A few months ago General Smuts, as Rector of St. Andrews University, addressed a stirring appeal to the youth of the world to dedicate itself to the defence of the threatened cause of Freedom. As a young man, General Smuts fought in the Anglo-Boer war for the political freedom of the South African Republics. As a member of the British War Cabinet during the Great War, he was prominent among the Allied leaders in what was declared to be a war to “make the world safe for democracy”. As a signatory of the Treaty of Versailles, he was the first outstanding statesman who, on the very morrow of the signing, had the courage to confess the inadequacies of that settlement, and to appeal to a war-torn world to lay aside the passions of bitter conflict and return to sanity and co-operation. In the League of Nations, which he, more than anyone else, helped to conceive and bring into being, he has sought to create the machinery for the peaceful co-operation between nations.

My subject to-day falls within that branch of philosophy which is commonly called the philosophy of science. And it is intended, among other things, to illustrate, by the particular case of science, the suggestion which I made in my first lecture that all subjects, scientific, literary, moral, if you examine their first principles, will lead you back into philosophy.

There is a belief among the aborigines of Central Australia that the attributes of the divine ancestor are parcelled out among the component members of the tribe: and there are long periods in the history of ideas in which “divine philosophy” is similarly dismembered. The reason is that all great philosophical systems rest on a balanced tension of contemporary cultural elements, and as these change, and especially if they change rapidly or decisively, the unity of thought under which they have been gathered begins to disintegrate. There follows a period of piecemeal experiment, in which the material of philosophy is too rich and too disorganized to be appropriated in a single conspectus: a period in which there will be no great philosophers, and perhaps little conscious philosophizing, not because philosophic genius is lacking, but because there is no scope for it till the various special tendencies of the age have achieved a certain internal development and a definite sense of direction.

Just as the pleasant experience differs from the non-pleasant or unpleasant, and (according to many at least) the aesthetic from the non-aesthetic, internally or qualitatively, and not merely in degree, or externally or relationally, so, it is natural to expect, a moment of moral living differs from a moral or immoral moment. Indeed, from many quarters, and most emphatically from the Stoic and Christian, we have been wont to hear that if we but leave our sinful or indifferent lives and put on righteousness or goodness, we shall become new men or men reborn, even creatures of a different species. But according to many (perhaps most) analyses of morality these promises of transfiguration or translation are nonsensical lies: for the moral experience, as exhibited in these analyses, differs from the non-moral or immoral only in respect of external relations, or at the most in degree. Whether the truth resides in the promises or in the analyses is, obviously, a question of no mean import. It is also a vast one, while the time and space that can be given up to an article are brief; hence the following will be barely more than a raising of the question, or a provocation, by means of rough statements, some dogmatic, others hypothetical.

In his masterly article, “Sir Arthur Eddington and the Physical World,” which appeared in the January 1934 issue of Philosophy, Dr. Stace has brought out a number of interesting points on which I should like to comment. However, as the main issues between Professor Stace and Professor Eddington are with regard to the physical world and reality, these will form the main topics of my remarks.

The nature of poetic truth, and of the belief claimed by poetry, has become for many thinkers a question of keener interest through the discussions of Dr. I. A. Richards. In a recent article in this Journal,1 Dr. Helen Wodehouse has expressed her own view, elicited in relation to that of Dr. Richards, concerning truth in poetry. She urges that “a great poem seems sometimes centrally to be showing us the full measure and nature of some aspect of the actual world.” Our response involves essentially an element of belief in something revealed as rooted in reality, laying necessity upon the poet; even though that belief may not attach to all that the poet accepted as fact, and though we may be unable to formulate in reflective terms the nature of the truth discerned.