The ‘beautiful axiom’ to which Dickens refers is a central feature of Thomas Hobbes' thinking but its precise role in his moral philosophy remains unclear. I shall here attempt both to dispel the unclarity and to evaluate the adequacy of the position that emerges. Given the high level of contemporary interest in Hobbes' thought, both within and beyond philosophical circles, this is an enterprise of considerable importance. None the less, my interest is not merely interpretative, since the assessment of Hobbes' attitude to ‘the beautiful axiom’ raises important and difficult questions about what might be termed the preconditions of morality.

In his paper, ‘The Aroma of Coffee’, H. O. Mounce wants to expose what he takes to be a deep prejudice in philosophy, one which is at work in our culture more generally. Philosophers are reluctant to admit that there is anything which passes beyond human understanding. Of course, they are quite ready to admit that there are plenty of things that they fail to understand but this they would say simply happens to be the case. It does not mean that what they fail to understand is something which is beyond human understanding. Thus even when they fail to understand something, that ‘something’ remains, in principle, within the reach of their understanding. For Mounce this prejudice flies in the face of what is platitudinously obvious: that there is much that passes beyond human understanding.

Professor Peter Bodunrin's paper ‘The Question of African Philosophy’ (Philosophy 55 (1981) 161–179) has, as it were, become the first question for most African scholars, teachers or students, starting a course in African philosophy. In most of the discussions, the controversy over what constitutes an African philosophy tends to dominate, sometimes so much that it forms almost the entire content of the course.

The performance which follows, like Caesar's Gaul, falls into three parts. Part I consists in a sympathetic and reconstructive criticism of Sir Karl Popper's The Poverty of Historicism (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1957). Part II offers a somewhat less sympathetic critique of the critique of Popper offered in E. H. Carr's Trevelyan Lectures What is History? (London: Macmillan, 1961; and since Pelicanned). Finally, in a shorter Part III, there will be some conclusions concerning what sociologists and historians can and cannot hope to discover about necessities and impossibilities in human affairs.

‘Every education teaches a philosophy; if not by dogma then by suggestion, by implication, by atmosphere. Every part of that education has a connection with every other part. If it does not all combine to convey some general view of life it is not education at all’ (Chesterton).

In an essay written for the thirtieth volume of the British Journal of Educational Studies, R. F. Dearden surveyed philosophy of education during the period 1952–82. As might be imagined he was largely concerned with the emergence in and development through these years of analytical philosophy of education, as the influence of linguistic or conceptual analysis spread beyond the somewhat ill-defined boundaries of core philosophy and was taken up by those interested in the theoretical presuppositions of educational practice. After charting the course of this development, and having reached the point at which certain worries arose about the limits of conceptual analysis as a method, Dearden turned to consider what if any alternatives might be available. The first possibility which he mentions in expectation of its having received explicit articulation is Catholic philosophy of education. However, as he notes, nothing meeting this description was developed during the period in question—in effect, since the war. The one book which he mentions, viz. Jacques Maritain's Education at the Crossroads, is barely known of in professional philosophy of education and in style and content is quite out of the mainstream.

In Book II, Chapter 1 of the Physics Aristotle attempts to distinguish natural objects from artifacts. He begins by stating that a natural object ‘has in itself a source of change and staying unchanged, whether in respect of place, or growth and decay, or alteration’. But this is not sufficient to distinguish natural objects from artifacts. As he points out later, a wooden bed, for example, can rot or burn, and this is surely a change whose source is, in part, internal to the bed. To make his distinction, Aristotle writes that in a natural object the internal ‘source of change and remaining unchanged’ belongs to it ‘primarily and of itself, that is, not by virtue of concurrence’. The bed rots because it happens to be made of wood: the change is due to its material, not due to its essence, namely that it is a bed. A natural object, however, changes because of its essence, that is, because it is the natural object that it is.