“He who tries to rise above reason, falls outside of it,” said Plotinus. If this be so; if, as Plotinus said also, “ Nous is King,” reason must cover more than inferential reasoning. The methods of inference are not sovereign, but manifestly instrumental; they furnish the scaffolding for the mind's ascent, but not the goal of its endeavour. This distinction between the wider and the narrower use of reason is familiar in every age of thought; it appears in the Platonic and Aristotelian doctrines of Nous, in Aquinas's discrimination of discursive and intuitive knowledge, in Spinoza's of ratio and scientia intuiliva, and in that of the understanding and the reason in post–Kantian idealism. At times, as in the case last mentioned, it has been pressed to an extreme, with the result that reason was set in sharp contrast to the understanding, which came to be regarded as a separate faculty and even as a source of error. Wordsworth, to whom the antithesis passed through Coleridge, wrote of “that false secondary power, by which we multiply distinctions.” In face of such excesses, it behoves us to be on our guard, and to remember that thought is one amid the diversity of its operations, and that faith is at least as fallible as logic. It is only by co-operating in the service of reason that either can point the way to truth.

The critical attacks of Philosophy upon the Catholic Faith which have developed since the eighteenth century have at last forced the defenders of that religion to consider the metaphysical foundations of their belief. This is all to the good; the disastrous attempt to separate belief from the searching questions of Reason has resulted in confusion and embarrassment both to Faith and Philosophy.

We can put our view briefly by saying that when the scientist has no more doubts, the philosopher will have none either; and that when the philosopher is completely satisfied, the scientist will agree with him. But since such an end is countless years ahead and may never arrive, it is perhaps better to say that the philosopher and the scientist are pursuing the same end, and that the task involves both the elaboration of proper conceptions and the investigation of the events of the universe by the aid of these conceptions.

The Behaviourist finds himself in rather a peculiar situation to-day. Denying mind, the philosophers will have nothing to do with him; denying consciousness and its sub-divisions (sensations, perceptions, images, and the like), the psychologist will have nothing to do with him. The further implication from all this, viz. that there is no unconscious, no sub-conscious, no conscious, leads the psychoanalyst to have nothing to do with him.

While there have always been schools of religious and ethical thought favourable to poverty, or a simple life, the general opinion of mankind has always regarded the increasing wealth of an individual or a community as conducive to human happiness. Qualifications have commonly been attached to this judgment in recognition of a certain danger and deceitfulness of riches, especially when rapidly acquired and lavishly expended, but the presumption still stands that wealth in general conduces to well-being. The nature, degree or conditions of this correspondence have, however, received singularly little attention from those thinkers who have given closest study to economic processes. Many of the founders of economic science in this and other countries were manifestly concerned for the general welfare of their fellowmen, and were active workers in many fields of social reform. But, in formulating the concepts and laws of their science, they deemed it unnecessary to give any close or continuous thought to the relations between economic wealth and human welfare. This was due, partly, no doubt to the natural desire to make the subject-matter and the treatment of a new science as definitely concrete and measurable as possible. It was this desire that made monetary valuation paramount in all economic estimates.

In trying to estimate the work of a particular philosopher it seems natural enough to begin with a description of the history and circumstances of the man himself. And yet it is almost invariably the case that most, if not all, of these biographical items are gradually lost sight of as the main business of interpreting and criticizing advances. We include our knowledge of the man in an introductory chapter, and rarely, if ever, refer to it. As a result, the philosopher and his work seem to be things apart. The work becomes a contribution to philosophy, distinguished, in a personal sense, from other contributions by little more than the convenient symbol of its author's name.

The theories of most writers on Ethics, with whose works I am acquainted, appear to be based upon the assumption of the unique character of goodness or The Good. By the word unique these writers mean, I think, among other things that goodness cannot be analysed into or described in terms of anything other than itself, that it can be and is desired for its own sake and not for the sake of some other thing which is not goodness, and that the apprehension of or desire for goodness is a distinct and specific character of our mental states. By asserting, however, that the state of mind constituted by the apprehension of goodness, or that the state of emotion aroused by the desire for goodness, is distinguished by a specific and unique property, they do not, I think, necessarily mean that this property is the same as the specific property of goodness itself. Most writers on Ethics have also believed that man is free to desire goodness, and to act in accordance with his desire, that is to say, they have held in some form or other the doctrine of free-will.