however, not being the monopoly of professed philosophers but being familiar amongst artists and art critics themselves, tends to remove all shadow of technicality from the crucial terms discussed. Other terms come to serve for the “objective” features of works of art, and others again for the impressions which works of art may make upon us: “beauty” and “beautiful” tend to fall away between these two classes.

Can we ever know that something—some state of affairs, or some action taken or contemplated—is evil or wrong, or is it always at best a matter of opinion? It is curious that analytic philosophers, despite their preoccupation with the issue of scepticism and their many discussions of sceptical doubts, have given so little attention to this question. If we look, for example, at Professor Ayer's recent volume The Problem of Knowledge, which consists in effect of a prolonged consideration of various sceptical arguments, we find no reference to the problem of scepticism in moral matters; and this is the more surprising when we reflect that an explicit comparison between this sort of scepticism and scepticism about knowledge generally had been made in a celebrated essay by an earlier philosopher which is now widely thought to have broken fresh ground both in ethics and in theory of knowledge. I refer, of course, to H. A. Prichard's “Does Moral Philosophy rest on a Mistake?” contributed to Mind in 1912. There Prichard claimed to know that something was his duty, in a particular instance, as surely as he knew that seven times four are twenty-eight; in each case, he said, the knowledge is immediate and underivative. To think the contrary was, he argued, to embark on a hopeless quest; for if you cannot claim to know something until you produce criteria for knowing, you can be asked in turn what makes you think the criteria valid, and this will generate a vicious infinite regress. This is not in principle unlike the argument put forward by linguistic philosophers that, unless we allow that the word “know” is properly used in certain paradigm cases, which we take as in order without further questioning, it will lose all application. The interesting thing about Prichard is that he thought the argument applied to morals as readily as to the topics covered by traditional theory of knowledge. But here, as I say, he has not been explicitly followed by his successors.

The theory of descriptions occupies a very prominent place in Russell's system of logic and indeed in his system of philosophy. Since the publication of the now classical paper “On Denoting” in Mind for 1905 the theory had been incorporated into Principia Mathematica, the first volume of which appeared in 1910. In 1918 Russell discussed descriptions in his lectures on the Philosophy of Logical Atomism, which subsequently were published in The Monist for 1919. A very lucid exposition of the main tenets of the doctrine is to be found in the Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy dating from the same year. Epistemological aspects of the theory of descriptions are examined in “Knowledge by Acquaintance and Knowledge by Description“, in the Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society for 1910–11, and also in Chapter V of The Problems of Philosophy, first published in 1912.

Beliefs and desires are linked with one another by an obvious kind of duality. Everyone assumes that a person's beliefs may be, to some extent, ascertained by seeing how he acts: for we suppose that he will do the things which he believes will fulfil his wishes, and avoid doing what he thinks will frustrate them. Similarly, his desires may, to some extent, be ascertained by seeing how he acts; for if we know what he thinks about the results of his actions, we suppose that the expected results are desired or not disliked and those believed unlikely are disliked or undesired. We have three variables, conduct, desire, and belief; and we suppose that there is some equation by which the first in conjunction with one of the others implies a determinate value of the third. In principle, it should be equally possible to deduce conduct from belief and desire. But that seems of less metaphysical interest, because we think of actions as open to observation in a straightforward way, whereas we are more dubious about beliefs and desires.

The purpose of this article is to examine two major arguments in favour of the philosophical thesis that the meaning of an expression is its use, and not its referent or what it corresponds to. A second philosophical thesis which is closely related to the first is that the study of the ordinary, “actual” uses of certain expressions is not of purely linguistic interest but in fact is a way, probably the only proper way, of solving the problems of traditional philosophy; in the sequel to the present article, we shall examine one major argument in favour of this second thesis. Both theses occupy a place of central importance in the dominant movement in contemporary British philosophy, to which we shall refer as “the philosophy of ordinary language”. Together they seem to constitute the basis of the most characteristic claim of this movement: that traditional philosophic discourse is logically improper and that philosophy is a legitimate cognitive discipline only if it is concerned with “the spatial and temporal phenomenon of language” by describing “the actual use of language”. Both theses are necessary for the justifi cation of this more general claim.

If Bertrand Russell had lived in an earlier century, no one would have hesitated to call him a moral philosopher. In our more finicking age, some academics may want to say that, great as his achievements have been in other branches of philosophy, he is less a moral philosopher than a moralist. That is to say, he has consistently advocated ideals and expressed beliefs which have made him, along with Shaw and Wells, if not quite with Marx and Freud, one of the formative influences on the modern mind; but he has usually addressed these writings to the general public, and, although writing always with great force, clarity and skill, he has not always troubled his readers with the minutiae of philosophical argument. But this point should not be exaggerated. Even in his most popular works, Russell never loses sight of the philosophical problems in his concern for the political or psychological ones, and he certainly has views on meta-morals and meta-politics as well as on morals and politics. Indeed, his attempts to reconcile the two are highly illuminating; for they show one of the clearest minds of our time faced with one of the central problems of our time: how to justify passionately-held moral convictions when all the evidence seems to lead to moral scepticism. (To guard against misunderstanding, I should perhaps say that I do not mean religious scepticism. It is demonstrable, though it would be irrelevant here to demonstrate, that religious beliefs, whether justified or not, cannot provide an intellectually satisfying basis for morality.)

In this paper, I am trying to show that antithetic political positions appear to imply different moral attitudes not only accidentally but essentially, yet in a peculiar, limited and ambiguous fashion; and that political relativism or pluralism is far from implying moral relativism or pluralism in a corresponding and co-extensive sense. In other words, the gist of my contention is that men may be agreed about the basic universal laws of morality and none the less (or, indeed, all the more significantly) differ in their response to various moral requirements and points of view as emerging in specified contexts of human practice. Political positions are not as such derived from moral demands, nor consequent upon moral errors; nor do they, as such, determine the moral convictions of those who hold them; but they tend to be associated with distinct kinds of dominant moral emphases rather than simply to respect or to disregard morality.

There is a common distinction between two aspects of history: history as the object dealt with and history as the way of dealing with the object. Within the “objective” aspect of history one may distinguish between the attempt to define the object as man and the attempt to define it as process. Within the “subjective” aspect there is the prevailing tendency to put forward the nature of the onceptual method as one employing individual concepts.

Professor Karl Popper has had a great deal to endure: “expositions” of his ideas which were mere travesties, “refutations” which he had already answered, by anticipation, or which entirely missed the point at issue. One can easily understand why, when he came to publish an English translation of his Logik der Forschung, he decided to keep to the original text; it should at last be clear exactly what he had—and had not—said in 1934. Yet his thinking had by no means stood still since that time; quite naturally, too, he wished to emphasize as much.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Professor Findlay's generally remarkable book is that it was written at all. Only a few years ago Hegel seemed to be the most discredited of philosophers: Professor Ryle was heard to say that he could not make sense of his writings “even as error”, and there were few avant-garde, or even moderately up-to-date, philosophers in Great Britain who were prepared to take them with any seriousness, let alone to give time to their elucidation. It is true that Popper's portrait of Hegel as not only intellectually disreputable, but morally dishonest as well, was received with some incredulity; people could scarcely bring themselves to believe that matters were as bad as that, even before Mr. Kaufmann showed conclusively that they were not. But it is one thing to acquit Hegel of the charge of being a conscious fraud and another altogether to view his work with positive admiration. Despite hints to the effect that Hegel and Wittgenstein had views in common, it was not to be expected that someone as fully conversant with, and as appreciative of, recent philosophical work as is Professor Findlay should devote himself to a full-scale reassessment of Hegelianism and come out with a verdict which is very largely favourable. Yet it is just this that we find in the present book.

The monumental works of Bertrand Russell and Louis Couturat have set a firm pattern of interpretation which many follow in their approach to the Philosophy of Leibniz. In the Preface to the second edition of The Philosophy of Leibniz, Russell reaffirms his contention that “Leibniz’s philosophy was almost entirely derived from his logic”. He welcomes the support provided in Couturat’s La Logique de Leibniz. Russell remarks “No candid reader—can doubt that Leibniz’s metaphysic was derived by him from the subject-predicate logic. This appears, for example, from the paper ‘Primae Veritates’ where all the main doctrines of the Monadology are deduced, with terse logical rigor from the premises; ‘Always therefore the predicate or consequent adheres in the subject or antecedent, and in this fact consists the nature of truth in general—But this is true in every affirmative truth, universal or singular, necessary or contingent’.” Referring further to Couturat, he points out that in his book the “Principle of Sufficient Reason” and “The Identity of Indiscernibles” are “expressly deduced—from the analytic character of all true propositions”. In short, Russell is contending that in formulating his metaphysics Leibniz (i) used the rigorous methods of deductive logic and (2) employed “models” drawn from logic to construct his “picture of reality”, i.e. his metaphysics.

In his essay “Logical Empiricism”, in the anthology Twentieth Century Philosophy, Professor Feigl writes: “All forms of empiricism agree in repudiating the existence of synthetic a priori knowledge.” 2 Schlick makes the same point even more forcibly: “The empiricism which I represent believes itself to be clear on the point that, as a matter of principle, all propositions are either synthetic a posteriori or tautologous; synthetic a priori propositions seem to it to be a logical impossibility.”3 The denial of synthetic a prioris is a major thesis of the logical empiricist position, being found in the writings of most of the leaders of the movement.4 The reason for its importance is fairly clear. It provides a formula on which the empiricists can base their critique of traditional philosophy. To use Ayer's phrase, denial of the synthetic a priori results in “the elimination of metaphysics”. The philosophical tradition to which the empiricists are opposed and whose “metaphysics” they wish to eliminate can be called, somewhat loosely, rationalism.

The publication in English of Karl R. Popper's The Logic of Scientific Discovery (London, Hutchinson, 1959) twenty-five years after the appearance of the German original, is an important event. At the time when many philosophers questioned the cognitive value of scientific hypotheses (and even of the most down-to-earth empirical generalizations), Popper has shown how to reconcile the free use of bold explanatory hypotheses with an insistence on empirical testing. Many of Popper's views have now been accepted even by most of his earlier opponents, which is no small tribute to a philosopher who had challenged an important current of opinion. But, though the basic aspects of Popper's theory have attracted considerable attention in recent years, some of his finer points have received insufficient discussion. It is hoped that the publication of this important book in English translation will now help to remedy this situation.

The article on my theory of descriptions by Mr. Lejewski raises two points. One is as to the copula. I do not quite understand why it is thought that an ambiguity in the meaning of the word “is” is relevant in regard to my theory of descriptions. There are many problems in regard to which it is relevant. I have mentioned one of these in criticizing Hegel in Our Knowledge of the External World on p. 39n of the original edition (1914). But, although I have read Mr. Lejewski's argument several times, it still seems to me quite clear that in “Scott is the author of Waverley” the “is” is that of identity. Nor have I been able to understand why he considers his theory of descriptions preferable to mine. I am, however, quite willing to believe (and I say this in all sincerity) that there is some point that I have missed in his discussion.

Only one volume has reached us to mark the centenary of Bergson's birth. Is this significant? If a writer lives to an advanced age his centenary usually falls at a time when fashion has turned against him, and the consequent attitudes are perhaps more interestingly gleaned from comparitively informal assessments than from carefully timed publications. In the Nouvelles Littéraires of October 22,1959, there appeared, almost a hundred years to the day after Bergson's birth, a reported discussion on his philosophy between Gaston Berger, Gabriel Marcel, Henri Gouhier, Jean Brun and a young “normalien” Dominique Janicaud.The talk, presumably more or less spontaneous, was naturally desultory. The older participants could always compensate for implicit misgivings by falling back on affectionate personal recollections, and the youngest would perhaps have preferred not to have to say anything at all. The most cogent general estimate was probably M. Jean Brun's, when he described Bergson as in effect making a stand against the danger of specialist appropriation of the dismembered fragments of philosophy by the various branches of science. We have seen this very nearly come about in England, where a fairly narrow linguistic and logical sector alone has been held with any feeling of conviction. What is here exemplified is the difference of outlook on any question that the English Channel makes. I once heard an English professor of English literature say that when reading Emile Legouis' History of English Literature he had some difficulty in persuading himself that his own professional speciality was being dealt with. It is not difficult to see how this comes about. What one nation takes for granted appears to another as excitingly significant.