Before any attempt is made to solve the problem with which this paper deals, it is necessary to convince the reader that the problem exists. Much is written and said to-day about class distinctions, both by those who announce with satisfaction their growing disappearance, and by those who half guiltily admit their existence, but it never seems to occur to such writers that the nature of these distinctions is itself something of a mystery. We take it for granted as one of the most obvious and commonplace facts of daily life. It seems hardly likely that the examination of a thing so ubiquitous and immemorial will yield anything new. My object will be to maintain that this attitude is mistaken, and that the idea of “class” is not really self-explanatory, but deserves a closer analysis than it usually gets. And if this proves to be the case, it must be admitted that the subject is of importance. Many political and social problems are deeply involved in the fact of class distinctions. Many who believe in a possible regeneration of human society would gladly surrender much to secure a world where poverty should be no more, yet hesitate before the prospect of a loss, through diffusion, of cultural values which they feel to be infinitely precious, and which give to the existing order a greater claim to permanence than it would otherwise possess. We most of us hardly know our own minds in this matter. We yield social distinctions their place, but we do so shamefacedly, as though confessing to a mere unjustified conservatism.

Arthur James Balfour was born at Whittinghame, East Lothian, on July 25, 1848. He was barely ten years old when his father died, and he succeeded to the estate. He entered Eton in 1862, and there met Lord Rosebery. In 1866 he went to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he studied philosophy under Henry Sidgwick. In 1869 he obtained a second-class in the Moral Sciences Tripos. In an autobiographical note, written long afterwards, Lord Balfour made the following reference to his mental attitude as an undergraduate: “I went to Cambridge with a very small equipment of either philosophy or science, but a very keen desire to discover what I ought to think, and why. For the history of speculation I cared not a jot. Dead systems seemed to me of no more interest than abandoned fashions. My business was with the groundwork of living beliefs: in particular with the groundwork of that scientific knowledge whose recent developments had so profoundly moved the world.” Considering his attachment to the past in matters of Church and State, Lord Balfour's contempt for the history of philosophy seems to betray a curious limitation. Unfortunately for him, the history of philosophy was not an important feature in the Cambridge philosophical curriculum, and the defect avenged itself by marring his subsequent philosophy in various ways. No doubt Sidgwick did all he could to encourage and develop Balfour's critical powers. Cambridge philosophy, under the influence of Sidgwick, was critical rather than imaginative, just as Oxford philosophy, under the influence of Green, was imaginative rather than critical.

My object in these lectures is to show that Science is a form of Art, though not of fine art; in other words, that it is one example of a process of which fine art is the most obvious example, the process of making out of certain materials a result into which the mind itself enters. Clearly enough the material of the artist, whatever it be, marble or paints or tones or words, is moulded by the artist into a shape which it would not possess unless something in the artist’s mind found expression in it. Science also is a product of the mind’s interference and is artificial. But it differs from fine art, I shall try to show, in this respect: in fine art the material is controlled from the mind, or at least it is principally controlled from the mind. In science the material is the facts of nature (including of course the mind itself as a natural object); but while science would not be except for the mind of the scientist, the work is controlled from the side of the material itself, and his mind is instrumental to the product rather than in some sense intrinsic to it as in fine art.

There is perhaps no part of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason which has called forth such severe criticism as his deduction of the System of Categories in the Transcendental Analytic. I am not aware of even one among his many followers who holds to this part of Kant’s doctrine. And the reason for this disagreement is obvious. Kant’s deduction of his System of Categories is based on Formal Logic, the theory of syllogism, first laid down by Aristotle. Mediaeval scholars had changed some details and partly systematized the subject. Kant himself had added some finishing touches to produce his famous number of a dozen categories, but the gist of this logical theory was the same as that found in Aristotle’s Organon.

Speculative Philosophy, or Pure Metaphysic, stands at the present time in a very interesting position. There is perhaps some degree of slackening in the construction of elaborate systems, though, with the recent examples of McTaggart and Professor Alexander before us, this may be open to some question. But at least we probably realize, more fully than was possible in previous generations, the exact nature of the problems with which pure metaphysic is concerned. Its work has been more and more clearly marked off from that of the empirical sciences (including even the more detailed aspects of psychology), and from that of the mathematical sciences (including even the quasi-mathematical aspects of formal logic); and its province can now be definitely confined to the general theory of knowledge and the light that is thrown by this upon the structure of reality. It is my object in this paper to indicate briefly the chief problems that appear to fall within its scope and the chief directions in which we may look for light upon them. It is well to admit, however, that metaphysical problems are difficult, and that any statements that are made about them, unless expressed in language of a somewhat technical character, are very liable to be misunderstood. I must try to avoid both the Scylla of obscurity and the Charybdis of superficiality.

Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, one of the greatest philosophers of law and state, died 250 years ago, on December 4, 1679. His name was so frequently associated with a certain unfortunate conception of his moral and political philosophy, that the public's lack of interest in this centenary is not to be wondered at. So far, even amongst the scholars who admitted his merits, few tried to penetrate into the depths of his thought, and only at the end of the last century, thanks to the writings of Ferdinand Tönnies and George Croom Robertson, was a new impulse given to research into Hobbes’ spiritual heritage. A series of monographies was published, and the personality of Hobbes appeared in a new light. His theories, when better known, proved to be less crude and more human than they had seemed, for they are a reaction from the revolutionary tendencies of his time.

There is at the present time a bewildering variety of schools of psychology in open rivalry and conflict with one another. The Press and the general public, in America, at least, seem to be aware of only two of these, namely the psychoanalytic and the behaviouristic schools; and the newspaper writers and the average highbrow are content to mix snippets and catchwords from these two utterly different schools, ignoring all the rest, unless they add to their shop-window display some uncertain reference to the work of the mental testers.

It has been explained how science, with the freedom which makes it an art, uses ideas of its own construction, and that they are verified by nature shows them to be, directly or indirectly, at differing degrees of remoteness, congenial to and so far inherent in the material which is the subject-matter of the science. Take, for an instance, velocity. It is expressed by the ratio of two integers which measure distance and time respectively. Now a ratio is a construction of the mind, and it does not exist in external things in the sense in which universals must be said to belong to them and have in one way or another been held to belong to them since the time of Socrates, or at least Plato. Even if we agree that the integers themselves are given to mind and not created by mind, their ratio implies the intervention of mind, and does not inhere in the integers themselves. But though velocity does not inhere in things, it corresponds to and stands for something which is found alike in all moving things and varies in the moving tram and the sea-plane in a Schneider race.

The main problem which I wish to discuss in this paper may be set out in the form of a very simple question. It is this: What makes an artist—whether he be painter, sculptor, musician, poet, or anything else—desire to produce a work of art and to go on working until he has done so?

Thus we cannot simply dismiss the principles of common sense as invalid or fictitious. What attitude, then, ought we to adopt towards them? There are two obvious suggestions.

We must begin by asking; What exactly is common sense? No doubt the word was originally used as a translation of Aristotle's; κοί⋯νη αἴσθησις but that is not its modern meaning. When Reid or more recent philosophers speak of common sense, they clearly have something else in view. At the present day, it is perhaps most often used to mean a quality of a mind, as when we say that jurymen or Members of Parliament should be men of common sense, meaning that they should show intelligence in the ordinary affairs of life; or again, we say that a little common sense would enable us to solve this or that political problem. But we are not concerned with that meaning either, though it would be interesting to discuss it. Common sense, as we are concerned with it here, means rather a body of very general principles commonly accepted by ordinary non-philosophical men in the ordinary affairs of life. These principles are really philosophical—that is to say, they belong to the proper subject-matter of philosophy—but, of course, the plain man who accepts or applies them at every moment of his life is far from being aware of this. Some of them are metaphysical, or (if we prefer to say so) epistemological, others are ethical; and whether or not there can be a common-sense theology, as a recent writer has asserted, it seems quite possible that there may be one or two among them which properly belong to the theologian's province. All these principles, taken together, make up what is usually called the common-sense view of the world. But in this discussion we shall confine ourselves to the metaphysical or epistemological ones, which are more frequently appealed to than the others, and which, besides, seem to be more interesting. But our conclusions, if valid, will apply to the others also.

With the progress of science we become more and more aware of the undiscovered, and of our feebleness to visualize or express what is dimly known to us. Geologists estimate that man evolved some 1,000,000 years ago on an earth which astronomers say is some 2,000,000,000 years old. Caution is required in accepting such figures, for we must remember how far out Lord Kelvin was in estimating the age of the earth—before the discovery of radium. Man has been civilized for some 5,000 years, and Galileo, with his telescope and revolutionary ideas, lived some 300 years ago. There may be, we are told, a million million years before the sun grows weak and the earth becomes farther from the sun so that all life freezes. Long before this man may use up the metals available for his machines, and those ready sources of energy now so wastefully used, by which he at present multiplies and swarms in cities. In such case he will return through birth control or famine, or both, to a simple, uncrowded, pastoral existence. There is little likelihood of his being able to use atomic energy, other than that which reaches the earth as sun radiation and is available directly or as energy stored in water-power, wood, coal, and oil.

The problem of the nature and scope of Causation has again been raised into prominence by recent research on atomic structures and processes, the result being that many physicists maintain that the causational principle must now be restricted to macroscopic changes regarded as the averaged outcome of microscopic events, each of which alone may not be causally determined, or at least not completely so. Of this markedly new departure Professor Eddington is perhaps the best-known advocate. “Physics,” he asserts, “is no longer pledged to a scheme of deterministic law; the search for a scheme of strictly causal law (is) not practical politics.” But the issue concerns not Physics only, for Dr. Eddington at once proceeds to interpret his viewpoint by contending that “science withdraws its opposition to free will”; and thus the realms of consciousness and conduct are once more brought into intimate connection with the realm of physical phenomena. It must of course be recognized that the question still remains highly debatable; for, as Sir Oliver Lodge has recently urged, “break down causality, and we are left with chance. That is wholly unsatisfactory. Chance is no solution”; and he likewise expands his survey beyond Physics by adding, “not in that way would I aim at freedom.” It is scarcely necessary to refer to current controversy in the biological sphere, between those who regard living processes as falling, if only to some degree, outside the domain of causal action, and those who insist that such action is universal, the indubitable proof of their position being prevented only by the difficulties of investigation.

If we need a figure to indicate the way in which the influence of Plato has passed through Europe, we must liken it, not to a river continually at the flood, but to an expanding atmosphere enveloping and pervading whatever it meets, an atmosphere with a perfume that has made some sick and others open their nostrils to take in the seed and substance of a new life. A river makes a linear path which, except perhaps for a few sinuosities and an occasional overflow, can be traced with relative ease; but an atmosphere, enlarging itself in all dimensions, with attenuation here and condensation there and precise limits nowhere, offers neither clue nor pattern for the inquisitive historian who would, seek to plot its course. We may be prepared to find it anywhere. So it is with the metaphysics of Plato. No sphere of learning or of art has kept beyond its reach. Anyone who, by comprehending its particular incidence and its total range, would write the most remarkable single chapter in the history, of thought, would have to search the minds not merely of philosophers but also of saints, scientists, poets, painters, sculptors, statesmen, and educationists of all ages. He would even have to search for the breath of it among the innumerable works of fiction that tumble mechanically from our modern undiscriminating presses. The following, for example, is pure Platonism: “We come from a world where we have known incredible standards of excellence, and we dimly remember beauties which we have not seized again; and we go back to that world. Uncle Pio and Camila Perichole were tormenting themselves in an effort to establish in Peru the standards of the theatre in some heaven whither Calderon had preceded them.” To understand, alike in its emotional beauty and in its scientific severity, the metaphysic that underlies such charming phrases is perhaps an obligation, almost a necessity, and certainly a privilege.

(I) The poet’s words: “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp” are not merely a command of what ought to be, they are a description of what is. (a) Man has always been stretching himself beyond his own measure. He has a sense of the Infinite: Eternity has been set in his heart: he has not been content to look only on the things seen, his gaze has ever been towards the Unseen. Whatever stage of development he may have reached, he seeks for, and strives after, what is above and beyond himself and his world. In science he tries to get behind the phenomenal reality as his senses apprehend it, to the noumenal, mind. In philosophy he endeavours to bring the multiplicity of his experience, outer and inner, into a unity that will evidence itself to his reason as coherent, and not contradictory. In morality he is not content with the customs and standards of the society of which he is a member; but conscious of their inadequacy, he conceives and aspires to realize an ideal adequate to his nature; his ought to be is always challenging his is. The impulse or motive (the élan vital) of progress in all spheres of human interest and activity is “the best is yet to be.”

The tomb of the ancient Pharaoh, Tut-ankh-Amen, was opened some years ago. Lord Carnarvon, who financed the investigations, died shortly after the opening. Lord Westbury fell to his death from the high window of a London flat on February 21, 1930. His son, the Hon. Richard Bethell, had been found dead in his room the previous November. He was secretary to Mr. Howard Carter, one discoverer of Tut-ankh-Amen’s tomb. Many persons who had been connected with the excavations had died previously—M. Benedite, for example, died after participating in the research, and Mrs. Greely committed suicide after visiting the tomb. The Hon. Richard Bethell was the thirteenth person connected with Tut-ankh-Amen's tomb, directly or indirectly, to die, and his father, Lord Westbury, was the fourteenth. The death of Lord Carnarvon, a few weeks after the tomb was opened, stirred the notion that a curse had been placed on the mummy of the Pharaoh, or in his tomb, to menace violators. Succeeding deaths kept the notion alive, and the thirteenth death, of the Hon. Richard Bethell, wrung an opinion from Dr. Mardus, the eminent French Egyptologist. He was convinced that the ancient Egyptians could surround “their mummies with some dynamic force.” Such a force lurked in the tomb of Tut-ankh-Amen. Its nature was unknown, but it had manifested itself in the series of deaths.

There is a certain experience which awaits reformers of all parties sooner or later. They make plans for amending some small part of the world, and consider means for getting the idea into practice, and then someone interposes a comment: “This plan,” he says, “is all very well, but it is mere machinery. The world can be saved only by what is inward and living, by change in heart and thought, by renewal of spirit.”

The classical and scholastic view of things was of neutral substance to which qualities were attached as substantial adjuncts. Qualities could apparently not be conceived of otherwise than as entities: blueness, hardness, pliability, toughness, translucency, and so on. Noun substantives were the part of speech by which they could most properly be referred to. The use of adjectives did not imply that these qualities were not substantival entities, but emphasized their subordinateness to the thing itself, and were useful in giving pliability, lightness, and elegance to speech. But qualities could not be conceived of otherwise than as something superadded to the neutral substance which carried them.

Just three years ago I contributed to this Journal a few remarks on the problem of the relation of “God” to “the World.” I propose in the present article to add some observations on the closely connected (and, indeed, overlapping) problem of the relation of “God” to “Man”; especially in view of the theory, by no means a new one, but at the moment much in evidence (and that in more shapes than one), that when we speak of God what we have really in mind is our own human nature or some part or aspect of it, imaginatively objectified as a distinct or independent reality.

The question in philosophy of whether History is a Science is rather like the question in Politics of the expediency of a Channel Tunnel: it is one which provides a perennial subject for debate, there is no indication that it will ever be decided one way or the other, and it does not after all seem to matter much even if it never is decided; we can get along well enough by neglecting it altogether. One might argue indeed that the dispute is not much more than a matter of words, of the intension and extension of terms. It is evident that the method and aim of the historian differ widely from those of the physicist, and on the other hand resemble closely those of the geologist. Why trouble to go splitting hairs?