In this article, we will consider how far we might be said to be active in forming our beliefs; in particular, we will ask to what extent we can be said to be free in believing what we want to believe. It is clear that we ought to believe only what is really so, at least in so far as it lies in our power to determine this, but reflection shows that, regrettably, we do not confine our beliefs to what we have evidence for, nor do we always believe in accordance with the evidence we do have. So it is natural to conclude that non-intellectual factors may be at work here; such, at least, was the view of Descartes, who attributed error to the influence of our will in leading us to assent to judgments which go beyond the evidence presented by our infallible intellect. This view has some initial plausibility when we think of cases in which emotional considerations lead people to take up and genuinely believe things they have no evidence for, but it is not a view which has received much support from modern philosophers. So, in Part 1 we will look at criticisms levelled against Descartes' view by J. L. Evans, and in Part 2 we will see how far Descartes can be defended. Our conclusions here will lead us to give in Part 3 a general account of the influence of the will in beliefs. We will suggest that we are always responsible for our explicit beliefs, even though it is not true that we can simply believe what we like. Thus we will reject the idea that a man can consciously know something, and at the same time, by will power, believe the opposite. Belief is not then totally free, but we will argue that people do sometimes form beliefs which go against what they should and could believe, and that this can in a way be put down to the influence of the will. Finally we will consider some of the ways in which it is possible to influence our beliefs by willed acts over a long period of time, though this is not the way that we clami that the will might be said to play a part in every judgment that we make.

What is the connection between pain and pain behaviour? Is it logically necessary, or is it contingent? Or is it too complex to be classified in terms of this Humean dichotomy? Surely it is too complex, for if we say the relationship is a necessary one, we should, apparently, have to deny that there could be pain without pain behaviour, or pain behaviour without pain; yet stoicism and shamming pain occur. If we say that the relationship is not necessary and so contingent, we should have to say that the natural correlate or expression of pain might have been languor or jolly laughter, and, conversely, that wincing, grimacing, writhing, groaning, etc., might have been the natural correlate or expression of sensations quite different from pains. To avoid the first difficulty it could be said that necessary connections need not be invariant. To avoid the second, it might be pointed out that some contingent connections are less contingent than others, and that, in particular, causal relationships need not always be of the external, Humean kind. But even if these observations are correct they are difficult precisely because they attempt to soften and blur a distinction whose hardness and exhaustiveness is constitutive of its clarity and strength. If we modify Hume's law we may do so only after a careful examination of a case which forces us to do so.

The burden of the Christian religion is not primarily that certain attitudes are desirable nor that certain practices are comfortable, but that certain things are true. Certain facts have to be faced, certain claims recognized. Questions of the meaningfulness and truth-status of religious language are thus central to Christian apologetic. However much emphasis we give to the vital link between true belief and action - and for the Bible the two are inseparable - there is no escaping the obligation to enquire into the meaning and truth of Christian affirmations as well as their personal or social effectiveness.

When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States, his laughter tinkled among the teacups. When Professor Ryle published Plato's Progress, his paradoxes clattered through the china shops (ὠ τς καινότητος. Ἡράκλεις τς παραδοξολογίας. Ẻυμήχανος ἄνθρωπος).

My Purpose is twofold: first, to interpret Rousseau's The Social Contract in terms of a serious interpretation of the Discourse on the Origin and Foundations of Inequality and second, to use as the principal interpretative concept for both, the concept of independence. One gets the impression in reading commentators that the Discourse on Inequality is not taken seriously in its own right but rather is treated as what it is, an essay which was suitable for submission as a prize essay, with the required clever rhetorical style, flashes of paradox and yet withal solemnly addressing itself to a virtually impossible question. However, if it is taken, in part, as Rousseau's social and psychological analysis of modern society, as an account of “men as they are” (The Social Contract, ed. Cranston, p.49), then it is not only worthy of serious study in itself, it also helps one to see that still puzzling book, The Social Contract, from a new perspective. Moreover, Rousseau's concept of independence is both interesting and helpful. What Rousseau means by “independence” may diner from what he means by “freedom”, but for most of this essay I shall draw from the latter a working definition of the former and thus shall mean by independence: (1) not being subject to or under the control of another person or persons, and (2) not being subject to or under the control of one's passions. The advantage of attending to the concept of independence is that it enables one to recognize that Rousseau is asserting three seemingly incompatible propositions: first, man is independent, second, no man is independent and in the given circumstances can be and, third, man must become dependent in order to become independent.

Does Leibniz really worst Locke in respect of innate ideas, as is frequently supposed, or does Locke emerge more or less whole from their epistemological dispute? I shall here argue that Leibniz does far less well than we might like to believe and that his substantive proposals, where not entirely innocuous, contain little that would appeal to anyone interested in a modern form of the innateness thesis.

The word moral and its derivatives are showing signs of strain. Like a small carpet, designed to fit a room which has been enlarged, they are wrenched this way and that to cover the bare spaces. Perhaps in the end we shall be forced to abandon them altogether, as Nietzsche suggested. But this would be wasteful, and it seems a good idea to examine first the various spaces they can cover, and try to fix them to the one where they are needed most. I shall approach this problem by making very full quotations. It is not an isolated verbal puzzle which can be settled by showing that a particular usage exists; we need to know as well just what it is doing. There are real muddles here, within common-sense, about the relation of thought to life. There is no simple plain-man's usage prepared for us to follow. Anyone who uses moral in anything beyond the Daily Mirror sense is no longer a quite plain man anyway, and we had better follow careful writers than casual ones, real ones than imaginary ones. Philosophers, unlike the Erewhonians, do not have to study a hypothetical language. I am sure both that quotations are necessary and that mine are inadequate; I hope other people will supplement them. As for my choice, I can only say that I have tried very hard not to be tendentious. Certainly I have quoted authors who are capable of being silly and perverse, but as far as I can see the remarks I have taken from them are sober and normal. Anyone may disagree with them, but not, I hope, think them oddly worded. My point affects all the derivatives of moral and to some extent those of ethical too, so I have drawn my illustrations from all of them.

The publication of two new books by Professor D.Z. Phillips (2) provides a suitable opportunity to consider some recent attempts to apply Wittgenstein's philosophy to religious issues. I shall concentrate mainly on Phillips' work, with particular reference to his treatment of the question of religious truth, but I shall also discuss some other writers and topics.

I shall show that there are two concepts of God in Hume's Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, both of which conform to the main epistemo-logical tenets in his earlier writings. Firstly, Hume considers the notion of God as an explanatory cause, and rejects it; secondly, he considers the notion of God as the name of a private sentiment, and whilst not rejecting the notion, emphasises that it has no explanatory power.

Wittgenstein's illustrative comparison of linguistic activities with games, his defence of a single term for items having no more than a ‘family resemblance’ and not even one common distinguishing feature, and his objections to any proposal seeming to imply an unshareably private language appear to have been accepted as interesting and important if not always as persuasive in English language philosophy. But these themes, and others introduced along with them are most often taken as separate items, belonging to distinct compartments of philosophy, and justice is not done to their inter-connections and coherence (1).

Justice has always been regarded as one of the fundamental political virtues. No association of human individuals could subsist, says Hume, “were no regard paid to the laws of equity and justice”, and nearly every thinker who has turned to consider human society, has reached the same conclusion. Yet we are not at all clear what justice is, nor why it is so important. There are many other ideals which a society may cherish, and often reformers have felt impatient of having to compromise their aims merely for the sake of justice, and have not seen why the claims of justice should in any way override other political goods. I shall try to show why justice is, along with liberty, a peculiarly fundamental ideal, which is not merely co-ordinate with other ideals a society may value; but also that this notwithstanding, considerations of justice are not all-sufficient, and do not, and should not, always override all other political ideals.

Although his subject matter is far from abstract and his arguments comparatively free from obscurity, Bernard Mandeville has generally been acknowledged a difficult philosopher. It is not hard to see why. First, Mandeville deliberately sets out to generate paradoxes. Secondly, he is not a systematic writer. His views are expounded and developed in a number of works of which The Fable of the Bees is only the best known. Thirdly, and most important, he is not solely a philosopher, but also a satirist. His satire is intertwined with his purely philosophical theories and his style is often highly ironic. Any interpretation of Mandeville must consider his philosophical and his satirical intentions.

That freedom involves a power (or right) to choose is a natural idea. But it requires a model of man which English philosophers have usually rejected. It requires an agent equipped with a will, who is faced with genuine alternatives and is, in some sense, autonomous. So it is rejected both by those, like Hobbes, who hold a strong version of determinism and by those, like Hume, who deny the existence of an autonomous self. The will, says Hobbes, is simply ‘the last appetite in deliberating’. A mind, says Hume, is ‘nothing but a heap or collection of different perceptions, united together by certain relations’. The way is then apparently open for a denial that men ever act freely at all and so for a thoroughly deterministic basis for the social sciences. But this is not the usual conclusion. Hobbes and Hume both agree that there is no conflict between freedom and determinism, once ‘freeedom’ is properly understood. A man is free when he can get what he wants. As Hobbes puts it, ‘liberty is the absence of all impediments to action which are not contained in the nature and intrinsical quality of the agent’. In other words freedom does not involve choice but consists instead in the power to satisfy desire.

It is significant that one of the influential books on the philosophy of morality in recent years was called “The Language of Morals”. The title is significant because it overtly expresses the two-fold short-sightedness of many British moral philosophers in the 20th century. First, it assumes that there is just one language of morality, presumably the same for all human persons, which is distinct and separable from other sorts of language. This is the thesis of the linguistic autonomy of morals; and it ignores the possibility that there are many different sorts of moral language correlated in part with different patterns of culture; and that moral language often cannot be separated out, as an autonomous universe of discourse, from other sorts of language. Second, it assumes that the primary or even sole concern of philosophers is with the language of morality, thus ignoring the behavioural, cultural and experiential aspects of morality which may be equally, or more, important features of the total human phenomenon with which moral philosophers are concerned. These two assumptions, as my statement of them implies, seem to be highly disputable, if not plainly mistaken. It is the main purpose of this paper to throw doubt on them, and consequently on the sorts of philosophy which embody them.

In his well known proposition that pleasures differ qualitatively, Mill seems to be arguing three principal points. (1) ‘Mental’ pleasures as a kind are intrinsically ‘more desirable and more valuable’ than ‘bodily pleasures’ (p. 12). (2) This estimation of pleasure, Mill says, is such as to rule out the claim that it ‘should be supposed to depend on quantity alone.’ Indeed, he continued, the ‘superiority in quality’ might be ‘so far outweighing quantity as to render it, in comparison, of small account’ (p. 12). (3) The ‘test of quality and the rule for measuring it against quantity,’ Mill says, is ‘the preference’ of experienced judges (p. 16). ‘[T]he judgment of those who are qualified by knowledge of both, or, if they differ, that of the majority among them, must be admitted as final’ (p. 15).

In the course of his interesting paper ‘The Morality of Killing’ (Philosophy, April 1969), Mr. T. Goodrich apparently seeks to prove that decisions about population control cannot be based on the utilitarian principle. More exactly, I think, he wishes to show that such decisions cannot be based on this principle by making appeal either to the interests of those persons who would be brought into existence as a result of a decision to add to the population or to the (supposed) interests, at times subsequent to carrying out the decision, of those persons who would cease to exist as a result of a decision to subtract from the population. I believe that the arguments he uses to support this thesis are not good ones, and I will try to show that they are not.

Confidence or trust is obviously a sort of reliance or dependence. Confidence is related to fiducia, which in turn is related to fido and to the Greek peitho. The latter term implies persuasion or persuasiveness. If we follow, as we should, the nuances hidden in these terms, we may assume that confidence is a reliance stemming from persuasion or accompanied by it. Confidence may be related to a person, including oneself, and in this sense we speak of self-confidence; or it may be related to another person, either in the singular or in the plural, or even perhaps to the course of events at large, to history, to the cosmos, to God etc. It is in this sense that confidence is the opposite of or contradictory to fear. And Aristotle indeed placed the brave man between the two poles of fear and confidence. The man who exceeds in confidence is rash, and he who exceeds in fear and falls short in confidence is a coward.

The concept of ideology plays an important part in contemporary social and political thinking. In many works which raise the question about the relationship between what men think and how their societies operate some mention of ideology is made. Since the variety of thinkers who write about this relationship have a variety of views on the subject, it is not at all surprising that they disagree about just what an ideology is. It might be helpful if we could agree on just one usage, or, failing that, understand why a variety of usages is necessary and understand them.