A History of Philosophy - Modern Philosophy - Bentham To - Frederick Copleston - Volume 8, 1966 - Anna's Archive

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‘PHILOSOPHY:
Modern Philosophy:
Bentham to Russell
Part I
British Empiricism and
the Idealist Movement
in Great Britain
FREDERICK COPLESTON, S.].
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Undoubtedly Frederick Copleston’s A HISTORY OF PHI-

LOSOPHY is a monumental achievement. Below are some of
the comments critics have given to the various volumes in the
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tory of philosophy now available in English.”
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losophy yet published in English.”
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years to come.” Blackfriars
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of western philosophy can dispense with Fr. Copleston’s
History.” Duckett’s Register
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ment and wonder. . . The present volume is just as learned,
fair-minded, lucid and interesting as its predecessors.”
The Month
Volumes of A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY now available
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A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY: Volume 1
Parts I & II—-Greece & Rome—D 134A & D 134B
Mediaeval Philosophy
Part I— Augustine to Bonaventure—D 135A
Part I1— Albert the Great to Duns Scotus—D 135B
Late Mediaeval and Renaissance Philosophy
Part I-Ockham to the Speculative Mystics—D 136A
Part II—The Revival of Platonism to Su4rez—D 136B
Modern Philosophy
Descartes to Leibniz—D 137
Modern Philosophy — The British Philosophers
Part I— Hobbes to Paley—-D 138A
Part II - Berkeley to Hume—D 138B
Modern Philosophy
Part I—The French Enlightenment to Kant—D 139A
Part II—-Kant—D 139B
Modern Philosophy
Part I—Fichte to Hegel—D 140A
Part II]—Schopenhauer to Nietzsche—D 140B
Modern Philosophy — Bentham to Russell
Part I—British Empiricism and the Idealist Movement in
Great Britain—D 141B
Part I1—Idealism in America, The Pragmatist Movement
The Revolt against Idealism—D 141B
A History of Philosophy
VOLUME VIII
Modern Philosophy
Bentham to Russell
PARE
British Empiricism
and the Idealist Movement
in Great Britain
by Frederick Copleston, S. J.
yy
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by special arrangement with The Newman Press
Image Books Edition published September 1967
DI LICENTIA SUPERIORUM ORDINIS:

J. Corbishley, S.J.
Vice-Praep. Prov. Angliae Soc. Jesu
NIHIL OBSTAT:
T. Gornall, S.J.
Censor Deputatus
IMPRIMATUR:
MK Joseph Cleary
Episcopus Cresimensis
Vic. Cap.
Birmingamiae die 25a Junii 1965
The Nihil obstat and Imprimatur are a declaration that a book or

pamphlet is considered to be free from doctrinal or moral error. It is
not implied that those who have granted the Nihil obstat and Im-
primatur agree with the contents, opinions or statements expressed.
© Frederick Copleston, 1966

Printed in the United States*of America
CONTENTS
PREFACE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART I
BRITISH EMPIRICISM
One: Tse UrizirartAN Movement (1)

Introductory remarks—The life and writings of
Bentham—The principles of Benthamism, fol-
lowed by some critical comments—The life and
writings of James Mill—Altruism and the asso-
ciationist psychology; Miéill’s polemic against
Mackintosh —James Mill on the mind— Remarks
on Benthamite economics.
Two: Tue Urirrrartan Movement (2) 42

Life and writings of J. S. Mill—Mill’s develop-
ment of the utilitarian ethics— Mill on civil lib-
erty and govern — Psychological
ment freedom.
Three: J. S. Miri: Locic AND Empiricism 68

Introductory remarks—Names and propositions,
real and verbal— The nature of mathematics — Syl-
logistic reasoning—Induction and the principle of
the uniformity of Nature—The law of causation
—Experimental inquiry and deduction — Method
in the Moral Sciences— Matter as a permanent
possibility of sensations—The analysis of mind
and the spectre of solipsism— Mill on religion and
natural theology.
Four: Emprricists, AcNostics, PosIrivists 113

Alexander Bain and the associationist psychology
~Bain on utilitaria—nism Henry Sidgwick’s com-
CONTENTS
bination of utilitarianism and intuitionism—

Charles Darwin and the philosophy of evolution
—T. H. Huxley; evolution, ethics and agnosticism
—Scientific materialism and agnosticism; John
Tyndall and Leslie Stephen—G. J. Romanes and
religion — Positivism; the Comtist groups, G. H.
Lewes, W. K. Clifford, K. Pearson—B. Kidd; con-
cluding remarks.
Five: Tue PariosopHy oF HERBERT SPENCER 142

Life and writings — The nature of philosophy and
its basic concepts and principles—The general
law of evolution: the alternation of evolution and
dissolution — Sociology and politics — Relative and
absolute ethics -The Unknowable in religion and
science — Final comments.
PART II
THE IDEALIST MOVEMENT

IN GREAT BRITAIN
Six: THE BEGINNINGS OF TEE MOVEMENT 17:

Introductory historical remarks—Literary pio-
neers: Coleridge and Carlyle—Ferrier and the
subject-object relation—John Grote’s attack on
phenomenalism and hedonism — The revival of in-
terest in Greek philosophy and the rise of interest
in Hegel; B. Jowett and J. H. Stirling.
Seven: Tur DrEvELOPpMENT or IDEALISM 19

T. H. Green’s attitude to British empiricism and
to German thought—Green’s doctrine of the
eternal subject, with some critical comments—
The ethical and political theory of Green—E.
Caird and the unity underlying the distinction
between subject and object—J. Caird and the phi-
losophy of religion—W. Wallace and D. G.
Ritchie.
CONTENTS
Eight: AssoLtute IDEALISM: BRADLEY 214

Introductory remarks—The Presuppositions of
Critical History—Morality and its self-transcend-
ing in religion—The relevance of logic to meta-
physics — ‘The basic presupposition of metaphysics
—Appearance: the thing and its qualities, rela-
tions and their terms, space and time, the self—
Reality: the nature of the Absolute— Degrees of
truth and reality—Error and evil—The Absolute,
God and religion—Some critical discussion of
Bradley’s metaphysics.
Nine: AssoLuTE IDEALISM: BosANQUET 248

Life and writings—Logic; judgment and reality-—
The metaphysics of individuality—Bosanquet’s
philosophy of the State—Hobhouse’s criticism
of Bosanquet—R. B. Haldane; Hegelianism and
relativityH. H. Joachim and the coherence the-
ory of truth.
Ten: Tue Turn Towarps Personal IDEALISM 267

Pringle-Pattison and the value of the human
person—The pluralistic idealism of McTaggart
—The pluralistic spiritualism of J. Ward—Gen-
eral comments.
appenpix: A Short Bibliography 284
NOTES 300
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PREFACE
In the preface to Volume VII of this History of Philosophy

I said that I hoped to devote a further volume, the eighth,
to some aspects of French and British thought in the nine-
teenth century. This hope has been only partially fulfilled.
For the present volume contains no treatment of French
philosophy but is devoted exclusively to some aspects of Brit-
ish and American thought. It covers rather familiar ground.
But in a general history of Western philosophy this ground
obviously ought to be covered.
As I have strayed over well into the twentieth century,
some explanation may be needed of the fact that the phi-
losophy of Bertrand Russell, who is happily still with us, has
been accorded relatively extensive treatment, whereas the
thought of Ludwig Wittgenstein, who died in 1951, has been
relegated to the epilogue, apart from a few allusions in the
chapter on Russell. After all, it may be pointed out, Russell
was himself influenced to a certain extent by Wittgenstein,
both in regard to the interpretation of the logical status of
the propositions of logic and pure mathematics and in regard
to logical atomism.
The explanation is simple enough. Russell’s thought fits
naturally into the context of the revolt against idealism; and
though he has obviously exercised a powerful influence on the
rise and development of the analytic movement in twentieth-
century British thought, in some important respects he has
maintained a traditional view of the function of philosophy.
His lack of sympathy with Wittgenstein’s later ideas and with
certain aspects of recent ‘Oxford philosophy’ is notorious.
Further, though he has emphasized the limitations of em-
piticism as a theory of knowledge, in some respects he can
be regarded as prolonging the empiricist tradition into the
twentieth century, even if he has enriched it with new tech-
niques of logical analysis. Wittgenstein, however, frankly pro-
posed a revolutionary concept of the nature, function and
scope of philosophy. Certainly, there is a very considerable
difference between the ideas of language expounded in the
Tractatus and those expounded in Philosophical Inyestiga-
10 PREFACE
tions; but in both cases the concept of philosophy is far from

being a traditional one. And as limitations of space excluded
the possibility of according extensive treatment to the con-
centration on language which is associated with the name of
Wittgenstein, I decided to confine my discussion of the sub-
ject to some brief remarks in an epilogue. This fact should
not, however, be interpreted as implying a judgment of value
in regard to the philosophy either of Russell or of Wittgen-
stein. I mean, the fact that I have devoted three chapters to
Russell does not signify that in my opinion his thought is
simply a hangover from the nineteenth century. Nor does the
fact that I have relegated Wittgenstein to the epilogue, apart
from some allusions in the chapters on Russell, mean that I
fail to appreciate his originality and importance. Rather is it
a matter of not being able to give equally extensive treatment
to the ideas of both these philosophers.
A word of explanation may also be appropriate in regard to
my treatment of Cardinal Newman. It will be obvious to any
attentive reader that in distinguishing the currents of thought
in the nineteenth century I have used traditional labels,
‘empiricism’, ‘idealism’ and so on, none of which can prop-
etly be applied to Newman. But to omit him altogether,
because of the difficulty of classifying him, would have been
absurd, especially when I have mentioned a considerable
number of much less distinguished thinkers. I decided, there-
fore, to make a few remarks about some of his philosophical
ideas in an appendix. I am well aware, of course, that this
will not satisfy Newman enthusiasts; but a writer cannot
undertake to satisfy everybody.
Volumes VII and VIII having been devoted respectively
to German and British-American philosophy in the nine-
teenth century, the natural procedure would be to devote a
further volume, the ninth, to aspects of French and other
European philosophy during the same period. But I am in-
clined to postpone the writing of this volume and to turn my
attention instead to the subject to which I referred in the
preface to Volume VII, that is, to what may be called the
philosophy of the history of philosophy or general reflection
on the development of philosophical thought and on its im-
plications. For I should like to undertake this task while there
is a reasonable possibility of fulfilling it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author has pleasure in expressing his gratitude to the

Right Hon. the Earl Russell, O.M., for his generous permis-
sion to quote from his writings, and to the following pub-
lishers and holders of copyright for permission to quote from
the works indicated below.
The Clarendon Press: Collected Essays, Ethical Studies,
Principles of Logic, Appearance and Reality, Essays on Truth
and Reality, by F. H. Bradley; The Idea of God in the Light
of Recent Philosophy by A. S. Pringle-Pattison; The Nature
of Truth by H. H. Joachim; Statement and Inference by
J. Cook Wilson; and Essays in Ancient and Modern Phi-
losophy by H. W. B. Joseph.
The Oxford University Press: The Problems of Philosophy
and Religion and Science by Bertrand Russell; and A Com-
mon Faith by John Dewey.
Macmillan and Co., Ltd. (London): Logic, Essentials of
Logic, The Philosophical Theory of the State, The Principle
of Individuality and Value, The Value and Destiny of the
Individual by Bernard Bosanquet; Humanism, Formal Logic
and Axioms as Postulates (contained in Personal Idealism,
edited by H. Sturt) by F..C. S. Schiller; and Space, Time
and Deity by S. Alexander.
The Cambridge University Press: The Nature of Existence
by J. M. E. McTaggart.
W. Blackwood and Sons, Ltd.: Hegelianism and Person-
dlity by A. S. Pringle-Pattison.
A. and C. Black, Ltd.: Naturalism and Agnosticism by
James Ward.
Miss S. C. Campbell: The Realm of Ends by James Ward.
The Belknap Press of the Harvard University Press: Col-
lected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce; Vols. I and WH, copy-
right 1931, 1932, 1959, 1960; Vols. III and IV, copyright
1933, 1961; Vols. V and VI, copyright 1934, 1935; 1962,
1963 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.
12 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
G. Bell and Sons, Ltd.: The Influence of Darwin on Phi-

losophy by John Dewey.
Constable and Co., Ltd.: Experience and Nature by John
Dewey.
Yale University Press: A Common Faith by John Dewey;
The Meaning of God in Human Experience and Human
Nature and Its Remaking by W. E. Hocking. Acknowledg-
ment is also due to Professor W. E. Hocking.
The University of Chicago Press: Theory of Valuation by
John Dewey. (International Encyclopaedia of Unified Sci-
ence, Vol. 2, no. 4, copyright 1939.)
The Philosophical Library Inc. (N.Y.): Problems of Men
(copyright 1946) by John Dewey and The Development of
American Pragmatism by John Dewey (contained in Twen-
tieth Century Philosophy, edited by Dagobert D. Runes,
copyright 1943).
Holt, Rinehart and Winston Inc. (N.Y.) and the John
Dewey Foundation: Human Nature and Conduct, Logic: The
Theory of Inquiry and The Public and Its Problems by John
Dewey.
Putnam’s and Coward-McCann (N.Y.): Quest For Cer-
tainty (copyright 1929, renewed 1957) by John Dewey.
The Macmillan Co. Inc. (N.Y.): Democracy and Educa-
tion (copyright 1916) by John Dewey; The New Realism:
Cooperative Studies in Philosophy (copyright 1912) by
E. B. Holt and Others; Process and Reality (copyright 1929
and 1949) by A. N. Whitehead.
Professor G. Ryle, Editor of Mind: The Nature of Judg-
ment (Mind, 1899) by G. E. Moore.
Mrs. G. E. Moore: Principia Ethica by G. E. Moore.
Routledge and Kegan Paul, Ltd.: Philosophical Studies by
G. E. Moore; and What I Believe by Bertrand Russell.
George Allen and Unwin, Ltd.: The Metaphysical Theory
of the State by L. T. Hobhouse; Philosophical Papers and
Some Main Problems of Philosophy by G. E. Moore; The
Principles of Mathematics, Introduction to Mathematical
Philosophy, Philosophical Essays, The Analysis of Mind, Our
Knowledge of the External World, Principles of Social Re-
construction, Mysticism and Logic, An Outline of Philoso-
phy, The Scientific Outlook, Power, An Inquiry into Meaning
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 13
and Truth, A History of Western Philosophy, Human Knowl-

edge: Its Scope and Limits, Logic and Knowledge, My Philo-
sophical Development, Unpopular Essays and Authority and
the Individual by Bertrand Russell; Contemporary British
Philosophy, First Series (1924) and Second Series (1925),
edited by J. H. Muirhead.
W. W. Norton and Co., Inc. (N.Y.): The Principles of
Mathematics by Bertrand Russell.
Simon and Schuster Inc. (N.Y.): A History of Western
Philosophy (c. 1945), Human Knowledge: Its Scope and
Limits (c. 1948), Authority and the Individual (c. 1949),
Unpopular Essays (c. 1950) and My Philosophical Develop-
ment (c. 1959), by Bertrand Russell.
Macdonald and Co., Ltd. (London) and Doubleday and
Co. Inc. (N.Y.): Wisdom of the West by Bertrand Russell
(copyright Rathbone Books Ltd., London 1959).
The Library of Living Philosophers Inc., formerly pub-
lished by The Tudor Publishing Co., N.Y., and now pub-
lished by The Open Court Publishing Co., La Salle, Illinois:
The Philosophy of John Dewey (1939 and 1951) and The
Philosophy of Bertrand Russell (1946), both edited by Paul
Arthur Schilpp.
Part I
BRITISH EMPIRICISM
Chapter One
THE UTILITARIAN MOVEMENT (1)
Introductory remarks—The life and writings of Bentham—

The principles of Benthamism, followed by some critical
comments—The life and writings of James Mill— Altruism
and the associationist psychology; Méill’s polemic against
Mackintosh—James Mill on the mind—Remarks on Ben-
thamite economics.
1. The philosophy of David Hume, which represented the

culmination of classical British empiricism, called forth a
lively reaction on the part of Thomas Reid and his succes-
sors.1 Indeed, as far as the Universities were concerned, in
the first decades of the nineteenth century the so-called Scot-
tish School was the one living and vigorous movement of
thought. Moreover, though in the meantime it had received
some serious blows and had lost its first vigour, its place in
the Universities was eventually taken by idealism rather than
by empiricism.
It would, however, be a great mistake to suppose that
empiricism was reduced to a moribund condition by Reid’s
attack on Hume, and that it remained in this position until
it was given a fresh lease of life by J. S. Mill. Philosophy is
not confined to the Universities. Hume himself never occu-
pied an academic chair, though, admittedly, this was not due
to lack of effort on his part. And empiricism continued its
life, despite attack by Reid and his followers, though its lead-
ing representatives were not university professors or lecturers.
The first phase of nineteenth-century empiricism, which is
known as the utilitarian movement, may be said to have
originated with Bentham. But though we naturally tend to
think of him as a philosopher of the early part of the nine-
teenth century, inasmuch as it was then that his influence
made itself felt, he was born in 1748, twenty-eight years be-
18 BRITISH EMPIRICISM
fore the death of Hume. And some of his works were pub-
lished in the last three decades of the eighteenth century. It
is no matter of surprise, therefore, if we find that there is a
conspicuous element of continuity between the empiricism
of the eighteenth century and that of the nineteenth. For
example, the method of reductive analysis, the reduction,
that istosay, OF the whole toitsparts. ofthe complex to its.
primitive or simple elements, which had been_practised by
ume, was continue entham. I his involved, as can be
seen in the philosophy of James Mill, a phenomenalistic
analysis of the self. And in the reconstruction of mental life
out of its supposed simple elements use was made of the
associationist psychology which had been developed in the
eighteenth century by, for instance, David Hartley,? not to
speak of Hume’s employment of the principles of association
of ideas. Again, in the first chapter of his Fragment on Goy-
ernment Bentham gave explicit expression to his indebted-
ness to Hume for the light which had fallen on his mind
when he saw in the Treatise of Human Nature how Hume
had demolished the fiction of a social contract or compact
and had shown how all virtue is founded on utility. To be
sure, Bentham was also influenced by the thought of the
French Enlightenment, particularly by that of Helvétius.3
But this does not alter the fact that in regard to both method
and theory there was a notable element of continuity be-
tween the empiricist movements of the eighteenth and nine-
teenth centuries in Great Britain.
But once the element of continuity has been noted, atten-
tion must be drawn to the considerable difference in empha-
sis. As traditionally represented at any rate, classical British
empiricism had been predominant] = with th -
utilitarian movement was essentially practical in outlook,

orientated towards legal, penal and political reform. It is
true that emphasis on the role of the theory of knowledge in
classical empiricism can be overdone. Hume, for example,
was concerned with the development of a science of human
nature. And it can be argued, and has indeed been argued,
that he was primarily a moral philosopher. But Hume’s aim
was chiefly to understand the moral life and the moral judg-
THE UTILITARIAN MOVEMENT (1) 19
ment, whereas Bentham was mainly concerned with providing
the criterion for judging commonly received moral ideas and
legal and political institutions with a view to their reforma-
tion. Perhaps we can apply Marx’s famous assertion and say
that Hume was primarily concerned with understanding the
world, whereas Bentham was primarily concerned with chang-
ing it.
~Of the two men Hume was, indeed, by far the greater
philosopher. But Bentham had the gift of seizing on certain
ideas which were not his own inventions, developing them
and welding them into a weapon or instrument of social re-
form. Benthamism in a narrow sense, and utilitarianism in
general, expressed the attitude of liberal and radical elements
in the middle class to the weight of tradition and to the
vested interests of what is now often called the Establish-
ment. The excesses connected with the French Revolution
produced in England a strong reaction which found notable
expression in the reflections of Edmund Burke (1729-97),
with their emphasis on social stability and tradition. But after
the Napoleonic Wars at any rate the movement of radical
reform was more easily able to make its influence felt. And
in this movement utilitarianism possesses an undeniable his-
torical importance. Considered as a moral philosophy, it is
over-simplified and skates lightly over awkward and difficult
questions. But its over-simplified character, together with an
at least prima facie clarity, obviously facilitated its use as an
instrument in the endeavour to secure practical reforms in
the social and political fields.
During the nineteenth century social philosophy in Great
Britain passed through several successive phases. First, there
was the philosophical radicalism which is associated with the
name of Bentham and which had been already expressed_by
him in the closing decades of the eighteenth century. Sec-
ondly, there was Benthamism as modified, added to and de-
veloped_by J. 5. Mil. And thirdly, there was the idealist
political philosophy which arose in Ta last part of the nine-
teenth century. The term ‘utilitarianism’ covers the first two
phases, but not, of course, the third. Utilitarianism was in-
dividualistic in outlook, even though it aimed at the welfare
of society, whereas in idealist political theory the idea of the
State as an organic totality came to the fore under the in-

fluence of both Greek and German thought.
This and the following chapters will be devoted to an ac-
count of the development of utilitarianism from Bentham
to J. S. Mill inclusively. The latter’s theories in the fields of
logic, epistemology and ontology will be discussed separately
in a subsequent chapter.
2. Jeremy Bentham was born on February 15th, 1748. A
precocious child, he was learning Latin grammar at the age
of four. Educated at Westminster School and the University
of Oxford, neither of which institutions captivated his heart,
he was destined by his father for a career at the Bar. But he
preferred the life of reflection to that of a practising lawyer.
And in the law, the penal code and the political institutions
of his time he found plenty to think about. To put the mat-
ter in simple terms, he asked questions on these lines. What
is the purpose of this law or of this institution? Is this pur-
pose desirable? If so, does the law or institution really con-
duce to its fulfilment? In fine, how is the law or institution
to be judged from the point of view of utility?
In its application to legislation and to political institutions
the measure_of utility was for Bentham the degree of con-
duciveness to the greater happiness of the greatest possible
imself remarks that the principle of utility, as so inter-

preted, occurred to him when he was reading the Essay on
Government (1768) by Joseph Priestley (1733-1804) who
stated roundly that the happiness of the majority of the mem-
bers oFany-Stare-was thestandard bywhich allthe affairs
‘of the State should be judged. But Hutcheson, when treating
of ethics, had previously asserted that that action is best
which conduces to the greatest happiness of the greatest
number.® Again, in the preface to his famous treatise on
crimes and punishments (Dei delitti e delle pene, 1764),
Cesare Beccaria (1738-94) had spoken of the greatest happi-
ness divided among the greatest possible number. There were
utilitarian elements in the philosophy of Hume, who de-
clared, for example, that ‘public utility is the sole origin of
justice’.6 And Helvétius, who, as already noted, strongly in-
fluenced Bentham, was a pioneer in utilitarian moral theory
_ and in its application to the reform of society. In other words,
Bentham did not invent the principle of utility: what he did
was to expound and apply it explicitly and universally as the
basic principle of both morals and legislation.
Bentham was at first principally interested in legal and
penal reform. Radical changes in the British constitution did
not enter into his original schemes. And at no time was he
an enthusiast for democracy as such. That is to say, he had
no more belief in the sacred right of the people to rule than
he had in the theory of natural rights in general, which he
considered to be nonsense. But whereas he seems to have
thought at first that rulers and legislators were really seeking
the common good, however muddled and mistaken they
might be about the right means for attaining this end, in the
course of time he became convinced that the ruling class
was dominated by self-interest. Indifference and opposition
to his plans for legal, penal and economic reform doubtless
helped him to come to this conclusion. Hence he came to
advocate political reform as a prerequisite for other changes.
And eventually he proposed the abolition of the monarchy
and the House of Lords, the disestablishment of the Church
of England, and the introduction of universal suffrage and
annual parliaments. His political radicalism was facilitated by
the fact that he had no veneration for tradition as such. He
was far from sharing Burke’s view of the British constitution;
and his attitude had much more affinity with that of the
French philosophes,? with fheir impatience with tradition
and their belief that everything would be for the best if only
reason could reign. But his appeal throughout was to the
principle of utility, not to any belief that democracy pos-
sesses some peculiarly sacred character of its own.
Nor was Bentham primarily moved by humanitarian con-
siderations. In the movement of social reform in Great
Britain throughout the nineteenth century, humanitarianism,
sometimes based on Christian beliefs and sometimes without
any explicit reference to Christianity, undoubtedly played
a very important role. But though, for example, in his cam-
paign against the outrageously severe penal code of his time
and against the disgraceful state of the prisons, Bentham of-
ten demanded changes which humanitarian sentiment would
in fact suggest, he was primarily roused to indignation by

what he considered, doubtless rightly, to be the irrationality
of the penal system, its incapacity to achieve its purposes and
to serve the common good. To say this is not, of course, to
say that he was what would normally be called inhumane. It
is to say that he was not primarily moved by compassion for
the victims of the penal system, but rather by the ‘inutility’
of the system. He was a man of the reason or understanding
rather than of the heart or of feeling.
In 1776 Bentham published anonymously his Fragment on
Government in which he attacked the famous lawyer Sir
William Blackstone (1723-80) for his use of the fiction of a
social compact or contract. The work had no immediate suc-
cess, but in 1781 it brought Bentham the friendship of Lord
Shelburne, afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne, who was Prime
Minister from July 1782 to February 1783. And through
Shelburne the philosopher met several other important peo-
ple. He also formed a friendship with Etienne Dumont, tutor
to Shelburne’s son, who was to prove of invaluable help in
publishing a number of his papers. Bentham not infrequently
left manuscripts unfinished and went on to some other topic.
And many of his writings were published through the agency
of friends and disciples. Sometimes they first appeared in
French. For example, a chapter of his Manual of Political
Economy, written in 1793, appeared in the Bibliotheque
britannique in 1798; and Dumont made use of the work in
his Théorie des peines et des récompenses (1811). Ben-
tham’s work was published in English for the first time in
John Bowring’s edition of his Works (1838-43).
Bentham’s Defence of Usury appeared in 1787 and his
important Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Leg-
islation in 1789.8 The Introduction was intended as a
preparation and scheme for a number of further treatises.
Thus Bentham’s Essay on Political Tactics corresponded to
one section in this scheme. But though a part of this essay
was sent to the Abbé Morellet in 1789, the work was first
published by Dumont in 1816,® together with Anarchical
Fallacies which had been written in about 1791.
In 1791 Bentham published his scheme for a model prison,
the so-called Panopticon. And he approached the French Na-
tional Assembly with a view to the establishment of such an
institution under its auspices, offering his gratuitous services
as supervisor. But though Bentham was one of the foreigners
on whom the Assembly conferred the title of citizen in the
following year, his offer was not taken up.1° Similar efforts to
induce the British government to implement the scheme for
a model prison promised at first to be successful. But they
eventually failed, partly, so Bentham at any rate liked to
believe, through the machinations of King George III. How-
ever, in 1813 Parliament voted the philosopher a large sum
of money in compensation for his expenditure on the Panop-
ticon scheme.
In 1802 Dumont published a work entitled Traités de
législation de M. Jérémie Bentham. This consisted partly of
papers written by Bentham himself, some of which had been
originally composed in French, and partly of a digest by
Dumont of the philosopher’s ideas. And the work contributed
greatly to the rise of Bentham’s fame. At first this was more
evident abroad than in England. But in the course of time
the philosopher’s star began to rise even in his own country.
From 1808 James Mill became his disciple and a propagator
of his doctrines. And Bentham became what might be called
the background leader or inspirer of a group of radicals de-
voted to the principles of Benthamism.
In 1812 James Mill published an Introductory View of the
Rationale of Evidence, a version of some of Bentham’s pa-
pers. A French version of the papers was published by Du-
mont in 1823 under the title Traité des preuves judiciaires;
and an English translation of this work appeared in 1825.
A five-volume edition of Bentham’s papers on jurisprudence
which was much fuller than James Mill’s was published by
J. S. Mill in 1827 under the title Rationale of Judicial
Evidence.
Bentham also gave his attention both to questions of con-
stitutional reform and to the subject of the codification of
the law. Characteristically, he was impatient of what he re-
garded as the chaotic condition of English law. His Catechism
of Parliamentary Reform appeared in 1817, though it had
been written in 1809. The year 1817 also saw the publication
of Papers upon Codification and Public Instruction. In 1819
Bentham published a paper entitled Radical Reform Bill,

with Explanations, and in 1823 Leading Principles of a Con-
stitutional Code. The first volume of his Constitutional
Code, together with the first chapter of the second volume,
appeared in 1830. The whole work, edited by R. Doane,
was published posthumously in 1841.
It is not possible to list all Bentham’s publications here.
But we can mention two or three further titles. Chrestoma-
thia, a series of papers on education, appeared in 1816, while
in the following year James Mill published his edition of
Bentham’s Table of the Springs of Action41 which is con-
cerned with the analysis of pains and pleasures as springs of
action. The philosopher’s Deontology or Science of Morality
was published posthumously by Bowring in 1834 in two
volumes, the second volume being compiled from notes. Ref-
erence has already been made to Bowring’s edition of
Bentham’s Works.12 A complete and critical edition of the
philosopher’s writings is yet to come.
Bentham died on June 6th, 1832, leaving directions that
his body should be dissected for the benefit of science. It is
preserved at University College, London. This College was
founded in 1828, largely as a result of pressure from a group
of which Bentham himself was a member. It was designed
to extend the benefits of higher education to those for whom
the two existing universities did not cater. Further, there were
to be no religious tests, as there still were at Oxford and
Cambridge.
3, Bentamism rested_on_a_basis ofpsvchological_hedon-
ism, the theory that every human being seeks by nature to
attain pleasure_and avoid pain. This was not, of course, a
_novel doctrine. It had been propounded in the ancient world,
notably by Epicurus, while in the eighteenth century it was
defended by, for example, Helvétius in France and Hartley
and Tucker in England.18 But though Bentham was not the
inventor of the theory, he gave a memorable statement of it.
‘Nature has placed mankind under the governance of two
sovereign masters, pain and pleasure. . . . They govern us in
all we do, in all we say, in all we think: every effort we can
make to throw off our subjection will serve but to demon-
strate and confirm it. In words a man may pretend to abjure
their empire, but in reality he will remain subject to it all
the while.’14
Further, Bentham is at pains to make clear what he means
by_pleasure and pain. He has no intention of restricting the
range of meéaming of these terms by arbitrary or ‘metaphysi-
cal’ definitions. He means by them what they mean in com-
mon estimation, in common language, no more and no less.
‘In this matter we want no refinement, no metaphysics. It is
not necessary to consult Plato, nor Aristotle. Pain and
pleasure are what everybody feels to be such.’5 The term
‘pleasure’ covers, for example, the pleasures of eating and
drinking; but it also covers those of reading an interesting
book, listening to music or performing a kind action.
But Bentham is not concerned simply with stating what he
takes to be a psychological truth, namely that all men are
moved to action by the attraction of pleasure and the repul-
sion of pain. He is concerned with establishing an objective
criterion of morality, of the moral character of human ac-
tions. Thus after the sentence quoted above, in which Ben-
tham says that Nature has placed mankind under the govern-
ment of pain and pleasure, he adds that ‘it is for them alone
to point out what we ought to do, as well as to determine
what we shall do. On the one hand the sta i
their throne.’
fastened_to If, therefore, we assume that
pleasure, happiness and good are synonymous terms and that
pain, unhappiness and evil are also synonymous, the question
immediately arises whether it makes any sense to say that
we ought to pursue what is good and avoid what is evil, if,
as a matter of psychological fact, we always do pursue the
one and endeavour to avoid the other.
To be able to answer this question affirmatively, we have
to make two assumptions. First, when it is said that man
see easure, it is mean “his greater pleasure
aS ase arent ofTeSecanittt tre ioe ot
necessaril =i those actions which will as a matter of
this end.17 If we make these assumptions
fact_conduce_to
and pass over the difficulties inherent in any hedonistic
ethics, we can then say that right actions are those which
tend to increase the sum total of pleasure while wrong ac-
re nt
_are_those_w
tions diminish it, and that we
tend _tohich
ought to do what is right and not do what is wrong.*8
We thus arrive at the principle of utility, also called the
greatest happiness principle. This ‘states the greatest hap-
piness of all those whose interest is in question, as being the
right and proper, and only right and proper and universally
desirable, end of human action’.1® The parties whose in-
terest is in question may, of course, differ. If we are thinking
of the individual agent as such, it is his greatest happiness
which is referred to. If we are thinking of the community,
it is the greater happiness of the greatest possible number
of the members of the community which is being referred
to. If we are thinking of all sentient beings, then we must
also consider the greater pleasure of animals. Bentham is
chiefly concerned with the greater happiness of the human
community, with the common good or welfare in the sense
of the common good of any given human political society.
But in all cases the principle is the same, namely that the
greatest happiness of the party in question is the only de-
sirable end of human action.
If we mean by proof deduction from some more ultimate
principle or principles, the principle of utility cannot be
proved. For there is no more ultimate ethical principle. At
the same time Bentham ties to-shaw that-any_other theory,
of morals involves in the long run an at least tacit appeal to
diepanitiple
caeagrieees-aa
TarWEE Val ser ee
which people act or think that they act, if we once raise the
question why we ought to perform a certain action, we shall
ultimately have to answer in terms of the principle of utility.
The alternative moral theories which Bentham has in mind
are principally intuitionist theories or theories which appeal
to a moral sense. In his opinion such theories, taken by them-
selves, are incapable of answering the question why we
ought to perform this action and not that. If the upholders
of such theories once try to answer the question, they will
ultimately have to argue that the action which ought to be
performed is one which conduces to the greater happiness or
pleasure of whatever party it is whose interest is in question.
In other words, it is utilitarianism alone which can provide
an objective criterion of right and _wrong.2° And to show
that this is the case, is to give the only proof of the principle
of utility which is required.
In passing we can note that though hedonism represented
only one element in Locke’s ethical theory, he explicitly
stated that ‘things then are good or evil only in reference
to pleasure or pain. That we call good which is apt to cause
or increase pleasure or diminish pain in us. . . . And on the
contrary we name that evil which is apt to increase any pain
or diminish any pleasure in us. . . .’22 The property which
is here called ‘good’ by Locke is described by Bentham as
‘utility’. For ‘utility is any property in any object, whereby
it tends to produce benefit, advantage, pleasure, good or
happiness, or . . . to prevent the happening of mischief, pain,
evil or unhappiness to the party whose interest is con-
sidered.’28
Now, if actions are right in so far as they tend to increase
the sum total of pleasure or diminish the sum total of pain
of the party whose interest is in question, as Bentham puts
iEEhe moral agenE WHEN ISCAS“ WHCMICE ENE CHIOn
Is right or wrong, will have to estimate the amount of pleas-
UTEANEUEaU oFpa TOWichTheationseen Hely
the other
entham provides a hedonistic or ‘felicific’ calculus for this
purpose.?4 Let us suppose that I wish to estimate the value
of a pleasure (or pain) for myself. I have to take into ac-
count four factors or dimensions of value: intensi ura-
tion, certainty or uncertainty, propinquit . For
duration, while another might be less intense but so much

more lasting that it would be quantitatively greater than the
first. Further, when considering actions which tend to produce
pleasure or pain, I have to bear in mind two other factors,
fecundity and purity. If of two types of action, each of which
tends to produce pleasurable sensations, the one type tends
to be followed by further pleasurable sensations while the
other type does not or only in a lesser degree, the first is
said to be more fecund or fruitful than the second. As for
purity, this signifies freedom from being followed by sensa-
tions of the opposite kind. For instance, the cultivation of an
appreciation of music opens up a range of enduring pleasure
which does not yield those diminishing returns that result

from the action of taking certain habit-forming drugs.
So far Bentham’s calculus follows the same lines as that
of Epicurus. But Bentham is chiefly concerned, in the ap-
plication of his ethical theory, with the common good. And
he adds that when a number of persons or community
is the party whose interest is in question, we have to take
into account a seventh factor in addition to the six just men-
tioned. This seventh factor is extent, that is, the number
of persons who are affected by the pleasure or pain in
question.
It has sometimes been said that Bentham’s calculus is use-
less but that one could quite well discard it while retaining
his general moral theory. But it seems to the present writer
that some distinctions are required. If one chose to look on
this theory as no more than an analysis of the meaning of
certain ethical terms, it would doubtless be possible to main-
tain that the analysis is correct and at the same time to
disregard the hedonistic calculus. But if one looks on Ben-
tham’s moral theory as he himself looked on it, that is, not
simply as an analysis but also as a guide for action, the case
is somewhat different. We could indeed maintain, and
rightly, that no exact mathematical calculation of pains and
pleasures can be made. It is fairly obvious, for example, that
in many cases a man cannot make a precise mathematical
calculation of the respective quantities of pleasure which
would probably result from alternative courses of action. And
if it is the community whose interest is in question, how are
we going to calculate the probable sum total of pleasure when
it is a notorious fact that in many cases what is pleasurable
to one is not pleasurable to another? At the same time, if
we admit, as Bentham admitted, only quantitative differences
between pleasures, and if we regard hedonistic ethics as pro-
viding a practical rule for conduct, some sort of calculation
will be required, even if it cannot be precise. And in point of
fact people do make such rough calculations on occasion.
Thus a man may very well ask himself whether it is really
worth while pursuing a certain course of pleasurable action
which will probably involve certain painful consequences.
And if he does seriously consider this question, he is making
_use of one of the rules of Bentham’s calculus. What relation
this sort of reasoning bears to morality is another question.
And it is irrelevant in the present context. For the hypothesis
is that Bentham’s general moral doctrine is accepted.
Now, the sphere of human action is obviously very much
wider than legislation and acts of government. And in some
cases it is the individual agent as such whose interest is in
question. Hence I can have duties to myself. But if the sphere
of morality is coterminous with the sphere of human ac-
tion, legislation and acts of government fall within the
moral sphere. Hence the principle of utility must apply to
them. But here the party whose interest is in question is the
community. Although, therefore, as Bentham says, there
are many actions which are as a matter of fact useful to the
community but the regulation of which by law would not be
in the public interest, legislation ought to serve this interest.
It ought to be directed to the common welfare or happiness.
Hence an act of legislation or of government is said to con-
form with or be dictated by the principle of utility when
‘the tendency which it has to augment the happiness of the
community is greater than any which it has to diminish it’.?5
The community, however, is ‘a fictitious body, composed
of the individual persons who are considered as constituting
as it were its members’.2¢ And the interest of the community
is ‘the sum of the interests of the several members who com-
pose it’.27 To say, therefore, that legislation and government
should be directed to the common good is to say that they
should be directed to the greater happiness of the greatest
possible number of individuals who are members of the
society in question.
Obviously, if we assume that the common interest is sim-
ply the sum total of the private interests of the individual
members of the community, we might draw the conclusion
that the common good is inevitably promoted if every in-
dividual seeks and increases his own personal happiness. But
there is no guarantee that individuals will seek their own
happiness in a rational or enlightened manner, and in such
a way that they do not diminish the happiness of other in-
dividuals, thus diminishing the sum total of happiness in
the community. And in point of fact it is clear that clashes
of interest do occur. Hence a harmonization of interests is

required with a view to the attainment of the common good.
And this is the function of government and legislation.?§
It is sometimes said that any such harmonization of in-
terests presupposes the possibility of working altruistically for
the common good, and that Bentham thus makes an abrupt
and unwarranted transition from the egoistic or selfish
pleasure-seeker to the public-spirited altruist. But some dis-
tinctions are required. In the first place Bentham does not
assume that all men are by nature necessarily egoistic or
selfish in the sense in which these terms would generally be
understood. For he recognizes social affections as well as their
contrary. Thus in his table of pleasures he includes among
the so-called simple pleasures those of benevolence, which are
described as ‘the pleasures resulting from the view of any
pleasures supposed to be possessed by the beings who may
be the objects of benevolence; to wit the sensitive beings we
are acquainted with’.2® In the second place, though Ben-
thamism doubtless assumes that the man who takes pleasure
in witnessing the pleasure of another does so originally be-
cause it is pleasurable to himself, it invokes the principles of
the associationist psychology to explain how a man can come
to seek the good of others without any advertence to his
own.°°
At the same time there is obviously no guarantee that
those whose task it is to harmonize private interests will be
notably endowed with benevolence, or that they will in fact
have learned to seek the common good in a disinterested
spirit. Indeed, it did not take Bentham long to come to the
conclusion that rulers are very far from constituting excep-
tions to the general run of men, who, left to themselves,
pursue their own interests, even if many of them are perfectly
capable of being pleased by the pleasure of others. And it
was this conclusion which was largely responsible for his
adoption of democratic ideas. A despot or absolute monarch
generally seeks his own interest, and so does a ruling aristoc-
racy. The only way, therefore, of securing that the greater
happiness of the greatest possible number is taken as the
criterion in government and legislation is to place govern-
ment, so far as this is practicable, in the hands of all. Hence
Bentham’s proposals for abolishing the monarchy! and
the House of Lords and for introducing universal suffrage and
annual parliaments. As the common interest is simply the
sum total of private interests, everyone has a stake, so to
speak, in the common good. And education can help the
individual to understand that in acting for the common good
he is also acting for his own good.
To avoid misunderstanding, it must be added that the
harmonization of interests by law which Bentham demanded
was primarily a removal of hindrances to the increase of the
happiness of the greatest possible number of citizens rather
than what would generally be thought of as positive inter-
ference with the freedom of the individual. This is one rea-
son why he gave so much attention to the subject of penology,
the infliction of penal sanctions for diminishing the general
happiness or good by infringing laws which are or at any
rate ought to be passed with a view to preventing actions
which are incompatible with the happiness of the members
of society in general. In Bentham’s opinion the primary
purpose of punishment is to deter, not to reform. Reforma-
tion of offenders is only a subsidiary purpose.
Bentham’s remarks on concrete issues are often sensible
enough. His general attitude to penal sanctions is a case in
point. As already remarked, the primary purpose of punish-
ment is to deter. But punishment involves the infliction of
pain, of a diminution of pleasure in some way or other.
And as all pain is evil, it follows that ‘all punishment in it-
self is evil’.32 And the conclusion to be drawn is that the
legislator ought not to attach to the infringement of the law
a penal sanction which exceeds what is strictly required to
obtain the desired effect. True, it might be argued that if
the primary aim of punishment is to deter, the most fero-
cious penalties will be the most efficacious. But if punish-
ment is in itself an evil, even though in the concrete cir-
cumstances of human life in society a necessary evil, the
relevant question is, what is the least amount of punishment
which will have a deterrent effect? Besides, the legislator
has to take into account public opinion, though this is indeed
a variable factor. For the more people come to consider a
given penal sanction to be grossly excessive or inappropriate,
the more they tend to withhold their co-operation in the

execution of the law.33 And in this case the supposedly de-
terrent effect of the punishment is diminished. Again, it
has a bad educative effect and is not for the public good if
some heavy penalty, such as the death penalty, is inflicted for
a variety of offences which differ very much in gravity, that is,
in the amount of harm which they do to others or to the com-
munity at large. As for the subsidiary aim of punishment,
namely to contribute to the reformation of offenders, how
can this aim be fulfilled when the prisons are notoriously
hotbeds of vice?
It is possible, of course, to hold a different view about the
primary purpose of punishment. But it would require a con-
siderable degree of eccentricity for a man of today to disagree
with Bentham’s conclusion that the penal system of his time
stood in need of reform. And even if we do hold a some-
what different view about the function of punishment, we
can none the less recognize that his arguments in favour of
reform are, generally speaking, intelligible and persuasive.
But when we turn from such discussions about the need
for reform to Bentham’s general philosophy, the situation is
somewhat different. For example, J. S. Mill objected that
Bentham’s idea of human nature betrayed a narrowness of
vision. And inasmuch as Bentham tends to reduce man to a
system of attractions and repulsions in response to pleasures
and pains, together with an ability to make a quasi-
mathematical computation of the pluses of pleasures and the
minuses of pains, many would find themselves in full agree-
ment with Mill on this point.
At the same time J. S. Mill awards high marks to Ben-
tham for employing a scientific method in morals and poli-
tics. This consists above all in ‘the method of detail; of treat-
ing wholes by separating them into their parts, abstractions
by resolving them into things—classes and generalities by dis-
tinguishing them into the individuals of which they are made
up; and breaking every question into pieces before attempting
to solve it’.34 In other words, Mill commends Bentham for
his thoroughgoing use of reductive analysis and for this
reason regards him as a reformer in philosophy.
In regard to the question of fact Mill is, of course, quite
tight. We have seen, for example, how Bentham applied a
kind of quantitative analysis in ethics. And he applied it be-
cause he thought that it was the only proper scientific
method. It was the only method which would enable us to
give clear meanings to terms such as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’.
Again, for Bentham terms such as ‘community’ and ‘com-
mon interest’ were abstractions which stood in need of analy-
sis if they were to be given a cash-value. To imagine that
they signified peculiar entities over and above the elements
into which they could be analysed was to be misled by
language into postulating fictitious entities.
But though there can obviously be no valid a priori ob-
jection to experimenting with the method of reductive
analysis, it is also clear that Bentham skates lightly over dif-
ficulties and treats that which is complicated as though it
were simple. For example, it is admittedly difficult to give
a clear explanation of what the common good is, if it is not
reducible to the private goods of the individual members
of the community. But it is also difficult to suppose that a
true statement about the common good is always reducible
to true statements about the private goods of individuals.
We cannot legitimately take it for granted that such a re-
duction or translation is possible. Its possibility ought to be
established by providing actual examples. As the Scholastics
say, ab esse ad posse valet illatio. But Bentham tends to take
the possibility for granted and to conclude without more ado
that those who think otherwise have fallen victims to what
Wittgenstein was later to call the bewitchment of language.
In other words, even if Bentham was right in his applica-
tion of reductive analysis, he did not pay anything like suf-
ficient attention to what can be said on the other side.
Indeed, Mill draws attention to ‘Bentham’s contempt of all
other schools of thinkers’.®®
According to Mill, Bentham ‘was not a great philosopher,
but he was a great reformer in philosophy’.8® And if we are
devotees of reductive analysis, we shall probably agree with
this statement. Otherwise we may be inclined to omit the
last two words. Bentham’s habit of over-simplifying and of
skating over difficulties, together with that peculiar narrow-
ness of moral vision to which Mill aptly alludes, disqualifies
him from being called a great philosopher. But his place in

the movement of social reform is assured. His premisses are
often questionable but he is certainly skilled in drawing from
them conclusions which are frequently sensible and enlight-
ened. And, as has already been remarked, the over-simplified
nature of his moral philosophy facilitated its use as a practi-
cal instrument or weapon.
4. James Mill, Bentham’s leading disciple, was born on
April 6th, 1773, in Forfarshire. His father was a village shoe-
maker. After schooling at the Montrose Academy Mill en-
tered the University of Edinburgh in 1790, where he at-
tended the lectures of Dugald Stewart.37 In 1798 he was
licensed to preach; but he never received a call from any
Presbyterian parish, and in 1802 he went to London with
the hope of earning a living by writing and editorship. In
1805 he married. At the end of the following year he began
work on his history of British India which appeared in three
volumes in 1817. In 1819 this brought him a post in the
East India Company, and subsequent advancement, with in-
creases in salary, set him free at last from financial worries.
In 1808 Mill met Bentham and became a fervent disciple.
By this time the would-be Presbyterian minister had be-
come an agnostic. For some years he wrote for the Edin-
burgh Review, but he was too much of a radical to win the
real confidence of the editors. In 1816-23 he wrote for the
Supplement to the Encyclopaedia Britannica series of polit-
ical articles which set forth the views of the utilitarian
circle.28 In 1821 he published his Elements of Political
Economy and in 1829 his Analysis of the Phenomena of
the Human Mind. Between these two dates he contributed
for a time to the Westminster Review, which was founded
in 1824 as an organ of the radicals.
James Mill died on June 23rd, 1836, a champion of Ben-
thamism to the last. He was not perhaps a particularly at-
tractive figure. A man of vigorous though somewhat narrow
intellect, he was extremely reserved and apparently devoid
of any poetic sensibility, while for passionate emotions and
for sentiment he had little use. His son remarks that though
James Mill upheld an Epicurean ethical theory (Bentham’s
hedonism), he was personally a Stoic and combined Stoic
qualities with a Cynic’s disregard for pleasure. But he was
certainly an extremely hard-working and conscientious man,
devoted to propagating the views which he believed to be
true.
With James Mill, as with Bentham, we find a combination
of laissez-faire economics with a reiterated demand for politi-
cal reform. As every man naturally seeks his own interest, it
is not surprising that the executive does so. The executive,
therefore, must be controlled by the legislature. But the
House of Commons is itself the organ of the interests of a
comparatively small number of families. And its interest can-
not be made identical with that of the community in general
unless the suffrage is extended and elections are frequent.2®
Like other Benthamites, Mill also had a somewhat simple
faith in the power of education to make man see that their
‘real’ interests are bound up with the common interest.
Hence political reform and extended education should go
hand in hand.
5. James Mill undertook to show, with the aid of the as-
sociationist psychology, how altruistic conduct on the part of
the pleasure-seeking individual is possible. He was indeed
convinced that ‘we never feel any pains or pleasures but our
own. The fact, indeed, is, that our very idea of the pains or
pleasures of another man is only the idea of our own pains,
or our own pleasures, associated with the idea of another
man.’4° But these remarks contain also the key to under-
standing the possibility of altruistic conduct. For an insep-
arable association can be set up, say between the idea of my
own pleasure and the idea of that of the other members of
the community to which I belong, an association such that
its result is analogous to a chemical product which is some-
thing more than the mere sum of its elements. And even if
I originally sought the good of the community only as a
means to my own, I can then seek the former without any
advertence to the latter.
Given this point of view, it may seem strange that in his
Fragment on Mackintosh, which was published in 1835 after
having been held up for a time, Mill indulges in a vehement
attack on Sir James Mackintosh (1765-1832), who in 1829
had written on ethics for the Encyclopaedia Britannica. For
Mackintosh not only accepted the principle of utility but
also made use of the associationist psychology in explaining
the development of the morality which takes the general
happiness as its end. But the reason for the attack is clear
enough. If Mackintosh had expounded an ethical theory
quite different from that of the Benthamites, the Kantian
ethics for example, Mill would presumably not have been
so indignant. As it was, Mackintosh’s crime in Mill’s eyes
was to have adulterated the pure milk of Benthamism by
adding to it the moral sense theory, derived from Hutcheson
and to a certain extent from the Scottish School, a theory
which Bentham had decisively rejected.
Although Mackintosh accepted utility as the criterion for
distinguishing between right and wrong actions, he also in-
sisted on the peculiar character of the moral sentiments
which are experienced in contemplating such actions and, in
particular, the qualities of the agents as manifested in such
actions. If we group together these sentiments as forming
the moral sense, we can say that it is akin to the sense
of beauty. True, a virtuous man’s moral qualities are indeed
useful in that they contribute to the common good or hap-
piness. But one can perfectly well approve and admire them
without any more reference to utility than when we ap-
preciate a beautiful painting.41
In discussing Mackintosh’s view James Mill urged that if
there were a moral sense, it would be a peculiar kind of
faculty, and that we ought logically to admit the possibility
of its overriding the judgment of utility. True, Mackintosh
believed that in point of fact the moral sentiments and the
judgment of utility are always in harmony. But in this case
the moral sense is a superfluous postulate. If, however, it is
a distinct faculty which, in principle at least, is capable of
overriding the judgment of utility, it should be described as
an immoral rather than a moral sense. For the judgment
of utility is the moral judgment.
Many people would probably feel that, apart from the
question whether the term ‘moral sense’ is appropriate or
inappropriate, we certainly can experience the kind of senti-
ments described by Mackintosh. So what is all the fuss about?
A general answer is that both Bentham and Mill looked on
- the theory of the moral sense as a cloudy and in some te-
spects dangerous doctrine which had been superseded by
utilitarianism, so that any attempt to reintroduce it consti-
tuted a retrograde step. In particular, Mill doubtless be-
lieved that Mackintosh’s theory implied that there is a su-
perior point of view to that of utilitarianism, a point of view,
that is to say, which rises above such a mundane considera-
* as that of utility. And any such claim was anathema to
ill.
The long and the short of it is that James Mill was de-
termined to maintain a rigid Benthamism.42 Any attempt,
such as that made by Mackintosh, to reconcile utilitarianism
with intuitionist ethics simply aroused his indignation. As
will be seen later, however, his son had no such devotion to
the letter of the Benthamite gospel.
6. Obviously, the use made by James Mill of the associ-
ationist psychology in explaining the possibility of altruistic
conduct on the part of the individual who by nature seeks his
own pleasure presupposes a general employment of the
method of reductive analysis which was characteristic of clas-
sical empiricism, especially in the thought of Hume, and
which was systematically practised by Bentham. Thus in his
Analysis of the Phenomena of the Human Mind Mill tries
to reduce man’s mental life to its basic elements. In gen-
eral he follows Hume in distinguishing between impressions
and ideas, the latter being copies or images of the former.
But Mill actually speaks of ‘sensations, not of impressions.
Hence we can also say that he follows Condillac#? in de-
picting the development of mental phenomena as a process
of the transformation of sensations. It must be added, how-
ever, that Mill groups together sensations and ideas under
the term ‘feelings’. ‘We have two classes of feelings; one,
that which exists when the object of sense is present; another,
that which exists after the object of sense has ceased to be
present. The one class of feelings I call sensations; the other
class of feelings I call ideas.’44
After reducing the mind to its basic elements Mill is
then faced with the task of reconstructing mental phenomena
with the aid of the principles of the association of ideas.
Hume, he remarks, recognized three principles of associa-
tion, namely contiguity in time and place, causation and re-
semblance. But causation, in Mill’s view, can be identified
with contiguity in time, that is, with the order of regular
succession. ‘Causation is only a name for the order estab-
lished between an antecedent and consequent; that is, the es-
tablished or constant antecedence of the one, and conse-
quence of the other.’45
Mill’s work covers such topics as naming, classification,
abstraction, memory, belief, ratiocination, pleasurable and
painful sensations, the will and intentions. And at the end
the author remarks that the work, which constitutes the
theoretical part of the doctrine of the mind, should be fol-
lowed by a practical part comprising logic, considered as prac-
tical rules for the mind in its search for truth, ethics and the
study of education as directed to training the individual to
contribute actively to the greatest possible good or happiness
for himself and for his fellow men.
We cannot follow Mill in his reconstruction of mental
phenomena. But it is worth while drawing attention to the
way in which he deals with reflection, which was described
by Locke as the notice which the mind takes of its own
operations. The mind is identified with the stream of con-
sciousness. And consciousness means having sensations and
ideas. As, therefore, ‘reflection is nothing but conscious-
ness’,46 to reflect on an idea is the same thing as to have
it. There is no room for any additional factor.
Commenting on his father’s theory J. S. Mill remarks that
‘to reflect on any of our feelings or mental acts is more prop-
etly identified with attending to the feeling than (as stated
in the text) with merely having it’.47 And this seems to be
true. But James Mill is so obstinately determined to explain
the whole mental life in terms of the association of primitive
elements reached by reductive analysis that he has to ex-
plain away those factors in consciousness to which it is dif-
ficult to apply such treatment. In other words, empiricism
can manifest its own form of dogmatism.
7. To turn briefly to Benthamite economics. As far as the
economic market was concerned, Bentham believed that in a
freely competitive market a harmony of interest is inevitably
attained, at least in the long run. Such State action as he
demanded consisted in the removal of restrictions, such as
the abolition of the tariffs which protected the English
market in grain and which Bentham thought of as serving
the sectional interest of the land-owners.
Behind this laissez-faire theory lay the influence of the
French physiocrats, to whom allusion has already been
made, though elements were also derived, of course, from
English writers, particularly from Adam Smith.48 But it was
obviously not simply a question of deriving ideas from previ-
ous writers. For the laissez-faire economics can be said to
have reflected the needs and aspirations of the expanding in-
dustrial and capitalist system of the time. In other words, it
reflected the interests, real or supposed, of that middle class
which James Mill considered to be the wisest element in
the community.
The theory found its classical expression in the writings
of David Ricardo (1772-1823), especially in his Prin-
ciples of Political Economy, which was published in 1817.
Bentham is reported to have said that James Mill was his
spiritual child, and that Ricardo was the spiritual child of
James Mill. But though it was largely as a result of Mill’s
encouragement that Ricardo published his Principles when
he did, in economic theory Mill was more dependent on
Ricardo than the other way round. In any case it was Ri-
cardo’s work which became the classical statement of Ben-
thamite economics. ‘
In the view of his disciple J. R. McCulloch (1789-1864)
Ricardo’s great service was to state the fundamental theorem
of the science of value. This was to the effect that in a free
market the value of commodities is determined by the
amount of labour required for their production. In other
words, value is crystallized labour.
Now, if this theory were true, it would appear to follow
that the money obtained from the sale of commodities be-
longs rightfully to those whose labour produced the com-
modities in question. That is to say, the conclusion drawn by
Marx*? from the labour theory of value appears to be amply
justified, unless perhaps we wish to argue that the capitalist
is to be included among the labourers. But Ricardo and the
other economists of the laissez-faire School were far from
using the labour theory of value as a means of showing that

capitalism by its very nature involves exploitation of the
workers. For one thing they were conscious that the capitalist
contributes to production by the investment of capital in
machinery and so on. For another thing they were interested
in arguing that in a competitive market, free from all re-
strictions, prices tend naturally to represent the real values
of commodities.
This line of argument seems to involve the at least implicit
assumption that a free market is governed by some sort of
natural economic law which ultimately ensures a harmoniza-
tion of interests and operates for the common good, provided
that nobody attempts to interfere with its functioning. But
this optimistic view represents only one aspect of Bentha-
mite economics. According to T. R. Malthus (1766-1834),
population always increases when living becomes easier, un-
less, of course, its rate of increase is restricted in some way.
Thus population tends to outrun the means of subsistence.
And it follows that wages tend to remain constant, at a sub-
sistence level that is to say. Hence there is a law of wages
which can hardly be said to operate in favour of the greater
happiness of the greatest possible number.
If the Benthamites had made in the economic sphere a
thoroughgoing application of the principle of utility, they
would have had to demand in this sphere a harmonization
of interests through legislation similar to the harmonization
of interests through legislation which they demanded in the
political sphere. Indeed, in his essay on government for the
Encyclopaedia Britannica James Mill declared that the gen-
eral happiness is promoted by assuring to every man the
greatest possible amount of the fruit of his own labour, and
that the government should prevent the powerful robbing
the weak. But their belief in certain economic laws restricted
the Benthamites’ view both of the possibility and of the de
sirability of State action in the economic sphere.
And yet they themselves made breaches in the wall set up
round the economic sphere by the belief in natural economic
laws. For one thing Malthus argued that while wages tend
to remain constant, rents tend to increase with the increasing
fertility of the land. And these rents represent profit for the
landlords though they contribute nothing to production. In
other words, the landlords are parasites on society. And it was
the conviction of the Benthamites that their power should
be broken. For another thing, while those who were strongly
influenced by Malthus’s reflections on population may have
thought that the only way of increasing profits and wages
would be by restricting the growth of population, and that
this would be impracticable, the very admission of the possi-
bility in principle of interfering with the distribution of
wealth in one way should have encouraged the exploration of
other ways of attaining this end. And in point of fact J. S.
Mill came to envisage legislative control, in a limited form
at least, of the distribution of wealth.
In other words, if the Benthamite economists began by
separating the economic sphere, in which a laissez-faire policy
should reign, from the political sphere, in which a harmoni-
zation of interests through legislation was demanded, in
J. S. Mill’s development of utilitarianism the gap between
the economic and political spheres tended to close. As will
be seen presently, J. S. Mill introduced into the utilitarian
philosophy elements which were incompatible with strict
Benthamism. But it seems to the present writer at any rate
that in proposing some State interference in the economic
sphere with a view to the general happiness, Mill was simply
applying the principle of utility in a way in which it might
well have been applied from the start, had it not been for
the belief in the autonomy of the economic sphere, governed
by its own iron laws.
Chapter Two
THE UTILITARIAN MOVEMENT (2)
Life and writings of J. S. Mill—Mill’s development of the

utilitarian ethics—Mill on civil liberty and government
— Psy-
chological freedom.
1. John Stuart Mill was born in London on May 2oth, 1806.

A fascinating account of the extraordinary education to
which he was subjected by his father is to be found in his
Autobiography. Having apparently started to learn Greek at
the age of three, by the time he was about twelve years old
he was sufficiently acquainted with Greek and Latin litera-
ture, history and mathematics to enter on what he calls more
advanced studies, including logic. In 1819 he was taken
through a complete course of political economy, during which
he read Adam Smith and Ricardo. As for religion, ‘I was
brought up from the first without any religious belief, in the
ordinary acceptation of the term’, though his father en-
couraged him to learn what religious beliefs mankind had in
point of fact held.
In 1820 J. S. Mill was invited to stay in the South of
France with Sir Samuel Bentham, brother of the philosopher.
And during his time abroad he not only studied the French
language and literature but also followed courses at Mont-
pellier on chemistry, zoology, logic and higher mathematics,
besides making the acquaintance of some economists and
liberal thinkers. Returning to England in 1821 Mill started
to read Condillac, studied Roman law with John Austin
(1790-1859), and gave further attention to the philosophy
of Bentham. He also extended his philosophical reading to
the writings of thinkers such as Helvétius, Locke, Hume,
Reid and Dugald Stewart. Through personal contact with
men such as John Austin and his younger brother Charles,
Mill was initiated into the utilitarian-circle. Indeed, in the
winter of 1822-3 he founded a little Utilitarian Circle of
his own, which lasted for about three and a half years.
In 1823 Mill obtained, through his father’s influence, a
clerkship in the East India Company. And after successive
promotions he became head of the office in 1856 with a sub-
stantial salary. Neither father nor son ever held an academic
chair.
Mill’s first printed writings consisted of some letters pub-
lished in 1822, in which he defended Ricardo and James
Mill against attack. After the foundation of the Westminster
Review in 1824 he became a frequent contributor. And in
1825 he undertook the editing of Bentham’s Rationale of
Evidence in five volumes, a labour which, so he tells us, occu-
pied about all his leisure time for almost a year.
It is hardly surprising that prolonged overwork, culminating
in the editing of Bentham’s manuscripts, resulted in 1826 in
what is popularly called a nervous breakdown. But this men-
tal crisis had a considerable importance through its effect on
Mill’s outlook. In his period of dejection the utilitarian phi-
losophy, in which he had been indoctrinated by his father,
lost its charms for him. He did not indeed abandon it. But
he came to two conclusions. First, happiness is not attained
by seeking it directly. One finds it by striving after some goal
or ideal other than one’s own happiness or pleasure. Secondly,
analytic thought needs to be complemented by a cultivation
of the feelings, an aspect of human nature which Bentham
had mistrusted. This meant in part that Mill began to find
some meaning in poetry and art.? More important, he found
himself able to appreciate Coleridge and his disciples, who
were generally regarded as the antithesis to the Benthamites.
In the course of time he even came to see some merit in
Carlyle, a feat which his father was never able to achieve.
True, the effect of Mill’s crisis should not be exaggerated.
He remained a utilitarian, and, though modifying Bentham-
ism in important ways, he never went over to the opposite
camp. As he himself puts it, he did not share in the sharp
reaction of the nineteenth century against the eighteenth, a
reaction represented in Great Britain by the names of Cole-
ridge and Carlyle. At the same time he became conscious of
the narrowness of Bentham’s view of human nature, and he
formed the conviction that the emphasis laid by the French
philosophes and by Bentham on the analytic reason needed
to be supplemented, though not supplanted, by an under-
standing of the importance of other aspects of man and his
activity.
In 1829-30 Mill became acquainted with the doctrines of
the followers of Saint-Simon.’ While he disagreed with them
on many issues, their criticism of the laissez-faire economics
appeared to him to express important truths. Further, ‘their
aim seemed to me desirable and rational, however their
means might be inefficacious’.t In a real sense Mill always
remained an individualist at heart, a staunch upholder of
individual liberty. But he was quite prepared to modify in-
dividualism in the interest of the common welfare.
In 1830-1 Mill wrote five Essays on Some Unsettled Ques-
tions of Political Economy, though they were not published
until 1844.5 In 1843 he published his famous System of
Logic, on which he had been working for some years. For
part of the work he found stimulus in W. Whewell’s History
of the Inductive Sciences (1837) and in Sir John Herschel’s
Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy (1830), while
in the final rewriting of the work he found further help in
Whewell’s Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences (1840) and
the earlier volumes of Auguste Comte’s Cours de philosophie
positive.6 His correspondence with the celebrated French
positivist, whom he never actually met, began in 1841. But
in the course of time this epistolary friendship waned and
then ceased. Mill continued to respect Comte, but he found
himself entirely out of sympathy with the positivist’s later
ideas for the spiritual organization of humanity.
In 1848 Mill published his Principles of Political Econ-
omy.” In 1851 he matried Harriet Taylor, with whom he had
been on terms of intimate friendship from 1830 and whose
first husband died in 1849. In 1859, the year following that
of his wife’s death, Mill published his essay On Liberty, in
1861 his Considerations on Representative Government, and
in 1863 Utilitarianism.8 An Examination of Sir William
Hamilton’s Philosophy and the small volume on Auguste
Comte and Positivism appeared in 186s.
From 1865 until 1868 Mill was a Member of Parliament
for Westminster. He spoke in favour of the Reform Bill of
1867, and he denounced the policy of the British govern-
ment in Ireland. Of his pamphlet England and Ireland
(1868) he remarks that it ‘was not popular, except in Ireland,
as I did not expect it to be.’® Mill also advocated propor-
tional representation and the suffrage for women.
Mill died at Avignon on May 8th, 1873. His Dissertations
and Discussions appeared in four volumes between 1859 and
1875, while his Essays in Religion were published in 1874.
Further reference to the last-named work, in which Mill dis-
cusses sympathetically the hypothesis of a finite God, that
is, God limited in power, will be made in the next chapter.
2. In Utilitarianism Mill gives an often-quoted_ definition
or description of the basic principle of utilitarian ethics which
is quite in accord with Benthamism. ‘The creed which ac-
cepts as the foundation of morals, Utility, or the Greatest
Happiness Principle, holds that actions are right in propor-
tion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend
to produce the reverse of happiness. By happiness is intended
pleasure, and the absence of pain; by unhappiness, pain, and
the privation of pleasure.’1°
True, Mill is anxious to show that utilitarianism is not a
piiiosophy_either_of egoism_or_of expediency. It is Got)a
philosophy of egoism because happiness, in the moral con-
text, ‘is not the agent’s own greate i reat-
the expedient as opposed to the right generally mean

which serves the interests of the individual as such, without
regard to the common _good, ‘as when a minister sacrifices
the interests of his country to keep himself in place’.12 Such
conduct is clearly incompatible with the greatest happiness
principle. At the same time, though Mill is anxious to show
that utilitarianism does not deserve the accusations to which
Bentham’s doctrine seemed to some people to lay it open,
he provides plenty of evidence that his thought moves within
1 Benthamite framework. This can be seen easily enough if :
one considers his discussion of the sense in which the prin-| |
pe ore ys Soe oon Mill’first point is
serson’s happiness is a good to that person, and the general
happiness, therefore, a good to the aggregate of all persons.’*
This remark implies an acceptance of Bentham’s analysis of
such terms as ‘community’ and ‘common interest’. Mill then
goes on to argue that happiness is not merely a good but the
_good: it is the one ultimate end which all desire and seek.
True, it can be objected that some people seek virtue or
money or fame for its own sake, and that such things cannot
properly be described as happiness. But the fact that such
things can be sought for their own sakes is explicable in terms
of the association of ideas. Take virtue, for example. “There
was no original desire of it, or motive to it, save its conducive-
ness to pleasure; and especially to protection from pain.’15
But that which is originally sought as a means to pleasure
can, by association with the idea of pleasure, come to be
sought for its own sake. And it is then sought not as a means
to pleasure or happiness but as a constituent part of it. Evi-
dently, this line of argument, with its appeal to the associa-
tionist psychology, is in line with Benthamism.
Nobody, of course, disputes the facts that Mill began with
the Benthamism in which he had been indoctrinated by his
father, and that he never formally rejected it, and that he
always retained elements of it. The significant aspect of Mill’s
brand of utilitarianism, however, is not to be found in the
ideas which he took over from Bentham and James Mill. It
is to be found in the ideas which Mill himself added, and
which strained the original Benthamite framework to such
an extent that it ought to have been radically refashioned or
even abandoned.
Foremost among the ideas which Mill introduced_was that
of intrinsic qualitative differences between pleasures. He does
indeed admit that ‘utilitarian writers in general have placed
the superiority of mental_o ily pleasures chiefly in the
greater permanency, safety, uncostliness, etc., of the former
—that is, in their (circumstantial advantagésyrather than in
their intrinsic nature’.16 But he goes on to argue that the
principle of utility to recognize the fact, that some_kinds>of

pleasure are more desirable and more valuable than others.
It would be absurd that while, in estimating all other things,
quality is considered as well as quantity, the estimation of

pleasures should be supposed to depend on quantity alone.’27
Mill may be quite right in claiming that it is absurd that
in discriminating between pleasures no account should be
taken of qualitative differences. But the suggestion that the
recognition of intrinsic qualitative differences is compatible
with Benthamism is quite unjustified. And the reason is clear.
If we wish to discriminate between different pleasures with- { |
gut introducing any standard or criterion other than pleasure \
itself, the principle of discrimination can only be quantita-
tive, whatever Mill may say to the contrary. In this sense
Bentham adopted the only possible consistent attitude. If,
owever, we are determined to recognize oe qualita- |
i ifferences ures, we have to find some
tandard_ other than pleasure itself. This may not “= imme-
diately evident. But if we reflect, we can see that when we
say that one kind of pleasure is qualitatively superior to an-
other, we really mean that one kind of pleasure-producing
activity is qualitatively superior to or intrinsically m 4
sable than another. And if we try to explain what this means,
we shall probably find ourselves referring to some_ideal_of
man, to some idea of what the human being ought to be,
For example, it makes little sense to say that the pleasure
of constructive activity is qualitatively superior to that of
destructive activity except with reference to the context of
man in society. Or, to put the matter more simply, it makes
little sense to say that the pleasure of listening to Beethoven
is qualitatively superior to the pleasure of smoking opium,
unless we take into account considerations other than that
of pleasure itself. If we decline to do this, the only relevant
question is, which is the greater pleasure, quantity being
measured not simply by intensity but also according to the
other criteria of the Benthamite calculus.
In point of fact Mill does introduce a standard other than
pleasure itself. On occasion at least he appeals to the natur
ofman, even if he does not clearly understand the significance
of what he is doing. ‘It is better to be a human being dis-
satisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied
than a fool satisfied.’18 After all, when Mill is engaged in
discussing explicitly Bentham’s strong and weak points, one
of the main features of Bentham’s thought to which he draws
attention is its inadequate conception of human nature. ‘Man
is conceived by Bentham as a being susceptible of pleasures
and pains, and governed in all his conduct partly by the dif-
ferent modifications of self-interest, and the passions com-
monly classed as selfish, partly by sympathies, or occasionally
antipathies, towards other beings. And here Bentham’s con-
ception of human nature stops. . . . Man is never recognized
by him as a being capable of pursuing spiritual perfection as
an end; of desiring, for its own sake, the conformity of his
own character to his standard of excellence, without hope of
good or fear of evil from other source than his own inward
consciousness.’9
It is very far from being the intention of the present writer
to find fault with Mill for introducing the idea of human
nature as a standard for determining qualitative differences
between pleasure-producing activities. The point is rather
that he does not appear to understand the extent to which
he is subjecting the original Benthamite framework of his
thought to acute stresses and strains. There is no need to
Voile Aristotle, said Bentham. But to come closer _to Aris-
ethical questions; but if must be

utility in the largest sense,
groundedon the permanent interests ofman _as a progressive :
sbeing.’2° Mill does not hesitate to refer to man’s ‘higher
tive. And in the essay On Liberty he quotes with approval

the statement of Wilhelm von Humboldt that ‘the end of
man is the highest and most harmonious development of his
powers to a complete and consistent whole.’22 True, Mill
does not produce a clear and full account of what he means
by human nature. He lays stress, indeed, on the perfectin
and improving of human nature, and he emphasizes the
idea of individuality. Thus he says, for example, that ‘in-
dividuality is the same thing with development’, and that ‘it
is only the cultivation of individuality which produces, or
can produce, well-developed human beings’.23 But he makes
it clear that individual self-development does not mean for
him a surrender to any impulses which the individual is in-
clined to follow, but rather the individual fulfilment of the
ideal of harmonious integration of all one’s powers. It is not
a question of sheer eccentricity, but of unity in diversity.
Hence there must be a standard of excellence; and this is
not fully worked out. The relevant point in the present con-
text, however, is not Mill’s failure to elaborate a theory of
human nature. Rather is it the fact that he grafts on to
Benthamism a moral theory which has little or nothing to do
with the balancing of pleasures and pains according to the
hedonistic calculus of Bentham, and that he does not see
the necessity of subjecting his original starting-point to a
thorough criticism and revision. As we have seen, he does
indeed criticize Bentham’s narrowness of moral vision. But
at other times he tends to slur over the differences between
them, especially, of course, when it is a question of uniting
against what they would consider reactionary forces.
The reference to Aristotle in the last paragraph is not so
far-fetched as may at first sight appear. As Bentham was
primarily interested in questions of practical reform, he_not
Sie aslatouelollechtice a raeesinct tio The
moral character of actions is to be estimated according to
the consequences which they tend to have. This view is, of
course, essential to utilitarianism, in some form or other at
least. And Mill often speaks in the same way. But he also
sees, as Aristotle saw, that the exercise of human_activities
cannot properly be described as a means to an happiness,
Se ES eT eres rere i
these—activities.
For the exercise of the activities can itself
constitute a part of happiness. The enjoyment of good health,
for example, and the appreciative hearing of good music
are, or can be, constituent elements in happiness, and not
simply means to some abstract external end. ‘Happiness is
not an abstract idea, but a concrete whole.’24 This is a
thoroughly Aristotelian notion.
Now, in the first two paragraphs of this section we saw
that according to Mill actions are right in proportion as they
fend to promote happiness, wrong in so far as they tend to
oroduce the reverse of happiness. We also noted Mill’s ex-
Slanation that in this ethical context happiness does not
mean the individual agent’s own greater happiness, but the
greatest amount of happiness altogether. And if we ask<why’s

the general happiness
appiness is desirable,
1s desirab] Mill answers that ‘no rea-
soil can be given why the general happiness is desirable,
except that each person, so far_as he believes it to be at-”
tainable, desires his own happiness’.25 It is therefore in-
Sunbent on hin-tdsmakeuclear: the relation between the
agent’s own happiness and the general happiness.
One line of argument employed by Mill represents ortho-
dox Benthamism. ‘Each person’s happiness is a good to that
person, and the general happiness, therefore, a good to the
aggregate of all persons.’26 If the general happiness is re-
lated to my happiness as a whole to a part, in desiring the
general happiness I am desiring my own. And by the force
of association of ideas I can come to desire the general happi-
ness without adverting to my own. It can thus be explained
not only how altruism is possible but also how egoism is
possible. For it is no more necessary that all should attain
to an altruistic point of view than it is necessary that all
those who desire money as a means to an end should become
misers, seeking money for its own sake.
This may sound reasonable. But reflection discloses a diff-
culty. If the general happiness is, as Bentham maintained,
nothing but the sum total resulting from an addition of the
happinesses of individuals, there is no reason why I should
be unable to seek my own happiness without seeking the
general happiness. And if I ask why I ought to seek the latter,
it is no use replying that I seek the former. For: this reply
to have any relevance, it must be assumed that the general
happiness is not simply the result of an addition sum, the
aggregate which results from a juxtaposition of individual
happinesses, but rather an organic whole of such a kind that
he who promotes his own happiness necessarily promotes the
general happiness. For he actualizes a constituent part of an
organic whole. But it can hardly be shown that this is the
case unless emphasis is placed on the social nature of man.
For one can then argue that the individual does not attain
his own real happiness except as a social being, a member of
society, and that his happiness is a constituent element in
an organic whole.
This seems indeed to be the sort of idea towards which
_ Mill is working. He remarks, for example, that the firm foun-
dation of the utilitarian morality is to be found in ‘the social
feelings of mankind’.27 These social feelings can be described
as the ‘desire to be in unity with our fellow creatures, which
is already a powerful principle in human nature, and happily
one of those which tend to become stronger, even without
express inculcation, from the influences of advancing civili-
zation. The social state is at once so natural, so necessary,
and so habitual to man, that, except in some unusual cit-
cumstances, or by an effort of voluntary abstraction, he never
conceives himself otherwise than as a member of a body.’28
True, Mill emphasizes the fact that the social feelings grow
through the influence of education and of advancing civili-
zation, and that the more they grow the more does the com-
mon good or general happiness appear as desirable, as an
object to be sought. At the same time he also emphasizes the
fact that social feeling has its root in human nature itself,
and that ‘to those who have it, it possesses all the characters
of a natural feeling. It does not present itself to their minds
as a superstition of education, or a law despotically imposed
by the power of society, but as an attitude which it would
not be well for them to be without. This conviction is the
ultimate sanction of the greatest happiness morality.’29
Once again, therefore, we receive the impression that Mill
is working away from Benthamism to an ethics based on a
more adequate view of the human person. At the same time
the new theory is not developed in such a way as to make
clear its relations to and differences from the framework of
thought with which Mill started and which he never actually
abandoned.
Though, however, the difficulty of passing from the man
who seeks his own personal happiness to the man who seeks
the common good is diminished in proportion as emphasis
is laid on the nature of man as a social being, there remains
an objection which can be brought against the utilitarian
theory of obligation, whether utilitarianism is understood in
its original Benthamite form or as developed by Mill.2° For
anyone at least who accepts Hume’s famous assertion that an
‘ought’ cannot be derived from an ‘is’, an ought-statement
from a purely factual or empirical statement, is likely to ob-
ject that this is precisely what the utilitarians try to do. That
is to say, they first assert that as a matter of empirical fact
man seeks happiness, and they then conclude that he ought
to perform those actions which are required to increase happi-
ness and that he ought not to perform those actions which
diminish happiness or increase pain or unhappiness.
One possible way of dealing with this objection is, of
course, to challenge its validity. But if it is once admitted
that an ought-statement cannot be derived from a purely
factual statement, then, to defend utilitarianism, we have
to deny the applicability of the objection in this case. Ob-
viously, we cannot deny that the utilitarians start with a
factual statement, namely that all men seek happiness. But
it might be argued that this factual statement is not the only
statement which functions as a premiss. For example, it might
be maintained that a judgment of value about the end,
namely happiness, is tacitly understood. That is to say, the
utilitarians are not simply stating that as a matter of empirti-
cal fact all men pursue happiness as the ultimate end of
action. They are also stating implicitly that happiness is the
only end worthy of being an ultimate end. Or it might be
maintained that together with the factual statement that all
men seek for happiness as the ultimate end of action, the
utilitarians tacitly include the premisses that to act in the
way which effectively increases happiness is the only rational
way of acting (given the fact that all seek this end), and
that to act in a rational manner is worthy of commendation.
Indeed, it is fairly clear that Bentham does assume that, as
all seek pleasure, to act in the way which will effectively in-
crease pleasure is to act rationally, and that to act rationally
is commendable. And it is also clear that Mill assumes that
to act in such a way as to develop a harmonious integration
of the powers of human nature or of the human person is
commendable.
It is not the purpose of these remarks to suggest that in
the opinion of the present writer utilitarianism either in its
original Benthamite form or in the somewhat incoherent
shape that it assumes with J. S. Mill, is the correct moral
3
resuppose other premi i e-
ments. Hence, even if it is admitted that an ought-statement
cannot be derived from a purely factual statement, the ad-
mission is not by itself necessarily fatal to utilitarian moral
theory.
As for the general merits and demerits of utilitarian moral
theory, this is too broad a question for discussion here. But
we can make two points. when we are asked why we
think that one action is right and another action wrong, we
frequently refer to consequences, An is suggests that a
teleological ethics finds support in the way in y wines ordi-
narily think and speak about moral questions. Secondly? the
fact_that_a_man of the calibre of J. S. Mill found himself
driven to transcend the narrow hedonism of Bentham and
to_interpret happiness in the light of the idea of the develop-
ent_of the human personality suggests that we cannot un-
derstand man’s moral life except in terms of a philosophical
anthropology. Hedonism certainly tends to recur in the his-
tory of ethical theory. But reflection on it prompts the mind
to seek for a more adequate theory of human nature than
that which is immediately suggested by the statement that
all men pursue pleasure. This fact is well illustrated by Mill’s
development of Benthamism.
3. Mill’s idea of the self-development of the individual
plays a central role in his reflections on civil or social liberty.
As he follows Hume and Bentham in rejecting the theory of
‘abstract right, as a thing independent of utility’,31 he can-
not indeed appeal to a natural right on the part of the in-
dividual to develop himself freely. But he insists that the
principle of utility demands that every man should be free
to develop his powers according to his own will and judg-
ment, provided that he does not do so in a way which inter-
feres with the exercise of a similar freedom by others. It is
not in the common interest that all should be moulded or
expected to conform to the same pattern. On the contrary,
society is enriched in proportion as individuals develop them-
selves freely. “The free development of individuality is one
of the principal ingredients of human happiness, and quite
the chief ingredient indivi ocial progress.’32
Hence the need for liberty.
When he is thinking of the value of free self-development
on the part of the individual, Mill not unnaturally pushes
the idea of liberty to the fullest extent which is consistent
with the existence and maintenance of social harmony. “The
liberty of the individual must be thus far limited; he must
not make himself a nuisance to other people.’8? Provided
that he refrains from interfering with other people’s liberty
and from actively inciting others to crime, the individual’s
freedom should be unrestricted. “The only part of the con-
duct of anyone, for which he is amenable to society, is that
which concerns others. In the part which merely concerns
himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over him-
self, over his own body and mind, the individual is sov-
ereign.’34
In the passage just cited the phrase ‘of right’ suggests, at
first sight at least, that Mill has forgotten for the moment
that the theory of natural rights does not form part of his
intellectual baggage. It would not indeed be matter for as-
tonishment if after inheriting the rejection of this theory
from Bentham and his father Mill then tended to reintro-
duce the theory. But presumably he would comment that
what he rejects is the theory of ‘abstract’ rights which are
not based on the principle of utility and which are supposed
to be valid. irrespective of the historical and social context.
‘Liberty, as a principle, has no application to any. state of
things anterior to the time when mankind have become ca-
pable of being improved by free and equal discussion.’$5 In
a society of barbarians despotism would be legitimate, ‘pro-
vided that the end be their improvement, and the means
justified by actually effecting that end’.36 But when civiliza-
tion has developed up to a certain point, the principle of
utility demands that the individual should enjoy full liberty,
except the liberty to do harm to others. And if we presup-
pose a society of this sort, we can reasonably talk about a
‘tight’ to liberty, a right grounded on the principle of utility.
Mill’s general thesis is, therefore, Peace es
munity the only legitimate ground for the exercise of coer-
cion in regard to the individual is ‘to prevent harm to others.
His own good, eith i r_moral, is not_a_ sufficient
warrant.’8?But where does the boundary lie between what
does harm to others and what does not, between purely self-
regarding conduct and conduct which concerns others? We
have noted that Mill quotes with approval Wilhelm von
Humboldt’s statement that the end of man is ‘the highest
and most harmonious development of his powers to a com-
plete and consistent whole’.88 And Mill is, of course, con-
vinced that the common happiness is increased if individuals
do develop themselves in this way. Might it not be argued,
therefore, that harm is done to others, to the community, if
the individual acts in such a way as to prevent the harmoni-
ous integration of his powers and becomes a warped per-
sonality?
This difficulty is, of course, seen and discussed by Mill
himself. And he suggests various ways of dealing with it. In
general, however, his answer is on these lines. The common
good demands that as much liberty as possible should be
conceded to the individual. Hence injury to others should
be interpreted as narrowly as possible. The majority is by no
means infallible in its judgments about what would be bene-
ficial to an individual. Hence it should not attempt to impose
its own ideas about what is good and bad on all. The com-
munity should not interfere with private liberty except when
‘there is a definite damage, or a definite risk of damage,
either to an individual or to the public’.39
Obviously, this does not tonstitute a complete answer to
the objection from the purely theoretical point of view. For
questions can still be asked about what constitutes ‘definite
damage’ or ‘a definite risk of damage’.4° At the same time
Mill’s general principle is, by and large, that which tends to
be followed in our Western democracies. And most of us
would doubtless agree that restrictions on private liberty
should be kept to the minimum demanded by respect for
the rights of others and for the common interest. But it is
idle to suppose that any philosopher can provide us with a
formula which will settle all disputes about the limits of this
minimum.
Mill’s insistence on the value of private liberty and on the
principle of individuality or originality, the principle, that is
to say, of individual self-development, naturally affects his

ideas on government and its functions. It affects his concept
of the most desirable form of government, and it also leads
him to see how democracy can be threatened by a danger
to which Bentham and James Mill had not really paid at-
tention. We can consider these two points successively.
Though Mill is well aware of the absurdity of supposing
that the form of constitution which one considers to be, ab-
stractly speaking, the best is necessarily the best in the prac-
tical sense of being suited to all people and to all stages of
civilization, he none the less insists that ‘to inquire into the
best form of government in the abstract (as it is called) is
not a chimerical, but a highly practical employment of sci-
entific intellect’.41 For political institutions do not simply
grow while men sleep. They are what they are through the
agency of the human will. And when a political institution
has become obsolete and no longer corresponds to the needs
and legitimate demands of a society, it is only through the
agency of the human will that it can be changed or developed
or supplanted by another institution. But this demands
thought about what is desirable and practicable, about the
ideally best form of government. For, ‘the ideally best form
of government, it is scarcely necessary to say, does not mean
one which is practicable or eligible in all states of civilization,
but the one which, in the circumstances in which it is prac-
ticable and eligible, is attended with the greatest amount of
beneficial consequences, immediate and prospective.’42
If we presuppose that a stage of civilization has been
reached in which democracy is practicable, the ideally best
form of government is, for Mill, that in which sovereignty
is vested in the community as a whole, in which each citizen
has a voice in the exercise of sovereignty, and in which each
citizen is sometimes called on to take an actual part in gov-
ernment, whether local or national, in some capacity or
other. For one thing, the individual is more secure from be-
ing harmed by others in proportion as he is able to protect
himself. And he can do this best in a democracy. For another
thing, a democratic constitution encourages an active type
of character, gifted with initiative and vigour. And it is more
valuable to promote an active than a passive type of char-
acter. Obviously, this consideration weighs heavily with Mill.
In his opinion a democratic constitution is the most likely
to encourage that individual self-development on which he
lays so much emphasis. Further, it promotes the growth in
the individual of a public spirit, of concern with the common
good, whereas under a benevolent despotism individuals are
likely to concentrate simply on their private interests, leay-
ing care for the common good to a government in which they
have no voice or share.
It is clear that Mill is not primarily concemed with an
external harmonization of interests among atomic human in-
dividuals, each of which is supposed to be seeking simply his
own pleasure. For if this were the chief concern of govern-
ment, one might conclude that benevolent despotism is the
ideal form of government and that democracy is preferable
only because despots are, in practice, generally as self-seeking
as anyone else. It was partly this idea that drove Bentham
to adopt a radically democratic point of view. Mill, however,
while by no means blind to the need for harmonizing in-
terests, is concerned above all with the superior educative
effect of democracy. True, it presupposes a certain level of
education. At the same time it encourages, more than any
other form of government, private liberty and free self-
development on the part of the individual.
Ideally, direct democracy would be the best form of goy-
ernment, at least in the sense of a democracy in which all
citizens would have the opportunity of sharing in government
in some capacity. ‘But since all cannot, in a community ex-
ceeding a single small town, participate personally in any
but some very minor portions of the public business, it fol-
lows that the ideal type of a perfect government must be
representative.’43
Mill is not, however, so naive as to suppose that a demo-
cratic constitution automatically ensures a due respect for
individual liberty. When democracy means in effect the rule,
by representation, of a numerical majority, there is no guaran-
tee that the majority will not oppress the minority. For ex-
ample, legislation might be made to serve the interest of a
racial or religious majority or that of a particular economic
slass#+ rather than the interests of the whole community.
In fine, what Bentham called ‘sinister interests’ can operate
in a democracy as elsewhere.
As a safeguard against this danger Mill insists that mi-
norities must be effectively represented. And to secure this
he advocates a system of proportional representation, refer-
ting to Thomas Hare’s Treatise on the Election of Repre-
sentatives (1859) and to Professor Henry Fawcett’s pam-
phlet Mr. Hare’s Reform Bill Simplified and Explained
(1860). But constitutional devices such as universal suffrage
and proportional representation will not be sufficient with-
out a process of education which inculcates a genuine re-
spect for individual liberty and for the rights of all citizens,
whatever may be their race, religion or position in society.
Given Mill’s insistence on the value of individual self-
development and initiative, it is not surprising that he dis-
approves of any tendency on the part of the State to usurp
the functions of voluntary institutions and to hand them over
to the control of a State bureaucracy. “The disease which
afflicts bureaucratic governments, and which they usually die
of, is routine. . . . A bureaucracy always tends to become
a pedantocracy.’*5 The tendency for all the more able mem-
bers of the community to be absorbed into the ranks of
State functionaries ‘is fatal, sooner or later, to the mental
activity and progressiveness of the body itself.’4é
This does not mean, however, that Mill condemns all leg-
islation and State control other than that required to main-
tain peace and order in the community. It seems true to
say that he is drawn in two directions. On the one hand
the principle of individual liberty inclines him to disapprove
of any legislation or State control of conduct which goes be-
yond what is required for preventing or deterring the in-
dividual from injuring others, whether assignable individuals
or the community at large. On the other hand the principle
of utility, the greatest happiness principle, might well be
used to justify a very considerable amount of legislation and
State control with a view to the common good or happiness.
But, as we have seen, the principle of individuality is itself
grounded on the principle of utility. And the idea of pre-
venting the individual from injuring others can be inter-
preted in such a way as to justify a good deal of State
‘interference’ with the individual’s conduct.
Education is a case in point. We have seen that according
to Mill the community has no right to coerce the individual
simply for his own good. But this applies, as Mill explains,
only to adults, not to children. For the latter must be pro-
tected not only from being harmed by others but also from
harming themselves. Hence Mill does not hesitate to say,
‘is it not almost a self-evident axiom, that the State should
require and compel the education, up to a certain standard,
of every human being who is born its citizen?’47 He is not
suggesting that parents should be compelled to send their
children to State schools. For ‘a general State education is
a mere contrivance for moulding people to be exactly like
one another’:48 it might easily become an attempt to es-
tablish ‘a despotism over the mind’.4® But if parents do not
provide in some way for the education of their children, they
are failing in their duty and are harming both individuals,
namely the children, and the community.5° Hence the State
should prevent them from injuring others in this way. And
if the parents are genuinely unable to pay for their children’s
education, the State should come to their aid.
On occasion Mill’s interpretation of the principle of pre-
venting the individual from injuring others is astonishingly
broad. Thus in the essay On Liberty he remarks that in a
country in which the population is or threatens to become
so great that wages are reduced through superabundant la-
bour, with the consequence that parents are unable to sup-
port their children, a law to forbid marriages unless the
patties could show that they had the means of supporting
a family would not exceed the legitimate power of the State.
True, the expediency of such a law is open to dispute. But
the law would not constitute a violation of liberty. For its
aim would be to prevent the parties concerned from injuring
others, namely the prospective offspring. And if anyone ob-
jected to the law simply on the ground that it would violate
the liberty of parties who wished to marry, he would give
evidence of a misplaced notion of liberty.
In point of fact Mill came to modify his view that no man
should be compelled to act or to refrain from acting in a cer-
tain way simply for his own good. Take the case of pro-
posed legislation to reduce the hours of labour. Mill came
to the conclusion that such legislation would be perfectly
legitimate, and also desirable, if it were in the real interest
of the workmen. To pretend that it violates the worker’s
freedom to work for as many hours as he likes is absurd. It
is indeed obviously true that he would choose to work for
an excessive length of time, if the alternative were to starve.
But it by no means follows that he would not choose to work
for shorter hours, provided that the reduction were univer-
sally enforced by law. And in enacting such a law the legis-
lator would be acting for the good of the worker and in
accordance with his real desire.
Given his belief in the value of voluntary associations and
of initiative uncontrolled by the State, together with his
rooted mistrust of bureaucracy, Mill would hardly take kindly
to the idea of the so-called Welfare State. At the same time
in his later years he came to envisage a degree of State-
control of the distribution of wealth which he at any rate
was prepared to describe as socialist in character. And the
development of his thought on social legislation has often
been depicted, though not necessarily with disapproval of
course, as constituting an implicit desertion of his original
principles. But though it is perfectly reasonable to see in his
thought a shift of emphasis from the idea of private liberty
to that of the demands of the common good, it seems to the
present writer that the charge of inconsistency or of making
a volte-face can easily be overdone. After all, Mill did not
mean by liberty merely freedom from external control. He
emphasized liberty as freedom to develop oneself as a human
being in the full sense, a freedom which is demanded by
the common good. Hence it is reasonable to conclude
that it is the business of the community, that it makes for
the common good or general happiness, to remove obstacles
to such self-development on the part of the individual. But
the removal of obstacles may very well entail a considerable
amount of social legislation.
What is true, of course, is that Mill departs very far from
Benthamism. And this departure from Benthamism can also
be seen in the sphere of economics. For example, when Mill
condemned laws against trade unions and _ associations
formed to raise wage-levels, the condemnation may have
been based primarily on his belief that free rein should be
given to private enterprises in general and to voluntary eco-
nomic experiments in particular. But it implied that, within
the limits set by other factors, something can be done to
raise wages by human effort. In other words, there is no iron
law of wages which renders nugatory all attempts to raise
them.
To conclude this section. Bentham, with what we may
call his quantitative point of view, naturally emphasized the
individual unit. Each is to count, so to speak, as one and
not as more than one. And this idea naturally led him in
the direction of democratic convictions. Mill shared these
convictions; but he came to lay the emphasis on quality, on
the development of the individual personality, a value which
is best assured in a democratically constituted society. And
this shift in emphasis, involving a change from the concept
of the pleasure-seeking and pain-avoiding unit to the con-
cept of the personality seeking the harmonious and integrated
active development of all his powers, is perhaps the most
salient characteristic of Mill’s development of utilitarianism
from the philosophical point of view. From the practical
point of view, that of the reformer, the feature of Mill’s
thought which usually strikes the observer is the way in which
he discerns the growing movement towards social legislation
and approves it in so far ashe feels that he can reconcile it
with his profound belief in the value of individual liberty.
But the two points of view go together, as has already been
remarked. For Mill’s qualified approval of social legislation
is motivated very largely by his conviction that such legisla-
tion is required to create the conditions for, by the removal
of hindrances to, the fuller self-development of the individ-
ual, To the extent that he envisages the removal by the State
of obstacles or hindrances to the leading by all of a full hu-
man life, Mill approximates to the point of view expounded
by the British idealists in the latter part of the nineteenth
century. But veneration for the State as such, the kind of
veneration which had been shown by Hegel, is entirely ab-
sent from his outlook. In a very real sense he remains an
individualist to the last. What exists is the individual, though

the individual character and personality cannot be fully de-
veloped apart from social relations.
4. The topics of civil liberty and government are obviously
connected. Freedom of the will or liberty in a psychologi-
cal sense is discussed by Mill in his A System of Logic, under
the general heading of the logic of the mental sciences, and
in his An Examination of Sir William Hamilton’s Philosophy.
But as interest in the problem of freedom of the will is gen-
erally prompted by its bearing on ethics and on questions,
whether moral or legal, about responsibility, it seems per-
missible to take the problem out of the general logical set-
ting in which Mill actually discusses it and to consider it
here.
Mill assumes that according to libertarians, upholders,
that is to say, of the doctrine of freedom of the will, ‘our
volitions are not, properly speaking, the effects of causes, or
at least have no causes which they uniformly and implicitly
obey’.51 And as he himself believes that all volitions or acts
of the will are caused, he embraces, to this extent at least,
what he calls the doctrine of philosophical necessity. By
causation he understands ‘invariable, certain and uncondi-
tional sequence’,®? a uniformity of order or sequence which
permits predictability. And it is this empiricist idea of causa-
tion which he applies to human volitions and actions.
The causes which are relevant in this context are motives
and character. Hence the doctrine of philosophical necessity
means that, ‘given the motives which are present to an in-
dividual’s mind, and given likewise the character and dis-
position of the individual, the manner in which he will act
might be unerringly inferred’.5? It is scarcely necessary
to say that Mill is referring to predictability in principle. The
less knowledge we have of a man’s character and of the
motives which present themselves to his mind with varying
degrees of force, the less able are we to predict his actions in
practice.
One obvious objection to this theory is that it presupposes
either that a man’s character is fixed from the start or that
it is formed only by factors which lie outside his control. In
point of fact, however, Mill is quite prepared to admit that
‘our character is formed by us as well as for us’.54 At the
same time he adds, and indeed must add if he is to pre-
serve consistency with his premiss about causality, that the
will to shape our character is formed for us. For example,
experience of painful consequences of the character which
he already possesses, or some other strong feeling, such as
admiration, which has been aroused in him, may cause a
man to desire to change his character.
It is true that when we yield, for example, to a stray temp-
tation, we tend to think of ourselves as capable of having
acted differently. But, according to Mill, this does not mean
that we are actually aware or conscious that we could have
acted in a different manner, all other things being equal. We
are not conscious of liberty of indifference in this sense. What
we are conscious of is that we could have acted differently
if we had preferred to do so, that is, if the desire not to act
in the way in which we did act or to act in a different man-
ner had been stronger than the desire which, as a matter of
fact, operated in us and caused our choice.
We can say, therefore, if we like, that Mill embraces a
theory of character-determinism. But though he speaks, as
we have seen, about the doctrine of philosophical necessity,
he does not relish the use of such terms as ‘necessity’ and
‘determinism’. He argues instead that the predictability in
principle of human actions is perfectly compatible with all
that the upholders of freedom of the will can reasonably
maintain. Some religious metaphysicians, for instance, have
found no difficulty in claiming both that God foresees all
human actions and that man acts freely. And if God’s fore-
knowledge is compatible with human liberty, so is any other
foreknowledge. Hence an admission of predictability in prin-
ciple does not prevent us from saying that man acts freely.
It is rather a question of analysing what is meant by freedom.
If it is taken to mean that when I am faced with alternative
courses of action, I could make a different choice from the
one which I actually make, even though all factors, including
character, desires and motives, are assumed to be the same,
it cannot be allowed that man is free. For freedom in this
sense would be incompatible with predictability in prin-
ciple: it would follow that human actions are uncaused and
random events. But if by saying that man is free we mean
simply that he could act differently from the way in which
he does act if his character and motives were otherwise than
they are, and that he himself has a hand in shaping his
character, it is then quite legitimate to say that man is free.
Indeed, those who assert human freedom can mean no more
than this unless they are prepared to say that human actions
are chance, inexplicable events.
Mill is naturally convinced that his analysis of human free-
dom is not at odds with the utilitarian ethics. For he does
not deny that character is malleable or that moral education
is possible. All that follows from the causal activity of mo-
tives, in conjunction with character, is that moral education
must be directed to the cultivation of the right desires and
aversions, that is, to the cultivation of those desires and
aversions which are demanded by the principle of utility.
‘The object of moral education is to educate the will: but
the will can only be educated through the desires and aver-
sions.’ As for penal sanctions and punishment in general,
the statement that all human actions are in principle pre-
dictable does not entail the conclusion that all punishment
is unjust. Let us assume that punishment has two ends, ‘the
benefit of the offender himself and the protection of
others’.56 Appropriate punishment can serve to strengthen
the offender’s aversion to wrong-doing and his desire to obey
the law. As for protection of others, punishment, provided
that unnecessary suffering is not inflicted, needs no defence
other than that provided by common sense. Whatever posi-
tion we may adopt on the subject of free will, murderers
can no more be allowed to commit their crimes with im-
punity than a mad dog can be allowed to roam the
streets.
In maintaining that all human actions are predictable in
principle, Mill can draw, of course, on some empirical
evidence, For it is an undoubted fact that the better we know
a man the more confident we feel that in a given set of cir-
cumstances he would act in one way rather than in another.
And if he does not act as we expected, we may conclude
either that his character was stronger than we suspected or
that there was a hidden flaw in his character, as the case
may be. Similarly, if we find that our friends are surprised
that we have resisted, say, a temptation to use a given op-
portunity of making money by some shady means, we may
very well comment that they ought to have known us better.
But though plenty of examples can be found in ordinary
speech which seem to imply that a perfect knowledge of a
man’s character would enable the possessor of the knowledge
to predict the man’s actions, examples can also be found
which suggest a belief to the contrary. After all, there are
occasions on which we resent the suggestion that all our ut-
terances and actions can be predicted, as though we were
automata, incapable of any originality. Ultimately, however,
Mill asserts the predictability in principle of all human ac-
tions more as the alternative to admitting uncaused events
than as an empirical generalization.
If we assume that Mill is right in saying that we have to
choose between these two alternatives, and if we are not
prepared to describe human volitions and actions as chance
or random events which happen without being caused, the
question then arises whether the admission that all human
volitions and actions are predictable in principle is or is not
compatible with describing some actions as free. In one sense
at any rate it is certainly compatible. For some of our ac-
tions are performed deliberately, with a conscious purpose,
while others are not, reflex acts for instance. And if we wish
to use the word ‘free’ simply to describe actions of the first
kind, as distinct from the second kind, the question of pre-
dictability is irrelevant. For even if actions of both types
are predictable in principle, the difference between them re-
mains. And the word ‘free’ is being used simply to mark
this difference. If, however, we wish to maintain that to say
that an action is performed freely necessarily implies that
the agent could act otherwise without being a different sort
of person, unerring predictability in virtue of a knowledge
of the person’s character is ruled out. And if we have al-
ready accepted the validity of Mill’s thesis that we have to
choose between asserting predictability in principle and as-
serting that free actions are random events, we shall find it
difficult to claim at the same time that an agent is morally
responsible for his free actions.
If, however, we wish to maintain that Mill is not justified
in forcing us to choose between admitting that all human
actions are predictable in principle in virtue of the agent’s
character and admitting that free actions are random or
chance events, we have to find an acceptable alternative.
And this is not easy to do. It is hardly sufficient to say that
the action is indeed caused but that it is caused by the
agent’s will, and that no other cause is required save a final
cause, namely a purpose or motive. For Mill would immedi-
ately ask, what is the cause of the volition? Or is it an un-
caused event? As for the motive, what causes this motive
rather than another to be the stronger, actually prevailing
motive? Must it not be the agent’s character, the fact that he
is the sort of man that he is?
It may be said that Mill himself gets into difficulties. For
example, he admits that the individual can play a part in
shaping his own character. And it is indeed essential for him
to admit this, if any sense is to be given to his idea of civil
liberty as required for self-development. But on Mill’s own
premisses every effort that a man makes with a view to self-
improvement must be caused. And in the long run what can
be meant by the statement that a man plays an active part
in shaping his own character except that the causes of his
character are not simply external, educational and environ-
mental, but also internal, physiological and psychological?
But this hardly squares with what the ordinary person un-
derstands by the claim that man is free, and that he is not
simply a product of his environment, but can freely play an
active part in shaping his character. Hence Mill should either
embrace and assert determinism, which he tries to avoid, or
make it clear that he is using terms such as ‘free’ and ‘free-
dom’ in some peculiar sense of his own, in what Bentham
would call a ‘metaphysical’ sense.
But the fact that difficulties can be raised in regard to
Mill’s position does not necessarily get other people out of
their difficulties. And it might very well be argued that we
cannot escape these difficulties if we once allow ourselves to
share Mill’s analytic approach, speaking about the agent, his
character and his motives as though they were distinct
entities which interact on one another.
We ought instead to
find another way of talking, based on a conception of the
human person and his acting which cannot be expressed in
Mill’s terms. Bergson made an attempt to develop, or at
least to indicate, such a language. And others have followed
suit. We cannot talk about God in the language of, say,
physics. For the concept of God is not a concept of physical
science. Nor can we talk about freedom in the language used
by Mill. If we try to do so, we shall find freedom being
translated into something else.
The aim of the foregoing remarks is not to solve the
problem of freedom, but simply to indicate some lines of
reflection which arise out of Mill’s discussions of the matter.
For the matter of that, there is a great deal more that could
be said in connection with Mill’s approach and line of
thought. But it would be inappropriate to devote more space
to the subject in a book which is not intended to be a treatise
on human liberty, whether in the civil or in the psychological
sense of the term.
Chapter Three
J. S. MILL: LOGIC AND EMPIRICISM
Introductory remarks—Names and propositions, real and

yerbal—The nature of mathematics —Syllogistic reasoning—
Induction and the principle of the uniformity of Nature—
The law of causation—Experimental inquiry and deduction
—Method in the Moral Sciences—Matter as a permanent
possibility of sensations—The analysis of mind and the
spectre of solipsism—Méill on religion and natural theology.
1. In the eighteenth century the study of logic had been com-

paratively neglected. And in the introduction to his System
of Logic Mill pays a tribute to Richard Whateley (1787-
1863), Archbishop of Dublin, as ‘a writer who has done
more than any other person to restore this study to the rank
from which it had fallen in the estimation of the cultivated
class in our own country.”? But it does not follow, of course,
that Mill is in full agreement with Whateley’s idea of the
nature and scope of logic. Logic was defined by Whateley as
the science and art of reasoning.2 But this definition, Mill
contends, is in any case too narrow to cover all logical opera-
tions. More important, Whateley regarded syllogistic de-
duction as the standard and type of all scientific inference,
and he refused to admit that the logic of induction could
be given a scientific form analogous to the theory of the
syllogism. He did not mean, he explained, that no rules for
inductive investigation could be laid down. But in his opinion
such rules must always remain comparatively vague and could
not be synthesized in a properly scientific theory of inductive
logic. Mill, however, sets out with the aim of showing that
the opposite is true. He is careful to remark that he does
not despise the syllogism. And in his System of Logic he
deals with syllogistic inference. But he lays emphasis on the
nature of logic as ‘the science which treats of the operations
J. S. MILL: LOGIC AND EMPIRICISM 69
of the human mind in the pursuit of truth’. That is to say,

he lays emphasis on the function of logic in generalizing and
synthesizing the rules for estimating evidence and advancing
from known to unknown truths rather than on its function
as providing rules for formal consistency in reasoning.
Hence what is primarily required for the development of
logic is precisely the fulfilment of the task which according
to Whateley could not be fulfilled, or at least not with any
degree of scientific exactitude, namely to generalize ‘the
modes of investigating truth and estimating evidence, by
which so many important and recondite laws of nature have,
in the various sciences, been aggregated to the stock of hu-
man knowledge’.4
But Mill is not interested simply in developing a system-
atic theory of inductive logic as employed in natural science.
He is also concerned with working out a logic of what he
calls the moral sciences, which include psychology and sociol-
ogy. True, he actually considered this topic before he found
himself able to complete a satisfactory account of inductive
logic as given in the third book of the System of Logic. But
this does not prevent Mill from presenting the sixth book,
which deals with the logic of the moral sciences, as an ap-
plication to them of the experimental method of the physical
sciences. He thus makes his own the programme envisaged
by David Hume, namely that of employing the experimental
method in the development of a science of human nature.®
If it is asked whether Mill’s point of view is that of an
empiricist, the answer obviously depends to a great extent on
the meaning which is given to this term. As Mill himself
uses the term, he is not, or at any rate does not wish to be,
an empiricist. Thus in the System of Logic he speaks of
‘bad generalization a posteriori or empiricism properly so
called’,é as when causation is inferred from casual conjunc-
tion. Again, Mill refers to induction by simple enumeration
as ‘this rude and slovenly mode of generalization’,” a mode
of generalization which was demanded by Francis Bacon and
which confuses merely empirical laws with causal laws. A
simple example is offered by the way in which many people
peo-
generalize from the people of their own country to the
beings felt, judged and
ples of other countries, ‘as if human
7O BRITISH EMPIRICISM
acted everywhere in the same manner.’ Again, in Mill’s

work on Comte we are told that ‘direct induction [is] usu-
ally no better than empiricism’,® ‘empiricism’ being obvi-
ously employed in a depreciatory sense. And similar remarks
occur elsewhere.
But though Mill certainly rejects empiricism in the sense
in which he understands the term, in the sense, that is to
say, of bad and slovenly generalization, of a procedure which
bears little relation to scientific method or methods, he
equally certainly takes his stand with Locke in holding that
the material of all our knowledge is provided by experience.
And if this is what is meant by empiricism, Mill is indubita-
bly an empiricist. True, he admits intuition as a source of
knowledge. Indeed, ‘the truths known by intuition are the
original premises from which all others are inferred’.1° But
by intuition Mill means consciousness, immediate awareness
of our sensations and feelings. If by intuition is meant ‘the
direct knowledge we are supposed to have of things ex-
ternal to our minds’, he is not prepared to admit that
there is any such thing. Indeed, the System of Logic ‘supplies
what was much wanted, a text-book of the opposite doctrine
—that which derives all knowledge from experience, and all
moral and intellectual qualities principally from the direc-
tion given to the associations’.12
Mill’s rejection of what he calls the German or a priori
view of human knowledge, which is to be found in the phi-
losophy of Coleridge and to a certain extent in that of
Whewell, is complicated by the fact that he regards it as
having undesirable consequences in moral and _ political
theory, or even as being invoked to support undesirable social
attitudes and convictions. “The notion that truths external to
the mind may be known by intuition or consciousness, in-
dependently of observation and experience, is, I am _per-
suaded, in these times the great intellectual support of false
doctrines and bad institutions. . . . There never was such
an instrument devised for consecrating all deep-seated prej-
udices.’1 Hence when the System of Logic endeavours to
explain mathematical knowledge, the stronghold of the in-
tuitionists, without recourse to the idea of intuitive or a priori
J. S. MILL: LOGIC AND EMPIRICISM bra
knowledge, it is performing a valuable social service as well

as attempting to settle a purely theoretical problem.
It may be objected that these remarks are really quite in-
adequate for settling the question whether or not Mill is to
be described as an empiricist. On the one hand, if empiricism
is equated with bad and slovenly generalization, it is indeed
obvious that neither Mill nor any other serious thinker would
wish to be called an empiricist. For the term becomes one
of abuse or at least of depreciation. On the other hand, a
conviction that the material of our knowledge is furnished
by experience is not by itself sufficient warrant for calling a
philosopher an empiricist. Hence to observe that Mill attacks
empiricism in a certain sense of the term while at the same
time he maintains that all our knowledge is grounded in ex-
perience, does not do more than narrow down the question
to a certain extent. It does not answer it. We are not told,
for instance, whether Mill admits metaphysical principles
which, though we come to know them as a basis of experience
and not a priori, nevertheless go beyond any actual experi-
ence, in the sense that they apply to all possible experience.
This line of objection is perfectly reasonable. But it is dif-
ficult to give a simple answer to the question raised. On the
one hand Mill certainly takes up an empiricist position when
he explicitly asserts that we cannot attain absolute truth and
that all generalizations are revisable in principle. On the
other hand, when he is differentiating between properly sci-
entific induction and slovenly generalization, he tends to
speak in such a way as to imply that hitherto unknown
truths can be inferred with certainty from known truths and,
consequently, that Nature possesses a stable structure, as it
were, which could be expressed in statements which would
be true of all possible experience. In view of Mill’s general
position in the history of British philosophy and in view of
the influence exercised by his thought it is perfectly natural
that we should emphasize the first aspect of his thought and
call him an empiricist. But it is as well to remember that he
sometimes adopts positions which imply a different point of
view. In any case the different strands in his thought can be
seen only by considering what he says on particular topics.
2. Logic, Mill maintains, is concerned with inferences
from truths previously known, not, of course, in the sense

that the logician increases our knowledge of the world by
actually making substantial inferences, but in the sense that
he provides the tests or criteria for determining the value of
inference or proof, and consequently of belief in so far as it
professes to be grounded on proof. But inference is ‘an opera-
tion which usually takes place by means of words, and in
complicated cases can take place in no other way’.1* Hence
it is proper to begin a systematic study of logic by a con-
sideration of language.
We might perhaps expect that Mill would tum immedi-
ately to propositions. For it is propositions which are inferred.
But as he regards the proposition as always afhrming or de-
nying a predicate of a subject, one name, as he puts it, of
another name, he actually begins by discussing names and
the process of naming.
It is unnecessary to mention here all the distinctions which
Mill draws between different types of names. But the fol-
lowing points can be noted. According to Mill, whenever a
name given to objects has in the proper sense a meaning, its
meaning consists in what it connotes, not in what it denotes.
All concrete general names are of this kind. For example, the
word ‘man’ can denote or refer to an indefinite number of in-
dividual things which together are said to form a class; but
its meaning resides in what it connotes, namely the attributes
which are predicated when the word ‘man’ is applied to cer-
tain beings. It follows, therefore, that proper names, such as
John, which can be applied to more than one individual but
which have no connotation, possess, strictly speaking, no
meaning. It does not follow, however, that the word ‘God’
has no meaning. For this term is not, according to Mill, a
proper name. To be sure, as used by the monotheist the
term is applicable to only one being. But this is because, as
so used, it connotes a certain union of.attributes which in
fact limits its range of application. It is thus a connotative
term, not a proper name like John or Mary.
Mill does indeed distinguish between words which name
things or attributes and words which enter into the naming-
process. For instance, in ‘the wife of Socrates’ the word ‘of’
is not itself a name.t5 But Mill has been criticized by later
J- S. MILL: LOGIC AND EMPIRICISM 73
logicians for passing over words such as ‘or’ and ‘if’, which
can certainly not be described as parts of names.
Turning to propositions, we find, as already indicated, that
Mill’s over-emphasis on names and naming leads him to re-
gard all propositions as affirming or denying one name or
another. The words which are commonly, though not neces-
sarily, used to signify affirmative or negative predication are
‘is’ or ‘is not’, ‘are’ or ‘are not’. Thus Mill takes the subject-
copula-predicate form of proposition as the standard, though
not invariable, form. And he warns his readers about the
ambiguity of the term ‘is’. For example, if we fail to dis-
tinguish between the existential use of the verb ‘to be’ and
its use as a copula, we may be led into such absurdities as
supposing that unicorns must possess some form of existence
because we can say that the unicom is an animal with
one horn, or even because we can say that it is an imaginary
beast.
In the course of his discussion of the import or meaning
of propositions Mill distinguishes between real and verbal
propositions. In a real proposition we affirm or deny of a
subject an attribute which is not already connoted by its
name, or a fact which is not already comprised in the sig-
nification of the name of the subject. In other words, a real
proposition conveys new factual information, true or false
as the case may be, information which is new in the sense
that it cannot be obtained simply by analysis of the meaning
of the subject term. As proper names are not connotative
terms and, strictly speaking, possess no ‘meaning’, every prop-
osition, such as ‘John is married’, which has as its subject
a proper name, must necessarily belong to this class. Verbal
propositions, however, are concerned simply with the mean-
ings of names: the predicate can be obtained by analysis of
the connotation or meaning of the subject term. For ex-
ample, in ‘man is a corporeal being’ the predicate already
forms part of the connotation or meaning of the term ‘man’.
For we would not call anything a man unless it were a
corporeal being. Hence the proposition says something about
the meaning of a name, about its usage: it does not convey
factual information in the sense that ‘John is married’ or ‘the
mean distance of the moon from the earth is 238,860 miles’
conveys factual information.
The most important class of verbal propositions are defini-
tions, a definition being ‘a proposition declaratory of the
meaning of a word: namely, either the meaning which it
bears in common acceptance or that which the speaker or
writer, for the particular purposes of his discourse, intends
to annex to it’.16 Mill thus does not exclude the use of
words in new ways for specific purposes. But he insists on the
need for examining ordinary usage very carefully before we
undertake to reform language. For an examination of the
different shades of meaning which a word has in common
usage, or changes in its use, may bring to light distinc-
tions and other relevant factors which it is important that the
would-be reformer of language should bear in mind.
Obviously, when Mill says that definitions are verbal prop-
ositions, he does not intend to imply that they are by na-
ture purely arbitrary or that inquiries into matters of fact
are never relevant to the framing of definitions. It would be
absurd, for example, to define man with complete disre-
gard for the attributes which those beings whom we call men
possess in common. Mill’s point is that though the connota-
tion of the term ‘man’ is grounded in experience of men,
and though inquiries into matters of fact can render this
connotation less vague and more distinct, what the definition
as such does is simply to make this connotation or meaning
explicit, either wholly or in part, that is, by means of.selected
differentiating attributes. True, we may be inclined to sup-
pose that the definition is not purely verbal. But the inclina-
tion can be easily explained if we bear in mind the ambiguity
of the copula. A general connotative term such as ‘man’ de-
notes an indefinite number of things and connotes certain
attributes which they have in common. When, therefore, it is
said that ‘man is . . .’, we may be inclined to suppose that
the definition asserts that there are men. In this case, how-
ever, we tacitly presuppose the presence of two propositions,
corresponding to two possible uses of the verb ‘to be’; on the
one hand the definition, which simply makes explicit the
meaning of the term ‘man’, and on the other hand an ex-
istential proposition which asserts that there are beings which
possess the attributes mentioned in the definition. If we omit
the existential proposition which we have surreptitiously in-
troduced, we can see that the definition is purely verbal,
concerned simply with the meaning of a name.
Let us return for a moment to real propositions and con-
sider a general proposition such as ‘All men are mortal.’!7
Looked at from one point of view, as a portion of speculative
truth, as Mill puts it, this means that the attributes of man
are always accompanied by the attribute of being mortal.
And under analysis this means that certain phenomena are
regularly associated with other phenomena. But we can also
look at the proposition under the aspect of a memorandum
for practical use. And it then means that ‘the attributes of
man are evidence of, are a mark of, mortality’.18 In other
words, it tells us what to expect. According to Mill these
different meanings are ultimately equivalent. But in scientific
inference it is the practical aspect of meaning, its predictive
aspect, which is of special importance.
We have, therefore, a distinction between verbal proposi-
tions in which the predicate is either identical with or a
part of the meaning of the subject term, and real proposi-
tions, in which the predicate is not contained in the conno-
tation of the subject. And Mill remarks that ‘this distinction
corresponds to that which is drawn by Kant and other meta-
physicians between what they term analytic and synthetic
judgments; the former being those which can be evolved
from the meaning of the terms used’.19 We may add that
Mill’s distinction also corresponds more or less to Hume’s
distinction between propositions which state relations be-
tween ideas and propositions which state matters of fact.
If we mean by truth correspondence between a proposi-
tion and the extra-linguistic fact to which it refers,?° it ob-
viously follows that no purely verbal proposition can be
properly described as true. A definition can be adequate or
inadequate; it can correspond or not correspond with linguis-
tic usage. But by itself it makes no statement about mat-
ters of extra-linguistic fact. The question arises, however,
whether for Mill there are real propositions which are
necessarily true. Does he agree with Hume that no real prop-
osition can be necessarily true? Or, to use Kantian termi-
nology, does he recognize the existence of synthetic a priori
propositions?
It is a notorious fact that Mill tends to speak in different
ways, his way of speaking being influenced by his reaction to
the type of theory which he happens to be discussing. Hence
it is difficult to say what the view of Mill is. However, he is
undoubtedly opposed to the view that there is any a priori
knowledge of reality. And this opposition naturally inclines
him to reject synthetic a priori propositions. Mill is not in-
deed prepared to say that when the negation of a given
proposition appears to us as unbelievable, the proposition
must be merely verbal. For there are doubtless some real
propositions which reflect a uniformity or regularity of ex-
perience such that the negations of these propositions seem
to us unbelievable. And for all practical purposes we are
justified in treating them as though they were necessarily
true. Indeed, we can hardly do otherwise, because ex
hypothesi we have had no experience which has led us to
question their universal applicability. But a real proposition
can be necessarily true in the psychological sense that we
find its opposite unbelievable, without being necessarily true
in the logical sense that it must be true of all possible ex-
perience, of all unobserved or unexperienced phenomena.
This seems to be more or less Mill’s characteristic posi-
tion. But to appreciate the complexity of the situation it is
advisable to consider what he has to say about mathematical
propositions, the great stronghold of intuitionists and up-
holders of a priori knowledge.
3. It is scarcely necessary to say that Mill recognizes that
mathematics possesses some peculiar characteristics. He re-
marks, for example, that ‘the propositions of geometry are
independent of the succession of events’.21 Again, the truths
of mathematics ‘have no connection with laws of causation.
. . . That when two straight lines intersect each other the
opposite angles are equal, is true of all such lines and angles,
by whatever cause produced.’22 Again, mathematical reason-
ing ‘does not suffer us to let in, at any of the joints in the
reasoning, an assumption which we have not faced in the
shape of an axiom, postulate or definition. This is a merit
which it has in common with formal Logic.’23
J. S. MILL: LOGIC AND EMPIRICISM WF
When, however, we start inquiring into Mill’s general

theory of mathematics, complications arise. Dugald Stewart
maintained that mathematical propositions do not express
matters of fact but only connections between suppositions or
assumptions and certain consequences. He further main-
tained that the first principles of geometry are Euclid’s defi-
nitions, not the postulates and axioms. And as he regarded
the definitions as arbitrary, he made it difficult to explain
how pure mathematics can be applied. That mathematics
can fit reality, so to speak, and be successfully applied in
physics becomes for him a matter of pure coincidence. Mill,
however, was not satisfied with this position. He wished to
say that mathematical propositions are true. Hence he could
not admit that Euclid’s theorems are deducible from defini-
tions. For Mill held, as we have seen, that definitions are
neither true nor false. He had to maintain, therefore, that
Euclid’s theorems are deduced from postulates, which can
be true or false. And he argued that any Euclidean defi-
nition is only partly a definition. For it also involves a postu-
late. In other words, any Euclidean definition can be analysed
into two propositions, of which one is a postulate or as-
sumption in regard to a matter of fact while the other is a
genuine definition. Thus the definition of a circle can be
analysed into the following two propositions: ‘a figure may
exist, having all the points in the line which bounds it equally
distant from a single point within it’, (and) ‘any figure pos-
sessing this property is called’ a circle’.24 The first proposi-
tion is a postulate; and it is such postulates, not the pure
definitions, which form the premisses for the deduction of
Euclid’s theorems. The gap which Stewart created between
pure and applied mathematics is thus closed. For the propo-
sitions of geometry, for instance, are not derived from
arbitrary definitions but from postulates or assumptions con-
cerning matters of fact.
We can say, therefore, that in geometry ‘our reasonings are
grounded on the matters of fact postulated in definitions, and
not on the definitions themselves’.25 And ‘this conclusion’,
Mills remarks, ‘is one which I have in common with Dr.
Whewell’.26 But though Mill may find himself in agreement
with Whewell when it is a question of attacking Stewart’s
idea that the theorems of Euclidean geometry are deduced
from definitions, agreement immediately ceases when it is a
question of our knowledge of the first principles of mathe-
matics. According to Whewell these first principles are self-
evident, underived from experience and known intuitively.
They constitute examples of a priori knowledge. And this is
a position which Mill is unwilling to accept. He maintains
instead that in mathematics ‘these original premisses, from
which the remaining truths of the science are deduced, are,
notwithstanding all appearances to the contrary, results of
observations and experiences, founded, in short, on the evi-
dence of the senses’.27 We have never come across a case
which would refute a mathematical axiom; and the operation
of the laws of association is quite sufficient to explain our
belief in the necessity of such axioms.
In the general class of ‘original premisses’ Mill makes a
distinction between axioms and the postulates involved in
definitions. Axioms are exactly true. “That things which are
equal to the same thing are equal to one another, is as true
of the lines and figures in nature, as it would be of the
imaginary ones assumed in the definitions.’28 But the pos-
tulates or assumptions involved in the definitions of Eu-
clidean geometry ‘are so far from being necessary, that they
are not even true; they purposely depart, more or less widely,
from the truth’.2® For example, it is not true that a line
as defined by the geometer can exist. But it does not follow
that the geometer intuits some peculiar mathematical entity.
When he defines the line as having length but not breadth,
he is deciding, for his own purposes, to ignore the element
of breadth, to abstract from it, and to consider only length.
Hence both axioms and postulates are derived from expe-
rience,
Obviously, when Mill describes the first principles of
mathematics as generalizations from experience, he is not
suggesting that our knowledge of all mathematical proposi-
tions is in fact the result of inductive generalization. What
he is saying in effect is that the ultimate premisses of mathe-
matical demonstration are empirical hypotheses. He there-
fore finds himself in agreement with Dugald Stewart as
against Whewell. As we have seen, he disagrees with Stew-
art’s derivation of Euclidean geometry from pure definitions;

but this disagreement is played down when it is a question
of noting their substantial agreement about the nature of
mathematics. “The opinion of Dugald Stewart respecting the
foundations of geometry is, I conceive, substantially correct;
that it is built on hypotheses.’8° All that Whewell can show,
when arguing against this opinion, is that the hypotheses are
not arbitrary. But ‘those who say that the premisses of ge-
ometry are hypotheses, are not bound to maintain them to
be hypotheses which have no relation whatever to fact’.31
Having said this, Mill then proceeds to get himself into
an impossible position. An hypothesis, he remarks, is usually
taken to be a postulate or assumption which is not known
to be true but is surmised to be true, because, if it were true,
it would account for certain facts. But the hypotheses of
which he is speaking are not at all of this kind. For, as we
have seen, the postulates involved in the definitions of Eu-
clidean geometry are known not to be literally true. Further,
as much as is true in the hypotheses under discussion ‘is not
hypothetical, but certain’.22 The hypotheses, therefore, ap-
pear to fall into two parts, one part being known not to be
literally true, the other part being certain. And it is thus
rather difficult to see what justification there is for speaking
of ‘hypotheses’ at all. Nor is the situation improved when
Mill says that to call the conclusions of geometry necessary
truths is really to say that they follow correctly from sup-
positions which ‘are not even true’.88 What he means, of
course, is that the necessity of the conclusions consists in the
fact that they follow necessarily from the premisses. But if
we were to take literally the suggestion that necessary truths
are necessary because they follow from untrue assumptions,
we should have to say that Mill was talking nonsense. How-
ever, it would be unfair to understand him in this way.
In his Autobiography Mill makes it clear that the inter-
pretation of mathematics which he regards as his own is the
explanation of so-called necessary truths in terms of ‘experi-
ence and association’.84 Hence it would be going too far if
one suggested that after the publication of the System of
Logic Mill later produced a new interpretation of mathemat-
ics. It may even be going too far if one suggests that he
consciously entertained second thoughts about the interpre-

tation, or interpretations, given in the Logic. But it can
hardly be denied that he made remarks which implied a dif-
ferent conception of mathematics. For example, in his Ex-
amination of Sir William Hamilton’s Philosophy Mill informs
his readers that the laws of number underlie the laws of
extension, that these two sets of laws underlie the laws of
force, and that the laws of force ‘underlie all the other laws
of the material universe’.2> Similarly, in the Address which
he wrote in 1866 for the University of St. Andrews Mill
implies that mathematics gives us the key to Nature, and that
it is not so much that the first principles of mathematics are
formed by inductive generalization from observation of phe-
nomena which might be otherwise than they are as that
phenomena are what they are because of certain mathemati-
cal laws. Obviously, this would not necessarily affect the
thesis that we come to know mathematical truths on a basis
of experience and not a priori. But it would certainly affect
the thesis that the necessity of mathematics is purely hy-
pothetical.
Perhaps the situation can be summed up in this way. Ac-
cording to Mill, for the development of the science of num-
ber or arithmetic no more is required than two fundamental
axioms, namely ‘things which are equal to the same thing
are equal to one another’ and ‘equals added to equals make
equal sums’, ‘together with the definitions of the various
numbers’.8¢ These axioms can hardly be described as em-
pirical hypotheses, unless one resolutely confuses the psycho-
logical question of the way in which we come to recognize
them with the question of their logical status. And though
Mill speaks of them as inductive truths, he also speaks of
their ‘infallible truth’8? being recognized ‘from the dawn of
speculation’.’8 It would thus be quite possible to regard such
axioms as necessarily true by virtue of the meanings of the
verbal symbols used, and to develop a formalist interpreta-
tion of mathematics. But Mill was not prepared to admit
that the fundamental axioms of mathematics are verbal
propositions. Hence, if he was determined, as he was, to un-
dermine the stronghold of the intuitionists, he had to inter-
pret them as inductive generalizations,as empirical hypothe-
ses. And the necessity of mathematical propositions had to

be interpreted simply as a necessity of logical connection
between premisses and the conclusions derived from them.
At the same time Mill was acutely conscious of the success
of applied mathematics in increasing our knowledge of the
world; and he came to make remarks which remind us of
Galileo, not to mention Plato. He thought, no doubt, that
talk about laws of number lying at the basis of the phe-
nomenal world was quite consistent with his interpretation
of the basic principles of mathematics. But though it was
consistent with the psychological statement that our knowl-
edge of mathematical truths actually presupposes experience
of things, it was hardly consistent with the logical statement
that mathematical axioms are empirical hypotheses. And we
have seen how Mill got himself into a difficult position when
he tried to explain in what sense they are hypotheses.
In fine, we can say one of two things. Either we can say
that Mill held an empiricist view of mathematics, but that
he made assertions which were inconsistent with this view.
And this is the traditional way of depicting the situation.
Or we can say with certain writers®® that though Mill seems
to have thought that he was expounding one unified interpre-
tation of mathematics, in actual fact we can discern several
alternative interpretations in his writings, interpretations be-
tween which he continued to hesitate, in practice if not in
theory.
4. Most of the propositions which we believe, Mill re-
marks, are believed not because of any immediate evidence
for their truth but because they are derived from other
propositions, the truth of which we have already assumed,
whether justifiably or not. In short, most of the propositions
which we believe are inferred from other propositions. But
inference can be of two main kinds. On the one hand we can
infer propositions from others which are equally or more gen-
eral. On the other hand we can infer propositions from others
which are less general than the propositions inferred from
them. In the first case we have what is commonly called
deductive inference or ratiocination, while in the second case
we have inductive inference.
Now, according to Mill there is ‘real’ inference only when
a new truth is inferred, that is, a truth which is not already

contained in the premisses. And in this case only induction
can be accounted real inference, inasmuch as ‘the conclusion
or induction embraces more than is contained in the prem-
isses’.40 When the conclusion is precontained in the prem-
isses inference makes no real advance in knowledge. And this
is true of syllogistic inference. For ‘it is universally allowed
that a syllogism is vicious if there be anything more in the
conclusion than was assumed in the premisses. But this is,
in fact, to say that nothing ever was, or can be, proved by
syllogism, which was not known, or assumed to be known,
before.’41
If this were all that Mill had to say on the matter, it would
be natural to conclude that for him there are two distinct
types of logic. On the one hand there is deductive inference,
in which from more general propositions we infer less general
propositions. And as the inference is invalid unless the con-
clusion is precontained in the premisses, no new truth can be
discovered in this way. Syllogistic reasoning can ensure logical
consistency in thought. For example, if someone speaks in
such a way as to show that he is really asserting both that
all X’s are Y and that a particular X is not Y, we can employ
the forms of syllogistic reasoning to make clear to him the
logical inconsistency of his thought. But no new truth is,
or can be, discovered in this way. For to say that all X’s
are Y is to say that every X is Y. On the other hand we have
inductive inference, the inference employed in physical sci-
ence, whereby the mind moves from what is known to a
truth which is unknown before the process of inference es-
tablishes it. In short, on the one hand we have a logic of
consistency, on the other hand a logic of discovery.
In reality, however, the situation is much more compli-
cated than this preliminary account suggests. Consider one
of the arguments mentioned by Mill: ‘All men are mortal;
the Duke of Wellington is a man: therefore the Duke of
Wellington is mortal.’ It is indeed obvious that to concede
the major and minor premisses and deny the conclusion
would involve one in logical inconsistency. But Mill some-
times speaks as though to assume the truth of the major
premiss is to assume the truth of the-conclusion in such a
way that to know the truth of the major is already to know
the truth of the conclusion. And this seems to be question-
able on either of the interpretations of the major premiss
which he puts forward.
We have already seen that according to Mill the proposi-
tion ‘all men are mortal’, when it is considered as what he
calls a portion of speculative truth, means that ‘the attri-
butes of man are always accompanied by the attribute mor-
tality’.42 Mill here fixes his attention on the connotation of
the word ‘man’. And if the proposition ‘all men are mortal’
is interpreted in terms of the connotation of the word ‘man’,
it is natural to say that the proposition concerns universals,
not particulars. Further, if we were to interpret ‘always’ as
meaning ‘necessarily’, there would be no cogent ground for
saying that the man who asserts that the attributes which
make up the connotation of the word ‘man’ are always ac-
companied by the attribute of mortality, must already know
that the Duke of Wellington is mortal. True, the assertion
in question can be said to imply that if there is a being
which can properly be described as the Duke of Wellington
and which also possesses the attributes that make up the
connotation of the word ‘man’, this being also possesses the
attribute of mortality. But the fact remains that the assertion
does not necessarily presuppose any knowledge whatsoever of
the Duke of Wellington.
It may be objected that Mill does not interpret ‘always’ as
‘necessarily’. If he did, this would make ‘all men are mortal’
an essential or verbal proposition. For mortality would then
be one of the attributes which make up the connotation of
the word ‘man’. In point of fact Mill regards ‘all men are
mortal’ as a real proposition. Hence ‘always’ does not mean
‘necessarily’ but ‘so far as all observation goes’. Moreover,
though Mill may sometimes speak in a way which implies or
suggests a realistic theory of universals, it is a notorious fact
that in the course of his discussion of the syllogism he sup-
ports a nominalist theory. In other words, ‘all men’ must be
understood in terms of denotation. It means ‘all particular
men’. And if we know that all particular men are mortal,
we know that any particular man is mortal.
The premisses of this argument are correct. That is to say,
Mill does regard ‘all men are mortal’ as a real and not as a
verbal proposition, and he does take up a nominalist position
in his discussion of the syllogism. But the conclusion of the
argument does not follow from the premisses. For according
to Mill’s nominalist theory ‘all men are mortal’ is a record of
experience of particular facts, that is, of facts such as that
Socrates and Julius Caesar both died. And if the Duke of
Wellington is a living man, his death is obviously not in-
cluded among these particular facts. Hence it cannot be rea-
sonably claimed that to know that all men are mortal pre-
supposes or includes knowledge of the mortality of the Duke
of Wellington. The conclusion that the Duke of Wellington
is mortal is not precontained in the proposition ‘all men are
mortal’, And it seems to follow that inference from ‘all men
are mortal’ to ‘the Duke of Wellington is mortal’ is invalid.
In order to make the inference valid we have to say that
‘all men are mortal’ is not simply a record of past experience
of people dying but also an inductive inference which goes
beyond the empirical evidence and serves as a prediction,
telling us what to expect. Having observed in the past that
the attributes which make up the connotation of the term
‘man’ have in fact been accompanied by mortality, we infer
that the same is to be expected in the future, In other words,
‘all men are mortal’ becomes not so much a premiss from
which the mortality of living and future men is deduced as
a formula for making future inferences, that is, from the
possession of certain other attributes to the attribute of mor-
tality. And this is precisely what Mill says. ‘General proposi-
tions are merely registers of such inferences already made,
and short formulae for making more. The major premiss of
a syllogism, consequently, is a formula of this description:
and the conclusion is not an inference drawn from the for-
mula, but an inference drawn according to the formula.’43
And the rules of syllogistic inferences are rules for the correct
interpretation of the formula. As such, they are useful. And
Mill can enter ‘a protest, as strong as that of Archbishop
Whateley himself, against the doctrine that the syllogistic art
is useless for the purposes of reasoning’.44
But if the major premiss is not a proposition from which
the conclusion is derived but a formula. according to which
the conclusion is drawn, it follows that it is particular ob-
served facts which constitute the real logical antecedent. In
other words ‘all inference is from particulars to particu-
lars’.45 A multitude of particular factual connections be-
tween being a man and being mortal have been observed
in the past. As we cannot carry them all in our heads, we
record them in a compendious memorandum. But the record
is not simply an historical note. It runs beyond the empirical
evidence observed in the past and predicts the future, sery-
ing as a guide to or formula for making inferences. And
though we need not cast our reasoning according to the for-
mula in syllogistic form, we can do so. The rules of syllogistic
inference are a set of rules or precautions for ensuring cor-
rectness and consistency in our interpretation of the formula,
correctness being measured by our purpose in establishing
the formula, namely to simplify the making of future in-
ferences in accordance with our past inferences. Syllogistic
reasoning then becomes the latter half in the total process, as
Mill puts it, of travelling from premisses to conclusions, that
is, from particulars to particulars. In other words, the gap
between deductive and inductive inference is diminished.
But there is more to come. Mill admits that there are cases
in which syllogistic reasoning constitutes the whole process
of reasoning from premisses to conclusion. These cases occur,
for example, in theology and in law, when the major premiss
is derived from the appropriate authority, and not by in-
ductive inference from particular cases. Thus a lawyer may
receive his major premiss, in the form of a general law, from
the legislator and then argue that it applies or does not apply
in some particular case or set of circumstances. But Mill adds
that the lawyer’s process of reasoning is then ‘not a process
of inference, but a process of interpretation’ .4¢
We have already seen, however, that when syllogistic infer-
ence constitutes the second half of a total process of reason-
ing from premisses to conclusion, it is in effect a process of
interpreting a formula, namely the major premiss. And in
this case the sharp distinction between two kinds of logic
collapses. Syllogistic reasoning is simply a process of inter-
pretation. It can stand on its own, so to speak, as may happen
when a theologian takes his major premiss from the authority
of the Scripture or the Church. Or it can form one phase

in a total process of inference from particulars to particulars.
But in neither case is it, taken in itself, an example of infer-
ence, And the rules of the syllogism are rules for the correct
interpretation of a general proposition, not rules of inference,
in the proper sense of the term at least.
5. In view of the fact that Mill represents syllogistic tea-
soning as a process of interpreting a general proposition
which is itself the result of induction, it is not surprising
that he defines inductive inference as ‘the operation of dis-
covering and proving general propositions’.47 At first sight the
definition may indeed appear somewhat strange. For, as we
have seen, all inference is said to be from particulars to par-
ticulars. However, ‘generals are but collections of particulars
definite in kind but indefinite in number’.48
This amounts to saying that to prove a general proposi-
tion is to prove that something is true of a whole class of
particulars. Hence induction can be defined as ‘that operation
of the mind by which we infer that what we know to be true
in a particular case or cases will be true in all cases which
resemble the former in certain assignable respects’.49 Ob-
viously, Mill is not thinking of so-called perfect induction,
in which the general proposition simply records what has
already been observed to be true in regard to every single
member of a class. For induction in this sense does not rep-
resent any advance in knowledge.®° He is thinking of in-
ference which goes beyond the actual data of experience and
argues, for example, from the known truth that some X’s are
Y to the conclusion that anything at any time which possesses
the attributes in virtue of which X’s are considered as mem-
bers of a class will also be found to possess the attribute Y.
The basic presupposition implied by this process of going
beyond the actual empirical data to the enunciation of a
general proposition is, according to Mill, the principle of the
uniformity of Nature, that all phenomena take place accord-
ing to general laws. ‘The proposition that the course of Na-
ture is uniform, is the fundamental principle, or general
axiom, of Induction.’®! And he goes on to say that if induc-
tive inference from particulars to particulars were to be put
in syllogistic form by supplying a major premiss, this same
principle would constitute the ultimate major premiss.
Now, if the principle of the uniformity of Nature is de-
scribed as a fundamental principle or axiom or postulate of
induction, this may tend to suggest that the principle is ex-
plicitly conceived and postulated before any particular scien-
tific inference is made. But this is not at all Mill’s point of
view. He means rather that the uniformity of Nature is the
necessary condition for the validity of scientific inference,
and that in embarking on any particular inference we tacitly
presuppose it, even though we are not consciously aware of
the fact. When, therefore, he says that if an inductive in-
ference were to be cast into syllogistic form, the principle of
the uniformity of Nature would be found to constitute the
ultimate major premiss, he means that the principle is the
‘suppressed’ premiss of induction. And, following his general
doctrine of syllogistic reasoning, he means that it is a tacit
formula or axiom in accordance with which inferences are
made, not a proposition from which the conclusion of the
inference is deduced. True, mention of the syllogism is rather
confusing. For, as we have seen, Mill regards syllogistic rea-
soning as the interpretation of a formula; and this suggests
deliberate interpretation of a consciously conceived and
enunciated formula. But though the principle of the uni-
formity of Nature would obviously have to be explicitly
enunciated if we were actually to cast inference into syllogis-
tic form by supplying the suppressed major premiss, it by no
means follows that all scientific inference involves conscious
awareness of the principle or axiom in accordance with which
it operates.
Mill has no intention, therefore, of suggesting that the
principle of the uniformity of Nature is a self-evident truth
which is known antecedently to the discovery of particular
regularities or uniformities. On the contrary, ‘this great gen-
eralization is itself founded on prior generalizations.? And
so far from being the first induction to be made, it is one of
the last. This may indeed appear at first sight to be incom-
patible with Mill’s view that the uniformity of Nature is the
basic presupposition of scientific inference. But his position
seems to be more or less as follows. Scientific inference
would not be valid unless there was uniformity in Nature.
Hence when we turn to the investigation of Nature and em-
bark on scientific inference, we tacitly presuppose that there
is uniformity in Nature, even though we are unaware of the
fact. The explicit idea of the uniformity of Nature arises
through the discovery of particular uniformities. And the
more we discover such uniformities, the more we tend to
prove the validity of the idea, and thus of the implicit pre-
supposition of all inference.
Now, if the principle of the uniformity of Nature is taken
to mean that the course of Nature is always uniform in the
sense that the future will always repeat or resemble the past,
the principle, as a universal proposition, is patently untrue.
As Mill observes, the weather does not follow a uniform
course in this sense, nor does anyone expect it to do so. But
what is called the uniformity of Nature ‘is itself a complex
fact, compounded of all the separate uniformities which exist
in respect to single phenomena’,®* these separate uniformities
being commonly called laws of Nature. Presumably, there-
fore, to say that scientific inference presupposes the uni-
formity of Nature is simply to say that the scientific in-
vestigation of Nature tacitly presupposes that there are
uniformities in Nature. In other words, the condition of the
validity of scientific inference is that there should be uni-
formities in the context or sphere with which the inference is
concerned. And the progressive discovery of particular uni-
formities constitutes the progressive validation of scientific
inference.
It is often said that Mill attempts to ‘justify’ scientific
inference from the unknown to the known. And so he does in
a sense. But in what sense? He tells us indeed that ‘the real
proof that what is true of John, Peter, etc. is true of all
mankind, can only be, that a different supposition would be
inconsistent with the uniformity which we know to exist in
the course of Nature’.®4 But we do not know in advance that
the course of Nature is uniform. We may assume it, and if
the assumption is partly a rule for making inferences, con-
sistency demands that we should follow it. But consistency
alone can hardly constitute a proof of the assumption. If at
any rate we concentrate our attention on the empiricist as-
pects of Mill’s thought, on his denial of a priori knowledge

and on his view that all inference is from particulars to par-
ticulars, generals being but collections of particulars, it seems
that the only possible justification of inductive generaliza-
tion is partial verification coupled with absence of falsifica-
tion. We cannot observe all possible instances of a law or
asserted uniformity. But if the law is verified in those cases
where we do test it empirically and if we know of no case
in which it is falsified, this appears to be the only sort of
justification of the inductive leap from the known to the un-
known, from the observed to the unobserved, from ‘some’
to ‘all’, which can be provided. And if the uniformity of
Nature is simply the complex of particular uniformities, it
follows that the uniformity of Nature in a general sense tends
to be proved, in the only sense in which it can ever be
proved, in proportion as particular inductive generalizations
are found, through partial verification and absence of falsifi-
cation, to be successful predictions of phenomena.
6. In common parlance, as Mill puts it, the various uni-
formities in Nature are called the laws of Nature. But in
stricter scientific language the laws of Nature are the uni-
formities in Nature when reduced to their simplest expres-
sion, They are ‘the fewest and simplest assumptions, which
being granted, the whole existing order of Nature would re-
sult’,55 or ‘the fewest general propositions from which all the
uniformities which exist in the universe might be deduc-
tively inferred’.5¢ The task of. the scientific study of Nature
is to ascertain what these laws are and what subordinate uni-
formities can be inferred from them, while the task of in-
ductive logic is to determine the principles and rules gov-
erning the arguments by which such knowledge is established.
We can note in passing how Mill shifts his position under
the influence of the actual nature of science. When speak-
ing as an empiricist, he tells us that all inference is from
particulars to particulars, and that general propositions,
reached by inductive generalization, are formulas for making
inferences but not propositions from which conclusions are
deduced. Now he tells us that the scientific study of Nature
involves deducing less general from more general laws. Ob-
viously, it remains true that particulars as such cannot be
deduced from any general proposition. The general proposi-

tion tells us what to expect, and we then have to examine
empirically whether the prediction is confirmed or falsified.
At the same time there seems to be a change of emphasis.
When discussing the syllogism, Mill gives a nominalist ac-
count of the process of inference. When he turns to induc-
tion he tends to adopt a more realist position. He tends to
assume that Nature possesses a stable structure which can
be represented in the edifice of science.
Some laws or uniformities, such as the propositions of ge-
ometry, are unrelated to temporal succession. Others, such
as the propositions of arithmetic, apply both to synchronous
or coexisting and to successive phenomena. Others again are
related only to temporal succession. And the most important
of these is the law of causation. ‘The truth that every fact
which has a beginning has a cause, is coextensive with hu-
man experience.’57 Indeed, recognition of the law of causa-
tion is ‘the main pillar of inductive science’.58 That is to
say, inductive science establishes causal laws, and it presup-
poses that every event happens in accordance with such a
law. Hence in developing a theory of induction it is essential
to define the idea of causality as clearly as possible.
Mill disclaims any intention of concerning himself with
ultimate causes in a metaphysical sense.5® Moreover, as he
intends to determine the idea of causality only in so far as
it can be obtained from experience, he does not propose to
introduce the notion of any mysterious necessary: bond be-
tween cause and effect. Such a notion is not required for a
theory of inductive science. There is no need to go beyond
‘the familiar truth, that invariability of succession is found
by observation to obtain between every fact in nature and
some other fact which has preceded it’.®°
At the same time it is misleading to assert that Mill re-
duces the causal relation to invariable sequence. For this
might be taken to imply that in his view the cause of a given
phenomenon can be identified with any other phenomenon
which is found by experience always to precede it. Rather
does he identify the cause of a given phenomenon with the
totality of antecedents, positive and negative, which are re-
quired for the occurrence of the phenomenon and which are
sufficient for its occurrence. ‘Invariable sequence, therefore,

is not synonymous with causation, unless the sequence, be-
sides being invariable, is unconditional.’61 And the cause of
a phenomenon is, properly speaking, ‘the antecedent, or the
concurrence of antecedents, on which it is invariably and
unconditionally consequent’ .62
Now, Mill says of the law of causation that ‘on the uni-
versality of this truth depends the possibility of reducing the
inductive process to rules’.*3 And he certainly assumes in
practice that every phenomenon has a cause in the sense
explained above. All the phenomena of Nature are the
‘unconditional’ consequences of previous collocations of
causes. And any mind which knew all the causal agents
existing at a given moment, together with their positions and
the laws of their operations, ‘could predict the whole subse-
quent history of the universe, at least unless some new voli-
tion of a power capable of controlling the universe should
supervene’.®5
But how do we know that the law of causation is a univer-
sal truth? Mill is certainly not prepared to say that it is a self-
evident a priori proposition, nor that it is deducible from any
such proposition. Hence he must hold that it is a product
of inductive inference. But what sort of inductive inference?
In ascertaining particular causal laws the method recom-
mended by Mill is that of elimination, as will be seen in the
next section. But the method, or rather methods, of experi-
mental inquiry by the process of elimination presuppose the
truth of the law of causation. Hence it can hardly be itself
established by this process. And this means that we have to
fall back on induction by simple enumeration. That is to say,
we find in ordinary experience that every event has a cause.
And when we come to the scientific study of Nature, we al-
ready believe in and expect to find causal connections.
It can hardly be denied, I think, that Mill is in rather a
difficult position. On the one hand he wishes to say that the
law of causation is a universal and certain truth which vali-
dates scientific inference. And he maintains that induction
by simple enumeration becomes more and more certain in
proportion as the sphere of observation is widened. Hence
‘the most universal class of truths, the law of causation for
g2 BRITISH EMPIRICISM
instance, and the principles of number and of geometry, are

duly and satisfactorily proved by that method alone, nor are
they susceptible of any other proof’.66 The law of causation
‘stands at the head of all observed uniformities, in point of
universality, and therefore (if the preceding observations are
correct) in point of certainty’.67 Again, ‘the law of cause
and effect, being thus certain, is capable of imparting its cer-
tainty to all other inductive propositions which can be de-
duced from it’.68 On the other hand Mill maintains that
induction by simple enumeration is fallible. True, the cer-
tainty of the law of causation is ‘for all practical purposes
complete’.6? At the same time ‘the uniformity in the succes-
sion of events, otherwise called the law of causation, must
be received not as a law of the universe, but of that portion
of it only which is within the range of our means of sure
observation, with a reasonable degree of extension to adjust
cases. To extend it further is to make a supposition without
evidence, and to which, in the absence of any ground of ex-
perience for estimating its degree of probability, it would be
idle to attempt to assign any.’7°
The upshot seems to be more or less this. In ordinary ex-
perience we find that events have causes. And experience, to-
gether with the operation of the laws of the association of
ideas, can explain our undoubting assurance in the universal
validity of the law of causation. And the law can thus fulfil,
in regard to scientific inference, the function which Mill as-
signs to the major premiss in a syllogism. That is to say, it is
at once a record of past experience and a prediction of what
we are to expect. It is a rule or formula for scientific induc-
tion. Moreover, scientific inference always confirms the law
of causation and never falsifies it. If we in fact arrive at a
wrong conclusion and assert that A is the cause of C when
it is not, we eventually find that something else, say B, is
the cause of C, not that C is uncaused.Hence for all practical
purposes the law of causation is certain, and we can safely
tely on it. But from the purely theoretical point of view we
are not entitled to say that it infallibly holds good in regions
of the universe which lie outside all human experience.
If it is objected that Mill clearly wishes to attribute to the
law of causation an absolute certainty which enables it to
constitute the absolutely sure foundation of scientific infer-
ence, the objection can be conceded. ‘That every fact which
begins to exist has a cause . . . may be taken for certain.
The whole of the present facts are the infallible result of all
past facts, and more immediately of all facts which existed
at the moment previous. Here, then, is a great sequence,
which we know to be uniform. If the whole prior state of the
entire universe could again recur, it would again be followed
by the present state.’71 But though Mill may believe in the
universality and infallibility of the law of causation, the
point is that on his premisses he has no adequate justifica-
tion for his belief. And, as we have seen, he finds himself
compelled to recognize this fact.
7. Mill is very far from thinking that empiricism, in the
sense of mere observation, can do much to advance scientific
knowledge. Nor does he think that experimentalism, in the
sense of the making of controlled experiments, constitutes
the whole of scientific method. He is conscious that the func-
tion of hypotheses is ‘one which must be reckoned absolutely
indispensable in science. . . . Without such assumptions,
science could never have attained its present state; they are
necessary steps in the progress to something more certain;
and nearly everything which is now theory was once hypothe-
sis.’72 Nor, of course, does he pass over the role of deduc-
tion. “To the Deductive Method, thus characterized in its
three constituent parts, Induction, Ratiocination and Verifi-
cation, the human mind is indebted for its most conspicuous
triumphs in the investigation of Nature.’78 As attention is
generally concentrated on Mill’s methods of experimental in-
quiry, of which a brief account will shortly be given, it is as
well to recognize from the outset that the experimentalism
which he contrasts with mere empiricism does not involve a
total blindness to the actual nature of scientific method.
A distinction is made by Mill between purely descriptive
and explanatory hypotheses. Take the bare assertion that the
orbits of the planets are ellipses. This merely describes the
movements of the planets without offering any causal expla-
nation. And if the hypothesis is verified, this is the only proof
of its truth which is required. ‘In all these cases, verification
is proof; if the supposition accords with the phenomena there
94 : BRITISH EMPIRICISM
needs no other evidence of it.’*4 But in the case of explana-

tory hypotheses the situation is different. Let us suppose that
from hypothesis X we deduce that if the hypothesis is true,
phenomena a, b and ¢ should occur in certain given circum-
stances. And let us suppose that the prediction is verified.
The verification does not prove the truth of X; for the same
consequences might also be deducible from hypotheses Y
and Z. We are then faced with three possible causes. And in
order to discover the true one we have to eliminate two.
When this has been done, what was originally an hypothesis
becomes a law of Nature.
The implied view of physical science is clearly realistic.
Mill speaks as though we already know that Nature is uni-
form, in the sense that ‘the whole of the present facts are the
infallible result of all past facts’.7> But when we contemplate
Nature, we are not immediately presented with particular
uniformities. And no amount of mere observation will enable
us to resolve general uniformity into particular uniformities.
For ‘the order of Nature, as perceived at a first glance, pre-
sents at every instant a chaos followed by another chaos’.76
In other words, when we look for the cause of a given event,
we are faced with a plurality of prima facie causes or of pos-
sible causes; and observation alone will not enable us to de-
termine the true cause. Nor for the matter of that will purely
mental analysis or reasoning. Reasoning is indeed indispensa-
ble. For in science we have to form hypotheses and deduce
their consequences. But an hypothesis cannot be turned into
a law of Nature unless alternative possibilities are eliminated.
And this requires methods of experimental inquiry. Obvi-
ously, all this presupposes the existence of an objective uni-
formity of Nature, and so of real causal laws waiting to be
discovered. Given the empiricist aspects of Mill’s thought,
we cannot indeed prove the general uniformity of Nature
except a posteriori and progressively, in proportion as we dis-
cover factual causal connections. But this does not alter the
fact that Mill is clearly convinced that there are such con-
nections to be discovered. And this is doubtless why he tends
to speak, as we have seen, as though the general uniformity
of Nature can be known in advance of the scientific discovery
of particular causal laws.
J. S. MILL: LOGIC AND EMPIRICISM © 95
Mill gives four methods of experimental inquiry. The first

two methods are respectively those of agreement and dis-
agreement. The canon or regulating principle of the method
of agreement states that ‘if two or more instances of the
phenomenon under investigation have only one circumstance
in common, the circumstance in which alone all the instances
agree is the cause (or effect) of the given phenomenon’.’7
The canon of the method of disagreement states that if we
consider a case in which the phenomenon under investigation
occurs and a case in which it does not occur, and if we find
that the two cases have all circumstances in common save
one, which is present only in the former case, this one cir-
cumstance is the effect or the cause, or an indispensable part
of the cause, of the phenomenon in question. Both methods
are obviously methods of elimination, the first resting on the
axiom that whatever can be eliminated is not connected by
any causal law with the occurrence of the phenomenon under
investigation, the second on the axiom that whatever cannot
be eliminated is so connected. And Mill combines the two
methods in the joint method of agreement and disagree-
ment.78
The canon of the third experimental method, the method
of residues, is stated as follows. ‘Subduct from any phenome-
non such part as is known by previous inductions to be the
effect of certain antecedents, and the residue of the phenome-
non is the effect of the remaining antecedents.’7® The fourth
method, that of concomitant variations, is especially used in
cases where artificial experiment is not practicable. Its canon
declares that whatever phenomenon varies whenever another
phenomenon varies in a given manner is either a cause of
this phenomenon or its effect or connected with it through
some causal fact. For example, if we find that variations in
the moon’s position are always followed by corresponding
variations in the tides, we are entitled to conclude that the
moon is the cause, total or partial, which determines the
tides, even though we are obviously not able to remove the
moon and see what happens in its absence.
Now, Mill does indeed speak as though his four methods
of experimental inquiry, which he regards as ‘the only pos-
sible modes of experimental inquiry’,8° were methods of dis-
covery. And it has been sometimes objected that they are in
reality only ways of checking the validity of scientific hy-
potheses which have been worked out by other means. But
in justice to Mill it must be added that he insists more on
the status of the methods as methods of proof than on their
function as possible methods of discovery. ‘If discoveries are
ever made by observation and experiment without Deduc-
tion, the four methods are methods of discovery: but even if
they were not methods of discovery, it would not be the less
true that they are the sole methods of Proof; and in that
character even the results of deduction are amenable to
them.’81
Mill recognizes, of course, that experimentation has a lim-
ited field of application. In astronomy we cannot perform
the experiments which we can perform in chemistry. And the
same is more or less true of psychology and sociology. Hence
the method of these sciences, ‘in order to accomplish any-
thing worthy of attainment, must be to a great extent, if
not principally deductive’.82 But his general principle is that
‘observation without experiment (supposing no aid from de-
duction) can ascertain sequences and coexistences, but can-
not prove causation’.88 And the four methods mentioned
above are the methods of proof, the methods of turning an
hypothesis into an assured causal law. Mill is therefore not
prepared to accept the view, which he attributes to Whewell,
that in the absence of empirical falsification we should be
content to let an hypothesis stand until a simpler hypothesis,
equally consistent with the empirical facts, presents itself. In
his opinion absence of falsification is by no means the only
proof of physical laws which is required. And for this reason
he insists on the use of the methods of experimental inquiry,
whenever this is practicable.
Does Mill succeed in justifying inductive inference from
the observed to the unobserved, from the known to the un-
known? If we concentrate attention on his explicit assertion
that all inference is from particulars to particulars, and if we
take it that particulars are all entirely separate entities (that
is, if we concentrate attention on the nominalist elements in
Mill’s thought), a negative answer must be given. Mill might,
of course, have tried to work out a theory of probability. But
in the absence of such a theory he would perhaps have done

best to say that science is justified by its success and requires
no further theoretical justification. At the same time we can
say that he does provide such a justification. But he provides
it only by assuming that throughout Nature there is a struc-
ture of real uniformities which are something more than
purely factual sequences. In other words, he justifies scien-
tific inference by assuming a realist position and forgetting
the implications of nominalism.
8. Hume’s programme of extending the reign of science
from the study of the non-human material world to man
himself, by creating a science of human nature, had found
a partial fulfilment in Méill’s empiricist predecessors. The
associationist psychologists aimed at setting psychology, the
study of man’s mental life, an_a scientific basis. And Ben-
tham thought of himself as developing a science of man’s
moral life and of man in society. As we have seen, J. S. Mill
considered that Bentham’s idea of human natur
and short-sighted. And he was well aware that the science
of human nature had not made an advance comparable to
that made by the physical sciences. Hence for the would-be
creator of a logic of the ‘moral sciences’ it could not be sim-
ply a question of stating in abstract and explicit form a
method or methods of proof which had already been em-
ployed to obtain impressive concrete results. His work must
be necessarily in large measure tentative, a pointing out of a
path to be followed in the future rather than a reflection
on a road already traversed. But in any case it was natural
that Mill should lay emphasis on the need for developing a
logic of the moral sciences. I do not intend to imply that he
was influenced exclusively by his British predecessors. For
French social philosophy was also a stimulative factor. But,
given the general movement of thought, it was natural that a
man who wished to work out a logic of inductive inference
and who was at the same time deeply interested in social.
thought and reform, should include man in society in the
field of his reflections about scientific method.
The sixth book of the System of Logic is entitled ‘On the
Logic of the Moral Sciences’. By the moral_sciences Mill
means those branches of study which deal with man, provided
that they are neither strictly normative in character nor
classifiable as parts of physical science. Th st) condition
excludes practical ethics or_‘morality’, that is, ethics in so
far as it is expressed in the imperatiy d. “The imperative
sad i thechacinistio ofart,asdistinguished from sci-
ence.’84 Thecsecond condition excludes ation—of
consider
statrszof mind masostanas thiey-are ansideped abet dette
mediately by bodily states. Study of the laws governing the
relations between states of mind belongs to psychology as a
moral science; but study of the laws governing sensations
regarded as proximately dependent on physical conditions
belongs to physiology, which is a natural science. Provided
that we bear in mind these qualifications, we can say that
the moral sciences include psychology, ethology or the science
of the formation of character,®® sociology and history, though
the science of history is really part of general sociology, the
science of man in society.
What is needed, in Mill’s opinion, is to rescue the moral
sciences from ‘empiricism’. That is to say, purely empirical
descriptive laws must be turned into explanatory or causal
laws or deduced from such laws. We may, for example, have
observed that in all known cases human beings behave in a
certain way in certain circumstances. We then state in a gen-
eralized form that human beings behave in this way. But
mere observation of a certain number of instances does not
really provide us with any reliable assurance that the em-
pirical Jaw holds universally. Such assurance can be provided
only by ascertaining the cause or causes which determine
human behaviour under given conditions. And it is only by
ascertaining such causal connections that a genuine science
of human nature can be developed. It does not follow, of
course, that we can always ascertain exact laws in practice.
But this at least is the ideal. Thus once more, in the distinc-
tion between empiricism and science we see evidence of
Mill’s firm belief in the existence of objective causal con-
nections waiting to be discovered.
Fan eetmatter ofpsychology asamoralscience is“the
uniformities of succession, the laws, whether ultimate or de-
rivative, according t0 which one mental state succeeds an-
other; is caused by, or at Teast is caused to follow, another’
.8¢
a
These laws are those of the association of ideas, which have

been ascertained, and in Mill’s opinion could only be as-
certained, by the methods of experimental inquiry. Hence
Psychology is ‘altogether, orprincipally, ascience ofobserva-
tion and experiment’.87
When, however, in ethology we turn to the formationof
character, especially national character, there is little room
for experiment. But mere observation is not sufficient to es-
tablish ethology as a science. Hence its method must be ‘al-
together deductive’.88 That is to say, it must presuppose
psychology, and its principles must be deduced from the gen-
eral laws of psychology, while the already accepted empirical
laws relating to the formation of character, individual or na-
tional, must be shown to be derivable from, and hence to
function as verifications of, these principles. Moreover, once
the principles of ethology have been firmly established, the
way will lie open for the development of a corresponding art,
namely that of practical education, which will be able to
make use of the principles with a view to producing desirable
effects or preventing undesirable effects.
Social science, the science of man in society, studies ‘the
actions of collective masses of mankind, and the various phe-
nomena which constitute social life’.8* It includes, of course,
the study ofpolitics.
litics. In social science or sociology, as in
ethology, the making of artificial experiments is impractica-
ble, while mere observation is not sufficient to create a sci-
ence. At the same time the deductive method as practised
in geometry does not provide an appropriate model. Ben-
tham, indeed, endeavoured to deduce a social-political theory
from one principle, namely that men always seek their own
interests. But in point of fact itis not always true that men
are always governed in their actions by selfish interests. Nor,
for that matter, is it universally true that they are governed
by altruistic motives. In general, social phenomena are too
complex and are the results of too many diverse factors for
it to be possible to deduce them from one principle. If he
is seeking a model of method, the sociologist should look not
to geometry but to physical science. For the physical scientist
allows for a variety of causes contributing to the production
of an effect, and so for a variety of laws.
Mill emphasizes the utility in social science of what he

calls the inverse deductive or historical method. In employ-
ing this method the sociologist does not deduce conclusions
a priori from laws and then verify them by observation. He
first obtains the conclusions, as approximate empirical gen-
eralizations, from experience and then connects them ‘with
the principles of human nature by a priori reasonings, which
reasonings are thus a real Verification’.2° This idea was bor-
rowed, as Mill frankly acknowledges, from Auguste Comte.
‘This was an idea entirely new to me when I found it in
Comte: and but for him I might not soon (if ever) have
arrived at it.’1
But while he emphasizes the utility of the inverse deduc-
tive method Mill is not prepared to allow that it is the only
method suitable for employment in sociology. For we can
also make use of the direct deductive method, provided that
we recognize its limitations. For example, if we know that X
is a law of human nature, we can deduce that human beings
will tend to act in a certain manner. But we cannot know
and positively predict that they will act in this way in con-
crete fact. For we cannot know in advance, or at any rate only
rarely, all the other causal agents at work, which may coun-
teract the operation of the cause which we have in mind or
combine with it to produce an effect rather different from
that which would be produced if there were no other causal
agents. However, the direct deductive method undoubtedly
has its own use in predicting tendencies to action. And this
is of value for practical politics. Further, it is especially fitted
for use in a science such as political economy which ‘con-
siders mankind as occupied solely in acquiring and consuming
wealth’.®? Obviously, this is not all that mankind does. But
the point is that the more simplified a view of man we take,
the more scope can we attribute to the direct deductive
method. Conversely, the more complex the situation consid-
ered, the more we have to turn to the inverse deductive
method.
In sociology Mill follows Comte in making a distinction
ri ob
alla
between social statics and dynamics. The former is concerned
with ascertaining and verifying uniformities of coexistence in
society. [hat is to say, it investigates the mutual actions and
J- S. MILL: LOGIC AND EMPIRICISM 101
reactions of contemporaneous social phenomena, abstracting,

as far as possible, from the continuous process of change
which is always, if gradually, modifying the whole complex
of phenomena. Social dynamics, however, studies society con-
sidered as being in a constant state of movement or change,
and it tries to explain the historical sequences of social con-
ditions. But though we can ascertain some general laws of
historical change or progress, we cannot predict the rate of
progress. For one thing, we cannot predict the appearance
of those exceptional individuals who exercise a marked in-
fluence on the course of history.
In this connection Mill refers to Macaulay’s essay on Dry-
den and criticizes the view, there expressed, of the compara-
tive inoperativeness of great historical individuals. We can-
not legitimately assume, for example, that without Socrates,
Plato and Aristotle European philosophy would have devel-
oped as it did, or even that it would have developed at all.
Nor can we justifiably assume that if Newton had not lived
his natural philosophy would have been worked out practi-
cally just as soon by someone else. It is a complete mistake to
suppose that the truth that all human volitions and actions
are caused, entails the conclusion that outstandingly gifted
individuals cannot exercise an exceptional influence.
Obviously, Mill’s conception of social science as involving
the explanation of human behaviour in terms of causal laws
resupposes the predictability in principle of all human voli-
tions and actions. This subject has already been touched on
in connection with Mill’s ethical theory. But he insists that
this predictability is not to be confused with ‘fatalism’
is of no account in determining the cause of events. For the

human will is itself a cause, and a powerful one. Further,
in sociology we have to steer a middle course between think-
ing that no definite causal laws can be ascertained and imag-
ining that it is possible to predict the course of history. Social
laws are hypothetical, and statistically-based generalizations
by their very nature admit of exceptions.
Mill does indeed express his belief that with the progress
of civilization collective agencies tend to predominate more
and more, and that in proportion as this happens prediction
becomes easier. But he is thinking, for example, of the differ-

ence between a society in which much depends on the ca-
prices of an individual, the absolute monarch, and a society
in which the people at large expresses its will through univer-
sal suffrage. In other words, empirical generalizations have a
greater predictive power when we are dealing with men in the
mass than when we are dealing with the individual agent.**
True, one of the main aims of social science is to connect
these empirical generalizations with the laws of human na-
ture. But the situation is too complex for it to be possible
to predict infallibly the course of history, even if, in Mill’s
opinions, changes in human society have made it easier to
approximate to a science of history or of social dynamics.
9. Mill’s whole conception of the sciences, whether physi-
cal or moral, obviously presupposes the existence of the ex-
ternal world. And we can now tum to his discussion of the
grounds of our belief in such a world, a discussion which is
carried on for the most part within the framework of his
criticism of Sir William Hamilton’s philosophy.
Hamilton maintained that in perception we have an im-
mediate knowledge of the ego and the non-ego, of the self
and of something existing which is external to the self. Mill,
however, while readily admitting that we have, as Hume
claimed, a natural belief in the existence of an external
world, endeavours to show how this belief can be psychologi-
cally explained without its being necessary to suppose that
it expresses an original datum of consciousness. He makes
two postulates. The first is that the mind is capable of ex-
pectation, while the second is the validity of the association-
ist psychology. On the basis of these two postulates he argues
that there are associations ‘which, supposing no intuition of
an external world to have existed in consciousness, would in-
evitably generate the belief in a permanent external world,
and would cause it to be regarded as an intuition’.
Let us suppose that I have certain visual and tactual sen-
sations which produce in my mind an association of ideas.
For example, when sitting at the table in my study, I have
those visual sensations which I call seeing the table and the
tactual sensations which I call touching or feeling the table.
And an association is set up such that when I have a visual
sensation of this kind, a tactual sensation is present as a

possibility. Conversely, when I have only a tactual sensation,
as when the room is completely dark, a visual sensation is
there as a possibility. Further, when I leave the room and
later re-enter it, I have similar sensations. Hence an associa-
tion is formed in my mind of such a kind that when I am
out of the room, I am firmly persuaded that, if I were at any
moment to re-enter it, I should or could have similar sensa-
tions. Further, as these possible sensations form a group, and
as moreover the group is found to enter into various causal
relations, I inevitably think of the permanent possibilities of
sensations as an abiding physical object. Actual sensations
are transient and fugitive. But the possibilities of sensation,
associated as a group, remain. Hence we come to distinguish
between sensations and physical objects. But the ground of
our belief in these external objects is the existence of different
mutually associated clusters or groups of possible sensations,
these groups being permanent in comparison with actual
sensations.%6
A further point. We find that the permanent possibilities
of sensation which we think of as physical objects ‘belong
as much to other human or sentient beings as to ourselves’,®7
though they certainly do not experience the same actual sen-
sations as we do. And this puts the final seal to our belief
in a common external world.
Now, Mill’s theory, as so far outlined, might possibly be
taken as being simply a psychological account of the genesis
of a belief. That is to say, it might be understood as being
free from any ontological commitment, as not involving any
statement about the ontological nature of physical objects.
In point of fact, however, Mill proceeds to define matter as
‘a Permanent Possibility of Sensation’,®® bodies being groups
of simultaneous possibilities of sensation. To be sure, he re-
marks that it is a question of defining matter rather than
of denying its existence. But he makes it clearthat he, like
‘all Berkeleians’,®® believes in matter only in
the sense of
this definition, a definition which, he claims,includes the
whole meaning which ordinary people attach to the term,
whatever some philosophers and theologians may have done.
Hence Mill clearly commits himself to an ontological state-

ment.
The definition of matter as a permanent possibility of sen-
sation is, however, ambiguous. For it easily suggests the idea
of a permanent ground of possible sensations, a ground
which is itself unknowable. And if this were what Mill in-
tended to imply, a rift would inevitably be introduced be-
tween the world of science and the underlying physical re-
ality. Scientific truths would relate to phenomena, not to
things-in-themselves. But though he remarks elsewhere that
‘all matter apart from the feelings of sentient beings has but
an hypothetical and unsubstantial existence: it is a mere as-
sumption to account for our sensations’,1°° he makes it clear
that he does not intend to assert the validity of this hy-
pothesis.
Of course, if we interpret Mill on the lines on which Berke-
ley is often interpreted, namely as saying simply that ma-
terial things are simply what we perceive and can perceive
them to be, and that there is no unknowable substratum as
postulated by Locke, the nature of science, as depicted by
Mill, does not appear to be affected. But though it is doubt-
less part of what Mill means, as is shown by his conviction
that in defining matter as he does he is on the side of the
common man, the fact remains that he speaks of material
things as ‘sensations’. Thus he says, for example, that ‘the
brain, just as much as the mental functions, is, like matter
itself, merely a set of human sensations either actual or in-
ferred as possible—namely, those which the anatomist has
when he opens the skull. . . .’101 And from this it appears
to follow that physical science inquires into the relations be-
tween sensations, principally, of course, possible sensations,
but still sensations. Indeed, Mill himself speaks of causal
relations or constant sequences as being found to exist be-
tween sets of possible sensations.
It is understandable that later empiricists have endeav-
oured to avoid this conclusion by forbearing from saying that
material things are sensations or sense-data. Instead they have
contented themselves with claiming that a sentence in which
a physical or material object is mentioned can in principle
be translated into other sentences in which only sense-data
are mentioned, the relation between the original sentence

and the translation being such that if the former is true (or
false), the latter is true (or false), and conversely. The ques-
tion whether this claim has been made good need not detain
us here.1°? The point is that, as far as Mill himself is con-
cerned, he speaks in such a way that the subject-matter of
physical science is human sensations.
This, however, is a very difficult position to maintain. Let
us suppose that sensations are to be understood as subjective
states. This would make great difficulties in regard to Mill’s
account of the genesis of our belief in an external world, as
outlined above. For instance, Mill says that we ‘find’ that
there are possibilities of sensation which are common to
other people as well as to ourselves. But other people will be
for me simply permanent possibilities of sensation. And if
the word ‘sensation’ is understood in terms of a subjective
state, it seems to follow that other people, and indeed every-
thing else, are reduced to my subjective states. As for science,
this would become a study of the relations between my sen-
sations. But is it credible that if an anatomist looks at a
human brain, the object of his examination is simply a set
of his own subjective states, actual and possible? In short,
the logical result of defining physical objects in terms of
sensations, when sensation is understood as a subjective state,
is solipsism. And nobody really believes that solipsism is true.
It may be objected that Mill never intended to say that
science is simply concerned with subjective states in any or-
dinary sense of the term. And the objection is obviously valid.
It is perfectly clear that Mill had no intention of maintaining
that the whole physical world consisted of his, Mill’s, sensa-
tions in a subjective sense. But then we must either reify
sensations, turning them into public physical objects, or we
must assume that to say that a physical object is a permanent
possibility of sensations is to say that a physical object is
that which is capable of causing sensations in a sentient sub-
ject. The first alternative would be a very peculiar thesis,
while the second would tend to reintroduce the concept of
things-in-themselves and the rift between the world of sci-
ence and physical reality to which allusion has already been
made.
The fact of the matter is that after showing, to his own
satisfaction at least, how our belief in the external world can
be explained genetically in terms of the association of ideas,
Mill slides into ontological assertions without really consid-
ering their implications in regard to the nature of physical
science. And it seems clear to the present writer at any rate
that Mill’s empiricist analysis of the physical object is not
really compatible with the realist conception of science which
underlies his doctrine about causal laws.
10. Mill was obviously predisposed by the empiricist tra-
dition to give an analogous analysis of the concept of the
mind. ‘We have no conception of Mind itself, as distin-
guished from its conscious manifestations. We neither know
nor can imagine it, except as represented by the succession
of manifold feelings which metaphysicians call by the name
of States or Modifications of Mind.’1°3 It is quite true, of
course, that we tend to speak of the mind as something per-
manent in comparison with changing mental states. But if
there were no special factor in the situation to be consid-
ered, we could perfectly well define the mind as a permanent
possibility of mental states.
In point of fact, however, the phenomenalistic analysis of
the mind presents special difficulties. For ‘if we speak of the
Mind as a series of feelings, we are obliged to complete the
statement by calling it a series of feelings which is aware of
itself as past and future’.1°¢ And how can the series be aware
of itself as a series? We have no reason to suppose that the
material thing enjoys self-consciousness. But the mind cer-
tainly does.
But though he draws attention to this difficulty and admits
that language suggests the irreducibility of the mind to the
series of mental phenomena, Mill is unwilling to sacrifice
phenomenalism. Hence he is compelled to hold that the
series of feelings, as he puts it, can be aware of itself as a
series, even though he is admittedly unable to explain how
this is possible. ‘I think, by far the wisest thing we can do, is
to accept the inexplicable fact, without any theory of how
it takes place; and when we are obliged to speak of it in
terms which assume a theory, to use them with a reservation
as to their meaning.’1%
In connection with the analysis of the concept of mind

Mill raises the question of solipsism. According to Reid, he
remarks, I have no evidence at all of the existence of other
selves if I am but a series of feelings or a thread of conscious-
ness. My so-called awareness of other selves is simply an
awareness of my own private feelings. But this line of argu-
ment, Mill contends, is ‘one of Reid’s most palpable mis-
takes’.1°6 For one thing, even if I believe that my own mind
is a series of feelings, there is nothing to prevent my con-
ceiving other minds as similar series of feelings. For another
thing, I have inferential evidence of the existence of minds
other than my own, as the following line of reflection shows.
Modifications in the permanent possibility of sensations
which I call my body evoke in me actual sensations and
mental states which form part of the series which I call my
mind. But I am aware of the existence of other permanent
possibilities of sensations which are not related to my mental
life in this way. And at the same time I am aware of actions
and other external signs in these permanent possibilities of
sensation or bodies, which I am warranted in interpreting
as signs or expressions of inner mental states analogous to
my own.
The view that we know the existence of other minds by
inference from overt bodily behaviour is common enough,
The trouble is, however, that Mill has already analysed bod-
ies in terms of sensations. Obviously, he never intended to
say or to imply that another person’s body is simply and
solely a group of my sensations, actual and possible. But he
has at any rate to meet the objection that I am aware of
another person’s body only through my sensations, and that
if the body is defined in terms of sensations, he must admit
either that these sensations are mine or that sensations can
exist on their own or that a body is a ground of possible
sensations. In the first case solipsism is the logical conclusion.
In the second case we are presented with a very peculiar
thesis. In the third case, as has already been noted, the phe-
nomenalistic analysis of the material thing collapses. And as,
on Mill’s own explicit admission, there is a special difficulty
in the phenomenalistic analysis of mind, this is a fortiori sub-
ject to doubt.
Solipsism has proved the haunting spectre of phenomenal-

ism. It is not that phenomenalists have actually embraced
solipsism. For they have done nothing of the kind. The diffi-
culty has been rather that of stating phenomenalism in such
a way that it leads neither to a solipsistic conclusion on the
one hand nor to an implicit abandonment of phenomenalism
on the other. Perhaps the most successful attempt to state
the phenomenalist position has been the modern linguistic
version, to which reference was made in the previous section.
But this can easily appear as an evasion of critical problems.
At the same time, if we once start looking for hidden sub-
strates, we shall find ourselves in other difficulties. And one
can sympathize with the down-to-earth common-sense ap-
proach of some recent devotees of the cult of ordinary lan-
guage. The trouble is, however, that once we have brought
things back to ordinary language, the familiar philosophical
problems tend to start up all over again.
11. Mill, as was mentioned in the sketch of his life, was
brought up by his father without any religious beliefs. But
he did not share James Mill’s marked hostility to religion as
inherently detrimental to morality. Hence he was more open
to considering evidence for the existence of God. Of the
ontological argument in its Cartesian form he remarks that
it ‘is not likely to satisfy anyone in the present day’.1° And
as he regarded the causal relation as being essentially a re-
lation between phenomena, it is not surprising that he
argues with Hume and Kant that ‘the First Cause argument
is in itself of no value for the establishment of Theism’.1°8
But he is prepared to give serious consideration to the argu-
ment from design in Nature, as this is ‘an argument of a re-
ally scientific character, which does not shrink from scientific
tests, but claims to be judged by the established canons of
Induction. The design argument is wholly grounded on ex-
perience.’109 Whether any argument to a metaphenomenal
reality can properly be called a ‘scientific’ argument is open
to question. But Mill’s main point is that even if the argu-
ment from design in Nature concludes with affirming the
existence of a divine being which in itself transcends the
reach of scientific inquiry, it bases itself on empirical facts
in a manner which is easily understood and makes an infer-
ence, the validity of which is open to reasonable discussion.
Paley’s form of the argument will not do. It is true that
if we found a watch on a desert island, we should indeed
infer that it had been left there by a human being. But we
should do so simply because we already know by experience
that watches are made and carried by human beings. We do
not, however, have previous experience of natural objects be-
ing made by God. We argue by analogy. That is to say, we
argue from resemblances between phenomena which we al-
teady know to be products of human design and other phe-
nomena which we then attribute to the productive work of a
supramundane intelligence.
It must be added, however, that the argument from design
in Nature rests on a special resemblance, namely the working
together of various factors to one common end. For instance,
the argument infers the operation of a supramundane intel-
ligence from the arrangement and structure of the various
parts of the visual apparatus which together produce sight.
We cannot indeed exclude all other explanations of such phe-
nomena. Hence the argument cannot lead to a conclusion
which possesses more than some degree of probability. But
the argument is none the less a reasonable inductive infer-
ence. ‘T think it must be allowed that, in the present
state of our knowledge, the adaptations in Nature afford a
large balance of probability in favour of creation by intelli-
gence.’111
In Mill’s opinion, however, we cannot accept the existence
of God as a probable truth and at the same time affirm the
divine omnipotence. For design implies the adaptation of
means to an end, and the need to employ means reveals a
limitation of power. ‘Every indication of Design in the Kos-
mos is so much evidence against the omnipotence of the de-
signer.’112
This does not seem to me a very telling argument. For
though the argument from design, taken by itself, concludes
simply with assertion of the existence of a designer, not a
creator, this does not show that the designer is not the crea-
tor. And it is difficult to see how the mere fact of using
means to an end is any argument against omnipotence. But
Mill’s chief interest lies elsewhere, namely in arguing that
there is an evident incompatibility between asserting at the

same time that God is omnipotent and infinitely good. And
this is a much more impressive line of argument.
Mill’s point is that if God is omnipotent, he can prevent
evil, and that if he does not do so, he cannot be infinitely
good. It is no use saying with Dean Mansel that the term
‘so0d’ is predicated of God analogically and not in the same
sense in which it is used of human beings. For this is really
equivalent to saying that God is not good in any sense which
we can give to the term. In fine, if we wish to maintain that
God is good, we must also say that his power is limited or
finite.
Mill is prepared to admit the reasonableness of believing
that God desires the happiness of man. For this is suggested
by the fact that pleasure seems to result from the normal
functioning of the human organism and pain from some in-
terference with this functioning. At the same time we can
hardly suppose that God created the universe for the sole
purpose of making men happy. Appearances suggest that if
there is an intelligent creator, he has other motives besides
the happiness of mankind, or of sentient beings in general,
and that these other motives, whatever they may be, are of
greater importance to him.
In other words, natural theology does not carry us very
far. It is not indeed unreasonable, at least in the present
state of the evidence, to believe in an intelligent divine being
of limited power. But the proper attitude to adopt is what
Mill calls a rational scepticism, which is more than sheer
agnosticism but less than firm assent.
This might be all very well if those who are really inter-
ested in the question of the existence of God were concerned
simply and solely with finding an explanatory hypothesis. But
it is quite evident that they are not. For a religious person
belief in the existence of God is not quite like belief that the
architect of St. Paul’s Cathedral was Sir Christopher Wren.
And Mill sees this to the limited extent of raising the ques-
tion of the pragmatic value or utility of religion. While rec-
ognizing that much evil has been done in the name of religion
and that some religious beliefs can be detrimental to human
conduct, he is not prepared to subscribe to his father’s view
J- S. MILL: LOGIC AND EMPIRICISM ra
that religion is ‘the greatest enemy of morality’.113 For re-

ligion, like poetry, can supply man with ideals beyond those
which we actually find realized in human life. ‘The value,
therefore, of religion to the individual, both in the past and
present, as a source of personal satisfaction and of elevated
feelings, is not to be disputed.’44 And in Christianity we
find a conception of ideal goodness embodied in the figure
of Christ.
To be sure, some people look on any suggestion that the
pragmatic value of religion provides a reason for believing in
God as an immoral suggestion, a betrayal of our duty to pay
attention simply to the weight of the empirical evidence.
But though this point of view is understandable, Mill does
at any rate see that the function of religion in human history
is something more than the solving of an intellectual puzzle
in terms of an inductive hypothesis.
At the same time Mill raises the question whether the
moral uplift of the higher religions cannot be preserved with-
out belief in a supernatural Being. And as far as the provi-
sion of an ideal object of emotion and desire is concerned,
he suggests that the ‘need is fulfilled by the Religion of
Humanity in as eminent a degree, and in as high a sense, as
by the supernatural religions even in their best manifesta-
tions, and far more so than in any of the others’.115 True,
some religions have the advantage of holding out the prospect
of immortality. But as the conditions of this life improve and
men grow happier and more capable of deriving happiness
from unselfish action, human beings, Mill thinks, ‘will care
less and less for this flattering expectation’.116 However, if
we include in the religion of humanity that belief in the ex-
istence of a God of limited power which natural theology
justifies as a probable truth, it superadds to other induce-
ments for working for the welfare of our fellow men the
conviction that ‘we may be co-operating with the unseen Be-
ing to whom we owe all that is enjoyable in life’.117 Hence
even if the religion of humanity is destined to be the religion
of the future, this does not necessarily exclude belief in God.
Mill is thus in agreement with Auguste Comte that the
so-called religion of humanity is the religion of the future,
though he has no sympathy with Comte’s fantastic proposals
for the organization of this religion. At the same time he

does not rule out belief in a finite God with whom man can
co-operate. And though his idea of religion is clearly not such
as to satisfy Kierkegaard or indeed anyone who understands
religion as involving absolute self-commitment to the per-
sonal Absolute, he does not think, like some empiricists be-
fore him, that religion can be disposed of either by a psycho-
logical account of the way in which religious belief could
have arisen or by drawing attention to the evils which have
been done in the name of religion. Though his empiricist
premisses actually determine his evaluation of the force of
the arguments for God’s existence, he endeavours to keep
an open mind. And though he regarded the evidence as
amounting ‘only to one of the lower degrees of probability’,118
when the Three Essays on Religion were published posthu-
mously in 1874 some surprise was felt in positivist circles at
the extent to which Mill made concessions to theism. He had
travelled at any rate a modest distance beyond the point at
which his father had stopped.
Chapter Four
EMPIRICISTS, AGNOSTICS,
POSITIVISTS
Alexander Bain and the associationist psychology —Bain on

utilitarianism —Henry Sidgwick’s combination of utilitarian-
ism and intuitionism— Charles Darwin and the philosophy of
evolution—T. H. Huxley; evolution, ethics and agnosticism
—Scientifie materialism and agnosticism; John Tyndall and
Leslie Stephen—G. J]. Romanes and religio — Positivism;
n the
Comtist groups, G. H. Lewes, W. K. Clifford, K. Pearson—
B. Kidd; concluding remarks.
1. The associationist psychology was further developed by

Alexander Bain (1818-1903), who occupied the chair of logic
in the University of Aberdeen from 1860 until 1880. He was
of some help to J. S. Mill in the preparation of his System
of Logic, and prepared some of the psychological notes for
Mill’s edition of his father’s Analysis of the Phenomena of
the Human Mind. But though he is sometimes described as
a disciple of Mill, Mill himself remarks that the younger man
did not really stand in need: of any predecessor except the
common precursors of them both.
Bain was primarily interested in developing empirical psy-
chology as a separate science, rather than in employing the
principle of the association of ideas to solve specifically philo-
sophical problems. Further, he was particularly concerned
with correlating psychical processes with their physiological
bases, and in this respect he continued the interests of
Hartley rather than of the two Mills.2 While, however, his
thought remained within the general framework of the asso-
ciationist psychology,? the titles of his chief works, The
Senses and the Intellect (1855) and The Emotions and the
Will (1859), show that he extended his field of study from
sensation and intellectual activity to the emotive and voli-
tional aspects of human nature.* And this shift of emphasis

enabled him to surmount, to some extent at least, the tend-
ency of associationist psychologists to depict man’s mental
life as the result of a purely mechanical process.
‘Bain’s emphasis on human activity shows itself, for ex-
ample, in his account of the genesis of our belief in an ex-
ternal, material world. If we were simply subjects of purely
passive sensations, of sensations or impressions, that is to say,
considered apart from any activity or putting forth of energy
on our part, our waking state of consciousness would resemble
the dream-state. In point of fact, however, ‘in us sensation
is never wholly passive, and in general is much the reverse.
Moreover, the tendency to movement exists before the stimu-
lus of sensation; and movement gives a new character to our
whole percipient existence’.5 Impressions received from with-
out arouse movement, activity, the display of energy or force;
and ‘it is in this exercise of force that we must look for the
peculiar feeling of externality of objects’.6 For instance, in
the case of touch, the sense which is the first to make us
clearly aware of an external world, ‘it is hard contact that
suggests externality; and the reason is that in this contact we
put forth force of our own’.? Reacting to a sensation of touch
by muscular exertion, we have a sense of resistance, ‘a feeling
which is the principal foundation of our notion of external-
ity’.8 In fine, ‘the sense of the external is the consciousness
of particular energies and activities of our own’;® and our
external world, the external world as it is presented to our
minds, can be described as ‘the sum total of all the occasions
for putting forth active energy, or for conceiving this as possi-
ble to be put forth’.1° Bain thus defines the external world,
as it exists for our consciousness,!1 in terms of possible active
responses to sensations rather than, as Mill defined it, of
possible sensations.
It is not surprising, therefore, that-Bain emphasizes the
intimate connection between belief in general and action.
‘Belief has no meaning, except in reference to our actions.’22
Whenever a man, or an animal for the matter of that, per-
forms an action as a means to an end, the action is sustained
by a primitive belief or credulity which can be described ‘as
expectation of some contingent future about to follow on an
EMPIRICISTS, AGNOSTICS, POSITIVISTS 115
action’.18 It is this primitive credulity which leads a sentient

being to repeat its successful experiment, say of running to
a brook to quench its thirst. It does not follow, however,
that the force of belief rises gradually from zero to a state
of full development in proportion to the length and uniform-
ity of experience. For there is a primitive impulse or tend-
ency to belief, which is derived from the natural activity of
the organic system, and the strength of which is propor-
tionate to the strength of the ‘will’. ‘The creature that wills
strongly believes strongly at the origin of its career.’14 What
experience does is to determine the particular forms taken
by a primitive impulse which it does not itself generate. And
the factor which is of most importance in establishing sound
belief is absence of contradiction or factual invariability of
sequence, between, that is, expectation and its fulfilment.
If we assume, therefore, our instinctive responses in action
to pleasure and pain, we can say that experience, with the
inferences which follow on it, is the cardinal factor in stabi-
lizing beliefs. But it is certainly not the only factor which
is influential in shaping particular beliefs. For though feeling
and emotion do not alter the objective facts, they may, and
often do, affect our way of seeing and interpreting the facts.
Evidence and feeling: ‘the nature of the subject, and the
character of the individual mind, determine which is to pre-
dominate; but in this life of ours, neither is the exclusive
master’ .15
If one wished to draw general conclusions about Bain’s
philosophical position, one could draw different conclusions
from different groups of statements. On the one hand the
emphasis which he lays on the physiological correlates of
psychical processes might suggest a materialistic position. On
the other hand a position of subjective idealism is suggested
when he speaks, for example, of ‘the supposed perception
of an external and independent material world’! and adds
that ‘what is here said to be perceived is a convenient fiction,
which by the very nature of the case transcends all possible
experience’.17 In point of fact, however, Bain tries to steer
clear of metaphysics and to devote himself to empirical and
genetic psychology, even if some of his statements have philo-
sophical implications.
Bain’s psychological investigations were continued by
James Sully (1842-1923), who occupied the chair of phi-
losophy at University College, London, from 1892 until 1903.
In his Outlines of Psychology (1884) and in his two-volume
work The Human Mind (1892) he followed Bain in empha-
sizing the physiological correlates of psychical processes and
in employing the principle of the association of ideas. Fur-
ther, he extended his reflections into the field of the theory
of education and applied himself to child-psychology in his
Studies of Childhood (1895).
Already in Bain’s lifetime, however, the associationist psy-
chology was subjected to attack by James Ward and others.
It is doubtless true that the emphasis laid by Bain on the
emotive and volitional aspects of man gave to his thought a
rather more modern tone than one finds in his predecessors.
But it can also be argued that his introduction of fresh ideas
into the old psychology helped to prepare the way for the
lines of thought which supplanted it. Obviously, association
continued to be recognized as a factor in mental life. But
it could no longer be taken as a key to unlock all doors to
the understanding of psychical processes, and the old atomis-
tic associationist psychology had had its day.
2. In the ethical field Bain introduced into utilitarianism
important modifications or supplementary considerations.
These modifications doubtless impaired the simple unity of
the utilitarian ethics. But Bain considered them necessary if
an adequate account was to be given of the moral conscious-
ness as it actually exists, that is, as Bain saw it in himself
and in the members of the society or culture to which he
belonged.
Utilitarianism, Bain remarks, has this great advantage over
the moral sense theory, that it provides an external standard
of morality, substituting ‘a regard to consequences for a mere
unreasoning sentiment, or feeling’.18 It is also opposed to
the theory that all human actions are the result of selfish im-
pulses, a theory which is committed to misinterpreting af-
fection and sympathy, ‘the main foundations of disinterested-
ness’.19 To be sure, these impulses belong to the self. But
it does not follow that they can properly be described as
‘selfish’ impulses. In point of fact selfishness has never been
the sole foundation of men’s ideas of what is right. And it
certainly is not the present sole foundation of men’s moral
convictions. This is recognized by the utilitarians, who con-
nect the notion of utility with that of the common good.
At the same time utilitarianism cannot constitute the
whole truth about morality. For one thing, we must find room
for a distinction between ‘utility made compulsory and what
is left free’.2° After all, there are many actions which are
useful to the community but which are not regarded as ob-
ligatory. For another thing, it is clear that the moral rules
which prevail in most communities are grounded partly on
sentiment, and not only on the idea of utility. Hence, even
though the principle of utility is an essential feature of ethics,
we must add sentiment and also tradition, ‘which is the con-
tinuing influence of some former Utility or Sentiment’.?1
That is to say, we must add them if we wish to give a com-
prehensive account of existing moral practices.
Bain is not concerned, therefore, with working out an a
priori theory of ethics. He is concerned with exhibiting the
empirical foundations of morality as it exists. He approaches
morality very much from the point of view of a psychologist.
And if we bear this approach in mind, we can understand
his genetic treatment of conscience and the feeling of obli-
gation. In contrast to the view of Dugald Stewart that con-
science is ‘a primitive and independent faculty of the mind,
which would be developed in us although we never had any
experience of external authority’,22 Bain holds that ‘con-
science is an imitation within us of the government without
us’.28 In other words, conscience is an interior reflection of
the voices of parents, educators and external authority in
yeneral. And the sense of obligation and duty arises out of
he association established in the infant mind between the
yerformance of actions forbidden by external authority and
the sanctions imposed by this authority.
Now, if we interpret J. S. Mill as offering utilitarianism as
mm adequate description of the existing moral consciousness,
Bain is doubtless right in saying that for an adequate de-
cription other factors have to be taken into account besides
he principle of utility. But if we interpret Mill as recom-
nending a particular system of ethics and as preferring this
system to the moral sense theory on the ground that the
principle of utility provides a criterion of moral conduct
which is lacking in any pure moral sense theory, it is argu-
able that Bain is really more of a positivist than Mill. For
though, as we have seen, he recognizes the advantage which
utilitarianism possesses in having an external standard, he
tends to emphasize the relativity of moral convictions. If
someone asks, what is the moral standard? the proper answer
would be that it is ‘the enactments of the existing society, as
derived from some one clothed in his day with a moral legis-
lative authority’.24 Instead of treating morality as if it were
one indivisible whole, we ought to consider particular codes
and moral rules separately. And then we shall see that behind
the phenomena of conscience and obligation there lies au-
thority. Bain allows for the influence of outstanding indi-
viduals; but the assent of the community at large, whatever
it may be, is required to complete the legislative process. And
once it is completed, the external authority is present which
shapes conscience and the sense of duty in the individual.
Bain would have done well to reflect on his own admission
that outstanding individuals are capable of moulding afresh
the moral outlook of a society. That is to say, he might well
have asked himself whether this admission was really con-
sistent with an ethics of social pressure. Some have con-
cluded that there is a field of objective values into which
different. degrees of insight are possible, while Bergson
thought it necessary to make a distinction between what he
called ‘closed’ and ‘open’ morality. But the problem does
not seem to have troubled Bain, even though the data for
the raising of the problem were present in his account of
morality.
3. A much more radical change in the utilitarian ethics
was made by Henry Sidgwick (1838-1900), Fellow of Trinity
College, Cambridge, who was elected to the chair of moral
philosophy in that university in 1883. His reputation rests
principally on The Methods of Ethics (1874). Other writings
include his Outlines of the History of Ethics for English
Readers (1886) and his posthumously published Lectures
on the Ethics of Green, Sperteer and Martineau (1902).
In Sidgwick’s account of the development of his ethical
views, which was printed in the sixth edition (1901) of
The Methods of Ethics, he remarked that ‘my first adhesion
to a definite Ethical system was to the Utilitarianism of
Mill’.25 But he soon came to see a discrepancy between psy-
chological hedonism, the thesis that every man seeks his own
pleasure, and ethical hedonism, the thesis that every man
ought to seek the general happiness. If psychological hedon-
ism is taken to mean that as a matter of fact every man
seeks exclusively his own pleasure, the thesis is questionable,
or, rather, false. But in any case a purely psychological thesis
cannot establish an ethical thesis. As Hume maintained, we
cannot deduce an ‘ought’ from an ‘is’, an ought-statement
from a purely factual descriptive statement. James Mill may
have tried to show how it is psychologically possible for a
person who by nature pursues his own pleasure or happiness
to act altruistically. But even if his account of the matter
were valid from a psychological point of view, this would not
show that we ought to act altruistically. If, therefore, ethical
or universalistic hedonism is to have a philosophical basis,
we must look elsewhere for it than in psychology.
Sidgwick came to the conclusion that this philosophical
basis could be found only in the intuition of some funda-
mental moral principle or principles. He was thus drawn
away from the utilitarianism of Bentham and J. S. Mill to
intuitionism. But further reflection convinced him that the
principles which were implicit in the morality of common
sense, as distinct from philosophical theories about morality,
were either utilitarian in character or at any rate compatible
with utilitarianism. ‘I was then a Utilitarian again, but on an
Intuitional basis.’26
In Sidgwick’s view, therefore, there are certain moral prin-
ciples which are self-evidently true. Thus it is evident that
one should prefer a future greater good to a present lesser
one.27 This is the principle of prudence. It is also self-
evident that as rational beings we ought to treat others in
the way in which we think that we ought to be treated, un-
less there is some difference ‘which can be stated as a rea-
sonable ground for difference of treatment’.28 This is the
principle of justice. It is also self-evident both that from the
point of view of the Universe the good of any one individual
is of no more importance than the good of any other in-

dividual, and that as a rational being I ought to aim at the
general good, so far as it is attainable by my efforts. From
these two propositions we can deduce the principle of benev-
olence, namely that ‘each one is morally bound to regard the
good of any other individual as much as his own, except in
so far as he judges it to be less, when impartially viewed, or
less certainly knowable or attainable by him’.?®
The principle of prudence or of ‘rational egoism’, as men-
tioned above, implies that a man ought to seek his own good.
And Sidgwick is in fact convinced, with Butler, that this is
a manifest obligation. The principle of rational benevolence,
however, states that we ought to seek for the good of others,
under certain conditions at any rate. If therefore we com-
bine them, we have the command to seek the good of all,
including one’s own, or to seek one’s own good as a con-
stituent part of the general good. For the general good is
made up of individual goods. Now, the general good can be
equated with universal happiness, provided that we do not
understand by happiness simply the pleasures of sense, and
provided that we do not intend to imply that happiness is
always best attained by aiming at it directly. Hence ‘I am
finally led to the conclusion that the Intuitional method
rigorously applied yields as its final result the doctrine of
pure Universalistic Hedonism—which it is convenient to de-
note by the single word, Utilitarianism’ .3°
If we look at Sidgwick’s moral philosophy in the light of
the utilitarian tradition, we naturally tend to focus our at-
tention on his rejection of the claims of genetic psychology
to provide an adequate basis for our moral convictions, es-
pecially of the consciousness of obligation, and on his use of
the idea of intuitively perceived moral axioms, a use which
was encouraged by his reading of Samuel Clarke and other
writers.31 He can be described as an intuitionist utilitarian
or as an utilitarian intuitionist, if such descriptions do not
involve a contradiction in terms. Sidgwick, indeed, main-
tained that there is no real incompatibility between utilitari-
anism and intuitionism. At the same time he was too honest
a thinker to assert that he had given a definitive solution to
the problem of reconciling the claims of interest and duty,
of prudence or rational egoism and of benevolence, a be-

nevolence capable of expressing itself not only in altruistic
conduct but also in complete self-sacrifice in the service of
others or in the pursuit of some ideal end.
If, however, we look at Sidgwick’s moral philosophy in
relation to what was to come later instead of in relation to
what went before, we shall probably lay more stress on his
method. He laid emphasis on the need for examining what
he called the morality of common sense; and he attempted
to discover the principles which are implicit in the ordinary
moral consciousness, to state them precisely and to deter-
mine their mutual relations. His method was analytic. He
selected a problem, considered it from various angles, pro-
posed a solution and raised objections and counter-objections.
He may have tended to lose himself in details and to suspend
final judgment because he was unable to see his way clearly
through all difficulties. To say this, however, is in a sense
to commend his thoroughness and careful honesty. And
though his appeal to self-evident truths may not appear very
convincing, his devotion to the analysis and clarification of
the ordinary moral consciousness puts one in mind of the
later analytic movement in British philosophy.
4. The associationist psychology, the phenomenalism of J.
S. Mill and the utilitarian ethics, all had their roots in the
eighteenth century. Soon after the middle of the nineteenth
century, however, a new idea began to colour the empiricist
current of thought. This was the idea of evolution. We can-
not indeed fix on a certain date and say that after this date
empiricism became a philosophy of evolution. Herbert
Spencer, the great philosopher of evolution in nineteenth-
century England, had started publishing his System of Phi-
losophy before J. S. Mill published his work on Hamilton,
and Bain, who died in the same year as Spencer, continued
the tradition represented by the two Mills. Moreover, it is
less a question of the empiricist movement as a whole coming
under the domination of the idea of evolution than of the
idea becoming prominent in certain representatives of the
movement. We can, however, say that in the second half of
the century the theory of evolution invaded and occupied
not only the relevant parts of the scientific field but also a
considerable part of the field of empiricist philosophy.
The idea of biological evolution was not, of course, an
invention of the middle of the nineteenth century. As a purely
speculative idea it had appeared even in ancient Greece. In
the eighteenth century the way had been prepared for it by
Georges-Louis de Buffon (1707-88), while Jean-Baptiste
Pierre Lamarck (1744-1829) had proposed his theories
that in response to new needs brought about by changes in
the environment changes take place in the organic structure
of animals, some organs falling into disuse and others being
evolved and developed, and that acquired habits are trans-
mitted by heredity. Moreover, when the idea of evolution
was first publicized in Britain, the publicist was a philosopher,
Spencer, rather than a scientist. At the same time this does
not affect the importance of Darwin’s writings in setting the
theory of evolution on its feet and in giving an enormously
powerful impetus to its propagation.
Charles Robert Darwin (1809-82) was a naturalist, not a
philosopher. During his famous voyage on the ‘Beagle’
(1831-6), observation of variations between differently situ-
ated animals of the same species and reflection on the dif-
ferences between living and fossilized animals led him to
question the theory of the fixity of species. In 1838 study
of Malthus’s Essay on the Principle of Population helped
to lead him to the conclusions that in the struggle for exist-
ence favourable variations tend to be preserved and un-
favourable variations to be destroyed, and that the result of
this process is the formation of new species, acquired char-
acteristics being transmitted by heredity.
Similar conclusions were reached independently by another
naturalist, Alfred Russel Wallace (1823-1913), who, like
Darwin, was influenced by a reading of Malthus in arriving
at the idea of the survival of the fittest in the struggle for
existence. And on July ist, 1858, a joint communication by
Wallace and Darwin was presented at a meeting of the Lin-
nean Society in London. Wallace’s contribution was a paper
On the Tendency of Varieties to Depart Indefinitely from
the Original Type, while Darwin contributed an abridgment
of his own ideas.
Darwin’s famous work on the Origin of Species by Means

of Natural Selection, or The Preservation of Favoured Races
in the Struggle for Life was published in November 1859,
all copies being sold out on the day of publication. This was
followed in 1868 by The Variation of Animals and Plants
under Domestication. And the year 1871 saw the publication
of The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex.
Darwin published a number of further works, but he is
chiefly known for The Origin of Species and The Descent
of Man.
Being a naturalist, Darwin was sparing of philosophical
speculation and devoted himself primarily to working out a
theory of evolution based on the available empirical evidence.
He did indeed interpret morality as evolving out of the
purposiveness of animal instinct and as developing through
changes in social standards which confer survival value on
societies. And he was obviously well aware of the flutter in
theological dovecotes which was caused by his theory of evolu-
tion, particularly in its application to man. In 1870 he wrote
that while he could not look on the universe as the product
of blind chance, he could see no evidence of design, still less
of beneficent design, when he came to consider the details
of natural history. And though he was originally a Christian,
he arrived in the course of time at an agnostic suspension
of judgment. He tended, however, to avoid personal involve-
ment in theological controversy.
Unless perhaps we happen to live in one of the few sur-
viving pockets of fundamentalism, it is difficult for us now to
appreciate the ferment which was caused in the last century
by the hypothesis of organic evolution, particularly in its
application to man. For one thing, the idea of evolution is
now common coin and is taken for granted by very many
people who would be quite unable either to mention or to
weigh the evidence adduced in its favour. For another thing,
the hypothesis is no longer an occasion for bitter theologi-
cal controversy. Even those who question the sufficiency of
the evidence to prove the evolution of the human body from
some other species commonly recognize that the first chapters
of Genesis were not intended to solve scientific problems, and
that the matter is one which has to be settled according to
the available empirical evidence. Again, if we except the

Marxists, who ate in any case committed to materialism,
reflective unbelievers do not generally maintain that the hy-
pothesis of organic evolution, taken by itself, disproves Chris-
tian theism or is incompatible with religious belief. After
all, the presence of evil and suffering in the world, which
constitutes one of the main objections to Christian theism,
remains an indubitable fact whether the hypothesis is ac-
cepted or rejected. Further, we have seen philosophers such
as Bergson developing a spiritualistic philosophy within the
framework of the general idea of creative evolution, and,
more recently, a scientist such as Teilhard de Chardin mak-
ing an enthusiastic use of the same idea in the service of a
religious world-view. Hence the controversies of the last cen-
tury naturally seem to many people to have accumulated a
great deal of dust and cobwebs in the interval.
We have to remember, however, that in the middle of
the last century the idea of the evolution of species, espe-
cially as applied to man himself, was for the general educated
public a complete novelty. Moreover, the impression was
commonly given, not only by exponents of the idea but also
by some of its critics, that the Darwinian theory rendered
superfluous or, rather, positively excluded any teleological
interpretation of the cosmic process. For example, T. H. Hux-
ley wrote as follows. “That which struck the present writer
most forcibly on his first perusal of the Origin of Species
was the conviction that Teleology, as commonly understood,
had received its deathblow at Mr. Darwin’s hands.’82 Those
species survive which are the best fitted for the struggle for
existence; but the variations which make them the best fitted
are fortuitous.
Our concern here is with the impact of the theory of evolu-
tion on philosophy rather than with the theological contro-
versies to which it gave rise. Herbert Spencer, the foremost
philosopher of evolution in the nineteenth century, merits a
chapter to himself. Meanwhile we can consider briefly two or
three writers who contributed to publicizing the idea of evolu-
tion and to developing some philosophical theories based
on or connected with this idea. It is to be noted, however,
that they were scientists who made excursions into philos-
ophy, rather than professional philosophers. Generally speak-
ing, the academic or university philosophers held aloof from
the topic and maintained a reserved attitude. As for Spencer,
he never occupied an academic post.
5. The name which immediately suggests itself in this
context is that of Thomas Henry Huxley (1825-95). As a
naval surgeon aboard the ‘Rattlesnake’ Huxley had opportu-
nity for studying the marine life of the tropical seas, and as a
result of his researches he was elected a Fellow of the Royal
Society in 1851. In 1854 he was appointed lecturer in natural
history at the School of Mines. In the course of time he
became more and more involved in public life, serving on
some ten royal commissions and taking an active part in edu-
cational organization. From 1883 to 1885 he was president
of the Royal Society.
In Huxley’s opinion Darwin had placed the theory of evo-
lution on a sound footing by following a method in accord-
ance with the rules of procedure laid down by J. S. Mill.
‘He has endeavoured to determine great facts inductively,
by observation and experiment; he has then reasoned from
the data thus furnished; and lastly, he has tested the valid-
ity of his ratiocination by comparing his deductions with the
observed facts of Nature.’83 It is true that the origin of
species by natural selection has not been proved with cer-
tainty. The theory remains an hypothesis which enjoys only
a high degree of probability. But it is ‘the only extant hy-
pothesis which is worth anything in a scientific point of
view’.34 And it is a marked improvement on Lamarck’s
theory.?®
But though Huxley accepted the view that organic evolu-
tion proceeds by natural selection or the survival of the fittest
in the struggle for existence, he made a sharp distinction
between the evolutionary process and man’s moral life. Those
who expound an ethics of evolution, according to which
man’s moral life is a continuation of the evolutionary
process, are probably right in maintaining that what we call
the moral sentiments have evolved like other natural phenom-
ena. But they forget that the immoral sentiments are also
the result of evolution. ‘The thief and the murderer follow
nature just as much as the philanthropist.’%¢
In fine, morality involves going against the evolutionary

process. In the struggle for existence the strongest and most
self-assertive tend to trample down the weaker, whereas
‘social progress means a checking of the cosmic process at
every step and the substitution for it of another, which may
be called the ethical process’.37 Originally, human society
was probably just as much a product of organic necessity
as the societies of bees and ants. But in the case of man
social progress involves strengthening the bonds of mutual
sympathy, consideration and benevolence, and self-imposed
restrictions on anti-social tendencies. True, in so far as this
process renders a society more fitted for survival in relation
to Nature or to other societies, it is in harmony with the
cosmic progress. But in so far as law and moral rules restrict
the struggle for existence between members of a given society,
the ethical process is plainly at variance with the cosmic
process. For it aims at producing quite different qualities.
Hence we can say that ‘the ethical progress of society de-
pends, not on imitating the cosmic process, still less in run-
ning away from it, but in combating it’.88
There is thus a marked difference between the views of
T. H. Huxley and his grandson, Sir Julian Huxley, on the re-
lation between evolution and ethics. I do not mean to imply,
of course, that Sir Julian Huxley rejects the moral qualities
and ideals which his grandfather considered desirable. The
point is that whereas Sir Julian Huxley emphasizes the ele-
ment of continuity between the general movement of evolu-
tion and moral progress, T. H. Huxley emphasized the ele-
ment of discontinuity, maintaining that ‘the cosmic process
has no sort of relation to moral ends’.8® T,. H. Huxley might,
of course, have called for a new type of ethics, involving a
Nietzschean exaltation of Nature’s strong men, which could
have been interpreted as a continuation of what he called
the cosmic process. But he did not aim at any such transvalu-
ation of values. Rather did he accept the values of sympathy,
benevolence, consideration for others, and so on; and in the
cosmic process he found no respect for such values.
Though, however, man’s moral life formed for Huxley a
world of its own within the world of Nature, it does not
follow that he looked on man as possessing a spiritual soul
which cannot be accounted for in terms of evolution. He

maintained that ‘consciousness is a function of the brain’.4°
That is to say, consciousness is an epiphenomenon which
arises when matter has developed a special form of organiza-
tion. And this theory, together with his defence of determin-
ism, led to his being described as a materialist.
Huxley, however, stoutly denied the applicability to him-
self of this description. One reason which he gave for this
denial is perhaps not very impressive, because it involved a
very narrow interpretation of materialism. Materialism, ac-
cording to Huxley, maintains that there is nothing in the
universe but matter and force, whereas the theory of the
epiphenomenal nature of consciousness neither denies the
reality of consciousness nor identifies it with the physical
processes on which it depends.4! But Huxley went on to
remark, with a rather charming unexpectedness, that ‘the
arguments used by Descartes and Berkeley to show that our
certain knowledge does not extend beyond our states of con-
sciousness, appear to me to be as impregnable now as they
did when I first became acquainted with them some half-
century ago. . . . Our one certainty is the existence of the
mental world, and that of Kraft und Stoff falls into the rank
of, at best, a highly probable hypothesis.’42 Further, if ma-
terial things are resolved into centres of force, one might
just as well speak of immaterialism as of materialism.
It is not perhaps very easy to understand how the doc-
trine that we can never really know anything with certainty
but our states of consciousness can be harmonized with the
doctrine that consciousness is a function of the brain. But
the first doctrine enables Huxley to say that ‘if I were forced
to choose between Materialism and Idealism, I should elect
for the latter’.48
It must be added, however, that Huxley has no intention
of letting himself be forced to choose between materialism
and idealism. And the same applies to the issue between
atheism and theism. Huxley proclaims himself an agnostic,
and in his work on David Hume he expresses agreement with
the Scottish philosopher’s suspension of judgment about
metaphysical problems. We have our scientific knowledge,
and ‘the man of science has learned to believe in justification,
not by faith, but by verification’.44 In regard to that which

lies beyond the scope of verification we must remain agnostic,
suspending judgment.
As one might expect in the case of a naturalist who makes
excursions into philosophy, Huxley’s philosophical theories
are not well worked out. Nor is their mutual consistency
clearly exhibited, to put it mildly. At the same time they
manifest the not uncommon English attitude which shows
itself in a dislike of extremes and a reluctance to submit to
the imposition of restrictive labels. Huxley was quite pre-
pared to defend evolution against attack, as he did in his
famous encounter with Bishop Samuel Wilberforce in 1860.
And he was prepared to criticize orthodox theology. But
though he clearly did not believe in the Christian doctrine of
God, he refused to commit himself either to atheism or to
materialism. Behind the veil of phenomena lies the unknow-
able. And in regard to the unknowable agnosticism is, by
definition, the appropriate attitude.
6. (i) The label ‘materialist’, repudiated by Huxley, was
accepted by John Tyndall (1820-93), who in 1853 was ap-
pointed professor of natural philosophy in the Royal Institu-
tion, where he was a colleague of Faraday.*® Tyndall was
chiefly concerned with inorganic physics, particularly with
the subject of radiant heat; and he was much less inclined
than Huxley to make prolonged excursions into the field of
philosophy. But he did not hesitate to profess openly what
he called ‘scientific materialism’.
The scientific materialism accepted by Tyndall was not,
however, the same thing as the materialism which was tre-
jected by Huxley. For it meant in large part the hypothesis
that every state of consciousness is correlated with a physical
process in the brain. Thus in his address to the British As-
sociation in 1868 on the Scope and Limit of Scientific Ma-
terialism Tyndall explained that ‘in affirming that the growth
of the body is mechanical, and that thought, as exercised by
us, has its correlative in the physics of the brain, I think that
the position of the “Materialist” is stated, as far as that posi-
tion is a tenable one’.4¢ In other words, the materialist as-
serts that two sets of phenomena, mental processes and
physical processes in the brain, are associated, though he is
‘in absolute ignorance’4? of the real bond of union between

them. Indeed, in his so-called Belfast Address, delivered be-
fore the British Association in 1874, Tyndall asserted roundly
that ‘man the object is separated by an impassible gulf from
man the subject. There is no motor energy in the human
intellect to carry it, without logical rupture, from the one to
the other.’48
Tyndall did indeed understand scientific materialism as
involving ‘a provisional assent’4® to the hypothesis that the
mind and all its phenomena ‘were once latent in a fiery
cloud’5® and that they are ‘a result of the play between or-
ganism and environment through cosmic ranges of time’.>!
But the conclusion which he drew from the theory of evolu-
tion was that matter could not properly be looked on as mere
‘brute’ matter. It had to be regarded as potentially contain-
ing within itself life and mental phenomena. In other words,
scientific materialism demanded a revision of the concept of
matter as something essentially dead and opposed to biologi-
cal and mental life.
Beyond the phenomena of matter and force, which form
the object of scientific inquiry, ‘the real mystery of the uni-
verse lies unsolved, and, as far as we are concerned, is in-
capable of solution’.52 But this acknowledgment of mystery
in the universe was not intended by Tyndall as a support
for belief in God as conceived by Christians. In his Apology
for the Belfast Address (1874), he spoke of the idea of
creative activity by ‘a Being standing outside the nebula’®$
not only as based on no empirical evidence but also as ‘op-
posed to the very spirit of science’.54 Further, when an-
swering a Catholic critic he remarked, in the same Apology,
that he would not disavow the charge of atheism, as far as
any concept of the Supreme Being was concerned which his
critics would be likely to accept.
Tyndall’s scientific materialism was not confined, there-
fore, to a methodological point of view presupposed by sci-
entific inquiry. He was not simply saying, for example, that
the scientific psychologist should pursue his inquiries into the
relation between mind and body on the assumption that we
shall find a correlation between any given mental phenome-
non and a physical process. He was saying that as far as
knowledge is concerned, science is omnicompetent. Problems

which cannot be answered by science are unanswerable in
principle. Religion, for example, is immune from disproof
as long as it is regarded simply as a subjective experience.®®
But if it is regarded as claiming to extend our knowledge,
its claim is bogus. In a general sense of the term, therefore,
Tyndall was a positivist. By admitting a sphere for agnosti-
cism, mysteries or enigmas, that is to say, which cannot be
solved, he stopped short of the position to be adopted later
by the neopositivists or logical positivists. But this does not
alter the fact that scientific materialism involved for him a
positivist view of the omnicompetence of science in the field
of knowledge.
(ii) The view that agnosticism is the only attitude which
is really in harmony with the genuinely scientific spirit was
also maintained by Sir Leslie Stephen (1832-1904), author
of a two-volume History of English Thought in the Eight-
eenth Century (1876) and of a three-volume work on The
English Utilitarians (1900). At first a clergyman, he came
successively under the influence of J. S. Mill, Darwin and
Spencer, and in 1875 he finally abandoned his clerical status.
In a discussion of the nature of materialism Stephen main-
tains that it ‘represents the point of view of the physical
inquirer. A man is a materialist for the time being so long
as he has only to do with that which may be touched, han-
dled, seen or otherwise perceived through the senses’.5¢ In
other words, scientific inquiry demands a methodical ma-
terialism. It does not demand acceptance of the doctrine
that matter is the ultimate reality.
It by no means follows, however, that we are entitled to
assert spiritualism, the doctrine that mind is the ultimate
reality. The truth of the matter is that ‘we cannot get be-
hind the curtain, which is reality’.57 If we try to do so, we
are at once plunged into ‘the transcendental region of an-
tinomies and cobwebs of the brain’.58 The unknowable
which lies beyond ‘reality’ is ‘a mere blank’:5 it is not itself
converted into a reality by being spelt with a capital letter.
‘The ancient secret is a secret still; man knows nothing of
the Infinite and Absolute.’6°
One would have thought that if the phenomenal world
is once equated with ‘reality’, there is no good reason for

supposing that there is any unknowable beyond it. What is
the reason for supposing that there is a secret which always
remains a secret? Conversely, if there is good reason for sup-
posing that there is an unknowable Absolute, there is no
good reason for equating the phenomenal world with reality.
But Stephen’s agnosticism represents less a carefully thought
out position than a general attitude. Science alone provides
us with definite knowledge. Science knows nothing of any
meta-empirical Absolute. But we feel that even if all scien-
tific problems were answered, the universe would still be
mysterious, enigmatic. The enigma, however, is insoluble.
Needless to say, scientific materialism and agnosticism were
by no means regarded as entailing the rejection of moral
values. Tyndall insisted that moral values are independent of
religious creeds, and that scientific materialism must not be
understood as involving or implying a belittlement of man’s
highest ideals. As for Sir Leslie Stephen, in his work The
Science of Ethics (1882) he tried to continue and develop
Spencer’s attempt to ground morals on evolution. Abstractly
considered, the function of morality is to further the health
and vitality of the social organism. Historically considered,
moral principles undergo a process of natural selection, and
those which are most effective in furthering the good of the
social organism prevail over the less effective. That is to say,
they are approved by the society in question. Thus even
morality is brought under the law of the survival of the
fittest. Obviously, Stephen’s point of view was different from
that of T. H. Huxley.
7. Agnosticism was not, of course, the only attitude adopted
by those who embraced the theory of evolution. Henry Drum-
mond (1851-97), for example, a writer whose books once
enjoyed great popularity, tried to bring together science and
religion, Darwinism and Christianity, in terms of the opera-
tion of one law of continuing evolution. More interesting,
however, is the case of George John Romanes (1848-94),
biologist and author of a number of works on evolution, who
passed from early religious belief to agnosticism and from
agnosticism by way of pantheism back in the direction of
Christian theism.
The agnostic phase in Romanes’s thought found expression

in A Candid Examination of Theism, which he published in
1878 under the pseudonym of Physicus. There is, he main-
tained, no real evidence for the existence of God, though it
may possibly be true, for all we know, that there would be no
universe unless there were a God. Some years later, how-
ever, in a lecture entitled Mind, Motion and Monism
(1885), Romanes proposed a form of pantheism, while his
adoption of a more sympathetic attitude towards Christian
theism was represented by Thoughts on Religion (1895),
edited by Charles Gore, later Bishop of Oxford. This work
comprises some articles which Romanes wrote for the Nine-
teenth Century but did not publish, together with notes for
a second Candid Examination of Theism which was to
have been signed Metaphysicus.
In the articles on the influence of science on religion, which
form part of Thoughts on Religion, Romanes argues that this
influence has been destructive in the sense that it has pro-
gressively revealed the invalidity of appeals to direct inter-
vention in Nature or to alleged evidence of special cases of
design. At the same time science necessarily presupposes the
idea of Nature as a system, as exemplifying universal order;
and theism provides a reasonable explanation of this univer-
sal order. If, however, we wish to speak of the postulated
creator of universal order as a divine Mind, we must re-
member that none of the qualities which characterize the
minds with which we are acquainted can be properly at-
tributed to God. Hence ‘the word Mind, as applied to the
supposed agency, stands for a blank’.¢1 In this sense, there-
fore, the argument for theism leads to agnosticism.
In his notes for the proposed second version of his Candid
Examination of Theism Romanes adopts a somewhat dif-
ferent point of view by arguing that the advance of science,
‘far from having weakened religion, has immeasurably
strengthened it. For it has proved the uniformity of natural
causation’.62 But the question whether one is to look on the
universal causal order as a continuing expression of the divine
will or simply as a natural fact, is not one which can be
settled by the human understanding alone. Science provides
an empirical basis, as it were, for a religious vision of the
world, but the transition to this vision requires an act of

faith. True, ‘no one is entitled to deny the possibility of
what may be termed an organ of spiritual discernment’,®
manifested in the religious consciousness; and ‘reason itself
tells me it is not unreasonable to expect that the heart and
will should be required to join with reason in seeking God’.64
The way to become a Christian is to act as one, ‘and if Chris-
tianity be true, the verification will come, not indeed im-
mediately through any course of speculative reason, but im-
mediately by spiritual intuition’.66 At the same time faith,
definite self-commitment to a religious view of the world,
demands ‘a severe effort of the will’,8* an effort which
Romanes himself is not prepared to make.
It is thus a mistake to say that Romanes came to commit
himself definitely to a theistic position. In a sense he not only
begins but also ends with agnosticism. At the same time
there is a considerable difference between the initial and the
terminal agnosticism. For whereas in one period of his life
Romanes was evidently convinced that his scientific con-
science demanded of him an agnostic position, in later years
he came to insist that the religious view of the world may be
justified, though it would be justified by something of the
nature of spiritual intuition. The agnostic has no right to
tule out this possibility or to say that the venture of faith is
a fool’s venture. For the experiment of faith may well have
its own peculiar mode of verification, about which science
cannot pronounce judgment.In other words, Romanes was
neither satisfied with agnosticism nor fully prepared to reject
it. He developed a sympathy with religious belief which
Tyndall did not share. But he did not feel able to commit
himself to it by that effort of the will which he considered
necessary before the internal validation of the religious con-
sciousness could manifest itself.
8. (i) As we have seen, J. S. Mill admired Auguste Comte
and was prepared to talk in a general way about the religion
of humanity. But he had no use for Comte’s proposals for
organizing a cult for the new religion or for his dreams of a
spiritual and intellectual domination to be exercised by the
positivist philosophers. Again, Spencer, who also derived
stimulus from Comte, adopted a critical attitude towards
some of the Frenchman’s theories,®7? while T. H. Huxley

described the philosophy of Comte as Catholicism minus
Christianity. For real disciples of Comte we have to turn to
Richard Congreve (1818-99), Fellow of Wadham College,
Oxford, who translated Comte’s positivist catechism into
English and to his circle. This included John Henry Bridges
(1832-1906), Frederic Harrison (1831-1923) and Edward
Spencer Beesley (1831-1915).
The London Positivist Society was founded in 1867, and in
1870 it opened a positivist temple in Chapel Street. But after
some years a split occurred in the ranks of the Comtists, and
those who accepted the leadership of Pierre Lafitte (1823-
1903), friend and successor of Comte as high priest of
positivism, formed the London Positivist Committee which
opened a centre of its own in 1881. Bridges was the first
president of the new Committee (1878-80), and he was
succeeded by Harrison. The original group was led by Con-
greve. In 1916 the two groups were reunited.§8
(ii) The independent thinkers are obviously of more in-
terest than those who were primarily engaged in spreading
the pure word of Comtism. One of these independent think-
ers was George Henry Lewes (1817-78), author of the once
popular but long superseded two-volume Biographical His-
tory of Philosophy (1845-6). In his earlier years Lewes was
an enthusiastic follower of Comte, and in 1853 he published
Comte’s Philosophy of the Positive Sciences. But though he
remained a positivist in the sense of holding that philosophy
consists in the widest generalizations from the results of the
particular sciences and should abstain from any treatment
of the meta-empirical, he moved away from Comte and came
more under the influence of Spencer. In 1874-9 he published
five volumes of Problems of Life and Mind.
Lewes made a distinction between the phenomenon which
is understandable simply in terms of its constituent factors
and the phenomenon which emerges from its constituent
factors as something new, a novelty. The former he called a
‘resultant’, the latter an ‘emergent’. The idea of this distinc-
tion was not Lewes’s invention, but he appears to have coined
the term ‘emergent’, which was later to play a conspicuous
role in the philosophy of evolution.
(iii) A more interesting figure was William Kingdon Clif-
ford (1845-79), who from 1871 was professor of applied
mathematics in University College, London. An eminent
mathematician, he was also extremely interested in philo-
sophical topics. And he was a fervent preacher of the religion
of humanity.
Clifford’s best known philosophical idea is probably that
of ‘mind-stuff’, which he proposed as a means of solving the
problem of the relation between the psychical and the physi-
cal and of avoiding the necessity of postulating the emergence
of mind from a completely heterogeneous matter. Like other
defenders of the ancient theory of panpsychism, Clifford did
not mean to imply that all matter enjoys consciousness, His
thesis was that the relation between the psychical and the
physical is comparable to that between a read sentence and
the same sentence as written or printed. There is a complete
correspondence, and every atom, for example, has a psychi-
cal aspect. Emergence is not indeed excluded. For conscious-
Ness arises when a certain organization of mind-stuff has de-
veloped. But any leap from the physical to the psychical,
which might seem to imply the causal activity of a creative
agent, is avoided.®®
In the field of ethics Clifford emphasized the idea of the
tribal self. The individual has indeed his egoistic impulses
and desires. But the concept of the human atom, the com-
pletely solitary and self-contained individual, is an abstrac-
tion. In actual fact every individual is by nature, in virtue of
the tribal self, a member of the social organism, the tribe.
And moral progress consists in subordinating the egoistic im-
pulses to the interests or good of the tribe, to that which,
in Darwinian language, makes the tribe most fit for survival.
Conscience is the voice of the tribal self; and the ethical
ideal is to become a public-spirited and efficient citizen. In
other words, morality as described by Clifford corresponds
pretty well to what Bergson was later to call ‘closed morality’.
On the subject of religion Clifford was something of a
fanatic. Not only did he speak of the clergy as enemies of
humanity, and of Christianity as a plague, but he also at-
tacked all belief in God. He was thus more akin to some of
the writers of the French Enlightenment than to the
nineteenth-century English agnostics, who were generally po-
lite in what they said about religion and its official repre-
sentatives. And he has been compared not inaptly with Nietz-
sche. At the same time he proclaimed a substitute religion,
that of humanity, though he looked to the progress of science
to establish the kingdom of man rather than to any organiza-
tion on the lines proposed by Comte. Clifford did indeed
speak of the ‘cosmic emotion’ which man can feel for the
universe; but it was not his intention to replace theism by
pantheism. He was concerned rather with substituting man
for God, as he thought that belief in God was inimical to
human progress and morality.
(iv) Clifford’s successor in his chair of applied mathematics
was Karl Pearson (1857-1936), who was later (1911-33)
Galton professor of eugenics in the University of London.”
In Pearson’s writings we find a clear exposition of the positiv-
ist spirit. He was not indeed the man to look with a kindly
eye on Comte’s ideas about religious cult, but he was a firm
believer in the omnicompetence of science. And his attitude
towards metaphysics and theology was very similar to that
advanced later by the neopositivists.
According to Pearson, the function of science is ‘the classi-
fication of facts, the recognition of their sequence and rela-
tive significance’,71 while the scientific frame of mind is the
habit of forming impersonal judgments upon the facts, judg-
ments, that is to say, which are unbiased by personal feeling
and by the idiosyncrasies of the individual temperament.
This is not, however, a frame of mind which is characteristic
of the metaphysician. Metaphysics, in fact, is poetry which
masquerades as something else. “The poet is a valued mem-
ber of the community, for he is known to be a poet. . . . The
metaphysician is a poet, often a very great one, but unfortu-
nately he is not known to be a poet, because he strives to
clothe his poetry in the language of reason, and hence it
follows that he is liable to be a dangerous member of the
community.’?? Rudolf Carnap was to expound exactly the
same point of view.
What, then, are the facts which form the basis for scientific
judgment? Ultimately they are simply sense-impressions or
sensations. These are stored up in the brain, which acts as a
kind of telephone exchange; and we project groups of im-
pressions outside ourselves and speak of these as external
objects. ‘As such we call it [a group thus projected] a phe-
nomenon, and in practical life term it real.’73 What lies
behind sense-impressions, we do not and cannot know. The
claims of philosophers to have penetrated to things-in-
themselves are completely bogus. Indeed, we cannot with
propriety even raise the question what causes sense-impres-
sions. For the causal relation is simply a relation of regular
sequence between phenomena. Pearson therefore prefers the
term ‘sensations’ to ‘sense-impressions’, as the latter term
naturally suggests the causal activity of an unknown agent.
Obviously, Pearson does not intend to say that science con-
sists simply of noting sensations or sense-impressions. Con-
cepts are derived from sensations; and deductive inference
is an essential feature of scientific method. But science is
grounded in sensations and it also terminates in them, in the
sense that we test the conclusions of an inference by the
process of verification. As a body of propositions science is a
mental construction, but it rests at either end, so to speak, on
sense-impressions.
The statement that science is a mental construction is to
be taken literally. On the level of pre-scientific thought the
permanent physical object is, as we have seen, a mental con-
struct. And on the level of scientific thought both laws and
scientific entities are both mental constructs. The descriptive
laws of science74 are general formulas constructed for econ-
omy of thought, and ‘the logic man finds in the universe is
but the reflection of his own reasoning faculty’.7> As for
postulated entities such as atoms, the term ‘atom’ denotes
neither an observed object nor a thing-in-itself. “No physicist
ever saw or felt an individual atom. Atom and molecule are
intellectual conceptions by aid of which physicists classify
phenomena, and formulate the relationships between their
sequences.’76 In other words, it is not sufficient to write off
metaphysics as a possible source of knowledge about things-
in-themselves. Science itself needs to be purified of its super-
stitions and of the tendency to think that its useful concepts
refer to hidden entities or forces.
The beneficent social effects of science are strongly em-
phasized by Pearson. In addition to the technical application
of scientific knowledge and its use in special departments
such as that of eugenics, there is the general educative effect
of scientific method. ‘Modern science, as training the mind
to an exact and impartial analysis of facts, is an education
specially fitted to promote sound citizenship.’7 Indeed,
Pearson goes so far as to quote with approval a remark by
Clifford to the effect that scientific thought is human progress
itself, and not simply an accompaniment to or condition of
such progress.
On the basis, therefore, of a phenomenalism which stood
in the tradition of Hume and J. S. Mill Pearson developed
a theory of science akin to that of Ernst Mach.78 In fact,
Mach dedicated to Pearson his Beitrége zur Analyse der
Empfindungen. Common to both men is the idea of science
as enabling us to predict and as practising, for this purpose,
a policy of economy of thought by linking phenomena in
terms of the fewest and simplest concepts possible. And both
men interpret unobserved scientific entities as mental con-
structions. Further, as both Pearson and Mach resolve phe-
nomena ultimately into sensations, we seem to arrive at the
odd conclusion that though science is purely descriptive,
there is really no world to be described, apart from the con-
tents of consciousness. Thus empiricism, which began by
stressing the experimental foundations of all knowledge, ends,
through its phenomenalistic analysis of experience, in having
no world left, outside the sphere of sensations. To. put the
matter in another way, empiricism started with the demand
for respect for facts and then went on to resolve facts into
sensations,
g. Generally speaking, the thinkers mentioned in this chap-
ter can be said to have given expression to a vivid recognition
of the part played by scientific method in the enormous in-
crease in man’s knowledge of the world. And it is under-
standable that this recognition was accompanied by the con-
viction that scientific method was the only means of acquiring
anything that could properly be called knowledge. Science,
they thought, continually extends the frontiers of human
knowledge; and if there is anything which lies beyond the
teach of science, it is unknowable. Metaphysics and theology
claim to make true statements about the metaphenomenal;

but their claims are bogus.
In other words, the growth of a genuinely scientific out-
look is necessarily accompanied by a growth of agnosticism.
Religious belief belongs to the childhood of the human race,
not to a truly adult mentality. We cannot indeed prove that
there is no reality beyond the phenomena, the relations be-
tween which are studied by the scientist. Science is concerned
with description, not with ultimate explanations. And there
may be, for all we know, such an explanation. Indeed,
the more phenomena are reduced to sensations or sense-
impressions, the more difficult it is to avoid the concept of
a metaphenomenal reality. But in any case a reality of this
kind could not be known. And the adult mind simply ac-
cepts this fact and embraces agnosticism.
With Romanes, it is true, agnosticism came to mean some-
thing much more than a mere formal acknowledgment of the
impossibility of proving the non-existence of God. But with
the more positivist-minded thinkers religion, as far as the
adult man was concerned, was deprived of intellectual con-
tent. That is to say, it would not comprise belief in the truth
of propositions about God. In so far as religion could be
retained by the adult mind, it would be reduced to an emo-
tive element. But the emotive attitude would be directed
either to the cosmos, as the object of cosmic emotion or
feeling, or to humanity, as in the so-called religion of hu-
manity. In fine, the emotive element in religion would be
detached from the concept of God and re-directed elsewhere,
traditional religion being something that should be left be-
hind in the onward march of scientific knowledge.
We can say, therefore, that a large number of thinkers
considered in this chapter were forerunners of the so-called
scientific humanists of today, who look on religious belief as
lacking any rational support and tend to emphasize the al-
leged detrimental effect of religion on human progress and
morality. Obviously, if one is convinced that man is essentially
related to God as his last end, one will question the propriety
of the use of the term ‘humanism’ for any atheistic philoso-
phy of man. But if one regards the movement of evolution
in human society as simply an advance in the scientific knowl-
edge and control by man both of his environment and of

himself, one can hardly keep any room for religion in so far
as it directs man’s attention to the transcendent. Scientism
is necessarily opposed to traditional religion.
A rather different point of view was advanced by Benjamin
Kidd (1858-1916), author of the once popular works Social
Evolution (1894), The Principles of Western Civilization
(1902), and The Science of Power (1918). In his opinion
natural selection in human society tends to favour the growth
of man’s emotional and affective rather than of his intellec-
tual qualities. And as religion is grounded on the emotive
aspects of human nature, it is not surprising if we find that
religious peoples tend to prevail over communities in the
struggle for existence. For religion encourages, in a way that
science can never do, altruism and devotion to the interests
of the community. In its ethical aspects especially religion is
the most potent of social forces. And the highest expression
of the religious consciousness is Christianity, on which West-
ern civilization is built.
In other words, Kidd belittled the reason as a constructive
force in social evolution and laid the emphasis on feeling.
And as he deprived religion of its intellectual content and
interpreted it as the most powerful expression of the emotive
aspect of man’s nature, he depicted it as an essential factor
in human progress. Hostile criticism of religion by the de-
structive reason was thus for him an attack on progress.
Kidd’s recognition of the influence of religion in human
history was obviously quite justified. But the emphasis which
he placed on the emotive aspects of religion laid him open
to the retort that religious beliefs belong to the class of
emotively-sustained myths which have as a matter of fact
exercised a great influence but the need of which should be
outgrown by the adult mentality. Kidd would answer, of
course, that such a retort presupposes that progress is secured
by the exercise of the critical reason, whereas in his view
progress is secured by the development of the emotional and
affective aspects of man, not by the development of a reason
which is destructive rather than constructive. It seems, how-
ever, to be obvious that though the emotive aspects of man
are essential to his nature, reason should retain control. And
if religion has no rational warrant at all, it is necessarily
sus-
pect. Further, though the influence exercised by religions on
human societies is an undoubted fact, it by no means nec-
essarily follows that this influence has been invariably bene-
ficial. We need rational principles of discrimination.
There is, however, one main belief which is common to
both Kidd and those whom he attacked, namely the belief
that in the struggle for existence the principle of natural
selection works automatically for progress.79 And it is pre-
cisely this dogma of progress which has been called in ques-
tion in the course of the twentieth century. In view of the
cataclysmic events of this century we can hardly retain a
serene confidence in the beneficent effects of collective emo-
tion. But, equally, we find it difficult to suppose that the
advance of science, taken by itself, is synonymous with social
progress. There is the all-important question of the purposes
to be realized by scientific knowledge. And consideration of
this question takes us outside the sphere of descriptive sci-
ence. Obviously, we should all agree that science should be
used in the service of man. But the question arises, how are
we to interpret man? And our answer to this question will
involve metaphysics, either explicit or implicit. The attempt
to by-pass or exclude metaphysics will often be found to
involve a concealed metaphysical assumption, an unavowed
theory of being. In other words, the idea that scientific ad-
vance pushes metaphysics out of the picture is mistaken.
Metaphysics simply reappears in the form of concealed as-
sumptions.
Chapter Five
THE PHILOSOPHY OF HERBERT

SPENCER
Life and writings—The nature of philosophy and its basic

concepts and principles—The general law of evolution: the
alternation of evolution and dissolution—Sociology and poli-
tics— Relative and absolute ethics—The Unknowable in reli-
gion and science —Final comments.
1. In 1858, the year preceding that of the publication of

Darwin’s The Origin of Species, Herbert Spencer mapped
out a plan for a system which was to be based on the law of
evolution or, as he expressed it, the law of progress. He is one
of the few British thinkers who have deliberately attempted
the construction of a comprehensive philosophical system.
He is also one of the few British philosophers who have
acquired a world-wide reputation during their lifetime. Seiz-
ing on an idea which was already in the air and to which
Darwin gave an empirical basis in a restricted field, Spencer
turned it into the key-idea of a synoptic vision of the world
and of human life and conduct, an optimistic vision which
appeared to justify nineteenth-century belief in human prog-
ress and which made of Spencer one of the major prophets
of an era.
Though, however, Spencer remains one of the great figures
of the Victorian age, he now gives the impression of being
one of the most dated of philosophers. Unlike Mill, whose
writings well repay study, whether one agrees or not with the
views expressed. Spencer is little read nowadays. It is not
merely that the idea of evolution has become common coin
and no longer arouses much excitement. It is rather that
after the brutal challenges of the twentieth century we find
it difficult to see how the scientific hypothesis of evolution,
taken by itself, can provide any adequate basis for that opti-
THE PHILOSOPHY OF HERBERT SPENCER 143
mistic faith in human progress which was, generally speaking,

a characteristic feature of Spencer’s thought. On the one
hand positivism has changed its character and fights shy of
explicit and comprehensive world-visions. On the other hand
those philosophers who believe that the trend of evolution
is in some real sense beneficent to man generally appeal to
metaphysical theories which were foreign to the mind of
Spencer. Moreover, while Mill not only dealt with many
problems which are still examined by British philosophers
but also treated them in a way which is still considered
relevant, Spencer is notable for his large-scale exploration of
one leading idea rather than for any detailed analyses. How-
ever, though Spencer’s thought is so closely wedded to the
Victorian era that it can scarcely be described as a living
influence today, the fact remains that he was one of the
leading representative members of the nineteenth century.
Hence he cannot be passed over in silence.
Herbert Spencer was born at Derby on April 27th, 1820.
Whereas Mill began Greek at the age of three, Spencer ad-
mits that at the age of thirteen he knew nothing worth men-
tioning of either Latin or Greek. By the age of sixteen,
however, he had at any rate acquired some knowledge of
mathematics; and after a few months as a schoolmaster at
Derby he became a civil engineer employed by the Birming-
ham and Gloucester Railway. When the line was completed
in 1841, Spencer was discharged. ‘Got the sack—very glad’, as
he noted in his diary. But*though in 1843 he moved to Lon-
don to take up a literary career, he returned for a short while
to the service of the railways and also tried his hand at
inventions.
In 1848 Spencer became sub-editor of the Economist, and
he entered into relations of friendship with G. H. Lewes,
Huxley, Tyndall and George Eliot. With Lewes in particular
he discussed the theory of evolution; and among the articles
which he wrote anonymously for Lewes’s Leader there was
one on “The Development Hypothesis’, in which the idea of
evolution was expounded on Lamarckian lines. In 1851 he
published Social Statics and in 1855, at his own expense,
The Principles of Psychology. At this time the state of his
health was causing him serious concern, and he made several
144 BRITISH _EMPIRICISM
excursions to France, where he met Auguste Comte. He was
able, however, to publish a collection of his essays in 1857.
At the beginning of 1858 Spencer drew up a scheme for A
System of Synthetic Philosophy; and the prospectus, distrib-
uted in 1860, envisaged ten volumes. First Principles ap-
peared in one volume in 1862, and The Principles of Biology
in two volumes in 1864-7. The Principles of Psychology,
originally published in one volume in 1855, appeared in two
volumes in 1870-2, while the three volumes of The Principles
of Sociology were published in 1876-96. The Data of Ethics
(1879) was subsequently included with two other parts to
form the first volume of The Principles of Ethics (1892),
while the second volume of this work (1893) utilized Justice
(1891). Spencer also published new editions of several vol-
umes of the System. For example, the sixth edition of First
Principles appeared in 1900, while a revised and enlarged
edition of The Principles of Biology was published in 1898-9.
Spencer’s System of Synthetic Philosophy constituted a re-
matkable achievement, carried through in spite of bad health
and, at first at any rate, of serious financial difficulties. In-
tellectually, he was a self-made man; and the composition of
his great work involved writing on a number of subjects which
he had never really studied. He had to collect his data from
various sources, and he then interpreted them in the light
of the idea of evolution. As for the history of philosophy, he
knew little about it, except from secondary sources. He did
indeed make more than one attempt to read Kant’s first
Critique; but when he came to the doctrine of the subjectivity
of space and time, he laid the book aside. He had little
appreciation or understanding of points of view other than
his own. However, if he had not practised what we might
call a rigid economy of thought, it is unlikely he would ever
have completed his self-imposed task.
Of Spencer’s other publications we can mention Education
(1861), a small but very successful book, The Man Versus
the State (1884), a vigorous polemic against what the author
regarded as the threatening slavery, and the posthumous Au-
tobiography (1904). In 1885 Spencer published in America
The Nature and Reality of Religion, comprising a controversy
between himself and the positivist Frederic Harrison. But
the work was suppressed, as Harrison protested against the
re-publication of his articles without permission, especially
as an introduction in support of Spencer’s position by a Pro-
fessor Yeomans had been included in the volume.
With the exception of membership of the Athenaeum Club
(1868) Spencer consistently refused all honours. When in-
vited to stand for the chair of mental philosophy and logic
at University College, London, he refused; and he also de-
clined membership of the Royal Society. He seems to have
felt that when he had really had need of such offers they
had not been made, and that when they were made, he no
longer had need of them, his reputation being already estab-
lished. As for honours offered by the government, his opposi-
tion to social distinctions of this kind militated against ac-
ceptance, quite apart from his annoyance at the lateness of
the offers.
Spencer died on December 8th, 1903. At the time of his
death he was extremely unpopular in his own country, mainly
because of his opposition to the Boer War (1899-1902),
which he regarded as an expression of the militaristic spirit
that he so much hated.t Abroad, however, there was con-
siderable criticism of English indifference to the passing of
one of the country’s outstanding figures. And in Italy the
Chamber adjourned on receiving the news of Spencer’s death.
2. Spencer’s general account of the relation between phi-
losophy and science bears a marked resemblance to that given
by the classical positivists such as Auguste Comte. Both
science and philosophy treat of phenomena, of, that is to
say, the finite, conditioned and classifiable. True, in Spen-
cer’s opinion phenomena are manifestations to consciousness
of infinite, unconditioned Being. But as knowledge involves
relating and classification, whereas infinite, unconditional Be-
ing is by its very nature unique and unclassifiable, to say
that such Being transcends the sphere of phenomena is to
say that it transcends the sphere of the knowable.? Hence it
cannot be investigated by the philosopher any more than by
the scientist. Metaphenomenal or ‘ultimate’ causes lie out-
side the reach of both philosophy and science.
If, therefore, we are to distinguish between philosophy and
science, we cannot do so simply in terms of the objects of
which they treat. For both are concerned with phenomena.
We have to introduce the idea of degrees of generalization.
‘Science’ is the name of the family of particular sciences.
And though every science, as distinct from the unco-ordinated
knowledge of particular facts, involves generalization, even
the widest of such generalizations are partial in comparison
with those universal truths of philosophy which serve to unify
the sciences. “The truths of Philosophy thus bear the same
relation to the highest scientific truths, that each of these
bears to lower scientific truths. . . . Knowledge of the lowest
kind is un-unified knowledge; Science is /partially-unified
knowledge; Philosophy is completely-unified knowledge.’$
The universal truths or widest generalizations of philoso-
phy can be considered in themselves, as ‘products of ex-
ploration’.t¢ And we are then concerned with general philoso-
phy. Or the universal truths can be considered according to
their active role as ‘instruments of exploration’.5 That is to
say, they can be considered as truths in the light of which
we investigate different specific areas of phenomena, such as
the data of ethics and sociology. And we are then concerned
with special philosophy. Spencer’s First Principles is devoted
to general philosophy, while subsequent volumes of the Sys-
tem deal with the parts of special philosophy.
Taken by itself, Spencer’s account of the relation between
science and philosophy in terms of degrees of unification
tends to suggest that in his view the basic concepts of phi-
losophy are derived by generalization from the particular
sciences. But this is not the case. For he insists that there
are fundamental concepts and assumptions which are in-
volved in all thinking. Let us suppose that a philosopher
decides to take one particular datum as the point of de-
parture for his reflections, and that he imagines that by act-
ing in this way he is making no assumptions. In actual fact
the choice of one particular datum implies that there are
other data which the philosopher might have chosen. And
this involves the concept of existence other than the existence
actually asserted. Again, no particular thing can be known
except as like some other things, as classifiable in virtue of
a common attribute, and as different from or unlike other
things. In fine, the choice of one particular datum involves
a number of ‘unacknowledged postulates’, which together
provide the outlines of a general philosophical theory. ‘The
developed intelligence is framed upon certain organized and
consolidated conceptions of which it cannot divest itself; and
which it can no more stir without using than the body can
stir without help of its limbs.’7
It can hardly be claimed that Spencer makes his position
crystal clear. For he speaks of ‘tacit assumptions’,® ‘unavowed
data’,® ‘unacknowledged postulates’,!° ‘certain organized and
consolidated conceptions’, and ‘fundamental intuitions’,12
as though the meanings of these phrases stood in no need of
further elucidation and as though they all meant the same
thing. It is indeed clear that he does not intend to assert a
Kantian theory of the a priori. The fundamental concepts
and assumptions have an experimental basis. And sometimes
Spencer speaks as though it were a question of the individual
experience or consciousness. He says, for example, that ‘we
cannot avoid accepting as true the verdict of consciousness
that some manifestations are like one another and some are
unlike one another’.1* The situation is complicated, however,
by the fact that Spencer accepts the idea of a relative a priori,
that is, of concepts and assumptions which are, from the
genetic point of view, the product of the accumulated ex-
perience of the race!4 but which are a priori in relation to a
given individual mind, in the sense that they came to it with
the force of ‘intuitions’.
The basic assumptions .of the process of thought have to
be taken provisionally as unquestionable. They can be justi-
fied or validated only by their results, that is, by showing
the agreement or congruity between the experience which
the assumptions logically lead us to expect and the experi-
ences which we actually have. Indeed, ‘the complete estab-
lishment of the congruity becomes the same thing as the
complete unification of knowledge in which Philosophy
reaches its goal’.145 Thus general philosophy makes explicit
the basic concepts and assumptions, while special philosophy
shows their agreement with the actual phenomena in distinct
fields or areas of experience.
Now, according to Spencer ‘knowing is classifying, or grasp-
ing the like and separating the unlike’.1® And as likeness and
unlikeness are relations, we can say that all thinking is rela-

tional, that ‘relation is the universal form of thought’.17 We
can distinguish, however, between two kinds of relations,
those of sequence and those of co-existence.18 And each gives
rise to an abstract idea. ‘The abstract of all sequences is
Time. The abstract of all co-existences is Space.’19 Time and
Space are not indeed original forms of consciousness in an
absolute sense. But as the generation of these ideas takes
place through an organization of experiences which proceeds
throughout the entire evolution of mind or intelligence, they
can have a relatively a priori character, as far as a given
individual mind is concemed.
Our concept of Space is fundamentally that of co-existent
positions which offer no resistance. And it is derived by ab-
straction from the concept of Matter, which in its simplest
form is that of co-existent positions which offer resistance. In
turn, the concept of Matter is derived from an experience of
force. For ‘forces, standing in certain co-relations, form the
whole content of our idea of Matter’.2° Similarly, though
the developed concepts of Motion involve the ideas of Space,
Time and Matter, the rudimentary consciousness of Motion
is simply that of ‘serial impressions of force’.21
Spencer argues, therefore, that psychological analysis of the
concepts of Time, Space, Matter and Motion shows that they
are all based on experiences of Force. And the conclusion is
that ‘we come down, then, finally to Force, as the ultimate
of ultimates’.22 The principle of the indestructibility of mat-
ter is really that of the indestructibility of force. Similarly,
all proofs of the principle of the continuity of motion ‘in-
volve the postulate that the quantity of Energy is constant’,23
energy being the force possessed by matter in motion. And
in the end we arrive at the principle of the persistence of
Force, ‘which, as being the basis of science, cannot be es-
tablished by science’,24 but transcends demonstration, a prin-
ciple which has as its corollary that of the uniformity of law,
the persistence of relations between forces.
It may be objected that such principles as that of the in-
destructibility of matter belong to science rather than to
philosophy. But Spencer answers that they are ‘truths which
unify concrete phenomena belonging to all divisions of Na-
ture, and so must be components of that all-embracing
con-
ception of things which Philosophy seeks’.2° Further,
though
the word ‘force’ ordinarily signifies ‘the consciousness of mus-
cular tension’,26 the feeling of effort which we have when
we set something in motion or resist a pressure is a symbol
of Absolute Force. And when we speak of the persistence of
Force, ‘we really mean the persistence of some Cause which
transcends our knowledge and conception’.27 How we can
intelligibly predicate persistence of an unknowable reality
is not perhaps immediately evident. But if the assertion of
the persistence of Force really means what Spencer says that
it means, it clearly becomes a philosophical principle, even
apart from the fact that its character as a universal truth
would in any case qualify it for inclusion among the truths
of philosophy according to Spencer’s account of the relation
between philosophy and science.
3. Though, however, such general principles as the inde-
structibility of matter, the continuity of motion and the
persistence of force are components of the synthesis which
philosophy seeks to achieve, they do not, even when taken
together, constitute this synthesis. For we require a formula
or law which specifies the course of the transformations un-
dergone by matter and motion, and which thus serves to unify
all the processes of change which are examined in the several
particular sciences. That is to say, if we assume that there is
no such thing as absolute rest or permanence but that every
object is constantly undergoing change, whether by receiving
or losing motion or by changes in the relations between its
parts, we need to ascertain the general law of the continuous
redistribution of matter and motion.
Spencer finds what he is looking for in what he calls in-
discriminately a ‘formula’, ‘law’ or ‘definition’ of evolution.
‘Evolution is an integration of matter and concomitant dis-
sipation of motion; during which the matter passes from a
relatively indefinite, incoherent homogeneity to a relatively
definite, coherent heterogeneity; and during which the re-
tained motion undergoes a parallel transformation.’28 This
law can be established deductively, by deduction from the
persistence of force. It can also be established or confirmed
inductively. For whether we contemplate the development of
solar systems out of the nebular mass, or that of more highly

organized and complex living bodies out of more primitive
organisms, or that of man’s psychological life, or the growth
of language, or the evolution of social organization, we find
everywhere a movement from relative indefiniteness to rela-
tive definiteness, from incoherence to coherence, together
with a movement of progressive differentiation, the move-
ment from relative homogeneity to relative heterogeneity.
For example in the evolution of the living body we see a
progressive structural and functional differentiation.
But this is only one side of the picture. For the integration
of matter is accompanied by a dissipation of motion. And
the process of evolution tends towards a state of equilibrium,
of a balance of forces, which is succeeded by dissolution or
disintegration. For example, the human body dissipates and
loses its energies, dies and disintegrates; any given society
loses its vigour and decays; and the heat of the sun is gradu-
ally dissipated.
Spencer is careful to avoid claiming that we can legiti-
mately extrapolate what is true of a relatively closed system
to the totality of things, the universe as a whole. We cannot,
for example, argue with certainty from the running-down, so
to speak, of our solar system to the running-down of the
universe. And it is possible, for all we know, that when life
has been extinguished on our planet through the dissipation
of the sun’s heat, it will be in process of development in
some other part of the universe. In fine, we are not entitled
to argue that what happens to a part must happen to the
whole.
At the same time, if there is an alternation of evolution
and dissolution in the totality of things, we must ‘entertain
the conception of Evolutions that have filled an immeasura-
ble past and Evolutions that will fill an immeasurable fu-
ture’.2® And if this represents Spencer’s personal opinion,
we can say that he gives an up-to-date version of certain early
Greek cosmologies, with their ideas of a cyclic process. In
any case there is a rhythm of evolution and dissolution in
the parts, even if we are not in a position to make dogmatic
assertions about the whole. And though at first Spencer
spoke about the law of evolution as the law of progress, his
belief in alternations of evolution and dissolution evidently
set limits to his optimism.
4. Spencer’s ideal of a complete philosophical synthesis
demands the inclusion of a systematic treatment of the in-
organic world in the light of the idea of evolution. And he
remarks that if this topic had been treated in the System of
Philosophy, it ‘would have occupied two volumes, one dealing
with Astrogeny and the other with Geogeny’.?° In point of
fact, however, Spencer confines himself, in special -philoso-
phy, to biology, psychology, sociology and ethics. He alludes,
of course, to astronomical, physical and chemical topics, but
the System contains no systematic treatment of evolution in
the inorganic sphere.
As limitations of space exclude a recapitulation of all the
parts of Spencer’s system, I propose to pass over biology and
psychology and to make some remarks in this section about
his sociological and political ideas, devoting the following
section to the subject of ethics.
The sociologist is concerned with the growth, structures,
functions and products of human societies.3 The possibility
of a science of sociology follows from the fact that we can
find regular sequences among social phenomena, which per-
mit prediction; and it is not excluded by the fact that social
laws are statistical and predictions in this field approximate.
‘Only a moiety of science is exact science.’32 It is the possi-
bility of generalization which is required, not quantitative
exactitude. As for the utility of sociology, Spencer claims in
a somewhat vague way that if we can discern an order in the
structural and functional changes through which societies
pass, ‘knowledge of that order can scarcely fail to affect our
judgments as to what is progressive and what retrograde—
what is desirable, what is practicable, what is Utopian’ .%3
When we consider the struggle for existence in the gen-
eral process of evolution, we find obvious analogies between
the inorganic, organic and super-organic (social) spheres.
The behaviour of an inanimate object depends on the rela-
tions between its own forces and the external forces to which
it is exposed. Similarly, the behaviour of an organic body is
the product of the combined influences of its intrinsic nature
and of its environment, both inorganic and organic. Again,
every human society ‘displays phenomena that are ascribable

to the character of its units and to the conditions under
which they exist’.34
It is indeed true that the two sets of factors, intrinsic and
extrinsic, do not remain static. For example, man’s powers,
physical, emotional and intellectual, have developed in the
course of history, while evolving society has produced re-
matkable changes in its organic and inorganic environment.
Again, the products of evolving society, its institutions and
cultural creations, bring fresh influences into being. Further,
the more human societies develop, so much the more do they
react on one another, so that the super-organic environment
occupies a position of even greater importance. But in spite
of the growing complexity of the situation an analogous inter-
play of forces, intrinsic and extrinsic, is discernible in all
three spheres.
Though, however, there is continuity between the inor-
ganic, organic and super-organic spheres, there is also dis-
continuity. If there is similarity, there is also dissimilarity.
Consider, for example, the idea of a society as an organism.
As in the case of an organic body in the proper sense, the
growth of society is accompanied by a progressive differentia-
tion of structures, which results in a progressive differentia-
tion of functions. But this point of similarity between the
organic body and human society is also a point of dissimilar-
ity between them both and the inorganic body. For accord-
ing to Spencer the actions of the different parts of an in-
organic thing cannot properly be regarded as functions.
Further, there is an important difference between the process
of differentiation in an organic body and that in the social
organism. For in the latter we do not find that kind of dif-
ferentiation which in the former results in one part alone
becoming the organ of intelligence and in some parts becom-
ing sense-organs while others do not. In the organic body
‘consciousness is concentrated in a small part of the aggre-
gate’, whereas in the social organism ‘it is diffused through-
out the aggregate: all the units possess the capacity for happi-
ness and misery, if not in equal degrees, still in degrees that
approximate’ .35
An enthusiast for the interpretation of political society as
an organism might, of course, try to find detailed analogi
es
between differentiation of functions in the organic body
and
in society. But this might easily lead him into speaking, for
example, as though the government were analogous to the
brain and as though the other parts of society should leave
all thinking to the govemment and simply obey its decisions.
And this is precisely the sort of conclusion which Spencer
wishes to avoid. Hence he insists on the relative independ-
ence of the individual members of a political society and
denies the contention that society is an organism in the sense
that it is more than the sum of its members and possesses
an end which is different from the ends of the members.
‘As, then, there is no social sensorium, it results that the
welfare of the aggregate, considered apart from that of the
members, is not an end to be sought. The society exists for
the benefit of its members; not its members for the benefit
of society.’ In other words, we can say that the arms and
the legs exist for the good of the whole body. But in the
case of society we have to say that the whole exists for the
parts. Spencer’s conclusion at any rate is clear. And even if
his arguments are sometimes obscure and perplexing, it is
also clear that in his opinion the analogy of an organism, as
applied to a political society, is not only misleading but also
dangerous.
The situation is in fact this. Spencer’s determination to
use the idea of evolution throughout all fields of phenomena
leads him to speak of political society, the State, as a super-
organism. But as he is a resolute champion of individual
liberty against the claims and encroachment of the State,
he tries to deprive this analogy of its sting by pointing out
essential differences between the organic body and the body
political. And he does this by maintaining that while political
development is a process of integration, in the sense that
social groups become larger and individual wills are merged
together, it is also a movement from homogeneity to het-
erogeneity, so that differentiation tends to increase. For ex-
ample, with the advance of civilization towards the modem
industrialized State the class-divisions of relatively more
primitive societies tend, so Spencer believes, to become less
rigid and even to break down. And this is a sign of progress.
Spencer’s point depends in part on his thesis that ‘the state

of homogeneity is an unstable state; and where there is al-
ready some heterogeneity, the tendency is towards greater
heterogeneity’.37 Given this idea of the movement of evolu-
tion, it obviously follows that a society in which differentia-
tion is relatively greater is more evolved than one in which
there is relatively less differentiation. At the same time it is
clear that Spencer’s point of view also depends on a judg-
ment of value, namely that a society in which individual
liberty is highly developed is intrinsically more admirable
and praiseworthy than a society in which there is less in-
dividual liberty. True, Spencer believes that a society which
embodies the principle of individual liberty possesses a
greater survival-value than societies which do not embody the
principle. And this can be understood as a purely factual
judgment. But it seems obvious to me at any rate that
Spencer considers the first type of society to be more de-
serving of survival because of its greater intrinsic value.
If we pass over Spencer’s account of primitive societies and
their development, we can say that he concentrates most of
his attention on the transition from the militaristic or mili-
tant type of society to the industrial type. The militant
society is basically ‘one in which the army is the nation mo-
bilized while the nation is the quiescent army, and which,
therefore, acquires a structure common to army and na-
tion’.88 There can indeed be development within this kind
of society. For example, the military leader becomes the civil
or political head, as in the case of the Roman emperor; and
in the course of time the army becomes a specialized pro-
fessional branch of the community instead of being co-
extensive with the adult male population. But in the mili-
tant society in general integration and cohesion are dominant
features. The primary aim is the preservation of the society,
while the preservation of individual members is a matter for
concer only as a means to the attainment of the primary
aim. Again, in this kind of society there is constant regulation
of conduct, and ‘the individuality of each member has to be
so subordinated in life, liberty, and property, that he is
largely, or completely owned by the State’.89 Further, as the
militant type of society aims at self-sufficiency, political
autonomy tends to be accompanied by economic auton-
omy.*° ‘The Germany of National Socialism would doubtless
have represented for Spencer a good example of a revival
of the militant type of society in the modem industrial era.
Spencer does not deny that the militant type of society
had an essential role to play in the process of evolution con-
sidered as a struggle for existence in which the fittest survive.
But he maintains that though inter-social conflict was neces-
sary for the formation and growth of societies, the develop-
ment of civilization renders war increasingly unnecessary.
The militant type of society thus becomes an anachronism,
and a transition is required to what Spencer calls the indus-
trial type of society. This does not mean that the struggle
for existence ceases. But it changes its form, becoming ‘the
industrial struggle for existence’,41 in which that society is
best fitted to survive which produces ‘the largest number
of the best individuals—individuals best adapted for life in
the industrial state’.42 In this way Spencer tries to avoid the
accusation that when he has arrived at the concept of the
industrial type of society, he abandons the ideas of the
struggle for existence and of the survival of the fittest.
It would be a great mistake to suppose that by the in-
dustrial type of society Spencer means simply a society in
which the citizens are occupied, exclusively or predominantly,
in the economic life of production and distribution. For an
industrial society in this narrow sense would be compatible
with a thorough-going regulation of labour by the State. And
it is precisely this element of compulsion which Spencer is
concerned to exclude. On the economic level, he is referring
to a society dominated by the principle of laissez-faire. Hence
in his view socialist and communist States would be very
far from exemplifying the essence of the industrial type of
society. The function of the State is to maintain individual
freedom and rights, and to adjudicate, when necessary, be-
tween conflicting claims. It is not the business of the State
to interfere positively with the lives and conduct of the citi-
zens, except when interference is required for the main-
tenance of internal peace.
In other words, in the ideal type of industrial society, as
Spencer interprets the term, emphasis is shifted from the
totality, the society as a whole, to its members considered as
individuals. ‘Under the industrial régime the citizen’s indi-
viduality, instead of being sacrificed by the society, has to
be defended by the society. Defence of his individuality be-
comes the society’s essential duty.’43 That is to say, the
cardinal function of the State becomes that of equitably
adjusting conflicting claims between individual citizens and
preventing the infringement of one man’s liberty by another.
Spencer’s belief in the universal applicability of the law of
evolution obviously committed him to maintaining that the
movement of evolution tends to the development of the in-
dustrial type of State, which he regarded, rather over-
optimistically, as an essentially peaceful society. But the
tendencies to interference and regulation by the State which
were showing themselves in the last decades of his life led
him to express his fear of what he called ‘the coming
slavery’44 and to attack violently any tendency on the part
of the State or of one of its organs to regard itself as omni-
competent. “The great political superstition of the past was
the divine right of kings. The great political superstition of
the present is the divine right of parliaments.’*5 Again, ‘the
function of Liberalism in the past was that of putting a limit
to the powers of kings. The function of true Liberalism in
the future will be that of putting a limit to the powers of
Parliaments.’46
Obviously, in this resolute attack on ‘the coming slavery’
Spencer could not appeal simply to the automatic working-
out of any law of evolution. His words are clearly inspired
by a passionate conviction in the value of individual liberty
and initiative, a conviction which reflected the character and
temperament of a man who had never at any period of his
life been inclined to bow before constituted authority sim-
ply because it was authority. And it is a notorious fact that
Spencer carried his attack on what he regarded as encroach-
ments by the State on private liberty to the extent of con-
demning factory legislation, sanitary inspection by govern-
ment officials, State management of the Post Office, poor
relief by the State and State education. Needless to say, he
did not condemn reform as such or charitable relief work
or the running of hospitals and schools. But his insistence
was always on voluntary organization of such projects, as op-
posed to State action, management and control. In short, his
ideal was that of a society in which, as he put it, the indi-
vidual would be everything and the State nothing, in contrast
with the militant type of society in which the State is every-
thing and the individual nothing.
Spencer’s equation of the industrial type of society with
peace-loving and anti-militaristic society is likely to strike us
as odd, unless we make the equation true by definition. And
his extreme defence of the policy of laissez-faire is likely to
appear to us as eccentric, or at least as a hangover from a
bygone outlook. He does not seem to have understood, as
Mill came to understand, at least in part, and as was under-
stood more fully by an idealist such as T. H. Green, that
social legislation and so-called interference by the State may
very well be required to safeguard the legitimate claims of
every individual citizen to lead a decent human life.
At the same time Spencer’s hostility to social legislation
which nowadays is taken for granted by the vast majority of
citizens in Great Britain should not blind us to the fact that
he, like Mill, saw the dangers of bureaucracy and of any
exaltation of the power and functions of the State which
tends to stifle individual liberty and originality. To the pres-
ent writer at any rate it seems that concern with the common
good leads to an approval of State action to a degree far be-
yond what Spencer was prepared to endorse. But it should
never be forgotten that the common good is not something
entirely different from the good of the individual. And
Spencer was doubtless quite right in thinking that it is for
the good both of individuals and of society in general that
citizens should be able to develop themselves freely and show
initiative. We may well think that it is the business of the
State to create and maintain the conditions in which in-
dividuals can develop themselves, and that this demands, for
example, that the State should provide for all the means
of education according to the individual’s capacity for profit-
ing by it. But once we accept the principle that the State
should concern itself with positively creating and maintain-
ing the conditions which will make it possible for every in-
dividual to lead a decent human life in accordance with his
or her capacities, we expose ourselves to the danger of sub-
sequently forgetting that the common good is not an abstract
entity to which the concrete interests of individuals have
to be ruthlessly sacrificed. And Spencer’s attitude, in spite
of its eccentric exaggerations, can serve to remind us that the
State exists for man and not man for the State. Further,
the State is but one form of social organization: it is not the
only legitimate form of society. And Spencer certainly under-
stood this fact.
As has already been indicated, Spencer’s political views
were partly the expression of factual judgments, connected
with his interpretation of the general movement of evolu-
tion, and partly an expression of judgments of value. For
example, his assertion that what he calls the industrial type
of society possesses a greater survival value than other types
was partly equivalent to a prediction that it would in fact
survive, in virtue of the trend of evolution. But it was also
partly a judgment that the industrial type of society de-
served to survive, because of its intrinsic value. Indeed, it is
clear enough that with Spencer a positive evaluation of per-
sonal liberty was the really determining factor in his view
of modern society. It is also clear that if a man is resolved
that, as far as depends on him, the type of society which
respects individual freedom and initiative will survive, this
resolution is based primarily on a judgment of value rather
than on any theory about the automatic working-out of a
law of evolution.
5. Spencer regarded his ethical doctrine as the crown of
his system. In the preface to The Data of Ethics he remarks
that his first essay, on The Proper Sphere of Government
(1842), vaguely indicated certain general principles of right
and wrong in political conduct. And he adds that ‘from that
time onwards my ultimate purpose, lying behind all proxi-
mate purposes, has been that of finding for the principles of
right and wrong in conduct at large, a scientific basis’.47 Be-
lief in supernatural authority as a basis for ethics has waned.
It thus becomes all the more imperative to give morality a
scientific foundation, independent of religious beliefs. And
for Spencer this means establishing ethics on the theory of
evolution.
Conduct in general, including that of animals, consists of
acts adjusted to ends.48 And the higher we proceed in the
scale of evolution, the clearer evidence do we find of pur-
poseful actions directed to the good either of the individual
or of the species. But we also find that teleological activity
of this kind forms part of the struggle for existence between
different individuals of the same species and between dif-
ferent species. That is to say, one creature tries to preserve
itself at the expense of another, and one species maintains
itself by preying on another.
This type of purposeful conduct, in which the weaker goes
to the wall, is for Spencer imperfectly evolved conduct. In
perfectly evolved conduct, ethical conduct in the proper sense,
antagonisms between rival groups and between individual
members of one group will have been replaced by co-
operation and mutual aid. Perfectly evolved conduct, how-
ever, can be achieved only in proportion as militant societies
give place to permanently peaceful societies. In other words
it cannot be achieved in a stable manner except in the per-
fectly evolved society, in which alone can the clash between
egoism and altruism be overcome and transcended.
This distinction between imperfectly and perfectly evolved
conduct provides the basis for a distinction between relative
and absolute ethics. Absolute ethics is ‘an ideal code of
conduct formulating the behaviour of the completely adapted
man in the completely evolved society’,49 while relative
ethics is concerned with thé conduct which is the nearest
approximation to this ideal in the circumstances in which
we find ourselves, that is, in more or less imperfectly evolved
societies. According to Spencer, it is simply not true that in
any set of circumstances which call for purposeful action on
our part we are always faced with a choice between an action
which is absolutely right and one which is absolutely wrong.
For example, it may happen that circumstances are such that,
however I act, I shall cause some pain to another person.
And an action which causes pain to another cannot be ab-
solutely right. In such circumstances, therefore, I have to
try to estimate which possible course of action is relatively
right, that is, which possible course of action will probably
cause the greatest amount of good and the least amount of
evil. I cannot expect to make an infallible judgment. I can
only act as seems to me best, after devoting to the matter
the amount of reflection which appears to be demanded by
the relative importance of the issue. I can indeed bear in
mind the ideal code of conduct of absolute ethics; but I
cannot legitimately assume that this standard will serve as a
premiss from which I can infallibly deduce what action would
be relatively best in the circumstances in which I find myself.
Spencer accepts the utilitarian ethics in the sense that he
takes happiness to be the ultimate end of life and measures
the rightness or wrongness of actions by their relation to this
end. In his opinion the ‘gradual rise of a utilitarian ethic
has, indeed, been inevitable’.5° True, there was from the
start a nascent utilitarianism, in the sense that some actions
were always felt to be beneficial and others injurious to man
and society. But in past societies ethical codes were associ-
ated with authority of some sort or another, or with the idea
of divine authority and divinely imposed sanctions, whereas
in the course of time ethics has gradually become independ-
ent of non-ethical beliefs, and there has been growing up a
moral outlook based simply on the ascertainable natural con-
sequences of actions. In other words, the trend of evolution
in the moral sphere has been towards the development of
utilitarianism. It must be added, however, that utilitarian-
ism must be understood in such a way that room is found for
the distinction between relative and absolute ethics. Indeed,
the very idea of evolution suggests progress towards an ideal
limit. And in this progress advance in yirtue cannot be sep-
arated from social advance. “The co-existence of a perfect
man and an imperfect society is impossible.’51
As Spencer regards utilitarianism as the scientifically-
based ethics, it is understandable that he wishes to show
that it is not simply one among many mutually exclusive
systems, but that it can find room for the truths contained in
other systems. Thus he maintains, for example, that utilitari-
anism, when rightly understood, finds room for the point of
view which insists on the concepts of right, wrong and obli-
gation rather than on the attainment of happiness. Bentham
may have thought that happiness is to be aimed at directly,
by applying the hedonistic calculus. But he was wrong. He
would indeed have been right if the attainment of happi-

ness did not depend on the fulfilment of conditions. But in
this case any action would be moral if it produced pleasure.
And this notion is incompatible with the moral consciousness.
In point of fact the attainment of happiness depends on the
fulfilment of certain conditions, that is, on the observance
of certain moral precepts or rules.52 And it is at the fulfil-
ment of these conditions that we ought to aim directly.
Bentham thought that everyone knows what happiness is,
and that it is more intelligible than, say, the principles of
justice. But this view is the reverse of the truth. The prin-
ciples of justice are easily intelligible, whereas it is far from
easy to say what happiness is. Spencer advocates, therefore,
what he calls a ‘rational’ utilitarianism, one which ‘takes for
its immediate object of pursuit conformity to certain prin-
ciples which, in the nature of things, causally determine wel-
fare’53
Again, the theory that moral rules can be inductively es-
tablished by observing the natural consequences of actions
does not entail the conclusion that there is no truth at all in
the theory of moral intuitionism. For there are indeed what
can be called moral intuitions, though they are not some-
thing mysterious and inexplicable but ‘the slowly organized
results of experiences received by the race’.5+ What was origi-
nally an induction from experience can come in later genera-
tions to have for the individual the force of an intuition. The
individual may see or feel instinctively that a certain course
of action is right or wrong, though this instinctive reaction
is the result of the accumulated experience of the race.
Similarly, utilitarianism can perfectly well recognize truth
in the contention that the perfection of our nature is the
object for which we should seek. For the trend of evolution
is towards the emergence of the highest form of life. And
though happiness is the supreme end, it is ‘the concomitant
of that highest life which every theory of moral guidance
has distinctly or vaguely in view’.°5 As for the theory that
virtue is the end of human conduct, this is simply one way
of expressing the doctrine that our direct aim should be that
of fulfilling the conditions for the attainment of the highest
form of life to which the process of evolution tends. If it

were attained, happiness would result.
Needless to say, Spencer could not reasonably claim to
ground his ethical theory on the theory of evolution without
admitting a continuity between evolution in the biological
sphere and that in the moral sphere. And he maintains, for
example, that ‘human justice must be a further development
of sub-human justice’.5¢ At the same time, in a preface,
subsequently withdrawn, to the fifth and sixth parts of The
Principles of Ethics he admits that the doctrine of evolu-
tion has not furnished guidance to the hoped-for extent.
He seems, however, never to have understood clearly that
the process of evolution, considered as an historical fact,
could not by itself establish the value-judgments which
he brought to bear upon its interpretation. For example, even
if we grant that evolution is moving towards the emergence of
a certain type of human life in society and that this
type is therefore shown to be the most fitted for survival,
it does not necessarily follow that it is morally the most ad-
mirable type. As T. H. Huxley saw, factual fitness for sur-
vival in the struggle for existence and moral excellence are
not necessarily the same thing.
Of course, if we assume that evolution is a teleological
process directed towards the progressive establishment of a
moral order, the situation is somewhat different. But though
an assumption of this kind may have been implicit in
Spencer’s outlook, he did not profess to make any such meta-
physical assumptions.
6. The explicit metaphysical element in Spencer’s thought
is, somewhat paradoxically, his philosophy of the Unknow-
able. This topic is introduced in the context of a discussion
about the alleged conflict between religion and science. ‘Of
all antagonisms of belief the oldest, the widest, the most
profound, and the most important is that between Religion
and Science.’®7 Of course, if religion is understood simply
as a subjective experience, the question of a conflict between
it and science hardly arises. But if we bear in mind religious
beliefs, the case is different. In regard to particular events
supernatural explanations have been superseded by scien-
tific or natural explanations. And religion has had to confine
itself more or less to offering an explanation of the existence

of the universe as a totality.°8 But the arguments are un-
acceptable to anyone who possesses a scientific outlook, In
this sense, therefore, there is a conflict between the religious
and scientific mentalities. And it can be resolved, according
to Spencer, only through a philosophy of the Unknowable.
If we start from the side of religious belief, we can see
that both pantheism and theism are untenable. By pantheism
Spencer understands the theory of a universe which develops
itself from potential to actual existence. And he contends
that this idea is inconceivable. We do not really know what
it means. Hence the question of its truth or falsity hardly
arises. As for theism, understood as the doctrine that the
world was created by an external agent, this too is untenable.
Apart from the fact that the creation of space is inconceiva-
ble, because its non-existence cannot be conceived, the idea
of a self-existent Creator is as inconceivable as that of a
self-existent universe. The very idea of self-existence is in-
conceivable. ‘It is not a question of probability, or credibility,
but of conceivability.’5®
It is true, Spencer concedes, that if we inquire into the
ultimate cause or causes of the effects produced on our senses,
we are led inevitably to the hypothesis of a First Cause. And
we shall find ourselves driven to describe it as both infinite
and absolute. But Mansel®® has shown that though the idea
of a finite and dependent First Cause involves manifest con-
tradictions, the idea of a First Cause which is infinite and
absolute is no more free from contradictions, even if they
are not so immediately evident. We are unable, therefore, to
say anything intelligible about the nature of the First Cause.
And we are left in the end with nothing more than the idea
of an inscrutable Power.
If, however, we start from the side of science, we are again
brought face to face with the Unknowable. For science can-
not solve the mystery of the universe. For one thing, it cannot
show that the universe is self-existent, for the idea of self-
existence is, as we have seen, inconceivable or unintelligible.
For another thing, the ultimate ideas of science itself ‘are
all representative of realities that cannot be compre-
hended’.*1 For example, we cannot understand what force
is ‘in itself’, And in the end ‘ultimate religious ideas and
ultimate scientific ideas alike turn out to be merely symbols
of the actual, not cognitions of it’.
This point of view is supported by an analysis of human
thought. All thinking, as we have seen, is relational. And
that which is not classifiable by being related to other things
through relations of similarity and dissimilarity is not a pos-
sible object of knowledge. Hence we cannot know the un-
conditioned and absolute. And this applies not only to the
Absolute of religion but also to ultimate scientific ideas
if considered as representing metaphenomenal entities or
things-in-themselves. At the same time to assert that all
knowledge is ‘relative’ is to assert implicitly that there exists
a non-telative reality. ‘Unless a real Non-relative or Absolute
be postulated, the Relative itself becomes absolute, and so
brings the argument to a contradiction.’ In fact, we cannot
eliminate from our consciousness the idea of an Absolute be-
hind appearances.
Thus whether we approach the matter through a critical
examination of religious beliefs or through reflection on our
ultimate scientific ideas or through an analysis of the nature
of thought and knowledge, we arrive in the end at the con-
cept of an unknowable reality. And a permanent state of
peace between religion and science will be achieved ‘when
science becomes fully convinced that its explanations are
proximate and relative, while Religion becomes fully con-
vinced that the mystery it contemplates is ultimate and ab-
solute’.®4
Now, the doctrine of the Unknowable forms the first
part of First Principles and thus comes at the beginning of
Spencer’s system of philosophy as formally arranged. And
this fact may incline the unwary reader to attribute to the
doctrine a fundamental importance. When, however, he dis-
covers that the inscrutable Absolute or Power of religion is
practically equiparated with Force, considered in itself, he
may be led to conclude that the doctrine is not much more,
if anything, than a sop politely offered to the teligious-
minded by a man who was not himself a believer in God
and who was buried, or rather cremated, without any religious
ceremony. It is thus easy to understand how some writers
have dismissed the first part of First Principles as an un-
happy excrescence. Spencer deals with the Unknowable at
considerable length. But the total result is not impressive
from the metaphysical point of view, as the arguments are not
well thought out, while the scientist is likely to demur at the
notion that his basic ideas pass all understanding.
The fact remains, however, that Spencer recognizes a cer-
tain mystery in the universe. His arguments for the existence
of the Unknowable are indeed somewhat confused. Some-
times he gives the impression of accepting a Humian phe-
nomenalism and of arguing that the modifications produced
on our senses must be caused by something which transcends
our knowledge. At other times he seems to have at the back
of the mind a more or less Kantian line of thought, derived
from Hamilton and Mansel. External things are phenomena
in the sense that they can be known only in so far as they
conform to the nature of human thought. Things-in-
themselves or noumena cannot be known; but as the idea of
the noumenon is correlative to that of the phenomenon, we
cannot avoid postulating it.®° Spencer also relies, however,
on what he calls an all-important fact, namely that besides
‘definite’ consciousness ‘there is also an indefinite con-
sciousness which cannot be formulated’. For example, we
cannot have a definite consciousness of the finite without a
concomitant indefinite consciousness of the infinite. And this
line of argument leads to the assertion of the infinite Abso-
lute as a positive reality of which we have a vague or in-
definite consciousness. We cannot know what the Absolute
is. But even though we deny each successive definite inter-
pretation or picture of the Absolute which presents itself,
‘there ever remains behind an element which passes into new
shapes’.67
This line of argument appears to be intended seriously.
And though it might be more convenient to turn Spencer
into a complete positivist by dismissing the doctrine of the
Unknowable as a patronizing concession to religious people,
there does not seem to be any adequate justification for this
summary dismissal. When Frederic Harrison, the positivist,
exhorted Spencer to transform the philosophy of the Un-
knowable into the Comtist religion of humanity, Spencer
turned a deaf ear. It is easy to poke fun at him for using a
capital letter for the Unknowable, as though, as it has been
said, he expected one to take off one’s hat to it. But he
seems to have been genuinely convinced that the world of
science is the manifestation of a reality which transcends
human knowledge. The doctrine of the Unknowable is un-
likely to satisfy many religious people. But this is another
question. As far as Spencer himself is concerned, he appears
to have sincerely believed that the vague consciousness of an
Absolute or Unconditioned is an uneliminable feature of hu-
man thought, and that it is, as it were, the heart of religion,
the permanent element which survives the succession of dif-
ferent creeds and different metaphysical systems.
7. Needless to say, Spencer’s philosophy contains a good
deal of metaphysics. Indeed, it is difficult to think of any
philosophy which does not. Is not phenomenalism a form of
metaphysics? And when Spencer says, for example, that “by
reality we mean persistence in consciousness’,®® it is arguable
that this is a metaphysical assertion. We might, of course,
try to interpret it as being simply a definition or as a declara-
tion about the ordinary use of words. But when we are told
that ‘persistence is our ultimate test of the real whether as
existing under its unknown form or under the form known to
us’,®® it is reasonable to classify this as a metaphysical as-
sertion.
Obviously, Spencer cannot be described as a metaphysician
if we mean by this a philosopher who undertakes to disclose
the nature of ultimate reality. For in his view it cannot be
disclosed. And though he is a metaphysician, to the extent
of asserting the existence of the Unknowable, he then devotes
himself to constructing a unified overall interpretation of the
knowable, that is, of phenomena. But if we like to call this
general interpretation ‘descriptive metaphysics’, we are, of
course, free to do so.
In developing this interpretation Spencer adheres to the
empiricist tradition. It is true that he is anxious to reconcile
conflicting points of view. But when he is concerned with
showing that his own philosophy can recognize truth in non-
empiricist theories, his method of procedure is to give an
empiricist explanation of the data on which the theories
are based. As has already been mentioned, he is quite pre-

pared to admit that there are what can be called moral in-
tuitions. For an individual may very well feel a quasi-instinc-
tive approval or disapproval of certain types of action and
may ‘see’, as though intuitively and without any process of
reasoning, that such actions are right or wrong. But in
Spencer’s opinion moral intuitions in this sense are ‘the re-
sults of accumulated experiences of Utility, gradually organ-
ized and inherited’.7? Whether there are such things as
inherited experiences of utility, is open to question. But in
any case it is abundantly clear that Spencer’s way of showing
that there is truth in moral intuitionism is to give an em-
piricist explanation of the empirical data to which this theory
appeals.
Similarly, Spencer is prepared to admit that there is some-
thing which can be called an intuition of space, in the sense
that as far as the individual is concerned it is practically a
form independent of experience. But it by no means follows
that Spencer is trying to incorporate into his own philosophy
the Kantian doctrine of the a priori. What he does is to argue
that this theory is based on a real fact, but that this fact can
be explained in terms of the ‘organized and consolidated ex-
periences of all antecedent individuals who bequeathed to
him [a given subsequent individual] their slowly-developed
nervous organizations’.74
Though, however, we are not entitled to conclude from
Spencer’s concern with reconciling conflicting points of view
that he throws empiricism overboard, he is, we can say, an
empiricist with a difference. For he does not simply tackle in-
dividual problems separately, as many empiricists are apt
to do. In his autobiography he speaks of his architectonic in-
stinct, his love for system-building. And in point of fact his
philosophy was designed as a system: it did not simply be-
come a system in the sense that different lines of investiga-
tion and reflection happened to converge towards the for-
mation of an overall picture. Spencer’s general principle of
interpretation, the so-called law of evolution, was conceived
at an early stage and then used as an instrument for the
unification of the sciences.
It can hardly be claimed that Spencer’s architectonic in-
stinct, his propensity for synthesis, was accompanied by an
outstanding gift for careful analysis or for the exact statement
of his meaning. But his weak health and the obstacles which
he had to face in the fulfilment of his self-imposed mission
did not in any case leave him the time or the energy for
much more than he was able in fact to achieve. And though
most readers probably find his writings extremely dull, his
ambitions and pertinacious attempt to unify our knowledge
of the world and of man, as well as our moral consciousness
and social life, in the light of one all-pervading idea demands
the tribute of our admiration. He has relapsed, as it were,
into the Victorian era; and, as has already been remarked, in
regard to living influence there is no comparison between
Spencer and J. S. Mill. But though Spencer’s philosophy
may be covered with dust it deserves something better than
the contemptuous attitude adopted by Nietzsche, who re-
garded it as a typical expression of the tame and limited
mentality of the English middle class.
Part II
THE IDEALIST MOVEMENT IN

GREAT BRITAIN
Chapter Six
THE BEGINNINGS OF THE MOVEMENT
Introductory historical remark —Literary

s pioneers; Coleridge
and Carlyle—Ferrier and the subject-object relation—John
Grote’s attack on phenomenalism and hedonism —The revival
of interest in Greek philosophy and the rise of interest in
Hegel; B. Jowett and J. H. Stirling.
1. In the second half of the nineteenth century idealism be-

came the dominant philosophical movement in the British
universities. It was not, of course, a question of subjective
idealism. If this was anywhere to be found, it was a logical
consequence of the phenomenalism associated with the
names of Hume in the eighteenth century and J. S. Mill in
the nineteenth century. For the empiricists who embraced
phenomenalism tended to reduce both physical objects and
minds to impressions or sensations, an en to reconstruct
them with the aid of the principle of the association of ideas.
They implied that, basically, we know only phenomena, in
the sense of impressions, and that, if there are metaphenom-
The
enal realities, we cannot know them. nineteenth-c entury
idealists, however, were convinced that things-in-the S,
being
expressions of the one spiritual reality which manifests
iteoll ond through The besos tein areessential intel-
f cB OER GBRGTmill(cViodkr ae Dorclatine betas
they are both rooted in one ultimate spiritual principle. It
was thus a question of objective rather than subjective ide-
alism.1
Nineteenth-century British idealism thus represented a re-
vival of explicit metaphysics.2 That which is the manifesta-
tion of Spirit can in principle be known by the human spirit.
And the whole world is the mani ion of Spirit. Science
is simply one level of knowledge, one aspect of the complete
knowledge to which the mind tends, even if it cannot fully
172 THE IDEALIST MOVEMENT IN GREAT BRITAIN
actualize its ideal. Metaphysical philosophy endeavours to

complete the synthesis.
The idealist metaphysics was thus a spiritualist metaphys-
See neeee ee ee aa
spiritual. And it follows that idealism was sharply opposed to
materialism. In so far indeed as the phenomenalists tried to
go beyond the dispute between materialism and spiritualism
by reducing both minds and physical objects to phenomena
which cannot properly be described either as spiritual or as
material, we cannot legitimately call them materialists. But
these phenomena were evidently something very different
from the one spiritual reality of the idealists. And in any
case we have seen that on the more positivistic side of the
empiricist movement there appeared an at least methodologi-
cal materialism, the so-called scientific materialism, a line of
thought for which the idealists had no sympathy.
With its emphasis on the spiritual character of ultimate
reality and on the relation between the finite spirit and in-
finite Spirit idealism stood for a religious outlook as against
materialistic positivism and the tendency of empiricism in
general to by-pass religious problems or to leave room, at best,
for a somewhat vague agnosticism. Indeed, a good deal of
the popularity of idealism was due to the conviction that
it stood firmly on the side of religion. To be sure, with
Bradley, the greatest of the British idealists, the concept of
God passed into that of the Absolute, and religion was de-
picted as a level of consciousness which is surpassed in meta-
physical philosophy, while McTaggart, the Cambridge ideal-
ist, was an atheist. But with the earlier idealists the religious
motive was much in evidence, and idealism seemed to be
the natural home of those who were concerned with pre-
serving a religious outlook in face of the threatening incur-
sions of agnostics, positivists and materialists.3 Further, after
Bradley and Bosanquet idealism turned from absolute to
personal idealism and was once again favourable to Chris-
tian theism, though by that time the impetus of the move-
ment was already spent.
It would, however, be a mistake to conclude that British
idealism in the nineteenth century represented simply a re-
treat from the practical concerns of Bentham and Mill into
THE BEGINNINGS OF THE MOVEMENT 173
the metaphysics of the Absolute. For it had a part to play
in the development of social philosophy. Generally speaking,
the ethical theory of the idealists emphasized the idea of
selt-realization, oO € pertecting of the human _ personality
See
with
nich had
dea which ad more,
more in_commo
tncommn
Aristotelianism than with Benthamism. And they
looked on the function of the State as that of creating the
conditions under which individuals could develop their po-
tentialities as persons. As the idealists tended to interpret the
creation of such conditions as a removal of hindrances, they
could, of course, agree with the utilitarians that the State
should interfere as little as possible with the liberty of the
individual. They had no wish to replace freedom by servitude.
But as they interpreted freedom as freedom to actualize the
potentialities of the human personality, and as the removal
of hindrances to freedom in this sense involved in their opin-
iota goed deal ofsocal lepsiation’ theywere prepared to
advocate a measure of State-activity which went beyond any-
thing contemplated by the more enthusiastic adherents of
the policy of laissez faire. We can say, therefore, that in the
latter part of the nineteenth century idealist social and po-
litical theory was more in tune with the perceived needs of
the time than the position defended by Herbert Spencer.
Benthamism or philosophical radicalism doubtless performed
a useful task in the first part of the century. But the re-
vised liberalism expounded by the idealists later in the cen-
tury was by no means ‘reactionary’, It looked forward rather
than backward.
The foregoing remarks may appear to suggest that
nineteenth-century idealism in Great Britain was simply a
native reaction to empiricism and positivism and to laissez
faire economic and political theory. In point of fact, how-
ever, German thought, especially that of Kant _and_ Hegel
successively, exercised an important influence on the develop-
ment of British idealism. Some writers, notably J. H. Muir-
head,* have maintained that the British idealists of the nine-
teenth century were the inheritors of a Platonic tradition
which had manifested itself in the thought of the Cam-
bridge Platonists in the seventeenth century and in the
philosophy of Berkeley in the eighteenth century. But though
it is useful to draw attention to the fact that British philoso-

phy has not been exclusively empiricist in character, it would
be difficult to show that nineteenth-century idealism can
legitimately be considered as an organic development of a
native Platonic tradition. The influence of German thought,
particularly of Kant and Hegel,® cannot be dismissed as a
purely accidental factor. It is indeed true that no British
idealist of note can be described as being in the ordinary
sense a disciple of either Kant or Hegel. Bradley, for example,
was an original thinker. But it by no means follows that the
stimulative influence of German thought was a negligible
factor in the development of British idealism.
A limited knowledge of Kant was provided for English
readers even during the philosopher’s lifetime. In 1795 a
disciple of Kant, F. A. Nitzsch, gave some lectures on the
critical philosophy at London, and in the following year he
published a small work on the subject. In 1797 J. Richardson
published his translation of Principles of Critical Philosophy
by J. J. Beck, and in 1798 A. F. M. Willich published Ele-
ments of Critical Philosophy. Richardson’s translation of
Kant’s Metaphysie of Morals appeared in 1799; but the first
translation of the Critique of Pure Reason, by F. Haywood,
did not appear until 1838. And the serious studies of Kant,
such as E. Caird’s great work, A Critical Account of the
Philosophy of Kant (1877), did not appear until a consid-
erably later date. Meanwhile the influence of the German
philosopher, together with a host of other influences, was
felt by the poet Coleridge, whose ideas will be discussed
presently, and in a more obvious way by Sir William Hamil-
ton, though the element of Kantianism in Hamilton’s thought
was most conspicuous in his doctrine about the limits of
human knowledge and in his consequent agnosticism in re-
gard to the nature of ultimate reality.
Among the British idealists proper, Kant’s influence may
be_said to have been felt particularly by T. H. Green and
E. Caird. But it was mixed with the influence of Hegel. More
accurately, Kant was seen as looking forward-te-Hegel or was
read, as it has been put, through Hegelian spectacles. Indeed,
in J. H. Stirling’s The Secret of Hegel (1865) the view was
explicitly defended that the philosophy*of Kant, if properly
understood and evaluated, leads straight to Hegelianism.

Hence, though we can say with truth that the influence of
Hegel is more obvious in the absolute idealism of Bradley
and Bosanquet than in the philosophy of Green, there is no
question of suggesting that we can divide up the British
idealists into Kantians and Hegelians. Some pioneers apart,
the influence of Hegel was felt from the beginning of the
movement. And it is thus not altogether unreasonable to
describe British idealism, as is often done, as a Neo-Hegelian
movement, provided at least that it is understood that it was
a question of receiving stimulus from Hegel rather than of
following him in the relation of pupil to master.
In its earlier phases the British idealist movement was
characterized concentration
by.amarked onthesubject-object
relationship. In this sense idealism can be said to have ha
an epistemological foundation, inasmuch as the subject-object
relationship is basic in knowledge. The metaphysics of the
Absolute was not indeed absent. For subject and object were
regarded as grounded in and manifesting one ultimate spiti-
tual reality. But the point of departure affected the meta-
physics in an important way. For the emphasis placed in the
first instance on the finite subject militated against any temp-
tation to interpret the Absolute in such a manner as to entail
the conclusion that the finite is no more than its ‘unreal’
appearance. In other words, the earlier idealists tended to
interpret the Absolute in a more or less theistic, or at any
rate in a panentheistic, sense, the monistic aspect of meta-
physical idealism remaining in the background. And this, of
course, made it easier to represent idealism as an intellectual
support for traditional religion.
Gradually, however, the idea of the all-comprehensive or-
ganic totality came more and more into the foreground. Thus
of
with Bradley the self was depicted |as a mere ‘appearance’
Absolute, as something
the which is not fully real when re
sarded in its prima facie independence. And this explicit
-
metaphysics of the Absolute was understandably accompa
by a greater emphasi s on the State in the field of social
nied
was
philosophy. While Herbert Spencer on the one hand
ion between the interests of
engaged in asserting an opposit
al and those of the State, the idealists were
the free individu
engaged in representing man as achieving true freedom

through his participation in the life of the totality.
In other words, we can see in the idealist movement up to
Bradley and Bosanquet the increasing influence of Hegelian-
ism. As has already been indicated, the influence of Kant
was never unmixed. For the critical philosophy was seen as
looking forward to metaphysical idealism. But if we make
allowances for this fact and also for the fact that there were
very considerable differences between Bradley’s theory of the
Absolute and that of Hegel, we can say that the change from
emphasis on the subject-object relationship to emphasis on
the idea of the organic totality represented a growing pre-
dominance of the stimulative influence of Hegelianism over
that of the critical philosophy of Kant.
Inthefinal_phase_of theidealist_ movement emphasis_on
the finite self became once again prominent, thoughit was a
question this time of the active self, the human person, rather
than of the epistemological subject. And this personal ideal-
ism was accompanied by a reapproximation to theism, ex-
cept in the notable case of McTaggart, who depicted the
Absolute as the system of piesa GaeAb aca teeae
of personal idealism is of some interest, inasmuch as it repre-
sents the finite self’s resistance to being swallowed up in
some impersonal Absolute, it belongs to a period when ideal-
ism in Britain was giving way to a new current of thought,
associated with the names of G. E. Moore, Bertrand Russell,
and, subsequently, Ludwig Wittgenstein.
2. As far as the general educated public was concerned,
the influence of German thought first made itself felt in
Great Britain through the writings of poets and literary fig-
ures such as Coleridge and Carlyle.
(i) Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) seems to have
made his first acquaintance with philosophy through the writ-
ings of Neo-Platonists, when he was a schoolboy at Christ’s
Hospital. This early attraction for the mystical philosophy of
Plotinus was succeeded, however, by a Voltairean phase, dur-
ing which he was for a short time a sceptic in regard to
religion. Then at Cambridge Coleridge developed a perhaps
somewhat surprising enthusiasm for David Hartley and his
associationist psychology.® Indeed, Coleridge claimed to be
THE BEGINNINGS OF THE MOVEMENT uk ag
more consistent than Hartley had been. For whereas Hartley,

while maintaining that psychical processes depend on and are
correlated with vibrations in the brain, had not asserted the
corporeality of thought, Coleridge wrote to Southey in 1794
that he believed thought to be corporeal, that is, motion.
At the same time Coleridge combined his enthusiasm for
Hartley with religious faith.7 And he came to think that the
scientific understanding is inadequate as a key to reality, and
to speak of the role of intuition and the importance of moral
in
far
so as it differs from that of Aristotle, is untenable.’
Coleridge’s distinction between the scientific understand-
ing and the higher Teason OT, as € Germans wou
between Verstand and Vernunft_ was one expression of his
revolt against the spirit of the eighteenth-century Enlighten-
sienf. Hedidnot,oFcouse, meantobmplythatthescientific
and critical understanding should be rejected in the name
of a higher and intuitive reason. His point was rather that
the former is not an omnicompetent instrument in the inter-
pretation of reality, but that it needs to be supplemented
and balanced by the latter, namely the intuitive reason. It
can hardly be claimed that Coleridge made his distinction
between understanding and reason crystal clear. But the gen-
eral line of his pitek is sufficiently plain. In Aids to ne:
flection (1825) he describes the understandin
which judges according to sense. Its appropriate sphere is the
“sensible world, and it reflécts and generalizes on the basis of
sense-experience. Reason, however, is the vehicle of ideas
which are presupposed by all experience, and in this sense it
predetermines and governs experience. It also perceives
truths which are incapable of verification in sense-experience,
and it intuitively apprehends spiritual realities. Further,
Coleridge identifies it with the practical reason, which com-
prises the will and the moral aspect of the human personality.
J. S. Mill is thus perfectly justified in saying in his famous
essay on Coleridge that the poet dissents from the ‘Lockian’
view that all knowledge consists of generalizations from ex-
perience, and that he claims for the reason, as distinct from
the understanding, the power to perceive by direct intuition
realities and truths which transcend the reach of the senses.®
In his development of this distinction Coleridge received

stimulus from the writings of Kant, which he began to study
shortly after his visit to Germany in 1798-9.1° But he tends
to speak as though Kant not only limited the scope of the
Sere tee
envisaged an intuitive apprehension of spiritual realities by
means of the reason, whereas in point of fact in attributing
this power tothereason, identified moreover with the prac-
affinity with Jacobi41 in maintaining that the relation be-

tween reason and spiritual realities is analogous to that be-
tween the eye and material objects.
Nobody, however, would wish to maintain that Coleridge
was a Kantian. It was a question of stimulus, not of disciple-
ship. And though he recognized his debt to German thinkers,
especially to Kant, it is clear that he regarded his own phi-
losophy as being fundamentally Platonic in inspiration. In
Aids to Reflection he asserted that every man is born either a
Platonist or an Aristotelian. Aristotle, the great _master_of
understanding, was unduly earthbound. He ‘began with the
sensual, and never received that which was above the
senses, but by necessity, but as the only remaining hypothe-
sis... .?2 That is to say, Aristotle postulated spiritual real-
ity only as a last resort, when forced to do so by the need of
explaining physical phenomena. Plato,
however,
sought the
supersensible reality which is revealed _to us through reason
and our moral will. As for Kant, Coleridge sometimes de-
scribes himas belonging spiritually to the ranks of the Aris-
totelians, while at other times he emphasizes the metaphysi-
cal aspects of Kant’s thought and finds in him an approach
to Platonism. In other words, Coleridge welcomes Kant’s re-
striction of the reach of understanding to phenomenal reality
and then tends to interpret his doctrine of reason in the light
of Platonism, which is itself interpreted in the light of the
philosophy of Plotinus.
These remarks should not be understood as implying any
contempt for Nature on Coleridge’s part. On the contrary,
he disliked Fichte’s ‘boastful and hyperstoic hostility to Na-
ture, as lifeless, godless, and altogether unholy’.13 And he
expressed a warm sympathy with Schelling’s philosophy of

Nature, as also with his system of transcendental idealism,
in which ‘T first found a genial coincidence with much that
I had toiled out for myself, and a powerful assistance in what
I had yet to do’.14 Coleridge is indeed at pains to reject the
charge of plagiarism, and he maintains that both he and
Schelling have drunk at the same springs, the writings of
Kant, the philosophy of Giordano Bruno and the speculations
of Jakob Boehme. However, the influence of Schelling seems
to be sufficiently evident in the line of thought which we can
now briefly outline.
_ ‘All knowledge rests on the coincidence of an object with a
subject.’15 But though subject and object are united in the
act of knowledge, we can ask which has the priority. Are we
ee ee eee
are we to start wi e subject and try to find a passa
the object? In other words, are we to take Nature as prior
and try to add to it thought or mind, or are we to take
thought as prior and try to deduce Nature? Coleridge answers
that we can do neither the one nor the other. The ultimate
principle is to be sought in the identityof subject and object.
“Where is this identity to be found? ‘Only in the self-
consciousness of aspirit isthere the required identity of ob-
ject and of representation.’1® But if the spirit is originally
the identity of subject and object, it must in some sense
dissolve this identity in order to become conscious of itself
as object. Self-consciousness, therefore, cannot arise except
through an act of will, and ‘freedom must be assumed as a
ground of philosophy, and can never be deduced from it’.17
The spirit becomes a subject knowing itself as object _onl
through ‘the act of constructing itself objectively to_itself’.18
of question which Schelling asks, then supplies Schelling’s

answer, namely that we must postulate an original identity
of subject and object, and finally switches to Fichte’s idea
of the ego as constituting itself as subject and object by an
nointention ofstopping shast
original act. But Coleridge hasprinciple,
with the ego as his ultimate especially if we mean
by this the finite ego. Indeed, he ridicules the ‘egoism’ of
Fichte.19 Instead, he insists that to arrive at the absolute
identity of subject and object, of the ideal and the real, as

the ultimate principle not only of human knowledge but also
of all existence we must ‘elevate our conception to the abso-
lute ‘self, the great eternal I am’.2° Coleridge criticizes Des-
cartes’s Cogito, ergo sum and refers to Kant’s distinction be-
tween the empirical and the transcendental ego. But he then
tends to speak as though the transcendental ego were the
absolute I am that I am of Exodus?1 and the God in whom
the finite self is called to lose and find itself at the same time.
All this is obviously cloudy and imprecise. But it is at any
rate clear that _a_spiritualistic_interpreta-
Coleridge opposes
tion of the human self to materialism and phenomenalism.
Mirena
Heme rn Meta ma ee
view provides the basis for the claim that reason can appre-
hend supersensible reality. Indeed, in his essay on faith Cole-
_Jidge describes
faith as fidelity to our own being in so far as)!
our being is not and cannot become an object of ral
experience. Our moral vocation demands the subordination
of appetite and will to reason; and it is reason which appre-
hends God as the identity of will and reason, as the ground
of our existence, and as the infinite expression of the ideal
which we are seeking as moral beings. In other words, Cole-
ridge’s outlook was essentially religious, and he tried to bring
together philosophy and religion. He may have tended, as
Mill notes, to turn Christian mysteries into philosophical
truths. But an important element in the mission of idealism,
as conceived by its more religious adherents, was precisely
that of giving a metaphysical basis to a Christian tradition
which seemed to be signally lacking in any philosophical
backbone.
In the field of social and political theory Coleridge was
conservative in the sense that he was opposed to the icono-
clasm of the radicals and desired the preservation and actuali-
zation of the values inherent in traditional institutions. At
one time he was indeed attracted, like Wordsworth and
Southey, by the ideas which inspired the French Revolution.
But he came to abandon the radicalism of his youth, though
his subsequent conservatism arose not from any hatred of
change as such but from a belief that the institutions created
by the national spirit in the course of.its history embodied
real values which men should endeavour to realize. As Mill

put it, Bentham demanded ‘the extinction of the institutions
and creeds which had hitherto existed’, whereas Coleridge
demanded ‘that they be made a reality’.22
(ii) Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881) belonged to a later gen-
eration than that of Coleridge; but he was considerably Jess
systematic in the presentation of his philosophical ideas, and
there are doubtless very many people today who find the
turbulent prose of Sartor Resartus quite unreadable. How-
ever, he was one of the channels through which German
thought and literature were brought to the attention of the
British public.
Carlyle’s first reaction to German philosophy was not ex-
actly favourable, and he made fun both of Kant’s obscurity
and of the pretensions of Coleridge. But in his hatred of
materialism, hedonism and utilitarianism he came to see in
Kant the brilliant foe of the Enlightenment and of its deriva-
tive movements. Thus in his essay on the State of German
Literature (1827) he praised Kant for starting from within
and proceeding outwards instead of pursuing the Lockian
path of starting with sense-experience and trying to build a
philosophy on this basis. The Kantian, according to Carlyle,
sees that fundamental truths are apprehended by intuition
in man’s inmost nature. In other words, Carlyle ranges him-
self with Coleridge in using Kant’s restriction of the power
and scope of the understanding as a foundation for assertin
a iritual ities.
Characteristic of Carlyle was his vivid sense of the mystery
of the world and of its nature as an appearance of, or veil
before, supersensible reality. In the State of German Litera-
ture he asserted that the ultimate aim of philosophy is ay
symbol fo the reality symbolized. And this point of view

found expression in Sartor Resartus,?3 under the label of the
philosophy of clothes. It can be applied to man, the micro-
cosm. “To the eye of vulgar Logic what is man? An omnivo-
rous Biped that wears Breeches. To the eye of Pure Reason
what is he? A Soul, a Spirit, and divine Apparition. .
Deep-hidden is he under that strange Garment.’*4 And the
analogy is applicable also to the macrocosm, the world in

general. For the world is, as Goethe divined, ‘the living visi-
ble Garment of God’ .?5
In the State of German Literature Carlyle explicitly con-
nects his philosophy of symbolism with Fichte, who is re-
garded as having interpreted the visible universe as the sym-
bol and sensible manifestation of an all-pervading divine
Idea, the apprehension of which is the condition of all genu-
ine virtue and freedom. And there is indeed no great difficulty
in understanding Carlyle’s predilection for Fichte. For seeing,
as he does, human life and history as a constant struggle
between light and darkness, God and the devil, a struggle in
which every man is called to play a part and to make an all-
important choice, he naturally feels an attraction for Fichte’s
moral earnestness and for his view of Nature as being simply
the field in which man works out his moral vocation, the field
of obstacles, so to speak, which man has to overcome in the
process of attaining his ideal end.
This outlook helps to explain Carlyle’s concern with the
hero, as manifested in his 1840 lectures On Heroes, Hero-
Worship and the Heroic in History. Over against materialism
and what he calls profit-and-loss philosophy he sets the ideas
of heroism, moral vocation and personal loyalty. Indeed, he
isprepared to assert that ‘the life-breath of all society [is]
but an effluence of Hero-worship, submissive admiration for
the truly great. Society is founded on Hero-worship.’26 Again,
‘Universal History, the history of what man has accomplished
in the world, is at bottom the History of the Great Men who
have worked here’.27
In his insistence on the role of hi *s‘ men’ Carlyle
resembles Hegel?® and anticipates Nietzsche in some aspects,
though hero-worship in the political field is an idea which
we are likely to regard with mixed feelings nowadays. How-
ever, it 1s clear that what especially attracted Carlyle in his
heroes was their earnestness and self-devotion and their free-
dom from a morality based on the hedonistic calculus. For
example, while aware of Rousseau’s shortcomings and faults
of character, which made him ‘a sadly contracted Hero’,29
Carlyle insists that this unlikely candidate for the title pos-
sessed ‘the first and chief characteristic of a Hero: he is
heartily in earnest. In earnest, if ever man was; as none of

these French Philosophes were.’3°
3. In spite of the fact that both men delivered lectures it
would be idle to look either to Coleridge or Carlyle for a
systematic development of idealism. For a pioneer in this
field we have to turn rather to James Frederick Ferrier
(1808-64), who occupied the chair of moral philosophy in
the University of St. Andrews from 1845 until the year of
his death, and who made a great point of systematic pro-
cedure in philosophy.
In 1838-9 Ferrier contributed a series of articles to Black-
wood’s Magazine, which was published with the title Intro-
duction to the Philosophy of Consciousness. In 1854 he pub-
lished his main work, The Institutes of Metaphysics, which
is remarkable for the way in which the author develops his
doctrine in a series of propositions, each of which, with the
exception of the first fundamental proposition, is supposed
to follow with logical rigour from its predecessor. In 1856 he
published Scottish Philosophy, while his Lectures on Greek
Philosopny and Other Philosophical Remains appeared post-
humously in 1866.
Ferrier claimed that his philosophy was Scottish to the
core. But this does not mean that he regarded himself as
an adherent of the Scottish philosophy of common sense. On
the contrary, he vigorously attacked Reid and his followers.
In the first place a philosopher should not appeal to a multi-
tude of undemonstrated principles, but should employ the
deductive method which is essential to metaphysics and not
an optional expository device. In the second place the Scot-
tish philosophers of common sense tended to confuse meta-
physics with psychology, trying to solve philosophical prob-
lems by psychological reflections, instead of by rigorous
logical reasoning.21 As for Sir William Hamilton, his ag-
nosticism about the Absolute was quite misplaced.
When Ferrier said that his philosophy was Scottish to the
core, he meant that he had not borrowed it from the Ger-
mans. Though his system was not uncommonly regarded as
Hegelian, he claimed that he had never been able to under-
stand Hegel.32 Indeed, he expressed a doubt whether the
German philosopher had been able to understand himself.
In any case Hegel starts with Being, whereas his own system
took knowledge as its point of departure,
Ferrier’s first move is to look for the absolute starting-point
of metaphysics in a proposition which states the one invari-
able and essential feature in all knowledge, and which cannot
be denied without contradiction. is is that ‘along with
whatever any intelligence knows, it must, as the ground or
condition of its knowledge, have some cognizance of itself’.8*
know anything without knowing that I know. To deny this

is to talk nonsense. To assert it is to admit that there is no
knowledge without self-consciousness, without some aware-
ness of the self.
It follows from this, Ferrier argues, that nothing can be
known except in relation to a subjec i
the object of knowledge is essentially object-for-a-subject.
And Ferriér draws the conclusion that nothing is thinkable
except in relation to a subject. From this it follows that the
material universe is unthinkable as existing without any re-
lation to subject.
The critic might be inclined to comment that Ferrier is
really saying no more than that I cannot think of the universe
without thinking of it, or know it without knowing it. If
anything more is being said, if, in particular, a transition is
being made from an epistemological point to the assertion
of an ontological relation, a solipsistic conclusion seems to
follow, namely that the existence of the material world is
unthinkable except as dependent on myself as subject.
Ferrier, however, wishes to maintain two propositions.
First,
we cannot think of the universe as ‘dissociated from
every me. You cannot perform the ab ion.’”85 Secondly,
ticular. And from these two propositions it follows that

though ‘each of us can unyoke the universe (so to speak)
from himself, he can do this only by yoking it on, in thought,
to some other self’.86 This is an essential move for Ferrier
to make, because he wishes to argue that the universe is
unthinkable except as existing in synthesis with the divine
mind.
The first section of the Institutes of.Metaphysics thus pur-
ports to show that the absolute element in knowledge is the

synthesis of subject and object. But Ferrier does not proceed
at once to his final conclusion. Instead, he devotes the second
section to ‘agnoiology’, the theory of ‘ignorance’. We can be
said to be in a state of nescience in regard to the contradic-
tions of necessarily true propositions. But this is obviously
no sign of imperfection in our minds. As for ignorance, we
cannot properly be said to be ignorant except of what is in
principle knowable. Hence we cannot be ignorant of, for ex-
ample, matter ‘in itself’ (without relation to a subject). For
this is unthinkable and unknowable. Further, if we assume
that we are ignorant of the Absolute, it follows that the Ab-
solute is knowable. Hence Hamilton’s agnosticism is un-
tenable.
But what is the Absolute or, as Ferrier expresses it, Abso-
luteExistence? Ttcannotbeeithermalterfersearmind
sé. For neither is thinkable. It therefore,
must be, the
synthesis of subject and object. There is, however, only one
such synthesis which is necessary. For though the existence
of a universe is not conceivable except as object-for-a-subject,
we have already seen that the universe can be unyoked or
dissociated from any given finite subject. Hence ‘there is one,
but only one, Absolute Existence which is strictly necessary;
and that existence is a supreme, and infinite, and everlasting
ind in synthesis with all things’.
~ comment
By way of it is not inappropriate to draw atten-
tion to the rather obvious fact, that the statement ‘there can
be no subject without an object and no object without a
subject’ is analytically true, if the terms ‘subject’ and ‘object’
are understood in their epistemological senses. It is also true
that no material thing can be conceived except as object-for-
a-subject, if we mean by this that no material thing can be
conceived except by constituting it (‘intentionally’, as the
phenomenologists would say) as an object. But this does not
seem to amount to much more than saying that a thing can-
not be thought of unless it is thought of. And from this it
does not follow that a thing cannot exist unless it is thought
of. Ferrier could retort, of course, that we cannot intelligi-
bly speak of a thing as existing independently of being con-
ceived. For by the mere fact that we speak of it, we conceive
it. If I try to think of material thing X as existing outside

the subject-object relationship, my effort is defeated by the
very fact that I am thinking of X. In this case, however, the
thing seems to be irrevocably yoked, as Ferrier puts it, to
me as subject. And how can I possibly unyoke it? If I try to
unyoke it from myself and yoke it to some other subject,
whether finite or infinite, does not this other subject, on Fer-
rier’s premisses, become object-for-a-subject, the subject in
question being myself?
It is not my intention to suggest that in point of fact the
material universe could exist independently of God. The
point is rather that the conclusion that it cannot so exist
does not really follow from Ferrier’s epistemological prem-
isses. The conclusion which does seem to follow is solipsism.
And Ferrier escapes from this conclusion only by an appeal
to common sense and to our knowledge of historical facts.
That is to say, as I cannot seriously suppose that the material
universe is simply object for me as subject, I must postulate
an eternal, infinite subject, God. But on Ferrier’s premisses
it appears to follow that God Himself, as thought by me,
must be object-for-a-subject, the subject being myself.
4. Among Ferrier’s contemporaries John Grote (1813-66),
brother of the historian, deserves mention. Professor of moral
philosophy at Cambridge from 1855 until 1866, he published
the first part of Exploratio philosophica in 1865. The second
part appeared posthumously in 1900. His Examination of
Utilitarian Philosophy (1870) and A Treatise on the Moral
Ideals (1876) were also published after his death. It is true
that nowadays Grote is even less known than Ferrier; but
his criticism of phenomenalism and of hedonistic utilitarian-
ism is not without value.
Grote’s critique of phenomenalism can be illustrated in
this way. One of the main features ofpositivistic phenomenal-
ism is that it first reduces the object of knowledge to a series
ofphenomena andthen proceeds toapplyasimilarsaestive
analysis tothe subject, the ego orself. In effect, therefore,
the subject is reduced to its own object. Or, if preferred,
subject and objéct are both reduced to phenomena which
are assumed to be the basic reality, the ultimate entities out
of which selves and physical objects can be reconstructed by
thought. But this reduction of the self or subject can be
shown to be untenable. In the first place talk about phenom-
ena_is not intelligible except in relation to consciousness. For
that_which appears, appears f0 a subject, within the ambit,
so to speak, of consciousness. We cannot go behind con-
sciousness; and analysis of it shows that it essentially involves
the subject-object relationship. In primitive consciousness
subject and object are virtually or confusedly present; and
they are progressively distinguished in the development of
consciousness until there arises an explicit awareness of a
world of objects on the one hand and of a self or subject on
the other, this awareness of the self being developed espe-
cially by the experience of effort. As, therefore, the subject
is present from the start as one of the essential poles even in
primitive consciousness, it cannot be legitimately reduced to
the object, to phenomena. At the same time reflection on the
essential structure of consciousness shows that we are not
presented with a self-enclosed ego from which we have to
find a bridge, as in the philosophy of Descartes, to the
non-ego.
In the second place it is important to notice the way in
siiiaht SOPRA SGalebieeis active DOTS aT
ject or self is characterized by teleological activity; it has
ends Aidi PURE SETS SaasWeconstructs unities among
phenomena, not in the sense that it imposes a priori forms
on a mass of unrelated, chaotic data,38 but rather in the
sense that it builds up its world in an experimental way by a
process of auto-correction. On this count too, therefore,
namely the active role of the self in the construction of the
world of objects, it is clear that it cannot be reduced to a
series of phenomena, its own immediate objects.%®
In the sphere of moral philosophy Grote was strongly op-
posed to both egoistic hedonism and utilitarianism. He did
not object to them for taking into account man’s sensibility
and his search for happiness. On the contrary, Grote himself
admitted the science of happiness, ‘eudaemonics’ as he called
it, as a part of ethics. What he objected to was an exclusive
concentration on the search for pleasure_and_a consequent
neglect of other aspects of the human personality, especially
man’s capacity for conceiving and pursuing ideals which
transcend the search for pleasure and may demand self-
sacrifice. Hence to ‘eudaemonics’ he added ‘aretaics’, the
science of virtue. And he insisted that the moral task is to
achieve the union of the lower and higher elements of man’s
nature in the service of moral ideals. For our actions become
moral when they pass from the sphere of the merely sponta-
neous, as in following the impulse to pleasure, into the sphere
of the deliberate and voluntary, impulse supplying the dy-
namic element and intellectually-conceived principles and
ideals the regulative element.
Obviously, Grote’s attack on utilitarianism as neglecting
the higher aspects of man through an exclusive concentration
on the search for pleasure was more applicable to Bentham-
ite hedonism than to J. S. Mill’s revised version of utilitarian-
ism. But in any case it was a question not so much of suggest-
ing that a utilitarian philosopher could not have moral ideals
as of maintaining that the utilitarian ethics could not provide
an adequate theoretical framework for such ideals. Grote’s
main point was that this could be provided only by a radical
revision of the concept of man which Bentham inherited
from writers such as Helvétius. Hedonism, in Grote’s opin-
ion, could not account for the consciousness of obligation.
For this arises when man, conceiving moral ideals, feels the
need of subordinating his lower to his higher nature.
5. We can reasonably see a connection between the ideal-
ists’ perception of the inadequacy of the Benthamite view
of human nature and the revival of interest in Greek phi-
losophy which occurred in the universities, especially at Ox-
ford, in the course of the nineteenth century. We have al-
ready seen that Coleridge regarded his philosophy as being
fundamentally Platonic in inspiration and character. But the
renewal of Platonic studies at Oxford can be associated in
particular with the name of Benjamin Jowett (1817-93), who
became a Fellow of Balliol College in 1838 and occupied
the chair of Greek from 1855 to 1893. The defects in his
famous translation of Plato’s Dialogues are irrelevant here.
The point is that in the course of his long teaching career
he contributed powerfully to a revival of interest in Greek
thought. And it is not without significance that T. H. Green
and E. Caird, both prominent in the idealist movement, were

at one time his pupils. Interest in Plato and Aristotle natu-
rally tended to tum their minds away from hedonism and
utilitarianism towards an ethics of self-perfection, based on a
theory of human nature within a metaphysical framework.
The revival of interest in Greek thought was accompanied
by a growing appreciation of German idealist philosophy.
Jowett himself was interested in the latter, particularly in
the thought of Hegel;4° and he helped to stimulate the study
of German idealism at Oxford. The first large-scale attempt,
however, to elucidate what Ferrier had considered to be the
scarcely intelligible profundities of Hegel was made by the
Scotsman, James Hutchison Stirling (1820-1909), in his
two-volume work The Secret of Hegel, which appeared in
1865.41
Stirling developed an enthusiasm for Hegel during a visit
to Germany, especially during a stay at Heidelberg in 1856;
and the result was The Secret of Hegel. In spite of the com-
ment that if the author knew the secret of Hegel, he kept it
successfully to himself, the book marked the beginning of
the serious study of Hegelianism in Great Britain. In Stir-
ling’s view Hume’s philosophy was the culmination of the
Enlightenment, while Kant,42 who took over what was valu-
able in Hume’s thought and used it in the development of a
new line of reflection, fulfilled and at the same time_over-
came and transcended the Enlightenment. While, however,
GRE TENTTHETGERGEE GENOF eatin dtras Hegel who built
and completed the edifice. And to understand the secret of
Hegel is to understand how he made explicit the doctrine of
the concrete universal, which was implicit in the critical
philosophy of Kant.
It is noteworthy that Stirling regarded Hegel not only as
standing to modern philosophy in the relation in which Aris-
totle stood to preceding Greek thought but also as the great
intellectual champion of the Christian religion. He doubtless
attributed to Hegel too high a degree of theological ortho-
doxy; but his attitude serves to illustrate the religious interest
which characterized the idealist movement before Bradley.
According to Stirling, Hegel was concerned_with proving,
among other things, the immortality of the soul. And though
there is little evidence that Hegel felt much interest in this

matter, Stirling’s interpretation can be seen as representing
the emphasis placed by the earlier idealists on the finite
spiritual self, an emphasis which harmonized with their tend-
ency to retain a more or less theistic outlook,
Chapter Seven
THE DEVELOPMENT OF IDEALISM
T. H. Green’s attitude to British empiricism and to German

thought —Green’s doctrine of the eternal subject, with some
critical comments—The ethical and political theory of Green
—E. Caird and the unity underlying the distinction between
subject and object—J. Caird and the philosophy of religion-
W. Wallace and D. G. Ritchie.
1. Philosophers are not infrequently more convincing when

they are engaged in criticizing the views of other philosophers
than when they are expounding their own doctrines. And
this perhaps somewhat cynical remark seems to be applicable
to Thomas Hill Green (1836-82), Fellow of Balliol College,
Oxford, and White’s professor of moral philosophy in that
university from 1878 to the year of his death. In his Intro-
ductions to Hume’s Treatise of Human Nature,1 which he
published in 1874 for the Green and Grose edition of Hume,
he made an impressive broadside attack on British empiri-
cism. But his own idealist system is no less open to criticism
than the views against which he raised objections.
From Locke onwards, according to Green, empiricists-have
assumed that it is the philosopher’s business to reduce our
knowledge to its primitive elements, to the original data, and
then to reconstruct the world of ordinary experience out_of
Gee ercelela Vansishaeace famathe it hatin
satisfactory explanation has ever been offered of the way in
which the mind can go behind the subject-object relationship
and discover the primitive data out of which both minds and
physical objects are supposed to be constructed, the empiri-
cist programme lands us in an impasse. On the one hand, to
construct the world of minds and physical objects the mind
has to relate the primitive atomic data, discrete phenomena.
In other words, it has to exercise activity. On the other hand,
the mind’s activity is inexplicable on empiricist principles.

For it is itself reduced to a series of phenomena. And how
can it construct itself? Further, though empiricism professes
to account for human knowledge, it does not in fact do any-
thing of the kind. For the world of ordinary experience is
interpreted as a mental construction out of discrete impres-
sions; and we have no way of knowing that the construction
represents objective reality at all. In other words, a consistent
empiricism leads inevitably to scepticism.
Hume himself, as Green sees him, was an outstanding
thinker who discarded compromise and carried the principles
of empiricism to their logical conclusion. ‘Adopting the
premisses and method of Locke, he cleared them of all illogi-
cal adaptations to popular belief, and experimented with
them on the basis of professed knowledge. . . . As the re-
sult of the experiment, the method, which began with pro-
fessing to explain knowledge, showed knowledge to be im-
possible.’2 ‘Hume himself was perfectly cognizant of this
result, but his successors in England and Scotland would
seem so far to have been unable to look it in the face.’8
Some philosophers after Hume, and here Green is evi-
dently referring to the Scottish philosophers of common
sense, have thrust their heads back into the thicket of un-
criticized belief. Others have gone on developing Hume’s
theory of.the association of ideas, apparently oblivious of
the fact that Hume himself had shown the insufficiency of
the principle of association to account for anything more
than natural or quasi-instinctive belief.4 In other words,
Hume represented both the culmination and the bankruptcy
of empiricism. And the torch of inquiry ‘was transferred to a
more vigorous line in Germany’.5
‘Thus the Treatise umdn ure and the Critique of

Pure Reason, taken together, form the real bridge between
the old world of philosophy and the new. They are the essen-
tial “Propaedeutik” without which no one is a qualified stu-
dent of modern philosophy.’* It does not follow, however,
that we can remain in the philosophy of Kant. For Kant
looks forward to Hegel or at any rate to something resembling
Hegelianism. Green agrees with Stirling that Hegel developed
THE DEVELOPMENT OF IDEALISM 193
the philosophy of Kant in the right direction; but he is not
prepared to say that Hegel’s system as it stands is satisfactory.
It is all very well for the Sundays of speculation, as Green
puts it; but it is more difficult to accept on the weekdays of
ordinary thought. There is need for reconciling the judgments
of speculative philosophy with our ordinary judgments about
matters of fact and with the sciences, Hegelianism, however,
if taken as it stands, cannot perform this task of synthesizing
different tendencies and points of view in contemporary
thought. The work has to be done over again.
In point of fact the name of Hegel does not loom large in
the writings of Green. The name of Kant is far more promi-
nent. But Green maintained that by reading Hume in the
light of Leibniz and Leibniz in the light of Hume, Kant was
able to free himself from their respective presuppositions.
And we can justifiably say that though Green derived a great
deal of stimulus from Kant, he read him in the light of his
conviction that the critical philosophy needed some such
development, though not precisely the same, as that which it
actually received at the hands of the German metaphysical
idealists, and of Hegel in particular,
2. In the introduction to his Prolegomena to Ethics, which
was published posthumously in 1883, Green_refers_to the
temptation to treat ethics as though it were a branch of
natural science. This temptation is indeed understandable.
or gto in historical knowledge and the development of
theories of evolution suggest the possibility of giving a purely
naturalistic and genetic explanation of the phenomena of
the moral life. But what becomes then of ethics considered
as_a normative science € answer is that the phi I
ee PaOsopne
who ‘has the courage of his principles, havin
speculative part of them [our ethical systems] to a_ natural
science, must abolish the practic .
gether’.? The fact, however, that the reduction of ethics to a
branch of natural science involves the abolition of ethics as
a normative science should make us reconsider the presup-
positions or conditions of moral knowledge and activity. Is
man merely a child of Nature? Or is there in him a spiritual
principle which makes knowledge possible, whether it be
knowledge of Nature or moral knowledge?
Green thus finds it necessary to start his inquiry into morals

with a metaphysics of knowledge. And he argues in the first
place that even if we were to decide in favour of the ma-
terialists all those questions about particular facts which
have formed the subject of debate between them and the
spiritualists, the possibility of our explaining the facts at all
still remain to be accounted for. ‘We shall still he logically
bound to admit that in a man who can know a Nature—for
mpdotepov be explained as we explain the facts of nature.’§

CARRE CHGS WOepehat ayTne say
that it is a member in a system of relations, the order of
Nature. But awareness or knowledge of a series of related
events cannot itself be a series of events. Nor can it be a
natural development out of such a series. In other words, the
mind as an active synthesizing principle is irreducible to the
factors which it synthesizes. True, the empirical ego belongs
to the order of Nature. But my awareness of myself as an
empirical ego manifests the activity of a principle which
transcends that order. In fine, ‘an _understanding—for that
term seems as fit as any other to denote the principle
Of Consciousness in question—ireducible to anything else,
“makes nature” for us, in the sense of enabling us to conceive
that there 1s such a thing’?
~ We have just seen that for Green a thing is real in virtue
of its membership in a system of related phenomena. At the
same time he holds that ‘related appearances are impossible
apart from the action of an intelligence’.19 Nature is thus
made by the synthesizing activity of a mind. It is obvious,
however, that we cannot seriously suppose that Nature, as
the system of related phenomena, is simply the product of
the synthesizing activity of any given finite mind. Though,
therefore, it can be said that each finite mind constitutes
Nature in so far as it conceives the system of relations, we
must also assume that there is a single spiritual principle, an
eternal consciousness, which ultimately constitutes or pro-
duces Nature.
From this it follows that we must conceive the finite mind
as participating in the life of an eternal consciousness or in-
telligence which ‘partially and gradually reproduces itself in
us, Communicating piece-meal, but in inseparable correlation,
understanding and the facts understood, experience and the
experienced world’.11 Thig amounts to saying that God
gradually reproduces his own knowledge in the finite mind.
nd, if this is the case, what are we to say about the empiri-
lasts Glabneks dle oni cioath ratkiceiioineen
bEmedibon latanbace Poakane enti caeae tai God.
Green’s answer is that God reproduces his own knowledge in
foeeonsthe HAE
life of
TpetOUNI Ieeep0AD wweske ofthersentient
human organism and of its response to stimuli.
‘ices late ORSTEanicaapersie Daiaan (cohsrioumcaaahete
is the empirical aspect, under which our consciousness ap-
pears to Consist
modif ‘in successive
ications
of the animal
organism’.™? And there is the metaphysical aspect, under
which this organism is se ing ‘ e-
hicle of an eternally complete consciousness’ .13
teen thus shares wi e earlier idealists the tendency
to choose an epistemological point of departure, the subject-
object relationship. Under the influence of Kant, however, he
depicts the subject as actively synthesizing the manifold of
phenomena, as constituting the order of Nature by relating
appearances or phenomena. This process of synthesis is a
gradual process which develops through the history of the
human race towards an ideal term. And we can thus con-
ceive the total process as an activity of one spiritual principle
which lives and acts in and through finite minds. In other
words, Kant’s idea of the synthesizing activity of the mind
leads us to the Hegelian concept of infinite Spirit.
At the same time Green’s religious interests militate
against any reduction of infinite Spirit to the lives of finite
spirits considered simply collectively. It is true that he wishes
to avoid what he regards as one of the main defects of tra-
over against the world and the finite spirit. Hence he depicts
é spiritual life of man as a participation in the divine life.
But he also wishes to avoid using the word ‘God’ simply as a
label either for the spiritual life of man considered univer-
sally, as something which develops in the course of the evolu-
tion of human culture, or for the ideal of complete knowl-
edge, an ideal which does not yet exist but towards which
human knowledge progressively approximates. He does in-
deed speak of the human spirit as ‘identical’ with God; but
he adds, ‘in the sense that He is all which the human spirit
and His complete knowledge is reproduced_progressively in

theHnite subset independence: fem theempirical point of
view, on the modifications of the human organism.
If we ask why God acts in this way, Green implies that no
answer can be given. “The old question, why God made the
world, has never been answered, nor will be. We know not
why the world should be; we only know that there it is. In
like manner we know not why the eternal subject of that
world should reproduce itself, through certain processes of
the world, as the spirit of mankind, or as the particular self
of this or that man in whom the spirit of mankind operates.
We can only say that, upon the best analysis we can make
of our experience, it seems that so it does.’
In_Green’s retention of the idea_of an eternal subject
which ‘reproduces itself’ in finite subjects and therefore can
not be simply identified with them it is not unreasonable t
see the operation of a religious interest, a concern with the
idea of a God in whom we live and move and have our being.
But this is certainly not the explicit or formal reason for
postulating an eternal subject. For it is explicitly postulated
as the ultimate synthesizing agent in constituting the system
of Nature. And in making this postulate Green seems to lay
himself open to the same sort of objection that we brought
against Ferrier, For if it is once assumed, at least for the
sake of argument, that the order of Nature is constituted by
the synthesizing or relating activity of intelligence, it is ob-
(ousther emnor athe diy wadetito an eed ates
gence or subject unless I have myself first conceived, and so
constituted, it. And it then becomes difficult to see how, in
Ferrier’s terminology, I can unyoke the conceived system of
telations from the synthesizing activity of my own mind and
yoke it on to any other subject, eternal or otherwise.
It may be objected that this line of criticism, though pos-
sibly valid in the case of Ferrier, is irrelevant in that of
Green. For Green sees the individual. finite subject as par-
ticipating in a general spiritual life, the spiritual life of hu-
manity, which progressively synthesizes phenomena in its
advance towards the ideal goal of complete knowledge, a
knowledge which would be itself the constituted order of
Nature. Hence there is no question of unyoking my synthesis
from myself and yoking it to any other spirit. My synthesizing
activity is simply a moment in that of the human race as a
whole or of the one spiritual principle which lives in and
through the multiplicity of finite subjects.
In this case, however, what becomes of Green’s eternal sub-
ject? If we wish to represent, say, the advancing scientific
knowledge of mankind as a life in which all scientists par-
ticipate and which moves towards an ideal goal, there is, of
course, no question of ‘unyoking’ and ‘yoking’. But a concept
of this sort does not by itself call for the introduction of
any eternal subject which reproduces its complete knowledge
in a piecemeal manner in finite minds.
Further, how precisely, in Green’s philosophy, are we to
conceive the relation of Nature to the eternal subject or in-
telligence? Let us assume that the constitutive activity of in-
telligence consists in relating or synthesizing. Now if God
can properly be said to create Nature, it seems to follow that
Nature is reducible to a system of relations without terms.
And this is a somewhat perplexing notion. If, however, the
eternal subject only introduces relations, so to speak, between
phenomena, we seem to be presented with a picture similar
to that painted by Plato iri the Timaeus, in the sense, that
is to say, that the eternal subject or intelligence would bring
order out of disorder rather than create the whole of Nature
out of nothing. In any case, though it may be possible to
conceive a divine intelligence as creating the world by think-
ing it, terms such as ‘eternal subject’ and ‘eternal conscious-
ness’ necessarily suggest a correlative eternal object. And this
would mean an absolutization of the subject-object relation-
ship, similar to that of Ferrier.
Objections of this sort may appear to be niggling and to
indicate an inability to appreciate Green’s general vision of
an eternal consciousness in the life of which we all partici-
pate. But the objections serve at any rate the useful purpose
of drawing attention to the fact that Green’s often acute
criticism of other philosophers is combined with that rather

vague and woolly speculation which has done so much to
bring metaphysical idealism into disrepute.'¢
3. In his moral theory Green stands in the tradition of
Plato and Aristotle, in the sense that for him the concept of
good is primary, not that of obligation. In particular, his idea
of the good for man as consisting in the full actualization of
the potentialities of the human person in an harmonious and
unified state of being recalls the ethics of Aristotle. Green
does indeed speak of ‘self-satisfaction’ as the end of moral
conduct, but he makes it clear that self-satisfaction signifies
for him self-realization rather than pleasure. We must dis-
tinguish between ‘the quest for self-satisfaction which all
moral activity is rightly held to be, and the quest for pleas-
ute which morally good activity is not’.17 This does not mean
that pleasure is excluded from the good for man. But the
harmonious and integrated actualization of the human per-
son’s potentialities cannot be identified with the search for
pleasure. For the moral agent is a spiritual subject, not simply
a sensitive organism. And in any case pleasure is a con-
comitant of the actualization of one’s powers rather than this
actualization itself.
Now it is certain that it is only through action that a man
can realize himself, in the sense of actualizing his potentiali-
ties and developing his personality towards the ideal state of
harmonious integration of his powers. And it is also obvious
that every human act, in the proper sense of the term, is
motivated. It is performed in view of some immediate end
or goal. But it is arguable that a man’s motives are determined
by his existing character, in conjunction with other circum-
stances, and that character is itself the result of empirical
causes. In this case are not a man’s actions determined in
such a way that what he will be depends on what he is,
what he is depending in turn on circumstances other than
his free choice? True, circumstances vary; but the ways in
which men react to varying circumstances seem to be deter-
mined. And if all a man’s acts are determined, is there any
room for an ethical theory which sets up a certain ideal of
human personality as that which we ought to strive to realize
through our actions?
Green is quite prepared to concede to the determinists
a
good deal of the ground on which they base their case. But
at the same time he tries to take the sting out of these con-
cessions. “The propositions, current among “determinists”
,
that a man’s action is the joint result of his character and
circumstances, is true enough in a certain sense, and, in that
sense, is quite compatible with an assertion of human free-
dom.’18 In Green’s view, it is not a necessary condition for
the proper use of the word ‘freedom’ that a man should be
able to do or to become anything whatsoever. To justify our
describing a man’s actions as free, it is sufficient that they
should be his own, in the sense that he is truly the author
of them. And if a man’s action follows from his character, if,
that is to say, he responds to a situation which calls for action
in a certain way because he is a certain sort of man, the
action is his own; he, and nobody else, is the responsible
author of it.
In defending this interpretation of freedom Green lays em-
phasis on self-consciousness. In the history of any man there
is a succession of natural empirical factors of one kind or
another, natural impulses for example, which the determinist
regards as exercising a decisive influence on the man’s con-
duct. Green argues, however, that such factors become mor-
ally relevant only when they are assumed, as it were, by the
self-conscious subject, that is, when they are taken up into
the unity of self-consciousness and turned into motives. They
then become internal principles of action; and, as such, they
are principles of free action.
This theory, which is in some respects reminiscent of
Schelling’s theory of freedom, is perhaps hardly crystal clear.
But it is clear at least that Green wishes to admit all the
empirical data to which the determinist can reasonably ap-
peal,1® and at the same time to maintain that this admission
is compatible with an assertion of human freedom. Perhaps
we can say that the question which he asks is this. Given all
the empirical facts about human conduct, have we still a use
for words such as ‘freedom’ and ‘free’ in the sphere of morals?
Green’s answer is affirmative. The acts of a self-conscious sub-
ject, considered precisely as such, can propertly be said to be
free acts. Actions which are the result of physical compul-
sion, for example, do not proceed from the self-conscious

subject as such. They are not really his own actions; he cannot
be considered the true author of them. And we need to be
able to distinguish between actions of this type and those
which are the expression of the man himself, considered not
merely as a physical agent but also as a self-conscious subject
or, as some would say, a rational agent.
Mention of the fact that for Green self-realization is the
end of moral conduct may suggest that his ethical theory is
individualistic. But though he does indeed lay emphasis on
the individual’s realization of himself, he is at one with Plato
and Aristotle in regarding the human person as essentially
social in character. In other words, the self which has to be
realized is not an atomic self, the potentialities of which can
be fully actualized and harmonized without any reference to
social relations. On the contrary, it is only in society that we
can fully actualize our potentialities and really live as human
persons. And this means in effect that the particular moral
vocation of each individual has to be interpreted within a
social context. Hence Green can use a phrase which Bradley
was afterwards to render famous, by remarking that “each has
primarily to fulfil the duties of his station’.2°
Given this outlook, it is understandable that Green lays
emphasis, again with Plato and Aristotle but also, of course,
with Hegel, on the status and function of political society,
the State, which is ‘for its members the society of societies’.21
It will be noted that this somewhat grandiloquent phrase it-
self indicates a recognition of the fact that there are other
societies, such as the family, which are presupposed by the
State. But Hegel himself recognized this fact, of course. And
it is clear that among societies Green attributes a_pre-
eminent importance to the State.
Precisely for this reason, however, it is important to under-
stand that Green is not recanting, either explicitly or im-
plicitly, his ethical theory of self-realization. He continues to
maintain his view that ‘our ultimate standard of worth is an
ideal of personal worth. All other values are relative to value
for, of, or in a person.’?? This ideal, however, can be fully
realized only in and through a society of persons. Society is
thus a moral necessity. And this applies to that larger form
of social organization which we call political society or the

State as well as to the family. But it by no means follows that
the State is an end itself. On the contrary, its function is to
create and maintain the conditions for the good life, that is,
the conditions in which human beings can best develop them-
selves and live as persons, each recognizing the others as ends,
not merely as means. In this sense the State is an instrument
rather than an end in itself. It is indeed an error to say that a
nation or a political society is merely an aggregate of individ-
uals. For use of the word ‘merely’ shows that the speaker
overlooks the fact that the individual’s moral capacities are
actualized only in concrete social relations. It implies that
individuals could possess their moral and spiritual qualities
and fulfil their moral vocation quite apart from membership
of society. At the same time the premiss that the nation or
the State is not ‘merely’ a collection of individuals does not
entail the conclusion that it is a kind of self-subsistent entity
over and above the individuals who compose it. “The life of
the nation has no real existence except as the life of the
individuals composing the nation.’28
Green is therefore quite prepared to admit that in a cer-
tain sense there are natural rights which are presupposed by
the State. For if we consider what powers must be secured
for the individual with a view to the attainment of his moral
end, we find that the individual has certain claims which
should be recognized by society. It is true that rights in the
full sense of the term do not exist until they have been ac-
corded social recognition. Indeed, the term ‘right’, in its full
sense, has little or no meaning apart from society.?4 At the
same time, if by saying that there are natural rights which are
antecedent to political society we mean that a man, simply
because he is a man, has certain claims which ought to be
recognized by the State as rights, it is then perfectly true to
say that ‘the State presupposes rights, and rights of individ-
uals. It is a form which society takes in order to maintain
them.’25
It is sufficiently obvious from what has been said that in
Green’s view we cannot obtain a philosophical understanding
of the function of the State simply by conducting an historical
investigation into the ways in which actual political socie-
ties have in fact arisen. We have to consider the nature of

man and his moral vocation. Similarly, to have a criterion for
judging laws we have to understand the moral end of man,
to which all rights are relative. ‘A law is not good because
it enforces “natural rights”, but because it contributes to the
realization of a certain end. We only discover what rights
are natural by considering what powers must be secured to a
man in order to the attainment of this end. These powers a
perfect law will secure to their full extent.’2¢
From this close association of political society with the at-
tainment of man’s moral end it follows that ‘morality and
political subjection have a common source, “political subjec-
tion” being distinguished from that of a slave, as a subjection
which secures rights to a subject. That common source is
the rational recognition by certain human beings—it may be
merely by children of the same parent—of a common well-
being which is their well-being, and which they conceive as
their well-being, whether at any moment any one of them is
inclined to it or no, . . .27 Obviously, any given individual
may be disinclined to pursue what promotes this common
well-being or good. Hence there is need for moral rules or
precepts and, in the political sphere, for laws. Moral obliga-
tion and political obligation are thus closely linked by Green.
The real basis of an obligation to obey the law of the State is
neither fear nor mere expediency but man’s moral obligation
to avoid those actions which are incompatible with the at-
tainment of his moral end and to perform those actions which
are required for its attainment.
It follows that there can be no right to disobey or rebel
against the State as such. That is to say, ‘so far as the laws
anywhere or at any time in force fulfil the idea of a State,
there can be no right to disobey them’.28 But, as Hegel
admitted, the actual State by no means always measures up
to the idea or ideal of the State; and a given law may be in-
compatible with the real interest or good of society as a whole.
Hence civil disobedience in the name of the common good
or well-being can be justifiable. Obviously, men have to take
into account the fact that it is in the public interest that
laws should be obeyed..And the claim of this public interest
will usually favour working for the repeal of the objectionable
law rather than downright disobedience to it. Further, men

ought to consider whether disobedience to an objectionable
law might result in some worse evil, such as anarchy. But
the moral foundation of political obligation does not entail
the conclusion that civil disobedience is never justified. Green
sets rather narrow limits to the scope of civil disobedience
by saying that to justify our practising it we ought to be able
‘to point to some public interest, generally recognized as
such’.2® But from what he subsequently says it does not
seem that the proviso ‘generally recognized as such’ is in-
tended to exclude entirely the possibility of a right to civil
disobedience in the name of an ideal higher than that shared
by the community in general. The reference is rather to an
appeal to a generally recognized public interest against a law
which is promulgated not for the public good but in the
private interest of a special group or class.
Given Green’s view that the State exists to promote the
common good by creating and maintaining the conditions in
which all its citizens can develop their potentialities as per-
sons, it is understandable that he has no sympathy with at-
tacks on social legislation as violating individual liberty, when
liberty signifies the power to do as one likes without regard
to others. Some people, he remarks, say that their rights are
being violated if they are forbidden, for example, to build
houses without any regard to sanitary requirements or to send
their children out to work without having received any edu-
cation. In point of fact, however, no rights are being violated.
For a man’s rights depend on social recognition in view of
the welfare of society as a whole. And when society comes
to see, as it has not seen before, that the common good re-
quires a new law, such as a law enforcing elementary educa-
tion, it withdraws recognition of what may formerly have
been accounted a right.
Clearly, in certain circumstances the appeal from a less to
a more adequate conception of the common good and its
requirements might take the form of insisting on a greater
measure of individual liberty. For human beings cannot de-
velop themselves as persons unless they have scope for the
exercise of such liberty. But Green is actually concerned with
opposing laissez-faire dogmas. He does not advocate curtail-
ment of individual liberty by the State for the sake of such

curtailment. Indeed, he looks on the social legislation of
which he approves as a removal of obstacles to liberty, that
is, the liberty of all citizens to develop their potentialities
as human beings. For example, a law determining the mini-
mum age at which children can be sent to work removes an
obstacle to their receiving education. It is true that the law
curtails the liberty of parents and prospective employers to
do what they like without regard to the common good. But
Green will not allow any appeal from the common good to
liberty in this sense. Private, sectional and class interests,
however hard they may mask themselves under an appeal to
private liberty, cannot be allowed to stand in the way of the
creation by the State of conditions in which all its citizens
have the opportunity to develop themselves as human beings
and to live truly human lives.
With Green, therefore, we have a conspicuous example of
the revision of liberalism in accordance with the felt need
for an increase in social legislation. He tries to interpret, we
can say, the operative ideal of a movement which was de-
veloping during the closing decades of the nineteenth cen-
tury. His formulation of a theory may be open to some
criticism. But it was certainly preferable not only to Iaissez-
faire dogmatism but also to attempts to retain this dogma-
tism in principle while making concessions which were in-
compatible with it.
In conclusion it is worth remarking that Green is not blind
to the fact that fulfilment of our moral vocation by perform-
ing the duties of our ‘station’ in society may seem to be a
rather narrow and inadequate ideal. For ‘there may be reason
to hold that there are capacities of the human spirit not
realizable in persons under the conditions of any society that
we know, or can positively conceive, or that may be capable
of existing on the earth’.3° Hence, unless we judge that the
problem presented by unfulfilled capacities is insoluble, we
may believe that the personal life which is lived on earth in
conditions which thwart its full development is continued in
a society in which man can attain his full perfection. ‘Or we
may content ourselves with saying that the personal self-
conscious being, which comes from God, is for ever continued
in God.’#! Green speaks in a rather non-committal fashion.

But his personal attitude seems to be much more akin to
that of Kant, who postulated continued life after death as
an unceasing progress in perfection, than to that of Hegel,
who does not appear to have been interested in the question
of personal immortality, whether he believed in it or not.
4. The idea of a unity underlying the distincti
sub
andjec
object becomes
t prominent in the thought :
ward Caitd-(7855-1508), Fellow ofMerton Colleec Ondod
(1864-6), professor of moral philosophy in the University of
Glasgow (1866-93) and Master of Balliol College, Oxford
(1893-1907). His celebrated work, A Critical Account of the
Philosophy of Kant, appeared in 1877, a revised edition in
two volumes being published in 1889 under the title The
Critical Philosophy of Kant. In 1883 Caird published a small
work on Hegel,32 which is still considered one of the best
introductions to the study of this philosopher. Of Caird’s
other writings we may mention The Social Philosophy and
Religion of Comte (1885), Essays on Literature and Philoso-
phy (two volumes, 1892), The Evolution of Religion (two
volumes, 1893) and The Evolution of Theology in the Greek
Philosophers (two volumes, 1904). The two last named works
are the published versions of sets of Gifford Lectures.
Though Caird wrote on both Kant and Hegel, and though
he used metaphysical idealism as an instrument in interpret-
ing human experience and as a weapon for attacking ma-
terialism and agnosticism, he was not, and did not pretend
to be, a disciple of Hegel or of any other German philosopher.
Indeed, he considered that any attempt to import a philo-
sophical system into a foreign country was misplaced.® It
is idle to suppose that what satisfied a past generation in
Germany will satisfy a later generation in Great Britain. For
intellectual needs change with changing circumstances.
In the modern world, Caird_maintains, we have seen the
reflective mind questioning man’s spontaneous certainties and
example, there is the divergence between the Cartesian point

of departure, the self-conscious ego, and that of the empin-
cists, the object as given in experience. And the gulf between
the two traditions has grown so wide that we are told that
we must either reduce the physical to the psychical or the

psychical to the physical. In other words, we are told that
we must choose between idealism and materialism, as their
conflicting claims cannot be reconciled. Again, there is the
gulf which has developed between the religious consciousness
and faith on the one hand and the scientific outlook on the
other, a gulf which implies that we must choose between
religion and science, as the two cannot be combined.
When oppositions and conflicts of this kind have once
arisen in man’s cultural life, we cannot simply return to the
undivided but naive consciousness of an earlier period. Nor
is it sufficient to appeal with the Scottish School to the prin-
ciples of common sense. For it is precisely these principles
which have been called in question, as by Humian scepticism.
Hence the reflective mind is forced to look for a synthesis
in which opposed points of view can be reconciled at a higher
level than that of the naive consciousness.
Kant made an important contribution to the fulfilment of
this task. But its significance has, in Caird’s opinion, been
misunderstood, the misunderstanding being due primarily to
Kant himself. For instead_of interpreting the distinction _be-
tween appearance and reality as referring simply to different
stages i nowledge, the German philosopher
represented it as a distinction between phenomena and un-
knowable things-in-themselves. And it is precisely this notion
of the unknowable thing-in-itself which has to be expelled
from philosophy, as indeed Kant’s successors have done.
When we have got rid of this notion, we can see that the
real significance of the critical philosophy lies in its insight
into the fact that objectivity exists only for a self-conscious
subject. In other words, Kant’s real service was to show that
the fundamental relationship is that between subject and
object, which together form a unity-in-difference. Once we
grasp this truth, we are freed from the temptation to reduce
subject to object or object to subject. For this temptation has
its origin in an unsatisfactory dualism which is overcome by
the theory of an original synthesis. The distinction between
subject and object emerges within the unity of consciousness,
a unity which is fundamental.
According to Caird, science itself bears witness in its o
way to this unity-in-difference. True, it concentrates on the

object. At the same time it aims at the discovery of universal
laws and at correlating these laws; and it thus tacitly presup-
poses the existence of an intelligible system which cannot be
simply heterogeneous or alien to the thought which under-
stands it. In other words, science bears witness to the correla-
tivity of thought and its object.
Though, however, one of the tasks allotted to the philoso-
pher by Caird is that of showing how science points to the
basic principle oFthesynthesis OFsubject andobject asa
e religious consciousness. And in this sphere he finds him-
self driven to go behind subject and object to an underlying
unity and ground. Subject and object are distinct. Indeed, ‘all
our life moves between these two terms which are essentially
distinct from, and even opposed to, each other’.84 Yet they
are at the same time related to each other in such a way that
neither can be conceived without the other.35 And ‘we are
forced to seek the secret of their being in a higher principle,
of whose unity they in their action and reaction are the
manifestations, which they presuppose as their beginning and
to which they point as their end’.36
This enveloping unity, which is described _in Platonic \
hrases_as being ‘at once the source of being to all things
presupposition of all consciousness. And it is what we call

God. It does not follow, Caird insists, that all men possess
an explicit awareness of God as the ultimate unity of being
and knowing, of objectivity and subjectivity. An explicit
awareness is in the nature of the case the product of a long
process of development. And we can see in the history of
religion the main stages of this development.*®
awareness of the object, not indeed as the object in the ab-

OD eg Ga
external things by which man finds himself surrounded. At
‘this stage man cannot form an idea of anything ‘which he
cannot body forth as an existence in space and time’.8° We
can assume that he has some dim awareness of a unity com-
prehending both himself and other things; but he cannot
form an idea of the divine except by objectifying it in the

gods.
The second stage in the development of religion is that_of
‘subjective religion’. Here man returns from absorption in
Nature to consciousnessof himself. And God is conceived as
a spiritual being standing apart from both Nature and man,
and as revealing Himself above all in the inner voice of
conscience.
In_the third stage, that of ‘absolute religion’, the self
conscious subject and its object, Nature, are seen as distinct
yet essentially related, and at the same time as grounded in
an ultimate unity. And God is conceived ‘as the Being who
oursphitual
piritual lives’*"
liver20This
This does
docs not
not mean,
mean, however,
however, that
that the
th
idea of God is completely indeterminate, so that we are
forced to embrace the agnosticism of Herbert Spencer. For
God manifests Himself in both subject and object; and the
more we understand the spiritual life of humanity on the
one hand and the world of Nature on the other, so much the
more do we learn about God who is ‘the ultimate unity of
our life and of the life of the world’.41
Insofar as Caird goes behind the distinction between sub-
ject and object to an ultimate unity, we can say that he does
not absolutize the subject-object relationship in the way that
Ferrier does. At the same time his epistemological approach,
namely by way of their relationship, seems to create a diffi-
culty. For he explicitly recognizes that ‘strictly speaking, there
is but one object and one subject for each of us’.42 That is
to say, for me the subject-object relationship is, strictly, that
between myself as subject and my world as object. And the
object must include other people. Even if, therefore, it is
granted that I have from the beginning a dim awareness of
an underlying unity, it seems to follow that this unity is the
unity of myself as subject and of my object, other persons
being part of ‘my object’. And it is difficult to see how it
can then be shown that there are other subjects, and that
there is one and only one common underlying unity. Common
sense may suggest that these conclusions are correct. But it
is a question not of common sense but rather of seeing how
the conclusions can be established, once we have adopted
Caird’s approach. Taken by itself, the idea of an underlying

unity may well be of value.4? But arrival at the conclusion
at which Caird wishes to arrive is not facilitated by his point
of departure. And it is certainly arguable that Hegel showed
wisdom in starting with the concept of Being rather than
with that of the subject-object relationship.
5. It has been said of John Caird (1820-98), brother of
Edward, that he preached Hegelianism from the pulpit. A
Presbyterian theologian and preacher, he was appointed pro-
fessor of divinity in the University of Glasgow in 1862, be-
coming Principal of the University in 1873. In 1880 he pub-
lished An Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion, and in
1888 a volume on Spinoza in Blackwood’s Philosophical Clas-
sics. Some other writings, including his Gifford Lectures on
The Fundamental Ideas of Christianity (1899), appeared
posthumously.
In arguing against materialism John Caird maintains not
only that it is unable to explain the life of the organism and
of consciousness,44 but also that the materialists, though
undertaking to reduce the mind to a function of matter,
Howly aad anavikibly presuppose: Goi the outset that the
mind _is something different from matter, After all, it is the
mind itself which has to perform the reduction. In an analo-
gous manner he argues that the agnostic who says that God
is unknowable betrays by his very statement the fact that he
has an implicit awareness of God. ‘Even in maintaining that
the human mind is incapable of absolute knowledge the
sceptic presupposes in his own mind an ideal of absolute
knowledge in comparison with which human knowledge is
pronounced defective. The very denial of an absolute intelli-
gence in us could have no meaning but for a tacit appeal to
its presence. An implicit knowledge of God in this sense is
proved by the very attempt to deny it.’45
As expressed in this particular quotation, Caird’s theory is
obscure. But it can be elucidated in this way. Caird is apply-
ing to knowledge in particular Hegel’s thesis that we cannot
finity. Experience teaches us that our minds are finite and

imperfect. But we could not be aware of this except i
light of an implicit idea_of compl bsolute knowl :
a knowledge which would be in effect the unity of thought

and being. It is this implicit or virtual idea of absolute
knowledge which constitutes a vaguely-conceived standard in
comparison with which our limitations become clear to us.
Further, this idea draws the mind as an ideal goal. It thus
operates in us as a reality. And it is in fact an absolut€in—
telligenceé, in the light of which we participate.
Obviously, it is essential for Caird to maintain the view
expressed in the last two sentences. For if he said simply
‘that we Strive after complete or absolute knowledge as an
ideal goal, we should probably conclude that absolute knowl-
edge does not yet exist, whereas Caird wishes to arrive at the
conclusion that in affirming the limitations of our knowl-
edge we are implicitly affirming a living reality. Hence he
has to argue that in asserting the limitations of my intelli-
gence I am implicitly asserting the existence of an absolute
intelligence which operates in me and in whose life I par-
ticipate. He thus utilizes the Hegelian principle that the
finite cannot be understood except_as_a moment inthe life
of the infinite. Whether the employment of these Hegelian
principles can really serve the purpose for which Caird em-
ployed them, namely to support Christian theism, isopen
to dispute. But he at any rate is convinced that they can.
John Caird also argues, in the same way as his brother,
that the interrelation of subject_and object reveals an_ulti-
mate unity underlying the distinction. As for the traditional
proofs of God’s existence, they are exposed to the customary
objections, if they are taken as claiming to be strictly logical
arguments. If, however, they are interpreted more as phe-
nomenological analyses of ways ‘by which the human spirit
rises_tothe knowledge
of God, and finds therein the fulfil
ment of its own highest nature, these proofs possess great
value’.**It is not quite clear perhaps where this great value
is supposed to lie. Caird can hardly mean that logically in-
valid arguments possess great value if they exhibit ways in
which the human mind has as a matter of fact reached a
conclusion by faulty reasoning. So presumably he means that
the traditional arguments possess value as illustrating ways
in which the human mind can become explicitly conscious
of an awareness which they already possess in an implicit and
obscure manner. This point of view would allow him to say
both that the arguments beg the question by presupposing
the conclusion from the start and that this does not really
matter, inasmuch as they are really ways of making the im-
plicit explicit.47
Like Hegel, John Caird insists on the need for advancing
from the level o religious thought to a speculative
idea of religion, in which ‘contradictions’ are -
overcome. For
example, the opposed and equally one-sided positions of pan-
theism and deism are both overcome in a truly philosophical
conception of the relation between the finite and the infinite,
a conception which is characteristic of Christianity when
rightly understood. As for specifically Christian doctrines,
such as that of the Incarnation, Caird’s treatment of them
is more orthodox than Hegel’s. He is, however, too convinced
of the value of the Hegelian philosophy
as an ally inthe fight
against materialism and agnosticism
to consider_ seriously
whether, as McTaggart was later to put it, the ally may not
turn out in the long run to be an enemy in disguise, inasmuch
as the use of Hegelianism in the interpretati ristianity
tends, by the very nature of the Hegelian system, to involve
the subordination of the content of the Christian faith to
speculative philosophy and, indeed, a tie-up with a particular
system.
In point of fact, however, John Caird does not adopt the
Hegelian system lock, stock and barrel. What he does is
rather to adopt from it those general lines of thought which
seem to him to possess intrinsic validity and to be of
service in supporting a religious outlook in the face of con-
temporary materialist and positivist tendencies. He thus pro-
vides a good example of the religious interest which charac-
terized a large part of the idealist movement in Great
Britain.
6. Among those who contributed to spreading a knowl
edge of Hegelianism in Great Britain William Wallace
(1844-97), Green’s successor as White’s professor of moral
philosophy at Oxford, deserves a mention. In 1874 he pub-
lished a translation, furnished with prolegomena or intro-
ductory material, of Hegel’s Logic as contained in the En-
cyclopaedia of the Philosophical Sciences.48 He later pub-
lished a revised and enlarged edition in two volumes, the

translation appearing in 1892 and the greatly augmented
Prolegomena*® in 1894. Wallace also published in 1894 a
translation, with five introductory chapters, of Hegel’s Phi-
losophy of Mind, again from the Encyclopaedia. In addition
he wrote the volume on Kant (1882) for Blackwood’s Philo-
sophical Classics series and a Life of Schopenhauer (1890).
His Lectures and Essays on Natural Theology and Ethics,
which appeared posthumously in 1898, show clearly the af-
finity between his thought and John Caird’s speculative in-
terpretation of religion in general and of Christianity in par-
ticular.
Though we must refrain from multiplying brief references
to philosophers who stood within the ambit of the idealist
movement, there is a special reason for mentioning David
George Ritchie (1853-1903), who was converted to idealism
by Green at Oxford and who in 1894 became professor of
logic and metaphysics in the University of St. Andrews. For
while the idealists in general were unsympathetic to systems
of philosophy based on Darwinism, Ritchie_undertook to
show that the Hegelian philosophy was perfectly capable
of assimilating the Darwinian theory of eyolution.5° After
algeHexaraned elaesstay dDarteil sothesNGHIENe
a eatau lant
thefittestharmohize very_well withHegel's doctrine thatthe
real is the rational and the rational the real, and that the
rational, representing a value, triumphs over the irrational?
Sangean aioe Kon eee eT and less fitted
for survival correspond with the overcoming of the negative
factor in the Hegelian dialectic?
It is true, Ritchie admitted, that the Darwinians were so
concerned with the origin of species that they failed to un-
derstand the significance of the movement of evolution as a
whole. We must recognize the facts that in human society
the struggle for existence takes forms which cannot be prop-
erly described in biological categories, and that social prog-
ress depends on co-operation. But it is precisely at this point
that Hegelianism can shed a light which is shed neither by
the biological theory of evolution taken purely by itself nor
by the empiricist and positivist systems of philosophy which
are professedly based on this theory. — .
Though, however, Ritchie made a valiant attempt to recon-
cile Darwinism and Hegelianism, the construction of ‘ideal-
ist’ philosophies of evolution, in the sense of philosophies
which endeavoured to show that the total movement of evo-
lution is towards an ideal term or goal, was actually to take
place outside rather than inside the Neo-Hegelian current
of thought.
Chapter Eight
ABSOLUTE IDEALISM: BRADLEY
Introductory remarks—The Presuppositions of Critical His-

tory—Mordlity and its self-transcending in religion—The
relevance of logic to metaphysics—The basic presupposition
of metaphysics — Appearance: the thing and its qualities, rela-
tions and their terms, space and time, the self — Reality: the
nature of the Absolute—Degrees of truth and reality — Error
and evil—The Absolute, God and religion—Some critical dis-
cussion of Bradley’s metaphysics.
1. It was in the philosophy of Francis Herbert Bradley

(1846-1924) that emphasis on the subject-object relation-
ship was decisively supplanted by the idea of the supra-
relational One, the all-embracing Absolute. Of Bradley’s life
there is little which needs to be said. In 1870 he was elected
a Fellow of Merton College, Oxford, and he retained this
post until his death. He did not lecture. And the quantity
of his literary output, though substantial, was not excep-
tional. But as a thinker he is of considerable interest, espe-
cially perhaps for the way in which he combines a radical
criticism of the categories of human thought, when consid-
ered as instruments for apprehending ultimate reality, with
a firm faith in the existence of an Absolute in which all con-
tradictions and antinomies are overcome.
In 1874 Bradley published an essay on The Presupposi-
tions of Critical History, to which reference will be made in
the next section. Ethical Studies appeared in 1876, The Prin-
ciples of Logic in 1883,1 Appearance and Reality in 1893,2
and Essays on Truth and Reality in 1914. Other essays and
articles were collected and published posthumously in two
volumes in 1935 under the title Collected Essays. A small
book of Aphorisms appeared in 1930.
Bradley’s enemies were those of the idealists in general,
ABSOLUTE IDEALISM: BRADLEY 215
namely empiricists, positivists and materialists, though in his
case we have to add the pragmatists. As a polemical writer
he did not always represent his opponents’ views in a man-
ner which they considered fair; but he could be devastating,
and on occasion none too polite. His own philosophy has
often been described as Neo-Hegelian. But though he was
undoubtedly influenced by Hegelianism, the description is
not altogether appropriate. It_is true that both Hegel and
Bradley were concerned with the totality, the Absolute. But
the two men held markedly different views about the capacity
of the human reason to grasp the Absolute. Hegel was a
-tationalist, in the sense, that is to say, that he regarded reason
(Vernunft), as distinct from understanding (Verstand), as
capable of penetrating the inner life of the Absolute, He
endeavoured to lay bare the essential structure of the self-
developing universe, the totality of Being; and he showed
an overwhelming confidence in the power of dialectical
thought to reveal the nature of the Absolute both in itself
and in its concrete manifestations in Nature and Spirit.
Bradley’s dialectic, however, largely took the form of a sys-
in_his opinion at least, made clear the incapacity of human

thought to attain any adequate grasp of ultimate reality, of
real The world oI ie
Tly teal.
what is really thought was for
him the world of appearance; and metaphysical reflection
showed that it was precisely this, by revealing the antinomies
and contradictions engendered by such thought. Bradley was
indeed convinced that the reality which is distorted by dis-
cursive thought is in itself free from all contradictions, a
seamless whole, an all-comprehensive and perfectly harmoni-
ous act of experience. The point is, however, that he did not
pretend to be able to show dialectically precisely how an-
tinomies are overcome and contradictions solved in the Ab-
solute. ‘To be sure, he did in fact say a good deal about the
Absolute. And in view of his thesis that ultimate reality
transcends human thought, it is arguable that in doing so
he showed a certain inconsistency. But the point which is
relevant here is that Bradley gave expression not so much to
Hegelian rationalism as to a peculiar combination of scepti-
cism and fideism; of scepticism through his depreciation of
human thought as an instrument of grasping reality as it

teally is, and of fideism by his explicit assertion that belief
in a One which satisfies all the demands of ideal intelligibility
rests. on an initial act of faith that is presupposed by all
genuinely metaphysical philosophy.
In reaching this characteristic position Bradley was influ-
enced to a certain extent by Herbart’s view that contradic-
tions do not belong to reality itself but emerge only through
our inadequate ways of conceiving reality.‘ is is not to
suggest that Bradley was an Herbartian. He was a _monist,
whereas the German philosopher was a pluralist. But the
late Professor A. E. Taylor relates that when he was at
Merton College, he was recommended by Bradley to study
Herbart as a wholesome correction to undue absorption in
Hegelian ways of thinking.5 And an understanding of
Herbart’s influence on Bradley helps to correct any over-
emphasis on Hegelian elements in the latter’s philosophy.
Bradley’s philosophy, however, cannot be adequately de-
scribed in terms of influence exercised by other thinkers.
It was in fact an original creation, in spite of the stimulus
derived from such different German philosophers as Hegel
and Herbart. In some respects, for instance in the way in
which the concept of ‘God’ is represented as transcended in
that of the suprapersonal Absolute, Bradley’s thought shows
c igns of the influe idealism. And
the way in which the tendency of earlier British idealists to
absolutize the subject-object relationship gives way before the
idea of the totality, the One, can be said to represent the
triumph of the absolute idealism which is associated above
all with the name of Hegel. But British absolute idealism,
especially in the case of Bradley, was a native version of the
movement. It may not be as impressive as the Hegelian sys-
tem; but this is no good reason for depicting it as no more
than a minor replica of Hegelianism.
2. In his essay on The Presuppositions of Critical History
Bradley writes that thesritical_mind_sust_provisionally
suspect the reality of everything before it. At the same tim
‘critical history must have a presupposition, and this presup-
position is the_uniformity of law’.6 That is to say, ‘critical
history assumes that its world is one’,? this unity being that
of the universality of law and of ‘what loosely may be termed
causal connection’. History does not start by proving this
unity; it presupposes it as the condition of its own possibility,
though developed history confirms the truth of the presup-
position.
There is no mention here of the Absolute. Indeed, the
world of causal connections is relegated by Bradley in his
metaphysics to the sphere of appearance. But in the light
of the later development of his thought we can see in the
idea of the unity of the world of history as a presupposition
of historiography a hint of the idea of a total organic unity
as the presupposition of metaphysics. And this suggestion
seems to be supported by Bradley’s assertion in a note that
‘the_universe seems to be one system; it is an organism (it
would appear) an . It bears the character of the self,
the personality to which it is relative, and without which
it is as good as nothing. Hence any portion of the universe
by itself cannot be a consistent system; for it refers to the
whole, and has the whole present in it. Potentially the whole
(since embodying that which is actually the whole), in trying
to fix itself on itself, it succeeds only in laying stress on its
character of relativity; it is carried beyond and contradicts
itself’.® To be sure, this is not precisely a statement of the
doctrine of the Absolute as we find it in Appearance and
Reality, where the Absolute is certainly not depicted as a
self. At the same time the passage serves to show how Brad-
ley’s mind was dominated-by the idea of the universe as an
organic whole.
3. Bradley’s Ethical Studies is not a metaphysical work. In-
deed, on reading the first essay one may receive the impres-
sion that the writer’s line of thought has more affinity with
the modern analytic movement than with what would nat-
urally be expected from a metaphysical idealist. For Bradley
concerns himself with examining what the ordinary man un-
derstands by responsibility and imputability, and he then
shows how two theories of human action are incompatible
with the conditions of moral responsibility which are im-
plicitly presupposed by ‘the vulgar’.
On the one hand, the ordinary man implicitly
assumes
that he cannot legitimately be held morally responsible for
an action unless he is the same man who performed the

action. And if this assumption is taken to be correct, it ex-
cludes that form of determination which is based on the as-
sociationist psychology and to all intents and purposes does
away with any permanent self-identity. “Without personal
identity responsibility is sheer nonsense; and to the psychol-
ogy of our Determinists personal identity (with identity in
general) is a word without a vestige of meaning.’!° On the
other hand, the ordinary man assume: canno t
imately be held morally responsible for an action unless he
is truly
author
the of it,
unlessit proceeds
from him _as
effect from cause. And this assumption rules out any theory
of indeterminism which implies that human free actions are
uncaused and does away with the relation between a man’s
action and his self or character. For the agent as described
by this sort of theory is ‘a person who is not responsible,
who (if he is anything) is idiotic’.
Bradley is, of course, the last man to suggest that we
should take the beliefs of the ordinary man as a final court
of appeal. But for the moment he is concerned not with ex-
pounding a metaphysical theory of the self but with arguing
that hoth determinism and indeterminism, when understood
in_the senses mentioned above, are incompatible with the
presuppositions of the moral consciousness. And the positive
conclusion to be drawn is that the moral consciousness of
the ordinary man implies a close relation between actions
for which one can legitimately be held responsible and one’s
self in the sense of character.
Though, however, Ethical Studies is not a metaphysical
work, either in the sense that Bradley sets out to derive ethi-
cal conclusions from metaphysical premisses or in the sense
that he explicitly introduces his metaphysical system,12 it
certainly has a metaphysical bearing or significance. For the
upshot_of the work is that_morality gives rise_to_contradic-
tions which cannot be resolved on the purely ethical level,
and that
that it points beyond itself. ‘True, in this work morality
is; depicted as leading on to religion. But elsewhere religion
is depicted as leading on to the philosophy of the Absolute.
For Bradley the end of morality, of moral action, is: self-
realization. And it follows that the good for man cannot be
identified with ‘the feeling of self-realizedness’,18 or indeed
with any feeling. Hedonism therefore, which looks on the
feeling of pleasure as the good for man, is ruled out. In
Bradley’s view, as in that of Plato, the hedonist should logi-
cally assert that any action is moral which produces greater
pleasure in the agent. For consistent hedonism admits only
of a quantitative standard of discrimination, Once we intro-
duce, with J. S. Mill, a qualitative distinction between pleas-
ures, we require a standard other than the feeling of pleasure
and have thus in effect abandoned hedonism. The truth of
the matter is that Mill’s utilitarianism expresses a groping
after the ethical idea of self-realization, and that it is hin-
dered from arriving fully at this idea by its illogical attempt
to retain hedonism at the same time. ‘May we suggest, in
conclusion, that of all our utilitarians there is perhaps not
one who has not still a great deal to learn from Aristotle’s
Ethics?”14
In making pleasure the sole good hedonism is a hopelessly
one-sided theory. Another si eory is the Kantian
ethics of duty for duty’s sake. But here the trouble is the
formalism of the theory. We are told to realize the good
will, “but as to that which the good will is, it [the ethics of
duty for duty’s sake] tells us nothing, and leaves us with an
idle abstraction’.15 Bradley safeguards himself from the
charge of caricaturing the Kantian ethics by saying that he
does not intend to give an exegesis of Kant’s moral theory.
At the same time he states his belief that the Kantian ethical
system ‘has been annihilated by Hegel’s criticism’.1® And
Hegel’s main criticism was precisely that the Kantian ethics
was involved in an empty formalism.
Bradley does not disagree, any more than Hegel did, with
will. His point _is th i isidea.

And to do this we must understand that the good will is
the universal will, the will of a social organism. For this
means that one’s duties are specified by one’s membership
of the social organism, and that ‘to be moral, I must will my
station and its duties’.17
At first sight this Hegelian point of view, with its reminis-
cences of Rousseau, may seem to be at variance with Brad-
ley’s doctrine that the end of morality is self-realization. But

all depends, of course, on how the term ‘self’ is understood.
For Bradley, as for Hegel, the universal will, which is a con-
crete universal existing in and through its particulars, repre-
sents the individual’s ‘true’ self. Apart from his social rela-
tions, his membership of a social organism, the individual
man is an abstraction. ‘And individual man is what he is
because of and by virtue of community.’18 Hence to identify
one’s private will with the universal will is to realize one’s
true self.
What does this mean in less abstract terms? The universal
will is obviously the will of a society. And as the family, the
basic society, is at the same time preserved and taken up in
political society, the State, the emphasis is placed by Bradley,
as by Hegel, on the latter. To realize oneself morally, there-
fore, is to act in accordance with social morality, that is,
institutions, social usages, moral opinions and feelings’19

“This WiSy ODVIOWIy Gives Content tothemoral law,to the
command of reason to realize the good will. But, equally
obviously, morality becomes relative to this or that human
society. Bradley does indeed try to maintain a distinction_
between lower and higher moral codes. It is true that the
essence of man is realized, however imperfectly, at any and_
every SHES GFHIGHT evolution But rom thepoint ofview of
a higher stage, we can see that lower stages failed to realize
the truth completely enough, and also, mixed and. one with
their realization, did present features contrary to the true
nature of man as we now see it’.2° At the same time Brad-
ley’s view that one’s duties are specified by one’s station, by
one’s place and function in the social organism, leads him to
assert that morality not only is but ought to be relative. That
is to say, it is not simply a question of noting the empirical
fact that moral convictions have differed in certain respects
in different societies. Bradley maintains in addition that
moral codes would be of no use unless they were relative to
ae: soeictics: In fine, ‘the morality of every stage is ae
tn
kc
It scarcely needs saying that the very idea of a moral code
involves the idea of a relation to possible conduct, and that
a code which had no relation at all to a man’s historical and
social situation would be useless to him. But it does not
necessarily follow that I must identify morality with the exist-
ing moral standards and outlook of the society to which I
happen to belong. Indeed if, as Bradley admits, a member of
an existing society can see the defects in the moral code of
a past society, there does not seem to be any adequate reason
why an enlightened member of the past society should not
have seen these defects for himself and have rejected social
conformism in the name of higher moral standards and ideals.
This is, after all, precisely what has happened in history.
In point of fact, however, Bradley does not reduce morality
simply to social morality. For in his view itisa dutyrealize
to
the ideal self; and the content of this ideal self is not ex-
clusively social. Forexample, ‘itisamoral duty fortheartist
or the inquirer to lead the life of one, and a moral offence
when he fails to do so’.22 True, the activities of an artist or
of a scientist can, and generally do, benefit society. But ‘their
social bearing is indirect, and does not lie in their very es-
sence’.?8 This idea is doubtless in tune with Hegel’s attribu-
tion of art to the sphere of absolute spirit, rather than that
of objective spirit, where morality belongs. But the point is
that Bradley’s assertion that ‘man is not man at all unless
social, but man is not much above the beasts unless more
an socia might well have led him to revise such state-
ments as that ‘there is nothing better than my station and its
duties, nor anything higher or more truly beautiful’.25 If
mora ity is self-realization, and if the self cannot be ade-
quately described in purely social categories, morality can
hardly be identified with conformity to the standards of the
society to which one belongs.
Yet in a sense all this is simply grist to Bradley’s mill. For,
as has already been mentioned, he wishes to show that moral-
ity gives rise to antinomies or contradictions which cannot
be overcome on the purely ethical level. For example, and
this is the princi icti th 1 Jaw dem
the perfect identification of the individual will with the
ideally “good and universal will, though at the same time
morality cannot exist except in the form of an_overcoming

of the Tower self, a striving which presuppose s thein-
that
In
dividual will is not identified with the id eally good will. Ir
ees eee process; but
by its very nature it demands that the process should no
longer exist but should be supplanted by moral perfection.
Obviously, if we deny either that overcoming of the lower
or bad self is an essential feature of the moral life or that the
moral law demands the cessation of this overcoming, the an-
tinomy disappears. If, however, we admit both theses, the
conclusion to be drawn is that morality seeks its own extinc-
tion. That is to say, it seeks to transcend itself. ‘Morality
andtherefore a
self-contradiction;-and,
is an endless process
being such, it does not remain standing in itself, but feels the
impulse to transcend its existing reality.’2¢ If the moral law
demands the attainment of an ideal which cannot be attained
as long as there is a bad self to be overcome, and if the
existence in some degree of a bad self is a necessary presup-
position of morality, the moral law, we must conclude, de-
mands the attainment of an ideal or end which can be at-
tained only in a supra-ethical sphere.
As far as Ethical Studies is concerned, this sphere is that
of religion. The ye bakcae eed fortheelo
world of the Staté’;27 but it can be realized for the religious
consciousness. It is true or religion the world is ali-
enated from God, and the selfis sunk in sin’.28 At the same
‘time for the religious consciousness the two poles,-God and
the self, the infinite and the finite, are united in faith. For
religious faith thesinner isreconciled with God and justified,
and he is united with other selves in the community of the
faithful. Thus in the sphere of religion man reaches the term
of his striving and he fulfils the demand of morality that he
should realize himself as ‘an infinite whole’,2® a demand
which can be only imperfectly fulfilled on the ethical level
through membership in political society.
Morality, therefore, consists in the realization of the true
self. The true self, however, is ‘infinite’. This means that
morality demands the realization ofthe self as a member of
an infinite whole. But the demand cannot be fully met on
the level of the ethics of my station and its duties. Ultimately,
indeed, it can be met only by the transformation of the self

in the Absolute. And in this sense Bradley’s account of moral-
ity is pregnant with metaphysics, the metaphysics of the
Absolute. But in Ethical Studies he is content to take the
matter as far as the self-transcending of morality in religion.
The self-transcending of religion is left to the explicit meta-
physics of Appearance and Reality.
4. Turning to Bradley’s logical studies, we must note in
the first place his concern with separating logic from psychol-
ogy. Needless to say, he does not question the legitimacy of
Inquiries into the origin of ideas and into the association
between ideas, inquiries which had occupied so prominent
a place in empiricist philosophy from Locke to J. S. Mill. But
he insists that they belong to the province of psychology, and
that if we confuse logical and psychological inquiries, we
shall find ourselves giving psychological answers to logical
questions, as the empiricists were inclined to do. ‘In England
at all events we have lived too long in the psychological at-
titude.’3°
Bradley starts his logical studies with_an examination of
the judgment, considered not as a combination of ideas,
hich Havetobepreviously tested, batasanactofjudging
judging
(Seer somatic ge manera
that we can distinguish various elements within the judg-
ment. But the logician is concerned not with the psychologi-
cal origin of ideas or concepts nor with the influence of
mental associations but with*the symbolic function, the ref-
erence, which concepts acquire in the judgment. ‘For logical
purposes ideas are symbols, and they are nothing but sym-
SSoDuige a one
proposition; and the proposition says something which is
either true or false. The logician should concern himself with
these aspects of the matter, leaving psychological questions
to the psychologist.
Bradley’s anti-psychologizing attitude in logic has won him
a good mark from modern logicians including those whose
general philosophical outlook is more or less empiricist. But
the connection between his logic and his metaphysics is gen-
erally regarded much less benevolently. On this point, how-
ever, we have to be careful. On the one hand Bradley does
not identify logic with metaphysics. And he regards his in-

quiries into the forms, quantity and modality of judgments
and into the characteristics and types of inference as pertain-
ing to logic, not to metaphysics. On the other hand in the
preface to the first edition of The Principles of Logic he
implicitly admits that ‘I am not sure where logic begins or
ends’.82 And some of his logical theories have an obvious
connection with his metaphysics, a connection which I wish
to illustrate briefly by one or two examples.
As every judgment is either true or false,we are naturally
inclined to assume that it asserts or denies a fact, its truth
or falsity depending on its correspondence or lack of cor-
respondence with some factual state of affairs. But while a
singular judgmnt such as ‘I have a toothache’ or ‘This leaf
is green’ seems at first sight to mirror a particular fact, re-
flection shows that the universal judgment is the result of
inference and that it is hypothetical in character. For ex-
ample, if I say that all mammals are warm-blooded, I infer
from a limited number of instances a universal conclusion;
and what I am actually asserting is that if at any time there
is something which possesses the other attributes of being a
mammal, it also possesses that of warm-bloodedness.33 The
judgment is thus hypothetical; and a gap is introduced be-
tween ideal content and actual fact. For the judgment is as-
serted as being true even if at any given time there are no
actually existing mammals.
According to Bradley, however, it_is a mistake to assume.
that though the universal judgment is hypothetical, the singu-
lar affirmative judgment enjoys the privilege of being tied to
ee fact or experience, which it mirrors. If I say
that I have a toothache, I am referring, of course, to a par-
ticular pain of my own; but the judgment which I enunciate
could perfectly well be enunciated by someone else, who
would obviously be referring to a different toothache, his own
and not mine. True, we can try to pin down the reference
of singular judgments by the use of words, such as ‘this’,
‘that’, ‘here’ and ‘now’. But though this device serves very
well for practical purposes, it is not possible to eliminate
every element of generality from the meaning of these par-
ticularizing expressions.3+ If someone holds an apple in his
hand and says “This apple is unripe’, I am obviously perfectly

well aware what apple is being referred to. But the judgment
‘This apple is unripe’ is not tied to this particular apple: it
could be uttered by someone else, or indeed by the same
man, with reference to some other apple. The singular af-
firmative judgment, therefore, does not enjoy any special
privilege of being a mirror of existent fact.
The conclusion which Bradley wishes to draw is that if the
judgment is regarded as a synthesis or union of ideas, every
judgment is general, and that a gap is thus introduced be-
no_matter what it is that we try to say and dimly mean,

hat we really express and succeed in asserting is nothing in-
dividual Tl—thoweiore-an-_abstact uninoel jadement
hypothetical and so divorced to some extent from actual
reality, it is no use thinking that in the singular judgment we
can find an unequivocal reference to a particular fact. All
judgments are tarred with the same brush.
In point of fact, however, ‘judgment is not the synthesis of
it is Bradley’s contention that the latent_and ultimate sub-

ject of any judgment is reality as a whole, reality, we ma
Say, with a capital letter. ‘Not only (this is our doctrine)
does all judgment affirm of Reality, but in every judgment
we have the assertion that “Reality is such that S is P”.’87
If, for example, I assert that this leaf is green, I am asserting
that reality as a whole, the universe, is such that thisleaf is
green. There is no such thing as an isolated particular fact.
So-called particular facts are what they are only because tre-
ality as a whole is what it is.
This point of view has an evident bearing on the relative
adequacy of different types of judgment. For if reality as a
whole is the latent ultimate subject of every judgment, it
follows that the more particular a judgment is, the less ade-
quate is it as a description of its ultimate subject. Further,
an analytic judgment, in the sense of one which analyses a
particular given sense-experience, distorts reality by arbitrar-
ily selecting elements from a complex whole and treating
them as though they constituted a self-sufficient particular
fact, whereas there are no such facts. The only self-sufficient

fact is reality as a whole.
Bradley thus turns his back on the empiricist belief that
the more we analyse, the closer we approach to truth.** It
has been assumed that ‘analysis is no alteration, and that,
whenever we distinguish, we have to do with divisible exist-
ence’.8® This assumption, however, is a ‘cardinal principle of
error and delusion’.4° In reality truth, as Hegel saw, is the
whole.
This may suggest that we shall come nearer to an appre-
hension of reality if we turn away from the immediate judg-
ments of sense to the general hypotheses of the sciences. But
though in this sphere there is less fragmentation, there is
also a much higher degree of abstraction and of mental con-
struction. If reality consists of what is presented to the senses,
the abstractions of the sciences seem to be further removed
from reality than the immediate judgments of sense. And if
reality does not consist of the wealth of sensuous phenomena,
can we really suppose that it consists of logical constructions
and scientific abstractions? ‘It may come from a failure in
my metaphysics, or from a weakness of the flesh which con-
tinues to blind me, but the notion that existence could be
the same as understanding strikes cli
the dreariest materialism. That the glory of this world in the
end is appearance leaves the world more glorious, if we feel
it is a show of some fuller splendour; but the sensuous cur-
tain is a deception and a cheat, if it hides some ‘colourless
movement of atoms, some spectral woof of impalpable ab-
stractions, or unearthly ballet of bloodless categories.’41
~ This oft-quoted passage is directed not only against the
reduction of reality to scientific generalizations which form
a web through whose meshes there slips the whole wealth of
sensible particulars, but also against the Hegelian idea that
K logical categories reveal to us the essence of reality and that
the movement of dialectical logic represents the iretal a
\\| of reality.42 And Bradley’s general point of view is that the ff
process of judgment and inference, or, better, the process of
discursive thought, is unable to grasp and represent reality.
o be sure, for the purposes of practical life and of thet
sciences discursive thought is a perfectly adequate instrument.
This is shown by its success. But it does not necessarily
follow that it is a fit instrument for grasping ultimate reality
as it is in itself,
When Bradley was writing The Principles of Logic, he
tried to avoid metaphysics as much as he felt possible. In
the second edition, published twenty-nine years after the
publication of Appearance and Reality, there is naturally
more reference to metaphysics, together with modifications
or corrections of some of the logical views advanced in the
first edition. In other words, Bradley’s explicit metaphysics
reacted on his logic. In any case, however, it is quite clear
that his logical theories have from the start a metaphysical
relevance, even if the main conclusion is perhaps a negative
one, namely that discursive thought cannot comprehend re-
ality. At the same time, as Bradley remarks in his additional
notes, if reality is the whole, the totality, it must somehow
include thought within itself.
ie his introduction to Appearance and Reality Bradley
remarks that ‘we may agree, perhaps, to understand by meta-
physics an sROigt, BETO Mares aaa niiat tere oppeae
Siigerioe thavtiady-oF Rat GME oeROr aiinaat ithe or
Sgain7ihe,CUO tOComprehead tha univense, not “simply
‘piecemeal or by fragments, but somehow as a whole’.43
Most of us would probably accept his contention that a dog-
matic and a priori assertion of the impossibility of meta-
physics should be ruled out of court. And it is obviously
reasonable to say that if we are going to make the attempt
to understand reality as a whole, it should be made ‘as
thoroughly as our nature permits’.44 But in view of what
has been said in the last section about the shortcomings of
discursive thought it may seem odd that Bradley is prepared
to make the attempt at all. He insists, however, that_it is
natural for the reflective mind to desire to comprehend re-
stity,antialaacved thSkeipratiensionatr Theaallseve tics
out to be unattainable, a limited knowledge of the Absolute
is none the less possible.
Now, if we describe metaphysics from the start as an at-
tempt to know reality as contrasted with appearance, we
presuppose that this distinction is meaningful and valid. And
if we say that metaphysics is an attempt to understand re-
ality as a whole, we assume, at least by way of hypothesis,

that reality is a whole, that there is in the same sense a One.
But Bradley is perfectly prepared to admit that metaphysics
rests on an initial presupposition. ‘Philosophy demands, and
\!in the end it rests on, what may ‘fairly be termed faith. Ti
prove it,’$®
What precisely is the content of this assumption or pre-
supposition or initial act of faith? In the appendix which
he added to the second edition of Appearance and Reality
Bradley tells us that ‘the actual starting-point and basis of
this work is an assumption about truth and reality. I have
assumed that the object of metaphysics is to find a general
view which will satisfy the intellect, and I have assumed that
whatever succeeds in doing this is real and true, and that
whatever fails is neither. This is a doctrine which, so far as
I can see, can neither be proved nor questioned.’46
The natural way of interpreting this passage, if it is taken
simply by itself, seems to be this. The scientist assumes that
there are uniformities to be discovered
within his field of
investigation. Otherwise he would never look for them. And
he has to assume that the generalizations which satisfy his
intellect are true. Further investigations may lead him to
modify or change his conclusions. But he cannot proceed at
all without making some presupposition. Similarly, we are
free to pursue metaphysics or to leave it alone; but if we
pursue it at all, we inevitably assume thata‘general view’ of
reality is possible, and therefore that reality as a whole is
intelligible in ‘principle. We further inevitably assume_that
we can |fTecognize the truth whenyhenwe find it. We assume,
that is say,
to that the generalwhich
view satisfies the in-
tellect is true and valid. For our only way of discriminating
between rival general views is by choosing the one which
most adequately satisfies the demands of the intellect.
Considered in itself this point of view is reasonable
enough. But difficulties arise when we bear in mind Brad-
ley’s doctrine about the shortcomings of discursive thought.
And it is perhaps not surprising to find expression being
given to a somewhat different view. Thus in a supplementary
note to the sixth chapter of his Essays on Truth and Reality
Bradley maintains that the One which is sought in
_meta-
Physics 1s not reached simply by a process of inference but
1s given in a basic feeling-experience. ‘The subject, the object,
and their relation, are experienced as elements or aspects in a
One which is there from the start.’47 That is to say, on the
pre-reflective level there is an experience ‘in which there is
no distinction between my awareness and that of which it is
aware. There is an immediate feeling, a knowing and being
in one, with which knowledge begins.’48 Indeed, ‘at no stage
of mental development is the mere correlation of subject
and object actually given’.4® Even when distinctions and re-
lations emerge in consciousness, there is always the back-
ground of ‘a felt totality’ .5°
This point of view is possibly compatible with that previ-
ously mentioned, though one would not normally describe a
as an ‘assumption
basic_immediate experien ce ’. In any case
Bradley’s thesis that there is such an experience enables him
In a sense this attempt is fore-

For thought is inevitably relational. But
inasmuch as thought can recognize the ‘contradictions’ which
emerge when reality is conceived as a Many, as a multiplicity
of related things, it can see that the world of common sense
and of science is appearance. And if we ask, ‘Appearance of
what?’, reference to the basic experience of a felt totality en-
ables us to have some inkling at any rate of what the Abso-
lute, ultimate reality, must be. We cannot attain a clear vision
of it. To do so, we should have to be the comprehensive
unified experience which constitutes the Absolute. We should
have to get outside our own skins, so to speak. But we can
have a limited knowledge of the Absolute by conceiving
it on an analogy with the basic sentient experience which
underlies the emergence of distinctions between subject and
object and between different objects. In this sense the ex-
perience in question can be regarded as an obscure, virtual
knowledge of reality which is the ‘presupposition’ of meta-
physics and which the metaphysician tries to recapture at a
higher level.
In other words, Bradley admits the truth of the objection

that metaphysics presupposes its own conclusion, but he re-
gards it not_as an objection but rather as a clarification of
the nature of metaphysics. In view, however, of the impor-
tance of the theme it is regrettable that he does not de-
velop his thesis more at length. As it is, he speaks in a variety
of ways, employing terms such as presupposition, assumption,
faith and immediate experience. And though these different
ways of speaking may be compatible, we are left in some
doubt about his precise meaning. However, we are probably:
, justified in laying emphasis on Bradley’s thesis that_there_is
an immediate experience of ‘a many felt in one’,®! anc
|Absolute.
6. By the nature of the case there is not much that can
be said by way of positive description either about the alleged
pre-reflective experience of a felt totality or about the infinite
act of experience which constitutes the Absolute. And it is
hardly surprising if Bradley concentrates his attention on
showing that our ordinary ways of conceiving reality give
rise to contradictions and cannot yield a ‘general view’ capa-
ble of satisfying the intellect. But it is not possible to enter
here into all the details of his dialectic. We must confine
ourselves to indicating some of the phases of his line of
thought.
(i) We are accustomed to group the world’s contents into
things and their qualities, in Scholastic language into_sub-
stances and accidents, or, as Bradley puts it, into the substan-
tive and adjectival. But though this way of regarding reality
is embedded in language and undoubtedly has a practical
utility, it gives rise, Bradley maintains, to insoluble puzzles.
Consider, for example, a lump of sugar which is said to
have the qualities of whiteness, hardness and sweetness. If
we say that the sugar is white, we obviously do not mean that
it is identical with the quality of whiteness. For if this were
what we meant, we could not then say that the lump of
sugar is hard, unless indeed we were prepared to identify
whiteness and hardness. It is natural, therefore, to conceive
the sugar as a centre of unity, a substance which possesses
different qualities. ;
If, however, we try to explain what this centre of unity is
in itself, we are entirely at a loss. And in our perplexity we
are driven to say that the sugar is not an entity which pos-
sesses qualities, a substance in which accidents inhere, but
simply the qualities themselves as related to one another.
Yet what does it mean to say, for example, that the quality
of whiteness is related to the quality of sweetness? If, on the
one hand, being related to sweetness is identical with being
white, to say that whiteness is related to sweetness is to say
no more than that whiteness is whiteness. If, on the other
hand, being related to sweetness is something different from
being white, to say that whiteness is related to sweetness is
to predicate of it something different from itself, that is,
something which it is not.
Obviously, Bradley is not suggesting that we should cease
to speak about things and their qualities. His contention is
that once we try to explain the theory implied by this ad-
mittedly useful language, we find the thing dissolving into its
qualities, while at the same time we are unable to give an
satisfactory explanation of the way in which the qualities
(ii) Now let us rule out the substance-accident theory and

confine our attention to qualities and relations. In the seth
place we can say that «balticg WeRRORE WeeHons are unirt=
telligible. For one thing, we cannot think of a quality without
conceiving it as possessingcharacter
a distinct and so as dif-
ferent from other qualities. And this difference is itself a
relation.
In the second place, however, qualities taken together eS
with their relations are equally unintelligibleOn the one
hand qualities cannot be wholly reduced to their relations.
For relations require terms. The qualities must support their
relations; and in this sense qualities can be said to make
their relations. On the other hand a relation makes a dif-
ference to what is related. Hence we can also say that quali-
ties are made by their relations. A quality must be ‘at once
condition and result’.52 But no satisfactory account of this
paradoxical situation can be given.
Approaching the matter from the side of relations we can
say at once that without qualities they are unintelligible, For

relations must relate terms. But we are also driven to say that
relations are unintelligible even when they are taken to-
gether with their terms, namely qualities. For a relation must

be either nothing or something. If itisnothing, itcannot ©
any relating. But if it is something, it must be related to eac
of its terms by another relation. And we are then involved
in an endless series of relations.
A Scholastic reader of this ingenious piece of dialectic
would probably be inclined to remark that a relation is not
an ‘entity’ of the same logical category as its terms, and that
it makes no sense to say that it requires to be related to its
terms by other relations. But Bradley does not, of course,
intend to say that it is sensible to talk about relations being
related to their terms. His point is that they must either be
so related or be nothing at all, and that both theses are un-
acceptable.53 And his conclusion is that ‘a relational way of
thought—any one that moves by the machinery of terms and
relations—must_give
appearance, and not truth. It is a make-
shift, a device, a mere practical compromise, most necessary,
but in the end most indefensible.’54
To say roundly that thinking which employs the categories
of terms and relations does not give us truth, seems to be an
exaggeration even on Bradley’s premisses. For, as will be seen
later, he expounds a theory of degrees of truth, a theory
which does not admit any simple distinction between truth
and error. It is clear, however, that what he means is that
relational thinking cannot give us Truth with a capital letter.
That is to say, it cannot disclose the nature of reality as
contrasted with appearance. For if the concept of relations
and their terms gives rise to insoluble puzzles, it cannot be
an instrument for attaining the ‘general view’ which will
satisfy the intellect.
Bradley’s position can be clarified in this way. It has some-
time sai h al_relations and ac-
cept al_ relations. But this statement can be mis-
leading. It is true that in Bradley’s view all relations make a
difference to their terms. In this sense they are internal. At_
the_same_ time they cannot be simply identified wi e
terms which they relate. And in this sense there not only can
but also must be external relations, though there cannot in-
deed be a relation which exists entirely on its own, and to
which it is purely accidental whether it happens to connect
terms or not. Hence Bradley can say: ‘External relations, if
they are to be absolute, I in short cannot understand except
as the supposed necessary alternative when internal relations
are denied. But the whole “Either-Or’, between external
and internal relations, to me seems unsound.,’55
At the same time it is precisely the rejection of ‘Either-Or
and the assertion of ‘Both-And’ which gives rise to Bradley’s
critique of relational thought. Relations cannot be external
in neither can they be wholly internal;
Se utbiingg these
thesetwo
ee points of view which leads
ee Bradley
to_conclude_that relational thought is concerned with the
sphere of appearance, and that ultimate reality, the Absolute,
‘must be supra-relational.
(iii) Bradley remarks that anyone who has understood the
chapter in Appearance and Reality on relation and quality
‘will have seen that our experience, where relational, is not
true; and he will have condemned, almost without a hearing,
the great mass of phenomena’.®¢ We need not, therefore,
say much about his critique of space, time, motion and cau-
sality. It is sufficient to illustrate his line of thought by
reference to his critique of space and time.
On the one hand space cannot be simply a relation. For
any space must consist of parts which are themselves spaces.
And if space were merely a relation, we should thus be com-
pelled to make the absurd statement that space is nothing
but the relation which connects spaces. On the other hand,
however, space inevitably dissolves into relations and cannot
be anything else. For space is infinitely differentiated in-
ternally, consisting of parts which themselves consist of parts,
and so on indefinitely. And these differentiations are clearly
relations. Yet when we look for the terms, we cannot find
them. Hence the concept of space, as giving rise to a con-
tradiction, must be relegated to the sphere of appearance.
A similar critique is applied to the concept of time. On
the one hand time must be a relation, namely tha
‘before’ and arter
before and ‘after’. . On the other
Un the hand it cannot ul be arelation.
other ne
If it is a relation between units which have no duration,

‘then the whole time has no duration, and i ime_at
37 Tf, however, time is a relation between units which
themselves possess duration, the alleged units cannot be
really units but dissolve into relations. And there are no
terms. It may be said that time consists of ‘now’s’. But as
the concept of time involves the ideas of before ad after,
diversity is inevitably introduced into the ‘now’; and the
game starts once more.
(iv) Some people, Bradley remarks, are quite prepared to
see the external spatio-temporal world relegated to the sphere
of appearance, but will assure us that the self at least is real.
For his own part, however, he is convinced that the idea of
the self, no less than the ideas of space and time, gives rise
to insoluble puzzles. Obviously, the self exists in some sense.
But once we start to ask questions about the nature of the
self, we soon see how little value is to be attached to peo-
ple’s spontaneous conviction that they know perfectly well
what the term means.
On the one hand _a phenomenalistic analysis of the self
cannot be adequate. If we try to equate a man’s self with the
present contents of his experience, our thesis is quite in-
in-
compatible with our ordinary use of the word ‘self’. For we
obviously think and speak of the self as having a past and a
future, and so as enduring beyond the present moment. If,
however, we try to find a relatively enduring self by distin-
guishing between the relatively constant average mass of a
man’s psychical states and those states which are clearly
transitory, we shall find that it is impossible to say where
the essential self ends and the accidental self begins. We are
faced with ‘a riddle without an answer’.58
On_the other hand, if we abandon phenomenalism_and
locate the self ina permanent unit or monad, we are again
faced with insoluble difficulties. If all the changing states of
consciousness are to be attributed to this unit, in what sense
can it be called a unit? And how is personal identity to be
defined? If, however, the unit or monad is depicted as under-
lying all these changing states, ‘it is a mere mockery to call
it the self of a man’.5 It would be absurd to identify a
man’s self with a kind of metaphysical point.
Bradley’s conclusion is that ‘the self is no doubt the highest
form of experience which we have, but, for all that, is not a
true form’.°° The earlier idealists may have thought that the
subject-object relationship was a firm rock on which to build
a philosophy of reality, but in Bradley’s opinion the subject,
no less than the object, must be relegated to the sphere of
appearance.
7. Reality for Bradley is one. The splintering of reality
into finite things connected by relations belongs to the
sphere of appearance. But to say of something that it j
pearance is not to BeaPrihat Ayexinadewatherpeaiseis
that sole reason, most-indubi is, and there is no possi-
bility of conjuring its being away from it.’ Further, inas-
much as they exist, appearances must be comprised within
reality; they ar rT:
n one
side and apart from all appearance, would assuredly be noth-
ing’.°? In other words, the Absolute is the totality of its
appearances: it is not an additional entity lying behind them.
At the same time appearances cannot exist in the Absolute
precisély
appearaas nces.
That is to say, they cannot existin
mig.Aosclute
bsolute in
insuch
sucha away
wayas
asto
togive
giverise
riseto
tocontra
contradictions or
antinomies. For the whole which we seek in metaphysics
must be one which completely satisfies the intellect. In the
bsolute, therefore, appearances must be transformed and
harmonized in such a way that no contradictions remain.
What must the Absolute, or reality, be, for such a trans-
formation of appearances to- be possible? Bradley—answers
that_it_must be an infinite act of experience, and moreover,
sentient experience. ‘Being and reality are, in brief, one thing
with sentience; they can neither be opposed to, nor even in
the_end_ distinguished from it.’*3 Again, ‘the Absoluteis
one system, and its contents are nothing but sentient experi-
ence. It will hence be a single and all-inclusive experience,
which embraces every partial diversity in concord.’64
Use of the term ‘sentient experience’ should not, of course,
be taken to imply that according to Bradley the Absolute can
be identified with the visible universe as animated by some
kind of world-soul. The Absolute is spirit. “We may fairly
close this work then by insisting that Reality is spiritual. . . .
Outside of spirit there is not, and there cannot be, any real-
ity, and, the more that anything is spiritual, so much the

more is it veritably real.’6
We may very well ask, however, what Bradley means by
saying that reality is spiritual, and how this statement is
compatible with describing reality as sentient experience. And
to answer these questions we must recall his theory of an
immediate basic feeling-experience or sentient experience in
which the distinction between subject and object, with the
consequent sundering of ideal content from that of which it
is predicated, has not yet emerged. On the level of human
reflection and thought this basic unity, a felt totality, breaks
up and externality is introduced. The world of the manifold
appears as external to the subject. But we can conceive as a
possibility an experience in which the immediacy of feeling,
of primitive sentient experience, is recovered, as it were, at a
higher level, a level at which the externality of related terms
such as subject_and object ceases utterly. The Absolute is
such an experience in the highest degree. In other words, the
Absolute is not sentient experience in the sense of being be-
way that the externality of thought to being is overcome.

When, therefore, the Absolute is described as sentient ex-
perience, this term is really being used analogically. ‘Feel-
ing, as we have seen, supplies us with a positive idea of non-
relational unity. The idea is imperfect, but is sufficient to
serve as a positive basis’,®* as a positive basis, that is to say,
for conceiving ultimate reality. And reality or the Absolute
can properly be described as spiritual inasmuch as spirit is
definable as ‘a unity of the manifold in which the externality
of the manifold has utterly ceased’.67 In the human mind
we find a unification of the manifold; but the externality of
the manifold has by no means utterly ceased. The human
mind is thus only imperfectly spiritual. ‘Pure spirit is not
realized except in the Absolute.’68
It is important to understand that when Bradley describes
the Absolute as spiritual, he does not mean to imply that it
is a spirit, a self. Inasmuch as the Absolute is its appeat-
ances, as transformed, it_ must include within itself all the
elements, so to speak, of selfhood. ‘Every element of the uni-
verse, sensation, feeling, thought and will, must be included
within one comprehensive sentience.’6® But it would be ex-
tremely misleading to apply to the infinite universe a term
such as ‘self’, which connotes finitude, limitation. The Abso-
lute is supra-personal, not infra-personal; but it is not a per-
son, and it should not be described as a personal being.
In other words, the Absolute is not a sentient life below
consciousness.But consciousness involves externality; and
though it must _be comprised within the Absolute, itmust
be’ comprised within it as transformed in such a way that it
is no longer what it appears to us to be. Hence we cannot
properly speak of the Absolute as conscious. All that we can
say is that it includes and at the same time transcends con-
sciousness.
As for personal immortality, Bradley admits that it is just
possible. But he considers that a future life ‘must be taken as
decidedly improbable’.7° And he evidently does not believe
in it, though his main concern is with arguing that a belief
in personal immortality is required neither for morality nor
for religion. True, the finite self, as an appearance of the
Absolute, must be included within it. But it is included only
as somehow transformed. And it is clear that the transforma-
tion required is for Bradley of such a kind that an assertion
of the personal immortality of the finite self would be quite
inappropriate.
8. The Absolute, therefore, is all its appearances, every
one of them; but ‘it is not -all equally, but one appearance
is more real than another’.71 That is to say, some appeat-
ances or phenomena are less ace iaietccetirdal
all-inclusiveness and _self-consistency. Hence the former te-
quire Tess alteration than the latter
in order to fit into the
armonious, all-inclusive an z istent_system which
constitutes reality. ‘And this is what we mean by degrees of
truth and reality.’72
The criteria of truth are coherence and comprehensiveness.
“Truth_is_ an ideal expression of the Universe, at once _co-
herent and comprehensive. It must not conflict with itself,
and there must be no suggestion which fails to fall inside it.
Perfect truth in short must realize the idea of a systematic
whole.’?3 Thought sunders, as Bradley puts it, the what from
238 | THE IDEALIST MOVEMENT IN GREAT BRITAIN
the that. We try to reconstitute the unity of ideal content
and being by proceeding beyond singular judgments of per-
ception to ever more comprehensive descriptions of the uni-
verse. Our goal is thus a complete apprehension of the uni-
verse in which every partial truth would be seen as internally,
systematically and harmoniously related to
every other partial
truth in a self-coherent whole.
is goal is, however, unattainable. We cannot combine
comprehensiveness with an understanding of all particular
facts. For the wider and more comprehensive our relational
scheme becomes, the more abstract it becomes: the meshes
of the net become wider, and particular facts fall through.
Further, our relational thinking, as we have already seen, is
not in any case fitted to grasp reality as it is, as one fully
coherent and comprehensive whole. “There is no possible
relational scheme which in my view in the end will be truth.
. . . had long ago made it clear (so I thought) that for me
no truth in the end was quite true. . . .’74
Now, if we take it that for Bradley the standard in tref-
erence to which we have to measure degrees of truth is the
ideal truth which perpetually eludes our grasp, we seem to
be left without any standard or criterion which can be of
practical use. But Bradley’s line of thought seems to be this.
“The criterion of truth, I should say, as of everything else, is
| in the end the satisfaction of a want of our nature.’7® We do
not know in advance what satisfies the intellect. But by us-
ing our intellect in the attempt to understand the world we
discover that what satisfies us is coherence and comprehen-
siveness, as far as we are able to find them. This, then, is
what we are aiming at, the ideal goal of perfect coherence
and comprehensiveness. But to be able to distinguish be-
tween different degrees of truth it is not necessary to have
attained this goal. For reflection on the degrees of satisfac-
tion and dissatisfaction which we experience in our actual
attempt to understand the world will enable us to make cor-
responding distinctions between degrees of truth.
9. If the Absolute is its appearances, it must in some sense
be_or contain enor and evil. And though Bradley disclaims
the ability to explain precisely how they are transformed in
the Absolute, he at any rate feels that it is incumbent on
him to show that they are not positively incompatible
with
his theory of ultimate reality.
The line which Bradley takes in regard to error follows
from his theory of degrees of truth. If undiluted truth,
so to
speak, is identified with the complete truth, every partial
truth must be infected with some degree of error. In other
words, any sharp distinction between truth and error disap-
pears. An erroneous judgment does not constitute a peculiar
kind of judgment. All human judgments are appearance; and
all are transformed in the Absolute, though some need a
more radical transformation than others. The transformation
of what we call erroneous judgments, therefore, does not de-
mand special treatment. It is all a question of degree.
As for evil in the sense of pain and suffering, Bradley sug-
gests that it does not exist, as such, in the infinite act of
experience which constitutes the Absolute. The possibility of
this can be verified to some extent within the field of our
own experience, by the way in which a small pain can be
swallowed up, as it were, or neutralized by an intense pleas-
ure. This suggestion is hardly a source of much consolation
to the finite sufferer; but Bradley is understandably unwilling
to envisage the Absolute as undergoing pain.
In treating of moral evil Bradley makes use of the inter-
pretation to which reference has already been made. Moral
evil is in a sense a condition of morality, inasmuch as the
moral life consists in an overcoming of the lower self. But
morality tends, as we have seen, to transcend itself. And in
the Absolute it no longer exists as morality. Absolute experi-
ence transcends the moral order, and moral evil has no mean-
ing in this context.
10. Can Bradley’s Absolute be properly described as God?
Bradley’s answer is plain enough: ‘for me the Absolute is not
God’.”* Obviously, if we mean imply ultimate re-
ality Without aee
y
further
Tapio specification,
Bion the
Hee Absolute would _
be God. But Bradley is thinking of the concept of God as a
personal being; and he will not allow that personality can be
predicated of the Absolute. True, to speak of the Absolute as
impersonal would be misleading. For this would suggest that
the Absolute is infra-personal. In point of fact personality
must be contained within reality, so that the Absolute cannot
be less than personal. But, as so contained, personality is

transformed to such an extent that we cannot speak of the
Absolute as personal ‘if the term “personal” is to bear any-
thing like its ordinary sense’.77 Reality ‘is not personal, be-
cause it is personal and more. It is, in a word, supraper-
sonal.’78
Some theistic philosophers would obviously comment that
not, as Bradley seems to suppose, in a univocal sense, As

predicated of God, the term ‘personal’ does not imply fini-
tude_or limitation. This, however, is precisely the line of ar-
gument to which Bradley objects. In his view theistic philoso-
phers begin by wishing to satisfy the demands of the
religious consciousness.7°_That is to say, they desire to reach
the conclusion that God is personal, a being to whom man
can pray and who can hear man’s prayers. But they then
pursue a line of argument which progressively eliminates
from the concept of personality all that gives it concrete
content or meaning for us. And the proper conclusion of this
line of argument is is_not fe) I-
personal, above personality. The conclusion, however, which
these philosophers actually assert is the one which they wish
to arrive at, not the one which follows from the line of argu-
ment which they actually employ. It is not that they are
deliberately dishonest. It is rather that they take a word
which has a definite range of meaning when applied to hu-
man beings, evacuate it of its content and then imagine that
it can be meaningfully applied to God. In point of fact, if we
once admit that terms such as ‘personal’ cannot be applied to
God in the sense which they ordinarily bear in our language,
we create a chasm between personality and God. ‘Nor will
you bridge the chasm by the sliding extension of a word.
You will only make a fog, where you can cry out that you
are on both sides at once. And towards increasing this fog I
decline to contribute.’8°
The question, however, is not simply whether God should
be called personal or super-personal. It must be remembered
thatBradley's Absolute isitsappearances. Teistheuniverse
as_transtormed. If therefore we understand by God a being
who
ST
transcends the world in such a way that he cannot be
identified with it, it is obvious th
cannot be equated. We could call the Absolute ‘God’.
But
Bradley’s contention is that the term already has in ordinary
speech a meaning which is different from that of the term
‘Absolute’. Hence confusion results if the two are identified.
And in the interest of clarity, and of intellectual honesty, it
is preferable to say that the Absolute is not ‘God’.
This point of view affects what Bradley has to say of reli-
gion. If we assume that for the religious consciousness God is
being distinct from the external world and the fnite self,
self-contradiction. On the one hand it looks on God as the

one true reality. And in this case God must be infinite. On
the other hand it conceives God as distinct from the multi-
plicity of creatures and so as one being, even if the greatest,
among many. And in this case God must be limited, finite.
If, therefore, when we speak of religion, we are thinking of
its concept of ultimate reality, we are compelled to conclude
that it belongs to the sphere of appearance, and that, just as
morality passes into religion, so does religion pass into the
metaphysics of the Absolute. ‘If you identify the Absolute
with God, that is not the God of religion. . . . Short of the
Absolute God cannot rest, and having reached that goal, he
is lost and religion with him.’81
There is, however, another point of view to which Bradley
gives expression. The essence of religion he maintains is not
knowledge. Nor is it feeling. ‘Religion is rather the attempt
to express the complete reality of goodness through eve:
aspect of our being. And, so far as this goes, it is at once
something more, and something higher, than philosophy.’®2
The precise meaning of this definition of religion may not
be immediately evident; but it is at any rate clear that there
is no question of religion, as so defined, passing into meta-
physics. Religion may still be appearance; but so is philoso-
phy. And ‘the completion of each is not to be found except
in the Absolute’.8? It is obvious from what has been said
that Bradley by no means has the desire of some of the earlier
British idealists to use metaphysics to support the Christian
religion, But it is equally obvious that he does not share He-
gel’s sublime confidence in the power of speculative phi-

losophy.
In conclusion we can mention Bradley’s passing suggestion
of the need for a new religion and religious creed. He ob-
viously does not think that metaphysics can justify Christi-
anity, as Hegel thought that it could. Indeed, Bradley would
doubtless think it misleading to apply the name of Christi-
anity to ‘absolute religion’ as interpreted by Hegel. At the
same time it might be possible to have ‘a religious belief
founded otherwise than on metaphysics, and a metaphysics
able in some sense to justify that creed. . . . Though this
fulfilment is a thing which I cannot myself expect to see,
and though the obstacles in the way are certainly great, on the
other hand I cannot regard it as impossible.’84
11. In the preface to Appearance and Reality Bradley
quotes from his note-book the celebrated aphorism, ‘meta-
hysics is the finding of bad reasons for what we believe
Upod RUCHGE “batTo End Wicle.sessond weng Tesen oe
stinct”.85"This remark is clearly not intended as a flat denial
of the view expressed in the same preface that ‘the meta-
physician cannot perhaps be too much in earnest with meta-
physics’,8* provided at any rate that he recognizes the limita-
tions of metaphysics and does not exaggerate its importance.
Bradley himself takes seriously his own contention that ‘the
chief need of English philosophy is, I think, a sceptical study
of first principles . . . an attempt to become aware of and to
doubt all preconceptions’.8? This element of scepticism, ‘the
result of labour and education’,§8 is represented by the. dia-
lectic of appearance, the critique of our ordinary ways of
thought. At the same time the element_of belief ‘upon in-
stingtBradlev's_explicit
istepresented “by “statement-—to
which
reference
has already been made, that_metaphysics
rests on _a_ basic presupposition or assumption or initial act
of faith, 8° and by the whole doctrine of the Absolute as a
completely self-coherent and comprehensive totality.
This element of belief ‘upon instinct’ occupies a promi-
nentposition inthe “development of Bradley’s metaphysics.
Consider, for example, the theory of the transformation of
appearances in the Absolute. The theory is not, of course,
eschatological in character. That is to say, Bradley is not sug-
gesting that at some future apocalyptic date the phenomena
which give rise to contradictions or antinomies will undergo
a transformation, He maintains that they exist here and now
in the Absolute otherwise than they appear to us to exist.
The completely harmonious and_ all-inclusive experience
which constitutes the Absolute is a present reality, not simply
something which will come into being in the future. But
Bradley does not profess to be able to tell us precisely in
what this transformation consists. What he does is to argue
om possibility to actuality. We can show, for instance, that
1¢ transformation of error is not impossible. And if it is not
impossible, it is possible. And if it is possible, it is an actual
reality. ‘For what is possible, and what a general principle
compels us to say must be, that certainly is,.’9°
The same holds good of the transformation of pain. ‘That
which is both possible and necessary we are bound to think
teal.’®! Similarly, of the transformation of moral evil Bradley
remarks that ‘if possible, then, as before, it is indubitably
real’.°? Again, ‘the “this” and “mine” are now absorbed as
elements within our Absolute. For their resolution must be,
and it may be, and so certainly is is.’®8 And as a final example
we can mention the transformation of finite centres of con-
sciousness, which ‘evidently is real, because on our principle
it is necessary, and because again we have no reason to doubt
that it is possible’.%4
An obvious objection to this line of argument is that we
can hardly be said to know that the required transformation
is possible, unless we are able to show how it can take place.
How, for example, can we legitimately claim to know that
finite centres of consciousness can exist as elements within
one infinite absolute experience without any disharmony or
‘contradiction’, unless we are able to show how they can so
exist? It is really not enough to say that nobody can prove
the impossibility of our thesis. After all, there is very con-
siderable difficulty, prima facie at least, in seeing how finite
centres of consciousness can be said to exist as elements
within one unified and harmonious experience. And the bur-
den of proof lies on the shoulders of those who claim that it
is possible rather than of those who say that it is not possible.
It may be said in reply that as Bradley believes both that
reality is one infinite self-coherent and all-inclusive experi-

ence and that appearances are real, and not simply illusory,
appearances, he must also believe that the required transfor-
mation of appearances is not only possible but also actual.
This is quite true. The point is, however, that Bradley is
forced to draw this conclusion only because of an initial as-
sumption or presupposition or hypothesis about reality. The
assumption is not proved by the dialectic of appearance.
True, the elimination of substance, of the substantial, is skil-
fully used to suggest that all finite things are adjectival to
one reality. But Bradley's caticism ofsubstance isitselfopen
to criticism. And in any case the fact, if it is a fact, that our
ordinary ways of conceiving reality give rise to contradictions
and antinomies does not of itself prove that reality is a self-
coherent whole. For reality might be precisely what the dia-
lectic reveals it as being, namely incoherent. If we go on to
assert that reality, as contrasted with appearance, is a self-
coherent totality, this is because we have already decided
that reality must be of this nature. References to a primitive
sentient experience of a ‘felt totality’ will not help us much.
The idea of such an experience may indeed serve as an ana-
logue for conceiving the Absolute, if we have already decided
that there must be an Absolute. But it can hardly be said to
prove that it is necessary to postulate the Absolute, as Brad-
ley conceives it.
It is true that Bradley’s line of thought can be presented
in a plausible way. If we are going to try to understand re-
ality at all, we must assume that reality is intelligible. Hence
we must take it that the real is that which satishes the de-
mands of the intellect. An account of reality which is riddled
with_self-contradictions does not satisfy the intellect. We
must therefore conclude that in reality, as contrasted with
appearance, all contradictions are overcome. And in the end
this means that we must accept the doctrine of a completely
harmonious and all-inclusive totality, the Absolute.
Though, however, it is reasonable to claim that no ac-
count ofreality which isriddled with contradictions can be
accepted as true, it obviously does not follow that we haye
to_accept Bradley's contention that allour ordinary and scien-
tific ways of conceiving
_ontenina PO ee reality are in fact riddled with Hwee
contra-
ee
dictions. True, concepts such as those of space, time and the
self have for centuries provided philosophers with problems
or puzzles. But we would probably not be inclined to ac-
quiesce in the conclusion that the problems are insoluble on
the ground that the concepts are inherently self-contradictory,
unless we already believed that reality is different from what
it appears to be.
Further, when Bradley makes statements about the Abso-
lute, they are apt to cause no less difficulty than, say, the con-
cept of an enduring self. For example, we are told that ‘the
Absolute has no history of its own, though it contains his-
tories without number. . . . The Absolute has no seasons,
but all at once it bears its leaves, fruit and blossoms.’®5 Now
if Bradley’s Absolute were transcendent, we could understand
the statement that it has no history of its own. But, in his
view, the appearances of the Absolute are internal to it: it is
nothing apart from them. Hence history, change, develop-
ment are internal to it. Yet at the same time it ‘has no
seasons’. The thesis is, of course, that change is ‘transformed’
in the Absolute. But if itis so transformed that it isni
Becca wifegPanera eangeE GETiotent; tpoace. hawt.the
Absolute _can_be said to contain histories without number.
And if change is not so transformed as to be no longer
change, it is difficult to see how the Absolute can be said
to have no history. For, to repeat, it is its appearances.
The obvious answer to this line of criticism is that it is il-
legitimate to expect perfect self-coherence from metaphys-
ics. For, given Bradley’s interpretation of the shortcomings
of human thought, it follows necessarily that any concept of
the Absolute which we are capable of forming belongs itself
to the sphere of appearance. Indeed, the whole of metaphys-
ics is appearance. Nor does Bradley hesitate to admit this.
As we have seen, he declares that philosophy,
no less than
religion, reaches its completion in the Absolute. That is to
say, philosophy is an appearance which, as transformed, is
included in the infinite experience which constitutes the Ab-
solute but which transcends our grasp. It is no matter for
surprise, therefore, if metaphysical statements themselves fail
to attain an ideal standard of self-coherence.
This is true enough. But it simply adds point to the con-
tention that in the long run Bradley’s assertion of the Ab-

solute rests on an initial act of faith. In the long run it Is
the ‘must be’ which is decisive. For Bradley’s sceptical mind
all constructions of human thought, including the metaphys-
ics of the Absolute releg
be ated
to the sphere of ap-
pearance. He allows indeed for degrees of truth, And he_is
convinced thatthemetaphysics oftheAbsolute intruerthan,
say, a concept eality_as consisting of many separate things
linked by relations. But this does not alter the fact that
speculative philosophy is appearance, and not identical with
absolute experience. As has been already noted, Bradley does
not share Hegel’s confident ‘rationalism’. Hence we can say
that his scepticism extends even to metaphysics, as is indeed
suggested by the aphorism quoted at the beginning of this
section. This scepticism is combined, however, with a firm
belief that reality in itself, transcending our powers of com-
prehension, is a comprehensive, completely harmonious to-
tality, an allembracing perfectly self-coherent eternal ex-
perience.
It is not altogether surprising if contemporary British phi-
losophers, when writing on Bradley, have tended to concen-
trate on the puzzles which he raises in regard to our ordinary
ways of thought and to pass over his doctrine of the Absolute
in a rather cursory manner. One reason for this is that the
logical puzzles raised by Bradley can often be treated on their
own, without reference to any act of faith in the One, and
that they are in principle capable of being definitely solved.
For example, in order to decide whether it is true to say that
space cannot be and at the same time must be a relation or
st of
relations,Hisnokessary fosoustheHansforma
is to clarify the meaning ‘or prides of ‘space’. Again, if we
take Bradley’s thesis that the concept of relation is self-
contradictory, as on the one hand all relations make a differ-
ence to their terms and so must be internal to them, while
on the other hand they must in some sense fall between and
connect their terms and so be external to them, we have a
problem which we can hope to solve, provided that we are
prepared for the requisite clarificatory analysis. We can un-
derstand what is meant by Bradley’s thesis and what questions
have to be answered in order to decide whether or not it is
true.
At the same time we obviously miss what one might call
the essential Bradley, if we use Appearance and Reality sim-
ply as a quarry for detached logical puzzles. For the philoso-
pher is clearly a man who is possessed by the idea of the
Absolute, of a completely self-consistent and all-inclusive
whole. And it is easy to understand how his philosophy has
been able to arouse the interest of Indian thinkers who have
not abandoned the native traditions of Hindu speculation,
and of some Western philosophers who have an initial sym-
pathy with this line of speculation. For there is at any rate
some afhnity between Bradley’s theory of speculation and the
Indian doctrine of Maya, the phenomenal world which veils
the one true reality. Obviously, both Bradley and the Indian
philosophers in question are faced with the same difficulty,
namely that_every concept which we can form of ultimate
reality must itself belong to the sphere of appearance. But
eir initial ‘visions’ are simila 1 hich can
exercise _apowerful attraction on some minds. Perhaps what
we need is a serious inquiry into the bases of this vision or
initial inspiration, an inquiry which is not dominated by the
a priori assumption that what Bradley speaks of as a pre-
supposition or act of faith must be devoid of objective value.
It is an inquiry which possesses considerable importance in
tegard to the foundations of speculative metaphysics.
Chapter Nine
ABSOLUTE IDEALISM: BOSANQUET
Life and writings—Logic; judgment and reality-The meta-

physics of individuality—Bosanquet’s philosophy of the
State -—Hobhouse’s criticism of Bosanquet—R. B. Haldane;
Hegelianism and relativity-H. H. Joachim and the coher-
ence theory of truth.
1. Bradley was a recluse. The other leading absolute idealist

in Great Britain, Bernard Bosanquet (1848-1923), was not.
After studying at Balliol College, Oxford, where he came
under the influence of T. H. Green and R. L. Nettleship, he
was elected a Fellow of University College, Oxford, in 1871.
But in 1881 he took up residence in London with a view to
devoting himself not only to writing but also to lecturing for
the adult education movement, which was just beginning, and
to social work. From 1903 until 1908 he occupied the chair
of moral philosophy in the University of St. Andrews.
Bosanquet was a prolific writer. In 1883 his essay on Logic
as the Science of Knowledge appeared in Essays in Philo- -
sophical Criticism, edited by A. Seth and R. B. Haldane.
Knowledge and Reality was published in 1885 and the two-
volume Logic or the Morphology of Knowledge in 1888.1
There followed in quick succession Essays and Addresses
(1889), A History of Aesthetic (1892, 2nd edition 1904),
The Civilization of Christendom and Other Studies (1893),
Companion to Plato’s Republic (1895), Essentials of Logic
(1895), and The Psychology of the Moral Self (1897). In
1899 Bosanquet published what is probably his best known
work, The Philosophical Theory of the State.2 Two sets of
Gifford lectures, The Principle of Individuality and Value
and The Value and Destiny of the Individual, appeared re-
spectively in 1912 and 1913. Among other publications we
may mention The Distinction between Mind and Its Objects
ABSOLUTE IDEALISM: BOSANQUET 249
(1913), Three Lectures on Aesthetic (1915), Social and
In-
ternational Ideals (1917), Some Suggestions in Ethics
(1918), Implication and Linear Inference (1920), What
Re-
ligion Is (1920), The Meeting of Extremes in Contemporary
Philosophy (1921) and Three chapters on the Nature of
Mind (1923).
In spite of this extensive literary activity Bosanquet has
tended to pass into oblivion and, in comparison with Bradley,
is rarely mentioned nowadays, except perhaps in connection
with a certain brand of political theory.8 One reason is proba-
bly that Bosanquet is a duller and less paradoxical thinker
than Bradley. A more important factor, however, seems to be
the belief that, political and aesthetic theory apart, he has
little to offer that is not to be found in the writings of his
more famous contemporary. Indeed, in 1920 Bosanquet him-
self wrote to an Italian philosopher that from the publication
of Ethical Studies in 1876 he had recognized Bradley as his
master. But this modest remark hardly does justice to the
facts. For example, Bosanquet strongly criticized Bradley’s
work The Principles of Logic on the ground that it created a
gulf between thought and reality. And Bradley recognized his
indebtedness to Bosanquet’s ideas in connection with the ma-
terial added to the second edition of The Principles of Logic.
As for Appearance and Reality, Bosanquet was deeply influ-
enced by it; but, though he was, like Bradley, a monist, he
developed his own metaphysics which in some respects stood
closer to Hegelianism. He was convinced of the truth of He-
gel’s principle that the rational is the real and the real the
rational, and he did not share Bradley’s marked sceptical
tendencies.
2. In a certain sense, Bosanquet maintains, it is true to
say that the world is for every individual his world, the course
of his consciousness, built up out of his perceptions. ‘The real
world for every individual is emphatically his world; an ex-
tension and determination of his present perception, which
perception is to him not indeed reality as such, but his point
of contact with reality as such.’ That is to say, we must dis-
tinguish between the course of consciousness considered as a
series of psychical phenomena and consciousness considered
as ‘intentional’, as presenting a system of interrelated ob-
jects.5 ‘Consciousness is consciousness of a world only in so

far as it presents a system, a whole of objects, acting on one
another, and therefore independent of the presence or ab-
sence of the consciousness which presents them.’® We must
also allow for a distinction between my objective world and
the creations of my imagination. Hence we can say that ‘the
whole world, for each of us, is our course of consciousness,
in so far as this is regarded as a system of objects which we
are obliged to think’.?
Reflection on this factor of constraint shows us that the
worlds of different individuals are constructed by definite
processes common to intelligence as such. In a sense each of
us begins with his or her private world. But the more the
constructive process of building up a systematic world of
objects is developed, so much the more do these several
worlds correspond with one another and tend to merge into
a common world.
This process of constructing a world is the same as knowl-
edge, in the sense of coming to know. Thus knowledge is
the mental construction of reality, the medium in which the
world exists for us as a system of interrelated objects. And
logic is the analysis of this constructive process. “The work of
intellectually constituting that totality which we call the real
world is the work of knowledge. The work of analyzing the
process of this constitution or determination is the work of
logic, which might be described as the self-consciousness of
knowledge, or the reflection of knowledge upon itself.’
Now, knowledge exists in the judgment. And it follows,
therefore, if logic is the self-consciousness of knowledge, that
the study of the judgment is fundamental in logic. True, we
can say that the proposition, the expression of the judgment,
has ‘parts’. And the enunciation of a proposition is a temporal
process. But the judgment in itself is an identity-in-difference:
it is “not a relation between ideas, nor a transition from one
idea to another, nor does it contain a third idea which in-
dicates a particular kind of connection between two other
ideal contents’.?
The ultimate subject of the judgment is reality as a whole,
and ‘the essence of Judgment is the reference of an ideal
content to Reality’.1° Hence every judgment could be intro-
duced by some such phrase as ‘Reality is such
that ..
or “The real world is characterized bysnon 2
As for inference, we can indeed make a prima
facie dis-
tinction between judgment and inference by saying
that the
former is the immediate and the latter the mediate
reference
of an ideal content to reality. But on closer examination
the
distinction tends to break down. For, properly speakin
g, no
judgment can be said to express knowledge unless it
pos-
sesses the characteristics of necessity and ‘precision’, precisi
on
depending on the mediating conditions being made explicit
.
And in this case no absolute distinction between judgment
and inference is possible. Instead we have the ideal of one
ultimate judgment which would predicate the whole of te
ality, as an ideal content, of itself. This ultimate judgment
would not, of course, be simple. For it would include within
itself all partial truths as organically interrelated, as coherent.
It would be the all-inclusive identity-in-difference in the form
of knowledge. ‘The whole is the truth.’12 And particular
truths are true in so far as they cohere with other truths in
this whole.
Obviously, Bosanquet is in agreement with Bradley on
many points: on the fundamental importance of the judg-
ment in logic, on reality as the ultimate subject of every judg-
ment, and on truth in the full sense as being the complete
system of truth. But in spite of the many points of agree-
ment there are important differences of attitude. Thus for
Bosanquet reality or the universe is ‘not only of such a nature
that it can be known by intelligence, but further of such a
nature that it can be known and handled by our intelli-
gence’.13 True, Bosanquet carefully refrains from claiming
that the finite mind can fully comprehend reality. At the
same time he is anxious to avoid what he regards as Bradley’s
marked tendency to drive a wedge between human thought
on the one hand and reality on the other. Every finite mind
approaches reality from a particular point of view and builds
up its own conception of reality. But though there are de-
grees of truth, and so of error, no judgment is entirely out
of touch with reality; and intelligence as such forces us to
conceive the universe in certain ways, so that, despite private
points of view, a common objective world is presented in
consciousness. Further, human thought as a whole approxi-

mates more and more to a comprehension of reality, even
though the ideal ultimate judgment is a goal which tran-
scends the capacity of any given finite mind.1#
3. With Bosanquet, as with Bradley, there is evidently a
close connection between logic and metaphysics. For both
hold that the ultimate subject of every judgment is reality
as a whole. But it would be a mistake to think that because
Bosanquet describes logic as the self-consciousness of knowl-
edge, he intends to imply that logic can provide us with
factual knowledge about the world. He does not maintain
this any more than Bradley does. Logic is the morphology of
knowledge: it does not provide us with the content of knowl-
edge.
Indeed, it is a mistake to look to philosophy at all for a
knowledge of hitherto unknown facts. ‘Philosophy can tell you
no new facts, and can make no discoveries. All that it can
tell you is the significant connection of what you already
know. And if you know little or nothing, philosophy has
little or nothing to tell you.’!5 In other words, we acquire
factual knowledge by ordinary experience and by the study
of physics, chemistry, and so on. Philosophy neither de-
duces nor adds to this knowledge. What it does is to exhibit
a pattern of connections between already known facts.
Obviously, the sciences do not present us with unrelated
atomic facts; they exhibit relations, connections, bringing
facts under what we call laws. Hence, if philosophy has any
such function to perform, to exhibit the ‘significant connec-
tion’ of what we already know must mean showing how the
facts which are known otherwise than through philosophy
are members of an overall system in which each member con-
tributes to the total unity in virtue of the very characteristics
which distinguish it from other members. In other words, the
philosopher is not primarily concerned with class-concepts
formed by abstraction from differentiating characteristics
but rather with the concrete universal, which is an identity-
in-difference, the universal existing in and through its par-
ticulars.
The concrete universal is called by Bosanquet, following
Hegel, the ‘individual’. And it is clear that in the fullest sense
of the term there can be only one individual,
namely the
Absolute. For this universal of universals is the
all-embracing
system which alone can fully satisfy the criteria propos
ed by
Bosanquet, that is, non-contradiction and wholeness.
These
criteria are said to be really one. For it is only in the com-
plete whole or totality that there is complete absenc
e of
contradiction.
Though, however, individuality belongs in a pre-eminent
sense to the Absolute, it is also attributed to human beings,
even if in a secondary sense. And when examining this use
of the term Bosanquet insists that individuality should not
be understood in a predominantly negative fashion, as though
it consisted chiefly in not being someone else. After all, in
the case of the supreme individual, the Absolute, there is no
other individual from which it can be distinguished. Rather
should individuality be conceived positively, as consisting ‘in
the richness and completeness of a self’.16 And it is in social
morality, art, religion and philosophy that ‘the finite mind
begins to experience something of what individuality must
ultimately mean’.17 In social morality, for example, the hu-
man person transcends what Bosanquet calls the repellent
self-consciousness, for the private will is united with other
wills without being annulled in the process. Again, in re-
ligion the human being transcends the level of the narrow
and poverty-stricken self and feels that he attains a higher
level of richness and completeness in union with the divine.
At the same time morality is subsumed within religion.
Reflection on the development of the individual self can
thus give us some idea of how various levels of experience
can be comprehended and transformed in the one unified and
all-inclusive experience which constitutes the Absolute. And
here Bosanquet has recourse to the analogy of Dante’s
mind as expressed in the Divine Comedy. The external
world and the world of selves are both present in the poet’s
mind and find expression in the poem. The human selves
are indeed presented as thinking and acting beings, as real
selves existing in an external sphere. At the same time all
these selves live only through their participation in the
thoughts, emotions and acts which make up the poet’s mind
as expressed in the poem.
This analogy should not be interpreted as meaning that

for Bosanquet the Absolute is a mind behind the universe,
a mind which composes a divine poem. The Absolute is the
totality. Hence it cannot be a mind. For mind is a perfec-
tion which depends on physical preconditions and constitutes
a certain level of reality. Nor can the Absolute be simply
equated with the God of the religious consciousness, who is
a being distinct from the world and who does not contain
evil. ‘The whole, considered as a perfection in which the
antagonism of good and evil is unnoted, is not what religion
means by God, and must rather be taken as the Absolute.’18
Here Bosanquet is at one with Bradley.
Though, however, the Absolute cannot be a mind or a
self, reflection on self-consciousness, the chief characteristic
of mind, can furnish us with clues for deciphering the nature
of reality. For example, the self attains satisfaction and rich-
ness of experience only by passing out of itself: it must die,
as it were, to live. And this suggests that a perfect experience
embodies the character of the self to this extent at least, that
it passes out of itself to regain itself. In other words,
Bosanquet, unlike Bradley, is attempting to offer some ex-
planation of the existence of finite experience. ‘Not of course
that the infinite being can lose and regain its perfection,
but that the burden of the finite is inherently a part or
rather an instrument of the self-completion of the infinite.
The view is familiar. I can only plead that it loses. all point
if it is not taken in bitter earnest.’19 One objection against
this Hegelian idea of a self-developing Absolute is that it
seems to introduce temporal succession into the infinite be-
ing. But unless we are prepared to say that the concept of
the Absolute is for us a vacuous concept, we cannot help
ascribing to the Absolute a content which, from our point
of view, is developed in time.
It may be objected that Bosanquet has done nothing to
show that there is an Absolute. He simply assumes its ex-
istence and tells us what it must be. His reply, however, is
that at all levels of experience and thought there is a move-
ment from the contradictory and partial to the non-
contradictory and complete, and that the movement can find
no end save in the concept of the Absolute. ‘I am aware of
ABSOLUTE IDEALISM: BOSANOUET 255
no point at which an arrest in the process can
be justified,’20
The idea of the Absolute, the totality, is in fact
the motive-
force, the final end, of all thought and reflection.
Now, individuality is the criterion of value, a concep
t on
which much more emphasis is laid by Bosanquet than
by
Bradley. And as individuality is to be found in its comple
te
form only in the Absolute, the Absolute must
be the
ultimate standard of value, as well as of truth and
reality.
It follows from this that we cannot attribute an ultimat
e or
absolute value to the finite self. And as Bosanquet conceiv
es
self-perfection as involving an overcoming of self-enclosedness
and a conscious entry into membership of a greater whole,
we would hardly expect him to regard personal immortality
as the destiny of the finite self. He claims indeed that the
best in the finite self is preserved, in a transformed state, in
the Absolute. But he also admits that that which persists of
myself would not appear to my present consciousness to be
a continuation of ‘myself’. This, however, is not for
Bosanquet any cause for regret. The self, as we know it, is
a mixture, as it were, of the finite and the infinite; and it is
only in shedding the restricting vesture of finite limited self-
hood that it achieves its destiny.
As has already been noted, Bosanquet is much less con-
cerned than Bradley with illustrating the defectiveness of
human thought as an instrument for grasping reality, and
much more concerned with understanding the universe as a
whole and with determining degrees of perfection or value.
Yet in the long run both maintain that the universe is some-
thing very different from what it appears to be. Bosanquet
rather plays down this aspect of the matter. And for this
reason his thought may appear less exciting than that of
Bradley. But both men represent the universe as an infinite
experience, as something, that is to say, which it certainly
does not appear to be at first sight. Though, however, there
is a fundamental affinity, Bosanquet is notable as making
explicit the value-judgment which is basic in idealist monism,
namely that the supreme value and the ultimate criterion
of all value is the totality, the all-inclusive concrete universal
in which all ‘contradictions’ are overcome.
4. Given Bosanquet’s absolute idealism, one would not ex-
pect him to favour the type of political theory which regards

the State as a device for enabling individuals (in the ordinary
sense of the term) to pursue their private ends in peace and
security. All such theories are condemned as superficial, as
theories ‘of the first look’. ‘It is the first look of the man in
the street or of the traveller, struggling at a railway station,
to whom the compact self-containedness and self-direction of
the swarming human beings before him seems an obvious
fact, while the social logic and spiritual history which lie be-
hind the scene fail to impress themselves on his perceptive
imagination,’21
These theories assume that every man is a self-enclosed
unit which undergoes the impact of other such units. And
government tends to appear as the impact of others when
systematized, regularized and reduced to a minimum. In
other words, it appears as something alien to the individual,
bearing upon him from without, and so as an evil, though
admittedly a necessary evil.
A quite different point of view is represented by Rousseau’s
theory of the General Will. Here we have the idea of an
‘identity between my particular will and the will of all my
associates in the body politic which makes it possible to say
that in all social co-operation, and in submitting even to
forcible restraint, when imposed by society in the true com-
mon interest, I am obeying only myself, and am actually at-
taining my freedom’.22 Yet in the process of expressing his
enthusiasm for direct democracy and his hostility to repre-
sentative government Rousseau really enthrones the Will of
All in the place of the General Will, which becomes a non-
entity.
We must therefore go beyond Rousseau and give a real
content to the idea of the General Will, without reducing it
in effect to the Will of All. And this means identifying it
with the State when considered not merely as a governmental
structure but rather as ‘a working conception of life . . . the
conception by the guidance of which every living member of
the commonwealth is enabled to perform his function, as
Plato has taught us’.23 If the State or political society is
understood in this way, we can see that the relation of the
individual mind and will to the mind of society and the
ABSOLUTE IDEALISM: BOSANOUET 257
General Will is comparable to the relation between
the in-
dividual physical object and Nature as a whole. In
both cases
the self-enclosed individual is an abstraction. The individ
ual
man’s real will, therefore, by which he wills his own nature
as a rational being, is identical with the General Will.
And
in this identification ‘we find the only true account of politi-
cal obligation’.24 In obeying the State the individual obeys
his real will. And when he is constrained by the State to
act in a certain manner, he is constrained to act in ac-
cordance with his real will, and so to act freely.
In other words, the alleged antithesis between the indi-
vidual and the State is for Bosanquet a false antithesis. And
it follows that the alleged problem of justifying interference
by the State with private liberty is not a genuine problem.
But this is not to say that no genuine problem can arise in
regard to some particular concrete issue. For the ultimate
end of the State, as of its members, is a moral end, the at-
tainment of the best life, the life which most develops man’s
potentialities or capacities as a human being. Hence we can
always ask, in regard to a proposed law for example, ‘how
far and in what way the use of force and the like by the
State is a hindrance to the end for which the States exists’,25
and which is at the same time the end of each of its mem-
bers. An appeal simply to private liberty against so-called
State interference in general betrays a misunderstanding of
the nature of the State and of its relations to its members.
But it by no means follows that any and every use of com-
pulsion contributes to the end for which the State exists.
Bosanquet’s point of view can be clarified in this way.
As the end of the State is a moral end, it cannot be attained
unless the citizens act morally, which includes intention as
well as external action. Morality in this full sense, however,
cannot be enforced by law. Individuals can be compelled, for
instance, to refrain from certain actions; but they cannot
be compelled to refrain from them for high moral motives.
It is indeed clearly conducive to the common good that peo-
ple should refrain from murder, even if their motive is sim-
ply the avoidance of punishment. It remains true, however,
that the employment of force, so far as it is the determining
cause of an action, reduces the resultant actions to a lower
level than they would occupy if they were the result of reason
and free choice. Hence the employment of force and com-
pulsion should be restricted as far as possible, not because it
is thought to represent an interference by society with self-
enclosed individuals (for this is a false antithesis), but be-
cause it interferes with the attainment of the end for which
the State exists.
In other words, Bosanquet shares the view of T. H. Green
that the primary function of legislation is to remove hin-
drances to the development of the good life. How far, for
example, social legislation should extend is not a question
which can be answered a priori. As far as general principles
go, we can only say that to justify compulsion we ought to
be able to show that ‘a definite tendency to growth, or a
definite reserve of capacity, . . . is frustrated by a known
impediment, the removal of which is a small matter com-
pared to the capacities to be set free’.26 On this principle
we can justify, for instance, compulsory education as the re-
moval of a hindrance to the fuller and wider development
of human capacities. Obviously, the legislation itself is posi-
tive. But the object of the law is primarily that of removy-
ing hindrances to the attainment of the end for which politi-
cal society exists, an end which is ‘really’ willed by every
member as a rational being.
If we assume that the moral end is the fullest possible
development of man’s capacities, and that it is attained or at
any rate approached only in the context of society, it seems
only natural to look beyond the national State to the ideal of
a universal society, humanity in general. And Bosanquet does
at least admit that the idea of humanity must have a place
‘in any tolerably complete philosophical thinking’.27 At the
same time he claims that the ethical idea of humanity does
not form an adequate basis for an effective community. For
we cannot presuppose in mankind at large a sufficient unity
of experience, such as exists in a national State, for the ex-
ercise of a General Will. Further, Bosanquet condemns pro-
posals for a World-State with plans for substituting a uni-
versal language for national languages, a substitution which,
in his opinion, would destroy literature and poetry and te-
duce intellectual life to a level of mediocrity. Like Hegel,
therefore, Bosanquet is unable to transcend the
idea of the
national State, animated by a common spirit which
expresses
itself in objective institutions and submits these institu
tions
to a critical evaluation in the light of experience
and present
needs.
Again, like Hegel, Bosanquet is prepared to admit that
no actual State is immune from criticism. It is possible
in
principle for the State to act ‘in contravention of its main
duty to sustain the conditions of as much good life as pos-
sible’.28 But though this admission would appear to most
people to be obviously justified, it creates a special difficulty
for anyone who holds with Bosanquet that the State is in
some sense identical with the General Will. For by defini-
tion the General Will wills only what is right. Hence Bosan-
quet tends to make a distinction between the State as such
and its agents. The latter may act immorally, but the former,
the State as such, cannot be saddled with responsibility for
the misdeeds of its agents ‘except under circumstances which
are barely conceivable’.2®
It can hardly be claimed that this is a logically satisfactory
position. If the State as such means the General Will, and if
the General Will always wills what is right, it seems to follow
that there are no conceivable circumstances in which the
State as such could be said to act immorally. And in the
long run we are left with a tautology, namely that a will
which always wills what is right, always wills what is right.
Indeed, Bosanquet himself seems to feel this, for he suggests
that on a strict definition of State action we ought to say
that the State does not really will an immoral action which
we would ordinarily attribute to ‘the State’. At the same
time he understandably feels bound to admit that there may
be circumstances in which we can legitimately speak of the
State acting immorally. But by speaking of ‘barely conceiva-
ble’ circumstances he inevitably gives the impression that for
practical purposes the State is immune from criticism. For
those who maintain that statements about action by the State
are always reducible in principle to statements about indi-
viduals, there is obviously no difficulty in speaking about the
State as acting immorally. But if we assume that we can make
meaningful statements about ‘the State as such’ which are
not reducible in principle to a set of statements about as-

signable individuals, the question certainly arises whether
we can legitimately apply the criteria of personal morality
when judging the actions of this somewhat mysterious entity.
5. It is understandable that when some British writers un-
dertook to show that ultimate responsibility for the First
World War rested fairly and squarely on the shoulders of
German philosophers such as Hegel, Bosanquet’s political
philosophy came in for its share of criticism. For example,
in The Metaphysical Theory of the State (1918) by L. T.
Hobhouse,®° the author, though principally concerned with
Hegel, devoted a good deal of criticism to Bosanquet, in
whom he rightly saw the British political philosopher who
stood nearest to Hegel.
Hobhouse sums up what he calls the metaphysical theory
of the State in the three following propositions. “The indi-
vidual attains his true self and freedom in conformity to his
real will’; ‘this real will is the general will’; and ‘the general
will is embodied in the State’.81 The State is thus identified
to all intents and purposes with the entire social fabric, with
society in general; and it is regarded as the guardian and ex-
pression of morality, as the highest moral entity. But if the
State is identified with society, the result is the absorption
of the individual by the State. And why should the national
State be regarded as the highest product of social develop-
ment? If we assume for the sake of argument that there is
such a thing as the General Will and that it is the real or
true will of man,®2 it should find a much more adequate
expression in a universal world-society than in the national
State. True, a world-society is not yet in existence. But the
creation of such a society should be held up as an ideal
towards which we ought to strive effectively, whereas in point
of fact Bosanquet, following Hegel, shows an unwarranted
prejudice in favour of the national State. In this sense idealist
political theory is unduly conservative. Further, if the State
is regarded as the guardian and expression of morality and
as the highest moral entity, the logical consequence is a
disastrous moral conformism. In any case, if the State is really,
as Bosanquet supposes it to be, a moral entity of a higher
order than the individual moral agent, it is very odd that
these sublime moral entities, namely different States, have
not succeeded in regularizing their mutual relations accord-
ing to moral standards.38 In brief, ‘to confuse the State with
society and political with moral obligation is the central fal-
lacy of the metaphysical theory of the State’.34
Having summed up the metaphysical theory of the State
in a number of theses, Hobhouse then finds himself driven
to admit that Bosanquet sometimes speaks in ways which do
not easily fit into this abstract scheme. But his way of coping
with this difficulty is to argue that Bosanquet is guilty of in-
consistency. He notes, for example, that in the introduction
to the second edition of The Philosophical Theory of the
State Bosanquet refers to a social co-operation which does not
belong strictly either to the State or to private individuals
simply as such. And he finds this inconsistent with the thesis
that every man’s true self finds its adequate embodiment in
the State. Again, Hobhouse notes that in Social and Inter-
national Ideals Bosanquet speaks of the State as an organ of
the community, which has the function of maintaining the
external conditions required for the development of the best
life. And he finds this way of speaking inconsistent with the
thesis that the State is identical with the whole social fabric.
Hobhouse’s conclusion, therefore, is that if such passages
represent what Bosanquet really thinks about the State, he
ought to undertake ‘the reconstruction of his entire theory’.5
By and large, of course, Hobhouse is quite justified in find-
ing in Bosanquet the so-called metaphysical theory of the
State.26 True, it is an exaggeration to say that according
to Bosanquet a man’s true self finds its adequate embodi-
ment in the State, if we mean by this that man’s potentiali-
ties are completely actualized in what would normally be
regarded as his life as a citizen. Like Hegel, Bosanquet con-
siders art, for instance, separately from the State, even if it
presupposes society. At the same time it is undoubtedly
true that he maintains an organic theory of the State, ac-
cording to which statements about the State ‘as such’ are
irreducible in principle to statements about assignable indi-
viduals. It is also true that Bosanquet ascribes to the na-
tional State a pre-eminent role as the embodiment of the
General Will, and that he is comparatively insensitive to the
ideal of a wider human society. As for the confusion of

political with moral obligation, which Hobhouse mentions as
a cardinal feature of the metaphysical theory of the State
and to which he strongly objects, it seems to the present
writer that a distinction must be made.
If we hold a teleological interpretation of morality, in
which obligation is regarded as falling on us in regard to
those actions which are required for the attainment of a
certain end (for example, the actualization and harmonious
integration of one’s potentialities as a human being), and if
at the same time we regard life in organized society as one of
the normally requisite means for attaining this end, we can
hardly avoid looking on political obligation as one of the
expressions of moral obligation. But it by no means follows
that we are committed to confusing moral with political
obligation, if by this is meant reducing the former to the
latter. This confusion can arise only if the State is regarded
as being itself the basis and interpreter of the moral law.
If we do look on the State in this way, a disastrous con-
formism is, as Hobhouse notes, the result. But though Bosan-
quet’s theory of the General Will as finding its adequate
embodiment in the State undoubtedly favours this exalted
view of the latter’s moral function, we have seen that he
allows, even if with reluctance, for moral criticism of any
actual State. Hobhouse’s comment, however, is that Bosan-
quet is here guilty of inconsistency, and that if he really
wishes to allow for moral criticism of the State, he should
revise his theory of the General Will. The comment seems
to the present writer to be just.
6. We have noted that Bosanquet stood closer than Bradley
to Hegel. But if we are looking for a British philosopher who
openly shared Stirling’s enthusiastic veneration for Hegel as
the great master of speculative thought, we must turn rather
to Richard Burdon Haldane (1856-1928), the distinguished
statesman who in 1911 was created Viscount Haldane of
Cloan. In his two-volume work The Pathway to Reality
(1903-4) Haldane declared that Hegel was the greatest mas-
ter of speculative method since Aristotle, and that he himself
was not only prepared but also desirous to be called an
Hegelian.8* Indeed, his undisguised admiration for German
ABSOLUTE IDEALISM: BOSAN! QUET 26 3
thought and culture led to a rather shameful attack on him
at the beginning of the First World War.38
Haldane made an attempt to show that the theory of
telativity is not only compatible with Hegelianism but also
demanded by it. In The Pathway to Reality he proposed a
philosophical theory of relativity; and when Einstein pub-
lished his papers on the subject, Haldane regarded them as
providing confirmation of his own theory, which he devel-
oped in The Reign of Relativity (1921). In brief, reality as a
whole is one, but knowledge of this unity is approached from
various points of view, such as those of the physicist, the bi-
ologist and the philosopher. And each point of view, together
with the categories which it employs, represents a partial
and relative view of the truth and should not be absolutized.
This idea not only fits in with but is also demanded by a
philosophical outlook for which reality is ultimately Spirit
and for which truth is the whole system of truth, reality’s
complete self-reflection or self-knowledge, a goal which is ap-
proached through dialectical stages.
It can hardly be claimed that this general philosophical
theory of relativity was, in itself, a novelty. And in any case
it was rather late in the day for an attempt to infuse fresh
life into Hegelianism by emphasizing the relativistic aspects
of the system and by invoking the name of Einstein as a
patron. However, it is worth mentioning Haldane as one of
those prominent figures in British public life who have had
a lasting interest in philosophical problems.
7. We have already had occasion to mention the coherence
theory of truth, namely that any particular truth is true in
virtue of its place in a total system of truth. This theory
was discussed and defended in The Nature of Truth (1906)
by Harold Henry Joachim (1868-1938), who occupied the
Wykeham chair of logic at Oxford from 1919 until 1935.
And it is not altogether superfluous to say something about
the book, because the author showed his awareness of the
difficulties to which the theory gives rise and did not attempt
to slur them over.
Joachim approaches the coherence theory of truth by way
of a critical examination of other theories. Consider, for ex-
ample, the correspondence theory, according to which a fac-
tual statement is true if it corresponds with extra-linguistic

reality. If somebody asks us to tell him what the reality is
with which, say, a true scientific statement corresponds, our
reply will necessarily be expressed in a judgment or set of
judgments. When therefore we say that the scientific state-
ment is true because it corresponds with reality, what we are
really saying is that a certain judgment is true because it
coheres systematically with other judgments. Hence the cor-
respondence of truth is seen to pass into the coherence
theory.
Or take the doctrine that truth is a quality of certain
entities called ‘propositions’, a quality which is simply per-
ceived immediately or intuitively. According to Joachim the
claim of an immediate experience to be an experience of
truth can be recognized only in so far as the intuition is
shown to be the outcome of rational mediation, that is, in
so far as the truth in question is seen to cohere with other
truths. A proposition considered as an independent entity
which possesses the quality of truth or of falsity, is a mere
abstraction. Hence once more we are driven on to the in-
terpretation of truth as coherence.
Joachim is thus convinced that the coherence theory of
truth is superior to all rival theories. “That the truth itself is
one, and whole, and complete, and that all thinking and all
experience moves within its recognition and subject to its
manifest authority; this I have never doubted.’8® Similarly,
Joachim does not doubt that different judgments and partial
systems of judgments are ‘more or less true, i.e. as approxi-
mating more or less closely to the one standard’.4° But once
we begin to make the coherence theory explicit, really to
think out its meaning and implications, difficulties arise
which cannot be ignored.
In the first place coherence does not mean simply formal
consistency. It refers in the long run to one all-inclusive
significant whole in which form and matter, knowledge and
its object, are inseparably united. In other words, truth as
coherence means absolute experience. And an adequate
theory of truth as coherence would have to provide an in-
telligible account of absolute experience, the all-inclusive
totality, and to show how the various levels of incomplete
experience form constitutive moments in it. But it is im-
possible in principle that these demands should be met by
any philosophical theory. For every such theory is the result
of finite and partial experience and can be at best only a
partial manifestation of the truth.
In the second place truth, as it is attained in human knowl-
edge, involves two factors, thought and its object. And it is
precisely this fact which gives rise to the correspondence
theory of truth. An adequate theory of truth as coherence
must therefore be able to explain how we are to conceive
that self-diremption of the totality, absolute experience,
which brings about the relative independence of subject and
object, of ideal content and external reality, within human
knowledge. But no such explanation, Joachim admits, has
ever been given.
In the third place, as all human knowledge involves
thought about an Other (that is, an other than itself), every
theory of the nature of truth, including the coherence theory,
must be a theory about truth as its Other, as something
about which we think and pronounce judgment. And this is
equivalent to saying that ‘the coherence theory of truth on
its own admission can never rise above the level of knowledge
which at the best attains to the “truth” of correspondence’.*1
With admirable candour Joachim is quite ready to speak
of the ‘shipwreck’ of his endeavours to state an adequate
theory of truth, In other words, he cannot meet the difficul-
ties to which the coherence theory gives rise. At the same
time he is still convinced that this theory carries us further
than rival theories into the problem of truth, and that it can
maintain itself against objections which are fatal to them,
even if it itself gives rise to questions which cannot be an-
swered. It is, however, clear enough that the ultimate reason
why Joachim sticks to the coherence theory, in spite of the
difficulties to which it admittedly gives rise, is a metaphysi-
cal reason, a belief about the nature of reality. Indeed, he
explicitly says that he does not believe that ‘the Metaphysi-
cian is entitled to acquiesce in logical theories, when their
success demands that he should accept within the sphere
of Logic assumptions which his own metaphysical theory
condemns’.42 In other words, absolute idealism in meta-
physics demands the coherence theory of truth in logic. And

in spite of the difficulties to which this theory gives rise we
are justified in accepting it, if other theories of truth in-
evitably pass into the coherence theory when we try to state
them precisely.
In judging whether other theories of truth do in fact pass
into the coherence theory we have to bear in mind Joachim’s
own observation that coherence in this context does not mean
simply formal consistency. An admission that two mutually
incompatible propositions cannot both be true at the same
time is not equivalent to embracing the coherence theory of
truth. As Joachim presents the theory, when he is discussing
the difficulties to which it gives rise, it is clearly a meta-
physical theory, part and parcel of absolute idealism. Hence
it is a question of whether all other theories of truth can be
seen ultimately either to suffer complete collapse under criti-
cal examination or to imply the validity of absolute idealism.
And nobody who is not already an absolute idealist is likely
to admit that this is the case. It is not indeed the intention
of the present writer to suggest that coherence has nothing
to do with truth. In point of fact we often use coherence as
a test, coherence with already established truths. And it is
arguable that this implies a metaphysical belief about the
nature of reality. But it does not necessarily follow that
this is an implicit belief in absolute idealism. In any case,
as Joachim himself frankly recognizes, if a true proposition is
true only in so far as it is included as a moment-in an ab-
solute experience which transcends our grasp, it is very diffi-
cult to see how we can ever know that any proposition is
true. And yet we are sure that we can have some knowledge.
Perhaps an essential preliminary to any attempt to formulate
‘the’ theory of truth is a careful examination of the ways in
which terms such as ‘true’ and ‘truth’ are used in ordinary
discourse.
Chapter Ten
THE TURN TOWARDS

PERSONAL IDEALISM
Pringle-Pattison and the value of the human person—The

pluralistic idealism of McTaggart—The pluralistic spiritual-
ism of J. Ward—General comments.
1. The attitude adopted by Bradley and Bosanquet to finite

personality not unnaturally led to a reaction even within the
idealist movement. One of the chief representatives of this
reaction was Andrew Seth Pringle-Pattison (1856-1931).1
In his first work, The Development from Kant to Hegel
(1882), he described the transition from the critical phi-
losophy of Kant to the metaphysical idealism of Hegel as an
inevitable movement. And he always maintained that the
mind cannot rest in a system which involves the doctrine of
unknowable things-in-themselves. But in 1887 he published
Hegelianism and Personality in which, somewhat to the
surprise of his readers, he submitted absolute idealism to
outspoken criticism. q
At first sight, Pringle-Pattison admits, Hegelianism appears
to magnify man. For, obscure though Hegel’s utterances may
be, his philosophy certainly suggests that God or the Abso-
lute is identical with the whole historical process, considered
as developing dialectically towards self-knowledge in and
through the human mind. ‘The philosopher’s knowledge of
God is God’s knowledge of himself.’2 The ground is thus
prepared for the Left-wing Hegelian transformation of the-
ology into anthropology.
Reflection, however, shows that in Hegelianism the in-
dividual person is of little account. For human beings be-
come ‘the foci in which the impersonal life of thought mo-
mentarily concentrates itself, in order to take stock of its
own contents. These foci appear only to disappear in the
perpetual process of this realization.’* The human person, in

other words, is simply a means whereby impersonal Thought
comes to a knowledge of itself. And from the point of view
of ‘anyone who attaches a real value to personality it is clear
that ‘Hegel’s determination to have one process and one sub-
ject was the original fountain of error’. The radical mistake
both of Hegelianism itself and of its British derivatives is
‘the identification of the human and the divine self-
consciousness or, to put it more broadly, the unification of
consciousness in a single self’.® This unification is ultimately
destructive of the reality of both God and man.
Pringle-Pattison insists, therefore, on two points. First, we
should recognize a real self-consciousness in God, even
though we have to avoid ascribing to it the features of finite
self-consciousness considered precisely as finite. Secondly, we
must assert the value and relative independence of the hu-
man person. For each person has a centre of its own, a will,
which is ‘impervious’ to any other person, ‘a centre which I
maintain even in my dealings with God Himself’.6 “The
two positions—the divine personality and human dignity and
immortality—are two complementary sides of the same view
of existence.’?
This sounds like an abandonment of absolute idealism in
favour of theism. But in his later writings Pringle-Pattison
reafhrms absolute idealism or, more accurately, attempts to
revise it in such a way that it permits more value being
attached to finite personality than in the philosophies of
Bradley and Bosanquet. The result is an unsatisfactory amal-
gam of absolute idealism and theism.
In the first place we cannot prove, by the sort of argu-
ments employed by the earlier British idealists, that the
world of Nature can exist only as object for a subject. Fer-
tier’s line of argument, for example, is quite unsound. It is
indeed obviously true that we cannot conceive material things
without conceiving them; but ‘this method of approach can-
not possibly prove that they do not exist out of that rela-
tion’.8 As for Green’s argument that relations cannot exist
except through the synthesizing activity of a universal con-
sciousness, this presupposes a defunct psychology, according
to which experience begins with unrelated sensations. In
THE TURN TOWARDS PERSONAL IDEALISM 269
point of fact relations are just as much given tealities as the
things related.
It does not follow, however, that, as the ‘lower naturalism’
maintains, Nature exists apart from a total system which em-
bodies value. On the contrary, we can see in Nature a con-
tinuity of process combined with the emergence of qualita-
tively distinct levels. Man appears as ‘the organ through
which the universe beholds and enjoys itself’.® And among
the emergent qualities which characterize the universe we
must recognize not only the so-called secondary qualities but
also ‘the aspects of beauty and sublimity which we recognize
in nature and those finer insights which we owe to the poet
and the artist’.1° Moral values too must be taken as quali-
fying the universe. And the whole process of Nature, with
the emergence of qualitatively different levels, is to be looked
on as a progressive manifestation of the Absolute or God.
According to Pringle-Pattison, the idea of God as existing
‘before’ the world and as creating it out of nothing is philo-
sophically untenable. ‘The idea of creation tends to pass into
that of manifestation’;11 and the infinite and the finite stand
to one another in a relation of mutual implication. As for
man, ‘he exists as an organ of the universe or of the Absolute,
the one Being’,12 which should be conceived in terms of its
highest manifestation and so as one spiritual life or absolute
experience.
Whatever Hegelianism and Personality may have seemed
to imply, there is thus no radical rejection of absolute ideal-
ism in Pringle-Pattison’s later work. On the contrary, there is
a large measure of agreement with Bosanquet. At the same
time Pringle-Pattison is not prepared to accept Bosanquet’s
view of the destiny of the human individual. In his view
differentiation constitutes the very essence of absolute life,
and ‘every individual is a unique nature . . . an expression
or focalization of the universe which is nowhere else re-
peated’.18 The higher we ascend in the scale of life, the
clearer becomes the uniqueness of the individual. And if
value increases in proportion to unique individuality, we can-
not suppose that distinct selves achieve their destiny by being
merged without distinction in the One. Each must be pre-
served in its uniqueness.
Pringle-Pattison is thus not prepared to say with Bradley

that the temporal world is appearance. And as he retains the
doctrine of the Absolute, he seems to be committed to saying
that the Absolute is subject to temporal succession. But he
also wishes to maintain that there is a real sense in which
the Absolute or God transcends time. Hence he has recourse
to the analogies of the drama and the symphony. Where,
for example, a symphony is played, the notes succeed one
another; yet in a real sense the whole is there from the be-
ginning, giving meaning to and unifying the successive units.
‘Somewhat in this fashion we may perhaps conceive that the
time-process is retained in the Absolute and yet tran-
scended,’14
If such analogies were pressed, the natural conclusion
would be that the Absolute is simply the Idea, or perhaps
more properly the Value, of the entire cosmic and historical
process. But Pringle-Pattison clearly wishes to maintain that
God is an absolute personal experience, which could hardly
be described as simply the meaning and value of the world.
In other words, he tries to combine absolute idealism with
elements of theism. And the ambiguous result suggests that
he would have done better either to retain the Absolute and
identify it with the historical process considered as moving
towards the emergence of new values or to make a clear break
with absolute idealism and embrace theism. However, it is at
any rate clear that within the general framework of absolute
idealism he tried to preserve and assert the value of the finite
personality.
2. We can now turn to a Cambridge philosopher, John
McTaggart Ellis McTaggart (1866-1925), for whom the
problem of the relation between finite selves and the Abso-
lute did not and could not arise, inasmuch for him there was
no Absolute apart from the society or system of selves. In
his philosophy the Absolute as understood by Bradley and
Bosanquet simply disappeared from the scene.
McTaggart was elected a Fellow of Trinity College, Cam-
bridge, in 1891. In his view Hegel had penetrated further
than any other philosopher into the nature of reality. And he
devoted himself to a prolonged study of Hegelianism, which
bore fruit in Studies in the Hegelian Dialectic (1896; second
edition, 1922), Studies in the Hegelian Cosmology (1901;
second edition, 1918), and A Commentary on Hegel’s Logic
(1910). But McTaggart was by no means only a student of
and commentator on Hegel: he was an original thinker. This
fact shows itself indeed in the commentaries but much more
in the two volumes of The Nature of Existence,5 which
together contain his system of philosophy.
In the first part of his system McTaggart is concerned with
determining the characteristics which belong to all that exists
or, as he puts it, to existence as a whole. More accurately,
he is concerned with determining the characteristics which
the existent must have. Hence the method to be employed
will be that of a priori deduction. McTaggart is thus very far
from being what is often described as an inductive meta-
physician.
Even in the first part of the system, however, McTaggart
admits two empirical premisses, namely that something exists
and that what exists is differentiation. The truth of the first
premiss is known by immediate experience. For everyone is
aware that he at any rate exists. And he cannot deny this
without implicitly affirming it. As for the second premiss, ‘it
would indeed be possible to reach this result a priori. For I
shall argue later that it is certain a priori that no substance
can be simple.’17 But an appeal to perception ‘seems more
likely to command assent’.18 What McTaggart really wishes
to show is that existence as a whole is differentiated, that
there is a plurality of substances. And this is shown by the
very fact of perception. If, for example, perception is inter-
preted as a relation, there must be more than one term.
We can take it, therefore, that something exists. This can-
not be existence itself.19 For if we say that what exists is
existence, we are left with an absolute blank. That which
exists must possess some quality besides existence. And the
compound quality, composed of all the qualities of a thing,
can be called its nature. But we cannot resolve a thing with-
out residue into its qualities. ‘At the head of the series there
will be something existent which has qualities without being
itself a quality. The ordinary name for this, and J think the
best name, is substance.’29 It may be objected that substance
apart from its qualities is an inconceivable nothing; but it
does not follow that substance is ‘not anything in conjunction

with its qualities’.21
If therefore there is anything existing, and we know from
experience that there is, there must be at least one sub-
stance. But we have already accepted the empirical premiss
of pluralism, of the differentiation of existence as a whole.
It follows therefore that there must be relations.2? For if
there is a plurality of substances, they must be similar and
dissimilar, similar in being substances, dissimilar in being
distinct.23 And similarity and dissimilarity are relations.
Now, according to McTaggart every relation generates a
derivative quality in each of its terms, namely the quality of
being a term in this relationship. Further, a derivative rela-
tionship is generated between every relation and each of its
terms. We therefore get infinite series. But ‘these infinite
series are not vicious, because it is not necessary to complete
them to determine the meaning of the earlier terms’.24 Hence
Bradley’s argument to show that qualities and relations can-
not be truly real loses its force.
Substances, we have seen, must be dissimilar in some way.
But there are similarities which permit their arrangement in
collections and collections of collections. A collection is called
a ‘group’, and the substances which compose it are its ‘mem-
bers’.25 Taken by itself, this is a straightforward idea. But
there are several points to notice. First, a group is for Mc-
Taggart a substance. Thus the group of all French citizens is
a substance which possesses qualities of its own, such as being
a nation. Secondly, as no substance is ever absolutely simple,
a compound substance cannot have simple substances as its
members. Thirdly, we cannot assume without more ado that
two groups are necessarily two substances. If the contents are
the same, the groups are one substance. For example, the
counties of England and the parishes of England form two
groups but only one substance.
Now, there must be one compound substance which con-
tains all existent content and of which every other substance
is a part. “This substance is to be called the Universe.’2¢ It
is an organic unity in which ‘all that exists, both substances
and characteristics, are bound together in one system of ex-
trinsic determination’.?7 At the same.time there seems to be
a major objection against admitting this idea of an
all-
inclusive substance. On the one hand McTaggart takes it
that
a sufficient description of any substance must be possible
in
principle. On the other hand no sufficient description of the
universe seems to be possible. For a sufficient description
would have, it appears, to indicate the parts and also their
relations to one another and to the whole. But how can this
be possible if no substance is simple and is consequently
infinitely divisible?28
The details of McTaggart’s solution of this difficulty are
too complicated for discussion here. His general principle, as
stated in his summary of his system, is that to avoid a con-
tradiction between the thesis that a sufficient description of
any substance is possible and the thesis that no substance is
simple ‘there must be some description of any substance, A,
which implies sufficient descriptions of the members of all its
sets of parts which are sequent to some given sets of parts’.29
Taken by itself, this statement does not indeed convey very
much. But McTaggart’s line of thought is this. A sufficient
description of a substance is possible in principle, if certain
conditions are fulfilled. Consider the all-inclusive substance,
the universe. This consists of one or more primary wholes,
which in turn consist of primary parts. These parts can be
differentiated by, for example, distinct qualities. And a suff-
cient description of the universe is possible in principle, pro-
vided that descriptions of the primary parts imply sufficient
descriptions of the secondary parts, the series of which is in-
definitely prolonged. For this implication to be a reality,
however, the secondary parts must be related to one another
by what McTaggart calls the relation of determining corte-
spondence. For example, let us suppose that A and B are
primary parts of a given substance, and that A and B are
sufficiently described in terms of the qualities of x and y
respectively. The relation of determining correspondence de-
mands that a secondary part of A should be sufficiently de-
scribable in terms of y and that a secondary part of B should
be sufficiently describable in terms of x. Given such inter-
locking determining correspondences throughout the whole
hierarchy of consequent sets of parts, sufficient descriptions
of the primary parts will imply sufficient descriptions of the
secondary parts. And a sufficient description of the substance

is thus possible in principle, notwithstanding the fact that it
is indefinitely divisible.
As McTaggart maintains that a sufficient description of
every substance must be possible, it follows that the relation
of determining correspondence must hold between the parts
of a substance. And if we look on determining correspondence
as a label for types of causal relations, we can then say that
McTaggart attempts to prove a priori the necessity of a cer-
tain pattern of causal relations within the universe. That is
to say, if, as he assumes, the universe is an intelligible or-
ganic unity, there must exist in the hierarchy of its parts a
certain pattern of determining correspondence.
Now, we have referred, for instance, to the counties of
England, and we have been speaking of the universe. But
though in the first part of the system some empirical illustra-
tions are given to facilitate understanding, the conclusions
reached are intended to be purely abstract. For example,
though it is argued a priori that, if anything exists, there
must be an all-inclusive substance which we can call the uni-
verse, it is a mistake to suppose that this term necessarily
refers to the whole complex of entities which we are ordinar-
ily accustomed to think of as the universe. The first part of
the system established simply that there must be a universe.
It does not tell us which, if any, empirical entities are mem-
bers of the all-inclusive group which is called the universe.
It is only in the second part of the system that McTaggart
applies the conclusions of the first part, asking, for instance,
whether the characteristics of substance which have been de-
termined a priori can belong to those kinds of things which
at first sight appear to be substances, or, rather, whether the
characteristics which are encountered in or suggested by ex-
perience really belong to the existent.
In this field of inquiry, however, McTaggart insists, we
cannot obtain absolute certainty. We may indeed be able to
show that certain characteristics presented in or suggested by
experience cannot belong to the existent, and that they must
therefore be assigned to the sphere of appearance. But we
cannot show with absolute certainty that characteristics sug-
gested by experience must belong to.the existent. For there
THE TURN TOWARDS PERSONAI, IDEALISM 275
might be characteristics never experienced or imagined by
us which would equally well or better satisfy the a priori
requirements of the first part of the system. However, if it
can be shown that characteristics suggested by experience do
in fact satisfy these a priori demands, and that no others
which we know of or can imagine will do so, we have reason-
able, though not absolute, certainty. In other words, Mc-
Taggart ascribes absolute certainty only to the results of a
priori demonstration.
“The universe appears, prima facie, to contain substances
of two very different kinds—Matter and Spirit.’20 But Me-
Taggart refuses to admit the reality of matter, mainly on
the ground that nothing which has the quality of being mate-
rial can have between its parts that relation of determining
correspondence which must exist between the secondary parts
of a substance. Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that
a given material thing has two primary parts, one of which
can be sufficiently described as blue, while the other can be
sufficiently described as red. According to the requirements
of the principle of determining correspondence there would
have to be a secondary part of the primary part described as
blue which would correspond with the primary part de-
scribed as red. That is to say, this secondary part would be
red. But this is not logically possible. For a primary part
could not be sufficiently described as blue, if one of its sec-
ondary parts were red. And analogous conclusions can be
drawn if we consider qualities: such as size and shape. Hence
matter cannot belong to the existent: it cannot qualify the
universe.31
We are left therefore with spirit. There is indeed no de-
monstrative proof that nothing exists save spirit. For there
might possibly be a form of substance, which we had never
experienced or imagined, which would satisfy the require-
ments for being a substance and yet not be spiritual. But we
have no positive ground for claiming that there is such a
substance. Hence it is reasonable to conclude that all sub-
stance is spiritual. ;
As for the nature of spirit, ‘I propose to define the quality
of spirituality by saying that it is the quality of having cot
tent, all of which is the content of one or more selves’.*?
Thus selves are spiritual, and so are parts of selves and groups
of selves, though in deference to common usage the term
‘a spirit’ can be reserved for a self.3%
If spirit, therefore, is the only form of substance, the uni-
verse or Absolute will be the all-inclusive society or system
of selves, selves being its primary parts. The secondary parts,
of all grades, are perceptions, which form the contents of
selves. In this case there must be relations of determining
correspondence between these parts. True, this demands the
fulfilment of certain conditions; that ‘a self can perceive an-
other self, and a part of another self’,34 that a perception is
part of a percipient self, and that a perception of a part of
a whole can be part of a perception of this whole. But the
fulfilment of these conditions cannot be shown to be impos-
sible; and there are reasons for thinking that they are in fact
fulfilled. So we can take it that the Absolute is the system
or society of selves.
Are selves immortal? The answer to this question depends
on the point of view which we adopt. On the one hand Mc-
Taggart denies the reality of time, on the ground that an as-
sertion of the reality of the temporal series of past, present
and future compels us to attribute to any given event mutu-
ally incompatible determinations.25 Hence if we adopt this
point of view, we should describe selves as timeless or eternal
rather than as immortal, a term which implies unending tem-
poral duration. On the other hand time certainly belongs to
the sphere of appearance. And the self will appear-to persist
through all future time. ‘In consequence of this, I think we
may properly say that the self is immortal’,3¢ though immor-
tality must then be understood as including pre-existence,
before, that is, its union with the body.
Professor C. D. Broad has remarked37 that he does not
suppose that McTaggart made a single disciple, though he
exercised a considerable influence on his pupils by his logical
subtlety, his intellectual honesty and his striving after clarity.
It is not indeed surprising if McTaggart failed to make dis-
ciples. For, apart from the fact that he does not explain, any
more than Bradley did, how the sphere of appearance arises
in the first place, his system provides a much clearer example
than the philosophies of either Bradley or Bosanquet of the
account of metaphysics which has sometimes
been given by
anti-metaphysicians, namely as an alleged science which
pro-
fesses to deduce the nature of reality in a purely a
priori
manner. For having worked out in the first part of his
system
what characteristics the existent must possess, McTag
gart
blithely proceeds in the second part to reject the reality of
matter and time on the ground that they do not fulfil the
requirements established in the first part. And though his
conclusions certainly make his philosophy more interesting
and exciting, their strangeness is apt to make most readers
conclude without more ado that there must be something
wrong with his arguments. Most people at any rate find it
difficult to believe that reality consists of a system of selves,
the contents of which are perceptions. ‘Ingenious but uncon-
vincing’, is likely to be their verdict about McTaggart’s ar-
guments.
It may be objected that this is a very philistinian point of
view. If McTaggart’s arguments are good ones, the strange-
ness of his conclusions does not alter the fact. And this is
true enough. But it is also a fact that few philosophers have
been convinced by the arguments adduced to show that re-
ality must be what McTaggart says it is.
3. McTaggart combined the doctrine that existing reality
consists of spiritual selves with atheism.38 But the personal
idealists generally adopted some form of theism. We can take
as an example James Ward (1843-1925), naturalist, psy-
chologist and philosopher, who studied for a while in Ger-
many, where he came under the influence of Lotze, and even-
tually occupied the chair of logic and mental philosophy at
Cambridge (1897-1925).
In 1886 Ward contributed to the Encyclopaedia Britan-
nica a famous article on psychology, which later provided the
basis for his Psychological Principles (1918), a work which
clearly shows the influence of German philosophers such as
Lotze, Wundt and Brentano. Ward was strongly opposed to
the associationist psychology. In his view the content of con-
sciousness consists of ‘presentations’; but these form a con-
tinuum. They are not discrete isolated events or impressions,
into which the presentational continuum can be broken up.
Obviously, a new presentation introduces fresh material; but
it does not constitute simply an additional item in a series,

for it modifies or partially changes the pre-existing field of
consciousness. Further, every presentation is a presentation
for a subject, being an experience of the subject. The idea
of the ‘soul’ is not for Ward a concept of psychology; but we
cannot dispense with the idea of the subject. For conscious-
ness involves selective attention to this or that feature or
aspect of the presentational continuum; and this is an ac-
tivity of the subject under the influence of feelings of pleas-
ure and pain. It is, however, a mistake to regard the subject
of consciousness as merely a spectator, a purely cognitive
subject. For the conative aspect of experience is fundamental,
and the selective activity in question is teleological in char-
acter, the active subject selecting and attending to presenta-
tional data in view of an end or purpose.3?
In the first series of his Gifford Lectures, published in
1899 as Naturalism and Agnosticism, Ward attacked what he
called the naturalistic view of the world. We must distin-
guish between natural science on the one hand and philo-
sophical naturalism on the other. For example, mechanics
which deals simply ‘with the quantitative aspects of physical
phenomena’? should not be confused with the mechanical
theory of Nature, ‘which aspires to resolve the actual world
into an actual mechanism’.4! The philosopher who accepts
this theory believes that the formulas and laws of mechanics
are not simply abstract and selective devices for dealing with
an environment under certain aspects, devices which possess
a limited validity, but that they reveal to us the nature of
concrete reality in an adequate manner. And in this belief he
is mistaken. Spencer, for instance, attempts to deduce the
movement of evolution from mechanical principles and is
blind to the fact that in the process of evolution different
levels emerge which require their own appropriate categories
and concepts.42
Dualism, however, as a possible alternative to naturalism,
is untenable. It is true that the fundamental structure of
experience is the subject-object relationship. But this distinc-
tion is not equivalent to a dualism between mind and matter.
For even when the object is what we call a material thing,
the fact that it is comprised together with the subject within
the unity of the subject-object relationship shows
that it can-
not be entirely heterogeneous to the subjec
t. No ultimate
dualism between mind and matter can stand
up to criticism.
Having rejected, therefore, materialism, in the form
of the
mechanical theory of Nature, and dualism, Ward
has te-
course to what he calls spiritualistic monism. This term
does
not, however, express a belief that there is only one substa
nce
or being. Ward’s view is that all entities are in some sense
spiritual. That is to say, they all possess a psychical aspect.
His theory is thus pluralistic; and in his second set of Gifford
Lectures, which appeared in 1911 under the title The Realm
of Ends or Pluralism and Theism he speaks of pluralistic
spiritualism rather than of spiritualistic monism, though, if
the latter term is properly understood, both names have the
same meaning.
To some readers it may appear extraordinary that a Cam-
bridge professor of comparatively recent date should embrace
a theory of panpsychism. But Ward does not intend to imply,
any more than Leibniz did,** that every entity or monad
enjoys what we call consciousness. The idea is rather that
there is no such thing as ‘brute’ matter, but that every centre
of activity possesses some degree, often a very low degree, of
‘mentality’. Moreover, Ward claims that pluralistic spiritual-
ism is not a doctrine which has been deduced a priori but is
based on experience.*# “The world is taken simply as we find
it, as a plurality of active individuals unified only in and
through their mutual interactions. These interactions again
are interpreted throughout on the analogy of social transac-
tions, as a mutuum commercium; that is to say, as based
on cognition and conation.’45
Now, Ward admits that it is possible to stop at this idea of
a plurality of finite active centres of experience. For Kant has
exposed the fallacies in the alleged demonstrative proofs of
God’s existence. At the same time theism supplies a unity
which is missing in pluralism without God. Further, the con-
cepts of creation and conservation throw light on the exist-
ence of the Many, though creation should be understood in
terms of ground and consequent rather than of cause and
effect. “God is the ground of the world’s being, its ratio es-
endi.’46 In addition, Ward argues in a pragmatist-like way
that acceptance of the idea of God has the benefit of increas-

ing the pluralist’s confidence in the significance of finite
existence and in the eventual realization of the ideal of the
kingdom of ends. Without God as both transcendent and
immanently active in the universe, ‘the world may well for
ever remain that rerum concordia discors, which at present
we find it’.47
4. We can safely venture the generalization that one of
the basic factors in personal idealism is a judgment of value,
namely that personality represents the highest value within
the field of our experience. This statement may indeed ap-
pear inapplicable to the philosophy of McTaggart, who pro-
fesses to demonstrate by a priori reasoning what character-
istics must belong to the existent and then inquires which of
the kinds of things that are prima facie substances actually
possess these characteristics. But it does not necessarily fol-
low, of course, that a judgment of value does not constitute
an effective implicit factor even in his philosophy. In any
case it is clear that Pringle-Pattison’s revision of absolute
idealism was prompted by a conviction of the ultimate value
of personality, and that James Ward’s pluralistic spiritualism
was connected with a similar conviction.
Obviously, personal idealism does not consist simply of
this judgment of value. It involves also the conviction that
personality should be taken as the key to the nature of re-
ality, and-a sustained attempt to interpret reality in the light
of this conviction. This means that personal idealism tends to
pluralism rather than to monism. In the philosophies of Mc-
Taggart and Ward a pluralistic conception of the universe is
clearly dominant. With Pringle-Pattison it is held in check
by his retention of the idea of the Absolute as a single all-
inclusive experience. At the same time the value which he
attaches to finite personality drives him to endeavour to in-
terpret the doctrine of the One in such a way as not to involve
the submerging or obliteration of the Many in the One.
The natural result in metaphysics of the turning from
monism to pluralism in the light of a conviction of the value
of personality is the assertion of some form of theism. In the
exceptional case of McTaggart the Absolute is indeed inter-
preted as the society or system of finite spiritual selves. And
THE TURN TOWARDS PERSONAL, IDEALISM 281
with Pringle-Pattison the change to unequ
ivocal theism is
checked by the influence which the tradit
ion of absolute
idealism still exercises on his mind. But the inner
dynamic,
so to speak, of personal idealism is towards the interp
retation
of ultimate reality as being itself personal in character
and of
such a kind as to allow for the dependent reality of finite
persons. According to the absolute idealists, as
we have seen,
the concept of God must be transformed into the conce
pt
of the Absolute. In personal idealism the concept of the Abso-
lute tends to be re-transformed into the concept of God.
True, McTaggart looks on his idea of the society or system
of spiritual selves as the proper interpretation of the Hegelian
Absolute. But with James Ward we find a clear transition to
theism. And it is no matter for surprise that he explicitly
asserts his affinity with Kant rather than with Hegel.
How far we extend the application of the term ‘personal
idealism’ is, within limits, a matter of choice. Consider, for
example, William Ritchie Sorley (1855-1935), who occupied
the chair of moral philosophy at Cambridge from 1900 until
1932. He was mainly concerned with problems connected
with the nature of values and the judgment of value, and it
may be preferable to label him a philosopher of value. But
he also inquired into the sort of general philosophical theory
which we must embrace when we take values seriously into
account as factors in reality. Thus he insisted that persons
are ‘the bearers of value’,4#8 and that metaphysics culminates
in the idea of God, conceived. not only as creator but also as
‘the essence and source of all values, and as willing that these
values should be shared by the free minds who owe their be-
ing to him’.49 And the total result of his reflections is such
that he can reasonably be labelled as a personal idealist.
We cannot, however, be expected to outline the ideas of
all those British philosophers who can reasonably be de-
scribed as personal idealists. Instead we can draw attention
to the differences in attitude towards the sciences between
the absolute idealists and the personal idealists. Bradley does
not, of course, deny the validity of science at its own level.
But inasmuch as he relegates all discursive thought to the
sphere of appearance, he is involved in holding that the sci-
ences are incapable of revealing to us the nature of reality
as distinct from appearance. True we find much the same

attitude in McTaggart, for whom the spatio-temporal world
is appearance. And even James Ward, in his polemic against
naturalism and the mechanical theory of the world, plays
down the ability of science to disclose to us the nature of
reality and emphasizes the man-made character of abstract
scientific concepts, which have to be judged by their utility
rather than by any claim to absolute truth. At the same time
he is convinced that the concrete sciences, such as biology
and psychology, suggest and confirm his pluralistic philoso-
phy. And, in general, the personal idealists are concerned not
so much with sitting in judgment on science and relegating
it to the sphere of appearance as with challenging the claim
of materialist and mechanist philosophies to be the logical
outcome of the sciences. The general tendency at any rate of
personal idealism is to appeal to the fact that different sci-
ences require different categories to cope with different levels
of experience or aspects of reality, and to regard metaphysics
as a legitimate and indeed necessary enlargement of the field
of interpretation rather than as the unique path to a knowl-
edge of reality from which the empirical sciences, confined
to the sphere of appearance, are necessarily debarred. This
observation may not apply to McTaggart. But he is really sui
generis. The general attitude of the personal idealists is to
argue that experience and an empirical approach to philoso-
phy support pluralism rather than the type of monism char-
acteristic of absolute idealism, and that if we bear in mind
the different types of science,®° we can see that metaphysical
philosophy is not a counterblast to science but a natural
crown to that interpretation of reality in which the sciences
have their own parts to play.
A final point. If we except the system of McTaggart, per-
sonal idealism was calculated by its very nature to appeal to
religiously minded philosophers, to the sort of philosophers
who would be considered suitable persons to receive invita-
tions to give series of Gifford Lectures. And what the personal
idealists wrote was generally religiously edifying. Their style
of philosophy was obviously much less destructive of Chris-
tian faith than the absolute idealism of Bradley.5! But
though the various philosophies which can reasonably be te-
garded as representative of personal idealism are edifying
enough from the moral and religious points of view, they
tend to give the impression, at least in their more meta-
physical aspects, of being a series of personal statements of
belief which owe less to rigorous argument than to a selective
emphasis on certain aspects of reality.52 And it is under-
standable that during the lifetime of Ward and Sorley other
Cambridge philosophers were suggesting that instead of rush-
ing to produce large-scale interpretations of reality we should
do better to make our questions as clear and precise as pos-
sible and treat them one by one. However, though this
sounds a very reasonable and practical suggestion, the trouble
is that philosophical problems are apt to interlock. And the
idea of breaking up philosophy into clearly defined questions
which can be answered separately has not in practice proved
to be as fruitful as some people hoped. Still, it is undeniable
that the idealist systems appear, in the present climate of
British philosophy, to belong to a past phase of thought. This
makes them indeed apt material for the historian. But it also
means that the historian cannot help wondering whether
there is really much justification for devoting space to minor
systems which do not strike the imagination in the way that
the system of Hegel makes an impression. There is, however,
this to be said, that personal idealism represents the recur-
rent protest of the finite personality to absorption in a One,
however it is conceived. It is easy to say that personality is
‘appearance’; but no monistic system has ever explained how
the sphere of appearance arises in the first place.
APPENDIX
A SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY
General Works
For the sake of brevity titles of general histories of philoso-

phy mentioned in the first section of the Bibliography in
Volume VII of this History have not been repeated here.
Nor have I attempted to supply bibliographies for all the
philosophers mentioned in the text of the present volume. In
the case of a considerable number of philosophers works are
mentioned in the text or in footnotes, which have not been
listed here.
Adams, G. P. and Montague, W. P. (editors). Contempo-

rary American Philosophy. 2 vols. New York, 1930.
(Personal Statements. )
Anderson, P. R. and Fisch, M. H. Philosophy in America.
New York, 1939.
Blau, J. L. Men and Movements in American Philosophy.
New York, 1939.
Bochenski, I. M. Contemporary European Philosophy, trans-
lated by D. Nicholl and K. Aschenbrenner. London and
Berkeley, 1956.
Brinton, Crane. English Political Thought in the Nineteenth
Century. Cambridge (Mass.), 1949.
Deledalle, G. Histoire de la philosophie américaine de la
guerre de sécession a la seconde guerre mondiale. Paris,
1955.
Lamanna, A. P. La filosofia del novecento. Florence, 1964.
Merz, J. T. History of European Thought in the Nineteenth
Century. 4 vols. London, 1896-1914.
Metz, R. A Hundred Years of British Philosophy, translated
by J. W. Harvey, T. E. Jessop and H. Sturt. London,
1938. (An account of British philosophy from about the
middle of the nineteenth century_onwards.)
A SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY 285
Muelder, W. E. and Sears, L. The Development of America
n
Philosophy. Boston, 1940.
Muirhead, J. H. (editor). Contemporary British Philosophy:
Personal Statements. 2 vols. London, 1924-5. (The first
volume includes statements by, for example, Bosanquet,
McTaggart, Bertrand Russell and Schiller, the second by
James Ward and G. E. Moore.)
Passmore, J. A Hundred Years of Philosophy. London, 1957.
(A useful account of philosophy, mainly but not ex-
clusively British, from J. S. Mill, with a concluding chap-
ter on existentialism.)
Riley, I. W. American Thought from Puritanism to Pragma-
tism and Beyond. New York, 1923 (2nd edition).
Schneider, H. W. A History of American Philosophy. New
York, 1946.
Seth (Pringle-Pattison), A. English Philosophers and Schools
of Philosophy. London, 1912. (From Francis Bacon to
F. H. Bradley.)
Warnock, G. J. English Philosophy Since 1900. London,
1958. (A clear and succinct account of the development
of the modern analytic movement.)
Warnock, M. Ethics Since 1900. London, 1960.
Werkmeister, W. H. A History of Philosophical Ideas in
America. New York, 1949.
Part I: Chapters I-V
1. GENERAL WORKS RELATING TO THE UTILITARIAN MOVEMENT
Albee, E. A History of English Utilitarianism. London, 1902.

Davidson, W. L. Political Thought in England: Bentham to
J. S. Mill. London, 1950.
Guyau, J. M. La morale anglaise contemporaine. Paris, 1904
(sth ed.). se
Halévy, E. The Growth of Philosophie Radicalism, translated
by M. Morris, with a preface by A. D. Lindsay. London,
1928.
Laski, J. The Rise of European Liberalism. London, 1936.
HL.
Leslie, S. W. Political Thought in England. The Utiltarians
286 APPENDIX
from Bentham to Mill. London and New York, 1947.

Mondolfo, R. Saggi per la storia della morale utilitaria. 2
vols. Verona and Padua, 1903-4.
Plamentaz, J. The English Utilitarians. Oxford, 1949.
Stephen, L. The English Utilitarians. 3 vols. London, 1900.
(The volumes are devoted respectively to Bentham,
James Mill and J. S. Mill.)
2. BENTHAM
Texts
The Works of Jeremy Bentham, edited by John Bowring.
11 vols. Edinburgh, 1838-43.
Benthamiana, Select Extracts from the Works of Jeremy
Bentham, edited by J. H. Burton. Edinburgh, 1843.
Oeuvres de Jérémie Bentham, translated by E. Dumont. 3
vols. Brussels, 1829-30.
Coleccién de obras del célebre Jeremias Bentham, compiled
by E. Dumont with commentaries by B. Anduaga y
Espinosa. 14 vols. Madrid, 1841-3.
An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation,
edited by L. Lafleur. New York, 1948. (The 1876 Ox-
ford edition is a reprint of the 1823 edition.)
Theory of Legislation, translated from the French of E. Du-
mont by R. Hildreth. London, 1896.
Bentham’s Theory of Legislation, edited by C. K. Ogden.
London, 1950.
A Fragment on Government, edited by F. C. Montague. Lon-
don, 1801.
Bentham’s Theory of Fictions, edited by C. K. Ogden. Lon-
don, 1932.
Bentham’s Handbook of Political Fallacies, edited by H. A.
Larrabee. Baltimore, 1952.
Deontology, or the Science of Morality, edited by J. Bowring.
2 vols. London, 1834.
The Limits of Jurisprudence Defined, edited by C. W. Ever-
ett. New York, 1945.
Jeremy Bentham’s Economie Writings, Critical Edition based
on his Printed Works and Unprinted Manuscripts,
edited by W. Stark. 3 vols. London, 1952-4. (Each vol-
ume contains an introductory essay. The second appen-
dix, contained in the third volume, is a systematic survey
of the surviving Bentham manuscripts. )
Catalogue of the Manuscripts of Jeremy Bentham in the
Library of University College, London, edited by Ag Le
Milne. London, 1937.
Studies
Atkinson, C. M. Jeremy Bentham, His Life and Work. Lon-
don, 1905.
Baumgardt, D. Bentham and the Ethics of Today. Princeton
(U.S.A.) and London, 1952.
Busch, J. Die moralische und soziale Ethik Benthams. Neisse,
1938.
Everett, C. W. The Education of Jeremy Bentham. New
York, 1931.
Jones, W. T. Masters of Political Thought: From Machiavelli
to Bentham. London, 1947.
Keeton, G. W. and Schwarzenberger, G. (editors). Jeremy
Bentham and the Law. London, 1948.
Laski, H. J. Political Thought in England: Locke to Bentham.
London, 1950.
Mack, M. P. Jeremy Bentham: An Odyssey of Ideas, 1748-
1792. London, 1962.
Mill, J. S. Mill on Bentham and Coleridge, edited by F. R.
Leavis. London, 1950.
Quintodamo, N. La morale ‘utilitaristica del Bentham e sua
evoluzione nel diritto penale. Naples, 1936.
Stephen, L. The English Utilitarians: Vol. I, Jeremy Ben-
tham. London, 1900.
3. JAMES MILL
Texts
History of India. 3 vols. London, 1817. (4th edition, 9 vols.,
1848; sth edition, with continuation by M. H. Wilson,
10 vols., 1858.)
Elements of Political Economy. London, 1821 (31d and re-
vised edition, 1826). ;
Analysis of the Phenomena of the Human Mind, edited by
288 APPENDIX
J. S. Mill, with notes by A. Bain, A. Findlater and G.

Grote. 2 vols. London, 1869.
A Fragment on Mackintosh. London, 1835.
Studies
Bain, A. James Mill, A Biography. London 1882.
Bower, G. S. Hartley and James Mill. London, 1881.
Hamburger, J. James Mill and the Art of Revolution. Yale,
1964.
Ressler, A. Die Beiden Mill. Cologne, 1929.
Stephen, L. The English Utilitarians: Vol. II, James Mill.
London, 1900.
42°}: Ss. MEL,

Texts
Collected Works of John Stuart Mill, general editor F. E. L.
Priestley. Toronto and London. Vols. XII-XIII, The
Earlier Letters, 1812-1848, edited by F. E. Mineka,
1963; vols. II-III, The Principles of Political Economy,
with an introduction by V. W. Bladen, edited by J. M.
Robson, 196s.
Autobiography, edited by H. J. Laski. London, 1952. (Among
other editions there is the one edited by J. J. Cross,
New York, 1924.)
The Early Draft of J. S. Mill’s Autobiography, edited by
J. Stillinger. Urbana (IIl.), 1961.
Mill’s Utilitarianism reprinted with a Study of the English
Utilitarians, by J. Plamentaz. Oxford, 1949.
On Liberty, Considerations on Representative Government,
edited with an introduction by R. B. McCallum. Oxford,
1946.
Considerations on Representative Government, edited with
an introduction by C. V. Shields. New York, 1958.
A System of Logic. London, 1949 (reprint).
Examination of Sir William Hamilton’s Philosophy. London,
1865.
John Stuart Mill’s Philosophy of Scientific Method, edited
by E. Nagel. New York, 1950. (Selections, with intro-
ductory material, from the Logie and the Examination.)
Dissertations and Discussions. 5 vols. Boston (U.S.A.),
1865-75.
Mill on Bentham and Coleridge, edited by F. R.
Leavis.
London, 1950.
Auguste Comte and Positivism. London, 186s.
Inaugural Address at St. Andrews. London, 1867.
Three Essays on Religion. London, 1874. (Theism, edited by
R. Taylor. New York, 19 57.)
John Stuart Mill and Harriet Taylor: Their Freindship and
Subsequent Marriage, edited by F. A. Hayek. Chicago,
1951. (Contains the Mill-Taylor correspondence. )
Lettres inédites de John Stuart Mill a Auguste Comte,
publiées avec les résponses de Comte, edited by L. Lévy:
Bruhl. Paris, 1899.
Bibliography of the Published Works of John Stuart Mill,
edited by N. MacMinn, J. R. Hinds and J. M. McCrim-
mon. London, 1945.
Studies
Anschutz, R. P. The Philosophy of J. S. Mill. Oxford, 1953.
(Illustrates very well the different tendencies in Mill’s
thought. )
Bain, A. John Stuart Mill: A Criticism with Personal Recol-
lections. London, 1882.
Borchard, R. John Stuart Mill, the Man. London, 1957.
Britton, K. John Stuart Mill. Penguin Books, 1953.
Casellato, S. Giovanni St. Mill e Putilitarismo inglese. Padua,
1951.
Castell, A. Mill’s Logic of the Moral Sciences: A Study of
the Impact of Newtonism on Early Nineteenth-Century
Social Thought. Chicago, 1936. .
Courtney, W. L. The Metaphysics of John Stuart Mill. Lon-
don, 1879.
Cowling, M. Mill and Liberalism. Cambridge, 1963.
Douglas, C. J. S. Mill: A Study of His Philosophy. London,
1895.
Ethice ofJohn Stuart Mill. Edinburgh, 1 897.
Grude-Oettli, N. John Stuart Mill zwischen Liberalismus und
Sozialismus. Ziirich, 1936.
290 APPENDIX
Hippler, F. Staat und Gesellschaft bei Mill, Marx, Lagarde.
Berlin, 1934.
Jackson, R. An Examination of the Deductive Logic of John
Stuart Mill. London, 1941.
Kantzer, E. M. La religion de John Stuart Mill. Caen, 1914.
Kennedy, G. The Psychological Empiricism of John Stuart
Mill. Amsterdam, 1928.
Kubitz, O. A. The Development of John Stuart Mill’s Sys-
tem of Logic. Urbana (lIll.), 1932.
McCosh, J. An Examination of Mr. J. S. Mill’s Philosophy.
New York, 1890 (2nd edition).
Mueller, I. W. John Stuart Mill and French Thought. Ur-
bana (Ill.), 1956.
Packe, M. St. John. The Life of John Stuart Mill. New York,
1954.
Pradines, M. Les postulats métaphysiques de [utilitarisme de
Stuart Mill et Spencer. Paris, 1909.
Ray, J. La méthode de l'économie politique d’aprés John
Stuart Mill. Paris, 1914.
Roerig, F. Die Wandlungen in der geistigen Grundhaltung
John Stuart Mills. Cologne, 1930.
Russell, Bertrand. John Stuart Mill. London, 1956. (Bristol
Academy Lecture.)
Saenger, S. John Stuart Mill, Sein Leben und Lebenswerk.
Stuttgart, 1901.
Schauchet, P. Individualistische und sozialistische Gedanken
im Leben John Stuart Mills. Giessen, 1926.
Stephen, L. The English Utilitarians: vol. UI, John Stuart
Mill. London, 1900.
Towney, G. A. John Stuart Mill's Theory of Inductive Logic.
Cincinnati, 1909.
Watson, J. Comte, Mill and Spencer. Glasgow, 1895.
Zuccante, G. La morale utilitaristica dello Stuart Mill. Milan,
1899.
Giovanni S. Mill e Putilitarismo. Florence, 1922.
5. HERBERT SPENCER
Texts
A System of Synthetic Philosophy. 10 vols. London, 1862-93
.
(For some detailed information about the various edi-
tions of the books comprising the System see Pp. 240-1.)
Epitome of the Synthetic Philosophy, by F. H. Collins. Lon-
don, 1889 (sth edition, 1901).
Essays, Scientific, Political and Speculative. 3 vols. London,
1891. (Two volumes of Essays, Scientific, Political and
Speculative appeared at London in 1857 and 1863 re-
spectively and one volume of Essays, Moral, Political
and Aesthetic at New York in 1865.)
Education, Intellectual, Moral, Physical. London, 1861.
The Man versus The State. London, 1884.
The Nature and Reality of Religion. London, 1885.
Various Fragments. London, 1897.
Facts and Comments. London, 1902.
Autobiography. 2 vols. New York, 1904.
Studies
Allievo, G. La psicologia di Herbert Spencer. Turin, 1914
(2nd edition).
Ardigd, R. L’Inconoscibile di Spencer e il noumeno di Kant.
Padua, 1901.
Asirvatham, E. Spencer’s Theory of Social Justice. New York,
1936.
Carus, P. Kant and Spencer. Chicago, 1889.
Diaconide, E. Etude critique sur la sociologie de Herbert
Spencer. Paris, 1938.
Duncan, D. The Life and Letters of Herbert Spencer. Lon-
don, 1912.
Elliott, H. Herbert Spencer. London, 1917.
Ensor, R. C. Some Reflections on Spencer's Doctrine that
Progress is Differentiation. Oxford, 1947.
Fiske, J. Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy. 2 vols. London,
1874. (These lectures are critical as well as expository
of Spencer’s thought.)
Gaupp, O. Herbert Spencer. Stuttgart, 1897.
292 APPENDIX
Guthmann, J. Entwicklung und Selbstentfaltung bei Spencer.

Ochsenfurt, 1931.
Haberlin, P. Herbert Spencers Grundlagen der Philosophie.
Leipzig, 1908.
Hudson, W. H. Introduction to the Philosophy of Herbert
Spencer. London, 1909.
Jarger, M. Herbert Spencers Prinzipien der Ethik. Hamburg,
1922.
Macpherson, H. Herbert Spencer, The Man and His Work.
London, 1900.
Parisot, E. Herbert Spencer. Paris, 1911.
Parker-Bowne, B. Kant and Spencer. New York, 1922.
Ramlow, L. A. Riehl und Spencer. Berlin, 1933.
Royce, J. Herbert Spencer: An Estimate and Review with a
chapter of Personal Reminiscences by J. Collier. New
York, 1904.
Rumney, J. Herbert Spencer’s Sociology: A Study in the His-
tory of Social Theory. London, 1934.
Sergi, G. La sociologia di Herbert Spencer. Rome, 1903.
Sidgwick, H. Lectures on the Ethics of T. H. Green, Mr.
Herbert Spencer, and J. Martineau. London, 1902.
Solari, G. L’opera filosofica di Herbert Spencer. Bergamo,
1904.
Stadler, A. Herbert Spencers Ethik. Leipzig, 1913.
Thompson, J. A. Herbert Spencer. London, 1906.
Tillett, A. W. Spencer’s Synthetic Philosophy: What It is All
About. An Introduction to Justice, ‘The Most Important
Part’. London, 1914.
Part I: Chapters VI-X
1, GENERAL WORKS RELATING TO BRITISH IDEALISM
Abbagnano, N. L’idealismo inglese e americano. Naples,

1926.
Cunningham, G. W. The Idealistic Argument in Recent Brit-
ish and American Philosophy. New York, 1933.
Dockhorn, K. Die Staatsphilosophie des englischen Idealis-
mus, ihre Lehre und Wirkung. Péppinghaus, 1937.
Haldar, H. Neo-Hegelianism. London, 1927.
Milne, A. J. M. The Social Philosophy of English Idealism.
London, 1962.
Muirhead, J. M. The Platonic Tradition in Anglo-Saxon Phi-
losophy. London, 1931.
Pucelle, J. L’idéalisme en Angleterre de Coleridge a Bradley.
Neuchatel and Paris, 1955. (Can be highly recom-
mended. )
2. COLERIDGE
Texts
Works, edited by W. G. T. Shedd. 7 vols. New York, 1884.
The Friend. 3 vols. London, 1812. (2 vols, 1837).
Biographia Literaria. London, 1817. (Everyman Library,
1906 and reprints.)
Aids to Reflection. 2 vols. London, 1824-5 (with addition
of the Essay on Faith, 1890).
On the Constitution of Church and State, edited by H. N.
Coleridge. London, 1839.
Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit, edited by H. N. Cole-
ridge. London, 1840.
Treatise on Method. London, 1849 (31d edition).
Essays on His Own Times. 3 vols. London, 1850.
Anima Poetae, edited by E. H. Coleridge. London, 1895.
Letters, edited by E. H. Coleridge. London, 1895.
Unpublished Letters. London, 1932.
The Political Thought of Coleridge, selected by R. J. White.
London, 1938.
The Philosophical Lectures of S. T. Coleridge, Hitherto Un-
published, edited by K. Cobum. London, 1949.
The Notebooks of S. T. Coleridge, edited by K. Coburn. 2
vols. London, 1957-62.
Studies
Blunden, E. and Griggs, E. L. (editors). Coleridge Studies.
London, 1934.
Campbell J. D. Life of S. T. Coleridge. London, 1894.
Chambers, E. K. S. T. Coleridge: A Biographical Study. Ox-
ford, 1938.
204 APPENDIX
Chinol, E. Il pensiero di S. T. Coleridge. Venice, 1953.
Coburn, K. Inquiring Spirit. A New Presentation of Cole-
ridge (from published and unpublished writings). Lon-
don, 1931.
Ferrando, G. Coleridge. Florence, 1925.
Green, J. H. Spiritual Philosophy, Founded on the Teaching
of the late S. T. Coleridge. 2 vols. London, 1865.
Hanson, L. Life of S. T. Coleridge: Early Years. London,
1938.
Kagey, R. Coleridge: Studies in the History of Ideas. New
York, 1935.
Lowes, J. L. The Road to Xanadu: A Study in Ways of the
Imagination. London, 1927 (revised edition 1930).
Muirhead, J. H. Coleridge as Philosopher. London, 1930.
Richards, I. A. Coleridge on Imagination. London, 1934.
Snyder, A. D. Coleridge on Logic and Learning. New Haven,
1929.
Wellek, R. Immanuel Kant in England. Princeton, 1931.
(Only partly on Coleridge.)
Winkelmann, E. Coleridge und die kantische Philosophie.
Leipzig, 1933.
Wunsche, W. Die Staatsauffassung S. T. Coleridge’s. Leipzig,
1934.
3. CARLYLE
Texts
Works, edited by H. D. Traill. 31 vols. London, 1897-1901.
Sartor Resartus. London, 1841, and subsequent editions.
On Heroes, Hero-Worship and the Heroic in History. London,
1841.
Correspondence of Carlyle and R. W. Emerson. 2 vols. Lon-
don, 1883.
Letters of Carlyle to J. S. Mill, J. Stirling and R. Browning,
edited by A. Carlyle. London, 1923.
Studies
Baumgarten, O. Carlyle und Goethe. Tiibingen, 1906.
Fermi, L. Carlyle. Messina, 19309.
Garnett, R. Life of Carlyle. London, 1887.
Harrold, C. F. Carlyle and German T hought, 1819-34.
New
Haven, 1934.
Hensel, P. Thomas Carlyle. Stuttgart, 1901.
Lammond, D. Carlyle. London, 1934.
Lea, F. Carlyle, Prophet of Today. London, 1944.
Lehman, B. H. Carlyle’s Theory of the Hero. Duke, 1939.
Neff, E. Carlyle and Mill: Mystic and Utilitarian. New York,
1924.
Carlyle. New York, 1932.
Seilliére, E. L’actualité de Carlyle. Paris, 1929.
Storrs, M. The Relation of Carlyle to Kant and Fichte. Bryn
Mawr, 1929.
Taylor, A. C. Carlyle et la pensée latine. Paris, 1937.
Wilson, D. A. Carlyle. 6 vols. London, 1923-34.
4. T. H. GREEN
Texts
Works, edited by R. L. Nettleship, 3 vols. London, 1885-8.
(Contains Green’s Introductions to Hume’s Treatise,
lectures on Kant, on Logic and on The Principles of
Political Obligation, together with a memoir of the phi-
losopher by Nettleship. )
Introductions to Hume’s Treatise in vols. 1 and 2 of the
Philosophical Works of David Hume edited by T. H.
Green and T. M. Grose. London, 1874.
Prolegomena to Ethics, edited by A. C. Bradley. London,
1883.
Principles of Political Obligation. London, 1895.
Studies
Giinther, O. Das Verhdltnis der Ethik Greens zu der Kants.
Leipzig, 1915.
Fairbrother, W. H. The Philosophy of T. H. Green. London,
1896.
Fusai, M. Il pensiero morale di T. H. Green. Florence, 1943.
Lamont, W. D. Introduction to Green’s Moral Philosophy.
New York, 1934.
Muirhead, J. H. The Service of the State: Four lectures on
the Political Teaching of Green. London, 1908.
296 APPENDIX
Pucelle, J. La nature et l'esprit dans la philosophie de T. H.
Green. I, Métaphysique—Morale. Louvain, 1961. (A
thorough and sympathetic study.)
5. E. CAIRD
Texts
A Critical Account of the Philosophy of Kant. Glasgow, 1877.
(Revised edition in 2 vols. with the title The Critical
Philosophy of Kant, Glasgow, 1889.)
Hegel. Edinburgh, 1883.
The Social Philosophy and Religion of Comte. Glasgow,
1885.
Essays on Literature and Philosophy. 2 vols. Glasgow, 1892.
The Evolution of Religion. 2 vols. Glasgow, 1893.
The Evolution of Theology in the Greek Philosophers, 2
vols. Glasgow, 1904.
Studies
Jones, H. and Muirhead, J. H. The Life and Philosophy of
Edward Caird. London, 1921.
6. BRADLEY
Texts
The Presuppositions of Critical History. London, 1874.
Ethical Studies. London, 1876 (2nd edition, 1927).
Mr. Sidgwick’s Hedonism. London, 1877.
The Principles of Logic. London, 1883 (2nd edition with
Terminal Essays in 2 vols, 1922.)
Appearance and Reality. London, 1893 (2nd edition with
Appendix, 1897).
Essays on Truth and Reality. London, 1914.
Aphorisms. Oxford, 1930.
Collected Essays. 2 vols. Oxford, 1935. (This work includes
The Presuppositions of Critical History.)
Studies
Antonelli, M. A. La metafisica di F. H. Bradley. Milan, 1952.
Campbell, C. A. Scepticism and Construction. Bradley’s Scep-
tical Principle as the Basis of Constructive Philos
ophy.
London, 1931.
Chappuis, A. Der theoretische Weg Bradleys. Paris,
1934.
Church, R. W. Bradley’s Dialectic. London, 1942.
De Mameffe, J. La preuve de l’Absolu chez Bradley. Analyse
et critique de la méthode. Paris, 1961.
Kagey, R. The Growth of Bradley’s Logic. London, 1931.
Keeling, S. V. La nature de Texpérience chez Kant et chez
Bradley. Montpellier, 1925.
Lomba, R. M. Bradley and Bergson. Lucknow, 1937.
Lofthouse, W. F. F. H. Bradley. London, 1949.
Mack, R. D. The Appeal to Immediate Experience. Philo-
sophie Method in Bradley, Whitehead and Dewey. New
York, 1945.
Ross, G. R. Scepticism and Dogma: A Study in the Philoso-
phy of F. H. Bradley. New York, 1940.
Schiiring, H.-J. Studie zur Philosophie yon F. H. Bradley.
Meisenheim am Glan, 1963.
Segerstedt, T. T. Value and Reality in Bradley’s Philosophy.
Lund, 1934.
Taylor, A. E. F. H. Bradley. London, 1924. (British Academy
lecture. )
Wollheim, R. F. H. Bradley. Penguin Books, 1959.
In Mind for 1925 there are articles on Bradley by G. D.
Hicks, J. H. Muirhead, G. F. Stout, F. C. S. Schiller,
A. E. Taylor and J. Ward.
7. BOSANQUET
Texts
Knowledge and Reality. London, 188s.
Logic, or the Morphology of Knowledge. 2 vols. London,
1888.
Essays and Addresses. London, 1889.
A History of Aesthetic. London, 1892.
The Civilization of Christendom and Other Studies. London,
1893.
Aspects of the Social Problem. London, 1895.
The Essentials of Logic. London, 1895.
Companion to Plato’s Republic. London, 1895.
298 APPENDIX
Rousseau’s Social Contract. London, 1895.
Psychology of the Moral Self. London, 1897.
The Philosophical Theory of the State. London, 1899.
The Principle of Individuality and Value. London, 1912.
The Value and Destiny of the Individual. London, 1913.
The Distinction between Mind and Its Objects. London,
1913.
Three Lectures on Aesthetics. London, 1915.
Social and International Ideals. London, 1917.
Some Suggestions in Ethics. London, 1918.
Implication and Linear Inference. London, 1920.
What Religion Is. London, 1920.
The Meeting of Extremes in Contemporary Philosophy. Lon-
don, 1921.
Three Chapters on the Nature of Mind. London, 1923.
Science and Philosophy and Other Essays, edited by J. H.
Muirhead and R. C. Bosanquet. London, 1927.
Studies
Bosanquet, H. Bernard Bosanquet. London, 1924.
Houang, F. La néo-hégelianisme en Angleterre: la philoso-
phie de Bernard Bosanquet. Paris, 1954.
De lhumanisme a l'absolutisme. L’évolution de la pensée
teligieuse du néo-hégelien anglais Bernard Bosanquet.
Paris, 1954.
Muirhead, J. H. (editor). Bosanquet and His Friends: Letters
Illustrating Sources and Development of His Philosophi-
cal Opinions. London, 1935.
Pfannenstil, B. Bernard Bosanquet’s Philosophy of the State.
Lund, 1936.
8. MC TAGGART
Texts
Studies in the Hegelian Dialectic. Cambridge, 1896 (2nd edi-
tion 1922).
Studies in the Hegelian Cosmology. Cambridge, 1901 (2nd
edition, 1918).
Some Dogmas of Religion. London, 1906 (2nd edition, with
biographical introduction by C. D. Broad, 1930).
_ A Commentary on Hegel’s Logic, Cambridge, 1910
(new edi-
tion, 1931).
The Nature of Existence. 2 vols. Cambridge, 1921-7.
(The
second vol. is edited by C. D. Broad.)
Philosophical Studies, edited, with an introduction by S. V.
Keeling, London, 1934. (Mainly a collection of pub-
lished articles, including that on the unteality of time.)
Studies
Broad, C. D. Examination of McTaggart’s Philosophy. 2 vols.
Cambridge, 1933-8.
Dickinson, G. Lowes. McTaggart, a Memoir. Cambridge,
1931.
NOTES
CHAPTER ONE tham distinguishes between real

entities and fictitious entities.
1See Vol. V, Pt. II, of this The latter, which are not to be
2See Vol. V, Pt. I, of this

History, p . 167-096. compared with fabulous entities,
the products of the free play of
History, p . 202-4. the imagination, are creations of
8 See Voi. VIL, a I, of this the exigencies of language. For
History, p. 49-52. example, we require to be able
2h. Vai, Bi II, of this to speak of relations, using the
History, pp. 65-8, 122-3 and noun ‘relation’. But though
145-6. things can be related, there are
5See Vol. V, Pt. I, of this no separate entities called ‘rela-
History, p. 193. tions’. If such entities are postu-
6 An Enquiry concerning the lated through the influence of
Principles of Morals, 3, 1, 145. language, they are ‘fictitious’.
7 Allusion to the influence of 13 For Tucker see Vol. V, Pt.
Helvétius’s writings on Ben- I, of this History, pp. 204-6.
tham’s mind has already been 14An Introduction to the
made. We may add that he cor- Principles of Morals and Legisla-
responded with d’Alembert. tion, ch. 1, sect. 1. This work
8 This work had been printed will be referred to in future as
in 1788. Introduction.
9A partial English text ap- 15 Theory of _ Legislation,
peared in 1791. translated from the French of
10 Obviously, the prisoners Etienne Dumont by R. Hildreth,
whom Bentham had in mind p. 3 (London, 1896).
were not at all of the type of 16 Introduction, ch. 1, sect. 1.
those who later became victims 17 For example, under the at-
of the Jacobin Terror. He turned traction of an immediate pleas-
to the new French Assembly in ure a man might neglect the fact
the hope that now at last the that the course of action which
reign of unclouded reason was causes this pleasure leads to a
beginning, that philosophy was sum total of pain which out-
coming into its own. weighs the pleasure.
11 The work had been written 18 Strictly speaking, an action
at a considerably earlier period. which tends to add to the sum
12Tn the Works Bowring in- total of pleasure is for Ben-
cluded a number of fragments, tham a ‘tight’ action, in the
some of which are of philosophi- sense of an action which we
cal interest. Thus in the frag- ought to perform, or at any rate
ment entitled Ontology Ben- not an action which we are
NOTES
301
obliged not to perform, that is, a nity. But further reference to
‘wrong’ action. It may not al- Benthamite economics will be
ways be the case that an addi- made in the last section of this
tion to the sum of pleasure can- chapter.
not exist otherwise than through 9 Introduction, ch. Bye esect.
my action here and now. Hence 10. ‘Sensitive beings’ includes
I may not be obliged to act, animals.
though, if I do, the action will 30 This theme will be treated
certainly not be wrong. in connection with James Mill,
19 Introduction, ch. 1, sect. E, 31In Bentham’s time the
note 1. British monarch was able to ex-
20Bentham insists that the ercise considerably more effective
rightness or wrongness of ac- influence in political life than is
tions depends on an objective possible today.
criterion and not simply on the 82 Introduction, ch. 1 2p
motive with which they are per- sect. 2.
formed. ‘Motive’ and ‘intention’ 33 Tt was certainly not un-
are often confused, though they known at the time for juries to
ought, Bentham maintains, to be refuse to convict even when they
carefully distinguished. If ‘mo- were well aware that the accused
tive’ is understood as a tendency was guilty. Further, the death
to action when a pleasure, or the sentence, when passed for what
cause of a pleasure, is contem- would now be considered com-
plated as the consequent of one’s paratively minor offences and
action, it makes no sense to even on children, was frequently
speak of a bad motive. But in commuted. In other words, there
any case the criterion of right was a growing discrepancy be-
and wrong is primarily an objec- tween the actual state of the law
tive criterion, not a_ subjective and educated opinion as to what
one. it should be.
21.'See Vol. V, Pt. I, of -this 34 Dissertations and Discus-
History, pp. 133-7. sions, I, pp. 339-40 (2nd edi-
22 Essay, Bk. 2, ch. 20, sect. 2. tion, 1867).
23 Introduction, ch. 1, sect. 3. SE Ips... Pe 352.
2a Ibid eh. tt 38 Thid., 1, p. 330.
20 Ibid.» ches eect: 7: 87 See Vol. V, Pt. II, of this
28 Thid., “Chis '1, sect? 4: For History, pp. 179-85.
Bentham’s use of the word ‘fic- 88This circle comprised,
titious’ see Note 1 on p. 15. among others, the economists
27 Tbid. David Ricardo and J. R. McCul-
28 Bentham and his followers loch, T. R. Malthus, the famous
were indeed convinced that in writer on population, and John
the sphere of the economic mar- Austin, who applied utilitarian
ket the removal of legal restric- principles to jurisprudence in his
tions and the introduction of work The Province of Jurispru-
free trade and competition dence Determined (1832).
would, in the long run at any 39 Mill was indeed quite right
rate, inevitably make for the in thinking that the House of
greater happiness of the commu- Commons of his time was effec-
*a
302 NOTES
tively representative of only a 49 See Vol. VU, Pt. II, of this

small part of the population. He History, p. 81.
seems, however, to have thought
that .a legislature which repre-
sented the prosperous middle CHAPTER TWO
classes would represent the inter-
1 Autobiography, p. 38 (2nd
ests of the country as a whole.
At the same time he saw no logi- edition, 1873). Though James
cal stopping-point in the process
Mill was an agnostic rather than
of extending the suffrage, though a dogmatic atheist, he refused to
he assumed, rather surprisingly, admit that the world could pos-
that the lower classes would be sibly have been created by a God
governed by the wisdom of the who combined infinite power
middle class. with infinite wisdom and good-
40 Analysis of the Phenomena ness. Moreover, he thought that
of the Human Mind, u, p. 217 this belief had a detrimental ef-
(1869, edited by J. S. Mill). fect upon morality.
Commenting on his father’s 2 Mill started to read Words-
statement, J. S. Mill draws at- worth in 1828.
tention to its ambiguity. To say 8Comte Claude Henri de
that if I take pleasure in an- Rouvroy de Saint-Simon (1760-
other man’s pleasure, the pleas- 1825) was a French socialist,
ure which I feel is my own and whose ideas gave rise to a group
not the other man’s, is one or School.
thing. And it is obviously true. 4 Autobiography, p. 167. Mill
To imply that if I seek another is referring to the aim or ideal of
man’s pleasure I do so as a organizing labour and capital for
means to my own, is something the general good of the commu-
nity.
different.
5 The fifth essay was partially
41 Similarly, the sentiments
rewritten in 1833.
which we feel in contemplating 8 Auguste Comte (1798-
the undesirable qualities of a bad 1857) published the first volume
man need not involve any refer- of this work in 1830.
ence to their lack of utility. TSubsequent editions —_ap-
42This determination also peared in 1849 and 1852.
shows itself in Mill’s attack on 8 This short work had _ previ-
Mackintosh for making the mo- ously appeared in instalments in
tality of actions depend on mo- Fraser's Magazine.
tive, when Bentham had shown ® Autobiography, p. 294.
that it does not. 10 Utilitarianism, pp. Q-10
43 See Vol. VI, Pt. I, of this (2nd edition, 1864).
History, pp. 41-9. 11 [bid., p. 16.
44 Analysis, 1, p. 52. 12 Thid., p. 32. Mill recognizes
4 [bid., 1,.p. 110. that the expedient may mean
46 Ibid., 11, p. 177. that which is expedient or useful
47 Tbid., 1, p. 179, note 34. for securing some temporary ad-
48 See Vol. V, Pt. II, of this vantage when the securing of
History, pp. 157-8. this advantage involves violation
NOTES
303
of a rule ‘whose observance is
expedient in a much higher de- 28 Ibid., p. 46.
29 Tbid., . ae
gree’ (ibid.). And it is clear that 30This line of objection
not only the individual but also is
not confined, of course, to utili-
the community, as represented tarianism. It can be brought
by public authority, might suc- against any form of teleological
cumb to the temptation to seek ethics which interprets the moral
its immediate temporary advan- imperative as what Kant would
tage in this way. But Mill argues call an assertoric hypothetical
that the expedient in this sense imperative, (See Vol. VI, Pt. II,
is not really ‘useful’ at all. It is of this History, pp. 114-16.)
harmful. Hence there can be no 31 On Liberty, p. 9. All page
question of choice of the expedi- references to this essay and to
ent being justified by the prin- that On Representative Govern-
ciple of utility. ment are to the edition of the
13 Mill agrees with Bentham two essays in one volume by
that the principle of utility can- R. B. McCallum (Oxford,
not be proved by deduction from 1946).
any more ultimate principle or 82 Thid., p. 50.
principles. For the point at issue 33 Thid., p. 49.
is the ultimate end of human ac- 54 Thidsp. 9:
tion. And ‘questions of ultimate 35 Tbid.
ends do not admit of proof, in 36 Thid.
the ordinary acceptation of the 37 Tbid., p. 8.
term’ (Utilitarianism, p. 52). It 88 Thid:; polo:
can, however, be shown that all Sibtdp) 73.
men seek happiness, and only 40 Mill makes a distinction
happiness, as the end of action. between violating specific duties
And this is sufficient proof of the to society and causing percepti-
statement that happiness is the ble hurt to assignable individuals
one ultimate end of action.
on the one hand and merely
14 Utilitarianism, p. 53.
15 Ibid., pp. 56-7. ‘constructive injury’ on the other
AeTDId.cop. ea. (cf. On Liberty, p. 73). But
17 [bid., pp. 11-12. though most people would make
18 Dissertations and Discus- a clear distinction between, say,
sions, 1, pp. 358-9. driving a car to the danger of the
19 Tid. public when the driver is drunk
20On_ Liberty, p. 9 (edited and getting drunk in the privacy
by R. B. McCallum, Oxford, of one’s own home, there are
1946). bound to be many cases in
*1 Utilitarianism, pp. 13 and which the application of general
16. categories is a matter for dispute.
22.On Liberty, p. 50. 41On Representative Govern-
el ae ae ment, p. 115.
24 Utilitarianism, p. 56. 42 Ibid., p. 141.
eo ibid. Da 53; 43 [bid.y p. 451.
26 Ibid. 44 Mill envisages the possibil-
27 Ibid., p. 46. ity of a majority of unskilled
—
304 NOTES
workers obtaining legislation to 6 Logic, u, p. 368 (i, 5,

protect what it conceives to be
its own interest, to the detriment : bid, I, p. 363 (U1, 5, 5, 4)-
of the interests of skilled workers 8 Ibid., u, p. 368 (11, 5, 5, 4)-
and of other classes. Cf. On 9 Auguste Comte and Positiv-
Representative Government, p. ism, p. 121 (2nd edition, 1866).
183. 10 Logic, 1, p. 5 (1, Introduc-
isIbid., p. 179. tion, 4).
46 Ibid., p. 102. 11 Jbid., 1, footnote (1, Intro-
47. On Liberty, p. 94. duction, 4).
48 [bid., p. 95. 12 Autobiography, p. 225.
49 bid. 13 Ibid., pp. 225-6.
50 Mill insists, for example, 14 Logic, 1, p. 17 (I, 1, 1, 1).
that some education is a prereq- 15 The phrase ‘the wife of
uisite for exercise of the suffrage, Socrates’ would be for Mill a
and so for democracy. name, but not a proper name.
51A System of Logic, u, p. For it is a connotative name,
421 (10th edition, 1879). All whereas proper names, such as
further page-references to this John, are not connotative but
work will be to this edition, de- solely denotative.
noted by the title Logic, 16 Logic, 1, p. 151 (1, 1, 8,1).
52 Logic, il, p. 423. As proper names do not possess
53 [bid., i, p. 422. meaning, they cannot be defined.
54 Thid., u, p. 426. 17 This is, for Mill, a real
55 An Examination of Sir Wil- proposition, and not an ‘essen-
liam Hamilton’s Philosophy, p. tial’ or purely verbal proposition.
505 (2nd edition, 1865). This 18 Logic, 1, p. 13 (1, 1, 6, 5).
work will be referred to in future 19 [bid., 1, p. 129, footnote
page-references as Examination, (1, 1, 6, 4, footnote). Mill tends
56 Ibid., p. 511. to use the term ‘metaphysics’ in
the sense of theory of knowl-
edge.
CHAPTER THREE 20 Tt is not denied, of course,
that there can be true proposi-
1 Logic, 1, p. 2 (1, Introduc- tions which state matters of lin-
tion, 2). Whateley’s Elements guistic fact, propositions about
of Logic appeared in 1826. the English language, for exam-
2 Whateley regarded the de- ple.
scription of logic as the art of
reasoning as inadequate. Logic is *1 Logic, 1, p. 373 (1, 3, 5,1).
22 ibid jo my pe 147 1H, 03,
also the science of reasoning. As
far as this emendation is con- 24,3).
23 Examination, p. 526.
cerned, Mill agrees with him. 24 Logic, 1, p. 165 (1, 1, 8, 5).
3 Logic, 1, p. 4 (1, Introduc- 2 Tbidsi, p..17r'4{t, 19S, 6).
tion, 4). 26 Thid.
4 [bid., 1, p. vii (in the Pref- 27 Ibid., 11, pp. 148-9 (1, 3,
ace to the first edition). 24, 4).
5See Vol. V, Pt. II, of this 28 Ibid. ?1,'p.-a65 {ipaes, 3).
History, pp. 65-7. 29: Ibid.) 4y p262- A, 2s, 1).
NOTES
305
30 Logic, 1, p. 261 Ce, .2308, ye 53 Logic, 1, p. 364 (1, 334; 2).
Pibidsitope 263) (2; ey 2 54 Ibid., 1, p. 357 (1, 33) sf
32 Tbid., 1, p. 261, note Caer °° Ibid., 1, p. 366 (1, 3, 4, mye
5, 1, note). 56 Thid.
38 Ibid., 1, p. 262 (1, 2, 5, 35 57 Ibid., 1, p. 376 (1, 3, 5, 1).
34 Autobiography, p. 226. 58 Thid., 1, p. 377 (1, x 2 4
3° Examination, p. 533. 5° Adopting
36 Logic, u, p. 150 (11, 3, a distinction
made by Reid, Mill says that he
24, 5). is concerned only with ‘physi-
88 ibid., <p. 2gg.(u, 3; cal’ causes, and not with ‘eff-
24, 4). on causes.
38 Tbid. 80 Logic, 1, p. Re 1h lh
39 Notably R. P. Anschutz in Sl ibid. 3 ip: a : z 3),
The Philosophy of J. S. Mill, 82 Ibid., 1, p. 392 (1, 3, 5, 6).
ch. 9. 83 Ibid., 1, p. 378 (1, 3, 5, Ze
40 Logic, 1, p. 187 (1, 2, 1, 3). 64 Mill recognizes in the uni-
*£Ibid., 1, p. 209 (I, 2, 3,1). verse ‘permanent causes’, natural
#2 Ibid., 1, p. 130 (1, 1, 6, 5). agents which precede all human
eMbiaS 1, pulaza’ (1 2)150%4). experience and of whose origin
The notion of a formula ‘accord- we are ignorant.
ing to which’ was suggested to 85 Logic, 1, p. 400 (1, 3, 5, 8).
Mill by Dugald Stewart’s doc- S8.Ibid.,..1G spzh 102. (0,33)
trine that the axioms of geome- 216),
try are principles according to Stihid, jait;eP: 103ce04%, 23;
which, not from which, we rea- 21, 3):
son. Sibids. Heopsi104 iia:
*6Ibid.S tpl 225 (tp2)!3; 65). Pip eyye
25 Thidst, pr2z21"(i, 2, ovat SP Ibid. 414 Pp. 206 gil pt,
af Ibid: -xpoph223(1;-2, ana) a 237-4);
47 Ibid., 1, p. 328 (1, aoigiz ye 79 Ibid.so\Tigh DB. A081.( 1, aa:
48 Thid. 21 » 4).
49 Ibid., 1, p. 333 (1, 3, 2, 1). - ot [Did Xs :A276(8 329 lhe
The use of the word ‘will’ should 72 Tbid., 1, pp. 16-17 (u, 3,
not be taken to mean that in- 14, 5).
ductive inference is exclusively a (ORE fo) RRO AS CY tie a
process of inferring the future 13):
from the past. The general prop- haa 2 Pe a a te
osition refers also, of course, to 14, 4).
unobserved contemporary mem- 7 Ibid., 1, p. 437 (1, 3) 7) 1).
bers of a class, and indeed to un- 76 Thid.
observed past members. TUTE. Te Ver AGS hve tr Oy 00
50 If, for instance, I first dis- 18 Ibid., 3, P-450 (ty. 33.054)
cover that each Apostle is a Jew 79 Ibid., 1, p. 460 (1, 3, 8, 5)
and then say, ‘all the Apostles 80 Tbid., 1, p. 470 (1, 3, 8, 7)
are Jews’, this general proposi- SS TEI.) 1, op 5O2n( t29,20, 101).
tion does not represent any real 82 Ibid., 1, p. 443 (1, 3, 7) 3)-
advance in knowledge. SS ibid. wipe a40"( i, 33 7714)
51 Logic, 1, Passo (i, Bia, a 84 Tbid., uy, p. 546 (u, 6,
52 Thid. ea)
<a
306 NOTES
85 The study of the formation eral line of Mill’s psychological

of national character had been reconstruction of the belief.
suggested, for example, by Mon- 97 Examination, p. 196.
tesquieu. 98 Ibid., p. 198.
86 Logic, u, p. 439 (i, 6, 99 Ibid. Needless to say, Mill
4, 873).Ibid., does not accept the theological
u, p. 458 (u, 6, conclusions which Berkeley drew
from his theory of material
things as ‘ideas’. But he regards
89 Ibid. u, p. 464 (um, 6, his own analysis of what it
means to say that there are ma-
90 Ibid., 1, p. 490 (1, 6, 9, terial things which continue to
1). That is to say, the empirical exist even when unperceived, as
generalizations are verified by as- being substantially the same as
certaining whether they follow that given by the good bishop.
from known general principles 100 Three Essays on Religion,
relating to human nature. p. 86 (1904 edition).
91 Autobiography, p. 211. 101 Jhid., p. 85.
%2Logic, u, p. 496 (u, 6, 102]t is widely recognized
that the only sufficient proof of
® v8 Mill can, of course, evade the possibility of such a transla-
fatalism, if fatalism is under- tion would be to perform it, and
stood as omitting the human that no adequate translation has
will from the chain of operative in fact been made.
causes. At the same time if, 103 Examination, p. 205. Ac-
given the antecedent conditions, cording to Mill’s use of the term,
a human volition cannot be metaphysics is ‘that portion of
otherwise than it is, it is difficult mental philosophy which at-
to see how he can evade fatal- tempts to determine what part
ism if this is understood as syn- of the furniture of the mind be-
onymous with rejection of lib- longs to it orginally, and what
erty of indifference. part is constructed out of ma-
84For instance, statistically- terials furnished to it from with-
based generalizations may enable out’, Logic, 1, p. 7 (1, Introdue-
us to predict the approximate tion, 4). For the use of the term
number of people in a given ‘feeling’ see reference on p. 21
to James Mill’s use of the word.
county who will post letters in-
104 Examination, p. 212.
correctly addressed. But the stat-
105 Ibid. -p.°213.
istician is not in a position to 106: Ibid|:p.207:
say which individual citizens will 107 Three Essays on Religion,
be guilty of this oversight. p. 70. This work will be referred
95 Examination, p. 192. to as Three Essays.
96 Obviously, in the illustra- 108 Ibid., p. 67.
tion which has just been given 199 Ibids. psy zs
of someone sitting at a table, a 110 Mill does not think that
belief in the existence of an ex- an account of the matter simply
ternal world is already present. in terms of the survival of the
But it can serve to show the gen- fittest is at all conclusive.
NOTES
307
111 Three Essays, p. 75. ETD... De Sze.
112 [bid. a ask? 14 [bid., Bs ae
113 Autobiography, p. 40. 46 Ihid. p. S46,
114 Three ae a 16 Ibid., p. 585.
115 Thid., p. 50. 17 Tbid.
116 Thid., p. 54. Mill main- 18 Tbid., p..2'72.
tains that while science does not 19 Tbid., p. 258. Bain also
provide any cogent evidence notes that we can have disinter-
against immortality, there is no ested antipathies and aversions.
positive evidence in favour of it. 20 Ibid., p. 274.
117 Tbid., p. 108. aE TH... D. 277.
118 [bid., p. 102. 22 '[bid., p. 283.
23 Ibid.
24 Thid., p. 281.
CHAPTER FOUR 25 The Methods of Ethics, p.
XV (6th edition.)
1See J. S. Mill’s Autobiogra- 26 Tbid., p. XX.
phy, p. 245, note. 27 This does not mean that
2 Though certainly not blind we ought to prefer a future un-
to the relevance of physiological certain good to a lesser but cer-
investigations, J. S. Mill, like his tain present one. As self-evident,
father, was chiefly interested in the principle simply states that
the psychology of consciousness priority in time, considered sim-
and in its philosophical rele- ply by itself, is not a reasonable
vance. ground for preferring one good
3 Bain introduced, however, a to another. Cf. The Methods of
good many modifications into Ethics, p. 381.
the associationist psychology as 28 The Methods of Ethics, p.
teceived from his predecessors. 380. The difference might be one
# Mind is thus described from of circumstances or between the
the start. ‘It has Feeling, in persons considered. We would
which term I include what is - not necessarily think it right to
commonly called Sensation and treat a child in the way that we
Emotion. It can Act according consider we ought to be treated.
to Feeling. It can Think.’ The 29 Tbid., p. 382.
Senses and the Intellect, p. 1 30 [bid., pp. 406-7.
(ast edition). 31 For Samuel Clarke see Vol.
5 Ibid., p. 371. V, Pt. I, of this History, pp.
6 Ibid. 171-2.
7 Ibid., p. 372. 32 Lectures and Essays (The
8 [bid. People’s Library edition), pp.
VIbid., p. 371. 178-9. Huxley was commenting
10 [bid., p. 372. on an essay by a certain Profes-
11 According to Bain, we can- sor Kolliker of Wiirzburg who
not even discuss the existence of had interpreted Darwin as a tele-
a material world entirely apart ologist and had criticized him on
from consciousness. this score.
12The Emotions and _ the 33 Lay Sermons, Addresses and
Will, p. 524 (2nd edition). Reviews, p. 294 (6th edition).
308 NOTES
The quotation is taken from an 44T.ay Sermons, Addresses

1860 article on The Origin of and Reviews, p. 18.
Species. 45 On Faraday’s death in 1867
34 Tbid., p. 295. Tyndall succeeded him as Super-
35 In regard to Lamarck’s the- intendent of the Institution.
ory that environmental changes 46 Fragments of Science for
produce new needs in animals, Unscientific People, pp. 121-2
that new needs produce new de- (2nd edition).
sires, and that new desires result 47 Tbid., p. 122.
in organic modifications which 48 Lectures and Essays, p. 40
are transmitted by heredity, (Rationalist Press Association
Huxley remarks that it does not edition, 1903).
seem to have occurred to La- 49 Fragments of Science, p.
marck to inquire ‘whether there 166.
is any reason to believe that 50 Ibid., p. 163.
there are any limits to the 51 Lectures and Essays, p. 40.
amount of modifications produc- 52 Fragments of Science, p.
ible, or to ask how long an ani-
mal is likely to endeavour to "359 Lectures and Essays, p. 47.
gratify an impossible desire;’ 54 Tbid.
Lectures and Essays, p. 124. The 55 ‘No atheistic reasoning can,
quotation is taken from an 1850 I hold, dislodge religion from the
essay on “The Darwinian Hy- human heart. Logic cannot de-
pothesis’. prive us of life, and religion is
36 Fyolution and Ethics and life to the religious. As an ex-
Other Essays, p. 80. The dis- perience of consciousness it is
course on Evolution and Ethics beyond the assaults of logic’,
was originally given at Oxford as ibid., p. 45.
the second Romanes lecture. 56 An Agnostic’s Apology and
37 Tbid., p. 81. Other Essays, p. 52 (Rationalist
88 Tbid., p. 83. Press Association edition, 1904).
39 Tbid., p. 83. The quotation is taken from an
40 Ibid., p. 135. 1886 essay. What is Material-
41 The Marxist, for example, ism?
does not deny the reality of 57 Thid., p. 66.
mind. Nor does he identify psy- 58 Ibid., p. 57.
chical with physical processes. 59 Tbid.
But he looks on himself none 60 Ibid., p. 20.
the less as a materialist. And so 81 Thoughts on Religion, p.
he is in a metaphysical sense. 87.
42 Hyolution and Ethics, and Sf1b Pp. led.
Other Essays, p. 130. Kraft und 83Tbid., p. 140.
Stoff is the title of a well-known 8%Ibid, “pete.
book by the German materialist, 85 Tbid., p. 168.
Ludwig Biichner. See Vol. VII, SC IDIC. Pe 131s
Pt. I, of this History, pp. 87 Jn 1864 Spencer wrote his
125-6. Reasons for Dissenting from the
48 Ibid., p. 133. Philosophy of Comte.
NOTES
309
88 In 1893 the London Posi- progress runs counter to the
tivist Committee founded The process of evolution in Nature.
Positivist Review. But the peri-
odical ceased publication in
1925, after having been called CHAPTER FIVE
Humanity during the last two
years of its life. 1Spencer’s attitude to the
69 As_ Clifford presupposed Boer War prompted an attack
something like the phenomenal- on him by The Times.
ism of Hume, he had to main- 2We shall return later to
tain that impressions or sensa- Spencer’s doctrine of the ‘un-
tions, composed of mind-stuff, knowable’.
can exist antecedently to con- 3 First Principles, p. 119 (6th
sciousness. When consciousness edition).
arises, they become, or can be- 4 Ibid., p. 120.
come, its objects; but to be ob- 5 Tbid.
jects of consciousness is not es- 8 Thid., p. 123.
sential for their existence. 7 Ibid.
70 Sir Francis Galton (1822- 8 Ibid., p. 122.
1911), a cousin of Darwin, was 9 [bid., p. 123.
the founder of the science of eu- 10 Tbid,
genics and envisaged the delib- 11 [bid,
erate application in human soci- 12 Tbid.
ety of the principle of selection 13 [hid., p. 125.
which works automatically in 14Some of these may have
Nature. their remoter origin in animal ex-
71 The Grammar of Science, perience.
p. 6 (2nd edition, revised and 15 [bid., p. 125.
enlarged, 1900). 16 [hid., p. 127.
72 Tbid., p. 17. 17 [bid., p. 145.
73 Tbid., p. 64. 18Jn Spencers opinion the
74 Science, Pearson insists, is idea of co-existence is derived
purely descriptive, and not ex- from that of sequence, inasmuch
planatory. Scientific laws ‘simply as we find that the terms of cer-
describe, they never explain the tain relations of sequence can be
routine of our perceptions, the presented with equal facility in
sense-impressions we project into reverse order. Co-existence can-
an “outside world” ’, ibid., p. 99.
not be an original datum of a
7 [bid., p. 91. No argument consciousness which consists in
from ‘design’ to the existence of serial states.
God, therefore, could ever be 19 First Principles, p. 146.
valid. 20 Ibid., p. 149.
76 Thid., p. 95. 21 Ibid., p. 151.
77 Tbid., p. 9. 22 Tbid.
78 See Vol. VII, Pt. II, of this 23 [bid., p. 167.
History, p. 132. 24 Ihid., p. 175.
79 As we have seen, T. H. 25 Tbid., p. 249.
Huxley was an exception, inas- 26 Thid., p. 175.
much as he believed that moral 27 [bid., p. 176.
310 NOTES
28 First Principles, p. 367. In 51 The Data of Ethics, p. 241.

a note Spencer remarks that the 52 Obviously, the idea of
word ‘relatively’, omitted in the moral precepts must be under-
original text, needs to be in- stood in such a way as to admit
serted in two places as above. the distinction between princi-
29 Ibid., p. 506. ples of conduct in an imperfectly
30 The Principles of Sociology, evolved society and the ideal
ty p.23- principles which would obtain in
bi The study of what Spencer a perfectly evolved society.
calls super-organic evolution, 53 The Data of Ethics, p. 140.
which presupposes organic or 54 Thid., p. 148.
biological evolution, would in- 55 Tbid.
clude, if understood in the wid- 56 Justice (The Principles of
est sense, the study of, for ex- Ethics, Part IV), p. 17.
ample, the societies of bees and 57 First Principles, p. 9.
ants. 58 Tt may occur to the reader
32 The Study of Sociology, p. that religion and the offering of
44 (26th thousand, 1907). explanations are not precisely
33 [bid., p. 70. the same thing. But in ordinary
34 [bid., 1, pp. g—10. language ‘religion’ is generally
35 Tbid., 1, p. 479. understood as involving an ele-
36 Tbid. ment or elements of belief. And
37 Ibid., 11, p. 288. Spencer obviously understands
SS ibid. 1, PeesTz the term in this way.
39 [bid., 11, p. 607. 59 First Principles, p. 29.
40 The militant type of soci- 60 Henry L. Mansel (1820-
ety also tends to manifest itself 71), who became Dean of St.
in characteristic forms of law Paul’s, developed Sir William
and judicial procedure. Hamilton’s doctrine about the
41 Tbid., 4, p. 610. unknowable unconditioned and
42 Thid. gave the Bampton lectures on
43 [bid., 1, p. 607. The Limits of Religious Thought
44This is the title of one of (1858) from which Spencer
his essays. quotes (First Principles, pp.
45 The Man Versus the State, 33-6) in support of his own ag-
p. 78 (19th thousand, 1910). nosticism.
46 Ibid., p. 107. 81 First Principles, p. 55.
47 The Data of Ethics, p. V 62 Tbid., p. 57.
(1907 edition). This preface is 63 Thid., pp. 82-3.
reprinted in the first volume of 6? Ibid. p. 92:
The Principles of Ethics, the ref- 85 Spencer actually employs
erence being to p. VII (1892 the Kantian terms.
edition). 86 First Principles, p. 74.
48 Purposeless actions are ex- 87 Tbid., p. 80.
cluded from ‘conduct’. 68 Ibid., p. 143,
49 The Data of Ethics, p. 238. 89 Tbid., pp. 143-4.
50 The Principles of Ethics, 1, 70 The Data of Ethics, p. 106.
p. 318. 71 [bid.
NOTES EI
CHAPTER SIX 8 That is to say, it is from one
point of view somewhat surpris-
1The foregoing remarks con-
ing to find that the romantic
stitute a generalization which is poet was ever an enthusiast for
open to criticism on a number of Hartley of all people. But the
counts. But in such introductory associationist psychology was
observations one has to prescind then regarded as ‘advanced’, and
from the differences between the this doubtless helped to com-
various idealist systems. mend it to the intellectually
2Empiricism, it is true, had alive undergraduate.
its own implicit metaphysics. 7 For the matter of that, Hart-
And the empiricists not infre- ley himself had been a religious
quently used the term ‘meta- believer.
physics’ in regard to some of 8See Coleridge’s Biographia
their tenets. But in so far as Literaria, ch. 6.
metaphysics involves an attempt ®See Mill’s Dissertations and
to disclose the nature of ultimate Discussions, 1, p. 405.
reality, idealism can legitimately 10 “The writings of the illustzi-
be said to represent a revival of ous sage of Koenigsberg, the
metaphysics. founder of the Critical Philoso-
3In Catholic countries ideal- phy, more than any other works,
ism, with its tendency to subor- at once invigorated and disci-
dinate theology to speculative plined my understanding’, Bio-
philosophy, was commonly te- graphia Literaria, p. 76 (Every-
garded as a disintegrating influ- man’s Library edition).
ence, so far as the Christian 11 See Vol. VI, Pt. I, of this
religion was concerned. In Eng- History, pp. 169-72.
land the situation was somewhat 12 Philosophical Lectures,
different. A good many of the edited by K. Coburn, p. 186.
British idealists were themselves 13 Biographia Literaria, p. 78.
religious men, who found in 14 Jbid., p. 79.
their philosophy both an expres- 15 Jbid., p. 136.
sion of and a support for their 16 [bid., p. 145.
religious view of the world and 17 Tbid.
of human life. 18 [hid., p. 144
4In The Platonic Tradition in 19 Fichte did not, of course,
Anglo-Saxon Philosophy (1931). make the finite ego or self his
5 Fichte and Schelling exer- ultimate principle. And Coleridge
cised little influence, though the tends to caricature his thought.
former had some stimulative ef- 20 Biographia _Literaria,_p.
fect on Carlyle, and the latter on 144.
Coleridge. There is one obvious 21 Exodus, 3, 14.
reason for this. The classical Ger- 22 Dissertations and _ Discus-
man idealist movement was al- sions, 1, p. 436.
ready over when the British be- 23 As no publisher would ac-
gan; and it was regarded as cept this work, it first appeared
having culminated in Hegel, con- in instalments in Fraser's Maga-
sidered as the true successor of zine, 1833-4. An American edi-
Kant. tion of the book appeared in
312 NOTES
1836, and an English edition in subject and its object in relation

1838. to one another.
24 Sartor Resartus, 1, 10, p. 57 38 According to Grote, in its
(Scott Library edition). The construction of an articulated
‘Garment’ is, of course, the world the self discovers or recog-
body. nizes categories in Nature, which
25 Ibid., 1, 8, p. 48. are the expression of the divine
26On Heroes, lecture I, p. mind.
193 (London, Chapman and 39 In Grote’s view, things-in-
Hall). themselves are known intuitively,
27 [bid., p. 185. even if not distinctly, through
28 Hegel, however, regarded knowledge by acquaintance, as
his ‘word-historical individuals’ contrasted with knowledge
as instruments of the World-
about.
Spirit. 40 While he explicitly ac-
29 Tbid., lecture V, p. 323.
30 [bid. knowledged the stimulus which
31 According to Ferrier, if we he had received from Hegel,
wish to find the solution to a Jowett gradually moved further
metaphysical problem, we might away from rather than nearer to
well inquire what the psycholo- Hegelianism.
gists have said about the matter 41A one-volume edition ap-
and then assert the exact oppo- peared in 1898. Stirling never
site. held an academic post; but he
32 This did not prevent Fer- gave the Gifford Lectures at
rier from writing articles on Edinburgh in 1889-90. These
Schelling and Hegel for the Im- were published in 1890 with the
perial Dictionary of Universal title Philosophy and Theology.
Biography. 42 Stirling published a Text-
83 We can hardly exclude all Book to Kant in 1881.
influence of German thought on
Ferrier’s mind. But he was
doubtless right in claiming that CHAPTER SEVEN
his system was his own creation, 1 This work will be referred to
and not the result of borrowing. as Introductions.
34 Institutes of Metaphysics, 1, 2Tbid., 1, 2-3. Green and
prop. 1, p. 79 (Works, I, 3rd edi- Grose edition of Hume’s Tvea-
tion). This work will henceforth {ISCS ee Ds 2
be referred to simply as Insti- 3 [bid., 3.
tutes. 4Green is clearly thinking of
35 [bid., 1, prop. 13, observa- philosophers such as the two
fiony3, p. 312. Mills.
36 Tbid., observation 2, p. 311. 5 Introductions,
1, 3. Green
37 Institutes, 11, prop. 11, p. and Grose, 1, pp. 2-3.
522. It will be noted that for 6 Ibid. Green and Grose, 1,
Ferrier the Absolute is not God pit:
alone but the synthesis of God 7 Prolegomena to Ethics, p. 9
and the world, of the infinite (first edition). This work will be
NOTES
313
referred to henceforth as Prole- 24 Society in this context does
gomena. not necessarily mean the State.
8Prolegomena, p. 14. The The members of a family, for ex-
phrase ‘cosmos of experience’ is ample, enjoy rights. The point is
taken from G. H. Lewes, one of that ‘right’ is, so to speak, a so-
Green’s targets of attack. cial term.
9 Ibid., p. 22. Clearly, Kant’s 2° Political Obligation, p. 144.
transcendental ego is given an The State, of course, presup-
ontological status. poses the family, a form of so-
10 Ibid., p. 28. ciety in which the claims of in-
11 [bid., p. 38. dividuals are already recognized.
12 Ibid., pp. 72-3. The State maintains these rights.
18 Ibid., p. 72. 26 [bid., p. 41.
14 Tbid., p. 198. 27 Tbid., p. 125.
15 Thid., pp. 103-4. 28 Ibid., p. 147.
- 16 Obviously, metaphysical 29 Tbid., p. 149.
idealists are by no means the 80 Ibid., p. 195.
only philosophers whose criti- 31 [bid.
cism of their opponents has 32 Hegel, published in Black-
been more telling than their own wood’s_ Philosophical Classics
positive contributions to philoso- series.
phy. Indeed, the frequency with 33 On this subject see Caird’s
which this situation occurs raises Preface to Essays in Philosophi-
general problems about philoso- cal Criticism, edited by A. Seth
phy. But they cannot be dis- and R. B. Haldane (1883).
cussed here. 34 The Evolution of Religion,
17 Jbid., p. 169. bea oy (ate:
18 Tbid., p. 109. 35 This is obviously true in re-
19 Obviously, if Green had gard to the terms ‘subject’ and
lived at a later date, he would ‘object’.
have had to cope with theories 36 [bid., 1, p. 67.
of the infra-conscious springs of 37 Tbid., 1, p. 68.
38 Caird’s three stages corre-
human action. spond more or less to Hegel’s
20 [bid., p. 102. stages; natural religion, the reli-
21 Lectures on the Principles gion of spiritual individuality
of Political Obligation, p. 146 and absolute religion.
(1901 edition). This work will 39 [bid., 1, p. 189.
be referred to as Political Obli- 40 Thid., 1, p. 195.
gation. 41 Ibid., 1, p. 140.
22 Prolegomena, p. 193- 42 Fyolution of Religion, 1, p.
23 Ibid., p. 193. Hegel could, 65.
of course, say the same. For the is This idea appears, for ex-
universal, in his view, exists only ample, though in a rather differ-
in and through particulars. At ent setting, in the philosophy of
the same time, in speaking of the Karl Jaspers, under the form of
State, Green does not employ The Comprehensive.
the exalted epithets used by the 44In the organism, John
German philosopher. Caird argues, we find immanent
314 NOTES
teleology which shows itself in ical History is reprinted in the

the way that an internal spon- first volume.
taneity or energy differentiates 4See Vol. VII, Pt. II, of this
members and functions and at History, p. 14.
the same time reintegrates them 5See Contemporary British
into a common unity, realizing Philosophy, Second Series, p.
the immanent end of the whole 271, edited by J. H. Muirhead
organism. As for the life of re- 1925).
flective consciousness, the idea 6 Collected Essays, 1, p. 24.
of mechanical causality loses all 7 Ibid., 1, p. 20.
relevance in this sphere. ST bids 1, p..21-
45 An Introduction to the 9 Ibid., 1, pp. 69-70.
Philosophy of Religion, p. 112. 10 Ethical Studies, p. 36 (2nd
46 Ibid., p. 125. edition). It is in this context
47 Tn more recent times, it has that Bradley makes his famous
sometimes been said that the comment: ‘Mr Bain collects that
traditional proofs of God’s exist- the mind is a collection. Has he
ence, while logically invalid, pos- ever thought who collects Mr
sess value as ‘pointers’ to God. Bain?’ (p. 39, note 1).
But unless we know what is 11 [hid., p. 12.
meant by saying this, it is difh- 12 The book includes indeed
some metaphysical excursions;
cult to discuss the thesis. We
but Bradley does not explicitly
need to be told something more introduce his metaphysics of the
than that the traditional proofs Absolute.
are “pointers to God’ or, as by 13 Ethical Studies, p. 125.
Caird, that they possess great 14 [bid., pp. 125-6.
value as phenomenological analy- 15 [bid., p. 159.
ses. This is the point that I have 16 Ibid., p. 148, note 1.
been trying to make. 17 [bid., p. 180.
48 This is, of course, the so- 18 [hid., p. 166.
called shorter or lesser Logic, of 19 Tbid., pp. 199-200.
Hegel. 20 [bid., p. 192.
49 Prolegomena to the Study 21 Ibid.
of Hegel, and especially of his 22 Tbid., p. 223.
Logic. 23 Tbid.
50 Cf. for example, Darwin 24 [bid.
and Hegel, with Other Philo- 25 Tbid., p. 201.
sophical Studies (1893). Be IDG, ps 303:
27 Tbid., p. 316.
28: Ibid; p: 322:
CHAPTER EIGHT 29 Tbid., p. 74.
80 The Principles of Logic, 1,
1 The second edition appeared p- 2 (2nd edition).
in two volumes in 1922. 31 Ibid., 1, pp. 2-3.
2A second edition, with an 82 [bids 5p, aK:
added Appendix, appeared in 33 It is presupposed that the
1897. judgment is not what Bradley
3 The Presuppositions of Crit- calls a ‘collective’ judgment, a
NOTES
315
mere summation of observed 53 Obviously, if we wish to
cases, but a genuine abstract uni- avoid Bradley’s conclusion, we
versal judgment. must refuse to be compelled to
84 Hegel had already drawn choose between these bald
attention to this point. See Vol. theses. For example, we can dis-
VU, Pt. I, of this History, p. tinguish two possible meanings
220. of the statement ‘a relation is
35 The Principles of Logic, 1, nothing’.
Pp. 49- 54 Appearance and Reality, p.
36 Tbid., 1, p. 56. 33-
37 Ibid., 1, p. 623 (terminal 55 Essays on Truth and Real-
essays, 2). ity, p. 238.
88 As Bradley turned his back 56 Appearance and Reality, p.
on Hume, so have modern logi- 34-
cal atomists turned their back on 5T Ibid., p. 37.
Bradley. Thus for Bertrand Rus- 58 Thid., p. 80.
sell analysis is the path to truth, 59 Tbid., p. 87.
to a knowledge of reality, rather 80 Thid., p. 119.
than a distortion or mutilation 61 Thid., p. 132.
of reality. In actual fact, how- 62 Thid.
ever, we need both analysis and 63 Thid., p. 146.
synthesis. 64 Thid., pp. 146-7.
89 The Principles of Logic, 1, 85 Thid., p. 552.
P- 95- 86 Thid., p. 530.
40 Ibid. 87 Thid., p. 498.
41 Tbid., 11, p. 591. 88 Tbid., p. 499.
42In Bradley’s developed 89 [bid., p. 159.
metaphysics movement, becom- 70 Thid., p. 506.
ing, belongs to the sphere of ap- 71 [hid., p. 487.
pearance. 72 Thid., p. 365.
43 Appearance and Reality, p. 73 Essays on Truth and Re-
1 (2nd edition, 1897). ‘dlity, p. 223.
44 Ibid., p. 4. 74 Ibid., p. 239.
45 Essays on Truth and Real- 75 Ibid., p. 219.
ity, p. 15. 76 [bid., p. 335.
46 Appearance and _ Redlity, 77 Appearance and Reality, p.
Pp. 553-4- 1.
47 Essays on Truth and Real- ser Ibid.
ity, p. 200. 79 When speaking of the re-
48 Tbid., p. 159. ligious consciousness, it is pri-
' 49 Ibid., p. 200. marily Christianity which Brad-
50 [bid. ley has in mind. It can hardly be
51 Jbid., p. 174. Bradley ar- claimed that in all forms of re-
gued against James Ward that ligion the divine, or ultimate re-
there is in fact such an experi- ality, is conceived as personal.
ence. 80 Ibid., p. 533.
52 Appearance and Reality, p. 81 [bid., p. 447.
31. 82 Ibid., p. 453.
316 NOTES
83 Appearance and Reality, p 12 The Principle of Individu-

ality and Value, p. 43.
a Essays on Truth and Re- 13 Essentials of Logic, p. 166.
ality, pp. 446-7. 14To a certain extent Brad-
85 Appearance and Reality,p ley would be prepared to speak
XIV. in much the same way. But it is
86 Ibid., p. XIV. true that he so emphasizes the
87 [bid., p. XII. deficiencies of human thought
88 [bid. that Bosanquet is justified in
89 As we have seen, this is seeing in Bradley’s philosophy
also described by Bradley as a the creation of a gap between
dim virtual knowledge. thought and reality.
90 Tbid., p. 196. 15 Essentials of Logic, p. 166.
91 Ibid., p. 201. 18 The Principle of Individu-
92 Ibid., p. 203. dlty and Value, p. 69.
98 Ibid., p. 240. 17 Jbid., p. 80.
94 Ibid., p. 2278 18 The Value and Destiny of
95 Ibid., pp. 499-500. the Individual, p. 251.
19 The Principle of Individu-
ality and aay ap 243-4.
CHAPTER NINE 20 Ibid., pp.
21 The Philosophical Theory
1A second edition appeared of the State, p. 80 (1st edition).
in 1911. 22 Ibid., p. 107.
2 A fourth edition appeared in 23 Ibid., p. 151.
1923, the year of Bosanquet’s 24 Ibid., p. 154.
death.
3 Bosanquet’s history of aes-
26 Ibid., p. 183.
thetic theory remains, however, 26 Ibid., p. 192.
a valuable contribution to the 27 Ibid., p. 328.
subject. 28 Tbid., Pe 347°
“Logic, 1, -p. 3. 29 Ibid., p. B22
5 Bosanquet is concerned with 30 Leonard Trelawny Hob-
phenomenology rather than with house (1864-1929), professor
psychology. The individual’s of sociology in the University of
world is not built up out of his London from 1907 until the
perceptions considered as psy- year of his death, was a philoso-
chological entities, but rather pher of wide interests and the
out of his perceptions consid- author of a number of books on
ered as presenting objects. philosophical and __ sociological
6 Essentials of Logic, p. 15. topics. The work mentioned in
7 [bid., pp. 14-15. the text represents a course of
8 Ibid.;' 1, "p. 3. lectures given at the London
9Ibid., 1, pp. 83-4. By ‘a School of Economics in 1917.
third idea’ Bosanquet means the 81 The Metaphysical Theory
copula considered as a distinct of the State, pp. 117-18.
element in the judgment. 32 As a matter of fact, Hob-
10 Tbid., U1, p.1. house denies all three proposi-
11 [bid., 1, p. 78. tions mentioned above.
NOTES
317
33 According to Bosanquet, 42 Tbid., p. 179.
‘moral relations presuppose an
organized life; but such a life is
only within the State, not in re- CHAPTER TEN
lations between the States and
other communities’. The Philo- 1 Originally called Andrew
sophical Theory of the State, p. Seth, he adopted the name Prin-
B35. gle-Pattison in 1898 in fulfilment
84The Metaphysical Theory of a condition for succeeding to
of the State, p. 77. an estate. He successively occu-
3b [bid., p. 121, note 1. pied chairs of philosophy at
386If one sums up a trend of Cardiff (1883-7), St. Andrews
thought common to several phi- (1887-91) and Edinburgh
losophers in a number of theses, (1891-1919).
it is not surprising if the result- 2 Hegelianism and _ Personal-
ant scheme is not fully applica- ity, p. 196 (2nd edition).
ble to all of them, or perhaps to 3 Ibid., p. 199.
any of them. And one can then 4 Ibid., p. 203.
find examples of ‘inconsistency’. 5 Ibid., p. 226. Strictly speak-
Still, the inconsistency may be ing, neither Bradley nor Bosan-
with the main operative ideas of quet regarded the Absolute as a
a given philosopher’s thought. ‘self. But they did, of course,
87In the biographical note merge all finite experiences in the
which prefaces his contribution unity of a single absolute expe-
to the first volume of Contem- rience.
porary British Philosophy, edited 8 [bid., p. 217.
by J. H. Muirhead, Haldane te- 7 [bid., p. 238.
marks that he was influ- 8The Idea of God in the
enced more by Hegel’s method Light of Recent Philosophy
than by his detailed theory of (1917), p. 192. This work will
the Absolute. But he adds that be referred to as The Idea of
in his opinion Hegel came nearer God.
to the ultimately true view than 9 [bid., p. 211.
anyone since the ancient Greeks. 10 [bid., p. 212.
38 Though he had become 11 [bid., p. 308.
Lord Chancellor in 1912, after 12 [hid., p. 259.
having done excellent work as 13 [hid., p. 267.
Secretary of State for War, Hal- 14 Ihid., p. 363.
dane was omitted from the re- 15 The first volume appeared
constituted ministry of 1915, in 1921. The second, edited by
not indeed because his colleagues Professor C. D. Broad, was pub-
had any doubt of his patriotism lished posthumously in 1927. A
but rather as a measure of expe- summary of the system is pre-
diency in view of popular preju- sented by McTaggart himself in
dice. his contribution to the first vol-
89 The Nature of Truth, p. ume of Contemporary British
178. Philosophy, edited by J. H.
40 Tbid., pp. 178-9. Muirhead.
41 [bid., p. 175. 16 Existence is said to be an
318 NOTES
indefinable quality which is such 27 Tbid., 137. If, for instance,

that everything which exists is a substance X possesses qualities
real, though not everything d, b and c, an alteration in one
which is real is necessarily exist- quality produces an alteration in
ent. In other words, reality or the nature (composed of the
being is for McTaggart a wider qualities) and so in the sub-
concept than that of existence. stance which is manifested in
17 The Nature of Existence, the nature. The qualities are
45. The work is divided into sec- then said to stand to one an-
tions numbered successively from other in a relation of extrinsic
the beginning of the first to the determination.
end of the second volume. And 28 As no substance is abso-
references are given here accord- lutely simple, the difficulty oc-
ing to these numbered sections. curs in regard to every substance.
18 [bid.
19 Obviously, McTaggart, in- 29 Contemporary British Phi-
terpreting existence as an inde- losophy, First Series, p. 256.
finable quality, could not accept 30 The Nature of Existence,
the Thomist thesis that ultimate ae
reality is precisely ipsum esse 31 According to McTaggart, it
subsistens. is no good saying that the exist-
20 The Nature of Existence, ence of matter can be proved in-
65. ferentially from sense-data. For
21 [bid., 68. what we call sense-data might be
22'The term ‘relation’ is for caused by spiritual causes. And if
McTaggart indefinable, though we claim that sense-data are
we can clarify the difference in themselves material substances,
meaning between words such as we shall have to meet the argu-
‘relation’ and ‘quality’. For in- ments which show, in general,
stance, qualities are not said to that substance cannot be mate-
exist ‘between’ terms, whereas rial.
relations are. 32 The Nature of Existence,
23 According to McTaggart, 381.
following Leibniz, if two sub- 83 For McTaggart the self is
stances had precisely the same indefinable and is known by ac-
nature, they would be indistin- quaintance.
guishable, and therefore one and 34 [bid., 408.
the same substance. 35 Cf. Ibid., 332, and McTag-
24The Nature of Existence, gart’s article on The Unreality
88. of Time in Mind, 1908.
25We must distinguish be- 36 The Nature of Existence,
tween members and parts. ‘If we 503.
take the group of all the coun- 87In British Philosophy in
ties in Great Britain, neither the Mid-Century, edited by C.
England nor Whitechapel are A. Mace, p. 45.
members of the group, but they 38 McTaggart admitted the
are parts, of which the group is bare possibility of there being
the whole.’ Ibid., 123. within the society of selves a self
26. [bid.,t236. which:from the standpoint of ex-
NOTES
319
perience might appear to exer- tastic panpsychism is made to
cise some controlling, though appear, the more does it lie open
not creative, function. But he to the comment that no new in-
added that we have no reason to formation is being given, but
suppose that there is in fact such that it consists simply in inter-
a self. And even if there were, it preting the empirically observa-
would not be equivalent to God ble behaviour of things accord-
as customarily represented in ing to certain selected analogies.
theistic thought. The question whether it is true
39 In the opinion of the pres- or not then appears as a ques-
ent writer this approach to psy- tion whether a certain descrip-
chology was much superior to tion is appropriate, not whether
that of the associationists. certain behaviour takes place or
40 Naturalism and Agnosti- not.
cism, 1, p. Viii. 46 [bid., p. 234.
41 Ibid. 47 Ibid., p. 421.
42 Ward is not always careful 48 Contemporary British Phi-
to observe his own distinction losophy, Second Series, p. 254.
between natural science and 49 Ibid., p. 265.
philosophical naturalism. And he 50 When Ward writes as
tends to speak as though the sci- though science does not provide
ence of mechanics does not treat us with knowledge of the con-
of ‘the actual’. cretely real, he is thinking pri-
43 Ward’s pluralism resembles marily of mechanics which he re-
the monadology of Leibniz, ex- gards as a branch of mathemat-
cept that Ward’s monads are ics. As already noted, he was
not ‘windowless’ but act on one himself a psychologist.
another. 511 do not mean to imply
44 According to Ward, the that Bradley can properly be de-
only a priori statements which scribed as an irreligious thinker.
are beyond challenge are ‘purely At the same time the concept of
formal statements’ (The Reali ‘God’ belongs for him to the
of Ends, p. 227), those of logic sphere of appearance, and it
and mathematics. These do not would be absurd to claim him
give factual information about as a Christian thinker. He was
the world. If, however, a philos- not.
opher professes to deduce the 52 McTaggart certainly pro-
nature of reality from a table of fessed to reach his conclusion by
categories and these are found to rigorous argument. But then his
apply to the world, it will also conclusions were not particularly
be found that they were taken edifying from the religious point
from experience in the first of view, unless one is prepared
lace. to maintain that the existence or
45 The Realm of Ends, non-existence of God is a matter
p. 225. Obviously, the less fan- of indifference to religion.
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Undoubtedly Frederick Copleston’s A HISTORY OF PHI-

DI LICENTIA SUPERIORUM ORDINIS:

The Nihil obstat and Imprimatur are a declaration that a book or

© Frederick Copleston, 1966

One: Tse UrizirartAN Movement (1)

Two: Tue Urirrrartan Movement (2) 42

Three: J. S. Miri: Locic AND Empiricism 68

Four: Emprricists, AcNostics, PosIrivists 113

bination of utilitarianism and intuitionism—

Five: Tue PariosopHy oF HERBERT SPENCER 142

THE IDEALIST MOVEMENT

Six: THE BEGINNINGS OF TEE MOVEMENT 17:

Seven: Tur DrEvELOPpMENT or IDEALISM 19

Eight: AssoLtute IDEALISM: BRADLEY 214

Nine: AssoLuTE IDEALISM: BosANQUET 248

Ten: Tue Turn Towarps Personal IDEALISM 267

appenpix: A Short Bibliography 284

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In the preface to Volume VII of this History of Philosophy

tions; but in both cases the concept of philosophy is far from

The author has pleasure in expressing his gratitude to the

G. Bell and Sons, Ltd.: The Influence of Darwin on Phi-

and Truth, A History of Western Philosophy, Human Knowl-

THE UTILITARIAN MOVEMENT (1)

Introductory remarks—The life and writings of Bentham—

1. The philosophy of David Hume, which represented the

utilitarian movement was essentially practical in outlook,

State as an organic totality came to the fore under the in-

imself remarks that the principle of utility, as so inter-

in fact suggest, he was primarily roused to indignation by

Bentham published a paper entitled Radical Reform Bill,

duration, while another might be less intense but so much

which does not yield those diminishing returns that result

of interest do occur. Hence a harmonization of interests is

the more they tend to withhold their co-operation in the

him from being called a great philosopher. But his place in

using the labour theory of value as a means of showing that

THE UTILITARIAN MOVEMENT (2)

Life and writings of J. S. Mill—Mill’s development of the

1. John Stuart Mill was born in London on May 2oth, 1806.

the expedient as opposed to the right generally mean

principle of utility to recognize the fact, that some_kinds>of

quality is considered as well as quantity, the estimation of

ethical questions; but if must be

tive. And in the essay On Liberty he quotes with approval

greatest amount of happiness altogether. And if we ask<why’s

to say, of individual self-development, naturally affects his

individualist to the last. What exists is the individual, though

J. S. MILL: LOGIC AND EMPIRICISM

Introductory remarks—Names and propositions, real and

1. In the eighteenth century the study of logic had been com-

of the human mind in the pursuit of truth’. That is to say,

acted everywhere in the same manner.’ Again, in Mill’s

knowledge, it is performing a valuable social service as well

from truths previously known, not, of course, in the sense

When, however, we start inquiring into Mill’s general