QJnrttell Untttcraitg Cibrarjj 3t);ara, Nctn $ark LIBRARY OF LEWIS BINGLEY WYNNE A.B..A.M., COLUMBIAN COLLEGE. -71, '73 WASHINGTON. D. C. THE GIFT OF MRS. MARY A. WYNNE AND JOHN H. WYNNE CORNELL '98 1922 B1303 1837"" ""'™'«"V Library ^°1lfS„SL^«orae Berkeley f„ ^ . lllllllllllllllllllllllliiilli1ii°?Mu^'.fy,,.:;;...to which ar olin 3 1924 029 011 323 Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924029011323 THE WORKS OF GEORGE BERKELEY, D.D. BISHOP OF CLOYNE. TO WHICH ARE ADDED, AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, AND SEVERAL OF HIS LETTERS TO THOMAS PRIOR,. ESQ., DEAN GERVAIS, MR. POPE, &c. IN ONE VOLUME. LONDON: PRINTED FOR THOMAS TEGG AND SON, 73, CHEAPSIDE; R. GRIFFIN AND CO., GLASGOWi TEGG AND CO., DUBLIN; ALSO, J. AND S. A. TEGG, SYDNEY AND HOBART TOWN. 1837. fi^nnj CONTENTS. Life OF theAdthor ....... i Letters ......... xi A Treatise concerning the Principles of Hum.\n Knowledge, wherein the chief causes of error and difficulty in the Sciences, with the grounds of Scepticism, Atheism, and Irreligion are inquired into 1 Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous, in opposition to Sceptics and Atheists . . . .39 An Essay towards a new Theory of Vision . . 86 Alciphron; or the Minute Philosopher; in Seven Dialogues ; containing an apology for the Christian Religion, against those who are called Freethinkers .117 Passive Obedience ; or, the Christian Doctrine of not resisting the Supreme Power proved and vindicated upon the principles of the Law of Nature . . .241 Arithmetica absque Algebra aut Euclide demon- strata 255 De Motu ; sive de Motus Principio et Natura . , 285 The Analyst ; or a Discourse addressed to an Infidel Mathematician ....... 295 A Defence of Freethinking in Mathkmatics . . 316 An Appendix concerning Mr. Walton's Vindication of Sir Isaac Newton's Principles of Fluxions . . . 330 Reasons for not replying to Mr. Walton's Full Answer, in a Letter to P. T. P 332 IV PAGE. An EsisAY towards Preventing the Ruin of Great Britain .......•• 337 A Discourse, addressed to Magistrates and Men in Authority 344 A WoiiD TO THE Wise ; or, an Exhortation to the Roman Catholic Clergy of Ireland ..... 354 A Letter to the Roman Catholics in the Diocese of Cloyne, Published in the late Rebellion, A. D. 1745 . 361 Maxims concerning Patriotism ..... 362 The Querist ; containing several Queries proposed to the consideration of the Public .... 363 A Proposal for the better supplying of Churches in our Foreign Plantations, and for converting the Savage Americans to Christianity, by a College to be erected in the Summer Islands, otherwise called the Isles of Bermuda ........ . 387 Verses on the Prospect op Planting Arts and Learning in America ..'... 334 A Sermon Preached before thk Incorporated So- ciety FOR the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, on Friday, February 18, 1731 . 394 SiRis ; OR a Chain of Philosophical Reflections amd Inquiries concerning the virtues of Tar Water; with A Letter to T. P., Esq., concerning the use- fulness of Tar Water in the Plague; and Further Thoughts, &c. ....... 402 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.* Dr. George Berkeley, the learned and ingenious bishop of Cloyne in Ireland, was a native of that kingdom, and the son of William Berkeley of Thomastown, in the county of Kilkenny, whose father went over to Ireland after the Restoration, (the family having suffered greatly for their loyalty to Charles I.) and there obtained the collectorship of Belfast. Our author was born March 12, 1684, at Kilcrin near Thomastown, received the first part of his education at Kilkenny school under Dr. Hinton, and was admitted a pensioner of Trinity-college, Dublin, at the age of fifteen, under the tuition of Dr. Hall. He was admitted fellow of that college June 9, 1707, having previously sustained with honour the very trying examination which the candidates for that preferment are by the statutes required to undergo. The first proof he gave of his literary abilities was Arithmetica absque Algebra aut Euclide demonsiraia, which from the preface he appears to have written before he was twenty years old, though he did not publish it till 1707. It is dedicated to Mr. Palliser, son to the Archbishop of Cashel, and , is followed by a Mathematical Miscellany, containing some very ingenious ob- servations and theorems inscribed to his pupil Mr. Samuel Rlolyneaux, a gentle- man of whom we shall have occasion to make further mention presently, and whose father was the celebrated friend and correspondent of Mr. Locke. HJa_22L£fli;jt-4^/l4sie8„vvas published Lu 17Q9, and thg Principles of Humait^^ ^notff/ef/g-e appeared the, year after. The airy visions of romances, to the reading of which he was much addicted, disgust at the books of metaphysics then received in the university, and that inquisitive attention to the operations of the mind which about this time was excited by the writings of Mr. LockB and Father Malebranche, probably gave birth to his disbelief of the existence of matter.t . - ' * To authenticate the following account of Bishop Berkeley, it is thought proper to inform the reader, that the particulars were for the most part communicated by the Rev. Robert Berkeley, D. D. rector of Middleton, in the diocese of Cloyne, brother to the Bishop; and the whole was drawn up by the Rev, t When the Principles of Human Knowledge were first published, the ingenious author sent copies of the work to Di;, Clarke and. Mr. Whiston. What effect it produced upon the latter, the reader may pos- sibly be entertained with learning from his own, words: Memoirs of Dr.. Clarke, page 79 — 81. ** And perhaps it will not be here improper, by way of caution, to take notice of tlie pernicious conse- quence such metaphysical subtilties have sometimes had, even against common sense and common expe- rience, as in the eases of those three famous men, Mons. Jtyith the author of the project, and to exchange for a settlement in the Atlan- tic ocean at 40/. per annum, all their prospects at home ; and that too at a time when a fellowship of Dublin-college ^va.s sui)posed to place the posses- sor in a very fair point of view for attracting the notice of his superiors both in the church and state. Dr. Berkeley, however, was not so ill acquainted with the \vorId as to rest the success of his application to the ministry entirely on the hope his scheme afforded of promoting national honour and the cause of Christianity : his arguments were drawn from the more alluring topic of present advantage to the government. Having with much industry acquired an accurate knowledge of the value of certain lands* in the island of St. Christopher's yielded by France to Great Britain at the treaty of Utrecht, which were then to be sold for the public use, he undertook to raise from them a much greater sum than was expected, and proposed that a part of the purchase money should be applied to the erecting of his college. He found means, by the assistance of a Venetian of distinction, the Abb(^ Gualteri (or Altieri), with whom he had formed an acquaintance in Italy, to carry this proposal directly to King George I.f who laid his commands on Sir Robert Walpole to introduce and " September 3, 1724. — There is a gentleman of this Idngdom just gone for England : it is Dr. George Berkeley, dean of Deny, the best preferment among us, being worth about 1,100^. a year. He takes the Bath in his way to London, and will of course attend your Excellency, and bo presented, I suppose, by his friend my Lord Burlington : and, because I believe you will choose out some very idle minutes to read this letter, perhaps you may not be ill entertained with some account of the man and his errand. He was a fellow in the university here; and going to England very young, about tliirtccn years ago, he became the founder of a sect there called the Immaterialists, by the force of a very curious book on that subject : Dr. Smalridge and many other eminent persons were his proselytes. 1 sent him secretary and chaplain to Sicily with my Lord Peterborough ; and upon his Lordship's return. Dr. Berkeley spent above seven years in travelling over most parts of Europe, but chiefly through every corner of Italy, Sicily, and other islands. When he came back to England, he found so many friends, that he was effectually recommended to the Duke of Grafton, by whom he was lately made dean of Derry. Your Excellency will be frighted when I tell you all this is but an introduction; for I am now to mention his errand. He is an absolute philosopher with regard to money, titles, and power; and for three years past hatli been struck with a notion of founding a university at Bermuda, by a charter from the crown. He hath seduced several of the hopefulest young clergymen and others here, many of them well pro^'ided for, and all of them in the fairest way of preferment : but in England his conquests are greater, and I doubt will spread very far this winter. He shewed me a little tract which he designs to pubhsh, and there your Excellency will see ihis whole scheme of a life, academico-philosophical (I shall make you remember what you were) of a college founded for Indian scholars and missionaries, where ho most exorbitantly proposeth a whole hundred poxmds a year for himself, forty pounds for a fellow, and ten for a student. His heart will break if his deanery be nottakenfromhim, and left to your Excellency's disposal. I discourage him by the coldness of courts and ministers, who will interpret all this as impossible and a vision; but nothing will do. And tlierefore I do humbly entreat your Excellency either to use such persuasions as will keep one of the first men in this kingdom for learning and virtue quiet at home, or assist him by your credit to compass his romantic design, which however is very noble and generous, and directly proper for a great person of your excellent education to encourage." * Certain lands in Sf. Christopher's.'} " The island of St. Christopher's," saith Anderson, History of Commerce, vol. ii. ** having been settled on the very same day and year by both England and France, A. D. 1625, was divided equally between the two nations. The Enghsh were twice driven out from thence by the French, and as often repossessed themselves of it. But at length, in the year 1702, General Coddrington, governor of the Leeward islands, upon advice received that war was declared by- England against France, attacked the French part of the island, and mastered it with very little trouble ; ever since which time that fine island has been solely possessed by Great Britain, having been formerly conceded to us by the treaty of Utrecht." The lands, therefore, which had belonged to the French planters, by this cession became the property of his Britannic Majesty. The first proposals for purchasing these lands were made to the Lords of Trade in I717 : see Journal of the British Commons. After which theaffair seems to have been forgotten, till it was mentioned by Berkeley to Sir Robert Walpole in 1726. f To King George /.] It was the custom of this Prince to unbend his mind in the evening by collecting together a company of philosophical foreigners, who discoursed in an easy and famiHar manner with each other, entirely unrestrained by the presence of his Majesty, who generally walked about, or sat in a retired part of the chamber- One of this select company wa5 Altieri i and this gave him au opportunity g£ laying his l^ien^'s proposal before the King, vi LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. conduct it through the House of Couiraons. His Majesty was further pleased to grant a charter for erecting a college, by the name ot St. Paul s college, m Bermuda, to consist of a president and nine fellows, ^vho wore obliged to maintain and educate Indian scholars at the rate of 10/. per annum tor each. The first president, Dr. George Berkeley, and first three fellows named m the charter (being the gentlemen abovementioned), were licensed to hold their preferments in these kingdoms till the expiration of one year and a halt alter their arrival in Bermuda. The Commons, May 11, 1726, voted, 'l hat an humble address be presented to his Majesty, that out of the lands in ht. Christopher's, yielded by France to Great Britain by the treaty of Utrecht, his Majesty would be graciously pleased to make such grant for the use of the president and fellows of the college of St. Paul, in Bermuda, as his Majesty ' shall think proper." The sum of 20,000/. was accordingly promised by the minister, and several private subscriptions were immediately raised for pro- motinff " so pious an undertaking," as it is styled in the King's answer* to this acldress. Such a prospect of success in the favourite object of his heart drew from our author a beautiful copy of versesf, in which another age, perhaps, will acknowledge the old conjunction of the prophetic character with that of the poet to have again taken place. In the mean time the Dean entered into a marriage, August 1, 1728, with Anne, the eldest daughter of the right honourable John Forster, Speaker of the Irish House of Commons. This engagement, however, was so far from teing any obstruction to his grand undertaking, that he actually set sail in the execution of it, for Rhode island, about the middle of September follow- ing. He carried with him his lady, a Miss Haudcock, Mr. Smilert, an in- genious painter, two gentlemen of fortune, Messrs. James and Dalton, a pretty large sum of money, of his own property, and a collection of books, for the use of his intended library. He directed his course to Rhode island, which lay nearest to Bermuda, with a view of purchasing lands on the adjoin- ing continent, as estates for the support of his college ; having a positive promise from those in power, that the parliamentary grant should be paid him as soon as ever such lands should be pitched upon and agreed for. The Dean took up his residence at Newport, in Rhode island, where his presence was a great relief to a clergyman of the church of England, established in those parts, as he preached every Sunday, and was indefatigable in pastoral labours during the whole time of his stay there, which was near two years. When estates had been agreed for, it was fully expected that the public money would, according to grant, be immediately paid as the purchase of them. But the minister had never heartily embraced the project, and par- liamentary influence had by this time interposed, in order to divert the grant into another channel. The sale of the lands in St. Christopher's, it was found, would produce 90,000/. Of this sum 80,000/.J was destined to pay the mar- riage portion of the Princess Royal, on her nuptials with the Prince of Orange : the remainder General Oglethorpe§ had interest enough in Parlia- ment to obtain for the purpose of carrying over and settling foreign and other protestants in his new colony of Georgia, in America. The project, indeed, of the trustees for establishing this colony appears to have been equally humane and disinterested ; but it is much to be lament^ed, that it should interfere with another of more extensive and lasting utility; which, if it had taken effect by the education of the youth of NewEnglancl and other colonies, we may venture with great appearance of reason to aliirni, would have planted' such principles of religion and loyalty among thein, as might have gone a good way towards preventing the present unhappy troubles in that part of the world. But to proceed : After having received various excuses. Bishop Gibson, at that time bishop • Commons' Journal, May 16, 1726. t See Verses subjoined to Proposal for Planting Churches, &c. :^ Commons' Journal, May 10, 1753. § Ibid. The General paid Dean B. the compliment of asking his consent to this application of the money hefore he moyed for it in parliament. LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. vii of London (in whose diocess all the West Indies luc incUuled) applying to Sir Robert Walpole, then at the head of the treasury, was favoured at leuyth with the following- very honest answer : "If you put this question tome," says Sir Robert, " as a minister, I must, and can, assure you, that the money shall most undoubtedly be paid as soon as suits with public convenience ; but if you ask me as a friend, whether Deau Berkeley should continue in America, expecting- the payment of 20,000/. I advise him by all means to return home to Europe, and to give up his present expectations." The Dean being informed of this conference by his good friend the Bishop, and thereby fully convinced that the bad policy of one great man had rendered abortive a scheme whereon he had expended much of his private fortune, and more than seven years of the prime of his life, returned to Europe. Before he left Rhode island, he distributed what books he had brought with him among the clergy of that province ; and immediately after his arrival in London, he returned all the private subscriptions that had been advanced for the support of his under- taking. In February 1732, he preached before the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, a sermon, since printed at their desire ; wherein from his own knowledge of the state of religion in America, he offers many useful hints towards promoting- the noble purposes for which that society was founded. The same year, he gave a more conspicuous proof that he had not mispent the time he had been confined on the other side of the Atlantic, by pro- ducing to the world T7ie Minute Fhilosophi-r, a masterly performance, ^vherein he pursues thefreethinker through the various characters of atheist, libertine, enthusiast, scorner, critic, metaphysician, fatalist, and sceptic ; and very happily employs against him several new weapons, drawn from the storehouse of his own ingenious system of philosophy. It is written in a series of dialogues on the model of Plato, a philosopher whom he studied particularly, and whose manner he is thought to have copied with more success than any other that ever attempted to imitate him. We have already related by what means, and upon what occasion, Dr, Berkeley had first the honour of being known to Queen Caroline. This Princess delighted much in attending to philosophical conversations between learned and ingenious men ; for which purpose she had, when princess of Wales, appointed a particular day in the week, when the most eminent for literary abilities at that time in England were invited to attend her Royal Highness in the evening : a practice which she continued after her accession to the throne. Of this company were Doctors Clarke, Hoadley, Berkeley, and Sherlock. Clarke and Berkeley were generally considered as principals in the debates that arose upon those occasions ; and Hoadley adhered to the former, as Sherlock did to the latter. Hoadley was no friend to our Author : he aflfecled to consider his philosophy and his Bermuda project as the reveries of a visionary. Sherlock (who was afterwards bishop of London) on the other hand, warmly espoused his cause ; and particularly when the Minute Philosopher came out, he carried a copy of it to the Queen, and left it to her Majesty to determine, whether such a work could be the production of a dis- ordered understanding. After Dean Berkeley's return from Rhode Island, the Queen often com- manded his attendance to discourse with him on what he had observed worthy notice in America. His agreeable and instructive conversation engaged that discerning Princess so much in his favour, that the rich deanery of Dowff, in Ireland, falling vacant, he was at her desire named to it, and the King's letter actually came over for his appointment. But his friend Lord Burlington having neglected to notify the royal intentions in proper time to the Duke of Dorset, then lord lieutenant of Ireland, his Excellency was so oifended at this disposal of the richest deanery in Ireland without his concurrence, that it was thought proper not to press the matter any further. Her Majesty upon this declared, that since they would not suffer Dr. Berkeley, to be a dean, ia viii LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. Ireland, he should he a. bis/wp ; and accordingly, in 1734, the bishoprick of Cloync becoming vacant, he was by letters patent, dated March 17, promoted to that see, and was consecrated at St. Paul's church in Dublin, on the IJtIx of May following, by Theophilus, archbishop of Cashel, assisted by the Bishops of Raphoe and Killaloe. His Lordship repaired immediately to his manse-house at Cloyne, where he constantly resided (except one winter that he attended the business of Par- liament in Dublin) and applied himself with vigour to the faithful dis- charge of all episcopal duties. He revived in his diocess the the useful office of rural dean, which had gone into disuse ; visited frequently parochially ; and confirmed in the several parts of his see. He continued his studies, however, with unabated attention ; and about this time engaged in a controversy with the mathematicians of Great Britain and Ireland, which made a good deal of noise in the literary world. The occasion was this; Mr. Addison had given the Bishop an account of their common friend Dr. Garth's behaviour in his last illness, which was equally unpleasing to both these excellent advocates for revealed religion. For when Mr. Addison went to see the Doctor, and began to discourse with him seriously about preparing for his approaching dissolution, the other made answer, '| Surely. Addison, 1 have good reason not to believe those trifles, since my friend Dr. Halley, who has dealt so much in demonstration, has assured me, that the doctrines of Christianity are incomprehensible, and the religion itself an im- posture." The Bishop therefore took arms against this redoubtable dealer in demonstration, and addressed T/ie Analyst to him, with a view of shewing, that mysteries in faith were unjustly objected to by mathematicians, who ad- mitted much greater mysteries, and even falsehoods, in science, of which he endeavourd to prove that the doctrine of fluxions furnished an eminent example. Such an attack upon what had hitherto been looked upon as impregnalile, produced a number of warm answers, to which the Bishop replied once or twice. From this controversy he turned his thoughts to subjects of more apparent utility ; and his Queries proposed for the good of Ireland, first printed in 1736, his Dhcourse addressed to Magistrates:' which came out the year follow- ing, and his Maxims concerning- Patri»tism, published in 1750, are equally monuments of his knowledge of mankind, and of his zeal for the service of true religion and his country. In 1746, during the Scots rebellion, his Lordship addressed A Letter to the Roman Catholics of his diocess ; and in 174.9, another to the clergy of that persuasion in Ireland, under the title of A fFord to the fVise, written with so much candour and moderation, as well as good sense, that those gentlemen, highly to their own honour, in the Dublin Journal of November 18, 1749, thought fit to return " their sincere and hearty thanks to the worthy Author ; assuring him, that they are determined to comply with every particular recommended in his address, to the utmost of their power.'' They add, that in " every page it contains a proof of the Author's extensive charity ; his views are only towards the public good ; the means he prescribeth are easily complied with; and his manner of treating persons in their circumstances so very singular, that they plainly shew the good man, the polite gentleman, and the true patriot." A character this, which was so entirely his Lordship's due, that in the year 1746, that excellent judge of merit, and real friend to Ireland, the late Lord Chesterfield, as soon as he was advanced to the govern- ment, of his own motion wrote to inform him, that the see of Clogher, then vacant, the value of which was double that of Cloyne, was at his service. This oflfer our Bishop, with many expressions of thankfulness, declined. He had enough already to satisfy all his wishes ; and agreeably to the natural warmth of his temper, he had conceived so high an idea of the beauties of • Occasioned by an impious society called Blasters, which this pamphlet put a stop to. He expressed his sentiments on the same occasion in the House of Lords, the only time he ever spake there. The speech was received with much applause. LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. ijt Cloyne, that Mr. Pope had once almost (leteniiined to make a visit to Ireland on purpose to see a place which his friend had painted out to him with all the brilliancy of colouring, and which yet to common eyes presents nothing that is very worthy of attention. The close of a life thus devoted to the good of mankind was answerable to the beginning of it ; the Bishop's last years being employed in inquiring into the virtues of a medicine, whereof he had himself experienced the good effects in the relief of a nervous cholic, brought on him by his sedentary course of living, and grown to that height, that, in his own words, " it rendered life a burden to him, the more so, as his pains were exasperated by exercise." This medicine was no other than the celebrated tar-water ; his thoughts upon which subject he first communicated to the world in the year 1744, in a treatise entitled Siris, a Chain of Philosophical Reflections and Enquiries con- cerning_ the Virtues of Tar-water. The Author has been heard to declare, that this work cost him more time and pains than any other he had ever been engaged in ; a circumstance that will not appear surprising to such as shall give themselves the trouble of examining into the extent of erudition that is there displayed. It is indeed a chain, which, like that of the poet, reaches from earth to heaven, conducting the reader by an almost imperceptible gra- dation from the phenomena of tar-water, through the depths of the ancient philosophy, to the sublimest mystery of the Christian religion. It underwent a second impression in 1747, and was followed by Farther Thoughts on Tar- water, published in 1752. This was his last performance for the press, and he survived it but a short time. In July 1752, he removed, though in a bad state of health, with his lady and family to Oxford, in order to superintend the education of one of his sons, then newly admitted a student at Christ-church. He had taken a fixed resolution to spend the remainder of his days in this city, with a view of indulging the passion for a learned retirement, which had ever strongly pos- sessed his mind, and was one of the motives that led him to form his Bermuda project. But as nobody could be more sensible than his Lordship of the impropriety of a bishop's non-residence, he previously endeavoured to exchange his high preferment for some canonry or headship at Oxford. Failing of sucecess in this, he actually wrote over to the Secretary of State, to request that Hie might have permission to resign his bishopric, worth at that time at least 1400/. per annum. So uncommon a petition excited his Majesty's curiosity to inquire who was the extraordinary man that preferred it ; being told that it was his old acquaintance Dr. Berkeley, he declared that he should die a bishop in spite of himself, but gave him free liberty to reside where he pleased. The Bishop's last act before he left Cloyne was to sign a lease of the demesne lauds in that neighbourhood, to be renewed yearly at the rent of 200/., which sum he directed to be distributed every year, until his return, among poor housekeepers of Cloyne, Youghall, and Aghadda. At Oxford he lived highly respected by the learned members of that great " university, till the hand of Providence unexpectedly deprived them of the pleasure and advantage derived from his residence among them. On Sunday evening, January 14, 1753, as he was sitting in the midst of his family list- , ^TIing''ro'a;serm^0tt"t(f©iT"^Tefr6ck"'sV whlclilils lady was [reading to lum,Xe ■wits""seized with what the physicians termed ^ palsy in thelieart, and instajitly • He was carried from his landing on the English shore in a horse litter to Oxford. % This gentleman. George Berkeley, second son of the Bishop, proceeded A.M. January 26, 1759, took holy orders, and in August following was presented to the vicarage of Bray, in Berkshire. The late Archbishop Seeker, who had a high respect for the father's character, honoured the son with his patron- age and l^iendship, both at the university and afterwards. By his favour Dr. Berkeley possessed a canonry of Canterbury, the chancellorship of the collegiate church of Brecknock, and (by exchange for the vicarage of Bray) the vicarage of Cookham, Berks : to which was added by the Dean and Chapter of Canterbury, the vicarage of East Peckham, Kent. He took the degree of t.L. D. February 12, 1768. In the year 1760, he married the daughter of the Rcy. Mr, Frinsham, rector of Wliite Walthsm, Berks, and by this My biid issue two sous. X LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. expired. The accident was so sudden, that his body was quite cold and his joints stiff, before it was discovered j as the Bishop lay on a couch, and seemed to be asleep, till his daughter, on presenting him with a dish of tea, first perceived his insensibility. His remains were interred at Christ-church, Oxford, where there is an elegant marble monument, erected to his memory by his lady, who had, during her marriage, brought him three sons and one daughter. j' As to his person, he was a handsome man, with a countenance full of / meaning and benignity, remarkable for great strength of limbs, and, till his I sedentary life impaired it, of a very robust constitution. He was, liowever, I 9ftfift.,troiUjletl^with the^hyjaoch^^^^ with that nervous cholic \ mentioned aKover"^"* At Cloyne he constantly rose between three and four o'clock in the morning and summoned his family to a lesson on the bass-viol, from an Italian master he kept in the house for the instruction of his children, though the Bishop himself had no ear for music. He spent the rest of the morning, and often 3^£aJ:.part of the day, in stuiy-; his favourite author,, from whom maay of hi^ notipfl5.,5j£er6.bQEr.owed,Avas.ilato,.He,badA large and valuable. collection of books .and pictures, which are now the property of his son, the Reverend George Berkeley, LL. D. The excellence of his moral character, if it were not so conspicuous in his writings, might be learned from the blessings with which his memory is fol- lowed by the numerous poor* of his neighbourhood, as well as from the testimony of his yet-surviving acquaintance, who cannot to this day speak of him without a degree of enthusiasm, that removes the air of hyperbole from the well known line of his friend Mr. Pope : •* To Berkeley every virtue uucler heaven." The inscription on his monument was drawn up by Dr Markham, after- ivards archbishop of York, then head master of Westminster-school, and is in these terms : Gravissimo praesuli, Georgio, Episcopo Clonensi : Viro, Scu ingenii et eruditionis laudem, Seu probitatis et beneficentise spectemus. Inter primos omnium setatum numerando. Si Christianus fueris. Si amans patriae, Utroque nomine gloriari potes Berkleium vixisse. Obiit annum agens septuagesimum tertium-t" • Natus Anno Ohristi M.DC.LXXIX. Anna Conjux L. M. P. , * By the poor of Ms nrighbourhood.'] One instance of his attention to Ins poor neighbours may / deserve relating. Cloyne, though it gives name to the see, is in fact no better than a village : it is not ; reasonable, therefore, to expect much industry or ingenuity in the inhabitants. Yet whatever article of ■. clothing they could possibly manufacture there, the Bishop would have from no other place; and chose ■ to wear ill clothes, and worse wigs, rather than suffer the poor of the town to remain unemployed. 't Mistake. LETTERS. LETTER I. To Mr. Thomas Prior,* Pall-mall Coffee-house, London. DEAR TOM, Paris, Nov. 25, 1713, (N.S.) From London to Calais I came in the company of a Flamand, a Spaniard, a Frenclimaii, and tliree Enf;lish servants of my Lord. The three gentlemen being of those different nations obliged me to speak the French language (which is now familiar), and gave me the opportunity of seeing much of the world in a little compass. After a very remarkable escape from rocks and banks of sand, and darkness and storm, and the hazards that attend rash and ignorant seamen, we arrived at Calais in a vessel, which, returning the next day, was cast away in the harbour in open day-light, as T think I already told you. From Calais Col. Du Hamel left it to my choice either to go with him by post to Paris, or come after in the stage-coach. I chose the latter, and on Nov, 1 (O. S.) embarked in the stage-coach with a company that were all perfect strangers to me. There were two Scotch and one English gentleman. One of the former happened to be the author of the Voyage to St. Kilda and the Account of the Western Isles. We were good company on the road, and that day se'nnight came to Paris. I have been since taken up in viewing churches, convents, palaces, colleges, &c. which are very numerous and mag- nificent in this town. The splendour and riches of these things surpass belief: but it were endless to descend to particulars. I was present at a dis- putation in the Sorbonne, which indeed had much of the French fire in it. I saw the Irish and the English colleges. In the latter I saw, inclosed in a coffin, the body of the late King James. Bits of the cofBn, and of the cloth that hangs the room, have been cut away for relics, he being esteemed a great saint by the people. The day after I came to town I dined at the Ambassador of Sicily's, and this day with Mr. Prior. I snatched an opportunity to mention you to him, and do your character justice. To-morrow I intend to * Thomas Prior, Esq. the gentleman to whom the public is indebted for preserving the greatest part of the following correspondence, was bom about the year 1679i at Rathdowney, in the Queen's County, the estate of his family since the middle of that century. He was educated in the university of DuWin, where he took the degree of A. M., and was fellow student with our Author. Being of a weak habit of body, he declined entering into any of the learned professions, though otherwise well qualified to have appeared with advantage in them ; the great object of his thoughts and studies was to promote the real happiness of his country. In 1729, he published his well-known tract, A Liitt of the Absentees oflrelandf in the close of which he strongly recommended tlie use of linen scarfs at funerals. The hint was adopted by the executors of Mr. Conolly, speaker of the House of Commons, at his pubUe funeral, in the month of October of this year ; and that mode of burying has been eifcctually established ever since, to the great emolument of our most capital branch of trade. He published also several tracts relative to our coin, linen manufacture, &c. But the glory of his life, and object of his unremitting labours, was the founding and promoting of that most useful institution, the Dublin Soeiety, of which for a series of years he discharged the duty of secretary. Every good and groat man, his contemporary, honoured him with his esteem and friendship, particularly Philip, carl of Chesterfield ; of whose interest, however, his moderation led him to make no other use than to procure, by his Lordship's recommendation, from the late King a charter of incorporation for his darling child, the Dublin Society, with a grant of 500/. per annum for its better support. Having spent his life in the practice of every virtue that distinguishes the patriot and the true Christian, he died of a gradual decline in Dublin, Octoljer 21, 1751, and was interred in the church of Rathdowney. Over his remains is a neat monument of Kilkenny marble, with an English epitaph : his friends have erected a more magnificent memorial of this useful member of society in the nave of Christ-church, Dublin, the inscription on which came from the elegant pen of our Bishopi and will appear below. See Views and DeiQripUom ofDMin, by PqoI ami Caih, p. 102. xii LETTERS. visit Father Mallebranclie, and discourse him on certain points. I have some reasons to decline speaking of the country or viUages that I saw as 1 came along. . - ,. My Lord is just now arrived, and tells me he has an opportunity ot sending my letters to my friends to-morrow morning, which occasions ray writing this. My humble service to Sir John Rawdon, Mrs. Rawdon, Mrs. Kempsy, and all other friends. My Lord thinks he shall stay a fortnight here. 1 am, dear Tom, Your affectionate hum))le servant, G. BlSRKELEY. LETTER IL DEAR TOM, Turin, Jan. 6, 1714, (N. S.) At Lyons, where I was about eight days, it was left to my choice whether I would go from thence to Toulon, and there embark for Genoa; or else pass through Savoy, cross the Alps, and so through Italy. 1 chose the latter route, thougli I was obliged to ride post in company of Col. Du Hamcl and Mr. Oglethorpe, adjutant-general of the Queen's forces, who wore sent with a letter from my Lord to the King's mother at Turin. The first day we rode from Lyons to Chambery, the capital of Savoy, which is reckoned sixty miles. The Lionnois and Dauphine were very well ; but Savoy was a per- petual chain of rocks and mountains, almost impassable for ice and snow. And yet I rode post through it, and came off with only four falls, from which I received no other damage than the breaking my sword, my watch, and _my snuff-box. On new year's day we passed Mount Cenis, one of the most diffi- cult and formidable parts of the Alps which is ever past over by mortal men. AVe were carried in open chairs by men used to scale these rocks and pre- cipices, which at this season are more slippery and dangerous than at other times, and at the Ijest arc high, craggy, and steep enough to cause the heart of the most valiant man to melt within him. My life often depended on a single step. No one will think that I exaggerate, who considers what it is to pass the Alps on new year's day. But I shall leave particulars to be recited by the fire-side. We have been now five days here, and in two or three more design to set forward fovvards Genoa, where wc are to join my Lord, who embarked at Toulon. I am now hardened against wind and weather, earth and sea, frost and snow ; can gallop all day long, and sleep but three or four hours at night. The court here is polite and splendid, the city beautiful, the churches and colleges magnificent, but not much learning stirring among them. Howevei', all orders of people, clergy and laity, are \vonderfully civil ; and everywhere a man finds his account in being an Englishman, that character alone being sufficient to gain respect. My service to all friends, particularly to Sir John and Mrs. Rawdon, and ftlrs. Kempsy. It is my advice that they do not pass the Alps in their way to Sicily. I am, dear Tom, Yours, &c. G. B. LETTER III. DEAR TOM, Leghorn, Feb. 26, 17H, (N. S.) Mrs. Rawdon is too thin, and Sir John too fat, to agree with the English climate : t advise them to make haste, and transport themselves into this warm, clear air. Your best way is to come through France; but make no long stay there, for the air is too cold, and there are instances enough of poverty and distress to spoil the mirth of any one who feels the sufferings of his fellow creatures. I would prescribe you two or three operas at Paris, and as many days amusement at Versailles. J\Iy uext recipe shall be to ride post LETTERS. xiii from Paris to Toulon, and there to embark for Genoa. For I would by no means have you shaken to pieces, as I was, riding- post over the rocks of Savoy, or put out of liumour by the most liorrible precipices of Mount Cenis, that part of the Alps which divides Piedmont from Savoy. I shall not antici- pate your pleasure by any description of Italy or France. Only, with regard to the latter, I Ciinnot help observing', that the Jacobites have little to hope, and others little to fear, from that reduced nation. The King, indeed, looks as though he \vanted neither meat nor drink, and his palaces are in good repair : but throughout the land there is a different face of things. I staid about a month at Paris, eight days at Lyons, eleven at Turin, three weeks at Genoa, and am now here about a fortnight, with my Lord's Secre- tary (an Italian), and some others of his retinue, my Lord having gone aboard a Maltese vessel from hence to Sicily with a couple of servants. He designs to stay there incognito a few days, and then return hither, having put off liis public entry till the yacht with his equipage arrives. I have writ to you several times before by post : in answer to all my letters I desire you to send me one great one, close writ, and filled on all sides, con- taining a particular account of all transactions in London and Dublin. Enclose it in a cover to my Lord ambassador, and that again in another cover to Mr. Hare, at my Lord Bolingbroke's office. If you have a mind to travel only in the map, here is the list of all the places where I lodged since my leavinff England, in their natural order: Calais, Boulogne, Montreuil, Abbe- ville, Pois, Beauvais, Paris, Moret, Villeneuve-le-Roi, Vermanton, Saulieu, Chany, Macon, Lyons, Chambery, St. Jean-de-Maurienne, Lanebourg, Susa, Turin, Alexandria, Campo-Marone, Genoa, Sestri-di-Levante, Lerici, Leg- horn. My humble service to Sir John, Mrs. Rawdon, and Mrs. Kempsy, Mr. Dighy, Mr. French, &c. I am, dear Tom, Your affectionate humble Servant, G. Berkeley. LETTER IV. To Mr. Pope. Leghorn, May 1, 1714. As I take ingratitude to be a greater crime than impertinence, I choose rather to run the risk of being thought guilty of the latter, than not to return you my thanks for a very agreeable entertainment you just now gave me. I have accidentally met with your Rape of the Lock here, having never seen it before. Style, painting, judgment, spirit, I had already admired in other of your writings ; but in this I am charmed with the magic of your invention, with all those images, allusions, and inexplicable beauties, which you raise so surprisingly, and at the same time so naturally, out of a trifle. And yet I cannot say that I was more pleased with the reading of it, than I am with the pretext it gives me to renew in your thoughts the remembrance of one who values no happiness beyond the friendship of men of wit, learning, and good nature. I remember to have heard you mention some half-formed design of coming to Italy. What might we not expect from a muse that sings so well in the bleak climate of England, if she felt the same warm sun, and breathed the same air, with Virgil and Horace ! There are here an incredible number of poets that have all the inclination, ))ut want the genius, or perhaps the art of the ancients. Some among- them who understand English, begin to relish our authors ; and I am informed that at Florence they have translated Milton into Italian verse. If one who knows so well how to write like the old Latin poets came among them, it would probably be a means to retrieve them from their cold trivial conceits, to an imitation of their predecessors. xiv LETTERS. As merchants, antiquaries, men of pleasure, &c. have all different views in travelling-, I know not whether it might not be worth a poet's while to travel, in order to store his mind with strong images of nature. Green fields and groves, flowery raeado\vs and purling streams, are no where in such perfection as in England : but if you would know lightsome days, warm suns, and blue skies, you must come to Italy ; and to enable a man to describe rocks and precipices, it is absolutely necessary that he pass the Alps. You will easily perceive that it is self-interest makes me so fond of giving advice to one who has no need of it. If you came into these parts, I should fly to see you. I am here (by the favour of my good friend the Dean of St. Patrick's) in quality of chaplain to the Earl of Peterborough, who about three months since left the greatest part of his family in this town. God kno^^■s how long we shall stay here. I am. Yours, &c. LETTER V. Naples, Oct. 22, 1717, (N. S.) I HAVE long had it in my thoughts to trouble you with a letter, but was discouraged for want of something that I could think worth sending fifteen hundred miles. Italy is such an exhausted subject, that I dare say you would easily forgive my saying nothing of it : and the imagination of a poet is a thing so nice and delicate, that it is no easy matter to find out images capable of giving pleasure to one of the few, who (in any age) have come up to that character. I am nevertheless lately returned from an island, where I passed three or four months ; which, were it set out in its true colours, might, methinks, amuse you agreeably enough for a minute or two. The island Inarime is an epitome of the whole earth, containing within the compass of eighteen miles a wonderful variety of hills, vales, ragged rocks, fruitful plains, and barren inountains, all thrown together in a most romantic con- fusion. The air is in the hottest season constantly refreshed by cool breezes from the sea. The vales produce excellent wheat and Indian corn, but are mostly covered with vineyards, intermixed with fruit-trees : besides the com- mon kinds, as cherries, apricots, peaches, &c., they produce oranges, limes, almonds, pomegranates, figs, water-melons, and many other fruits unknown to our climates, which lie everywhere open to the passenger. The hills are the greater part covered to the top with vines, some with chestnut-groves, and others with thickets of myrtle and lentiscus. The fields in the northern side are divided by hedge-rows of myrtle. Several fountains and rivulets add to the beauty of this landscape, which is likewise set off by the variety of some barren spots and naked rocks. But that which crowns the scene is a large mountain, rising out of the middle of the island (once a terrible vol- cano, by the ancients called Mons Epomeus) : its lower parts are adorned with vines and other fruits ; the middle affords pasture to flocks of goats and sheep; and the top is a sandy pointed rock, from which you have the finest prospect in the world, surveying at one view, besides several pleasant islands lying at your feet, a tract of Italy about three hundred miles in length, from the promontory of Antium to the cape of Palinurus : the greater part of which hath been sung by Homer and Virgil, as making a considerable part of the travels and adventures of their two heroes. The islands Caprea, Pro- chyta, and Partheuope, together with Cajeta, Cumse, Monte Miseno, the habitations of Circe, the Syrens, and the Laestrigones, the bay of Naples, the promontory of Minerva, and the whole Campagna Felice, make but a part of this noble landscape, which would demand an imagination as warm, and numbers as flowing as your own, to describe it. The inhabitants of this deli- cious isle, as they are without riches and honours, so they are without the vices and follies that attend them ; and were they l)ut as much strangers to revenge as they are to avarice and ambition, they might in fact answer the LETTERS. XV poetical notions of the golden age. But they have got, as an alloy to theii' happiness, an ill habit of murdering one another on slight offences. We had an instance of this the second night after our arrival, a youth of eighteen being shot dead by our door: and" yet by the solo secret of minding our own business, we found a means of living securely among- these dangerous people. Would you know how we pass the time at Naples? Our chief entertain- ment is the devotion of our neighbours : besides the gaiety of their churches (where folks go to see what they call unn belln ilcrotione, i. e. a sort of reli- gious opera) they make fire-works almost every week ont of devotion ; the streets are often hung with arras, out of devotion ; and (what is still more strange) the ladies invite gentlemen to their houses, and treat them with music and sweetmeats, out of devotion : in a word, were it not for this devo- tion of its inhabitants, Naples would have little else to recommend it beside the air and situation. Learning is in no very thriving state here, as indeed no where else in Italy: however, among many pretenders some men of taste are to be met with. A friend of mine told me not long since, that being to visit Salvini at Florence, he fo\ind him reading your Homer : he liked the notes extremely, and could find no other fault with the version, but that he thought it approached too near a paraphrase ; which shews him not to be sufficiently acquainted with our language. I wish you health to go on with that noble work ; and when you have that, I need not wish you success. You will do me the justice to believe, that whatever relates to your welfare is sin- cerely wished by. Yours, &c. LETTER VL To Dr. Arbuthnot. April 17, 1717. With much difficulty I reached the top of Mount Vesuvius, in which I saw a vast aperture full of smoke, which hindered the seeing its depth and figure. I heard ^vithin that horrid gulf certain odd sounds, which seemed to proceed from the belly of the mountain ; a sort of murmuring, sighing, throbbing, churning, dashing (as it were) of waves, and between whiles a noise like that of thunder or cannon, which was constantly attended with a clattering like that of tiles falling from the tops of houses on the streets. Sometimes, as the wind changed, the smoke grew thinner, discovering a very ruddy flame, and the jaws of the pan or crater streaked with red and several shades of yellow. After an hour's stay the smoke, being moved by the wind, gave us short and partial prospects of the great hollow, in the flat bottom of which I could discern two furnaces almost contiguous : that on the left, seeming about three yards in diameter, glowed with, red flame, and threw up red-hot stones with a hideous noise, which, as they fell back, caused the fore-men- tioned clattering. May 8, in the morning, I ascended to the top of Vesuvius a second time, and found a different face of things. The smoke ascending upright gave a full prospect of the crater, which, as I could judge, is about a mile in circumference, and a hundred yards deep. A conical mount had been formed since my last visit, in the middle of the bottom : this mount, I could see, was made of the stones thrown up and fallen back again into the crater. In this new hill remained the two mounts or furnaces already mentioned : that on our left was in the vertex of the hill which it had formed round it, and raged more violently than before, throwing up every three or four minutes with a dreadful bellowing a vast number of red-hot stones, sometimes in appearance above a thousand, and at least three thousand feet higher than my head as I stood upon the brink; but there being little or no wind, they fell back perpendicularly into the crater, increasing the conical hill. The other mouth to the right was lower in the side of the same new-formed hill: I could discern it to be filled with red-hot liquid matter, like that in the furnace of a glass-house, which raged and wrought as the waves of the sea, causing XVI LETTERS. a short abrupt noise like what may be imagined to proceed from a sea of quicksilver dashing among uneven rocks. This stuff would sometimes^ spew over, and run down the convex side of the conical hill ; and appearing at first red-hot it changed colour, and hardened as it cooled, shewing the first rudiments of an eruption, or, if I may say so, an eruption in miniature. Had the wind driven in our faces, we had been in no small danger of stifling by the sulphureous smoke, or being knocked on the head by lumps of molten minerals, ivhich we saw had sometimes fallen on the brink of the crater upon those shots from the gulf at l)ottom. But as the wind was favouralile, I had an opportunity to survey this odd scene for above an hour and a half toge- ther ; during which it was very observable, that all the volleys of smoke, flame, and burning stones, came only out of the hole to our left, ^vhile the liquid stuff in the other mouth wrought and overflowed as hath been already described. June 5, after a horrid noise, the mountain was seen at Naples to spew a little out of the crater. The same continued the 6th. The 7th, nothing was observed till within two hours of night, when it began a hideous bellowing, which continued all that night and the next day till noon, causing the windows, and, as some affirm, the very houses, in Naples to shake. From that time it spewed vast quantities of molten stuff to the south, which streamed down the side of the mountain like a great pot boiling over. This evening I returned from a voyage through Apulia, and was surprised, passing by the north side of the mountain, to see a great quantity of ruddy smoke lie along a huge tract of sky over the river of molten stuff, which was itself out of sight. The 9th, Vesuvius raged less violently : that night we saw from Naples a column of fire shoot between whiles out of its summit. The 10th, when we thought all would have been over, the mountain grew very out- rageous again, roaring and groaning most dreadfully. You cannot form a juster idea of this noise in the most violent fits of it, than by imagining a mixed sound made up of the raging of the tempest, the murmur of a troubled sea, and the roaring of thunder and artillery, confused all together. It was very terrible, as we heard it in the further end of Naples, at the distance of above twelve miles : this moved my curiosity to approach the mountain. Three or four of us got into a boat, and were set ashore at Torre del Greco, a town situate at the foot of Vesuvius to the south-west, whence we rode four or five miles before we came to the burning river, which was about midnight. The roaring of the volcano grew exceeding loud and horrible as we ap- proached. I observed a mixture of colours in the cloud over the crater, green, yellow, red, and blue ; there was likewise a ruddy dismal light in the air over that tract of laud where the burning river flowed ; ashes continually showered on us all the way from the sea-coast : all which circumstances, set off and augmented by thehorror and silence of the night, made a scene the most uncommon and astonishing I ever saw, which grew still more extraordi- nary as we came nearer the stream. Imagine a vast torrent of liquid fire rolling from the top down the side of the mountain, and with irresistible fury bearing down, and consuming vines, olives, fig-trees, houses; in a word, every thing that stood in its way. This mighty flood divided into different channels, according to the inequalities of the mountain : the largest stream seemed half a mile broad at least, and five miles long. The nature and consistence of these burning torrents, hath been describad with so much exactness and truth by BorelJus in his Latin treatise of Mount Mina, that I need say nothing of it. I walked so far before my companions up the moun- tain, along the side of the river of fire, that I was obliged to retire in great haste, the sulphureous stream having surprised me, and almost taken away my breath. During our return, which was about three o'clock in the morning, we constantly heard the murmur and groaning of the mountain, which between whiles would burst out into louder peals, throwing up huge spouts of fire and burning stones, which falling down again, resembled the stars in our rockets. Sometimes I observed two, at others three, distinct columns of flames ; and sometimes one vast one that seemed to fill the whole LETTERS. xvii crater. These burning columns and the fiery stones seemed to be shot one thousand feet perpendicular above the summit of the volcano. The Uth, at night, I observed it, from a terrace in Naples, to throw up incessantly a vast body of fire, and great stones, to a surprising height. The 12th, in the morning, it darkened the sun with ashes and smoke, causing a sort of eclipse. Horrid bellowings, this and the foregoing day, were heard at Naples, whither part of the ashes also reached : at night I observed it throwing up flame, as on the Uth. On the 13th, the wind changing, we sawapillar of black smoke shot upright to a prodigious height : at night I observed the mount cast up fire as before, though not so distinctly, because of the smoke. The 14th, a thick black cloud hid the mountain from Naples. The 16th, in the morning, the court and walls of our house in Naples were covered with ashes. The 16th, the smoke was driven by a westerly wind from the town to the opposite side of the mountain. The 1 7th, the smoke appeared much diminished, fat, and greasy. The 18th, the whole appearance ended ; the mountain remaining perfectly quiet, without any visible smoke or flame. A gentleman of my acquaintance, whose window looked towards Vesuvius, assured me that he observed several flashes, as it were of lightning, issue out of the mouth of the volcano. It is not worth while to trouble you with the conjectures* I have formed concerning the cause of these pheuomena, from what I observed in the Lacus Amsancti, the Solfatara, &c., as well as in Mount Vesuvius. One thing I may venture to say, that I saw the fluid matter rise out of the centre of the bottom of the crater, out of the very middle of the mountain, contrary to what Borellus imagines, whose method of explaining the eruption of a volcano by an inflexed syphon and the rules of hydrostatics, is likewise inconsistent with the torrent's flowing down from the very vertex of the mountain. I have not seen the crater since the eruption, but design to visit it again before I leave Naples. I doubt there is nothing in this worth shewing the Society : as to that, you will use your discretion. E. (it should be G.) Berkeley. The following extracts from Letters to Mr. Thomas Prior, of Dublin, it is hoped, will not be unacceptable to the reader, as they serve to mark the progress of the Bermuda project, and of the Author'' s hopes and fears on that interesting occasion. Extract I. — London, Dec. 8, 1/24. Dear Tom, — You wrote to me some- thing or other which I received a fortnight ago, about temporal affairs, which I have no leisure to think of at present. The Lord Chancellor is not a busier man than myself; and I thank God my pains are not without success, which hitherto hath answered beyond expectation. Doubtless the English are a nation trks eclairde. Let me know whether you have wrote to Mr. Newman; whatever you judged might give him a good opinion of our project. Let me also know where Bermuda Jones lives, or where he is to be met with. Ex. 2. — April 20, 1725. Pray give my service to Caldwell, and let him know that, in case he goes abroad with Mr. Stewart, Jaques, who lived with Mr. Ashe, is desirous to attend upon him. I have obtained reports from the Bishop of London, the Board of Trade and Plantations, and the Attorney and Solicitor General, in favour of the Bermuda scheme, and hope to have the warrant signed by his Majesty this week. Ex. 3. — June 3, 1725. Yesterday the charter passed the privy seal. This day the new Chancellor began his oflice by putting the recipe to it. * Our Author's conjectures on the cause of the phenomena abovementioned do not appear in any of his writings; but he has often communicated them, in conversation, to his friends. He observed, that all the remarkable voleanos in the world were near the sea. It was his opinion, therefore, that a vacuum being made in the bowels of the earth by a vast body of inflammable matter taking fire, the water rushed in, and was converted into steam : which simple cause was sufficient to produce all the wonderful efffects of voleanos, as appears ftom Savery's fire engine for raising water, and from the jEolipile, b xvlii EXTRACTS, &c. Ea<. 4.— June 12, 1725. The charter hath passed all the seals, and is now in my custody. It hath cost nie one hundred and thirty pounds dry tees, beside expedition-money to men in office. . Ex. 5.— Sept. 3, 1725. I wrote long since to Caldwell about his going; to Bermuda, but had no answer, ^vhich makes me think my letter iniscarned. I must now desire you to give my service to him, and know ^^'hether he still retains the thoughts he once seemed to have of entering into that design._ I know he hath since got an employment, &c., but I have good reason to think he would not suffer in his temporalities by taking one of our fellowships, although he resigned all that, in plain English, I have good assurance that our college will be endowed beyond anything expected or desired hitherto. This makes me confident he would lose nothing by the change, and on this supposition only 1 propose it to him. I wish he may judge rightly in this matter, as well for his own sake as for the sake of the college. Etc. 6. — Jan. 27, 1726. I must once more entreat you, for the sake of old friendship, to pluck up a vigorous active spirit, and disencumber me of the affairs relating to the inheritance, by putting one way or other a final issue tot hem. I thank God I find, in matters of a more difficult nature, the good effects of activity and resolution. I mean Bermuda, with which my hands are full, and which is in a fair way to thrive and flourish in spite of all opposition. Ex, 7. — Feb. 6, 1726. I am in a fair way of havin^f a very noble endow- ment for the college of Bermuda, though the late meeting of parliament, and the preparations of a fleet, &c., will delay the finishing things which depend in some measure on the parliament, and to which I have gained the consent of the government, and indeed of which I make no doubt ; but only the delay, it is to be feared, will make it impossible for me to set out this spring-. One good effect of this, I hope, may be, that you will have disembarrassed your- self of all sorts of business that may detain you here, and so be ready to go with us : in which case I may have somewhat to propose to you, that I believe is of a kind agreeable to your inclinations, and may be of considerable advan- tage to you. But you must say nothing of this to any one, nor of any one thing that I have now hinted concerning endowment, delay, going, &c. I have heard lately from Caldwell, who wrote to me on an affair in which it will not be in my power to do him any service. I an.swered his letter, and mentioned somewhat about Bermuda, with an overture for his being fellow there. I desire you would discourse him, as from yourself, on that subject, and let me know his thoughts and dispositions towards engaging in that design. Ex. 8.— March 15, 1726. I had once thought I should be able to have set out for Bermuda this season. But his Majesty's long stay abroad, the late meeting of parliament, and the present posture of foreign affairs taking up the thoughts both of ministers and parliament, have postponed the settling of certain lands in St. Christopher's on our college, so as to render the said thoughts abortive. I have now my hands full of that business, and hope to see it soon settled to my wish. In the meantime, my attendance on this busi- ness renders it impossible for me to mind my private affairs. Your assistance, therefore, in them, will not only be a kind service to me, but also to the public weal of our college, which would very much suffer if I were obliged to leave this kingdom before 1 saw an endowment settled on it. For this reason I must depend upon you. Ex. 9.— April 19, 1726. Last Saturday I sent you the instrument empow- ering you to set my deanery. It is at present my opinion that matter had better be deferred till the charter of St. Paul's college hath got through the House of Commons, who are now|'considering it. In ten days at fardiest I hope to let you know the event hereof, which, as it possibly may affect some circumstance in the farming my said deanery, is the occasion of giving you this trouble for the present, when I am in the greatest hurry of business I ever knew in my life, and have only time to add that I am, &e EXTRACTS, &c. xjx _ Ex. 10. — May 12, 1726. After six weeks' struggle against an earnest oppo- sition from different interests and motives, I have yesterday carried my point just as I desired in the House of Commons by an extraordinary majority, none having the confidence to speak against it, and not above two giving their negatives, which was done in so low a voice as if they themselves were ashamed of it_. They were both considerable men in stocks in trade, and in the city : and in truth I have had more opposition from that sort of men, and from the governors and traders to America, than from any others. But God be praised, there is an end of all their narrow and mercantile views and endeavours, as well as of the jealousies and suspicions of others (some whereof were very great men) who apprehended this college may produce an independency in America, or at least lessen its dependency upon England. Now I must tell you that you have nothing to do but go on with farming my deanery, &c., according to the tenor of my former letter, which 1 sus- pended by a subsequent one till I should see the event of yesterday. Ea'. II. — Aug. 4, 1726. You mentioned a friend of .Synge's, who was desirous to be one of our fellows. Pray let me know who he is, and the par- ticulars of his character. There are many competitors more than vacancies, and the fellowships are likely to be very good ones ; so I would willingly see them well bestowed. jE>. 12. — Dec. 1, 1726. Bermuda is now on a better and surer foot than ever. After the address of the Commons, and his IVIajesty's most gi-acious answer, one would have thought all difficulties had been over. But much opposition hath been since raised (and that by very great men) to the design. As for the obstacles thrown in my way by interested men, though there hath been much of that, I never regarded it, no more than the clamours and calumnies of ignorant mistaken people : but in good truth it was with much difficulty, and the peculiar blessing of God, that the point was carried maugre the strong opposition in the cabinet council ; wherein, nevertheless, it hath of late been determined to go on with the grant pursuant to the address of the House of Commons, and to give it all possible dispatch. Accordingly his Majesty hath ordered the warrant for passing the said grant to be (Irawn. The persons appointed to contrive the draught of the warrant are, the Soli- citor General, Baron Scroop, of the treasury, and my very good friend, Mr. Hutcheson. You must know that, in July last, the lords of the treasury had named commissioners for taking an estimate of the value and quantity of the crown-lands in St. Christopher's, and for receiving proposals either for selling or farming the same for the benefit of the public. Their report is not yet made ; and the treasury were of opinion they could not make a grant to us till such time as the whole were sold or farmed pursuant to such report. But the point I am now labouring is, to have it done without delay. And how this may be done without embarrassing the treasury in their after-dis- posal of the whole lands, was this day the subject of a conference between the Solicitor General, Mr. Hutcheson, and myself. The method agreed on is by a rent-charge on the whole crown-lands, redeemable on the crown's paying twenty thousand pounds for the use of the President and fellows of St. Paul's, and their successors. Sir Robert Walpole hath signified that he hath no objection to this method ; and I doubt not Baron Scroop will agree to it ; by which means the grant may be passed before the meeting of parliament j after wliich we may prepare to set out on our voyage in April. I have unawares run into this long account, because you desired to know how the affair of Bermuda stood at present. Ex. 13. — Feb. 27, 1727. My going to Bermuda I cannot positively say when it will be. I have to do with very busy people at a very busy time. I hope, nevertheless, to have all that business completely finished in a few weeks. Ex. \4. — April 11, 1727. Now I mention my coming to Ireland, I must earnestly desire you by all means to keep this a secret from every individual creature. I cannot justly say what time (probably some time next month) I b 2 XX EXTRACTS, &c. stall be there, or how long ; but find it necessary to be there to transact matters with one or two of my associates, whom yet I would not have know of ray coming till I am on the spot ; and for several reasons am determinea to keep myself as secret and concealed as possible all the time I am in Ire- land. In order to this, I make it my request that you will hire for me an entire house, as neat and convenient as you can get, somewhere within a mile of Dublin for half a year. But what I principally desire is, that it be m no town or village, but in some quiet private place, out of the way of roads, or street, or observation. I would have it hired with necessary furniture for kitchen, a couple of chambers, and a parlour. At the same time I must desire you to hire an honest maid-servant, who can keep it clean, and dressa plain bit of meat : a man-servant I shall bring with me. You may do all this either in your own name, or as for a friend of yours, one Mr. Brown (for that is the name I shall assume), and let me know it as soon as possible. There are several little scattered houses with gardens about Clontarf, Rathfarnhain, &c. I remember particularly the old castle of Rathmines, anda little white house upon the hills, by itself, beyond the old men's hospital ; likewise in the outgoings or fields about St. Kevin's, &c. In short, in any snug private place within half a mile or a mile of town. I would have a bit of a garden to it, no matter what sort. Mind this, and you will oblige yours. Ece. 15.; — May 20, 1727- I would by all means have a place secured for me by the end of June ; it may be taken only for three months. I am, God be praised, very near concluding the crown grant to our college, having got over all difficulties and obstructions, which were not a few. 1 conclude in great haste yours. Ex. 16.— June 13, 1727- Poor Caldwell's death I had heard of two or three posts before I received your letters. Had he lived, his life would not have been agreeable. He was formed for retreat and study, but of late was grown fond of the world, and getting into business. — A house between Dublin and Drumcondra I can by no means approve of: the situation is too public, and what I chiefly regard is privacy. I like the situation of Lord's house much better, and have only one objection to it, which is your saying he intends to use some part of it himself ; for this would be inconsistent ivith my view of being quite concealed, and the more so because Lord knows me, which of all things is what I would avoid. His house and price would suit me. If you could get such another quite to myself, snug, private, and clean, with a stable, I shall not matter whether it be painted or no, or how it is fur- nished, provided it be clean and warm. I aim at nothing magnificent or grand (as you term it), which might probably defeat my purpose of con- tinuing concealed. Ew. 17- — June 15, 1727- Yesterday we had an account of King George's death. This day King George II. was proclaimed. All the world here are in a hurry, and I as much as any body, our grant being defeated by the King's dying before the broad seal was annexed to it, in order to which it was passing through the offices. I have la mer h boire again. You shall hear from me when I know more. At present I am at a loss what course to take. Ex. 17 — June 2", 1727. In a former letter, I gave you to know that my affairs were unravelled by the death of his Majesty. I am now beginning on a new foot, and with good hopes of success. The warrant for our grant had been signed by the king, countersigned by the lords of the treasury, and passed the Attorney General : here it stood, when the express came of the King's death. A new warrant is now preparing, which must be signed by his present Majesty in order to a patent's passing the broad seal. As soon as this affair is finished, I propose going to Ireland. Em. 18 — July 6, 1727. I have obtained a new warrant for a grant, signed by his present Majesty, contrary to the expectations of my friends, who thought nothing could be expected of that kind in this great hurry of busi- ness. As soon as this grant, which is of the same import with that begun EXTRACTS, &c. xxi by his late Majesty, hath passed the offices and seals, I propose to execute my design of going to Ireland. Ej:. 19. — July 21, 1727. My grant is now got further than where it was at the time of the King's death. I am in hopes the broad seal will soon be put to it, what remains to be done in order thereto being only matter of form : so that I propose setting out from hence in a fortnight's time. When I set out, T shall write at the same time to tell you of it. I know not whether I shall stay longer than a month on that side of the water : I am sure I shall not want the country lodging I desired you to procure for a longer time. Do not therefore take it for more than a month, if that can be done. I remember certain remote suburbs called Pimlico and Dolphin's barn, but know not where about they lie. If either of them be situate in a private pleasant place, and airy, near the fields, I should therein like a first floor, in a clean house CI desire no more) ; and it would be better if there was a bit of a garden, where I had the liberty to walk. This I mention in case my former desire cannot be conveniently answered for so short a time as a month ; and if I may judge at this distance, those places seem as private as a house in the country. For you must know, what I chiefly aim at is secrecy. This makes me uneasy to flnd that there hath been a report spread among some of my friends in Dublin of my designing to go over. I cannot account for this, believing, after the precautions I had given you, that you would not mention it, directly or indirectly, to any mortal. Ex. 20. — Feb. 20, 1728. I need not repeat to you what I told you here of the necessity there is for my raising all the money possible against my voyage, which, God willing, I shall begin in May, whatever you may hear suggested to the contrary ; though you need not mention this. I propose to set out for Dublin about a month hence : but of this you must not give the least intimation to any body. I beg the favour of you to look out at leisure a convenient lodging for me in or about Church-street, or such other place as you shall think the most retired. — I do not design to be known when I am in Ireland. Ex. 21. — April 6, 1728. I have been detained from my journey partly in expectation of Dr. Clayton's coming, who was doing business in Lancashire, and partly in respect to the excessive rains. The Doctor hath been several days in town, and we have had so much rain that probably it will be soon over. I am therefore daily expecting to set out, all things being provided. Now it is of all things my earnest desire (and for very good reasons) not to have it known that I am in Dublin. Speak not, therefore, one syllable of it to any mortal whatsoever. When I formerly desired you to take a place for me near the town, you gave out that you were looking for a retired lodging for a friend of yours ; upon which every body surmised me to be the person. I must beg you not to act in the like manner now, but to take for me an entire house in your own name, and as for yourself: for, all things considered, I am determined upon a whole house, with no mortal in it but a maid of your own putting, who is to look on herself as your servant. Let there be two bed-chambers, one for you, another for me; and as you like, you may ever and anon lie there. I would have the house, with necessary furniture", taken by the month (or otherwise as you can), for I purpose staying not beyond that time : and yet perhaps I may. Take it as soon as possible, and never think of saving a week's hire by leaving it to do when I am there. Dr. Clayton thinks (and I am of the same opinion) that a convenient place may be found in the further end of Great-Britain street, or Balliboughbridge— by all means beyond Thomson's, the Fellow's. Let me entreat you to say nothing of this to anybody, but to do the thing directly. In this affair I con- sider convenience more than expense, and would of ail things (cost what it will) have a proper place in a retired situation, where I may have access to fields and sweet air, provided against the moment I arrive. I am inclined to think, one may be better concealed in the outermost skirt of the suburbs than in the country, or within the town. Wherefore if you cannot be accora-< xxii EXTRACTS, &c. modated where I mention, inquire in some other skirt or remote suburb. A house quite detached in the country I should have no objection to, provided you judge that I shall not be liable to discovery in it. The place called Bermuda I am utterly as^ainst. Dear Tom, do this matter cleanly and cleverly, without waiting for further advice. You see I am willing to run the risk of the expense. To the person from whom you hire it (whom alone I would have you speak of it to) it will not seem strange you should at this time of the year be desirous, for your own convenience or health, to have a place in a free and open air. If you cannot get a house without taking it for a longer time than a month, take it at such the shortest time it can be let for, with agreement for- further continuing in case there be occasion. — Mr. iVIadden, who witnesses the letter of attorney, is now going to Ireland. He is a clergyman, and man of estate in the north of Ireland. Ex. 22.— Gravesend, Sept. 5, 1/28. To-morrow, with God's blessing, I set sail for Rhode-island, with my wife and a friend of her's, my Lady Hancock's daughter, who bears us company. 1 am married since I saw you, to Miss Forster, daughter of the late Chief Justice, whose humour and turn of mind pleases me beyond anything I knew in her whole sex. Mr. James, Mr. Dalton, and Mr. Srailert, go with us on this voyage : we are now alto- gether at Gravesend, and engaged in one view. When my next rents are paid, I must desire you to enquire for my cousin Richard Berkeley,* who was bread a public notary (I suppose he may by that time be out of his ap- prenticeship), and give him twenty moidores as a present from me towards helping him on his beginning the world. I believe I shall have occasion for six hundred pounds English before this year's income is paid by the farmers of my deanery. I must therefore desire you to speak to Messrs. Swift, &c., to give me credit for said sum in London about three months hence, in case I have occasion to draw for it, and I shall willingly pay their customary interest for the same till the farmers pay it to them, which I hope you will order punctually to be done by the first of June, Direct for me in Rhode- island, and enclose your letter in a cover to Thomas Corbet, esq., at the Admiralty-office in London, who will always forward my letters by the first opportunity. Adieu : I write in great haste. A copy of my charter was sent to Dr. Ward by Dr. Clayton ; if it be not arrived when you go to London, write out of the charter the clause relating to my absence. Adieu once more. Eic. 23. — Newport in Rhode-island, April 24, 1729. I can by this time say something to you, from my own experience, of this place and people. The inliabitants are of a mixed kind, consisting of many sects and subdivisions of sects. Here are four sorts of anabaptists, besides presbyterians, quakers, independents, and many of no profession at all. Notwithstanding so many differences, here are fewer quarrels about religion than elsewhere, the people living peaceably with their neighbours of whatsoever persuasion. They all agree in one point, that the church of England is the second best. The climate is like that of Italy, and not at all colder in the winter than I have known it every where north of Rome. The spring is late ; but to make amends, they assure me the autumns are the finest and longest in the world ; and the summers are much pleasanter than those of Italy by all accounts, forasmuch as the grass continues green, which it doth " not there. This island is pleasantly laid out in hills, and vales, and rising grounds, hath plenty of excellent springs and fine rivulets, and many delightful landscapes of rocks, and promontories, and adjacent lands. The provisions are very good ; so are the fruits, which are quite neglected, though vines sprout up of themselves to an extraordinary size, and seem as natural to this soil as to any • This act of goodness to a poor relation being a malter altogetlier of a private nature, the editor was not sure whetlier he ought to have communicated it to the public. Certainly it is not given as an uncommon feature in our author's character, that he should be liberal to his relations : his letters furnish many proofs of his generosity. But the reader will be pleased to reccHlect the time when this young man's wants were attended to—thewholesoulofthe Bermuda projectoron the stretch to attain, what after so jnany obstructions seemed at last to be within his grasp. EXTRACTS, &c. xxii 1 ever saw. The town of Newport contains about six fliousand souls, and is the most thriving flourishing place in all America for its bigness. It is very pretty, and pleasantly situated. I was never more agreeably surprised than at the first sight of the town and its harbour. I could give you some hints that may be of use to you, if you were disposed to take advice : but of all men in the_ world I never found encouragement to give you any. — 1 have heard nothing from you or any of my friends in England "or Ireland, which makes me suspect my letters were in one of the vessels that were wrecked. I write in great haste, and have no time to say a word to ray brother Robin ; let him know we are in good health. Take care that my draughts are duly honoured,^ which is of the greatest importance to my credit here ; and if I can serve you in these parts, you may command yours, &c. EiV.24. — Newport in Rhode-island, June 12, 1729. Being informed that an inhabitant of this country is on the point of going for Ireland, I would not omit writing to you. The winter, it must be allowed, was much sharper than the usual winters in Ireland, but not at all sharper than I have known them in Italy. To make amends, the summer is exceeding delightful ; and if the spring begins late, the autumn ends proportionably later than with you, and is said to be the finest in the world. I snatch this moment to write, and have time only to add that I have got a son, who, I thank God, is likely to live. — I find it hath been reported in Ireland that we purpose settling here : I must desire you to discountenance any such report. The truth is, if the King's bounty were paid in, and the charter could be removed hither, I should like it better than Bermuda. But if this were mentioned before the payment of said money it might perhaps hinder it, and defeat all our designs. As to what you say of Hamilton's proposal, I can only answer at present by a question, viz., whether it be possible for me in my absence to be put in pos- session of the deanery of Dromore ? Desire him to make that point clear, and you shall hear further from me. Ed'. 25. — Rhode-island, March 9, 1730. My situation hath been so uncer- tain, and is like to continue so till I am clear about the receipt of his Majesty's bounty, and, in consequence thereof, of the determination of my associates, that you are not to wonder at my having given no categorical answer to the proposal you made in relation to Hamilton's deanery, which his death hath put an end to. If I had returned, I should perhaps have been under some temptation to have changed. But as my design still continues to wait the event, and go to Bermuda as soon as I can get associates and money, which my friends are now soliciting in London ; I shall in such case persist in my first resolution of not holding any deanery beyond the limited time. — I live here upon land that I have purchased, and in a farm-house that I have built in this island. It is fit for cows and sheep, and may be of good use in sup- plying our college at Bermuda. Among ray delays and disappointments I thank God I have two domestic comforts that are very agreeable — my wife and my little son, both which exceed my expectations, and fully answer all my wishes. — Messrs. James, Dalton, and Srailert, &c., are at Boston, and have been there these four months. My wife and I abide by Rhode-island, preferring quiet and solitude to the noise of a great town, notwithstanding all the solicitations that have been used to draw us thither. 1 have desired Mac Manus, in a letter to Dr. Ward, to allow twenty pounds per ann. for me towards the poor-house now on foot for clergymen's widows in the diocess of Derry. Ex. 26. — Rhode-island, May 7, 1730. Last week I received a packet from you by the way of Philadelphia, the postage whereof amounted to above four pounds of this country money. I thank you for the enclosed pamphlet,* which in the main I think very seasonable and useful. It seems to me that, in computing the sum total of the loss by absentees, you have extended some articles beyond their due proportion — e. g. when you charge the whole income * Mr. Prior's celebrated LW ^tt« Aismtess oflrelarUl, published in 1729« xxiv EXTRACTS, &c. of occasional absentees in the third class; and that you havecharged some articles twice— e.e-. when you malie distinct articles for lawsuits >^^l^'J'■> ^na for attendance on employments and other business 8,000/., both which seem already charged in the third class. The tax you propose _ seems very reason- able, and I wish it may take effect for the good of the kingdom, which will be obliged to you if it can be brought about. That it would be the interest of England to allow a free trade to Ireland, I have been thoroughly convinced ever since my being in Italy and talking with the merchants there ; and have upon all occasions endeavoured to convince English gentlemen thereof, and have convinced some both in and out of parliament ; and I remember to have discoursed with you at large upon the subject when I was last m Dublin. Your hints for setting up new manufactures seem reasonable ; but the spirit of projecting is low in Ireland.— Now, as to my own affair, I must tell you I have no intention of continuing in these parts, but in order to settle the college his Majesty hath been pleased to found in Bermuda; and I want only the payment of the King's grant to transport myself and family thither. I am now employing the interest of my friends in England for that purpose, and I have wrote in the most pressing manner either to get the rnoney paid, or at least such an authentic answer as I may count upon and may direct me what course I am to take. Dr. Clayton, indeed, hath wrote me word, that he hath been informed by a very good friend of mine, who had it from a very great man, that the money will not be paid. But I cannot think a hearsay at second or third hand to be a proper answer for me to act upon. I have there- fore suggested to the Doctor, that it might be proper for him to go himself to the treasury, with the letters patent containing the grant in his hands, and there make his demand in form. I have also Avrote to others to use their interest at court ; though, indeed, one would have thought all solicitation at an end when once I had obtained a grant under his Majesty's hand and the broad seal of England. As to my own going to London and soliciting in person, I think it reasonable first to see what my friends can do ; and the rather, because I shall have small hopes that my solicitation will be regarded more than theirs. Be assured I long to know the upshot of this matter, and that upon an explicit refusal I am determined to return home, and that it is not at all my thoughts to continue abroad and hold my deanery. It is well known to many considerable persons in England, that I might have had a dispensation for holding it in my absence during life, and that I was much pressed to it ; but I resolutely declined it : and if our college had taken place as soon as I once hoped it would, I should have resigned before this time. A little after my coming to this island, I entertained some thoughts of applying to his Majesty (when Dr. Clayton had received the 20,000/.) to translate our college hither ; but have since seen cause to lay aside all thoughts of that matter. I do assure you bona fide that I have no intention to stay here longer than I can get an authentic answer from the government, which I have all the reason in the world to expect this summer; for, upon all private accounts, I should like Derry better than New England. As to my being in this island, I think I have already informed you that I have been at very great expense in purchasing land and stock here, which might supply the defects of Bermuda in yielding those provisions to our college, the want of which was made a principle objection against its sit\iation in that island. To conclude, as I am here in order to execute a design addressed for by par- liament, and set on foot by his Majesty's x(\y&\ charter, I think myself obliged to wait the event, whatever course is taken in Ireland about my deanery. I have wrote to both the Bishops of Raphoe and Derry : but letters, it seems, are of uncertain passage : your last was half a year in coming, and I have had some a year after their date, though often in two or three months, and sometimes less. I must desire you to present my duty to both their Lord- ships, and acquaint them with what I have now wrote to you, in answer to the kind message from my Lord Bishop of Derry conveyed by your hands, for vfhich pray return ray humble thanks to his Lordship, My wife gives EXTRACTS, &c. xXv her service to you. She hath been lately ill of a miscarriage, but is now, I thank God, recovered. Our little son is great joy to us : we are such fools as to think him the most perfect thing in its kind that we ever saw. Ex. 27.— Newport, July 20, 1730. Since my last of May 7, I have not had one line from the persons to whom I had wrote to make the last instances for the 20,000/. This I impute to an accident that we hear happened to a man-of-war, as it was coming down the river bound for Boston, where it was expected some months ago, and is now daily looked for with the new gover- nor. The newspapers of last February mentioned Dr. Clayton's being made bishop. I wish him joy of his preferment, since I doubt we are not likely to see him in this part of the world. The settlement of affairs with his fellow-ewecutor Mr. Marshal, with a Mr. Partinton Fanhomrigh, and with the creditors of Mrs. Esther Vanhomrigh, in London, involved our author in a great deal of trouble for near four years. His letters to Mr. T. Prior are full of this business, which cannot at this day be interesting to anybody. It is thought proper, however, to subjoin a few extracts from them, as a proof how strongly he felt this embarrassment in the midst of his Bermuda project. _ Ex. 28. — London, Dec. 8, 1724. Provided you bring my affair with Par- tinton to a complete issue before Christmas-day come twelvemonth, by reference or otherwise, that I may have my dividend, whatever it is, clear, I do hereby promise you to increase the premium I promised you before by its fifth part, whatever it amounts to. Ex. 29.— July 20, 1725. Our South-sea stock is confirmed to be what I already informed you, 880/., somewhat more or less. But before you get Partinton and Marshal to sign the letters of attorney, or make the probates ; nay before you tell them of the value of the subscribed annuities, you should by all means, in my opinion, insist, can-y, and secure two points : first, that Partinton should consent to a partition of this stock, &c., which 1 believe he cannot deny : secondly, that Marshal should engage not to touch one penny of it till all debts on this side the water are satisfied. I even desire you would take advice, and legally secure it in such sort that he may not touch it if he would, till the said debts are paid. It would be the wrongest thing in the world, and give me the greatest pain possible to think, we did not administer in the justest sense. Whatever, therefore, appears to be due, let it be instantly paid : here is money sufiicient to do it. I must therefore entreat you, once for all, to clear up and agree with Marshal what is due, and then make an end by paying that which it is a shame was not paid sooner. For God's sake adjust, finish, conclude any way with Partinton ; for at the rate we have gone on these two years, we may go on twenty. In your next let me know ivhat you have proposed to him and Marshal, and how they relish it, I hoped to have been in Dublin by this time ; but business grows out of business. P. S. Bermuda prospers. Ex. 30. — October 16, 1725. I beg you will lose no more time, but take proper methods out of hand for selling the S. S. stock and annuities. I have very good reason to apprehend they will sink in their value, and desire you to let Vanhomrigh Partinton and Mr. Marshal know as much. The less there is to be expected from them, the more 1 must hope from you. I know not how to move them at this distance but by you ; and, if what I have already said will not do, I profess myself to be at a loss for words to move you. You have told me Partinton was willing to refer matters to an arbitra- tion, but not of lawyers ; and that Marshal would refer them only to lawyers. For my part, rather than fail, I am for referring them to any honest knowing person or persons, whether lawyers or not lawyers ; and if M. will not come into this, I desire you will do all you can to oblige him, either by persuasion or otherwise : particularly represent to hira my resolution of going (with xxvi EXTRACTS, &c. God's blessing) in April next to Bermuda, which will probably make it his interest to compromise matters out of hand. But if he will not, agree it possible with P. to force him to compliance in putting an ena to our disputes. , ^, • 1 ^ , Esc. 31.— Dec. 2, 1725. I must repeat to you that I earnestly wish to see things brought to some conclusion with Partinton. Dear Tom, it requires some address, diligence, and management, to bring business of this kind to an issue, which should not seem impossible, considering it can be none ot our interests to spend our lives and substance in law. I am willing to reter things to an arbitration, even not of lawyers. Pray push this point, and let me hear from you upon it. Ej'. 32.— Dec. 11, 1725. It is now near three months since I told you there were strong reasons for haste [in selling the S. S. stock], and these reasons grow every moment stronger. I need say no more ; I can say no more to you. Ex. 33.— Dec. 30, 1725. I am exceedingly plagued by these creditors, and am quite tired and ashamed of repeating the same answer to them, that I expect every post to hear what Mr. Marshal and you think of their preten- sions, and that then they shall be paid. It is now a full twelvemonth that I have been expecting to hear from you on this head, and expecting in vain. I shall, therefore, expect no longer, nor hope or desire to know what Mr. Marshal thinks, but only what you think, or what appears to you by Mrs. Vanhomrigh's papers and accounts. This is what solely depends on you, what I sued for several months ago, and what you promised to send me an account of long before this time. Ex. 34. — Jan. 20, 1726. I am worried to death by creditors : I see nothing done, neither towards clearing their accounts, nor settling the effects here, nor finishing affairs with Partinton. I am at an end of my patience, and almost of my wits. My conclusion is, not to wait a moment longer for Mar- shal, nor to have (if possible) any further regard to him, but to settle all things without him, and whether he will or no. How far this is practicable, you will know by consulting an able lawyer. I have some confused notion that one executor may act by himself; but how far, and in what case, you will thoroughly be informed. It is an infinite shame that the debts here are not cleared up and paid. I have borne the shock and importunity of creditors above a twelvemonth, and am never the nearer — have nothing new to say to them : judge you what I feel. But I have already said all that can be said on this head. It is also no small disappointment to find that we have been near three years doing nothing with respect to bringing things to a conclusion with Partinton. Is there no way of making a separate agreement with him } Is there no way of prevailing with him to consent to the sale of the reversion ? Let me entreat you to proceed with a little management and dispatch in these matters, and inform yourself particularly whether I may not come to a reference or arbitration with P. even though IM. should be against it? whether I may not take steps that may compel M. to an agree- ment? what is the practised method when one of two executors is negiigent or unreasonable? In a word, whether an end may not be put to these matters one way or other ? I do not doubt your skill : I only wish you were as active to serve an old friend as I should be in any affair of yours that lay in my power. Ex. 35 —Sept. 3, 1726. I must desire you to send me in a letter a full state of the particulars of our pretensions upon Partinton, that I may have a view of the several emoluments expected from this suit, and the grounds of such expectation, these affairs being at present a little out of my thoughts; that so having considered the whole, I may take advice here, and write there- upon to Marshal, in order to terminate that affair this winter, if possible. It is worth while to exert for once. If this be done, the whole partition may be made, and your share distinctly known and paid you between this and EXTRACTS, &c. xxvii Christmas. But_ I know it cannot l)e done unless you exert. As for M., 1 had from the l)eginning no opinion of him, no more than you liave ; otherwise I should not have troubled anybody else. Ex. 36.— Nov. 12, 1726. I have writ to you often for certain eclaircisse- ments, which are absolutely necessary to settle matters with the creditors, who importune me to death. You have no notion of the miseiy I have under- gone, and do daily undergo, on that account. For God's sake disembrangle these matters, that I may once be at ease to mind my other aflFairs of the college, which are enough to employ ten persons. I will not repeat what I have said in my former letters, but hope for your answer to all the points contained in them, and immediately to what relates to dispatching the creditors. I propose to make a purchase of land (which is very dear) in Bermuda, upon my iirst going thither; for which, and for other occasions, I shall want all the money I can possibly raise against my voyage. For this purpose it would be a mighty service to me if the affairs with P. were adjusted this winter by reference or compromise. The state of all that business, which I desired you to send me, I do now again earnestly desire. What is doing, or has been done, in that matter ? Can you contrive no way for bringing P. to an immediate sale of the remaining lands ? What is your opinion and advice upon the whole? What prospect can I have, if I leave things at sixes and sevens when I go to another world, seeing all my remonstrances even now that 1 am near at hand are to no purpose ? I know money is at present at a very high foot of exchange. 1 shall therefore wait a little, in hopes it may become lower: but it will at all events be necessary to draw over my money. I have spent here a matter of 600/. more than you know of, for which I have not yet drawn over. 1 had some other points to speak to, but am cut short. Ex'. 37. — Dec. 1, 1726. I have lately received several letters of yours, which have given me a good deal of light with respect to Mrs. Vanhomrigh's affairs. But I am so much employed on the business of Bermuda, that I have hardly time to mind any thing else. I shall nevertheless snatch the present moment to write yo)i short answers to the queries you propose. As to Bermuda, it is now, &c. [See above, Ex. 12.] You also desire I would speak to Ned. You must know Ned hath parted from me ever since the beginning of last July. I allowed him six shillings a week besides his annual wages ; and besides an entire livery, I gave him old clothes, which he made a penny of. But the creature grew idle and worthless to a prodigious degree : he was almost constantly out of the way ; and when T told him of it, he used to give me warning. I bore with this behaviour about nine months, and let him know I did it in compassion to him, and in hopes he would mend : but finding no hopes of this, I was forced at last to discharge him, and take another, who is as diligent as he was negligent. When he parted from me, I paid him between six -and seven pounds, which was due to him, and likewise gave him money to bear his charges to Ireland, whither he said he was going. I met him 'tother day in the street, and asking why he was not gone to Ireland to his wife and child, he made answer that he had neither wife nor child. He got, it seems, into another service when he left me, but continued only a fortnight in it. The fellow is silly to an incredible degree, and spoiled by good usage. I shall take care the pictures be sold in an auction. Mr. Smilert, whom I know to be a very honest skilful person in his profession, will see them put into an auction at the proper time, which he tells me is not till the town fills with company, about the meeting of parliament. — I remember to have told you I could know more of matters here than perhaps people generally do. You thought we did wrong to sell ; but the stocks are fallen, and depend upon it they will fall lower. ji/ter our Author's return to Europe, the correspondence was renewed icith Mr. Prior. The following extracts will continue Dr. Berkeley's history to a late period of his life : — Etv. 33,— Green-street, March 13, 1733. I thank you for the account you xxviii EXTRACTS, &c. sent me of the house, &c., on Arbor-hill. I approve of that and the terms ; so you will fix the agreement for this year to come (according to the tenor of your letter) with Mr. Lesly, to whom my humble service. I remember one of that name, a good sort of man, a class or two below me in the college. I am willing to pay for the whole year, commencing from the 2Sth instant, but cannot take the furniture, &c., into my charge till I go over, which I truly propose to do as soon as my wife is able to travel. She expects to be brought to bed in two months ; and having had two miscarriages, one of which she was extremely ill of, in Rhode-island, she cannot venture to stir before she is delivered. This circumstance not foreseen occasions an unex- pected delay, putting off to summer the journey I proposed to take in spring. I hope our affair with Partinton will be finished this term. We are here on the eve of great events, to-morrow being the day appointed for a pitched battle in the House of Commons. EiC. 39. — March 27, 1733. This comes to desire you will exert yourself on a public account, which you know is acting in your proper sphere. It has been represented here, that in certain parts of the kingdom of Ireland, justice is much obstructed for the want of justices of the peace, which is only to be remedied by taking in dissenters. A great man hath spoke to me on this point. I told him the view-otthis was plain ; and that in order to facilitate this view I suspected the account was invented, for that 1 did not think it true. Depend upon it, better service -cannot be done at present than by putting this matter as soon as possible in a fair light, and that supported by such proofs as may be convincing here. I therefore recommend it to you to make the speediest and exactest inquiry that you can into the truth of this fact, the result whereof send to me. Send me also the best estimate you can get of the number of papists, dissenters, and churchmen, throughout the kingdom ; an estimate also of dissenters considerable for rank, figure, and estate ; an estimate also of the papists in Ulster. Be as clear in these points as you can. When the abovementioned point was put to me, I said that in my apprehension there was no such lack of justice or magistrates except lin Kerry or Connaught, where the dissenters were not considerable enough to be of any use in redressing the evil. Let me know particularly whether there be any such want of justices of the peace in the county of Londonderry, or whether men are aggrieved there by being obliged to repair to them at too great distances. The prime serjeant Singleton may probably be a means of assisting you to get light in these particulars. The dispatch you give this affair will be doing the best service to your country. Enable me to clear up the truth, and to support it by such reasons and testimonies as may be felt or credited. Facts I am myself too much a stranger to, though I promise to make the best use I can of those you furnish me with, towards taking off an impression which I fear is already deep. If I succeed, I shall congratulate my being here at this juncture. Ex-. 40.— April 14, 1733. I thank you for your last, particularly for that part of it wherein you promise the number of the justices of peace, of the papists also, and protestants, throughout the kingdom, taken out of proper offices. I did not know such inventories had been taken by public authority, and am glad to find it so. Your argument for proving papists but three to one I had before made use of ; but some of the premises are not clear to Englishmen. Nothing can do so well as the estimate you speak of, to be taken from a public office j which therefore I impatiently expect. As 'to the design I hinted, whether it is to be set on foot there or here I cannot say. I hope it will take effect no where. It is yet a secret : I may, nevertheless discover something of it in a little time, and you may then hear more. The political state of things on this side the water I need say nothino- of; the public papers probably say too much; though it cannot be denied muchinay be said. I must desire you in your next to let me know what premium there is for getting into the public fund which allows five per cent, in Ireland ; and whether a considerable sum might easily be purchased therein; also what i^ EXTRACTS, &c xxix the present legal current interest in Ireland ; and whether it be easy to lay out money on a secure mortafage, where the interest should be punctually paid. I shall be also glad to hear a word about the lawsuit. Ejd. 41. — April 19, 1733. I thank you for your last advices, and the cata- logue of justices particularly ; of all which proper use shall be made. The number of protestants and papists throughout the kingdom, whicli in your last but one you said had been lately and accurately taken by the collectors of hearth-money, you promised, but have omitted to send : I shall hope for it in your next. E.v. 42. — May 1, 1733. I long for the numeration of protestant and popish families, which you tell me has been taken by the collectors. A certain person now here hath represented the papists as seven to one, which I have ventured to affirm is wide of the truth. What lights you gave me I have imparted to those who will make the proper use of them. I do not find that anything was intended to be done by act of parliament here ; as to that, your information seems right. I hope they will be able to do nothing anywhere. The approaching act at Oxford is much spoken of. The entertainments of music, &c., in the theatre will be the finest that ever were known. For other public news, I reckon you know as much as yours. Ex. 43. — Jan. 7, 1734. IVIy family are, I thank God, all well at present : but it will be impossible for us to travel before the spring. As to myself, by regular living and rising very early, which I find the best thing in the world, I am very much mended ; insomuch that though I cannot read, yet my thoughts seem as distinct as ever. I do therefore for amusement pass my early hours in thinking of certain mathematical matters, which may possibly produce something. You say nothing of the lawsuit. I hope it is to surprise me in your next with an account of its being finished. Perhaps the house and garden at Montpelier-hill may be got a good pennyworth, in which case I should not be averse to buying it. It is probable a tenement in so remote a part may be purchased at an easy rate. Em- 44. — Jan. 16, 1734. I received last post your three letters together, for which advices I give you thanks. I had at the same time two from Baron Wainwright on the same account. That without my intermeddling I may have the ofitr of somewhat, I am apt to think, which may make me easy in point of situation and income, though I question whether the dignity will much contribute to make me so. Those who imagine, as you write, that I may pick and choose, to be sure think that I have been making my court here all this time, and would never believe (what is most true) that I have not been at the court, or at the minister's, but once these seven years. The care of my health and the love of retirement have prevailed over whatsoever ambition might have come to my share. — Pray send uie as particular an account as you can get of the country, the situation, the house, the circum- stances of the bishopric of Cloyne j and let me know the charge of coming into a bishopric, i. e. the amount of the fees and first-fruits. Ew. 45. — Jan. 19, 1734. Since my last I have kissed.their Majesties' hands for the bishopric of (Jloyne, having first received an account from the Duke of Newcastle's office, setting forth, that his Grace had laid before the King the Duke of Dorset's recommendation, which was readily complied with by his Majesty. The condition of my own health and that of my family will not suffer me to travel at this season of the year ; I must therefore entreat you to take care of the fees and patent. I shall be glad to hear from you what you can learn about this bishopric of Cloyne. £^_ 46. — Jan. 22, 1734. On the 6th inst. the Duke sent over his plan, wherein I was recommended to the bishopric of Cloyne : on the 14th I received a letter from the Secretary's office, signifying his Majesty's having immediately complied therewith, and containing the Duke of Newcastle's very obliging compliments thereupon. In all this I was nothing surprised, his Grace the Lord Lieutenant having declared on this side the water, that lie intended to serve me the first opportunity, though at the same time he XXX EXTRACTS, &c. desired me to say nothing of it. As to the A. B. D. (Archbishop^ ol Dublin, Dr. Hoadly) I readily believe he gave no opposition. He knew it would be to no purpose, and the Queen herself had expressly enjoined him not to oppose me; this I certainly knew when the A. B. was here, though I never saw him. Notwithstanding all which, I had a strong penchant to be Dean of Dromore, and not to take the charge of a bishopric upon me. Those who formerly opposed my being Dean of Downe have thereby made me a bishop ; which rank, how desirable soever it may seem, 1 had before abso- lutely determined to keep out of. The situation of my own and my family's health will not suffer me to think of travelling before April. However, as on that side it may be thought proper that I should vacate the deanery of Derry, I am ready, as soon as I hear the bishopric of Cloyne is void _ by Dr. Synge's being legally possessed of the see of Ferns, to send over a resignation of my deanery ; and I authorise you to signify as much, where you think proper. I should be glad you sent me a rude plan of the house from Bishop Synge's description, that I may forecast the furniture. The great man whom you mention as my opponent, concerted his measures but ill. For it appears by your letter, that at the very time when my brother informed the Speaker of his soliciting against me there, the Duke's plan had already taken place here, and the resolution was passed in my favour at St. James's. I am nevertheless pleased, as it gave me an opportunity of being obliged to the Speaker, which I shall not fail to acknowledge when I see him, which will probably be very soon, for he is expected here as soon as the session is'up. My family are well, though I myself have gotten a cold this sharp foggy weather, having been obliged, contrary to my wonted custom, to be much abroad, paying comjjliments and returning visits. Ex. 47. — Jan. 28, 1734. In a late letter you told me the bishopric of Cloyne is let for 1 ,200/. per ann., out of which there is a small rent-charge of interest to be paid. I am informed by a letter of yours, which I received this day, that there is also a demesne of 800 acres adjoining to the episcopal house. I desire to be informed by your next, whether these 800 acres are understood to be over and above the 1,200/. per ann. and whether they were kept by former bishops in their own hands. In my last I mentioned to you the impossibility of my going to Ireland before spring, and that I would send a resignation of my deanery, if need was, immediately upon the vacancy of the see of Cloyne. I have been since told that this would be a step of some hazard, viz., in case of the King's death, which I hope is far off: however, one would not care to do a thing which may seem incautious and imprudent in the eye of the world. Not but that I would rather do it than be obliged to go over at this season. But as the bulk of the deanery is in tithes, and a very inconsiderable part in land, the damage to my successor would be but a trifle upon my keeping it to the end of March. I would know what you advise on this matter. Ex. 48. — Feb. 7, 1734. I have been for several days laid up with the gout. When I last wrote to you I was confined, but at first knew not whether it might not be a sprain or hurt from the shoe. But it soon shewed itself a genuine fit of the gout in both my feet by the pain, inflammation, swelling, &c., attended with a fever and restless nights. With my feet lapped up in flannels, and raised on a cushion, I receive the visits of my friends, who con- gratulate me on this occasion as much as on my preferment. Ew. 49.— March 2, 1734. As to what you write of the prospect of new vacancies, and your advising that 1 should apply for a better bishopric, I thank you for your advice. But if it please God the Bishop of Derry were actually dead, and there were ever so many promotions thereupon, I would not apply, or so much as open my mouth to any one friend to make an in- terest for getting any of them. To be so very hasty for a removal, even be- fore I had seen Cloyne, would argue a greater greediness for lucre than I hope I shall ever have. Not but that, all things considered, I have a fair demand upon the government for expense of time and pains and money on the faith of EXTRACTS, &c. xxxl public chai'ters : as likewise because I find the income of Cloyue considerably less than was at first represented. I had no notion that I should, over and above tlie charge of patents and first-fruits, be obliged to pay betvfeen 400/. and 500/. for which I shall never see a farthing' in return, besides interest I am to pay for upwards of 300/. Avhich principal devolves upon my successor. No more was I apprised of three curates, viz., two at Youghal and one at Aghadee, to be paid by me. And, after all, the certain value of the income I have not yet learned. My predecessor writes, that he doth not know the true value himself, but believes it may l)e about 1,200/. perann. including the fines, and striking them at a medium for seven years. The uncertainty, 1 believe, must proceed from the fines ; but it may be supposed that he kuows exactly what the rents are, and what the tithes, and what the payments to the curates ; of which particulars you may probably get an account from him. Sure I am, that if I had gone to Derry, and taken ray affairs into my own hands, I might have made considerably above 1,000/. a year, after paying the curates' salaries. And as for charities, such as school-boys, widows, &c., those ought not to be reckoned, because all sorts of charities, as well as contingent expenses, must be much higher on a bishop than a dean. But in all ap- pearance, subducting the money that 1 must advance, and tlie expense of the curates in Youghal and Aghadee, I shall not have remaining 1 ,000/. per ann. ; not even though the whole income was worth 1,200/., of which I doubt, by Bishop Synge's uncertainty, that it will be found to fall short. I thank you for the information you gave me of a house to be hired in Stephen's Green. I should like the Green very well for situation : but I have no thoughts of taking a house in town suddenly ; nor would it be convenient for my affairs so to do, considering the great expense I must be at on coming into a small bishopric. My gout has left me. I have nevertheless a weakness remain- ing in my feet, and, what is worse, an extreme tenderness, the effect of my long confinement. I was abroad the beginning of this week to take a little air in tlie park, which gave me a cold, and obliged me to physic and two or three days' confinement. I have several things to prepare in order to my journey, and shall make all the despatch 1 can. But why I shotild endanger my health by too much hurry, or why I should precipitate myself in this convalescent state, into doubtful weather and cold lodgings on the road, I do not see. There is but one reason that I can comprehend why the great men there should be so urgent; viz., for fear that I should make an interest here in case of vacancies ; \vliich I have already assured you I do not intend to do : so they may be perfectly easy on that score. Ex. 50. — March 13, 173-4. I am bond fide making all the haste I can. My lil)rary is to be embarked on board the first ship bound to Cork, of which I am in daily expectation. I suppose it will be no difficult matter to obtain an order from' the commissioners to the custom-house officers there to let it pass duty-free, which at first word was granted here on my coming from America. I wish you would mention this, with my respects, to Dr. Coghil. After my journey I trust that I shall find my health much better, though at present I am obliged to guard against the east-wind, with which we have been annoyed of late, and which never fails to disorder my head. I am in hopes, however, by what I hear, that I shall be able to reach Dublin before my Lord Lieute- nant leaves it. 1 shall reckon it my misfortune if I do not : I am sure it shall not be for want of doing all that lies in my power. I am in a hurry. I am obliged to manage my health, and 1 have many things to do. I must desire you at your leisure to look out a lodging for us, to be taken only by the week : for I shall stay no longer in Dublin than need must, I would have the lodging taken for the 10th of April. Eai. 51. March 20, 1734. There is one Mr. Cox, a clergyman, son to the late Dr. Cox, near Drogheda, who, I understand, is under the patronage of Dr. Coghil. Pray inform yourself of his character; whether he be a good man, one of parts and learning, and how he is provided for. This you may possibly do without my being'named. Perhaps my brother may know some- xxxii EXTRACTS, &c. thing of him. I should be glad to be apprised of his character on my coming to Dublin. No one has recommended him to me ; but his father was an ingenious man, and I saw two sensible women, his sisters, at Rhode-island, which inclines me to think him a man of merit ; and such only I would prefer. I have had certain persons recommended to me ; but I shall con- sider their merits preferably to all recommendation. If you can answer for the ingenuity, learning, and good qualities, of the person you mention pre- ferably to that of others in competition, I should be very glad to serve him. Ej;. 62. — St. Alban's, April 30, 1734. I was deceived by the assurance given me of two ships going to Cork. In the event, one could not take in my goods, and the other took freight for another port. So that, after all their delays and prevarications, I have been obliged to ship off my things for Dublin on board of Captain Leach. From this involuntary cause I have been detained here so long beyond my intentions, which really were to have got to Dublin before the parliament, which now I much question whether I shall be able to do, considering that as I have two young children with me, I cannot make such despatch on the road as otherwise I might. The lodging in Gervais-street, which you formerly procured for me, will, I think, do very well. I shall want a stable for six coach-horses ; for so many I bring with me. Ex. 53. — Cloyne, March 6, 1 737, I here send you what you desire. If you approve of it, publish it in one or more newspapers; if yon have any'objection, let me know it by the next post. I mean, as you see, a brief abstract, which I could wish were spread through the nation, that men may think on the subject against next session. But I would not have this letter made public sooner than a week after the publication of the third part of my Querist, which I have ordered to be sent to you. I believe you may receive it about the time that this comes to your hands : for, as I told you in a late letter, I have hastened it as much as possible. I have used the same editor (Dr. IVIadden) for this as for the two foregoing parts. Our spinning-school is in a thriving way. The children begin to find a pleasure in being paid in hard money, which I understand they will not give to their pai-ents, but keep to buy clothes for themselves. Indeed, I found it difficult and tedious to bring them to this, but I believe it will now do. I am building a workhouse for sturdy vagrants, and design to raise about two acres of hemp for employing them. Can you put me in a way of getting hemp- seed, or does your society distribute any ? It is hoped your flax-seed will come in time. Last post a letter from an English bishop tells me, a difference between the King and Prince is got into Parliament, and that it seems to be big with mischief, if a speedy expedient he not found to heal the breach. It relates to the provision for his R. Highness's family. My three children have been ill : the eldest and youngest are recovered; but George is still unwell. [Inclosed in the above a Letter to A. B., Esq., from the Querist, containing Thoughts on a National Bank, printed in the Dublin Journal.] .Ba?. 54.— Cloyne, Feb. 15, 1741. Mr. Faulkner, the following being a very safe and successful cure in the bloody flux, which at this time is become so general, you will do well to make it public. Give a heaped spoonful of common rosm, powdered in a little fresh broth, every five or six hour= till the bloody flux is stopped ; which I have always found before a farthing's worth of rosin was spent. If after the blood is staunched there remains a little looseness, this is soon carried off by milk and water boiled with a little chalk in it._ This cheap and easy method I have often tried of late, and never knew it fail. I am your humble servant, A B. Ex. 55.-Cloyne, Feb. 24, 1741. I find you have published my remedy in the newspaper of this day I now tell you that the patients must be careful of their diet, and especially beware of taking cold. The best diet I find to be plain broth of mutton or fowl, without seasoning of any kind Their drink should be, till they arelfreed both from dysentery and diarrhoea, milk and water, or plain water boiled with chalk (drank warm), e. g. about a large EXTRACTS, &c. xxxiii heaped spoonful to a quart. Sometimes I find it necessary to give it every four liours, and to continue it for a dose or two after tlie blood hath been stopped, to prevent relapses, which ill management hath now and then occasioned. Given in due time, (the sooner the better), and with proper care, I take it to be as sure a cure for a dysentery as the bark for an ague. It has certainly by the blessing of God saved many lives, and continues to save many lives, in my neighbourhood. I shall be glad to know its success in any instances you may have tried it in. E.v. 56. — Cloyne, Feb. 26, 1741, I believe there is no relation that Mr. Sandys and Sir John Rushout have to Lord Wilmington, other than, what I myself made by marrying Sir John Rushout's sister to the late Earl of North- ampton, who was brother to Lord Wilmington. Sandys is nephew to Sir John. As to kindred or affinity, I take it to have very little place in this matter. Nor do I think it possible to foretell whether the ministry will be Whig or Tory. The people are so generally and so much incensed, that (if I am rightly informed) both men and measures must be changed before we see things composed. Besides, in this disjointed state of things, the Prince's party will be more considered than ever. It is my opinion, there will be no first minister in haste ; and it will be new to act without one. When I had wrote thus far, I received a letter from a considerable hand on the other side of the water, wherein are the following words. " Though the Whigs and Tories had gone hand in hand in their endeavour to demolish the late ministry, yet some true Whigs, to shew themselves such, were for excluding all Tories trom the new ministry. Lord Wilmington and the Duke of Dorset declared they would quit, if they proceeded on so narrow a bottom : and the Prince, Duke of Argyle, Duke of Bedford, and many others, refused to come in, except there was to be a coalition of parties. After many fruitless attempts to effect this, it was at last achieved, between eleven and twelve on Tuesday night, and the Prince went next morning to St. James's. It had been that very evening quite despaired of; and the meeting of the parliament came on so fast, that there was a prospect of nothing but great confusion." There is, I hope, a prospect now of much better things. I much wanted to see this scheme prevail ; which it has now done, and will, I trust, be followed by many happy consequences. Ex. 57. — Cloyne, May 19, 1741. Though the flax-seed came in such quantity and so late, yet we have above one-half ourselves in ground, the rest together with our own seed has been given to our poor neighbours, and will, I doubt not, answer, the weather being very favourable. The distresses of the sick and poor are endless. The havoc of mankind in the counties of Cork, Limerick, and some adjacent places, hath been incredible. The nation, probably, will not recover this loss in a century. The other day, I heard one from the county of Limerick say, that whole villages were entirely dis- peopled. About two months since, I heard Sir Richard Cox say, that five hundred were dead in the parish where he lives, though in a country, I believe, not very populous. It were to be wished people of condition were at their seats in the country during these calamitous times, which might provide relief and employment for the poor. Certainly, if these perish, the rich must be sufferers in the end. We have tried in this neighbourhood the receipt of a decoction of briar-roots for the bloody-flux, which you sent me, and in some cases found it useful. But that which we find the most speedy, sure, and effectual cure above all others, is a heaped spoonful of rosin, dissolved and mixed over a fire with two or three spoonsful of oil. and added to a pint of broth for a clyster ; which, upon once taking, hath never been known to fail stopping the bloody-flux. At first I mixed the rosin in the broth ; but that was diflScult, and not so speedy a cure. Ex. 58.— Cloyne, Feb., 1746. (With a letter signed Eubulus, containing advice about the manner of clothing the militia arrayed this year, which letter was printed in the Dublin Journal.) The above letter contams a piece of advise which seems to me not unseasonable or useless. You may make use c Xxxiv EXTRACTS, &c. of Faulkner for conveying it to the public, without any intimation of the author. There is handed about a lampoon against our_ troop, which hath eaused great indignation in the warriors of Cloyne. I am informed that Dean Gervais had been looking for the Querist, and could not find one in the shops, for my Lord Lieutenant, at his desire. I wish you could get one, handsomely bound, for his Excellency ; or at least, the last published relating to the Bank, which consisted of excerpta out of the three parts of the Querist. I wrote to you before to procure two copies of this for his Excellency and Mr, Liddel. i:a!. 59.— Jan. 24, 1747. You asked me in your last letter, whether we had not provided a house in Cloyne for the reception and cure of sick persons. By your query it seems there is some such report ; but what gave rise to it could be no more than this, viz., that we are used to lodge a few strolling sick with a poor tenant or two in Cloyne, and employ a poor woman or two to tend them, and supply them with a few necessaries from our house. This may be magnified (as things gather in the telling) into an hospital ; but the truth is merely what I tell you. I wish you would send me a pamphlet politi- cal now and then, with what news you hear. Is there any apprehension of an invasion upon Ireland? Ex. 60. — Feb. 6, 1747- Your manner of accounting for the weather seems to have reason in it. And yet there still remains something unaccountable, namely, why there should be no rain in the regions mentioned. If the bulk, figure, situation, and motion of the earth are given, and the luminaries remain the same, should there not be a certain cycle of the seasons ever returning at certain periods ? To me it seems, that the exhalations per- petually sent up from the bowels of the earth have no small share in the weather ; that nitrous exhalations produce cold and frost ; and that the same causes which produce earthquakes within the earth produce storms above it. Such are the variable causes of our weather, which if it proceeded only from fixed and given causes, the changes thereof would be as regular as the vicis- situdes of the days, or the return of eclipses. I have writ this extempore—- valeat quantum valere potest. Ea;. 61. — Feb. 9, 1/47. You ask me if I had no hints from England about the primacy. I can only say, that last week I had a letter from a person of no mean rank, who seemed to wonder that he could not find I had enter- tained any thoughts of the primacy, while so many others of our bench were so earnestly contending for it. He added, that he hoped I would not take it ill if my friends wished me in that station. My answer was, that I am so far from soliciting, that I do not even wish for it ; that I do not think myself the fittest man for that high post ; and that therefore I neither have nor ever will ask it. Ew. 62.— Feb. 10, 1747- In a letter from England, which I told you came a week ago, it was said that several of our Irish bishops were earnestly con- tending for the primacy. Pray, who are they ? I thought Bishop Stone was only talked of at present. I ask this question merely out of curiosity, and not from any interest, I assure you. I am no man's rival or competitor in this matter. I am not in love with feasts, and crowds, and visits, and late hours, and strange faces, and a hurry of affairs, often insignificant. For my own private satisfaction, I had rather be master of my time than wear a diadem. I repeat these things to you, that I may not seem to have declined all steps to the primacy out of singularity, or pride, or stupidity, but from solid motives. As for the argument from the opportunity of doing good, I observe, that duty obliges men in high station not to decline occasions of doing good ; but duty doth not oblige men to solicit such high stations. Eoc. 63.— Feb. 19, 1747. The ballad you sent has mirth in it, with a poli- tical stm^ m the tail. But the speech of Van Haaren is excellent. I believe it Lord Chesterfield's.— We have at present, and for these two days past had, frost, and some snow. Our military men are at length sailed from Cork harbour. We hear they are designed for Flanders. EXTRACTS, &c. xxx« t must desire you to make at leisure the most exact and distinct inquiry you can into the characters of the senior fellows, as to their behaviour, temper, piety, parts, and learning- ; also to make a list of them, with each man's character annexed to his name. I think it of so great consequence to the publicto have a good provost, tliat I would willingly look beforehand, and stir a little to prepare an interest, or at least to contribute my mite where I properly may in favour of a' worthy man to fill that post, when it shall become vacant. Dr. Hales, in a letter to me, has made very honourable mention of you to me. It would not be amiss if you should correspond with him, especially for the sake of granaries and prisons. Ex. 64. — Feb. 20, 174?. Though the situation of the earth with respect to the sun changes, yet the changes are fixed and regular : if, therefore, this were the cause of the variation of the winds, the variation of the vvinds must be, regular, i. e. regularly returning in a cycle. To me it seems, that the variable cause of the variable winds are the subterraneous fires, which con- stantly burning, but altering their operation according to the various quan- tity or kind of combustible materials they happen to meet with, send up exhalations more or less, of this or that species, which diversely fermenting in the atmosphere produce uncertain, variable winds and tempests. This, if I mistake not, is the true solution of that crux. As to the papers about petrifactions, which I sent to you and Mr. Simon, I do not well remember the contents. But be you so good as to look them over, and shew them to some others of your society ; and if after this you shall think them worth pub- lishing in your collections, you may do as you please ; otherwise I would not have things hastily and carelessly written thrust into public view. [The following anonymous piece, on a subject connected with the preceding, may deserve a place here. It is in the Bishop's handwriting, and seems to have been inserted in one of the London prints. \ TO THE PUBLISHER. SIR, Having observed it hath been offered as a reason to persuade the public, that the late shocks felt in and about London were not caused by an earth- quake, because the motion was lateral, which it is asserted the motion of an earthquake never is, I take upon me to affirm the contrary. I have myself felt an earthquake at Messina, in the year 1718, when the motion was hori- zontal or lateral. It did no harm in that city, but threw down several houses about a day's journey from thence. We are not to think the late shocks merely an airquake, as they call it, on account of signs and changes in the air, such being usually observed to attend earthquakes. There is a correspondence between the subterraneous air and our atmosphere. It is probable that storms or great concussions of the air do often, if not always, owe their origin to vapours or exhalations issuing from below. I remember to have heard Count Tezzani, at Catania, say, that some hours before the memorable earthquake of 1692, which overturned the whole city, he observed a line extended in the air, proceeding, as he judged, from exha- lations, poised and suspended in the atmosphere ; also, that he heard a hollow, frightful murmur, about a minute before the shock. Of 2.5,000 inhabitants, 18,000 absolutely perished; not to mention others who were miserably bruised and wounded. There did not escape so much as one single house. The streets were narrow, and the buildings high ; so there was no safety in running into the streets ; but on the first tremor (which happens a small space, perhaps a few minutes, before the downfal) they found it the safest way to stand under a door-case, or at the corners of the house. The Count was dug 'out of the ruins of his own house, which had over- whelmed about twenty persons, only seven whereof were got out alive, a xxxvi EXTRACTS, &c. Though he rebuilt his house with stone, yet he ever after lay in a small adjoining apartment made of reeds plastered over. Catania was rebuilt more regular and beautiful than ever: the houses, indeed, are lower and the streets broader than before, for security against future shocks. By their account, the first shock seldom or *ever doth the mischief ; but the repliche, as they term them, are to be dreaded. The earth, I was told, moved up and down like the boiling of a pot, terra hollente .it sotto in sopra, to use their own expression. This sort of subsultive motion is ever accounted the most dan- gerous. Pliny, in the second book of his Natural History, observes, that all earth- quakes are attended with a great stillness of the air. The same was observed at Catania. Pliny further observes, that a murmuring noise precedes the earth- quake. He also remarks, that there is signum in ccelo, praceditque motufuturo, aut interdiu, aut paulo post occasitm sereno, ceu tenuis linea nubis in longurn porrectts spntium : which agrees with what was observed by Count Tezzani and others at Catania. And all these things plainly shew the mistake of those who surmise that noises and signs in the air do not belong to, or betoken an earthquake, but only an air-quake. The naturalist above cited, speaking of the earth, saith, that vari^ quatitur, up and down sometimes, at others from side to side. He adds, that the effects are very various : cities one while demolished, another swallowed up ; sometimes overwhelmed by water, at other times consumed by fire bursting from the earth : one while the gulph remains open and yawning ; another, the sides close, not leaving the least trace or sign of the city swallowed up. Britain is an island — maritima autem maximl quatiuntiir, saith Pliny — and in this island are many mineral and sulphureous waters. I see nothing in the natural constitution of London, or the parts adjacent, that should render an earthquake impossil)le or improbable. Whether there be anything in the moral state thereof that should exempt it from that fear, I leave others to judge. I am your humble servant. A. B. Ex. 65. — Cloyne, March 22, 1747. As to what you say that the primacy would have been a glorious thing, for my part I do not see, all things considered, the glory of wearing the name of primate in these days, or of getting so much money, a thing every tradesman in London may get if he pleases. I should not choose to be primate, in pity to my children; and for doing good to the world, I imagine I may, upon the whole, do as much in a lower station. Ex. 66. — June 23, 1746. I perceive the Earl of Chesterfield is, whether absent or present, a friend to Ireland ; and there could not have happened a luckier incident to this poor island than the friendship of such a man, when there are so few of her own great men who either care or know how to befriend her. As my own wishes and endeavours, howsoever weak and ineffectual, have had the same tendency, I flatter myself that on this score he honours me with his regard ; which is an ample recompense for more public merit than I can pretend to. As you transcribe a line from his letter relating to me, so in return I send you a line from a letter of the Bishop of Glou- cester's relating to you — 1 formerly told you I had mentioned you to the Bishop when I sent your scheme — These are his words ; " I have had a great deal of discourse with your Lord Lieutenant. He expressed his good esteem of iWr. Prior and his character, and commended him as one who had no view in life but to do the utmost good he is capable of. As he has seen the scheme, he may have opportunity of mentioning it to as many of the cabinet as he pleases ; but it will not be a fashionable doctrine at this time." So far the Bishop. You are doubtless in the right, on all proper occasions, to cultivate a correspondence with Lord Chesterfield. When you write, you will perhaps let him know in the properest manner the thorough sense I have of the honour he does me in his remembrance, and my concern at not having been able to wait on him. EXTRACTS, &c. xJtxvii Ex. 67. — July 3, 174(). I send you back my letter, with a new paragraph to be added at the end where you see the a. Lord Chesterfield's letter does great honour both to you and his Ex- ceUeacy. Tlie nation should not lose the opportunity of profiting by such a viceroy, which indeed is a rarity not to be met with every season, wliich grow^not on every tree. I hope your society will find means of encouraging particularly the t\vo points he recommends, glass and paper. For the former you wilLilo well to get your workmen from Holland rather than from Bristol. You have heard of the trick the glassmen of Bristol were said to have played Dr. Helsham and company. My wife, with her compliments, sends you a present* by the Cork carrier, who set out yesterday. It is au oifering of the first fruits of her painting. She began to draw in last November, and did not stick to it closely, but by way of amusement only at leisure hours. For my part, I think she shews a most uncommon genius : but others may be supposed to judge more impartially than I. My two younger children are beginning to employ themselves the same way. In short, here are two or three families in Imokillyt bent upon painting ; and I wish it was more general among the ladies and idle people, as a thing that may divert the spleen, improve the manufactures, and increase the wealth of the nation. We will endeavour to profit by our Lord Lieutenant's advice, and kindle up new arts with a spark of his public spirit. Mr. Simon has wrote to me, desiring I would become a member of the Historico-Physical Society. I wish them well, but do not care to list myself among them ; for in that case I should think myself obliged to do somewhat which might interrupt my other studies. I must therefore depend on you for getting me out of this scrape, and hinder Mr. Simon's proposing me, which he inclines to do at the request, it seems, of the Bishop of Meath. And this, with my service, will be a sufficient answer to Mr. Simon's letter. Elf- 68. — Sept. 12, 1746. I am just returned from a tour through my diocese of one hundred and thirty miles, almost shaken to pieces. What you write of Bishop Stone's preferment is highly probable. For myself, though his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant might have a better opinion of me than I deserved, yet it was not likely that he would make an Irishman primate. The truth is, I have a scheme of my own for this long time past, in which I propose more satisfaction and enjoyment of myself than I could in that high station, which I neither solicited nor so much as wished for. It is true, tlie primacy or archbishopric of Dublin, if offered, might have tempted me by a greater opportunity of doing good ; but there is no other preferm.ent in the kingdom to be desired on any other account than a greater income, which would not tempt me to remove from Cloyne, and set aside ray Oxford scheme, on which, though delayed by the illness of my son, yet I am as intent and as much resolved as ever. E.r. 69. — Feb. 2, 1749. Three days ago we received the box of pictures. The two men's heads with ruffs are well done ; the third is a copy and ill coloured; they are all Flemish; so is the woman, which is also very well painted, though it hath not the beauty and freedom of an Italian pencil. The two Dutch pittures, containing animals, are well done as to the animals ; but the human figure and sky are ill done. The two pictures of ruins are very well done, and are Italian. My son William % had already copied two other pictures of the same kind, and by the same hand. He and his sister are both employed in copying pictures at present ; which shall be despatched as soon as possible; after which they will set about some of yours. Their stint, on • The Bishop's portrait painted by Mrs. Berkeley, now in the possession of tlie Rev. Mr. Archdall of Bolton-street, Dublin. t The village of Cloyne is in the barony of Imokilly, county of Cork. i A fine youth, the second son of the Bishop, whose loss at an early age was thought to have studs too close to bis father's heart. xsxviii EXTRACTS, &c. account of health, is an hour and a half a day for Pointing So I doubt 'wo months will not suffice for copying; but no time shall be lo^t'^ ^ g.eat care taken of your pictures, for which we hold "^^^selves much obi ged On. round tower stands where it did ; but a little s one arched vault on the to^ was cracked, and must be repaired; the be 1 also was thrown down, and. broke its wa; through three boWed stories, but remains entire. The door was shivered into many small pieces and dispersed, ^"^ ^^f."^^ J^^^^^;'""^^ forced out of the wall. The whole damage, it is thought, will not amount to 20r The thunderclap was by far the greatest that f ever l^^^^d - Ireland E^. 70.-March 30, 1751. They are going to print at GlasgONV two edU^ns at once, in 4to and in folio, of all Plato's works, in most magniflcen types This work should be encouraged ; it would be right to mentioD it as you have opportunity.* To the Rev. Mr. Archdall, Boltou-street, Dublin. REV. SIR, Cloyne, De.. 8, 1751.^ This is to desire you may publish the inscription I sent you in Faulkner's paper. But say nothing of the author. I must desire you to cause the letters G. B., being the initial letters of my name, to be engraved on the die of the gold medal, at the bottom beneath the raee-horse ; whereby mine will be distinguished from medals given by others. TO THE SAME. Dec. 22, 1751. I thank you for the care you have taken in publishing the inscription so correctly, as likewise for your trouble in getting G. B. engraved on the plain at the bottom of the medal. When that is done, you may order two medals to be made, and given as usual. I would have only two made by my die : the multiplying of premiums lessens their value. If my inscription is to take place, let me know before it is engraved ; I may perhaps make some trifling alteration. [No date : but sent at this time to the same.] For the particulars of your last favour I give you thanks. I send the above bill to clear what you have expended on my account, and also ten guineas beside, which is my con- tribution towards the monument which I understand is intended for our deceased friend. Yesterday, though ill of the cholic, yet I could not forbear sketching -out the inclosed. I wish it did justice to his character. Such as it is, I submit it to you and your friends. Enclosed in the last : Memorise sacrum Thom^e Prior, Viri, si quis unquam alius, de patrisl optime meriti ; Qui, cum prodesse mallet quam conspici, nee in senatum co-optatus nee consiliorum aute particeps nee uUo publico munere insignitus rem tamen publicam mirificfe auxit et ornavit auspiciis, consiliis, labore iudefesso ; * Mr. Prior died the 21st of October following, aged 71. The inscription mentioned in the next article was for liis mouun:ient in Christchurch cathedral, erected at the estpeusc of Mr. Prior's friends and admirers. EXTRACTS, &c. xxxii Vir inoccuus, probus, pius partium studiis minimfe addictus de re familiar! paruin solicitus cum civium commoda unicfe spectaret: Quicquid vel ad inopise levamen yel ad vitae elegantiam facit quicquid ad desidiam populi vincendam aut ad_ bonas artes excitandas pertinett id omne pro virili excoluit Societatis Dubliniensis auctorj institutor, curator ; Quse fecerit pluribus dicere haud refert; quorsum narraret marmor ilia quae omnes norunt illse quae civium animis insculpta nulla dies delabit? This monument was erected to Thomas Prior, Esquire, at the charge of several persons who contributed to honour the memory of that worthy patriot, to whom his own actions and unwearied endeavours in the service of his country have raised a monument more lasting than marble. Jan. 7, 1752. I here send you inclosed the inscription, with my last amendments. In the printed copy siquis was one word : it had better be two, divided, as in this. There are some other small changes which you will observe. The Bishop of Meath was for having somewhat in English : accord- ingly I subjoin an English addition, to be engraved in a different character, and in continued lines (as it is written) beneath the Latin. The Bishop writes, that contributions come in slowly, but that near one hundred guineas are got. Now it should seem that if the first plan, rated at two hundred guineas, was reduced or altered, there might be a plain neat monumeat erected for one hundred guineas, and so (as the proverb directs) the coat be cut according to the cloth. To the Rev. Mr. Gervais, sen. Cloyne, Nov. 25, 1738. Rev. Sir, my wife sends her compliments to Mrs. Gei-vais and yourself for the receipt, &c., and we both concur in thanks for your venison. The rain hath so defaced your letter, that I cannot read some parts of it. But I can make a shift to see there is a compliment of so bright a strain, that if I knew how to read it, I am sure I should not know how to answer it. If there was anything agreeable in your entertainment at my house, it was chiefly owing to yourself, and so requires my acknowledg- ment, which you have very sincere. You give so much pleasure to others, and are so easily pleased yourself, that I shall live in hopes of your making my house your inn whenever you visit these parts, which will be very agree- able, to, &c. Jan. 12, 1742. You forgot to mention your address; else I should have sooner acknowledged the favour of your letter, for which I am much obliged, though the news it contained had nothing good but the manner of telling it. I had much rather write you a letter of congratulation than of comfort ; and yet I must needs tell you for your comfort, that I apprehend you miscarry by having too many friends. We often see a man with one only at his back pushed on and making his way, while another is embarrassed in a crowd of well-wishers. The best of it is, your merits will not be measured by your success. It is an old remark, that the race is not always to the swift. But at present who wins it, matters little ; for all protestant clergymen are like xl EXTRACTS, &c, soon to be at par, if that old priest.,^ your countryman, continues to carry on his schemes with the same policy and success he has hitherto done. The accounts you send agree with what I hear from other parts ; they are all alike dismal. Reserve yourself, however, for futui'e times, and mind the main chance. I would say, shun late hours, drink tar-water, and bring back (I wish a good deanery, but at least) a good stock of health and spirits to grace our little parties in Imokilly, where we hope, ere it be long, to see you and the sun returned together. My wife, who values herself on being in the number of your friends, is extremely obliged for the Italian psalms you have procured, and desires me to tell you, that the more you can procure, the more she shall be obliged. We join in wishing you many happy new years, health, and success. Feb. 2, 1742. I condole with you on your cold, a circumstance that a man of fashion who keeps late hours can hardly escape. We find here that a spoonful, half tar and half honey, taken morning, noon, and night, proves a most effectual remedy in that case. IVIy wife, who values herself on being in your good graces, expresses great gratitude for your care in procuring the psalms, and is doubly pleased with the prospect of your being yourself the bearer. The instrument she desired to be provided was a large four-stringed bass violin : but besides this, we shall also be extremely gkd to get that excellent bass viol which came from France, be the number of strings what it will. I wrote indeed (not to overload you) to Dean Brovvnef to look out for a six-stringed bass viol of an old make and mellow tone. But the more we have of good instruments, the better ; for I have got an excellent master, whom I have taken into my family, and all my children, not excepting my little daughter, learn to play, and are preparing to fill my house with har- mony against all events ; that if we have worse times, we may have better spirits. Our French woman is grown more attentive to her business, and so much altered for the better, that my wife is not now inclined to part with her, but is nevertheless very sensibly obliged by your kind offer to look out for another. What you say of a certiiin pamphlet is enigmatical ; I shall hope to have it explained viva voce. As this corner furnishes nothing worth sending, you will pardon me if, instead of other news, I transcribe a para- graph of a letter I lately received from an English bishop. " We ai'e now shortly to meet again in parliament, and by the proceedings upon the state of the nation Sir Robert's fate will be determined. He is doing all he can to recover a majority in the House of Commons, and is said to have succeeded as to some particulars. But in his main attempt, which was that of uniting the Prince and his court to the King's, he has been foiled. The Bishop of Oxford:t was employed to curry the proposal to the Prince, which was, that he should have the 100,000/. a year he had demanded, and his debts paid. But the Prince, at the same time that he expressed the utmost respect and duty to his IMajesty, declared so much dislike to his Minister, that without his removal he will hearken to no terras." I have alsohad another piece in the following words, which is very agreeable. " Lady 0orothy,§ whose gopd temper seems as great as her beauty, and who has gained on every one by her behaviour in these most unhappy circumstances, is" said at last to have gained over Lord Euston, and to have entirely won his affection." I find by your letter, the reigning distemper at the Irish court is disappointment. A man of less spirits and alacrity would be apt to cry out, Spes et/uriuna valete, &c., but my advice is, never to quit your hopes. Hope is often better than enjoyment. Hope is often the cause as well as the effect of youth. It is cer- * Cardinal Fleuii, then eighty-seven years old. Dean Gervais w.is a native of Montpelier, who was earried an infant out of France on the revocation of the edict of Nantz, in 1680. t Jemmat Brown was then dean of Rosse, bishop of KiJlaloc in 1743, of Dromore in 1745, of Cork the same year, of Elphin in 1772, and archbishop of Tuam in 177S : died in 1782. t Seeker. § Lady Dorothy Boyle, daughter of the Earl of Burlington, and wife to Lord Euston, son of a>e Duke of Grafton, EXTRACTS, &c. xli taiiily a very pleasant and healthy passion. A hopeless person is deserted by luinself i and he who forsakes himself is soon forsaken by friends and fortune, both which are sincerely wished you by, &c. March 6, 1742. Your last letter, containinff an account of the Queen of Hungary and her affairs, was all over agreeable. My wife and I are not a little pleased to find her situation so much better than we expected, and greatly applaud your zeal for her interests, though we are divided upon the motive of it. She imagines you would be less zealous, were the Queen old and ugly ; and will have it that her beauty has set you on fire even at this distance. I, on the contrary, afiirm, that you are not made of such com- bustible stuff; that you are affected only by the love of justice, and insensible to all other flames than those of patriotism. We hope soon for your presence at Cloyne to put an end to this controversy. Your care in providing the Italian psalms set to music, tlie four-stringed bass viplin, and the antique bass viol, require our repeated thanks. We have already a bass viol made in toouthwark, a. d. 1730, and reputed the best in England. And through your means we are possessed of the best in France. So we have a fair chance for having the two best in Europe. Your letter gives me hopes of a new and prosperous scene. We live in an age of revolutions so sudden and surprising in all parts of Europe, that I question whether the like has been ever known before. Hands are changed at home : it is well if measures are so too. If not, I shall be afraid of this change of hands ; for hungi7 dogs bite deepest. But let those in power look to this. We behold these vicissitudes with an equal eye from the serene corner of Cloyne, where we hope soon to have the perusal of your budget of politics. Mean time accept our service and good wishes. Sept, 6, 1743. The book which you were so good as to procure for me (and which I shall not pay for till you come to receive the money in person) con- tains all that part of Dr. Pococke's travels for which I have any curiosity ; so I shall, with my thanks for this, give you no further trouble about any other volume. — I find by the letter put into my hands by your son (who was so kind as to call here yesterday, but not kind enough to stay a night with us), that you are taken up with great matters, and, like other great men, in danger of overlooking your friends. Prepare, however, for a world of abuse, both as a courtier and an architect, if you do not find means to wedge in a visit to Cloyne between those two grand concerns. Courtiers you will find none here, andbut such virtuosi as the country affords ; I mean in the way of music, for that is present the reigning passion at Cloyne. To be plain, we are musically mad. If you would know what that is, come and see. Oct. 29, 1743. A bird of the air has told me that your reverence is to be dean of Tuara. No nightingale could have sung a more pleasing song-, not even my wife, who, I am told, is this day inferior to no singer in the king- dom. I promise you we are preparing no contemptible chorus to celebrate your preferment ; and if you do not believe me, come this Christmas, and believe your own ears. In good earnest, none of your friends will be better pleased to see you with your broad seal in your pocket than your friends at Cloyne. I wish I were able to wish you joy at Dublin; but my health, though not a little mended, suffers me to make no excursions farther than a mile or two. — What is this your favourite, the Queen of Hungary, has been doing by her emissaries at Petersburgh ? France is again upon her legs. I foresee no good. I wish all this may be vapour and spleen : but I write in sun-shine. Jan. 8, 1744. You have obliged the ladies as well as myself by your candid judgment on the points submitted to your determination. I am glad this matter proved an amusement in your gout, by bringing you acquainted with several curious and select trials,* which I should readily purchase, and accept your kind offer of procuring them, if I did not apprehend there * Collection of Tiialsin Fiiuu», publiibed under the title of " Cat»M Ctlibres." xlii EXTRACTS, &c miffht be some among them of too delicate a nature to be read by boys and girls, to whom my library, and particularly all French books, are open. — As to foreign affairs, we cannot descry or prognosticatte any good event from this remote corner. The planets that seemed propitious are now retrograde : Russia, Sweden, and Prussia lost : and the Dutch a nominal ally at best. You may now admire the Queen of Hungary without a rival : her conduct with respect to the Czarina and the Marquis de Botta hath, I fear, rendered cold the hearts of her friends, and their hands feeble. To be plain, from this time forward I doubt we shall languish, and our enemies take heart. And while I am thus perplexed about foreign affairs, my private economy (I mean the animal economy) is disordered by the sciatica ; an evil which has attended me for some time past ; and I apprehend will not leave me till the return of the sun. — Certainly the news that I want to hear at present is not from Rome or Paris, or Vienna, but from Dublin ; viz., when the Dean of Tuam is declared, and when he receives the congratulations of his friends. I con- stantly read the news from Dublin ; but lest I should overlook this article, I take upon me to congratulate you at this moment ; that as my good wishes werejnot, so my compliments may not, be behind those of your other friends. You have entertained me with so many curious things, that I would fain send something in return worth reading. But as this quarter affords nothing from itself, I must be obliged to transcribe a bit of an English letter that I re- ceived last week. It relates to what is now the subject of public attention, the Hanover troops, and is as follows : — " General Campbell (a thorough courtier) being called upon in the House of Commons to give an account whether he had not observed some instances of partiality, replied, he could not say he had : but this he would say, that he thought the forces of the two nations could never draw together again. This, coming from the mouth of a courtier, was looked upon as an ample confession : however, it was carried against the address by a large majority. Had the question been whether the Hanover troops should be continued, it would not have been a debate : but it being well known that the contrary had been resolved upon before the meeting of parliament, the moderate part of the opposition thought it was unnecessary, and might prove hurtful to address about it, and so voted with the court." You see how I am forced to lengthen out my letter by adding a borrowed scrap of news, which yet probably is no news to you. But though I should shew you nothing new, yet you must give me leave to shew my inclination at least to acquit myself of the debts I owe you, and to declare myself, &c. March J 6, 1744. I think myself a piece of a prophet when [ foretold that the Pretender's Cardinal feigned to aim at your head, when he meant to strike you, like a skilful fencer, on the ribs. It is true, one would hardly think the French such bunglers: but this popish priest hath manifestly bungled so as to repair the breaches our own bunglers had made at home. This is the luckiest thing that could have happened, and will, I hope, confound all the measures of our enemies. — I was much obliged and delighted with the good news you lately sent, which was yesterday confirmed by letters from Dublin. And though particulars are not yet known, I did not think fit to delay our pul)lic marks of joy, as a great bonfire before my gate, firing of guns, drmkmg of healths, &c. I was very glad of this opportunity to put a little spirit into our drooping Protestants of Cloyne, who have of late con- ceived no small fears on seeing themselves in such a defenceless condition among so great a number of Papists elated with the fame of these new enter- prises in their favour. It is indeed terrible to reflect, that we have neither arms nor militia m a province where the Papists are eight to one, and have an earlier intelligence than we have of what passes : by what means I know not ; but the fact is certainly true.— Good Mr. Dean (for Dean I will call you resolvingnot to be behind your friends in Dublin), you must know, that to us who hve in this remote corner many things seem strange and unaccountable that may be solved by you who are near the fountain head. Why are draughts EXTRACTS, &c. xliii made from our forces when we most want them ? Why are not the militia arrayed? How comes it to pass that arms are not put into the hands of Protestants, especially since they have been so long paid for i Did not our ministers know for a long time past that a squadron was forming at Brest ? Why did they not then bruise the cockatrice in the egg ? Would not the French works at Dunkirk have justified this step ? Why was Sir John Norris called oS from the chase when he had his enemies in full view, and was even at their heels with a superior force ? As we have two hundred and forty men-of-war, whereof one hundred and twenty are of the line, how comes it that we did not appoint a squadron to watch and intercept the Spanish Admiral with his thirty millions of pieces of eight? In an age where- in articles of religious faith are canvassed with the utmost freedom, we think it lawful to propose these scruples in our political faith, which in many points wants to be enlightened and set right. Your last was wrote by the hand of a fair lady, to whom both my wife and I send our compliments "as well as to yourself : I wish 'you joy of being able to write yourself. My cholic is changed to gout and sciatica, the tar-water having drove it into my limbs, and as I hope, carrying it oflf by those ailments, which are nothing to the cholic. Jan. 6, 1 745. — ^Two days ago I was favoured with a very agreeable visit from Baron Mountenay and Mr. Bristow. I hear they have taken Lismore in their yvay to Dublin. We want a little of your foreign fire to raise our Irish spirits in this heavy season. This makes your purpose of coming very agreeable news. We will chop politics together, sing lo Pceun to the Duke, revile the Dutch, admire the King of Sardinia, and applaud the Earl of Chesterfield, whose name is sacred all over this island except Lismore ; and what should put your citizens of Lismore out of humour with his Excellency I cannot comprehend. But the discussion of these points must be deferred to your wished-for arrival. Feb. 6, 1745. You say you carried away regret from Cloyne. I assure you that you did not carry it all away : there was a good share of it left with us : which was on the following news-day increased upon hearing the fate of your niece. My wife could not read this piece of news without tears, though her knowledge of that aimable young lady was no more than one day's acquaintance. Her mournful widower is beset with many temporal blessings : but the loss of such a wife must be long felt through them all. Complete happiness is not to be hoped for on this side Gascony. All those who are not Gascons must have a corner of woe to creep out at, and to comfort them- selves with at parting from this world. Certainly if we had nothing to make us uneasy here, heaven itself would be less wished for. But I should remem- ber I am writing to a philosopher and divine j so shall turn my thoughts to politics, concluding with this sad reflection, that, happen what will, I see the Dutch are still to be favourites, though I much apprehend the hearts of some warm friends may be lost at home, by endeavouring to gain the affec- tion of those lukewarm neighbours. June 3, 1745. I congratulate with you on the success of your late dose of physic. The gout, as Dr. Sydenham styles it, is amarissimum naturts pharmacum. It throws off a sharp excrement from the blood to the limbs and extremities of the body, and is no less useful than painful. I think, Mr. Dean, you have paid for the gay excursion you made last winter to the metro- polis and the court. And yet, such is the condition of mortals, I foresee you will forget the pain next winter, and return to the same course of life which brought it on. — As to our warlike achievements, if I were to rate our suc- cesses by our merits, I could forebode little good. But if we are sinners, our enemies are no saints. It is my opinion we shall heartily maul one another, without any signal advantage on either side. How the sullen English squires who pay the piper will like this dance, I cannot tell. For m.y own part I cannot help thinking, that land expeditions are but ill suited either to the force or interest of England ; ana that our friends would do xliv EXTRACTS, &c. more, if we did less, on the continent. — Were I to send my sou from home, I assure you there is no one to whose prudent care and good nature I would sooner trust him than yours. But as 1 am his physician, I think myself obliged to keep him with me. Besides, as after so long an illness his consti- tution is very delicate, I imagine this warm vale of Cloyne is better suited to it than your lofty and exposed situation of Lismore. Nevertheless, my wife and I are extremely obliged by your kind offer, and concur in our hearty thanks for it. Nov. 24, 1745. You are in for life. Not all the philosophers have been saying these three thousand years on the vanity of riches, the cares of great- ness, and the brevity of human life, will be able to reclaim you. However, as it is observed that most men have patience enough to bear the misfortunes of others, I am resolved not to break my heart for my old friend, if you should prove so unfortunate as to be made a bishop. — The reception you met with from Lord Chesterfield was perfectly agi-eeable to his Excellency's character, who being so clair-voyant in every thing else could not be supposed blind to your merit. — Your friends the Dutch have shewed themselves, what I always took them to be, selfish and ungenerous. To crown all, we are now told the forces they sent us have private orders not to fight. I hope we shall not want them. — By the letter you favoured me with I find the regents of our university have shewn their loyalty at the expense of their wit. The poor dead Dean,* though no idolater of the whigs, was no more a Jacobite than Dr. Baldwin. And had he been even a papist, what then? Wit is of no party.— We have been alarmed with a report that a great body of rapparees is up in the county of Kilkenny : these are looked on by some as the forerunners of an insurrection. In opposition to this, our militia have been arrayed, that is, sworn : but alas 1 we want not oaths, we want muskets. I have bought up all I could get, and provided horses and arms for four-and-twenty of the Protestants of Cloyne, which, with a few more that can furnish themselves, make up a troop of thirty horse. This seemed necessary to keep off rogues in these doubtful times.— May we hope to gain a sight of you in the recess ? Were I as able to go to town, how readily should I wait on my Lord Lieutenant and the Dean of Tuam. Your letters are so much tissue of gold and silver : in return I am forced to send you from this corner a patch-work of tailors' shreds, for which I entreat your compassion, and that you will believe me, &c. Feb. 24, 1746. I am heartly sensible of your loss, which yet admits of alleviation, not only from the common motives which have been repeated every day for upwards of five thousand years, but also from your own peculiar knowledge of the world and the variety of distresses which occur in all ranks from the highest to the lowest : I may add, too, from the peculiar times in vyhich we live, which seem to threaten still more wretched and unhappy times to come. iEtaa parentiim pejor avis ttllit Noa nequiores, ihok daturoB Progcniem vitiosioreni. Nor is it a small advantage that you have a peculiar resource against distress from the gaiety of your own temper. Such is the hypochondriac melancholy complexion of us islanders, that we seem made of butter, every accident makes such a deep impression upon us ; but those elastic spirits, which are your birthright, cause the strokes of fortune to rebound without leaving a » Immediately after Dean Swift's deatli, the etes of senior sophisters in the College of Dublin de. termined to apply a sum of money raised among tl.omselves, and usually expended on an entertainment, to tlie purpose of honourmg the memory of that great man by a bust, to be set up ih the collece Ubrarv Provost Baldwm, being a staunch whig, and having once smarted by an epigram of the Dean's, it was confidently thought, would have refused his consent to this measure, and the talk of the town about this hme was, that the board of senior fcUows would enter impUdtly into the same sentiments. But the event WdYww in tMbr^. '" """"""'' "'"'" ' "^ """ ™ "^^"^ "*""' *^ ^^ opposition, EXTRACTS, &c. xlv trace behind them ; though, for a time, there is and will be a gloom, which, I agree with your friends, is best dispelled at the court and metropolis, amidst a variety of taces and amusements. I wish I was able to go with you, and pay my duty to the Lord Lieutenant : but, alas ! the disorder I had this winter, and my long retreat, have disabled me for the road, and disqualified me for a court. But if I sec you not in Dublin, which I wish I may be able to do, I shall hope to see you at Cloyne when you can be spared from better company. These sudden changings and tossings from side to side betoken a fever in the state. But whatever ails the body politic, take care of your own bodily health, and let no anxious cares break in upon it. Nov. S, 1 746. Your letter, with news from the castle, found me in bed, confined by the gout. In answer to which news I can only say, that I neither expect nor wish for any dignity higher than what I am encumbered with at present. — That which more nearly concerns me is my credit, which I am glad to find so well supported by Admiral Lestock. I had promised you that before the first of November he would take King Lewis by the beard. Now Quim- percorrentin, Quimperlay, and Quimperen, being certain extreme parts or excrescences of his kingdom, may not improperly be styled the beard of France. In proof of his having been there, he has plundered the wardrobes of the peasants, and imported a great number of old petticoats, waistcoats, wooden shoes, and one shirt, all which were actually sold at Cove : the shirt was bought by a man of this town for a groat. And if yo\i won't believe me, come and believe your own eyes. In case you doubt either the| facts or the reasonings, I am ready to make them good, being now well on my feet, and longing to triumph over you at Cloyne, which I hope will be soon. April 6, 1752. Your letter by last post was very agreeable ; but the trem- bling hand with which it is written is a drawback from the satisfaction I should otherwise have had in hearing from you. If my advice had been taken, you would have escaped so many miserable months in the gout and the bad air of Dublin. But advice against inclination is seldom successful. Mine was very sincere, though I must own a little interested : for we often wanted your enlivening company to dissipate the gloom of Cloyne. This I look on as enjoying France at second hand. I wish any thing bnt the gout could fix you among us. But bustle aod intrigue, and great affairs, have and will, as long as you exist on this globe, fix your attention. For my own part, I sub- mit to years and infirmities, ftly views in this world are mean and narrow ; it is a thing in which I have small share, and which ought to give me small concern. I aTihor business, and especially to have to do with great persons and great affairs, which I leave to such as you, who delight in them and are fit for thevfa. The evening of life I choose to pass in a quiet retreat. Ambi- tious projects, intrigues, and quarrels of statesmen, are things I have formerly been aniused with j but they now seem to be a vain fugitive dream. If you thought as I do, we should have more of your company, and you less of the gout. We have not those transports of you castle-hunters ; but our lives are calm' and serene. We do, however, long to see you open your budget of politics by our fire-side. My wife and all here salute you, and send you, instead of compliments, their best sincere wishes for your health and safe return. The part you take in my son's recovery is very obligiog to us all, and particularly to, &c. A TREATISE CONCERNTNG THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE, AVHEREIN THE CHIEF CAUSES OF ERROR AND DIFFICULTY IN THE SCIENCES, WITH THE GROUNDS OF SCEPTICISM, ATHEISM, AND IRRELIGION, ARE INQUIRED INTO. INTRODUCTION, I. Philosophy being nothing else but the Btudy of wisdom and truth, it may with reason be expected, that those who have spent most time and pains in it, should enjoy a j;reater calm and serenity of mind, a greater clearness and evidence of knowledge, and be less disturbed with doubts and difficulties, than other men ; yet so it is, we see the illiterate bulk of mankind that walk the high-road of plain common sense, and are governed by the dictates of nature, for the most part easy and undisturbed. To them nothing that is familiar appears unaccountable or difficult to comprehend. They com- plain not of any want of evidence in their senses, and are out of ail danger of becoming sceptics. But no sooner do we depart from sense and instinct to follow the light of a superior principle, to reason, meditate, and reflect, on the nature of things, but a thousand scruples spring up in our minds, concerning those things which before we seemed fully to comprehend. Prejudices and errors of sense do from all parts discover themselves to our view ; and, endeavouring to correct these by reason, we are insensibly drawn into uncouth paradoxes, difficulties, and inconsistencies, which multiply and grow upon us as we advance in speculation ; till, at length, having wandered through many intricate mazes, we find ourselves just where we were, or, which is worse, sit dov?n in a forlorn scepticism. II. The cause of this is thought to be the obscurity of things, or the natural weak- ness and imperfection of our understandings. It is said, the faculties we have are few, and those designed by nature for the support and comfort of life, and not to penetrate into the inward essence and constitution of things. Besides the mind of man being finite, when it treats of things which partake of infinity, it is not to be wondered at, if it run into absurdities and contradictions; out of which it is impossible it should ever extricate itself, it being of the nature of infinite not to be comprehended by that which is finite. III. But perhaps we may be too partial to ourselves in placing the fault originally in our faculties, and not rather in the wrong use we make of them. It is a hard thing to suppose, that ri^ht deductions from true principles should ever end in consequences which cannot be maintained or made consistent. We should believe that God has dealt more bountifully with the sons of men, than tQ_give them a strong desire for that knowledge which he had placed quite out of their reach. This were not agreeable to the wonted, indulgent methods of Providence, which, whatever appetites it may have implanted in the creatures, doth usually furnish them with such means as, if rightly made use of, will not fail to satisfy them. Upon the whole, I am inclined to think, that the far greater part, if not all, of those difficulties which have hitherto amused philosophers, and blocked up the way to knowledge, are entirely owing to ourselves. That we have first raised a dust, and then complain we cannot see. IV. My purpose therefore is, to try if I can discover what those principles are which have introduced all that doubtfulness and uncertainty, those absuidities and contra- dictions, into the several sects of philosophy ; insomuch that the wisest men have thought our ignorance incurable, conceiving it to arise from the natural dulness and B 2 INTRODUCTION. limitation of our faculties. And surely it is a worlc well deserving our pains, to make a strict inquiry concerning the first principles of human knowledge, to sift and examine them on all sides : especially since there may be some grounds to suspect that those lets and difficulties, which stay and embarrass the mind in its search after truth, do not spring from any darkness and intricacy in the objects, or natural defect in the understanding, so much as from false principles which have been insisted on, and might have been avoided. V. How difficult and discouraging soever this attempt may seem, when I consider how many great and extraordinary men have gone before me in the same designs ; yet I am not without some hopes, upon the consideration that the largest views are not always the clearest, and that he who is shoit-sighted will be obliged to draw the object nearer, and may, perhaps, by a close and narrow survey, discern that which had escaped far better eyes. ''i. Vi. In order to prepare the mind of the reader for the easier conceiving what follows, it is proper to premise somewhat, by way of introduction, concerning the nature and abuse of language. But the unravelling this matter leads me in some measure to anticipate my design, by taking notice of what seems to have had a chief part in rendering speculation intricate and perplexed, and to have occasioned innumerable errors and difficulties in almost all parts of knowledge. And that is the opinion that the mind hath a power of framing abstract ideas or notions of things. He who is not a perfect stranger to the writings and disputes of philosophers, must needs acknowledge that no small part of them is spent about abstract ideas. These are, in a more especial manner, thought to be the object of those sciences which go by the names of logic and metaphysics, and of all that which passes under the notion of the most abstracted and sublime learning, in all which one shall scarcely find any question handled in such a manner, as does not suppose their existence in the mind, and that it is well acquainted with them.' VII. It is agreed on all hands, tliat the qualities or modes of things do never really exist each of them apart by itself, and separated from all others, but are mixed, as it were, and blended together, several in the same object. But we are told, the mind being able to consider each quality singly, or abstracted from those other qualities with which it is united, does by that means frame to itself abstract ideas. For example, there is perceived by sight an object extended, coloured, and moved : this mixed or compound idea the mind resolving into its simple, constituent parts, and viewing each by itself, exclusive of the rest, does frame the abstract ideas of extension, colour, and motion. Not that it is possible for colour or motion to exist without extension; but only that the mind can frame to itself by abstraction the idea of colour exclusive of extension, and of motion exclusive of both colour and extension. VIII. Again, the mind having observed that in the particular extensions perceived by sense, there is something common and alike in all, and some other things peculiar, as this or that figure or magnitude, which distinguished them one from another ; it considers apart or singles out by itself that which, is common, making thereof a most abstract idea of extension, which is neither line, surface, nor solid, nor has any figure or magnitude, but is an idea entirely prescinded from all these. So likewise the mind, by leaving out of the particular colours perceived by sense that which distinguishes them one from another, and retaining that only which is common to all, makes an idea^of cpjour in abstract which is neither red, nor blue, nor white, nor any other deter- minate colour. And in like mariner, by considering motion abstractedly not only from the body moved, but likewise from the figure it describes, and all particular directions and velocities, the abstract idea of motion is framed ; which equally corresponds to all particular motions whatsoever that may be perceived by sense. IX. And as the mind frames to itself abstract ideas of qualities or modes, so does it, by the same precision or mental separation, attain abstract ideas of the more com- pounded beings, which include several coexistent qualities. For example, the mind having observed that Peter, James, and John, resemble each other, in certain common agreements of shape and other qualities, leaves out of the complex or compounded idea ithasof Peter, James, and any other particular man, that which is peculiar to each, retaining only what is common to all ; and so makes an abstract idea wherein all the particulars equally partake, abstracting entirely from and cutting off all those circum- stances and differences, which might determine it to any particular existence. And after this manner it is said we come by the abstract idea of man, or, if vou please, humanity or human nature ; wherein it is true there is included colour, because there IS no man but has some colour, but then it can be neither white, nor black, nor any particular colour ; because there is no one particular colour wherein all men partake. So likewise there is included stature, but then it is neither tall stature nor low stature, nor yet middle stature, but something abstncted from all these. And 50 of the rest INTRODUCTION. 3 Moreover, there being a great variety of other creatures that partalce in snme parts but not all, of the complex idea of man, the mind leaving out those parts which are peculiar to men, and retaining those only which are common to all the living creatures, frameth the idea of animal, which abstracts not only from all particular men, but also all birds, beasts, fishes, and insects. The constituent parts of the abstract idea of animal are body, life, sense, and spontaneous motion. By bodi/ is meant, body without any particular shape or figure, there being no one shape or figure common to all animals, without covering, either of hair, or feathers, or scales, &c., nor yet nal;ed : hair, feathers, scales, and nakedness, being the distinguishing properties of particular animals, and for that reason left out of the abstract idea. Upon the same account the spontaneous motion must be neither walking, nor Hying, nor creeping : it is never- theless a motion, but what that motion is it is not easy to conceive. X. Whether others have this wonderful faculty of ulstracting their ideas, they best can tell ; for myself, I find indeed I have a faculty of imagining, or representing to niyself the ideas of those particular things I have perceived, and of variously compound- ing and dividing them. I can imagine a man with two heads, or the upper parts of a man joined to the body of a horse. I can consider the hand, the eye, the nose, each by itself abstracted or separated from the rest of the body. But then whatever hand or eye I imagine, it must have some particular shape and colour. Likewise the idea of man that I frame to myself, must be either of a white, or a black, or a tawny, a straight or a crooked, a tall or a low, or a middle-sized man. I cannot by any effort of thought conceive the abstract idea above described. And it is equally impossible for me to form the abstract idea of motion distinct from the body moving, and which is neither swift nor slow, curvilinear nor rectilinear; and the like may be said of all other abstract general ideas whatsoever. To be plain, I own myself able to abstract in one sense, as when I consider some particular parts or qualities separated from others, with which, though they are united in some object, yet it is possible they may really exist without them. But I deny that I can abstract one from another, or conceive separately, those qualities which it is impossible should exist so separated ; or that I can frame a general notion by abstracting from particulars in the manner aforesaid. Which two last are the proper acceptations oi abstraction. And there are grounds to think most men will acknowledge themselves to be in my case. The generality of men which are simple and illiterate never pretend to abstract notions. It is said, they are difficult, and not to be attained without pains and study. We may therefore reasonably conclude, that, if such there be, they are confined only to the learned. XI. I proceed to examine what can be alleged in defence of the doctrine of abstraction, and try it I can discover what it is that inclines the men of speculation to embrace an opinion so remote from common sense as that seems to be. There has been a late deservedly-esteemed philosopher, who no doubt has given it very much countenance, by seeming to think, the havingabstractgeneral ideas is what puts the widest difference in point of understanding betwixt man and beast. "The having of general ideas (saith he) is that which puts a perfect distinction betwixt man and brutes, and is an excellency which the faculties of brutes do by no means attain unto. For it is evident we observe no footsteps in them of making use of general signs for universal ideas ; from which we have reason to imagine that they have not the faculty of abstracting or making general ideas, since they have no use of words or any other general signs." And a little after : " Therefore I think, we may suppose that it is in this that the species of brutes are discriminated from men ; and it is that proper difference wherein they are wholly separated, and which at last widens to so wide a distance. For if they have any ideas at all, and are not bare machines (as some would have them), we cannot deny them to have some reason. It seems as evident to me that they do some of them in certain instances reason as that they have sense, but it is only in particular ideas, just as they receive them from their senses. They are the best of them tied up within those narrow bounds, and have not (as I think) the faculty to enlarge them by any kind of abstraction.'' — Essay on Hitman Understanding, b. ii. c. xi. sect. x. and xi. I readily agree with this learned author, that the faculties of brutes can by no means attain to abstraction. But then if this be made the distinguishing property of that sort of animals, I fear a great many of those that pass for men must be reckotied into their number. The reason that is here assigned why we have no grounds to think brutes have abstract general ideas, is, that we observe in them no use of words or any other general signs ; which is built on this supposition, to wit, that the making use of words, implies the having general ideas. From which it follows, that men who use language are able to abstract or generalize their ideas. That this is the sense and arguing of the author will further appear by his answering the question he in another place puts : " Since all things that exist are only particulars, how come we by general terms?" His answer is, " Words become general by being made the signs of general ideas." Essay b2 4 INTRODUCTION. on Human Vndentanding, b. iii. c. iii. sect. vi. But it seems that a word becomes general by being made the sign not of an abstract general idea, but of several particular ideas, anyone of which it differently suggests to the mind. For example, when it is said the change of motion is proportional to the impressed force, or that whatever has extension is divisible ; these proportions are to be understood of motion and extension in general, and nevertheless it will not folloiv that they suggest to my thoughts an idea of motion without a body moved, or any determinate direction and velocity, or that I must conceive an abstract general idea of extension, which is neither line, surface nor solid, neither great nor small, black, white, nor red, nor of any other determinate colour. It is only implied, that whatever motion I consider, whether it be swift or slow, perpendicular, horizontal, or oblique, or in whatever object, the axiom concerning it holds equally true. As does the other of every particular extension, it matters not whether line, surface, or solid, whether of this or that magnitude or figure. XII. By observing how ideas become general, we may the better judge how words are made so. And here it is to be noted, that I do not deny absolutely there are general ideas, but only that there are any abstract general ideas : for in the passages above quoted, wherein there is mention of general ideas, it is always supposed that they are formed by afofraei/oM, after the manner set forth in sect. viii. and ix. Now if we will annex a meaning to our words, and speak only of what we can conceive, I believe we shall acknowledge, that an idea, which considered in itself is particular, becomes general, by being made to represent or stand for all other particular ideas of the same sort. To make this plain by an example, suppose a geometrician is demon- strating the method of cutting a line in two equal parts. He draws, for instance, a black line of an inch in length, this which in itself is a particular line is nevertheless with regard to its signification general, since, as it is there used, it represents all particularlines whatsoever; so that what is demonstrated of it is demonstrated of all lines, or, in other words, of a line in general. And as that particular line becomes general by being made a sign, so the name line, which taken absolutely is particular, by being a sign is made general. And as the former owes its generality, not to its being the sign of an abstract or general line, but of all particular right lines that may possibly exist; so the latter must bethought to derive its generality from the same cause, namely, the various particular lines which it indifferently denotes. XIII. To give the reader a yet clearer view of the nature of abstract ideas, and the uses they are thought necessary to, I shall add one more passage out of the Essay on Human Understanding, v/h\ch is as follows. "Abstract ideas are not so obvious or easy to children, or the yet unexercised mind, as particular ones. If they seem so to grown men, it is only because by constant and familiar use they are made so. For when we nicely reflect upon them, we shall find that general ideas are fictions and contrrvances of the mind, that carry diliiculty with them, and do not so easily offer themselves as we are apt to imagine. *For example, does it not require some pains and skill to form the general idea of a triangle? (which is yet none of the most abstract, comprehensive and difBcultl; for it must be neither oblique nor rectangle, neither equilateral, equicrural, nor scalenon, but ««««-f senseless matter, nothing that I perceive has any the least connexion with it, or leads to the thoughts of it. And I would fain see anyone explain any the msAmsi phenomenon, in nature by it, or shew any manner of reason, though in the lowest rank of probability, that he can have for its existence ; ot even make any tolerable sense oj^ meaning o( 22 OF THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. that supposition. For as to its being an occasion we have, I thinlf, evidently shewn, that with regard to us it is no occasion : it remains therefore that it must be, if at all, the occasion to God of exciting ideas in us; and what this amounts to we have just now seen. LXXIir. It is worth wliile to reflect a little on the motives which induced men to suppose the existence of material substance ; that so having observed the gradual ceasing and expiration of those motives or reasons, we may proportionably withdraw the assent that was grounded on them. First therefore, it was thought that colour, figure, motion, and the rest of the sensible qualities or accidents, did really exist without the mind ; and for this reason, it seemed needful to suppose some unthinking substratum or substance wherein they did exist, since they could not be conceived to exist by themselves. Afterwards, in process of time, men being convinced that colours, sounds, and the rest of the sensible secondary qualities, had no existence without the mind, they stripped this substratum or material substance of those qualities, leaving only the primary ones, figure, motion, and such like, which they still conceived to exist without the mind, and consequently to stand in need of a material support. But it having been shewn, that none, even of these, can possibly exist otherwise than in a spirit or mind which perceives them, it follows that we have no longer any reason to suppose the being of wia^to-. Nay, that it is utterly impossible there should be any such thing, so long as that word is taken to denote an unthinking substratum of qualities or accidents, wherein they exist without the mind. LXXIV. But though it be allowed by the materialists themselves, that matter was thought of only for the sake of supporting accidents ; and the reason entirely ceasing, one might expect the mind should naturally, and without any reluctance at all, quit the belief of what was solely grounded thereon ; yet the prejudice is rivetted so deeply in our thoughts, that we can scarce tell how to part with it, and are therefore inclined, since the thing itself is indefensible, at least to retain the name ; which we apply to I know not what abstracted and indefinite notions of being or oceasion, though without any show of reason, at least so far as I can see. For what is there on our part, or what do we perceive amongst all the ideas, sensations, notions, which are imprinted on our minds, either by sense or reflection, from whence may be inferred the existence of an inert, thoughtless, unperceived occasion ? and on the other hand, on the part of an all-sufficient Spirit, what can there be that should make us believe, or even suspect, he is directed by an inert occasion to excite ideas in our minds ? LXXV. It is a very extraordinary instance of the force of prejudice, and much to be lamented, that the mind of man retains so great a fondness against all the evidence of reason, for a stupid thoughtless somewhat, by the interposition whereof it Would, as it were, screen itself from the providence of God, and remove him farther off from the afHiirs of the world. But though we do the utmost we can, to secure the belief of onatter, though when reason forsakes us, we endeavour to support our opinion on the bare possibility of the thing, and though we indulge ourselves in the full scope of an imagination not regulated by reason, to make out that poor possibility, yet the upshot of all is, that there are certain unhiown ideas m the mind of God; for this, if any thing, is all that I conceive to be meant by occasion with regard to God. And this, at the bottom, is no longer contending for the thing, but for the name. LXXVI. Whether therefore there are such ideas in the mind of God, and whether they may be called by name matter, I shall not dispute. But if you stick to the notion of an unthinking substance, or support of extension, motion, and other sensible quahties, then to me it is most evidently impossible there should be any such thing. Since it is a plain repugnancy, that those qualities should exist in or be supported by an un perceiving substance. LXXVII. But, say you, though it be granted that there is no thoughtless support of extension, and the other qualities or accidents which we perceive ; yet there may, perhapp, be some inert unperceiving substance, or siihslratnm of some other qualities, as incomprehensible to us as colours are to a man horn Wind, because we have not a sense adapted to them. But if we had a new sense, we should possibly no more doubt of their existence, than a blind man made to see does of the existence of light ami colours. I answer, first, if what you mean by the word matter be only the unknown supportof unknown qualities, it is no matter whether there is such a thing or Hot, since it no way concerns us; and I do not see the advantage there is in disputing about we know not what, and we know not why. LXXVI] I. But secondly, if we had a new sense, it could only furnish us with new ideas or sensations : and then we should have the same reason against there existing in an unperceiving substance, that has been already oflered with relation to figure, motion, colour and the like. Qualities, as hath been shewn, are nothing else but sensattom or ideat; which exist only in a mind perceiving them j and this is true not only of OF THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 23 the ideas we are acquainted with at present, but likewise of all possible idets whatsoever. LXXIX. But you will insist, What if I have no reason to believe the existence of matter, what if I cannot assign any use to it, or explain any thing by it, or even conceive what is meant by that word ? yet still it is no contradiction to say that matter exists, and that this matter is in general a substance or occasion of ideas ; though, indeed, to go about to unfold the meaning, or adhere to any particular explication of those words, may be attended with great difficulties. I answer, when words are used withouta meaning, you mayput them togetheras you please, without danger of running into a contradiction. You may say, for example, that twice two Is equal to seven, so long as you declare you do not take the words of that proposition in their usual accep- tation, but for marks of you know not what. And by the same reason you may say, there is an inert thoughtless substance without accidents, which is the occasion of our ideas. And we shall understand just as much by one proposition as the other. LXXX. In the last place, you will say, What If we give up the cause of material substance, and assert, that matter is an unknown somewhat, neither substance nor accident,^ spirit nor idea, inert, thoughtless, indivisible, immoveable, unextended, existing in no place ? for, say you, whatever may be urged against substance or occasion, or any other positive or relative notion of matter, hath no place at all, so long as this negative definition of matter is adhered to. I answer, you may. If so it shall seem good, use the word matter in the same sense that other men use nothing, and so make those terms convertible in your style. For after all, this is what appears to me to be the result of that definition; the parts whereof when I consider with attention, either collectively or separate from each other, I do not find that there is any kind of eflect or impression made on my mind different from what is excited by the term nothing. LXXXI. You wiU'reply, perhaps, that in the foresaid definition is included, what dothlsufficiently distinguish it from nothing, the positive, abstract idea of quiddity, entity, or existence. I own, Indeed, that those who pretend to the faculty of framing abstract general ideas, do talk as If they had such an idea, which is, say they, the most abstract and general notion of all, that is fto me the most incomprehensible of all others. That there are a great variety of spirits of different orders and capacities, whose faculties both in number and extent, are far exceeding those the Author of my being has bestowed on me, I see no reason to deny. And for me to pretend to deter- mine by my own few, stinted, narrow inlets of perception, what ideas the inexhaustible power of the supreme Spirit may imprint upon them, were certainly the utmost folly and presumption. Since there may be, for aught that I know, innumerable sorts of ideas or sensations, as different from one another, and from all that I have perceived, as colours are from sounds. But how ready soever I may be, to acknowledge the scantiness of my comprehension, with regard to the endless variety of spirits and ideas, that might possibly exist, yet for any one to pretend to a notion of entity or existence abstracted bora spirit ani idea, from perceiving and being perceived, is, J suspect, a downright repugnancy, and trifling with words. It remains that we consider the objections, which may possibly be made on the part of religion. LXXXII. Some there are who think, that though the arguments for the real existence of bodies, which are drawn from reason, be allowed not to amount to demon- stration, yet the Holy Scriptures are so clear in the point, as will sufficiently convince every good Christian, that bodies do really exist, and are something more than mere ideas ; there being in holy writ innumerable facts related, which evidently suppose the reality of timber and stone, mountains and rivers, and cities, and human bodies. To which 1 answer, that no sort of writings whatever, sacred or profane, which use those and the like words In the vulgar acceptation, or so as to have a meaning in them, are in danger of having their truth called in question by our doctrine. That all those things do really exist, that there are bodies, even corporeal substances, when taken in the vulgar sense, has been shewn to be agreeable to our principles : and the difference betwixt things and ideas, realities and chimeras, has been distinctly explained.* And I do not think, that either what philosophers call matter, or the existence of objects without the mind, is any where mentioned in Scripture. LXXXIII. Again, whether there be or be not external things, it is agreed on all hands, that the proper use of words, Is the marking our conceptions, or things only as they are known and perceived by us ; whence it plainly follows, that In the tenets we have laid down, there is nothing inconsistent with the right use and significancy of language, and that discourse of what kind soever, so far as it is intelligible, remains undisturbed. But all this seems so manifest, from what hath been set forth in the premises, that it is needless to insist any farther on it. * Sect. Kfix. xxs. xxxiii, xxxvi. &c, 24 Of THE PRINCIPLES OP HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. LXXXIV. But it will be urged, that miracles do, at least, lose much of their stress and import by our principles. What must we think of Moses' rod, was it not reallif turned into a serpent, or was there only a change of ideas in the minds of the spec- tators 1 And can it be supposed, that our Saviour did no more at the marriage feast in Cana, than impose on the sight, and smell, and taste, of the guests, so as to create in them the appearance or idea only of wine 1 The same may be said of all other miracles : which, in consequence of the foregoing principles must be looked upon only as so many cheats, or illusions of fancy. To this [ reply, that the rod was changed into a real serpent, and the water into real wine. That this doth not, in the least, contradict what I have elsewhere said, will be evident from sect, xxxiv. and xxxv. But this business of real and imaginary hath been already so plainly and fully ex- plained, and so often referred to, and tlie difficulties about it are so easily answered from what hath gone before, that it were an affront to the reader's understanding, to resume the explication of it in this place. I shall only observe, that if at table all who were present should see, and smell, and taste, and drink wine, and find the effects of it, with me there could be no doubt of its reality. So that at bottom, the scruple concerning real miracles hath no place at all on ours, but only on the received prin- ciples, and consequently maketh rather/w than against what hath been said. LXXXV. Having done with the objections, which I endeavoured to propose in the clearest light, and given them all the force and weight I could, we proceed in the next place to take a view of our tenets in their consequences. Some of these appear at first sight, as that several diflScult and obscure questions, on which abundance of speculation hath been thrown away, are entirely banished from philosophy. Whe- ther corporeal substance can think 1 whether matter be infinitely divisible? and how it operates on spirit 1 these and the like inquiries have given infinite amusement to philosophers in all ages. But depending on the existence oi matter, they have no longer any place on our principles. Many other advantages there are, as well with regard to religion as the sciences, which it is easy for any one to deduce from what hath been premised. But this will appear more plainly in the sequel. LXXXVI. From the principles we have laid down, it follows, human knowledge may naturally be reduced to two heads, that oiideas, and that ol spirits. Of each of these I shall treat in order. And first as to ideas or unthinking things, our knowledge of these hath jreen very much obscured and confounded, and we have been led into very dangerous errors, by supposing a twofold existence 6f the objects of sense, the one intelligible or in the mind, the other real and without the mind ; whereby un. thinking things are thought to have a natural subsistence of their own, distinct from being perceived by spirits. This which, if I mistake not, hath been shown to be a most groundless and absurd notion, is the very root of scepticism ; for so long as men thought that real things subsisted without the mind, and that their knowledge was only so far forth real as it was conformable to real things, it follows, they conid not be certain that they had any real knowledge at all. For how can it be known, that the things which are perceived, are conformable to those which are not perceived, or exist without the mind ? LXXXVir. Colour, figure, motion, extension, and the like, considered only as so many sensations in the mind, are perfectly known, there being nothing in them which is not perceived. But if they are looked on as notes or images referred to things or archetypes existing without the mind, then we are involved all in scepticism. We see only the appearances, and not the real qualities, of things. What may be the exten- sion, figure, or motion, of any thing really and absolutely, or in itself, it is impossible for us to know, butouly the proportion or the relation they bear to our senses. Things remaining the same, our ideas vary ; and which of them, or even whether any of them at all, represent the true quality really existing in the thing, it is out of our reach to determine. So that, for aught we know, all we see, hear, and feel, may be only phantom and vain chimera, and not at all agree with the real things existing in rerum natwra. All this scepticism follows, from our supposing a diffijrence between things and ideas, and that the former have a subsistence without the mind, or unper- ceived. It were easy to dilate on this subject, and shew how the arguments urged bv sceptics in all ages depend on the supposition of external objects. LXXXVIII. So long as we attribute a real existence to unthinking things, distinct from their being perceived, it is not only impossible for us to know with evidence the nature of any real unthinking being, but even that it exists, Hence it is, that we see philosophers distrust their senses, and doubt of the existence of heaven and earth of every thing they see or feel, even of their own bodies. And after all their labour and struggle ot thought, they are forced to own, we cannot attain to any self-evident or demonstrative knowledge of the existence of sensible things. But all this doubtful- pess, which so bewilders and confounds the mind, and m^V^i philosophy ridiculous iij OF THE PRINCIPLES OP HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 25 the eyes of the world, vanishes if we annex a meaning to our words, and do not amuse ourselves with the terms absolute, external, exist, and such like, signifying we know not what. J can as well doubt of my own being, as of the being of those things which I actually perceive by sense : it being a manifest contradiction, that any sensible object should be immediately perceived by sight or touch, and at the same time have no existence in nature, since the very existence of an unthinking being consists in being perceived. LXXXIX. Nothing seems of more importance, towards erecting a firm system of sound and real knowledge, which may he proof against the assaults of scepticism, than to lay the beginning in a distinct explication of what is meant by thing, reality, existence : for in vain shall we dispute concerning the real existence of things, or pre- tend to any knowledge thereof, so long as we have not fixed the meaning of those words. Thing or being is the most general name of all ; it comprehends under it two kinds entirely distinct and heterogeneous, and which have nothing common but the name, to wit, spirits and ideas. The former are active indivisible substances : the latter are inert, fleeting, dependent beings, which subsist not by themselves, but are supported by, or exist in, minds or spiritual substances. We comprehend our own existence by inward feeling or reflection, and thatof other spirits by reason. We may be said to have some knowledge or notion of our own minds, of spirits and active beings, whereof in a strict sense we have not ideas. In like manner we know and have a notion of relations between things or ideas, which relations are distinct from the ideas or things related, inasmuch as the latter may be perceived by us witliout our perceiving the former. To me it seems that ideas, spirits, and relation, are all, in their respective kinds, the object of human knowledge and subject of discourse : and that the term idea would he improperly extended to signify every thing we know or have any notion of. XC. Ideas imprinted on the senses are real things, or do really exist; this we do not deny, but we deny they can subsist without the minds which perceive them, or that they are resemblances of any archetypes existing without the mind : since the very being of a sensation or idea consists in being perceived, and an idea can be like nothing but an idea. Again, the things perceived by sense may be termed external with regard to their origin, in that they are not generated from within by the mind itself, hut imprinted by a spirit distinct from that which perceives them. Sensible objects may likewise be said to be without the mind, in another sense, namely, when they exist in some other mind. Thus when I shut my eyes, the things I saw may stiii exist, but it must be in another mind. XCI. It were a mistake to think, that what is here said derogates in the least from the reality of things. It is acknowledged on the received principles, that extension, motion, and in a word, all sensible qualities, have need of a support, as not being able to subsist by themselves. But the objects perceived by sense, are allowed to be nothing but combinations of those qualities, and consequently cannot subsist by them- selves. Thus far it is agreed on all hands. So that in denying the things perceived by sense, an existence independent of a substance, or support wherein they may exist, we detract nothing from the received opinion of their reality, and are guilty of no innovation in that respect. All the difference is, that according to us the unthinking beings perceived by sense have no existence distinct from being perceived, and cannot therefore exist in any other substance, than those unextended, indivisible substances, or spirits, which act, and think, and perceive them : whereas philosophers vulgarly hold, that the sensible qualities exist in an inert, extended, unperceiving substance, which they call matter, to which they attribute a natural subsistence, exterior to all thinking beings, or distinct from being perceived by any mind whatsoever, even the eternal mind of the Creator, wherein they suppose only ideas of the corporeal sub- stances created by him : if indeed they allow them to be at all created. XCII. For as we have shown the doctrine of matter or corporeal substance to have been the main pillar and support of scepticism, so likewise upon the same foundation have been raised all the impious schemes of Atheism and irreligion. Nay, so great a difficulty hath it been thought, to conceive matter produced out of nothing, that the most celebrated among the ancfent philosophers, even of those who maintained the being of a God, have thought matter to be uncreated, and coeternal with him. How great a friend material substance hath been to Atheists In all ages, were needless to relate. All their monstrous systems have so visible and necessary a dependence on it, that when this corner-stone is once removed, the whole fabric cannot choose but fall to the ground ; insomuch that it is no longer worth while to bestow a particular con- sideration on the absurdities of every wretched sect of Atheists. . XCIII That impious and profane persons should readily fall in with those systems which favour their inclinations, by deriding immaterial eubstancej and supposing thg 26 OP THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. soul to be divisible and subject to corruption as tlie body} which exclude all freedom, intelligence, and design, from the formation of things, and instead thereot make a self-existent, stupid, unthinking substance, the root and origm of all bemgs :— thai they should hearken to those who deny a Providence or inspection of a superior mind over the affairs of the world, attributing the whole series of events either ^ ['''"'1 chance or fatal necessity, arising from the impulse of one body on another :— all this is very natural. And on the other hand, when men of better principles observe the enemies of religion lay so great a stress on tmthinking matter, and all of them use so much industry and artifice to reduce every thing to it ; methinks they should rejoice to see them deprived of their grand support, and driven from that only fortress, without which your Epicureans, Hobbists, and the like, have not even the shadow of a pretence, but become the most cheap and easy triumph in the world. XCIV. The existence of matter, or bodies unperceived, has not only been the mam support of Atheists and fatalists, but on the same principle doth idolatry likewise in all its various forms depend. Did men but consider that the sun, moon, and stars, and every other object of the senses, are only so many sensations in their minds, which have no other existence but barely being perceived, doubtless they would never fall down and worship their own ideas ; but rather address their homage to that eternal INVISIBLE Mind which produces and sustains all things. XCV. The same absurd principle, by mingling itself with the articles of our faith, hath occasioned no small difficulties to Christians. For example, about the remirrec- tion, how many scruples and objections have been raised by Socinians and others! But do not the most plausible of them depend on the supposition, that a body is denominated the same, with regard not to the form or that which is perceived by sense, but the material substance which remains the same under several forms'! Take away this material substance, about the identity whereof all the dispute is, and mean by hody wliat every plain ordinary person means by that word, to wit, that which is immediately seen and felt, which is only a combination of sensible qualities, or ideas ; and then their unanswerable objections come to nothing. XCVI. Matter being once expelled out of nature, drags with it so many sceptical and impious notions, such an incredible number of disputes and puzzling questions, which have been thorns in the sides of divines as well as philosophers, and made so much fruitless work for mankind ; that if the arguments we have produced against it, are not found equal to demonstration (as to me they evidently seem), yet I am sure all friends to knowledge, peace, and religion, have reason to wish they were. XCVII. Beside the external existence of the objects of perception, another great source of errors and difficulties, with regard to ideal knowledge, is the doctrine of abstract ideas, such as it hath been setforth in the Introduction. The plainest things in the world, those we are most intimately acquainted with, and perfectly know, when they are considered in an abstract way, appear strangely difficult and incompre- hensible. Time, place, and motion, taken in particular or concrete, are what every body knows ; but having passed through the hands of a metaphysician, they become too abstract and fine to be apprehended by men of ordinary sense. Bid your servant meet you at such a time, in such a place, and he shall never stay to deliberate on the meaning of those words : in conceiving that particular time and place, or the motion by which he is to get thither, he finds not the least difficulty. But if time be taken, exclusive of all those particular actions and ideas that diversify the day, merely for the continuation of existence, or duration in abstract, then it will perhaps gravel even a philosopher to comprehend it. XCVIII. Whenever I attempt to frame a simple idea of time, abstracted from the succession of ideas in my mind, which flows uniformly, and is participated by all beings, I am lost and embrangled in inextricable difficulties. I have no notion of it at all, only I hear others say, it is infinitely divisible, and speak of it in such a manner as leads me to entertain odd thoughts of my existence : since that doctrine lays one under an absolute necessity of thinking, either that he passes away innumerable ages without a thought, or else that he is annihilated every moment of his life : both which seem equally absurd. Time therefore being nothing, abstracted from the suc- cession of ideas in our minds, it follows that the duration of any finite spirit must be estimated by the number of ideas or actions succeeding each other in that same spirit or mind. Hence it is a plain consequence that the soul always thinks ; and in truth whoever shall go about to divide in his thoughts, or abstract the existence of a spirit from its cogitation, will, I believe, find it no easy task. XCIX. So likewise, when we attempt to abstract extension and motion from allother qnaliiies, and consider them by themselves, we presently lose sight of them, and run intogreat extravagances ; all which depend on a twofold sbstraction : first, it is sup- posed that extension, for example may be abstracted from all other sensible qualitiee ; OP THE PRINICPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 27 and secondly, that the entity of extension may be abstracted from its being perceived But wlioever sliall reflect, and take care to understand what he says, will, if I mistalte' not, acltnowledge that all sensible qualities are alike sensations and alike real ; tliat where the extension is, there is the colour too, to wit, in his mind, and that tlieir archetypescan exist only in some other mind : and that the objects of sense are noHiing but those sensations combined, blended, or (if one may so speak) concreted together: none of all which can be supposed to exist unperceived. C. What it is for a man to be happy, or an object of good, every one may think he knows. But to frame an abstract idea of happiness, prescinded from all particular pleasure, or of goodness, from every thing that is good, this is what few can pretend to. So lilfewise, a man may be just and virtuous, without having precise ideas of Justice and virtue. The opinion that those and the like words stand for general notions abstracted from all particular persons and actions, seems to have rendered morality difficult, and the study thereof of less use to mankind. And in effect, the doctrine of abstraction has not a little contributed towards spoiling the most useful parts of knowledge. CI. The two great provinces of speculative science, conversant about ideas received from sense and their relations, are natural philosophy and mathematics ; with regard to each of these I shall make some observations. And first, I shall say somewhat of natural philosophy. On this subject it is, that the sceptics triumph : all that stock of arguments they produce to depreciate our faculties, and make mankind appear igno- rant and low, are drawn principally from this head, to wit, that we are under an in- vincible blindness as to the true and real nature of things. This they exaggerate, and love to enlarge on. We are miserably bantered, say they, by our senses, and amused only with the outside and show of things. The real essence, the internal qualities, and constitution of every the meanest object, is hid from our view ; something there is in every drop of water, every grain of sand, which it is beyond the power of human understanding to fathom or comprehend. But it is evident from what has been shewn, that all this complaint is groundless ; and that we are influenced by false principles to that degree as to mistrust our senses, and think we know nothing of those things which we perfectly comprehend. Cir. One great inducement to our pronouncing ourselves ignorant of the nature of things, is the current opinion that every thing includes within itself the cause of its properties : or that there is in each object an inward essence, which is the source whence its discernible qualities flow, and whereon they depend. Some have pre- tended to account for appearances by occult qualities, but of late they are mostly resolved into mechanical causes ; to wit, the figure, motion, weight, and such-like qualities of insensible particles : whereas, in truth, there is no other agent or efficient cause than spirit, it being evident that motion, as well as all other ideas, is perfectly inert. (See sect, xxv.) Hence, to endeavour to explain the production of colours or sounds by figure, motion, magnitude, and the like, must needs be labour in vain. And accordingly we see the attempts of that kind are not at all satisfactory. Whicli may be said in general of those instances, wherein one idea or quality is assigned for the cause of another. I need not say how many hypotheses and speculations are left out, and how much the study of nature is abridged by this doctrine. Cni. The great mechanical principle now in vogue is attraction. That a stone falls to the earth, or the sea swells towards the moon, may to some appear sufficiently explained thereby. But how are we enlightened by being told this is done by attraction? Is it that that word signifies the manner of the tendency, and that it is by the mutual drawing of bodies, instead of their being impelled or protruded towards each other? But nothing is determined of the manner or action, and it may as truiy (for aught we know) be termed impulse or protrusion as attraction. Again, the parts of steel we see cohere firmly together, and this also is accounted for by attraction ; but in this, as in the other instances, I do not perceive that any thing is signified besides the effect itself ; for as to the manner of the action whereby it is produced, or the cause which produces it, these are not so much as aimed at. CIV. Indeed if we take a view of the several phenomena, and compare them toge- ther, we may observe some likeness and conformity between them. For example, in the falling of a stone to the ground, in the rising of the sea towards the moon, in cohesion and crystallization, there issomething alike, namely a union ormutual approach of bodies. So that any one of these or the like phenomena may not seem strange or surprising to a man who hath nicely observed and compared the effects of nature. For that only is thought so which is uncommon, or a thing by itself, and out of the ordinary course of our observation. That bodies should tend towards the centre of the earth, is not thought strange, because it is what we perceive every moment of our lives, But that they should have a like gravitation towards the centre of the moon, 28 OF THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. may seem oad and unaccountable to most men, because it is discerned only in the tides. But a pliilosopher, whose thoughts tal- several Impoitant questions, and preventing «ouie very danfji'rous erron rnncerning the nnturp nl' the 56 OF THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. oul. We may not I think strictly be said to have an idea of an active heing, or of an action, although we may be said to have a notion of them. I have some knowledge or notion of my mind, and its acts about ideas, inasmuch as I know or understand what is meant by those words. What I know, that I have some notion of. I wil not say that the terms idea and notion may not be used convertibly, if the world will have it so. But vet it conduceth to clearness and propriety, that we distinguish things very different by different names. It is also to be remarked, that all relations including an act of the mind, we cannot so properlv be said to have an idea, but rather a notion of the relations or habitudes between things. But if in the modern way the word idea is extended to spirits, and relations and acts ; this is after all an affair of verbal concern. CXLIII. It will not be amiss to add, that the doctrine oi abstract ideas hath had no small share in rendering those sciences intricate and obscure, which are particularly conversant about spiritual things. Men have 1 imagined they could frame abstract notions of the powers and acts of the mind, and consider them prescinded, as well from the mind or spirit itself, as from their respective objects and effects. Hence a great number of dark and ambiguous terms presumed to stand for abstract notions, have been introduced into metaphysics and morality, and from these have grown infinite distractions and disputes amongst the learned. CXLIV. But nothing seems more to have contributed towards engaging men, in controversies and mistakes, with regard to the nature and operations of the mind, than the being used to speak of those things in terms borrowed from sensible ideas. For example, the will is termed the motion of the soul : this infuses a belief, that the mind of man is as a ball in motion, impelled and determined by the objects of sense, as necessarily as that is by the stroke of a racket. Hence arise endless scruples and errors of dangerous consequence in morality. AW which I doubt not may be cleared, and truthappear plain, uniform, and consistent, could but philosophers be prevailed on to retire into themselves, and attentively consider their own meaning. CXLV. From what hath been said, it is plain that we cannot know the existence of other spirits, otherwise than by their operations, or the ideas by them excited in us. I perceive several motions, changes, and combinations of ideas, that inform me there are certain particular agents like myself, which accompany them, and concur in their production. Hence the knowledge I have of other spirits is not immediate, as is the knowledge of my ideas ; but depending on the intervention of ideas, by me referred to agents or spirits distinct from myself, as effects or concomitant signs. CXLVI. But though there be some things which convince us, human agents are concerned in producing them ; yet it is evident to every one, that those things which are called the works of nature, that is, the far greater part of the ideas or sensations perceived by us, are not produced by, or dependent on the wills of men. There is therefore some other Spirit that causes them, since it is repugnant that they should subsist by themselves. See sect. xxix. But if we attentively consider the constant regularity, order, and concatenation of natural things, the surprising magnificence, beauty, and perfection of the larger, and the exquisite contrivance of the smaller parts of the creation, together with the exact harmony and correspondence of the whole, but above all, the never enough admired laws of pain and pleasure, and the instincts or natural inclinations, appetites, and passions of animals ; I say if we consider all these things, and at the Same time attend to the meaning and import of the attributes, one, eternal, infinitely wise, good, and perfect, we shall clearly perceive that they belong to the aforesaid Spirit, who works all in all, and hy whom all things consist, CXLVn. Hence it is evident, that God is known as certainly and immediately as any other mind or spirit whatsoever, distinct from ourselves. We may even assert, that the existence of God is far more evidently perceived than the existence of men ; because the effects of nature are infinitely more numerous and considerable, than those ascribed to human agents. There is not any one mark that denotes a man, or effect produced by him, which doth not more strongly evince the being of that Spirit, who is the author of nature. For it is evident that in affecting other persons, the will of man hath no other object, than barely the motion of the limbs of his body ; but that such a motion should be attended by, or excite any idea in the mind of another, depends wholly on the will of the Creator. He alone it is who " upholding all things by the word of his power,'' maintains that intercourse between spirits, whereby they are able to perceive the existence of each other. And yet this pure and clear light which enlightens every one, is itself invisible. CXLVIH. It seems to be a general pretence of the unthinking herd, that they cannot see God. Could we but see him, say they, as we see a man, we should believe that he is, and believing obey his commands. But alas, we need only open our eyes to see the sovereign Lord of all things with a more full and clear view, than we do any one of our fellow-creatures. Not that I imagine we see God (as some will have it) by OF THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 37 a direct and immediate view, or see corporeal things, not by themselves, but by seeing that which represents them in the essence of God, wiiich doctrine is I must confess to me incomprehensible. But I shall explain my meaning. A human spirit or person is not perceived by sense, as not being an idea; when therefore we see the colour, size, figure, and motions of a man, we perceive only certain sensations or ideas excited iu our own minds: and these being exhibited to ourviewin sundry'distinctcoUections, serve to mark out unto us the existence of finite and created spirits like ourselves. Hence it is plain, we do not see a man, if by man is meant that which lives, moves, perceives and thinks as we do : but only such a certain collection of ideas, as directs us to think there is a distinct principle of thought and motion like to ourselves, accompanying and represented by it. And after the same manner we see God ; all the difference is, that whereas some one finite and narrow assemblage of ideas denotes a particular human mind, whithersoever we direct our view, we do at all times and in all places perceive manifest tokens of the Divinity: every thing we see, hear, feel, or anywise perceive by sense, being a sign or effect of the power of God | as is our percep- tion of those very motions which are produced by men. CXLIX. It is therefore plain, that nothing can be more evident to any one that is capable of the least reflection, than the existence of God, or a spirit who is intimately present to our minds, producing in them all that variety of ideas or sensations, which continually aflect us, on whom we have an absolute and entire dependance, in short, " in whom we live, and move, and have our being.'' That the discovery of tliis great truth which lies so near and obvious to the mind should be attained to by the reason of so very few, is a sad instance of the stupidity and inattention of men, who, though they are surrounded with such clear manifestations of the Deity, are yet so little affected by them, that they seem as it were blinded with excess of light. CL. But you will say, hath nature no share in the production of natural things, and must they be all ascribed to the immediate and sole operation of God ; I answer, if by nature is meant only the visible series of effects, or sensations imprinted on our minds according to certain fixed and general laws : then it is plain, that nature taken in this sense cannot produce any thing at all. But if by nature is meant some being distinct from God, as well as from the laws of nature and things perceived by sense, I must confess that word is to me an empty sound, without any intelligible meaning annexed to it. Nature in this acceptation is a vain chimera, introduced by those heathens, who had not just notions of the omnipresence and infinite perfection of God. But it is more unaccountable, that it should be received among Christians professing belief in the holy Scriptures, which constantly ascribe those effects to the immediate hand of God, that heathen philosophers are wont to impute to nature. The Lord, " he causcth the vapours to ascend ; he maketh lightnings with rain ; he bringeth forth the wind oufof his treasures." Jer. x. 13. " He turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night." Amos v. 8. " He visileth the earth, and maketh it soft with showers : he blesseth the springing thereof, and crowneih the year with his goodness; so that the pastures are clothed with flocks, and the valleys are covered over with corn." See Psalm Ixv. But notwithstanding that this is the constant language of Scripture ; yet we have I know not what aversion from believing, that God concerns himself so nearly in our affairs. Fain would we suppose him at a the production of natural things, do not seem to have for their cause the immediate hand of an almighty Agent. Besides, monsters, untimely births, fruits blasted in the blossom, rains falling in desert places, miseries incident to human life, are so many arguments that the whole frame of nature is not immediately actuated and superin- tended by a Spirit of infinite wisdom and goodness. But the answer to this objection is in a go'od measure plain from sect. Ixii, it being visible, that the aforesaid methods of nature are absolutely necessary, in order to working by the most simple and general rules, and after a steady and consistent manner ; which argues both the wisdom and goodness of God. Such is the artificial contrivance of this mighty machine of nature, that wliilst its motions and various phenomena strike on our senses, the hand which actuates the whole is itself unperceivable to men of flesh and blood. " Verily (saith the prophet) thou art a God that hidest thyself." Isaiah xlv. 15. But though God conceal himself from the eyes of the sensual and lazy, who will not be at the least expense of thought; yet to an unbiassed and attentive mind, nothing can be more nlainlv legible, than the intimate presence of an all-wise Spint,v!ho fashions, regulates, and sustainsthewhole system of being. Itisclear from what we have elsewhere observed, that the operating according to general and stated laws, is so necessary for our guidance in the affsits gf life, and letting us in W the eeeret of natuie, that without it, all reach 38 OF THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. and compass of thought, all human sagacity and design could serve to no manner of purpose : it were even impossible there should be any such faculties or powers in tne mind. See sect. xxxi. Which one consideration abundantly outbalances whatever particular inconveniences may theuce arise. , , r ^ c i CLII. We should further consider, that the very blemishes and defects ot nature are not without their use, in that they make an agreeable sort of variety, and augment the beauty of the rest of the creation, as shades in a picture serve to set oti the brighter and more enlightened parts. We would likewise do well to examine whether our tax- ing the waste of seeds and embryos, and accidental destruction of plants and animals, before they come to full maturity, as an imprudence in the Author of nature, be not the effect of prejudice contracted by our familiarity with impotent and saving mortals. In man indeed a thrifty management of those things, which he cannot procure without much pains and industry, may be esteemed wisdojn. But we- must not imagine, that the inexplicably fine machine of an animal or vegetable, costs the great Creator any more pains or trouble in its production than a pebble doth : nothing being more evi- dent, than that an omnipotent Spirit can indifferently produce every thing by a mere fiat or act of his will. Hence it is plain, that the splendid profusion of natural things should not be interpreted weakness or prodigality in the agent who produces them, but rather be looked on as an argument of the riches of his power. CLHI. As for the mixture of pain or uneasiness which is in the world, pursuant to the general laws of nature, and the actions of finite imperfect spirits : this, in the state we are in at present, is indispensably necessary to our well-being. But our prospects are too narrow: we take, for instance, the idea of some one particular pain into our thoughts, and account it evil; whereas if we enlarge our view, so as to comprehend the various ends, connexions, and dependences of things, on what occasions and in what proportions we are affected with pain and pleasure, the nature of human freedom, and the design with which we are put into the world ; we shall be forced to acknow- ledge that those particular things, which considered in themselves appear to be evil, have the nature oi good, when considered as linked with the whole system of beings. CLIV. From what hath been said it will be manifest to any considering person, that it is merely for want of attention and comprehensiveness of mind, that there are any favourers of Atheism or the Manichean heresy to be found. Little and unreflecting souls may indeed burlesque the works of Providence, the beauty and order whereof they have nut capacity, or will not be at the pains to comprehend. But those who are masters of any justness and extent of thought, and are withal used to reflect, can never sufficiently admire the Divine traces of wisdom and goodness that shine throughout the economy of nature. But what truth is there which shineth so strongly on the mind, that by an aversion of thought, a wilful shutting of the eyes, we may not escape seeing it ? Is it therefore to be wondered at, if the generality of men, who are ever in- tent on business or pleasure, and little used to fix or open the eye of their mind, should not have all that conviction and evidence of the being of God, which might be expected in reasonable creatures ? CLV. We should rather wonder, that men can be found so stupid as to neglect, than that neglecting they should be unconvinced of such an evident and momentous truth. And yet it is to be feared that too many of parts and leisure, who live in Christian countries, are merely, through a supine and dreadful negligence, sunk into a sort of Atheism. Since it is downright impossible, that a soul pierced and enlightened with a thorough sense of the omnipresence, holiness, and justice of that almighty Spirit, should persist in a remorseless violation of his laws. We ought therefore earnestly to meditate and dwell on those important points ; that so we may attain conviction with- out all scruple, •' that the eyes of the Lord are in every place beholding the evil and the good ; — that he is with us and keepeth us in all places whither we go, and giveth us bread to eat, and raiment to put on ;" that he is present and conscious to our in- nermost thoughts ; and that we have a most absolute and immediate dependance on him. A clear view of which great truths cannot choose but fill our hearts with an awful circumspection and holy fear, which is the strongest incentive to virtue, and the best guard against vice. CLVI. For after all, what deserves the first place in our studies, is the consideration of God, and our duty ; which to promote, as it was the main drift and design of my labours, so shall I esteem them altogether useless and ineffectual, if by what I have said I cannot inspire my readers with a pious sense of the presence of God : and hav- ing shewn the falseness or vanity of those barren speculations, which make the chief employment of learned men, the better dispose them to reverence and embrace the salutary truths of the gospel, which to know and to practise is the highest perfection of human nature, ° '' THREE DIALOGUES BETWEEN HYLAS AND PHILONOUS, IN OPPOSITION TO SCEPTICS AND ATHEISTS. THE FIRST DIALOGUE. PHILONOUS. Good morrow, Hylas : I did not expect to find you abroad so early. Hylas. It is indeed something unusual ; but my thoughts were so taken up with a subject I was discoursing of last night, that finding I could not sleep, I resolved to rise and take a turn in the garden. Phil. It happened well, to let you see what innocent and agreeable pleasures you lose every morning. Can there be a pleasanter time of the day, or a more delightful season of the year 1 That purple sky, those wild but sweet notes of birds, the fragrant bloom upon the trees and flowers, the gentle influence of the rising sun, these and a thousand nameless beauties of nature inspire the soul with secret transports ; its faculties too being at this time fresh and lively, are fit for these meditations, which the solitude of a garden and tranquillity of the morning naturally dispose us to. But I am afraid I interrupt your thoughts : for you seemed very intent on something. Hyl. It is true, I was, and shall be obliged to you if you will permit me to go on in the same vein ; not that I would by any means deprivemyself of your company, for my thoughts always flow more easily in conversation with a friend, than when I am alone ; but my request is, that you would suffer me to impart my reflections to you. Phil, With all ray heart, it is what I should have requested myself if you had not prevented me. Hyl. I was considering the odd fate of those men who have in all ages, through an afTectation of being distinguished from the vulgar, or some unaccountable turn of thought, pretended either to believe nothing at all, or to believe the most extravagant things in the world. This however might be borne, if their paradoxes and scepticism did not draw after them some consequences of general disadvantage to mankind. But the mischief lieth here ; that when men of leas leisure see them who are supposed to have spent their whole time in the pursuits of knowledge, professing an entire igno- rance of all things, or advancing auch notions as are repugnant to plain and commonly received principles, they will be tempted to entertain suspicions concerning the most important truths, which they had hitherto held sacred and unquestionable. Phil. I entirely agree with you, as to the ill tendency of the affected doubts of some philosophers, and fantastical conceits of others. I am even so far gone of late in this way of thinking, that I have quitted several of the sublime notions I had got in their schools for vulgar opinions. And I give it you on my word, since this revolt from metaphysical notions, to the plain dictates of nature and common sense, I find my understanding strangely enlightened, so that I can now easily comprehend a great many things which before were all mystery and riddle. Hyl. I am glad to find there was nothing in the accounts I heard of you. Phil. Pray, what were those ? Hyl. You were represented in last night's conversation, as one who maintained the most extravagant opinion that ever entered into the mind of man, to wit, that there is no such tiling as material substance in the world. Phil. That there is no such thing as what philosophers call tnatmal substance, I am seriously persuaded ; but if I were made to see any thing absurd or sceptical in this, 40 THE FIRST DIALOGUE. I should then liave the same reason to renounce this, that I imagine I have now to reject the contrary opinion. Hyl. What! can any thing be more fantastical, more repugnant to common sense, or a more manifest piece of scepticism, than to believe there is no such thmg as matter ? , , , , j xt • Phil. Softly good Hylas. What if it should prove, that you, who hold there is, are by virtue of that opinion a greater sceptic, and maintain more paradoxes and repug- nances to common sense, than I who believe no such thing ? Byl. You may as soon persuade me, the part is greater than the whole, as that in order to avoid absurdity and scepticism, I should ever be obliged to give up my opinion in this point. Phil. Well then, arc you content to admit that opinion for true, which upon ex- amination shall appear m'ost agreeable to common sense, and remote from scepticism 1 Hyl. With all my heart. Since you are for raising disputes about the plainest things in nature, I am content for once to hear what you have to say. Phil. Pray, Hylas, what do you mean by a sceptic ? Hyl. I mean what all men mean, one that doubts of every thing. Phil. He then who entertains no doubt concerning some particular point, with regard to that point cannot be thought a sceptic. Hyl. I agree with you. Phil. Whether doth doubting consist in embracing the affirmative or negative side of a question ? Hyl. In neither; for whoever understands English, cannot but know that doubting signifies a suspense between both. Phil. He then that denieth any point, can no more be said to doubt of it, than he who aflirmeth it with the same degree of assurance. Hyl. True. Phil. And consequently, for such his denial is no more to be esteemed a sceptic than the other. Hyt. I acknowledge it. Phil. How Cometh it to pass then, Hylas, that you pronounce me a sceptic, because I deny what you affirm, to wit, the existence of matter? Since, for aught you can tell. I am as peremptory in my denial, as you in your affirmation. Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I have been a little out in my definition ; but every false step a man makes in discourse is not to be insisted on. I said indeed that a sceptic was one who doubted of every thing; but I should have added, or who denies the reality and truth of things. Phil. What things? Do you mean the principles and theorems of sciences? but these you know are universal intellectual notions, and consequently independent of matter ; the denial therefore of this doth not imply the denying them. Hyl. I grant it. But are there no other things? What think you of distrusting the senses, of denying the real existence of sensible things, or pretending to know nothing of them. Is not this sufficient to denominate a man a sceptic ! Phil. Shall we therefore examine which of us it is that denies the reality of sensible things, or professes the greatest ignorance of them ; since, if I take you rightly, he is to be esteemed the greatest sceptic? Hyl. That is what I desire. Fhil. What mean you by sensible things ? Hyl. Those things which are perceived by the senses. Can you imagine that I mean any thing else ? Phil. Pardon me, Hylas, if I am desirous clearly to apprehend your notions, since this may much shorten our inquiry. Suffer me then to ask you this farther question. Are those things only perceived by the senses which are perceived immediately ? or may those things properly be said to be sensible, which are perceived mediately; or not without the intervention of others ? Hyl. I do not sufficiently understand you. Phil. In reading a book, what I immediately perceive are the letters, but mediately, or by means of these, are suggested to my mind the notions of God, virtue, truth, &c. Now, that the letters are truly sensible things, or perceived by sense, there is no doubt : but I would know whether you take the things suggested by them to be so. too. Hyl. No, certainly; it were absurd to think Gocf or wVfee sensible things, though they may be signified and suggested to the mind by sensible marks, with which they have an arbitrary connexion. Phil. It seems then, that by sensible things you mean those only which can be per- ceived immediately by sense ? tl(lU Jlight, THE FIRST DIALOGUE. 41 Phil. Doth it not follow from this, that tliough I see one part of the sky red, and another blue, and that ray reason doth thence evidently conclude there must be some cause of that diversity of colours, yet that cause cannot be said to be a sensible thing, or perceived by the sense of seeing 1 Hyl. It doth. Phil. In lilje manner, though I hear variety of sounds, yet I cannot be said to hear the causes of tliose sounds ? Hyl. You cannot. Phil. And when by my touch I perceive a thing to be hot and heavy, I cannot say with any truth or propriety, that I feel the cause of its heat or weight. Hyl. To prevent any more questions of this liind, I tell you once for all, that by sensible things I mean those only which are perceived by sense, and that in truth the senses perceive nothing which they do not perceive immediately : for they make no inferences. The deducing therefore of causes or occasions from eiFects and appear- ances which alone are perceived by sense, entirely relates to reason. Phil. This point then is agreed between us, that sensible things are those only which are immediately perceived by seme. You will farther inform me, whether wc immedi- ately perceive by sight any thing beside light, and colours, and figures : or by hearing, any thing but sounds : by the palate, any thing beside tastes : by the smell, beside odours ; or by the touch, more than tangible qualities. Hyl. We do not. Phil. It seems therefore, that if you take away all sensible qualities, there remains nothing sensible ? Hyl. I grant it. Phil. Sensible things therefore are nothing else but so many sensible qualities, or combinations of sensible qualities ? Hyl. Nothing else. Phil. Heat then is a sensible thing ? Hyl. Certainly. Phil. Doth the reality of sensible things consist in being perceived 1 or, is it some- thing distinct from their being perceived, and that bears no relation to the mind ? Hyl. To exist is one thing, and to be perceived is another. Phil. I speak with regard to sensible things only : and of these I ask, whether by their real existence you mean a subsistence exterior to the mind, and distinct from their being perceived ? Hyl. I mean a real absolute being, distinct from, and without any relation to their being perceived. Phil. Heat therefore, if it be allowed a real being, must exist without the mind? Hyl. It must. Phil. Tell me, Hylas, is this real existence equally compatible to all degrees of heat, which we perceive: or is there any reason why we should attribute it to some, and deny it others'! and if there be, pray let me know that reason. Hyl. Whatever degree of heat we perceive by sense, we may be sure the same exists in the object that occasions it. Phil. What ! the greatest as well as the least? Hyl. 1 tell you, the reason is plainly the same in respect of both : they are both pei-ceived by sense ; nay, the greater degree of heat is more sensibly perceived ; and consequently, if there is any difference, we are more certain of its real existence than we can be of the reality of a lesser degree. Phil. But is not the most vehement and intense degree of heat a very great pain. Hyl. No one can deny it. Phil. And is any unperceiving thing capable of pain or pleasure 1 Hyl. No certainly. Phil. Is your material substance a senseless being, or a being endowed with sense and perception ? Hyl. It is senseless without doubt. Phil. It cannot therefore be the subject of pain? Hyl. By no means. Phil. Nor consequently of the greatest heat perceived by sense, since you acknow- ledge this to be no small pain. Hyl. I grant it. Phil. What shall we say then of your external object ; is it a material substance, or no ? Hyl. It is a material substance with the sensible qualities inhering in it* Phil, How then can a great heat exist in it, since you own it cannot in a material substance f I desire you would clear this point. 42 THE FIRST DIALOGUE. H,jl. Hold, Philonous, I fear I was out in yielding intense heat to be a pain. It should seem rather, that pain is something distinct from heat, and the consequence or eilect of it. ' . Phil. Upon putting your hand near the fire, do you perceive one simple uniform sensation, or two distinct sensations ^ Hyl. But one simple sensation. Phil. Is not the heat immediately perceived ? Hyl. It is. Phil. And the pain 1 Hyl. True. Phil. Seeing therefore they are both immediately perceived at the same time, and the fire aiTects you only with one simple, or uncompounded idea, it follows that this same simple idea is both the intense heat immediately perceived, and the pain ; and conse- quently, that the intense heat immediately perceived, is nothing distinct from a particular sort of pain. Hyl. It seems so. Phil. Again, try in your thoughts, Hylas, if you can conceive a vehement sensation to be without pain or pleasure. Hyl. I cannot. Phil. Or can you frame to yourself an idea of sensible pain or pleasure, in general, abstracted from every particular idea of heat, cold, tastes, smells'! &c. Hyl. I do not find that I can. Phil. Doth it not therefore follow, that sensible pain is nothing distinct from those sensations or ideas, in an intense degree 1 Hyl. It is undeniable ; and to spealc the truth, I begin to suspect a very great beat cannot exist but in a mind perceiving it. Phil. What ! are you then in that sceptical slate of suspense, between affirming and denying 1 Hyl. I think I may be positive in the point. A very violent and painful lieat can- not exist without the mind. Phil. It hath not therefore, according to you, any real being? Hyl. I own it. Phil. Is it therefore certain, that there is no body in nature really hoti Hyl. I have not denied there is any real heat in bodies. I only say, there is no such thing as an intense real heat. Phil. But did 5'ou not say before, that all degrees of heat were equally real : or if there was any difference, that the greater were more undoubtedly real than the lesser? Hyl, True: but it was, because I did not then consider the ground there is for distinguishing between them, which f now plainly see. And it is this : because intense heat is nothing else but a particular kind of painful sensation ; and pain can- not exist but in a perceiving being ; it follows that no intense heat can really exist in an unperceiving corporeal substance. But this is no reason why we should deny heat in an inferior degree to exist in such a substance. Phil. But how shall we be able to discern those degrees of heat which exist only in the mind, from those which exist without it ? Hyl. That is no difficult matter. You know, the least pain cannot exist unper- ceived ; whatever, therefore, degree of heat is a pain, exists only in the mind. But as for all other degrees of heat, nothing obliges us to think the same of them. Phil. I think you granted before, that no unperceiving being was capable of plea- sure, any more than of pain. Hyl. I did. Phil. And is not warmth, or a more gentle degree of heat than what causes uneasi- ness, a pleasure? Hyl. What then ? Phil. Consequently it cannot exist without the mind in any unperceiving substance, Hyl. So it seems. PJtil. Since therefore, as well those degrees of heat that are not painful, as tliose that are, can exist only m a thmking substance ; may we not conclude that external bodies are absolutely incapable of any degree of heat whatsoever? Hyl. On second thoughts, I do not think it so evident that warmth is a pleasure, as that a great degree of heat is a pain. Phil. I do not pretend that warmth is as great a pleasure as heat is a pain. But if you grant i\, to be even a small pleasure, it serves to make good my conclusion* THE FIRST DIALOGUE. 43 Hyl. I could ratlier call it an indolence. It seems to be nothing nioie than a privation of hoth pain and pleasure. And that such a quality or state as this may agree to an unthinking substance, I hope you will not deny. Phil. If jou are resolved to maintain that warmth, or a gentle degree of heat, is no pleasure, I know not how to convince you otherwise, than by appealing to your own sense. But what think you of cold ? Hyl. The same that I do of heat. An intense degree of cold is a pain ; for to feel a very great cold, is to perceive a great uneasiness : it cannot therefore exist without the mind ; but a lesser degree of cold may, as well as a lesser degree of heat. P/«7. Those bodies, therefore, upon whose application to our own, we perceive a moderate degree of heat, must be concluded to have a moderate degree of heat or warmth in them ; and those, upon whose application we feel a like degree of cold, must be thought to have cold in them. Hyl. They must. ^ Phil. Can any doctrine be true that necessarily leads a man into an absurdity 1 Hyl. Without doubt it cannot. Phil. Is it not an absurdity to think that the same thing should be at the same time both cold and warm ? Hyl. It is. Phil. Suppose now one of your hands hot, and the other cold, and that they are both at once put into the same vessel of water, in an intermediate state ; will not the water seem cold to one hand, and warm to the other ^ Hyl. It will. Phil. Ought we not therefore, by your principles, to conclude it is really both cold and warm at the same time, that is, according to your own concession, to believe an absurdity. Hyl. I confess it seems so. Phil. Consequently, the principles themselves are false, since you have granted that no true principle leads to an absurdity. Hyl. But after all, can any thing be more absurd than to say, there is no heat in the fire f Phil. To make the point still clearer ; tell nie, whether in two cases exactly alike, we ought not to make the same judgment? Hyl. We ought. Phil. When a pin pricks your finger, doth it not rend and divide the fibres of your flesh? Hyl. It doth. Phil. And when a coal burns your finger, doth it any more ? Hyl. It doth not. Phil. Since, therefore, you neither judge the sensation itself occasioned by the pin, nor any thing like it to be in the pin j you sliould not, conformably to what you have now granted, judge the sensation occasioned by the fire, or any thing h'ke it, to be in the fire. Hyl. Well, since it must be so, I am content to yield this point, and acknowledge, that heat and cold are only sensations existing in our minds : but there still remain qualities enough to secure the reality of external things. Phil. But what will you say, Hylas, if it shall appear that the case is the same with regard to all other sensible qualities, and that they can no more be supposed to exist without the mind, than heat and cold ? Hyl. Then indeed yon will have done something to the purpose; but that is what I despair of seeing proved. Phil. Let us examine them in order. What think you of tastes, do they exist without the mind, or no ? Hyl. Can any man in his senses doubt whether sugar is sweet, or wormwood bitter 1 Phil. Inform me, Hylas. Is a sweet taste a particular kind of pleasure or pleasant sensation, or is it not ? Hyf. It is. Phil. And is not bitterness some kind of uneasiness or pain ? Hyl. I grant it. Phil. If therefore sugar and wormwood are unthinking corporeal substances exist- ing without the mind, how can sweetness and bitterness, that is, pleasure and plain, agree to them ? Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I now see what it was deluded me all this time. You asked whether heat and cold, sweetness and bitterness, were not particular sorts of pleasure and pain ; to whieli I answered simply, that they were. Whereas I should have thus 441 THE FIRST DIALOGUE. distinguished ; those qualities, as perceived by us, are pleasures or pains, but not as existing in the external objects. We must not therefore conclude absolutely, that there is no heat in the fire, or sweetness in the sugar, but only that heat or sweetness, as perceived by us, are not in the fire or sugar. What say you to this ? Phil. I say it is nothing to the purpose. Our discourse proceeded altogether con- cerning sensible things, which you defined to be the tlnngs we ivimediatel^ perceive by our senses. Whatever other qualities, therefore, you speak of, as distinct from these, I know nothing of them, neither do they at all belong to the point in dispute. You may, indeed, pretend to have discovered certain qvialities which you do not per- ceive, and assert those insensible qualities exist in fire and sugar. But what use can be made of this to your present purpose, 1 am at a loss to conceive. Tell me then once more, do you acknowledge that heat and cold, sweetness and bitterness (meaning those qualities which are perceived by the senses), do not exist without the mind? Hyl. I see it is to no purpose to hold out, so I give up the cause as to those men- tioned qualities. Though I profess it sounds oddly, to say that sugar is not sweet. Phil. But for your farther satisfaction, take this along with you : that which at other times seems sweet, shall, to a distempered palate, appear bitter. And nothing can be plainer, than that divers persons perceive different tastes in the same food, since that which one man delights in, another abhors. And how could this be, if the taste was something really inherent in the food ? Eyl. I acknowledge I know not how. Phil. In the next place, odours are to be considered. And with regard to these, I would fain know, whether what hath been said of tastes doth not exactly agree to them? Are they not so many pleasing or displeasing sensations? Hyl. They are. Phil. Can you then conceive it possible that they should exist in an unperceiving thing? Hyl. I canuot. Phil, Or can you imagine that filth and ordure affect those brute animals that feed on them out of choice, with the same smells, which we perceive in them ? Hyl. By no means. Phil. May we not therefore conclude of smells, as^of the other forementioned qua- lities, that they cannot exist in any but a perceiving substance or mind ? Hyl. I think so. Phil, Then as to sounds, what must we think of them : are they accidents really inherent in external bodies, or not? Hyl. That they inhere not in the sonorous bodies, is plain from hence ; because a bell struck in the exhausted receiver of an air-pump, sends forth no sound. The air, therefore, must be thought the subject of sound. Phil. What reason is there for that, Hylas ? Hyl. Because Avhen any motion is raised in the air, we perceive a sound greater or lesser, in proportion to the air's motion ; but without some motion in the air, we never hear any sound at all. Phil. AaA granting that we never hear a sound but when some motion is produced in the air, yet I do not see how you can infer from thence, that the sound itself is in the ai r. Hyl, It is this very motion in the external air, that produces in the mind the sensation of sound. For, striking on the drum of the ear, it causeth a vibration, which by the auditory nerves being communicated to the brain, the soul is thereupon affected with the sensation called sound. Phil. What ! is sound then a sensation ? Hyl. I tell you, as perceived by us, it is a particular sensation in the mind ? Phil. And can any sensation exist without the mind ? Hyl. No, certainly. Phil. How then can sound, being a sensation, exist in the air, if by the air you mean a senseless substance existing without the mind ? Hyl. You must distinguish, Philonous, between sound as it is perceived by us, and as it is in itself; or "(which is the same thing) between the sound we immediately perceive, and that which exists without us. The former, indeed, is a particular kind of sensation, but the latter is merely a vibrative or undulatory motion in the air. Phil. I thought I had already obviated that distinction by the answer I gave when you were applying it in a like case before. But, to say no more of that, arc you sure then that sound is really nothing but motion ? HyU I am. Phil. Whatever therefore agrees to real sound, may with truth be attributed to jngtion ,' THE FIRST DIALOGUE. 45 Uyl. It may. Phil. It is then good sense to speak of motion, as of a thing that is loud, sweet acute, or grave, ' Hyl. I see you are resolved not to understand me. Is it not evident, tliose acci- dents or modes belong only to sensible sound, or sound in the common acceptation of the word, but not to sound in the real and philosophic sense, which, as I just now told you, is nothing but a certain motion of the air ? Phil. It seems then there are two sorts of sound, the one vulgar, or that which is heard, the other philosophical and real 1 Hyl. Even so. Phil. And the latter consists in motion ? Hyl. I told you so before. Phil. Tell me, Hylas, to which of the senses, think you, the idea of motion belongs? to the hearing ? Hyl. No, certainly; but to the sight and touch. Phil. It should follow then, that according to you, real sounds may possibly be seen or /ell, but never heard. Hyl. Look you, Philonous, you may, if you please, make a jest of my opinion, but that will not alter the truth of things. I own, indeed, the inferences you draw me into, sound something oddly ; but common language, you know, is framed by, and for the use of the vulgar : we must not therefore wonder, if expressions adapted to exact philosophic notions, seem uncouth and out of the way. Phil. Is it come to that ? I assure you, I imagine myself to have gained no small point, since you make so lightof departing from common phrases and opinions ; it being a main part of our inquiry, to examine whose notions are widest of the common road, and most repugnant to the general sense of the world. But can you think it no more than a philosophical paradox, to say that real sounds are never heard, and that the idea of them is obtained by some other sense. And is there nothing in this contrary to nature and the truth of things ? Hyl. To deal ingenuously, I do not like it. And after the concessions already made, I had as well grant that sounds too hare no real being without the mind. Phil. And I hope you will make no diffictdty to acknowledge the same of colours. Hyl. Pardon me : the case of colours is very diiferent. Can any thing be plainer, than that we see them on the objects ? Phil. The objects you speak of are, I suppose, corporeal substances existing without the mind ? Hyl. They are. Phil. And have true and real colours inhering in them? Hyl. Each visible object hath that colour which ive see in it. Phil. How ! is there any thing visible but what we perceive by sight ? Hyl. There is not. Phil. And do we perceive any thing by sense, which we do not perceive immedi- ately 1 Hyl. How often must I be obliged to repeat the same thing ? I tell you, we do not. Phil. Have patience, good Hylas ; and tell me once more, whether there is any thing immediately perceived by the senses, except sensible qualities. I know you asserted there was not : but I would now be informed, whether you still persist in the same opinion. Hyl. I do. Phil. Pray, is your corporeal substance either a sensible quality, or made up of sensible qualities? Hyl. What a question that is ! who ever thought it was ? Phil. My reason for asking was, because in saying, each visible object hath that colour which we see in it, you make visible objects to be corporeal substances ; which implies either that corporeal substances are sensible qualities, or else that there is something beside sensible qualities perceived by sight : but as this point was formerly agreed between us, and is still maintained by you, it is a clear consequence, that your corporeal substance is nothing distinct from sensible qualities. Hyl. You may draw as many absurd consequences as you please, and endeavour to perplex the plainest things ; but you shall never persuade me out of my senses. I clearly understand my own meaning. Phil. I wish you would make me understand it too. But since you are unwilling to have your notion of corporeal substance examined, I shall urge that point no farther. Only be pleased to let me know, whether the same colours which we see, exist in external bodies, or some other. 46 THE FIRST DIALOGUE. Hyl. The v«ry same. , , i „ Phil. What! are then the beautiful red and purple we see on yonder clouds, really in them ? Or do you imagine they have in themselves any other form, than that ot a dark mist or vapour? Hyl. I must own, Philonous, those colours are not really in the clouds as they seem to be at this distance. They are only apparent colours. Phil. Apparent call you them 1 how shall we distinguish these apparent colours from real ? Hyl. Very easily. Those are to be thought apparent, which, appearing only at a distance, vanish upon a nearer approach. Phil. And those, I suppose, are to be thought real, which are discovered by the most near and exact survey. Hyl. Right. Phil. Is the nearest and exactest survey made by the help of a microscope, or by the naked eye 7 Hyl. By a microscope, doubtless. Phil. But a microscope often discovers colours in an object different from those perceived by the unassisted sight. And in case we had microscopes magnifying to any assigned degree ; it is certain, that no object whatsoever viewed through them, would appear in the same colour which it exhibits to the naked eye. Hyl. And what will you conclude from all this ? You cannot argue tliat there are really and naturally no colours on objects : because by artificial managements they may be altered, or made to vanish. Phil. I think it may evidently be concluded from your own concessions, that all the colours we see with our naked eyes, are only apparent as those on the clouds, since they vanish upon a more close and accurate inspection, which is afforded us by a mi- croscope. Then as to what you say by way of prevention: I ask you, whether the real and natural state of an object is better discovered by a very sharp and piercing sight, or by one which is less sharp ? Hyl, By the former without doubt. Phil. Is it not plain from dioptrics, that microscopes make the sight more pene- trating, and represents objects as they would appear to the eye, in case it were natu- rally endowed with a most exquisite sharpness? Hyl. It is. Phil. Consequently the microscopical representation is -to be thought that which best sets forth the real nature of the thing, or what it is in itself. The colours therefore by it perceived, are more genuine and real than those perceived otherwise. Hyl. I confess there is something in what you say. Phil. Besides, it is not only possible, but manifest, that there actually are animals, whose eyes are by nature framed to perceive those things, which by reason of their minuteness escape our sight. What think you of those inconceivably small animals perceived by glasses? must we suppose they are all stark blind? Or, in case they see, can it be imagined their sight hath not the same use in preserving their bodies from injuries, which appears in that of all other animals? And if it hath, is it not evident, they must see particles less than their own bodies, which will present them with a far different view in each object, from that which strikes our senses ? Even our own eyes do not always represent objects to us after the same manner. In the jaundice, everyone knows that all things seem yellow. Is it not therefore highly probable, tliose animals in whose eyes we discern a very different texture from that of ours, and whose bodies abound with different humours, do not see the same colours in every object that we do ? From all which, should it not seem to follow, that all colours are equally apparent, and that none of those which we perceive are really inherent in any outward object? Hyi. It should. Phil. The point will be past all doubt, if you consider that in case colours were real properties or affections inherent in external bodies, they could admit of no altera- tion, without some change wrought in the very bodies themselves : but is it not evident trom what hath been said, that upon the use of microscopes, upon a change happen. ing in the humours of the eye, or a variation of distance, without any manner of real alteration in the thing itself, the colours of any object are either changed, or totally disappear ? Nay, all other circumstances remaining the siime, change but the situa- tion of some objects, and they shall present different colours to the eye. The same lung happens upon viewmg an object in various degrees of light. And what is more known than that the same bodies appear differently coloured liy candle-light, from what they do in the open day ? Add to tliese the experiment of a prism, which sepa- rating the heterogeneous rays of light, alters the colour of any object, and will caHse THE FIRST DIALOGUE. 47 the whitest to appear of a deep blue or red to the naked eye. And now tell me, whether you are still of opinion, that every body hath its true real colour inhering in it; and if you thinli it hath, I would fain l«now farther from you, what certain distance and position of the object, what peculiar texture and formation of the eye, what degree or kind of light is necessary for ascertaining that true colour, and distinguishing it from apparent ones. Hyl. I own myself entirely satisfied, that they are all equally apparent ; and that there is no such thing as colour really inhering in external bodies, but that it is alto- gether in the light. And what confirms me in this opinion is, that in proportion to the light, colours are still more or less vivid ; and if there be no light, then are there no colours perceived. Besides, allowing there are colours en external objects, yet how is it possible for us to perceive them ? For no external body affects the mind, unless it act first on our organs of sense. But the only action of bodies is motion ; and motion cannot be communicated otherwise than by impulse. A distant object therefore cannot act on the eye, nor consequently make itself or its properties perceivable to the soul. Whence it plainly follows, that it is immediately some contiguous substance, which, operating on the eye, occasions a perception of colours : and such is light. Phil. How ! is light then a substance ? H^t. 1 tell you, Philonous, external light is nothing but a thin fluid substance, whose minute particles being agitated with a brisk motion, and in various manners re- flected from the different surfaces of outward objects to the eyes, communicate different motions to the optic nerves ; which being propagated to the brain, cause therein various impressions jand these are attended with the sensations of red, blue, yellow, &c. P/iil. It seems then, the light doth no more than shake the optic nerves. Ht/l. Nothing else. Phil. And consequent to each particular motion of the nerves the mind is affected with a sensation, which is some particular colour. Hyl. Right. Phil. And these sensations have no existence without the mind. Bi/l, They have not. Phil. How then do you affirm that colours are in the light, since by light you understand a corporeal substance external to the mind ? Hj/1. Light and colours, as immediately perceived by us, I grant cannot exist without the mind. But in themselves they are only the motions and configurations of certain insensible particles of matter. Phil. Colours then in the vulgar sense, or taken for the immediate objects of sight, cannot agree to any but a perceiving substance. Hyl. That is what I say. Phil. Well then, since you give up the point as to those sensible qualities, which are alone thought colours by all mankind beside, you may hold what you please with regard to those invisible ones of the philosophers. It is not my business to dis- pute about them ; only I would advise you to bethink yourself, whether considering the inquiry we are upon, it be prudent for you to affirm, the red and blue which we see are not real colours, but certain imknown motions and figures which no man ever did or can see, are truly so. Are not these shocking notions, and are not they subject to as many ridiculous inferences, as those you were obliged to renounce before in the case of sounds? Hyl. I frankly own, Philonous, that it is in vain to stand out any longer. Colours, sounds, tastes, in a word, all those termed secondary qualities, have certainly no ex- istence without the mind. But by this acknowledgment I must not be supposed to derogate anything from the reality of matter or external objects, seei.^g it'is no more than several philosophers maintain, who nevertheless are the farthest imaginable from denying matter. For the clearer understanding of this, you must know sensible quali- ties are by philosophers divided into primary and secondary. The former are exten- sion, figure, solidity, gravity, motion, and rest. And these they hold exist really in bodies. The latter are those above enumerated ; or briefly, all sensible qualities beside the primary, which they assert are only so many sensations or ideas existing no where but in the mind. But all this, I doubt not, you are already apprised of. For my part, I have been a long time sensible there was such an opinion current among philosophers, but was never thoroughly convinced of its truth till now. Phil. You are still then of opinion, that extension and figuresare inherent in exter- nal unthinking substances 1 Hyl. I am. Phil. But what if the same arguments which are hrouglit against secondary qualities, will hold proof against these also? Hyl. Why then I shall be obliged to think, they too exist only in the mind. 48 THE FIRST DIALOGUE. Phil. Is it your opinion, the very figure and extension which you perceive by sense, exist iu the outward object or material substance ? Hyl. It is. , ■ r ..u £ J Phil. Have all other animals as good grounds to think the same of the figure and extension which tliey see and feel 1 flV?. Without doubt, if they have any thought at all. „ . , Phil. Answer me, Hylas. Think you the senses were bestowed upon all animals for their preservation and well-being in life? or were they given to men alone for this end? Hyl. I make no question but they have the same use in all other animals. _ Phil. If so, is it not necessary they should be enabled by them to perceive their own limbs, and those bodies which are capable of harming them ? Hyl. Certainly. . Phil. A mite therefore must be supposed to see his own foot, and things equal or even less than it, as bodies of some considerable dimension ; though at the same time they appear to you scarce discernible, or at best as so many visible points ? Hyl. I cannot deny it. Phil. And to creatures less than the mite they will seem yet larger. Hyl. They will. Phil. Insomuch that what you can hardly discern, will to another extremely minute animal appear as some huge mountain. Hyl. All this I grant. Phil. Can one and the same thing be at the same time in itself of different dimen- sions ? Hyl. That were absurd to imagine. Phil. But from what you have laid down it follows, that both the extension by you perceived, and that perceived by the mite itself, as likewise all those perceived by lesser animals, are each of them the true extension of the mite's foot, that is to say, by your own principles you are led into an absurdity. Hyl. There seems to be some difficulty in the point. Phil. Again, have you not acknowledged that no real inherent property of any object can be changed, without some change in the thing itself? Hyl. I have. Phil. But as we approach to or recede from an object, the visible extension varies, being at one distance ten or a hundred times greater than at another. Doth it not therefore follow from hence likewise, that it is not really inherent in the object ? Hyl. I own I am at a loss what to think. Phil. Your judgment will soon be determined, if you will venture to think as freely concerning this quality, as you have done concerning the rest. Was it not admitted as a good argument, that neither heat nor cold was in the water, because it seemed warm to one hand, and cold to the other ? Hyl. It was. Phil. Is it not the very same reasoning to conclude, there is no extension or figure in an object, because to one eye it shall seem little, smooth, and round, when at the same time it appears to the other, great, uneven, and angular ? Hyl. The very same. But does this latter fact ever happen ? Phil. You may at any time make the experiment, by looking with one eye bare, and with the other through a microscope. Hyl. I know not how to maintain it, and yet I am loath to give up extension, I see so many odd consequences following upon such a concession. Phil. Odd, say you? After the concessions already made, I hope you will stick at nothing for its oddness. But on the other hand should it not seem very odd, if the general reasoning which includes all other sensible qualities did not also include ex- tension ? If it be allowed that no idea nor any thing like an idea can exist in an un- perceiving substance, then surely it follows, that no figure or mode of extension, which we can either perceive or imagine, or have any idea of, can be really inherent in matter ; not to mention the peculiar difficulty there must be, in conceiving a material sub- stance, prior to and distinct from extension, to be the ^itorafem of extension. Be the sensible quality what it will, figure or sound, or colour ; it seems alike impossible it should subsist in that which doth not perceive it. Hyl. I give up the point for the present, reserving still a right to retract my opi- nion, in case I shall hereafter discover any false step in my progress to it. Phil. That is a right you cannot be denied. Figures and extension being des- patched, we proceed next to motion. Can a real motion in any external body be at the same time both very swift and very slow ? Hyl. It cannot. THE FIRST DIALOGUE. 49 PAH. Is not the motion of a body swift in a reciprocal proportion (o the time it takes tip in describing any given space'! Thus a body that describes a mile in an hour, moves three times faster than it would in case it described only a mile in three hours. ffifl- I agree with you. PAil. And is not time measured by the succession of ideas in our minds ? Hi/t. It is. Phil. And is it not possible ideas should succeed one another twice as fast in your mind, as they do in mine, or in that of some spirit of another kind ? Hi/I. I own it. PAil. Consequently the same body may to another seem to perform its motion over any space in half the time that it doth to you. And the same reasoning will hold as to any other proportion : that is to say, according to your principles (since the motions perceived are both really in the object) it is possible one and the same body shall be really moved the same way at once, both very swift and very slow. How is tliis consis- tent either with common sense, or with what you just now granted 1 Hyl. I bave nothing to say to it. Pkil. Then as for suliility ; either you do not mean any sensible quality by that word, and so it is beside our inq\iiry : or if you do, it must be either hardness or re- sistance. But both the one and the other are plainly relative to our senses : it being evident, that what seems hard to one animal, may appear soft to another, who hath greater force and firmness of limbs. Nor is it less plain, that the resistance I feel is not in the body. Hi/l. I own the very sensation of tesistance, which is all you immediately perceive, is not in the body, but the cause of that sensation is. Phil. But the causes of our sensations are not things immediately perceived, and therefore not sensible. This point I thought had been already determined. Hyl. I own it was ; but you will pardon me if I seem a little embarrassed : I know not how to quit my old notions. Phil. To help you out, do but consider, that if extension be once acknowledged to bave no existence without the mind, the same must necessarily he granted of motion, solidity, and gravity, since they all evidently suppose extension. It is therefore superfluous to inquire particularly concerning each of them, in denying extension, you have denied them all to have any real existence. Hyl. I wonder, Philonous, if what you say be true, why those philosophers who deny the secondary qualities any real existence, should yet attribute it to the primary. If there is no difference between them, how can this be accounted for? Phil. It is not my business to account for every opinion of the philosophers. But among other reasons which may be assigned for this, it seems probable, tliat pleasure and pain being rather annexed to the former than the latter, may be one. Heat and cold, tastes and smells, have something more vividly pleasing or disagreeable than the ideas of extension, figure, and motion affect us with. And it being too visibly absurd to hold, that pain or pleasure can be in an unperceiving substance, men are more easily weaned from believing the external existence of the secondary, than the primary qualities. You will be satisfied there is something in this, if you recollect the difference you made between an intense and more moderate degree of heat, al- lowing the one a real existence, while you denied it to the other. But after all, there is no rational ground for that distinction ; for surely an indifferent sensation is as truly a sensation as one more pleasing or painful; and consequently should not any more than they he supposed to exist in an unthinking subject. Hyl. It is just come into my bead, Philonous, that I have somewhere heard of a dis- tinction between absolute and sensible extension. Now though it be acknowledged that great and small, consisting merely in the relation which other extended beings have to the parts of our own bodies, do not really inhere in the substances themselves ; yet nothing obliges us to hold the same with regard to absolute extension, which is something abstracted from great and small, from this or that particular magnitude or figure. So likewise as to motion, swift and slow are altogether relative to the suc- cession of ideas in our own minds. But it doth not follow, because those modifications of motion exist not without the mind, that therefore absolute motion abstracted from them doth not. Phil. Pray what is it that distinguishes one motion, or one part of extension from another? Is it not something sensible, as some degree of swiftness or slowness, some certain magnitude or figure peculiar to each? Hyl. I think so. Phil. These qualities therefore stripped of all sensible properties, are without al 1 specific and numerical diflerences, as the schools call them. Hyl. They are. fiO THE FIRST DIALOGUE. Phil. That is to say, they are extension in general, and motion in general. Hyl. Let it be so. Phil. But it is a uftiversally received maxim, that Every thing which exists, is par- ticular. How then can motion in general, or extension in general exist in any cor- poreal substance? Hyl. I will talie time to solve your difficulty. Phil. But 1 think the point may be speedily decided. Without doubt you can tell, whether you are able to frame this or that idea. Now I am content to put our dis- pute on this issue. If you can frame in your thoughts a distinct abstract idea of motion or extension, divested of all those sensible modes, as swift and slow, great and small, round and square, and the like, which are acknowledged to exist only in the mind, I will then yield the point you contend for. But if you cannot, it will be un- reasonable on your side to insist any longer upon what you have no notion of, Hyl. To confess ingenuously, I cannot. Phil. Can you even separate the ideas of extension and motion, from the ideas of all those qualities which they who make the distinction, term secondary. Hyl. What! is it not an easymatterto consider extension and motion by themselves, abstracted from all other sensible qualities ? Piay how do the mathematicians treat of them ? Phil. I acknowledge, Hylas, it is not difficult to form general propositions and reasonings about those qualities, without mentioning any other; and in this sense to consider or treat of them abstractedlj'. But how doth it follow that because I can pronounce the word motion by itself, I can form the idea of it in my mind exclusive of body? Or because theorems maybe made of extension and figures, without any mention of great or small, or any other sensible mode or quality; that therefore it Is possible such an abstract idea of extension, without any particular size or figure, or sensible quality, should be distinctly formed, and apprehended by the mind? Mathe- maticians treat of quantity, without regarding what other sensible qualities it is attended with, as being altogether indifferent to their demonstrations. But when laying aside the words, they contemplate the bare ideas, I believe you will find, they are not the pure abstracted ideas of extension. Hyl. But what say you to pure intellect ? May not abstracted ideas be framed by that faculty ? Phil. Since I cannot frame abstract ideas at all, it is plain I cannot frame them by the help olpure intellect, whatsoever faculty you understand by those words. Besides, not to inquire into the nature of pure intellect and its spiritual objects, as virtue, reason, God, or the like, thus much seems manifest, that sensible things are only to'be perceived by sense, or represented by the imagination. Figures therefore and exten. sion, being orioinally perceived by sense, do not belong to pure intellect : but for your farther satisfaction, try if you can frame the idea of any figure, abstracted from all particularities of size, or even from other sensible qualities. Myl. Let me think a little 1 do not find that I can. Phil. And can you think it possible, that should really exist in nature, which implies a repugnancy In its conception ? Byl. By no means. Phil. Since therefore it is impossible even for the mind to disunite the ideas of extension and motion from all other sensible qualities, doth it not follow, that where the one exist, there necessarily the other exist likewise ? Byl. It should seem so. Phil. Consequently the very same arguments which you admitted, as conclusive against the secondary qualities, are without any farther application of force against the primary too. Besides, if you will trust your senses, is it not plain all sensible qualities coexist, or to them appear as being in the same place ? Do they ever represent a motion, or figure, as being divested of all other visible and tangible qualities? Ify/. You need say no more on this head. I am free to own, if there be no secret error or oversight in our proceedings hitherto, that all sensible qualities are alike to be denied existence without the mind. But my fear is, that I have been too liberal in my former concessions, or overlooked some fallacy or other. In short, I did not take time to think. Phil. For that matter, Hylas, you may take what time you please in reviewing the progress of our inquiry. You are at liberty to recover any slips you might have made, or offer whatever you have omitted, which makes for your first opinion. Hyl. One great oversight I tike to he this : that 1 did not sufficiently distinguish the object from the sensation. Now though this latter may not exist without the mind, yet It will not thence follow that the former cannot. Phil, What object do you mean ? The object of the senses ? THE FIRST DIALOGUE. 51 Hyl. The same. Phil. It is then immediately perceived ? Hyl. Right. Phil. Make me to understand the difference between what is immediately perceived, and a sensation. Hyl. The sensation I taije to be an act of the mind perceiving; besides which, there is something perceived ; and this I call the object. For example, there is red and yellow on that tulip. But then the act of perceiving those colours is in ine only, and not in the tulip. Phil. What tulip do you speali of? Is it that which you see ? Hyl. The same. Phil. And what do you see beside colour, figure, and extension? Hyl. Nothing. Phil. What you would say then is, that the red and yellow are coexistent with the extension ; is it not ? Hyl. That is not all ; I would say, they have a real existence without the mind, in some unthinking substance. Phil. That the colours are really in the tulip which I see, is manifest. Neither can it be denied, that this tulip may exist independent of your mind or mine; but that any immediate object of the senses, that is, any idea, or combination of ideas, should exist in an unthinking substance, or exterior to all minds, is in itselfan evident contra- diction. Nor can I imagine how this follows from what you said just now, to wit, that the red and yellow were on the tulip yoij «at», since you do not pietend to see that unthinking substance. Hyl. You have an artful way, Philonous, of diverting our enquiry from the subject. Phil. I see you have no mind to be pressed that waj*. To return then to your distinction between sensation and object ; if I take you right, you distinguish in every perception two things, the one an action of the mind, the other not. Hyl. True. Phil. And this action cannot exist in, or belong to, any unthinking thing; but whatever beside is implied in a perception, may ? ' Hyl. That is my meaning. Phil. So that if there was a perception without any act of the mind, it were possible such a perception should exist in an unthinking substance ? Hyl. I grant it. But it is impossible there should be such a perception. Phil. When is the mind said to be active ? Hyl. When it produces, puts an end to, or changes, any thing. Phil. Can the mind produce, discontinue, or change any thing, but by an act of the will ? Hyl. It cannot. Phil. The mind therefore is to be accounted active in its perceptions, so far forth as volition is included in them? Hyl. It is. P/iil. In plucking this flower, I am active, because I do it by the motion of my hand, which was consequent upon my volition ; so likewise in applying it to my nose. But is either of these smelling? Hyl. No. Phil. I act too in drawing the air through my nose ; because my breathing so rather than otherwise, is the eflect of my volition. But neither can this be called s,'iuilli>ig ; for if it were, I should smell every time I breathed in that manner? Hyl. True. Phil. Smelling then is somewhat consequent to all this ? Hyl. It is. Phil. But I do not find my will concerned any farther. Whatever more there is, as that I perceive such a particular smell or any smell at all, this is independent of my will, and therein I am altogether passive. Do you find it otherwise with you, Hylas? Hyl. No, the very same. Phil. Then as to seeing, is it not in your power to open your eyes, or keep them shut ; to turn them this or that way? Hyl. Without doubt. Phil. But doth it in like manner depend on your will, that in looking on this flower j'ou percei ve ?t7»Ve rather than any other colour? Or directing your open eyes towards yonder part of the heaven, can you avoid seeing the sun ? Or is light or darkness the effect of your volition ? Hyl. No certainly. Phil. You are then in these respect i aUofjfether passive. e2 52 THE FIRST DIALOGUE. PAii Tell "me now, whether seeing- consists in perceiving light and colours, or in opening and turning the eyes ? //i//. Without doubt, in'the former. , P/iil. Since therefore you are in the very perception of light and colours altogether passive, what is become of that action you were speaking of, as an ingredient in every sensation I And doth it not follow from your own concessions, that the perception ot light and colours, including no action in it, may exist in an unperceiving substance ! And is not this a plain contradiction ? lii/l. I know not what to think of it. P'/ai. Besides, since you distinguish the active uni passiue ^n every perception, you must do it in that of pain. But how is it possible that pain, he it as little active as you please, should exist in an unperceiving substance •? In short, do but consider the point, and then confess ingenuously, whether light and colours, tastes, sounds, &c. are not all equally passions or sensations in the soul. You may indeed call them external objects, and give them in words what subsistence you please. But examine your own thoughts, and then tell me whether it he not as I say' Ht/l. I acknowledge, Philonous, that upon a fair observation of what passes inmy mind, I can discover nothing else, but that I am a thinking being, affected with variety of sensations; neither is it possible to conceive how a sensation should exist in an unperceiving substance. But then on the other hand, when I look on sensible things, in a different view, considering them as so many modes and qualities, I find it necessary to suppose a material substratum, without which they cannot be conceived to exist. PMl. Material substratum oiU you it? Pray, by which of your senses came you acquainted with that being? Hi/l. It is not itself sensible ; its modes and qualities only being perceived by the senses. P/iil. I presume then, it viras by reflection and reason you obtained the idea of it? Hyl. I do not pretend to any proper positive idea of it. However I conclude It exists, because qualities cannot be conceived to exist without a support. Phil. It seems then yon have only a relative notion of it, or that you conceive it not otherwise than by conceiving the relation it bears to sensible qualities ? Hi/l. Right. Phil. Be pleased therefore to let me know wherein that relation consists. Hyl. Is it not sufficiently expressed in the term substratum, or substance f Phil. If so, the word subslratzim should import, that it is spread under the sensible qualities or accidents ? Hi/l. True. Phil. And consequently under extension? Hyl. I own it. Phil. It is therefore somewhat in its own nature entirely distinct from extension ? Hi/l. I tell you, extension is only a mode, and matter is something that supports modes. And is it not evident the thing supported is different from the thing sup- porting? Phil. So that something distinct from, and exclusive of extension, is supposed to be the substratum of extension ? Hyl. Just so. Phil. Answer me, Hylas. Can a thing be spread without extension ? or is not the idea of extension necessarily included in spreading? Hyl. It is. Phil. Whatsoever therefore you suppose spread under any thing, must have in itself an extension distinct from the extension of that thing under which it is spread? Hyl. It must. • Phil. Consequently every corporeal substance being the substratum of extension, must have in itself another extension, by which it is qualified to be a substratum : and so on to infinity? And I ask whether this be not absurd in itself, and repugnant to what you granted just now, to wit, that the substratum was something distinct from, and exclusive of extension ? Hyl. Aye but, Philonous, you take me wrong. I do not mean that matter is spread in a gross literal sense under extension. The word substratum is used only to express in general the same thing with substance. Phil. Well then, let us examine the relation implied in the term substance. Is it not that it stands under accidents? Hyl. The very same. Phil. But that one thing may stand under or support another, must it not be extended ? THE FIRST DIALOGUE. S3 tfi/l. It must. Phil. Is not therefore this supposition liable to the same absurdity with the former 1 IIi/l. You still take things in a strict literal sense : that is not fair, Philonous. Phil. I am not for imposing any sense on your words : you are at liberty to explain them as you please. Only I beseech you, make me understand something by them. You tell me matter supports or stands under accidents. How ! is it as your legs support your body ? Hyl. No ; that is the literal sense. PAH. Pray let me know any sense, literal or not literal, that you understand it in. How long must I wait for an answer, Hylas 1 Hyl. I declare I know not what to say. I once thought I understood well enough what was meant by matter's supporting accidents. But now the more I think on it, the less can I comprehend it ; in short \ find that I know nothing of it. Phil. It seems then you have no idea at all, neither relative nor positive, of matter ; you know neither what it is in itself, nor what relation it bears to accidents ? Hyl. I acknowledge it. Phil. And yet you asserted, that you could not conceive how qualities or accidents should really exist, without conceiving at the same time a material support of them 1 Hyl. I did. Phil. That is to say, when you conceive the real existence of qualities, you do withal conceive something which you cannot conceive 1 Hyl. It was wrong 1 own. But still I fear there is some fallacy or other. Pray what think you of this? It is just come into my head, that the ground of all our mistake lies in your treating of each quality by itself. Now, I grant that each quality cannot singly subsist without the mind. Colour cannot without extension, neither can figure without some other sensible quality. But as the several qualities united or blended together form entire sensible things, nothing hinders why such things may not be supposed to exist without the mind. Phil. Either, Hylas, you are jesting, or have a very bad memory. Though indeed we went through all the qualities by name one after another ; yet my arguments, or rather your concessions, no where tended to prove, that the secondary qualities did not subsist eactalone by itself; but that they were not at all without the mind. In- deed in treating of figure and motion, we concluded they could not exist without the mind, because it was impossible even in thouglit to separate tbejn from all secondary qualities, so as to conceive them existing by themselves. But then this was not the only argument made use of upon that occasion. But (to pass by all that hath been hitherto said, and reckon it for nothing, if you will have it so) 1 am contejit to put the' whole upon this issue. If you can conceive it possible for any mixture or combination of qualities, or any sensible object whatever, to exist without the mind, then I will grant it actually to be so. Hyl. If it comes to that, the point will soon be decided. What more easy than to conceive a tree or house existing by itself, independent of, and unperceived by, any mind ivhatsover? I do at this present time conceive them existing after that manner. Phil. How say you, Hylas, can you see a thing which is at the same time unseen ? Hyl. No, that were a contradiction. Phil. Is it not as great a contradiction to talk of conceiving a thing which ia unconceivcd f Hyl. It is. Phil. The tree or house therefore which j'ou think of, is conceived by you ? Hyl. How should it be otherwise ? Phil. And what is conceived, is surely in the mind ? Hyl. Without question, that which is conceived is in the mind. Phil. How then came you to say, you conceived a house or tree existing independent and out of all minds whatsoever ? Hyl. That was I own an oversight ; but stay, let me consider what led me into it. — It is a pleasant mistake enough. As I was thinking of a tree in a solitary place, where no one was present to see it, methonght that was to conceive a tree as existing unper- ceived or unthought of, not considering that I myself conceived it all the while. But now I plainly see, that all I can do is to frame ideas in my own mind. I may indeed conceive in my own thoughts the idea of a tree, or a house, or a mountain, but that is all. And this is far from proving, that I can conceive them existing out of the minds of all Spirits. Phil. You acknowledge then that you cannot possibly conceive, how any one corpo- real sensible thing should exist otherwise than in a mind ] Ht/U I do, 54 THE FIRST DIALOGUE. Phil. And yet you will earnestly contend for the tiutli of that wlncb you cannot so much as conceive "i i „ • Hyl. I profess I know not what to think, hut still there are some scruples remam with me. Is it not certain I see things at a distance ? Do we not perceive the stars and moon, for example, to be a great way off? Is not this, I say, manifest to the senses'! i- f i Phil. Do you not in a dream too perceive those or the like objects . Hyl. I do. ru • !• * to Phil. And have they not then the same appearance of being distant .-' Hyl. They have. . » i -ii, Phil. But you do not thence conclude, the apparitions in « dream to be without the mind 7 Hyl. By no means. . . u .. l • j Phil. You ought not therefore to conclude that sensible objects are without the mind, from their appearance or manner wherein they are perceived. Hyl. I acknowledge it. But doth not my sense deceive me in those cases? Phil. Bv no means. The idea or thing which you immediately perceive, neither sense nor reason informs yon that it actually exists without the mind. By sense you only know that you are affected with such certain sensations of light and colours, &c. And these you will not say are without the mind. Hyl. True : but beside all that, do you not think the sight suggests something of outness or distance f Phil. Upon approaching a distant object, do the visible size and figure change per- petually, or do they appear the same at all distances ? Hyl. They are in a continual change. Phil. Sight therefore doth not suggest or any way inform you, that the visible object you immediately perceive, exists at a distance,* or will be perceived when you advance farther onward, there being a continued series of visible objects succeeding each other during the whole time of your approach. Hyl. It doth not ; but still I know, upon seeing an object, what object I shall per- ceive after having passed over a certain distance : no matter whether it be exactly the same or no : there is still something of distance suirgested in the case. Phil. Good Hylas, do but reflect a little on the point, and then tell me whether there be any more in it than this. From the ideas you actually perceive by sight, you have by experience learned to collect what other ideas you will (according to the standing order of nature) be affected with, after such a certain succession of time and motion. Hyl. Upon the whole, I take it to be nothing else. P/iil. Now is it not plain, that if we suppose a man born blind was on a sudden made to see, he could at first have no experience of what maj be suggested by sight ? Hyl. It is. Phil. He would not then according to you have any notion of distance annexed to the things he siw ; but would take them for a new set of sensations existing only in his mind ? liyl. It is undeniable. Phil. But to make it still more plain : is notdistance a line turned endwise to the eye? Hyl. It is. Phil. And can a line so situated be perceived by sight? Hyl. It cannot. Phil. Doth it not therefore follow that distance is not properly and immediately perceived by sight? Hyl. It should seem so. Phil. Again, is it your opinion that colours are at a distance ? Hyl. It must be acknowledged, they are only in the mind. Phil. But do not colours appear to the eye as coexisting in the same place with extension and figures ? Hyl. They do. Phil. How can you then conclude from sight, that figures exist without, when you acknowledge colours do not ; the sensible appearance being the very same with regard to both ? Hyl. I know not what to answer. Phil. But allowing that distance was truly and immediately perceived by the mind, yet it would not thence follow it existed out of the mind. For whatever Ja imraedi* ately perceived is an idea : and can any idea exist out of the mind ? ♦ See the Essay towards a new Theory of Vioionj and Its VlnaicatloS, THE FIRST DIALOGUfi. iS Hyl. To suppose that, were absurd : but inform me, Pbilonous, can we perceive or know nothing beside our ideas? Phil, As for the rational deducing of causes from effects, that is beside our inquiry. And by the senses you can best tell, whether you perceive any thing which is not im- mediately perceived. And I ask you, whether the things immediately perceived, are other than your own sensations or ideas? You have indeed more than once, in the course of this conversation, declared yourself on those points; but you seem by this last question to have departed from what you then thought. Hyl. To speak the truth, Philonous, I think there are two kinds of objects, the one perceived immediately, which are likewise called ideas ; the other are real things or external objects perceived by the mediation of ideas, which are their images and re- presentations. Now I own, ideas do not exist without the mind; but the latter sort of objects do. I am sorry I did not think of this distinction sooner ; it would probably have cut short your discourse. Phil. Are those external objects perceived by sense, or by some other faculty ? Hyl. They are perceived by sense. Phil. How I is there any thing perceived by sense, which is not immediately perceived ? Hyl. Yes, Philonous, in some sort there is. For example, when I look on a picture or statue of Julius Ca!sar, I may be said after a manner to perceive him (though not immediately) by my senses. Phil. It seems then you will have our ideas, which alone are immediately perceived, to be pictures of external things : and that these also are perceived by sense, inasmuch as they have a conformity or resemblance to our ideas? Hyl. That is my meaning. Phil. And in the same way that Julius Caesar, in himself invisible, is nevertheless perceived by sight ; real things in themselves imperceptible, are perceived by sense. Hyl. In the very same. Phil. Tell me, Hylas, when you behold the picture of Julius Ciesar, do you see with your eyes any more than some colours and figures with a certain symmetry and com- position of the whole 1 Hyl. Nothing else. Phil. And would not a man, who had never known any thing of Julius Caesar, see as much ? Hyl. He would. Phil. Consequently he hath his sight, and the use of it, in as perfect a degree as you 1 Hyl. I agree with you. Phil. Whence comes it then that your thoughts are directed to the Roman emperor, and his are not? This cannot proceed from the sensations or ideas of sense by youthen perceived ; since you acknowledge you have no advantage over him in that respect. It should seem therefore to proceed from reason and memorv ; should it not ? Hyl. It should. Phil. Consequently it will not follow from that instance, that any thing is perceived by sense which is not immediately perceived. Though I grant we may in one accepta- tion be said to perceive sensible things mediately by sense ; that is, when from a frequently-perceived connexion, the immediate perception of ideas by one sense sug- gests to the mind others perhaps belonging to another sense, which are wont to be connected with them. For instance, when I hear a coach drive along the streets, immediately I perceive only the sound ; but from the experience I have had that such a sound is connected with a coach, I am said to hear the coach. It is nevertheless evident, that in truth and strictness, nothing can be heard but sound: and the coach is not then properly perceived by sense, but suggested from experience. So likewise when we are said to see a red-hot bar of iron ; the solidity and heat of the iron are not the objects of sight, but suggested to the imagination by the colour and figure, which are properly perceived by that sense. In short, those things alone are actually and strictly perceived by any sense, which would have been perceived in case that same sense had then been first conferred on us. As for other things, it is plain they are only suggested to the mind by experience grounded on former perceptions. But to return to your comparison of Csesar's picture, it is plain, if you keep to that, you must hold, the real things or archetypes of our ideas are not perceived by sense, but by some internal faculty of the soul, as reason or memory. I would therefore fain know, what arguments you can draw from reason for the existence of what you call real things or material ohjects. Or whether you remember to have seen them formerly as they are in themselves ; or if you have heard or read of any one that did. Hyl. I see, Philonous, you are disposed to raillery ; but that will never convince me. PMt, My aim is only to learn from you the way tp come at the knowledge of matq- 56 THE FIRST DIALOGUE. rial beings. Whatever we perceive, is perceived immediately or mediately : by sense, or by reason and reflection. But as you have excluded sense, pray shew me what reason you have to believe their existence ; or yihatmecUum you can possibly maKe use of, to prove it either to mine or your own understanding. _ . c i r „„ Hyl. To deal ingenuously, I'hilonous, now I consider the point, I do not find I can give yon any good reason for it. But thus much seems pretty plain, that it is at least possible such things may really exist. And as long as there is no absurdity ,n sup- posing them, I am resolved to believe as I did, till you bring good reasons to the '°P/«v7Vhat! is it come to this, that you only believe the existence of material objects, and that your belief is founded barely on the possibility of its being true 1 Then you will have me bringreasons against it : though another would think it reason- able, the proof should lie on him who holds the affirmative. And after all this very point which you are now resolved to maintain without any reason, is in effect what you have more than once during this discourse seen good reason to give up._ But to pass over all this ; if I understand you rightly, you say our ideas do not exist without the mind ; but that they are copies, images, or representations, of certain originals that do ! Hyl. You take me right. Phil. They are then like external things ? Hyl. They are. . ^ , ^ . Phil. Have those things a stable and permanent nature independent ot our senses j or are they in a perpetual change, upon our producing any motions in our bodies, sus. pending, exerting, or altering, our faculties or organs of sense ? Hyl. Real things, it is plain, have a fixed and real nature, which remains the same, notwithstanding any change in our senses, or in the posture and motion of our bodies ; which indeed may affect the ideas in our minds, but it were absurd to think they had the same effect on things existing without the mind. Phil. How then is it possible, that things perpetually fleeting and variable as our ideas, should be copies or images of any thing fixed and constant 1 Or in other words, since all sensible qualities, as size, figure, colour, &c. that is, our ideas are continually changing upon every alteration in the distance, medium, or instruments of sensation; how can any determinate material objects be properly represented or painted forth by several distinct things, each of which is so different from and unlike the rcstl Or if you say it resembles some one only of our ideas, how shall we be able to distinguish the true copy from all the false ones 1 Hyl. I profess, Philonous, I am at a loss. I know not what to say to this. Phil. But neither is this all. Which are material objects in themselves, percep- tible or imperceptible ? Hyl. Properly" and immediately nothing can be perceived but ideas. All material things, therefore, are in themselves insensible, and to be perceived only by our ideas. Phil. Ideas then are sensible, and their archetypes or originals insensible? Hyl. Right. Phil. But how can that which is sensible be like that which is insensible? Can a real thing in itself znw'se'We be like a colour ; or a real thing which is not audible be like a sound? In a word, can any thing be like a sensation or idea, but another sensation or idea ? Hijl. I must own, I think not. Phil. Is it possible there should be any doubt in the point ■• Do you not perfectly know your own ideas ? Hyl. I know them perfectly ; since what I do not perceive or know, can be no part of my idea. Phil. Consider, therefore, and examine them, and then tell me if there be any thing in them which can exist without the mind? or if you can conceive any thing like them existing without the mind? Hyl. Upon inquiry, 1 find it is impossible for me to conceive or understand how any thing but an idea can be like an idea. And it is most evident, that no idea can exist without the mind. Phil. You are therefore by your principles forced to deny the reality of sensible things, since you made it to consist in an absolute existence exterior to the mindj That is to say, you are a downright sceptic. So I have gained my point, which was to shew your principles led to scepticism. Hyl. For the present I am, if not entirely convinced, at least silenced. Phil. I would fain know what more you would require in order to a perfect convic- tion. Have you not had the liberty of explaining yourself all manner of ways? Were any little slips in discourse laid hold and insisted on ? Or were you not allowed to yetraet or reinforce any thing you had offered , as best served yowr purpose ? Hath THE SECOND DIALOGUE. 57 not every thing yon could say been heard and examined with all the fairness imaginable? In a word, have j'ou not in every point been convinced out of your own mouth t And if you can at present discover any flaw in any of your former conces- sions, or thinlc of any remaining subterfuge, any new distinction, colour, or comment whatsoever, why do you not produce it? Hyl. A little patience, Philonous. I am at present so amaaed to see myself ensnared, and as it were imprisoned in the labyrinths you have drawn me into, that on the sudden it cannot be expected I should find my way out. You must give me time to looli about me, and recollect myself. P/iil. Hark; is not this the college-bell ? Hyl. It rings for prayers. PAH. We will go in then, if you please, and meet here again to-morrow morn- ing. In the meantime you may employ your thoughts on this morning's discourse, and try if you can find any fallacy in it, or invent any new means to extricate yourself. Ilt/I, Agreed. THE SECOND DIALOGUE. Hyus. I EEoyour pardon, Philonous, for not meeting you sooner. All this morning my head was so filled with our late conversation, that I had not leisure to think of the time of the day, or indeed of any thing else. Philonous. I am glad you were so intent upon it, in hopes, if there were any mis- takes in your concessions, or fallacies in my reasonings from them, you will novy discover them to me. Hyl. I assure you, I have done nothing ever since I saw you, but search after mis- takes and fallacies, and with that view have minutely examined the whole series of yesterday's discourse : but all in vain, for the notions it led me into, upon review, appear still more clear and evident 5 and the more I consider them, the more irresis- tibly do they force my assent. Phil. And is not this, think you, a sign that they are genuine, that they proceed from nature, and are conformable to right reason? Truth and beauty are in this alike, that the strictest survey sets them both off to advantage ; while the false lustre of error and disguise cannot endure being reviewed, or too nearly inspected. Hyl. I own there is a great deal in what you say. Nor can anyone be more entirely satisfied of the truth of those odd consequences, so long as \ have in view the reason- ings that lead to them. But when these are out of my thoughts, there seems, on the other hand, something so satisfactory, so natural and intelligible, in the modern way of explaining things, that, I profess, I know not how to reject it. Phil. I know not what way you mean. Hyl. I mean the way of accounting for our sensations or ideas. Phil. How is that ? Hyl. It is supposed the eoul makes her residence in some part of the brain, from which the nerves takes their rise, and are thence extended to all parts of the body : and that outward objects, by the different impressions they make on the organs of sense, communicate certain vibrative motions to the nerves ; and these being filled with spirits, propagate them to the brain or seat of the soul, which, according to the various impressions or traces thereby made in the brain, is variously affected with ideas. Phil. And call you this an explication of the manner whereby we are affected with ideas ? Hyl, Why not, Philonous, have you any thing to object against it? P/iil. 1 would first know whether I rightly understand your hypothesis. You make certain traces in the brain to be the causes or occasions of our ideas. Pray tell me, whether by the brain you mean any sensible thing ? , Hifl. What else think vou I could mean? PMl, Sensible things aVe all immediately perceivable ; and those things which are S8 THE SECOND DIALOGUE. immediately perceivable, are ideas ; and these exist only in the mind. Thus much you have, if I mistake not, long since agreed to. Hyl, I do not deny it. Phil. The brain, therefore, you speak of, being a sensible thing, exists only in the mind. Now, I would fain know, whether you think it reasonable to suppose, that one idea or thing existing in the mind, occasions all other ideas. And if you think so, pray how do you account for the origin of th.it primary idea or brain itself? .Hyl. I do not explain the origin of our ideas by that brain which is perceivable to sense, this being itself only a combination of sensible ideas, but by another which I imagine. Phil. But are not things imagined as truly in the mind as things perceived ? Hyl. I must confess they arc. P/iil. It comes, therefore, to the same thing; and you have been all_ this while accounting for ideas, by certain motions or impressions in the brain, hat is, by some alterations in an idea, whether sensible or imaginable, it matters not. Hyl. I beoin to suspect my hypothesis. Pah. Besides spirits, all that we know or conceive are our own ideas. When, therefore, you say, all ideas are occasioned by impressions in the brain, do you con- ceive this brain or no ? li you do, then you talk of ideas imprinted in an idea, causing that same idea, which is absurd. If you do not conceive it, you talk unintelligibly, instead of forming a reasonable hypothesis. Hi/l. I now clearly see it was a mere dream. There is nothing in it. P/iil. You need not be much concerned at it : for after all, this way of explaining things, as you called it, could never have satisfied any reasonable man. What connexion is there between a motion in the nerves, and the sensations of sound or colour in the mind ? Or how is it possible these should be the eifect of that? Hyl. But I could never think it had so little in it as now it seems to have. P/iil. Well then, are you at length satisfied that no sensible things have a real existence ; and that you are in truth an arrant sceptic ^ Hyl. It is too plain to be denied. P/iil. Look! are not the fields covered with a delightful verdure? Is there not something in the woods and groves, in the rivers and clear springs, that soothes, that delights, that transports the soul? At the prospect of the wide and deep ocean, or some huge mountain whose top is lost in the clouds, or of an old gloomy forest, are not our minds filled with a pleasing horror? Even in rocks and deserts, is there not an agreeable wildness? How sincere a pleasure is it to behold the natural beauties of tlie earth ! To preserve and renew our relish for them, is not the veil of night alter- nately drawn over her face, and doth she not change her dress with the seasons'! How aptly are the elements disposed ! What variety and use in the meanest productions of nature ! What delicacy, vvhat beauty, what contrivance, in animal and vegetable bodies! How exquisitely are all things suited, as well to their particular ends, as to constitute opposite parts of the whole ! And while they mutually aid and support, do they not also set off and illustrate each other? Raise now your thoughts from this ball of earth, to all those glorious luminaries that adorn the high arch of heaven. The motion and situation of the planets, are they not admirable for use and order? Were those (miscalled erratic) globes ever known to stray, in their repeated journeys through the pathless void? Do they not measure areas round the sun ever propor- tioned to the times ? So fixed, so immutable, are the laws by which the unseen Author of nature actuates the universe. How vivid and radiant is the lustre of the fixed stars! How magnificent and rich that negligent profusion, with which they appear to be scattered throughout the whole azure vault ! Yet if you take the telescope, it brings into your sight a new host of stars that escape the naked eye. Here they seem con- tiguous and minute, but to a nearer view immense orbs of light at various distances, far sunk in the abyss of space. Now you must call imagination to your aid. The feeble narrow sense cannot descry innumerable worlds revolving round the central fires ; and in those worlds the energy of an all-perfect mind displayed in endless forms. But neither sense nor imagination are big enough to comprehend the bound- less extent with all its glittering furniture. Though the labouring mind exert and strain each power to its utmost reach, there still stands out ungrasped a surplusage immeasurable. Yet all the vast bodies that compose this mighty frame, how distant and remote soever, are by some secret mechanism, some Divine art and force linked in a mutual dependence and intercourse with each other, even with this earth, which was almost slipt from my thoughts, and lost in the crowd of worlds. Is not the whole system immense, beautiful, glorious beyond expression and beyond thought! what treatment, then, do those philosophers deserve, who would deprive these noble and THE SECOND DIALOGUE. S9 delightful scenes of all reality? How slioukl those principles be entertained, that lead us to think all the visible beauty of the creation a false imaginary glare? To be plain, can you expect this scepticism of yours will not be thought extravagantly absurd by all men of sense I Hyl. Other men may think as they please : but for your part you have nothing to reproach me with. My comfort is, you are as much a sceptic as I am. Phil. There, Hylas, I must beg leave to differ from you. Hyl. What ! have you all along agreed to the premises, and do you now deny the conclusion, and leave me to maintain those paradoxes by myself which you led me into ? This surely is not fair. Phil. I deny that I agreed with you in those notions that led to scepticism. You indeed said, the reality of sensible things consisted in an absolute existence out of the minds of spirits, or distinct from their being perceived. And, pursuant to this notion of reality, you are obliged to deny sensible things any real existence : that is, accord- ing to your own definition, you profess yourself a sceptic. But I neither said nor thought the reality of sensible things was to "be defined after that manner. To me it is evident, for the reasons you allow of, that sensible things cannot exist otherwise than in a mind or spirit. Whence I conclude, not that they have no real existence, but that seeing they depend not on my thought, and have an existence distinct from being perceived by me, tliere must he some other mind wherein they exist. As sure, therefore, as the sensible world really exists, so sure is there an infinite omnipresent Spirit who contains and supports it. Hyl. What ! this is no more than I and all Christians hold ; nay, and all others too who believe there is a God, and that he knows and comprehends all things. Phil. Aye, but here lies the difference. Men commonly believe, that all things are known or perceived by God, because they believe the being of a God ; whereas I, on the other side, immediately and necessarily conclude the being of a God, because all sensible things must be perceived by him. Hyl. But so long as we all believe the same thing, what matter is it how we come by that belief? Phil. But neither do we agree in the same opinion. For philosophers, though they acknowledge all corporeal beings to be perceived by God, yet they attribute to them an absolute subsistence distinct from their being perceived by any mind whatever, which I do not. Besides, is there no difference between saying. There is a God, therefore he perceives all things ; and saying. Sensible things do really exist ; and if they really exist, they are necessarily perceived by an infinite mind : therefore there is an infinite mind, or God. This furnishes you with a direct and immediat^demonstration, from a most evident principle, of the being of a God. Divines and philosophers had proved beyond all controversy, from the beauty and usefulness of the several parts of the creation, that it was the workmanship of God. But that, setting aside all help of astronomy and natural philosophy, all contemplation of the contrivance, order, and adjustmentof things, an infinite mind should be necessarily inferred from the bare exist- ence of the sensible world, is an advantage peculiar to them only who have made this easy reflection ; that the sensible world is that which we perceive by our several senses; and that nothing is perceived by the senses beside ideas ; and that no idea or arche- type of an idea can exist otherwise than in a mind. You may now, without any labo- rious search into the sciences, without any subtilty of reason, or tedious length of discourse, oppose and baffle the most strenuous advocate for Atheism ; those miserable refuges, whether in an eternal succession of unthinking causes and effects, or in a fortuitous concourse of atoms ; those wild imaginations of Vanini, Hobbes, and Spi- nosa : in a word, the whole system of Atheism, is it not entirely overthrown by this single reflection on the repugnancy included in supposing the whole, or any part, even the most rude and shapeless of the visible world, to exist without a mind ? Let any one of those abettors of impiety but look into his own thoughts, and there try if he can conceive how so much as a rock, a desert, a chaos, or confused jumble of atoms; how any thing at all, either sensilde or imaginable; can exist independent of a mind, and he need go no farther to be convinced of his folly. Can any thing be fairer than to put a dispute on such an issue, and leave it to a man himself to see if he can conceive, even in thought, what he holds to be true in fact, and from a notional to allow it a real existence ? Hyl. It cannot be denied, there is something highly serviceable to religion in what you advance. But do you not think it looks very like a notion entertained by some eminent moierns, oi seeing all things in God? Phil, I would gladly know that opinion ; pray explain it to me. Hyl. They conceive that the soul, being immaterial, is incapable of being united with material things, bo as to perceive them in themselves, but that she perceives 60 THE SECOND DIALOGUE. them by her union with the substance of God, which being spiritual, is therefore purely intelligible, or capable of being the immediate object of a spirit's thought. Besides, the Divine essence contains, in it perfections correspondent to each created being ; and which are for that reason proper to exhibit or represent them to the mind. Phil. I do not understand how our ideas, which are things altogether passive and inert, can be the essence, or any part (or like any part) of the essence or substance of God, who is an impassive, indivisible, pure, active being. Many more difficulties and objections there are, which occur at first view against this hypothesis; but I shall only add, that it is liable to all the absurdities of the common hypothesis, in making a created world exist otherwise than in the mind of a spirit. Beside all which it hath this peculiar to itself; that it makes that material world serve to no purpose. And if it pass for a good argument against other hypotheses in the sciences, that they suppose nature or the Divine Wisdom to make something in vain, or do that by tedious roundabout methods, which might have been performed in a much more easy and compendious way, what shall we think of that hypothesis, which supposes the whole world made in vain ? Hyl. But what say you, are not you too of opinion that we see all things in God ? If I mistake not, what you advance comes near it ? Phil. Few men think, yet all have opinions. Hence men's opinions are superficial and confused. It is nothing strange. that tenets, which in themselves are ever so different, should nevertheless be confounded with each other by those who do not consider them attentively. I shall not therefore be surprised, if some men imagine that I run into the enthusiasm of Mallebranche, though in truth I am very remote from it. He builds on the most abstract general ideas, which I entirely disclaim. He asserts an absolute external world, which I deny. He maintains that we are deceived by our senses, and know not the real natures or the true forms and figures of extended beings ; of all which 1 hold the direct contrary, so that upon the whole there are no principles more fundamentally opposite than his and mine. It must be owned that I entirely agree with what the holy Scripture saith, '' that in God we live, and move, and have our being." But that we see things in his essence after the manner above set forth, I am far from believing. Take here in brief my meaning. It is evident that the things I perceive are my own ideas, and that no idea can exist unless it be in a mind. Nor is it less plain that these ideas or things by nie perceived, either themselves or their archetypes, exist independently of ray mind, since I know myself not to be their author, it being out of my power to determine at pleasure, what particular ideas I shall be affected with upon opening my eyes or ears. They must therefore exist in some other mind, whose will it is they should be exhibited to me. The things, I say, immediately perceived, are ideas or sensations, call them which you will. But how can any idea or sensation exist in, or be produced by, any thing but a mind or spirit? This indeed is in- conceivable ; and to as.sert that which is inconceivable, is to talk nonsense : is it not^ Hyl. Without doubt. Phil. But on the other hand, it is very conceivable that they should exist in, and be produced by a spirit; since this is no more than I daily experience in myself, inasmuch as I perceive numberless ideas ; and by an act of my will can form a great variety of them, and raise them up in my' imagination : though it must be confessed, these creatures of the fancy are not altogether .so distinct, so strong, vivid, and permanent, as those perceived by my senses, which latter are called real things. From all which I conclude, there is a Mind which affects me every moment with all the sensible impressions I perceive. And from the variety, order, and manner of these, I conclude the Author of them to be wise, powerful, and good, beyond comprehension. Mark it well; I do not say, I see things by per- ceiving that which represents them in the intelligible substance of God. This I do not understand ; but I say, the things by me perceived are known by the understanding, and produced by the will of an infinite Spirit, And is not all this most plain and evident? Is there any more in it, than what a little observation in our own minds, and that which passeth in them not only enableth us to con- ceive, but also obligeth us to acknowledge ? Hyl. I think I understand you very clearly ; and own the proof you give of a Deity seems no less evident than surprising. But allowing that God is the supreme and universal Cause of all things, yet may there not be still a third nature besides spirits and ideas? May we not admit a subordinate and limited cause of our ideas? In a ■word, may there not for all that be matter ? p/iil. How often roust I inculcate the same thing ? You allow the things imrae. THE SECOND DIALOGUE. 61 diately perceived by sense to exist no where without the mind : but there Is nothing perceived by sense, which is not perceived immediately: therefore tliere is nothing sensible tliat exists without the mind. The matter therefore wliich you still insist on, is something intelligible, I suppose ; sometliing that may be discovered by reason, and not by sense. Ht/l. You are in the right. Phil. Pray let me Ivnow what reasoning your belief of matter is grounded on ; and wliat this matter is in your present sense of it. Hi/I. I find myself affected with various ideas, whereof I Know I am not the eanse ; neither are tliey the cause of themselves, or of one another, or capable of subsisting by themselves, as being altogether inactive, fleetina;, dependent lieings. They have therefore some cause distinct from me and them : of which I pretend to know no more, than that it is the cause of my ideas. And this thing, whatever it be, I call matter. Phil. Tell me, Hylas, hath every one a libeity to change the current proper signification annexed to a common name in any language? For example, suppose a traveller should tell you, that in a certain country men might pass unhurt through the fire ; and, upon explaining himself, you found he meant by the word fire that which others call ttiofer ; or if he should assert that there are trees that walk upon two legs, meaning men by the term trees. Would you think this reasonable? Hyl. No, I should think it very absurd. Common custom is the standard of propriety in language. And for any man to affect speaking improperly, is to pervert the use of speech, and can never serve to a better purpose than to protract and multiply disputes where there is no difference in opinion. Phil. And doth not matter, in the common current acceptation of the word, signify an extended, solid, moveable, unthinking, inactive substance? Hyl. It doth. Phil. And hath it not been made evident, that no such substance can possibly exist ? And though it should be allowed to exist, yet how can that which is inactive be a cause ; or that which is unthinking be a cat4se of thought? You may indeed, if you please, annex to the word matter a contrary meaning to what is vulgarly received ; and tell me you understand by it an unextended, thinking, active being, which is the cause of our ideas. But what else is this, than to play with words, and run into that very fault you just now condemned with so much reason ? I do by no means find fault with your reasoning, in that you collect a cause from the phenomena : but I deny that the cause deducible by reason can properly be termed matter. Hyl. There is indeed something in what you say. But I am afraid you do not thoroughly comprehend my meaning. I would by no means be thought to deny that God or an infinite spirit is the supreme cause of all things. All 1 contend for is, tliat subordinate to the supreme Agent there is a cause of a limited and inferior nature, which concurs in the production of our ideas, not by any act of will or spiritual efficiency, but by that kind of action which belongs to matter, viz. motion. Phil. I find you are at every turn relapsing into your old exploded conceit, of a moveable and consequently an extended sulistance existing without the mind. What ! have you already forgot you were convinced, or are you willing I should repeat what has been said on that head ? In truth this is not fair dealing in you, still to suppose the being of that which you have so often acknowledged to have no being. But not to insist farther on what has been so largely handled, I ask whether all your ideas are not perfectly passive and inert, including nothing of action in them? Hyl. They are. Phil. And are sensible qualities any thing else but ideas ? Hyl. How often have I acknowledged that they are not? P/iil. But is not motion a sensible quality ? Hyl. It is. Phil. Consequently it is no action? Hyl. I agree with you. And indeed it is very plain, that when I stir my finger it remains passive ; but my will which produced the motion is active. Phil. Now I desire to know in the first place, whether motion being allowed to be no action, you can conceive any action besides volition : and in the second place, whether to say something and conceive nothing be not to talk nonsense: and lastly, whether having considei-ed the premises, you do not perceive that to suppose any efficient or active cause of our ideas, other than spirit, is highly absurd and unreason- able ? Hyl. I give up the point entirely. But though matter may not be a cause, yet what hinders its being an instrument subservient to the supreme Agent in the production of our ideas ? Phil. An instrument say you ! pray wliat may be the figure, springs, wheels, and niT)tions, of that instrument? 62 THE SECOND DIALOGUE. Hyl. Those I pretend to determine nothing of, both the substance and Its qualities being entirely unlerhaps act as wisely as he that should conclude two men were of a different species, because their clothes were not of the same colour. Phil. It seems, then, we are altogether put oirwith the appearances of things, and those false ones too. 7 he very meat I eat, and the cloth I wear, have nothing in them like what I see and feel. Hyl. Even so. Phil. But is it not strange the whole world should be thus imposed on, and so foolish as to believe their senses ? A„d yet I know not how it is, but men eat, and drink, and sleep, and perform all the offices of life as comfortably and conveniently, as it they really knew the things tliey are conversant about. fly/. They do so : but you know ordinary practice does not require a nicety of speculative knowledge. Hence the v„U.,-,r retain their mistakes, and for all that, make stie through the alijHirs of iile. But philsophers know better things. a shift to bust; THE THIRD DIALOGUE. 6? Phil, You mean, they know that they kiifw) nothing. Hyl. That is the very top and perfection of human ls disposed to forgive, Jian (lualilipd to discern, whatever faults may occur in it. Nor do 1 think you detective in any one point necessary to form an exact judgment on the most abstract and dithtuilt things, so much as in ajust confidence of your own abilities. And ni ihis one instance, give mc leave to say, you shew a manifest weakness of judgment. With relation to the following Essni/, I shall oiilv add, that I beg your pardon for laying a tnfle of that nature in your way at a time when you are engaged in the important aftairs ot the nation, and desire yon to think, that I am, with all sincerity and respect, Sir, Your most faithful and most humble servant, Geoiigb Berkf.iey. CONTENTS. Si'ct. I. Design. II. Distance o/ itself invisible. 111. Remote lUstance perceived rather hy experien'^e than by sense. IF. Near distance thought to be perceived by tlie angle of the optic axes. J'. Difference between Itiis and the former manner of perieiuing distance. I'l. Also by 'diverging rays. I'll. This depends not on ex- perieii.ce. fill. These the common uccouiits, bnt not iatisfaclnry . IX. Some ideas perceived by the mediation of others. X. A^o idea which is not itself perceived can be the m.erms of prroeiving another. XI. Distiinae perceived by means of some other idea. XII. 'J hose lines and angles mentioned in optics are not themselves perceived. XIII. Hence the mind doth not perceive distance by lines and angles. XI f. .4lso bemuse they have no real existence. XV. Ami because they are iiisvf/icient to explain the phennmena. XFl. The ideas that >,in^ge:l distance are, first, the sensation arising from the turn of flic ei/es. XI'Il. ISrtivixt lehich and distance there is no vceessary connexion. Xl'lII. Scarce room for mist'ike in this mutter. XIX. No regard had to the angle of the optic a.ies. XX. .ludgment of distance made with both eyes the result of experience. XXL Sren)nllt/, confnseilness if appearance. XXII. This the occasion of those judgments utirilnited to diverging rays. XXIII. Objection a)iswered. XXIV. IVhat deceives the mrilers if optics in this matter. XX r. The cause why one idea may suggest another. XXI I This applied to con- fusiiin and distance. XXI' II. Thirdly, the straining of the eye. XXI'Ill. The occasions which suggest distance luive in their onm natnre n-i relation to it. XXIX. A difficult case proposed by Dr. Barrmo as rejjiigiiant to all the Iciiown theories. XXX. This ease cmtradicts n received prineiple in eatnplries. XXXI. It is shewn til agree lelth the jirinriples ire have laid down. XXXII. This p.lienomenon ilhrs- tratcd. XXXIII. If con/inns tlie truth ot ttte principle ndte>-eby it is explained. XXX ir. I i:.li)ii,ii'}ten distinct and n'hen confused. XXXI'. I^lie different effects of parallel, diverging, and converging rays. Xl\XVI Ileiv converging and diverging reys coine to suggest the same distance. XXXTII. ^I person extremely purblind ivniild judge aright in the Jorenieniioned case. XXXP'Ill. Lines and angles why useful in optics. XXXIX. The not understanding t/iis a cause of mistake. XL. A ipieru., jiritp,,setl hy Mr'. ^Intyneiix in his hioptrics, considered. XLI . One born blind ivonld not at first have any idea of distance by sight. XLI I. This mil agreeable to the common principles. XLIII. The proper objects of si i; /it not without the mind, nor t/ie images of any thing inthoat the mind. XlAl'. I'tiis -more fully e ip'ained. XLI'. In what sense ive must be iniderslood to see distance and c.cternal tilings. XIA'I. IJistance, and thini^s placed at a distance, nut otherwise perceived III/ the eye than taj tJie eur. XLl'II. The ideas if siglit more apt to be confuiinded nnlh the ideas of touch than those if hearing arc. XLI 'I II. ///v'/' this comes to pass. XL IX. Strictly sj')caking, we never see and feel the same thing. L. Objects of sight CONTENTS. 85 two/'ild, mcdiaCv ami immciliale. LI. Thne hard to icpurdtciii our Ihoiighis. LII. The reccirrf/ yocounts 0/ our pcvci'iving magnitude htj sights false. LIII. IMa.'^ni- ttidc perncined as iiniiirdinlcty us dislam-c. LIV. Two kinds 0/ seiisi/ile iwli-iilion, id'itlicr of irliich is infinitely divisible. LV. The tangible iiia^iiiluife of un nhject steadt/., the risible not. LVI. lit/ ndiat means tant^ible magnitude is pereeiucd Iti/ sight. LVII. This further enlarged on. LVJII. ISu necessary connejrhin betiiteen confusion or faintness of uppeara7ice, and small or great magnitude. LIX. The tangible magnitude of an object more heeded than the i-isible, and why. LX. An instance of this. LXI. Men do not measure by visible feet or inches. LXIJ. A'o necessary connexion between visible and tangible extension. LXIIl. Greater visible nuignitnde might signify lesser ta}igible mas^nitude. LXIV. 'i he judgments we make of magnitude depenil altogether on experience. LXV. Distance and mugnitnde seen as shime or anger. LXVI. But we are prone to think otherwise, and why. LXVII. The moo7i seems greater in the horizon than in. the nieri# the ear. Sitting in my A NEW THEORY OF VISION. 95 study I hear a coach drive along the street ; I look through the casement and see it ; t walk out and enter into it ; tlius, common speech would incline one to think, I heard, saw, and touched, the same tiling, to wit, the coach. It is nevertheless certain, the ideas intromitted by each sense are widely dififerent, and distinct from each other ; but having been observed constantly to go togetlier, they are spoken of as one and the same thing. By the vsiriation of the noise I perceive the diiferent distances of the coach, and know that it approaches before 1 look out. Thus, by the ear, I perceive distance, just after the same manner as I do by the eye. XLVIJ. I do not nevertheless say, I hear distance in like manner as I say that I see it, the ideas perceived by hearing not being so apt to be confounded with the ideas of touch as those of sight are ; so likewise a man is easily convinced that bodies and external things are not properly the object of hearing, but only sounds, by the media- tion whereof the idea of this or that body, or distance, is suggested to his thoughts. But then one is with more difficulty brought to discern the dilTerence there is betwixt the ideas of sight and touch : though it be certain, a man no more sees or feels the same thing, than he hears and feels the same thing. XLVIII. One reason of which seems to be this. It is thought a great absurdity to imagine, that one and the same thing should have any more than one extension, and one figure. But the extension and figure of a body, being let into the mind two ways, and that indifferently, either by sight or touch, it seems to follow that we see the same extension and the same figure which we feel. XLIX. But if we take a close and accurate view of things, it must be acknowledged that we never see and feel one and the same object. That which is seen is one thing, and that which is felt is another ; if the visible figure and extension be not the same with the tangible figure and extension, we are not to infer that one and the same thing has divers extensions. The true consequence is, that tlie objects of sight and touch are two distinct things. It may, perhaps, require some thought rightly to conceive this distinction. And the difficulty seems not alittle increased, because the combina- tion of visible ideas hath constantly the same name as the combination of tangible ideas wherewith it is connected : which doth of necessity arise from the use and end of language. L. In order, therefore, to treat accurately and unconfusedly of vision, we must bear in mind that there are two sorts of objects apprehended by the eye, the one primarily and immediately, the other secondarily and by intervention of the former. Those of the first sort neither are nor appear to be without the mind, or at any distance off; they may, indeed, grow greater or smaller, more confused or more clear, or more faint, but they do not, cannot approach or recede from us. Whenever we say an object is at a distance, whenever we say it draws near, or goes farther off, we must always mean it of the latter sort, which properly belong to the touch, and are not so truly perceived as suggested by the eye in like manner as thoughts by the ear. LI. No sooner do we hear the words of a familiar language pronounced in our ears, but the ideas corresponding thereto present themselves to our minds ; in the very same instant the sound and the meaning enter the understanding: so closely are they united, that it is not in our power to keep out the one except we exclude the other also. We even act in all respects as if we heard the very thoughts themselves. So likewise the secondary objects, or those which are only suggested by sight, do often more strongly affect us, and are more regarded, than the proper objects of that sense, along with which they enter into the mind, and with which they have a far more strict connexion than ideas have with words. Hence it is, we find it so difficult to discriminate between the immediate and mediate objects of sight, and are so prone to attribute to the former what belongs only to the latter. They are, as it were, most closely twisted, blended, and incorporated together. And the prejudice is confirmed and rivetted in our thoughts by a long tract of time, by tlie use of language, and want of reflection. However, I believe any one that shall attentively consider what we have already said, and shall say upon this subject before we have done (especially if he pursue it in his own thoughts), may be able to deliver himself fiom that prejudice. Sure I am, it is worth some attention to whoever would understand the true nature of vision. LII. I have now done with distance, and proceed to shew how it is, that we perceive by sight the magnitude of objects. It is the opinion of some that we do it by angles, or by angles in conjunction with distance : but neither angles nor distance being pcr- ceivatile by sight, and the things we see being in truth at no distance from us, it follows, that as we have shewn lines and angles not to lie the medium the mind malses use of 'in apprehending the apparent place, so neither are they the medium wlieiel)y it apprehends the apparent magnitude of objects. Llll, It is well known, that the same extension at a near distance shall subtend a 96 AN ESSAY TOWARDS greater angle, anrf at a farther distance a lesser angle. And by this principle we are told the mind estimates the magnitude of an object, comparing the angle under which it is seen with its distance, and thence inferring the magnitude thereof. What in- clines men to this mistake (beside the humour of making one see by geometry) is, that the same perceptions or ideas which suggest distance, do also suggest magnitude. But if we examine it, we shall find they suggest the latter as immediately as the former. I say, they do not first suggest distance and then leave it to the judgment to use that as a medium whereby to collect the magnitude ; but they have as close and immediate a connexion with the magnitude as with the distance; and suggest mag- nitude as independently of distance, as they do distance independently of magnitude. All which will be evident to whoever considers what hath been already said and what follows. LI V. It hath been shewn there are two sorts of objects apprehended by sight, each whereof hath its distinct magnitude, or extension ; the one properly tangible, i. e. to be perceived and measured by touch, and not immediately falling under the sense of seeing : the other, properly and immediately visible, by mediation, of which the former is brought in view. Each of these magnitudes are greater or lesser, according as they contain in them more or feiver points ; they being made up of points or minimums. For, whatever may be said of extension in abstract, it is certain, sensible extension is not infinitely divisible. There is a minimum tangible, and a minimum visible, beyond which sense cannot perceive. This every one's experience will inform him. LV. The magnitude of the object which exists without the mind, and is at a dis- tance, continues always invariably the same : but the visible object still changitig as you approach to or recede from the tangible object, it hath no fixed and determinate greatness. Whenever therefore we speak of the magnitude of any thing, for instance, a tree or a house, we must mean the tangible magnitude ; otherwise there can be nothing steady and free from ambiguity spoken of it. But though the tangible and visible magnitude in truth belong to two distinct objects, I shall nevertheless (espe- cially since those objects are called by the same name, and are observed to coexist), to avoid tediousness and singularity of speech, sometimes speak of them as belonging to one and the same thing. LVI. Now, in order to discover by what means the magnitude of tangible objects is perceived by sight, I need only reflect on what passes in my own mind, and observe what those things be which introduce the ideas of greater or lesser into my thoughts when I look on any object. And these I find to be, first, the magnitude or extension of the visible object, which, being immediately perceived by sight, is connected with that other which, is tangible, and placed at a distance: Secondly, the confusion or distinctness: and, thirdly, the vigorousness or faintness of the aforesaid visible ap- pearance. Cceteris paribus, by how much the greater or lesser the visible object is, by so much the greater or lesser do I conclude the tangible object to be. But be the idea immediately perceived by sight never so large, yet if it be withal confused, I judge the magnitude of the thing to be but small : if it be distinct and clear, I judge it greater: and if it be faint, I apprehend it to be yet greater. What is here meant by confusion and faintness, hath been explained in sect. xxxv. LVII. Moreover, the judgments we make of greatness do, in like manner as those of distance, depend on the disposition of the eye; also on the figure, number, and situation of objects, and other circumstances that have been observed to attend great or small tangible magnitudes. Thus, for instance, the very same quantity of visible extension, which in the figure of a tower doth suggest the idea of great magnitude, shall in the figure of a man suggest the idea of much smaller magnitude. That this is owing to the experience we have had of the usual bigness of a tower and a man, no one, I suppose, need be told. LVIII. It is also evident, that confusion or faintness have no more a necessary connexion with little or great magnitude, than they have with little or great distance. As they suggest the latter, so they suggest the former to our minds. And by conse- quence, if it were not for experience, we should no more judge a faint or confused ap- pearance to be connected with great or little magnitude, than we should that it was connected with great or little distance. LIX. Nor will it be found, that great or small visible magnitude hath any necessary relation to great or small tangible magnitude ; so that the one may certainly be in- ferred from the other. But, before we come to the proof of this, it "is fit we consider the difTcrence there is betwixt the extension and figure which is the proper object of touch, and that other which is termed visible; and how the former is principally, though not immediately, taken notice of, when we look at any object. This has been before mentioned, but we shall here inquire into tlie cause thereof. We regai-d ihe objects that environ us in proportion as they are adapted to benefit or injure our own A NEW THEORY OF VISION. 97 bodies, and thereby produce in our minds the sensations of pleasure or pain. Now bodies operating on our organs by an immediate application, and the liurt or advan- tage arising therefrom depending altogellisr on the tangiblp, and not at all (m the visible, qualities of any object ; this is a plain reason why those should be regarded by us as much or more tlian these : and for this end the visive sense seems to liave been bestowed on animals, to wit, that by the perception of visible ideas (which in them- selves are not capable of affecting or any wise altering the frame of their bodies) they may be able to foresee (from the experience they have had what tangible ideas are connected with such and such visible ideas) the damage or benefit which is likely to ensue upon the application of their own bodies to this or that body which is at a dis- tance : which foresight, how necessary it is to the preservation of an animal, every one's experience can inform him. Hence it is that when we look at an object, the tangible figure and extension thereof are principally attended to; whilst there is small heed taken of the visible figure and magnitude, which, though more imme- diately perceived, do less concern us, and are not fitted to produce any alteration in our bodies. LX. That the matter of fact is true will be evident to any onC^vho considers that a man placed at ten feet distance is thought as great as if he were placed at the dis- tance only of five feet; which is true, not with relation to the visible but tangible greatness of the object : the visible magnitude being far greater at one station than it is at the other. LXI. Inches, feet, &c. are settled stated lengths, whereby we measure objects, and estimate their magnitude. We say, for example, an object appears to be six inches, or six feet long. Now, that this cannot be meant of visible inches, &c. is evident, because a visible inch is itself no constant determinate magnitude, and cannot therefore serve to mark out and determine the magnitude of any other thing. Take an inch marked upon a ruler; view it successively, at the distance of half a foot, a foot, a foot and a half, &c. from the eye: at each of which, and at all the intermediate distances, the inch shall have a different visible extension, i. e. there shall be more or fewer points discerned in it. Now I ask, which of all these various extensions is that stated de- terminate one that is agreed on for a common measure of other magnitudes? No reason can be assigned why we should pitch on one more than another : and except there be some invariable determinate extension fixed on to be marked by the word inch, it is plain it can be used to little purpose ; and to say,,a thing contains this or that number of inches, shall imply no more than that it is extended, without bringing any particular idea of that extension into the mind. Farther, an inch and a foot, from ditferent distances, shall both exhibit the same visible magnitude, and yet at the same time you shall say, that one seems several times greater than the other. From all which it is manifest, that the judgments we make of the magnitude of objects by sight are altogether in reference to their tangible extension. Whenever we say an object is great or small, of this or that determinate measure, J say, it must be meant of the tangible and not the visible extension, which, though immediately perceived, is nevertheless little taken notice of. LXII. Now, that there is no necessary connexion between these two distinct ex- tensions, is evident from hence ; because our eyes might have been framed in such a manner as to be able to see nothing but what were less than the minimmu tangible. In which case it is not impossible we might have perceived all the immediate objects of sight the very same that we do now : but unto those visible appearances there would not be connected those different tangible magnitudes that are now. Which shews, the judgments we make of the magnitude of things placed at a distance, from the various greatness of the immediate objects of sight, do not arise from any essential or necessary but only a customary tie which has been observed between them. LXIII. Moreover, it is not only certain, that any idea of sight might not have been connected with this or that idea of touch which we now observe to accompany it; but also, that the greater visible magnitudes might have been connected with and intro- duced into our minds lesser tangible magnitudes, and the lesser visible magnitudes greater tangible magnitudes. N^ay, that it actually is so, we have daily experience ; that object which makes a strong and large appearance not seeming near so great as another the visible magnitude whereof is much less, but more faint, and the appear- ance upper, or which is the same thing painted lower on the retina, which faintness and situation suggest both greater magnitude and greater distance. LXIV. From which, and from sect. Ivii. and Iviii. it is manifest, that as we do not perceive the magnitudes of objects immediately by sight, so neither do vin perceive them by the mediation of any thing which has a necessary connexion with them. Those ideas that now suggest unto us the various magnitudes of external objects before we touch them, might possibly have suggested no such thing •. or they might have H 93 AN ESSAY TOWARDS signified them in a direct contvary maimer ; so tliat the very same ideas, on the per- ception whereof we judge an object to be small, might as well have served to make ns conclude it great; those ideas being in their own nature equally fitted to bring into our minds the idea of small or great, or no size at all, of outward objects ; just as the words of any language are in their own nature indifferent to signify this or that thing, or nothing at all. LXV. As we see distance so we see magnitude. And we see both in the same way that we see shame or anger in the looks of a man. Those passions are themselves invisible : they are nevertheless let in by the eye along with colours and alterations of countenance, which are the immediate object of vision, and which signify them for no other reason, than barely because they have been observed to accompany them : without which experience we should no more have taken blushing for a sign of shame than of gladness. LXVI. We are nevertheless exceedingly prone to imagine those things, which are perceived only by the mediation of others, to be themselves the immediate objects of sight ; or at least, to have in their own nature a fitness to be suggested by them, before ever they had been experienced to coexist with them. From which prejudice every one, perhaps, will not find it easy to emancipate himself, by any the clearest convic- tions of reason. And there are some grounds to think, that if there was one only invariable and universal language in the world, and that men were born with the faculty of speaking it, it would be the opinion of many, that the ideas in other men's minds were properly perceived by the ear, or had at least a necessary and inseparable tie with the sounds that were affixed to them. All which seems to arise from a want of a due application of our discerning faculty, thereby to discriminate between the ideas that are in our understandings, and consider them apart from each other; which would preserve us from confounding those that are different, and make us see what ideas do, and what do not, include or imply this or that idea. LXVII. There is a celebrated phenomenon the solution whereof I shall attempt to give by the principles that have been laid down, in reference to the manner wherein we apprehend by sight the magnitude of objects. The apparent magnitude of the moon, when placed in the horizon, is much greater than when it is in the meridian ; though the angle under which the diameter of the moon is seen be not observed greater in the former case than in the latter : and the horizontal moon doth not constantly appear of the same bigness, but at some times seemeth far greater than at others. LX^'fll. Now in order to explain the reason of the moon's appearing greater than ordinary in the horizon, it must be observed, that the particles which compose our atmosphere intercept the rays of light proceeding from any object to the eye ; and by how much the greater is the portion of atmosphere interjacent between the object and the eye, by so much the more are the rays intercepted; and by consequence, the appeal ance of the object rendered more faint, everyobject appearing more vigorous or more faint, in proportion as it sendeth more or fewer rays into the eye. Now, be- tween the eye and the moon, when situated in the horizon, there lies a far greater quantity of atmosphere than there does when the moon is in the meridian. Whence it comes to pass, that the appearance of the horizontal moon is fainter, and therefore by sect. Ivi. it should be thought bigger in that situation than in the meridian, or in any other elevation above the horizon. LXIX. Farther, the air being variously impregnated, sometimes more and some- times less, with vapours and exhalations fitted to retund and intercept the rays of light, it follows, that the appearance of the horizontal moon hath not always an equal faintness, and by consequence, that luminary, tliough in the very same situation, is at one time judged greater than at another. LXX. That we have here given the true account of the phenomena of the horizon, tal moon, will, I suppose, be farther evident to any one from the following considera- tions. /"/V*?, it is plain, that which in this case suggests the idea of greater magnitude, must be something nhich is itself perceived : for, that which is unperceived cannot suggest to our perception any other thing. Secondly, it must be something that does not constantly remain the same, but is subject to some change or variation, since the appearance of the horizontal moon varies, being at one time greater than at another. AuA yel, Thirdly, it cannot be tlie visible figure or magnitude, since that remains the same, or is lather lesser, by how much the moon is nearer to the horizon. It remains therefore, that the true caiise is that affection or alteration of the visible appearance, which proceeds from the greater paucity of rays arriving at the eye, and which I term faintness : since tliis answers all the foiouientioncd conditions, and I am not conscious of any other perception that doth. LXXI. i'.dd to this, that in misty weather, it is a common observation, that the appearance of tlie horizontal moon is far laiger than usual, which greatly conspires A 2VEW THEORY OF VISION. 99 with and strengthens our opinion. Neither would it prove in the least irreconcileable with what we have said, if the hoiizontal moon should cliance sometimes to seem enlarged beyond its usual extent, even in more serene weather. For we must not only have regard to the mist, whieli happens to be in the place where we stand ; we ought also to take into our thoughts the whole sum of vapours and exhalations which lies be- twixt the ej-e and the moon : all which co-operating to render the appearance of the moon more faint, and thereby increase its magnitude, it may chance to appear greater than it usually does, even in the horizontal position, at a time when though there be no extraordinary fog or haziness just in the place were we stand ; yet the air between the eye and the moon, taken altogether, may be loaded with a greater quantity of interspersed vapours and exhalations than at other times. LXXII. It may be objected, that in consequence of our principles, the interpo- sition of a body in some degree opaque, which may intercept a great part of the rays of light, should render the appearance of the moon in the meridian as large as when it is viewed in the horizon. To which I answer, it is not faintncss any how applied that suggests greater magnitude, there being no necessary, but only an experimen- tal, connexion between those two things : it follows, that the faintness, which enlarges the appearance, must be applied in such sort, and with such circumstances, as have been observed to attend the vision of great magnitudes. AVhen from a distance we liehold great objects, the particles of the intermediate air and vapours, which are themselves unperceivable, do interrupt the rays of light, and thereby render the appearance less strong and vivid ; now, faintness of appearance caused in this sort hath been experienced to coexist with great magnitude. But when it is caused by the interposition of an opaque sensible body, this circumstance alters the case, so that a faint appearance this way caused, doth not suggest greater magnitude, because it hath not been experienced to coexist with it. LXXIIT. Faintness, as well as all other ideas or perceptions which suggest magni- tude or distance, doth it in the same way that words suggest the notions to which they are annexed. Now it is known, a word pronounced with certain circumstances, or in a certain context with other words, hath not always the same import and signification that it hath when pronounced in some other circumstances, or different context of words. The very same visible appearance as to faintness and all other respects, if placed on high, shall not suggest the same magnitude that it would if it were seen at an equal distance on a level with the eye. The reason whereof is, that we are rarely accustomed to view objects at a great height ; our concerns lie among things situated rather before than above us ; and accordingly our eyes are not placed on the top of our heads, but in such a position as is most convenient for us to see distant objects stand- ing in our way ; and this situation of them being a circumstance which usually attends the vision of distant objects, we may from hence account for (what is commonly ob- served) an object's appearing of different magnitude, even with respect to its horizontal extension, on the top of a steeple, for example, a hundred feet high, to one standing below, from what it would if placed ata hundred feet distance on a level with his eye. For it hath been shewn, that the judgment we make on the magnitude of a thing de- , pends not on the visible appearance alone, but also on divers other circumstances, any one of which being omitted or varied may suffice to make some alteration in our judgment. Hence the circumstance of viewing a distant object in such a situation as is usual, and suits with the ordinary posture of the head and eyes being omitted, and instead thereof a different situation of the object, which requires a different posture of the liead taking place, it is not to be wondered at, if the magnitude be judged different ; but it will be demanded, why a high object should constantly appear less than an equidistant low object of the same dimensions, for so it is observed to be ; it may indeed be granted that the variation of some circumstances may vary the judg- ment made on the magnitude of high objects, which we are less used to look at: but it does not hence appear why they should be judged less rather than greater. I answer, that in case the magnitude of distant objects was suggested by the extent of their visible appearance alone, and thought proportional thereto, it is certain they would then be judged ranch toss than now they seem to be. (Vide sect. Ixxix.) But several circumstances concurring to form the judgment we make on the magnitude of distant objects, by means of which they appear far larger than others wliose vi.-ible appearance hath an equal or even greater extension ; it follows, that upon the change or omission of any of those circumstances which are wont to attend the vision of distant objects, and so come to influence tlie judgments made on their magnitude, they shall proportionably appear less than otherwise they would. For any of those things that caused an object to be thought greater than in proportion to its visible extension, being either omitted, or applied without the usual circum-.tanri>s, the jml.;;- ment depends more entirely on the visible extension, and consequently the oliject n 2 100 AN ESSAY TOWARDS must be judged less. Thus in the present ease, tlie situation of the thing seen being different from what it usually is in those objects we have occasion to view, and whose magnitude we observe, it foljows.that tlie very same object being a hundred feet high, should seem less than if it was a hundred feet olii; on (or nearly on) a level with the eye. What has been here set forth, seems to me to have no small share in contributing to magnify the appearance of the horizontal moon, and deserves not to be passed over in the ex|ilication of it. LXXIV. If we attentivelv consider the phenomenon before us, we shall find the not discerninjf between the mediate and immediate objects of sight to be the chief cause of the difficulty that occurs in the explication of it. The magnitude of the visible moon, or that which is the proper and immediate object of vision, is no greater when the moon, is in the horizon, than when it is in the meridian. How comes it therefore, to seem greater in one situation than the other ? What is it can put this cheat on the under- sianding '! It has no other perception of the moon than what it gets by sight: and that whicli is seen is of the same extent, I say, the visible appearance hath the same or rather a less magnitude, when the moon is viewed in the horizontal than when in the meridional position : and yet it is esteemed greater in the former than in the latter. Herein consists the difficulty, which doth vanish and admit of a most easy solution, if we consider, that as the visible moon is not greater in the horizon than in the meridian so neither isit thought to be so. It hath been already shewn, that in any act of vision, the visible object absolutely, or in itself, is little taken notice of, the mind still carry- ing its view from that to some tangible ideas, which have been observed to be connected with it, and by that means come to he suggested by it. So that when a thing is said to appear great or small, or whatever estimate be made of the magnitude of any thing, this is meant not of the visible but of the tangible object. This duly considered, it win be no hard matter to reconcile the seeming contradiction there is, that the moon should appear of a different bigness, the visible magnitude thereof remaining still the same. For by sect. Ivi. the very same visible extension, with a different faintness, shall suggest a different tangible extension. When therefore the horizontal moon is said to appear greater than the meridional moon, this must be understood, not of a greater visible extension, butof a greater tangibleor real extension, which by reason of themore than ordinary faintness of the visible appearance, is suggested to the mind along with it. LXXV. Many attempts have been made by learned men to account for this appear- ance. Gassendus, Descartes, Hobbes, and several others, have employed their thoughts on that subject ; but how fruitless and unsatisfactory their endeavours have been, is sufficiently shewn in The Philosophical Transactions,* where you may see their several opinions at large set forth and confuted, not without some surprise at the gross blunders that ingenious men have been forced into, by endeavouring to reconcile this appearance with the ordinary principles of optics. Since the writing of which, there hath been published in the Transactions t another paper relating to the same affair, by the celebrated Dr. Wallis, wherein he attempts to account for that pheno- menon, which, though it seems not to contain any thing new, or different from what had been said before by others, I shall nevertheless consider in this place. LXXVI. His opinion, in short, is this : We judge not of the magnitude of an object by the visual angle alone, but by the visual angle in conjunction with the distance. Hence, though the angle remain the same, or even become less, yet if withal the dis- tance seem to have been increased, the object shall appear greater. Now, one way whereby we estimate the distance of any thing, is by the number and extent of the intermediate objects ; when therefore the moon is seen in the horizon, the variety of fields, houses, &c. together with the large prospect of (he wide extended land or sea, that lies between the eye and the utmost limb of the horizon, suggest unto the mind the idea of greater distance, and consequently magnify the appearance. And this, according to Dr. Wallis, is the true account of the extraordinary largeness attributed by the mind to the horizontal moon, at a time when the angle subtended by its dia- meter is not one jot greater than it used to be. LXXVI I. With reference to this opinion, not to repeat what hath been already said concerning distance, I shall only observe, first, that if the prosnect of interjacent objects be that which suggests the idea of farther distance, and tliis idea of farther distance ()e the cause that brings into the mind the idea of greater magnitude, it should hence follow, that if one loolced at the horizontal moon Irom behind a wall, it would appear no bigger than ordinary. For, in that case, the wall interposing cuts off all that prospect of sea and land, &c. which might otherwise increase the apparent distance, and thereby tlie apparent magnitude of the ni.mn. Nor will it suffice to say, the memory doth even then suggest all that exlent of laud, &c. which lies within the * PMl. Tiaiif, "Num. 1»7. p. 3H. t Num. 187. p. 32fi. A NE\V THEORY OF VISION. 101 horizon; which suggestion occasions a sudden judgment of boiise, that the moon is farther off and larger than usual. For ask any man, who from such a station behold- ing the horizontal moon shall think her greater than usual, whether he hath at that time in his mind any idea of tho intermediate objects, or long tract of land that lies between his eye and the extieme edge of the horizon 1 And whether it be that idea which is the cause of his making the aforementioned judgment ? lie will, I suppose, reply in the negative, and declare, the horizontal moon shall appear greater than the meridional, though he never thinks of all or any of those things that lie between him and it. Secondly, it seems impossible, by this hypothesis, to account for the moon's appearing, in the very same situation, at one time greater than at another; which, nevertheless, has been shewn to be very agreeable to the principles we have laid down, and receives a most easy and natural explication from them. For the further clearing up of this point, it is to be observed, that what we immediately and properly see, are only lights and colours in sundry situations and shades, and degrees of faintness and clearness, confusion and distinctness. All which visible objects are only in the mind ; nor do they suggest aught external, whether distance or magnitude, otherwise than by habitual connexion, as words do things. We are also to remark, that, beside the straining of the eyes, and beside the vivid and faint, the distinct and confused ap- pearances (which bearing some proportion to lines and angles, have been substituted instead of them, in the foregoing part of this Treatise), theie are other means which suggest both distance and magnitude ; particularly, the situation of visible points, or objects, as upper or lower; the former suggesting a farther distance and greater mag- nitude, the latter a nearer distance and lesser magnitude : all which is an effect only of custom and experience ; there being really nothing intermediate in the line of dis- tance, between the uppermost and lowermost, which are both equidistant, or rather at no distance from the eye, as there is also nothing in upper or lower which by neces- sary connexion should suggest greater or lesser magnitude. Now, as these customary experimental means of suggesting distance do likewise suggest magnitude, so they suggest the one as immediately as the other. I say, they do not (vide sect, liii.) first suggest distance, and then leave the mind from thence to infer or compute magnitude, but suggest magnitude as immediately and directly as they suggest distance. LXXVIII. This phenomenon of the horizontal moon Is a clear instance of the in- sufficiency of lines and angles for explaining the way wherein the mind perceives and estimates the magnitude of outward objects. There is, nevertheless, a use of compu- tation by them, in order to determine the apparent magnitude of things, so far as they have a connexion with and are proportional to those other ideas or perceptions which are the true and immediate occasions that suggest to the mind the apparent magnitude of things. But this in !;eneral may, I think, be observed concerning mathematical computation in optics : that it can never be very precise and exact, since the judgments we make of the magnitude of external things do often depend on several circumstances, which are not proportionable to or capable of being defined by lines and angles. LXXIX. From what has been said we may safely deduce this consei|uence, to nit, that a man born blind, and made to see, would, at first opening of his eyes, make a very different judgment of the magnitude of objects intromitted by thi'ni from what others do. He would not consider the ideas of sight with reference to or as having any connexion with the ideas of touch : his view of them being entirely terminated within themselves, he can no otherwise judge them great or small than as they contain a greater or lesser number of visible points. Now, it being certain that any visible point can cover or exclude from view only one other visible point, it follows, that whatever object intercepts the view of another hath an equal number of visible points with it ; and, consequently, they shall both be thought by him to have ihe same mag- nitude. Hence, it is evident, one in those circumstances would judge his thumb, with which he might hide a tower, or hinder its being seen, equal to that tower ; or his hand, the interposition whereof might conceal the firmament from his view, equal to the firmament: how great an inequality soever theie niriy, iu our apprehensions, seem to be betwixt those two tilings, because of the customary and close connexion that has grown up in our minds between the objects of sight and touch, whereby the very different and distinct ideas of those two senses are so blended and confounded together as to be mistaken for one and the same thing ; out of which prejudice we cannot easily extricate ourselves. LXXX. For the better explaining the nature of vision, and setting the manner wherein we perceive magnitudes in a due light, I shall proceed to make some obser- vations concerning matters relating thereto, whereof the want of reflection, and duly separating between tangible and visible ideas, is apt to create in us mistaken and con- fused notione. And, first, I shall obseiTe, that the minimum visiiile is exactly equal 102 AN KSSAY TOWARDS in all beings whatsoever that are endowed vvith the visive faculty. No exquisite for- mation of the eye, no peculiar sharpness of sight, can make it less in one creature than in another; for it not being distinguishable into parts, nor in any wise consisting of them, it must necessarily be the same to all. For suppose it otherwise, and that the iitiitimum visihile of a mite, for instance, be less than the minimum visibile of a man ; the latter, therefore, may, by detraction of some part, be made equal to the former : it doth, therefore, consist of parts, which is inconsistent with the notion of a minimmn viaiOite, or point. LXXXI. It will, perhaps,, be objected, that the minimum visihile of a man doth really and in itself contain parts whereby it surpasses that of a mite, though they are not perceivable by the man. To \vhicli I answer, the minimum visibile having (in like manner as all other the proper and immediate objects of sight) been shewn not to have any existence without the mind of him who sees it, it follows there cannot be any part of it that is not exactly perceived, and therefore visible. Now for any object to con- tain several distinct visible parts, and at the same time to be a minimum visibile, is a manifest contradiction. LXXXII. Of these visible points we see at all times an equal number. It is every whit as great when our view is contracted and bounded by near objects, as when it is extended to larger and remoter. . For it being impossible that one minimum visibile should obscure or keep out of sight moie than one other, it is a plain consequence, that when my view is on all sides bounded by the walls of my study, I see just as many visible poinis as I could, in case, that by the removal of the study-walls, and all other obstructions, I had a full prospect of the circumjacent fields, mountains, sea, and open firmament ; for so long as I am shut up within the walls, by their interposition, every point of tlie external objects is covered from my view : but each point that is seen being able to cover or exclude from sight one only otlier corresponding point, it fol- lows, that whilst my sight is confined to those narrow walls, I see as many points, or minima visibilia, as I should were those walls away, by looking on all the external objects whose prospect is intercepted by them. Whenever therefore we are said to have greater prospect at one time than another, this must be understood with relation, not to the proper and immediate, but the secondary and mediate objects of vision, which, as hath been shewn, properly belong to the touch. LXXXIII. The visive faculty considered, with reference to its immediate objects, may be found to labour of two defects : First, in respect of the extent or number of visible points that are at once perceivable by it, which is narrow and limited to a cer- tain degree. It can take in at view but a certain determinate number of minima visibilia, beyond which it cannot extend its prospect. Secondly, our sight is defective in that its view is not only narrow, but also for the most part confused ; of those things that we take in at one prospect, we can see but a few at once clearly and unconfusedly ; and the more we fix our sight on any one object, by so much the darker and more indistinct shall the rest appear. LXXXIV. Corresponding to these two defects of sight, we may imagine as many perfections, to wit, 1st. That of comprehending in one view a greater number of visible points. 2dly. Of being able to view them all equally and at once, with the utmost clearness and distinction. That those perfections are not actually in some intelligences of a different order and capacity from ours, it is impossible for us to know. LXXXy. In neither of those two ways do microscopes contribute to the improve- ment of sight; for when we look through a microscope, we neither see more visible points, nor are the collateral points more distinct than when we look with the naked eye, at objects placed in a due distance. A microscope brings us, as it were, into a new world : it presents us with a new scene of visible objects quite diftc:rent from what we behold with the naked eye. but herein consists the most remarkable diflerence, to wit, that whereas the objects perceived by the eye alone, have a certain connexion with tangible objects, whereby we are taught to foresee what will ensue upon the ap- proach or application of distant objects to the parts of our body, which much con- duceth to its preservation ; there is not the like connexion between things tangible and those visible objects that are perceived by help of a fine microscope. LXXXVI. Hence it is evident, that were our eves turned into the nature of micro- scopes, we should not he much benefited by the change; we should be deprived of the forementioned advantage we at present receive by the visive faculty ; and have left us only the empty amusement of seeing, without any other benefit arising from it But in that case it will, perhaps, be said, our sight would be endued with a far greater sharpness and penetration than it now hath. But I would fain know wherein consists that sharpness which is esteemed so great an excellency of sight. It is certain, from what we have already shewn, that the minitnum visibile is never greater or lesser, but A NEW THEORY OF VISIOlsr. 103 in all cases constantly the same ; and in the case of micioscopieal eyes, I see only this difference, to wit, that upon the ceasing of a certain observable connexion betwixt the divers perceptions of sight and touch, which before enabled us to regulate our actions by the eye, it would now be rendered utterly unserviceable to that purpose. LXXXVII. Upon the whole, it seems that if we consider the use and end of sight, together with the present state and circumstances of our being, we shall not find any great cause to complain of any defect or imperfection in it, or easily conceive how it could be mended. With such admirable wisdom is that faculty contrived, both for the pleasure and convenience of life. LXXXVUI. Having finished what I intended to say concerning the distance and magnitude of objects, I come now to treat of the manner wherein the mind perceives by sight their situation. Among the discoveries of the last age, it is reputed none of the least, that the manner of vision hath been more clearly explained than ever it had been before. There is, at this day, no one ignorant, that the pictures of external objects are painted on the rcihia, or fund of the eye. That we can see nothing which is not so painted : and that, according as the picture is more distinct or confused, so also is the perception we have of the object ; but then, in this explication of vision, there occurs one mighty difKculty. The objects are painted in an inverted order on the bottom of the eye : the upper part of any object being painted on the lower part of the eye, and the lower part of the object on the upper part of the eye : and so also as to right and left. Since, therefore, the pictures are thus inverted, it is demanded how it comes to pass that we see the objects erect and in their natural posture ? LXXXIX. In answer to this difficulty we are told, that the mind, perceiving an impulse of a ray of light on the upper part of the eye, considers this ray as coming in a direct line from the lower part of the object, and, in like manner, tracing the ray that strikes on the lower part of the eye, it is directed to the upper part of the object. Thus, in the adjacent figure C, the lower point of the object ABC is projected on o the upper part of the eye. So likewise, the highest point A is projected on a the lowest part of the eye, which makes the representation c4a inverted : but the mind, considering the stroke that is made on c as coming in the straight line C c from the lower end of the object ; and the stroke or impulse on a, as coming in the line A a from the upper end of the object, is directed to make a right judgment of the situation of the object ABC, notwithstanding the picture of it is inverted. This is illustrated by conceiving a blind man, who, holding in his hands two sticks that cross each other, doth, with them, touch the extremities of an object, placed in a perpendicular situa- tion. It is certain, this man will judge that to be the upper part of the object which he touches with the stick held in the undermost hand, and that to be the lower part of the object which he touches with the stick in his uppermost hand. This is the com- mon explication of the erect appearance of objects, which is generally received and acquiesc^ in, being (as IVIr. iVIolyneux tells us') allowed by all men as satisfactory. XC. But this account to me does not seem in any degree true. Did I perceive those impulses, decussations, and directions of the rays of light, in like manner as hath been set forth, then, indeed, it would not, at first view, be altogether void of probability. And there might be some pretence for the comparison of the blind man and his cross sticks. But the case is far otherwise. I know, very well, that I perceive no such thing. And of consequence, I cannot thereby make an estimate of the situa- tion of objects. I appeal to any one's experience, whether he be conscious to himself, that he thinks on the intersection made by the radius pencils, or pursues the impulses they give in right lines, whenever he perceives by sight the position of any object? To me it seems evident, that crossing and tracinij; of the rays, is never thought on by children, idiots, or, in truth, by any other, save only those who have applied them- • Diopt. par, ii. f. vii. p. ssg. 104 AN ESSAY TOWARDS selves to the stiiiiy of optics. And for the mind to judge of the situation of objects by those things, without perceivinf; them, or to perceive them vvithout knowing it, is equally beyond my comprehension. Add to tliis, that the explaining the manner of vision by the example of cross sticks, and hunting for the object along the axes of the radius psncils, doth suppose the proper objects of sight to be perceived at a distance from us, contrary to what hath been demonstrated. . , cc XCI. It remains, therefore, that we look for some other explication of this difficulty ; and I believe it not impossible to find one, provided we examine it to the bottom, and carefully distinguish between the ideas of siglit and touch ; which cannot be too oft inculcated in treating of vision : but more especially throughout the consideration of this affair we ought to carry that distinction in our thoughts : for that, from want of a right understanding thereof, the difficulty of explaining erect vision seems chiefly to arise. XCII. In order to disentangle our minds from whatever prejudices we may entertain with relation to the subject in hand, nothing seems more apposite, than the taking into our thoughts the case of one born blind, and afterwards, when grown up, made to see. And though perhaps it may not be an easy task to divest ourselves entirely of the experience received from sight, so as to be able to put our thoughts exactly in the posture of such a one's ; we must, nevertheless, as far as possible, endeavour to frame true conceptions of what might reasonably be supposed to pass in his mind. XCIII. It is certain, that a man actually blind, and who had continued so from his birth, would, by the sense of feeling, attain to have ideas of upper and lower. By the motion of his hand he might discern the situation of any tangible object placed within his reach. That part on which he felt himself supported, or towards which he perceived his body to gravitate, he would term lower, and the contrary to this upper ; and accordingly denominate whatsoever objects he touched. XCIV. I3ut then, whatever judgments he makes concerning the situation of objects, are confined to those only that are perceivable by touch. All those things that are intangible, and of a spiritual nature, his thoughts and desires, his passions, and, in general, all the modifications of his soul, to these he would never apply the terms upper and lower, except only in a metaphorical sense. He may, perhaps, by way of allusion, speak of high or low thoughts ; but those terms, in their proper signification, would never be applied to any thing that was not conceived to exist without the mind. For a man born blind, and remaining in the same state, could mean nothing else by the words higher and lower, than a greater or lesser distance from the earth : which distance he would measure by the motion or application of his hand, or some other part of his body. It is, therefore, evident, that all those things which, in respect of each other, would, by him, be thought higher or lower, must be such as were conceived to exist without his mind, in the ambient space. XCV. Whence it plainly follows, that such a one, if we suppose him made to see, would not, at first sight, think, that anything he saw was high or low, erect or in- verted ; for it hath been already demonstrated in sect xli. that he would not think the things he perceived by sight to be at any distance from him, or without his mind. The objects to wliich he had hitherto been used to apply the terms up and down, high and low, were such only as affected or were some way perceived by his touch : but the proper objects of vision make a new set of ideas, perfectly distinct and different from the former, and which can in no sort make themselves perceived by touch. There is, therefore, nothing at all that could induce him to think those terms applicable to them: nor would he ever think it, till such time as he had observed their connexion with tangible objects, and the same prejudices began to insinuate themselves into his understanding, which, from their infancy, had grown up in the understandings of other men. XCVf. To set this matter in a clearer light, I shall make use of an exampJe. Sup- pose the abovementioned blind person, by liis touch, perceives a man to stand erect. Let us inquire into the manner of this. By the application of his hand to the several parts of a human body, he had perceived different tangible ideas, which being col- lected into sundry complex ones have distinct names annexed to them. Thus one combination of a certain tangible figure, bulk, and consistency of parts, is called the head, another the hand, a third the foot, and so of the rest : all vvhich complex ideas could in his understanding be made up only of ideas perceivable by touch. He had also by his touch obtained an idea of earth or ground, towards which he perceives the parts of his body to have a natural tendency. Now by erect, nothing more being meant, than tliat perpondicular position of a man, wherein his feet are nearest to the earth : if the blind person, by moving his hand over the parts of the man who stands before him, perceives the tangible ideas that compose the head to be farthest from, and those that compose the feet to be nearest to, that other combination of tangible A NEW THEORY OF VISION. 105 ideas which he calls earth, he will denominate that man erect. But if we suppose him on a sudden to receive his sight, and that he behold a man standing before him, it is evident, in that case, he would neither judge the man he sees to be erect nor inverted; for he, never having known those terms appUed to any other save tangible things, or which existed in the space without him, and what lie sees neither being tangible, nor perceived as existing without, he could not know that, in propriety of language, they were applicable to it. XCVII. Afterwards, when upon turning his head or eyes up and down to the right and left, he shall observe the visible objects to change, and shall also attain to know, that they are called by the same names, and connected with the objects perceived by touch ; then, indeed, he will come to speak of them and their situation in the same terms that he has been used to apply to tangible things : and those that he perceives by turning up his eyes he will call upper, and those by turning down his eyes he will call lower. XCVIII. And this seems to me the true reason why he should think those objects uppermost that are painted on the lower part of his eye : for by turning the eye up they shall be distinctly seen; as likewise those that are painted on the highest part of the eye shall be distinctly seen by turning the eye down, and are for that reason esteemed lowest ; for we have shewn, that to the immediate objects of sight, considered in themselves, he would not attribute the terms high and low. It must therefore be on account of some circumstances, which are observed to attend them : and these, it is plain, are the actions of turning the eye up and down, which suggest a very obvious reason why the mind should denominate the objects of sight accordingly high or low. And without this motion of the eye, this turning it up and down in order to discern different objects, doubtless erect, inverse, and other the like terms relating to the position of tangible objects, would never have been transferred, or in any degree apprehended to belong to the ideas of sight : the mere act of seeing including nothing in it to that purpose; whereas the dilferent situations of the eye naturally direct the mind to make a suitable judgment of the situation of objects intromitted by it. XCIX, Farther, when he has by experience learnt the connexion there is between the several ideas of sight and touch, he will be able, by the perception he has of the situation of visible things in respect of one another, to make a sudden and true estima- tion of the situation of outward, tangible things corresponding to them. And thus it is he shall perceive by sight the situation of external objects, which do not properly fall under that sense. C. I know we are very prone to think, that if just made to see, we should judge of the situation of visible things as we do now ; but, we are also as prone to think, that at first sight we should in the same way apprehend the distance and magnitude of objects, as we do now : which hath been shewn to be a false and groundless persuasion. And for the like reasons, the same censure may be passed on the positive assurance that most men, before they have thought sufficiently of the matter, might have of their being able to determine by the eye at first view, whether objects were erect or inverse. CI. It will perhaps be objected to our opinion, that a man, for instance, being thought erect when his feet are next the earth, and Inverted when his head Is next the earth, it doth hence follow, that by the mere act of vision, without any experience or altering the situation of the eye, we should have determined whether he were erector inverted : for both the earth itself, and the limbs of the man who stands thereon, being equally perceived by sight, one cannot choose seeing, what part of the man is nearest the earth, and what part farthest from it, i. e. whether he be erect or inverted. CI I. To which I answer, the ideas which constitute the tangible earth and man are entirely different from those which constitute the visible earth and man. Nor was it possible, by virtue of the visive faculty alone, without superadding any experience of touch, or altering the position of the eye, ever to have known, or so much as sus- pected, there had been any relation or connexion between them ; hence a man at first view would not denominate any thing he saw, earth, or head, or foot ; and consequently, he could not tell, by the mere act of vision, whether the head or feet were nearest the earth : nor, indeed, would we have thereby any thought of earth or man, erect or in- verse, at all : which will be made yet more evident, if we nicely observe, and make a particular comparison between, the ideas of both senses. Clir. That which I see is only variety of light and colours. That which I feel is hard or soft, hot or cold, rough or smooth. What similitude, what connexion, have those ideas with these 1 Or how is It possible, that any one should see reason to give one and the same name to combinations of ideas so very different, before he had expe- rienced their coexistence ? We do not find there is any necessary connexion betwixt this or that tangible quality, and any colour whatsoever. And we may sometimes per- ceive colours, where there is nothing to be felt. All which doth make it manifest, 106 AN ESSAY TOWARDS that 110 man, at first receiving of his sight, would know there was any agreement between this or that particular object of his sight, and any object of touch he had been already acquainted with ; the colours therefore of the head would to him no more suggest the idea of head than they would the idea of foot. . n , CIV. Farther, we have at large shewn, (vide sect. Ixiii. and Ixiv.) there is no dis- coverable necessary connexion between anv given visible magnitude and any one particular tangible magnitude ; but that it is entirely the result of custom and experi- ence, and depends on foreign and accidental circumstances, that we can by the per- ception of visible extension inform ourselves, what may be the extension of any tangible object connected with it. Hence it is certain, that neither the visible magnitude of head or foot would bring along with them into the mind, at first opening of the eyes, the respective tangible magnitudes of those parts. CV. By the foregoing section, it is plain the visible figure of any part of the body hath no necessarv connexion with the tangible figure thereof, so as at first sight to suggest it to the mind : for figure is the termination of magnitude, whence it follows, that no visible magnitude, having in its own nature .an aptness to suggest any one particu- lar tangible magnitude, so neither can any visible figure be inseparably connected with its corresponding tangible figure : so as of itself and in a way prior to experience, it might suggest it to the understanding. This will be farther evident, if we consider that what seems smooth and round to the touch, may to sight, if viewed through a microscope, seem quite otherwise. CVI. From all which, laid together and duly considered, we may clearly deduce this inference. In the first act of vision, no idea entering by the eye would have a perceiv- able connexion with the ideas to which the names earth, man, head, foot, &c. were annexed in the understanding of a person blind from his birth ; so as in any sort to introduce them into his mind, or make themselves be called by the same names, and reputed the same things with them, as afterwards they come to be. CVIf. There doth, nevertheless, remain one difficulty, which perhaps may seem to press hard on our opinion, and deserve not to be passed over : for though it be granted that neither the colour, size, nor figure, of the visible feet, have any necessary con- nexion with the ideas that compose the tangible feet, so as to bring them at first sight into my mind, or make me in danger of confounding them before 1 had been used to and for some time experienced their connexion ; yet thus much seems undeniable, namely, that the number of the visible feet being the same with that of the tangible feet, I may from hence, without any experience of sight, reasonably conclude, that they represent or are connected with the feet rather than the head. I say, it seems the idea of two visible feet will sooner suggest to the mind the idea of two tangible feet than of one head ; so that the blind man, upon first reception of the visive faculty, might know, which were the feet or two, and which the head or one. CVIII. In order to get clear of this seeming difficulty, we need only observe, that diversity of visible objects doth not necessarily infer diversity of tangible objects cor- responding to them. A picture painted with great variety of colours atfects the touch in one uniform manner ; it is therefore evident, that I do not by any necessary consecution, independent of experience, judge of the number of things tangible from the number of things visible. I should not therefore at first opening my eyes con- clude, that because I see two I shall feel two. How, therefore, can I, before experience teaches me, knew that the visible legs, because two, are connected with the tangible legs, or the visible head, because one is connected with the tangible head? The truth is, the things I see are so very different and heterogeneous from the things I feel, that the perception of the one would never have suggested the other to my thoughts, or enabled me to pass the least judgment thereon, until I had experienced their connexion. CIX. But for a fuller illustration of this matter, it ought to be considered, that number (however some may reckon it amongst the primary qualities) is nothing fixed and settled, really existing in things themselves. It is entirely the creature of the mind, considering cither an idea by itself, or any combination of ideas to which it gives one name, and so makes it pass for a unit. According as the mind variously combines its ideas, the unit varies ; and as the unit so the number, which is only a collection of units, doth also vary. We call a window one, a chimney one, and yet a house, in which there are many windows and many chimneys, hath an equal right to be called one ; and many houses go to the making of one city. In these and the like instances, it is evident the unit constantly relates to the particular draughts the mind makes of its ideas, to which it affixes names, and wherein it includes more or less, as best suits its own ends and purposes; Whatever therefore the mind considers as one, that is a unit. Evei'y combination of ideas is considered as one thing by the mind, and in token thereof is marked by one name. Now, this naming and combining together pf A NEW THEORY OF VISION. 107 ideas is perfectly arbitrary, and done by tlie mind in sucb sort as experience shews it to be most conveiiiont : witliout which our ideas had never been collected into such sundry distinct combinations as they now are. ex. Hence it follows, thai a man born blind, and afterwards, when grown up, made to see, would not, in the first act of vision, parcel out the ideas of sight, into the same distinct collections that others do, who have experienced which do regularly co-exist and are proper to be bundled up together under one name. He would not, for example, make into one complex idea, and thereby esteem and unite, all those particular ideas which constitute the visible head or foot. For there can be no reason assigned why he should do so, barely upon his seeing a man stand upright before him : there crowd into his mind the ideas which compose the visible man, in company with all the other ideas of sight perceived at the same time ; but all these ideas offered at once to his view, he would not distribute into sundry distinct combinations, till such time as by observing the motion of the parts of the man and other experiences, he comes to know, which are to be separated, and which to be collected together. CXI. From what hath been premised, it is plain the objects of sight and touch make, if I may so say, two sets of ideas, which are widely different from each other. To objects of either kind we indifferently attribute the terms high and low, right and left, and such like, denoting the position or situation of things : but then we must well observe that the position of any object is determined vvith respect only to objects of the same sense. We say, any object of touch is high or low according as it is more or less distant from the tangible earth : and in like manner we denominate any object of sight, high or low in proportion as it is more or less distant from the visible earth : but to define the situation of visible things, with relation to the distance they bear from any tangible thing, or vice versa, this were absurd and perfectly unintelligible. For all visible things are equally in the mind, and take up no part of the external space : and consequently are equidistant from any tangible thing which exists without the mind. CXn. Or rather, to speak truly, the proper objects of sight are at no distance, neither near nor far from any tangible thing. For, if we inquire narrowly into the matter, we shall find that those things only are compared together in respect of distance, which exist after the same manner, or appertain unto the same sense. For by the distance between any two points, nothing more is meant than the number of intermediate points: if the given points are visible, the distance between them is marked out by the number of the interjacent visible points : if they are tangible, the distance between them is a line consisting of tangible points j but if they are one tangible, and the other visible, the distance between them doth neither consist of points perceivable by sight nor by touch, /. c. it is utterly inconceivable. This, perhaps, will not find an easy admission into all men's understanding : however, I should gladly be informed whether it be not true, by any one who will be at the pains to reflect a little, and apply it home to his thoughts. CXIII. The not observing what has been delivered in the two last sections, seems to have occasioned no small part of the difficulty that occurs in the business of erect appearances. The head, which is painted nearest the earth, seems to be farthest from it; and on the other hand, the feet, which are painted farthest from the earth, are thought nearest to it. Herein lies the difficulty, which vanishes if we express the thing more clearly and free from ambiguity, thus : how comes it that, to the eye, the visible head, which is nearest the tangible earth, seems farthest from the earth ; and the visible feet, which are farthest from the tangible earth, seem nearest the earth 1 The question being thus proposed, who sees not the difficulty is founded on a suppo- sition, that the eye, or visive faculty, or rather the soul by means thereof, should judge of the situation of visible objects, with reference to their distance from the tangible earth 1 Whereas it is evident the tangible earth is not perceived by sight : and it hath been shown in the two last preceding sections, that the location of visible objects is determined only by the distance they bear from one another ; and that it is nonsense to talk of distance, far or near, between a visible and tangible thing. CXIV. If vve confine our thoughts to tlie proper objects of sight, the whole is plain and easy. The head is painted farthest frouj, and the feet nearest to the visible earth; and so they appear to be. What is there strange or unaccountable in this? Let us suppose the pictures in the fund of the eye to be the immediate objects of the sight. The consequence is, that things should appear in the same posture they are painted in ; and is it not sol Tlie head, which is seen, seems farthest from the earth which is seen ; and the feet, which are seen, seem nearest to the earth which is seen. And just so they are painted. CXV. But, say you, the picture of the man is inverted, and yet the appearance is erect ; I ask, what mean you by the picture of the man, or, which is the same thing, 108 AN ESSAY TOWARDS the visiblR man's being inveited'! You tell me it is inverted, because the heels are uppermost, and the head undermost? Explain me this. You say, that by the head's being undermost, you mean that it is nearest to the earth ; and by the heels being uppermost, that they are farthest from the earth. I ask again, what earth you mean t You cannot mean the earth that is painted on the eye, or the visible earth : for the picture of the head is farthest from the picture of the earth, and tlie picture of the feet nearest to the picture of the earth ; and accordingly the visible head is far- thest from the visible earth, and the visible feet nearest to it. It remains, therefore, that you mean the tangible earth, and so determine the situation of visible things with respect to tangible things ; contrary to what hath been demonstrated in sect. cxi. and cxii. The two distinct provinces ol sight and touch should be considered apart, and as if their objects had no intercourse, no manner of relation to one another, in point of distance or position. CXVl. Farther, what greatly contributes to make us mistake in this matter is, that when we think of the pictures in the fund of the eye, we imagine ourselves looking on the fund of another's eye, or another looking on the fund of our own eye, and beholding the pictures painted thereon. Suppose two eyes A and B ; A from some distance looking on the pictures in B sees them inverted, and for tliat reason concludes they are inverted in B ; but this is wrong. There are projected in little on the bottom of A, the images of the pictures of, suppose man, earth, &c. which are painted on B. And besides these, the eye B itself, and the objects which environ it, togetherwith another earth, are projected inalarger size on A. Now, by the eyeA, these larger images are deemed the true objects, and the lesser only pictures in miniature. And it is with respect to those greater images, tliat it determines the situation of the smaller images : so that, comparing the little man with the great earth, A judges him inverted, or that the feet are farthest from and the head nearest to the'gieat earth. Whereas, if A compare the little man with the little earth, then he will appear erect, i.e. his head shall seem farthest from and his feet nearest to the little earth. But we must consider that B does not see two earths as A does : it sees only what is repre- sented by the little pictures in A, and consequently shall judge the man erect : for in truth, the man in B is not inverted, for there the feet are next the earth ; but it is the representation of it in A which is inverted, for there the head of the represen- tation of the picture of the man in B is next the earth, and the feet farthest from the earth, meaning the earth which is without the representation of the pictures in B. For if you take the little images of the pictures in B, and consider them by them- selves, and with respect only to one another, they are all erect and in their natural posture. CXVII. Farther, there lies a mistake in our imagining that the pictures of external objects are painted on the bottom of the eye. It hath been shown, there is no resem- blance between the ideas of sight and things tangible. It hath likewise been demon- strated, that the proper objects of sight do not exist without the mind. Whence it clearly follows, that the pictures painted on tiie bottom of the eye are not the pictures of external objects. Let any one consult his own thoughts, and then say what affinity, what likeness, there is between that certain variety and disposition of colours, which constitute the visible man, or picture of a man ; and that other combi- nation of far different ideas, sensible by touch, which compose the tangible man. But if this be tlie case, how come they to be accounted pictures or images, since that supposes them to copy or represent some originals or other t CXVIII. To which I answer: in the forementioned instance, the eye A takes the little images, included within the representation of the other eye B, to be pictures or copies, whereof the archetypes are not things existing without, but the larger pictures projected on its own fund : and which by A are not thought pictuies, but the originals, or true things tliemselves. Though if we suppose a third eye C from a due distance to behold the fund of A, then indeed the things projected thereon shall, to C, seem pictures or images, in the same sense that those projected on B do to A. CXIX. Rightly to conceive this point, we must carefully distinguish between tlie ideas of sight and touch, between the visible and tangible eye ; for certainly, on the tangible eye, nothing either is or seems to be painted. Again, the visible eye, as well as all other visible objects, hath been shown to exist only in the mind, which, perceiving its own ideas, and comparing them together, call some pictures in respect toothers. What hath been said, being rightly comprehended, and laid together, doth, I think, afford a full and genuine explication of the erect appearance of objects ; which phenomenon, I must confess, I do not see how it can be explained by any theories of vision hitherto made public. CXX. In treating of these things, the use of language is apt to occasion some obscurity and confusion, and create in us wrong ideas ; for language being accommo- A NEW THEORY OF VISION. 109 dated to the common notions and prejudices of men, it is scarce possible to deliver the naked and precise truth, without great circumlocution, impropriety, and (to an unwary reader) seeming contradictions; I do, therefore, once for all, desire, whoever shall think it worth his while to understand what 1 have written concerning vision, that he would not stick in this or that phrase or manner of expression, but candidly collect ray meaning from the whole sum and tenor of my discourse, and, laying aside the woi'ds as much as possible, consider the bare notions themselves, and then judge whether they are agreeable to truth and his own experience, or no. CXXI. We have shown the way wherein the mind by mediation of visible ideas doth perceive or apprehend the distance, magnitude, and situation, of tangible objects. I come now to inquire more particularly concerning the diflerencc between the ideas of sight and touch, which are called by the same names, and see whether there be any idea common to both senses. From what we have at large set forth and demonstrated in the foregoing parts of this treatise, it is plain there is no one self- same numerical extension, perceived both by sight and touch ; but that the particular figures and extensions perceived by sight, however they may be called by the same names and reputed the same things with those perceived by touch, are nevertheless different, and have an existence distinct and separate from them : so that the ques- tion is not now concerning the same numerical ideas, but whether there be any one and the same sort or species of ideas equally perceivable to both senses'! or, in other words, whether extension, figure, and motion, perceived by sight, are not specifically distinct from extension, figure, and motion, perceived by touch ? CXXII. But before I come more particularly to discuss this matter, I find it proper to consider extension in abstract: for of this there is much talk, and I am apt to think, that when men speak of extension, as being an idea common to two senses, it is with a secret supposition, that we can single out extension from all other tangible and visible qualities, and form thereof an abstract idea, which idea they will have common both to sight and touch. We are therefore to understand by extension in abstract, an idea of extension ; for instance, a line or surface, entirely stripped of all other sensible qualities and circumstances that might determine it to any particular exist- ence ; it is neither black, nor white, nor red, nor hath it any colour at all, or any tangible quality whatsoever, and consequently it is of no finite determinate magni- tude : for that which bounds or distinguishes one extension from another, is some quality or circumstance wherein they disagree. CXXIII. Now I do not find that I can perceive, imagine, or anywise frame in my mind, such an abstract idea as is here spoken of. A line or surface, which is neither black, nor white, nor blue, nor yellow, &c. nor long, nor short, nor rough, nor smooth, nor square, nor round, &c. is perfectly incomprehensible. This I am sure of as to myself; how far the faculties of other men may reach they best can tell. CXXIV. It is commonly said, that the object of geometry is abstract extension ; hut geometry contemplates figures : now, figure is the termination of magnitude, but we have shown that extension in abstract hath no finite determinate magnitude, whence it clearly follows that it can have no figure, and consequently is not the least object of geometry. It is indeed a tenet as well of the modein as of the ancient phi- losophers, that all geneial truths are concerning universal abstract ideas ; without which, we are told, there could be no science, no demonstration of any general propo- sition in geometry. But it were no hard matter, did I think it necessary to my present purpose, to show what propositions and demonstrations in geometry might be universal, though they who make them never think of abstract general ideas of trian- gles or circles. CXXV- After reiterated endeavours to apprehend the general idea of a triangle, I have found it altogether incomprehensible. And surely, if any one were able to introduce that idea into my mind, it must be the author of the Essay concerning Human Understanding ; he, who has so far distinguished himself from the generality of writers, by the clearness and signiHcancy of what he says. Let us therefore see how this celebrated author describes the general or abstract idea of a triangle. " It must be (says he) neither oblique nor rectangular, neither equilateral, equicrural, nor Bcalenum ; but all and none of these at once. In effect, it is somewhat imperfect that cannot exist ; an idea, wherein some parts of several different and inconsistent ideas are put together." — Essay on Human Understanding, b. iv. c- vii. sect. ix. This is the idea which he thinks needful for the enlargement of knowledge, which is the subject of mathematical demonstration, and without which we could never come to know any general proposition concerning triangles. That author acknowledges it doth " require some pains and skill to form this general idea of a triangle." — Ibid. Bnt had he called to miiid what he says in another place, to wit, " that ideas of mixed mode, wherein any inconsistent ideas are put together, cannot so much as exist in the mind, !.«. be conceived;'' (vide b. iii. c. x. sect. xxxiii. ibid.) I say, had this 110 AN ESSAY TOWARDS occured to his thoughts, it is not improbable he would have owned it above all the pains and skill he was master of, to form the abovementioned idea of a triangle, which is made up of manifest staring contradictions. That a man who thought so much, and laid so great a stress, on clear and determinate ideas, should nevertheless talk at this rate, seems very surprising. But the wonder will lessen if it be consi- dered, that the source whence this opinion flows, is the prolific womb which has brought forth innumerable errors and difficulties, in all parts of philosophy, and in all the sciences : but this matter, talven in its full extent, were a subject too vast and comprehensive to be insisted on in this place. And so much for extensioii in abstract. CXXVI. Some, perhaps, mav think pure space, vacuum, or trine dimension, to he equally the object of sight and touch : but though we have a very great propension to think the ideas of outness and space to be the immediate object of sight ; yet, if I mistake not, in the foregoing parts of this Essay, that hath been clearly demonstrated to be a mere delusion, arising from the quick and sudden suggestion of fancy, which so closely connects the idea of distance with those of sight, that we are apt to think it is itself a proper and immediate object of that sense, till reason corrects the mistake. CXXVII. It having been shown that there are no abstract ideas of figure, and that it is impossible for us, by any precision of thought, to frame an idea of extension separate from all other visible and tangible qualities, which shall be common both to sight and touch ; the question now remaining is, whether the particular extensions, figures, and motions, perceived by sight, be of the same kind with the particular extensions, figures, and motions, perceived by touch ? In answer to which I shall venture to lay down the following proposition : The extension, figures, and motions, perceived by sight, are specifically distinct from the ideas of touch, called ly tlie same names ; nor is there any such thing us one idea, or kind of idea, common to both senses. This proposition may, without much difficulty, be collected from what hath been said in several places of this Essay. But because it seems so remote from and contrary to the received notions and settled opinion of mankind, I shall attempt to demonstrate it more particularly, and at large, by the following arguments. CXXVIII. When upon perception of an idea I range it under this or that sort, it is because it is perceived after the same manner, or because it has a likeness or con- formity with or affects me in the same way as the ideas of the sort I rank it under. In short, it must not be entirely new, but have something in it old, and already per- ceived by me : it must, I say, have so much, at least, in common with the ideas I have before known and named, as to make me give it the same name with them. But it has been, if I mistake not, clearly made out, that a man born blind would not, at first reception of his sight, think the things he saw were of the same nature with the oiijects of touch, or had any thing in common with them ; but that they were a new set of ideas, perceived in a new manner, and entirely different from all he had ever perceived before : so that he would not call them by the same name, nor repute them to be of the same sort, with any thing he had hitherto known. CXXIX. Secondly, Light and colours are allowed by all to constitute a sort or species entirely dillercnt from the ideas of touch : nor will any man, 1 presume, say, they can make themselves perceived by that sense : but there is no other immediate objects of sight beside light and colours. It is therefore a direct consequence, that there is no idea common to both senses. CXXX. It is a prevailing opinion, even amongst those who have thought and writ most accurately concerning our ideas, and the ways whereby they enter into the understanding, that something more is perceived by sight than barely light and colours with tlioir variations. Mr. Locke termeth sight, "the most comprehensive of all our senses, conveying to our minds the ideas of light and colours, which are peculiar only to that sense; and also the far different ideas of space, figure, and motion." — Essay on Human L^nderstanding, b. ii. c. ix. sect. ix. Space or distance, we have shown, is no otherwise the object of sight than of hearing. (Vide sect.xlvi.) And as for figure and extension, I leave it to any one that shall calmly attend to his owii clear and distinct ideas, to decide whether he has any idea intromitted immedi- ately and properly by sight save only light and colours : or whether it be possible for him to frame in his mind a distinct ahstract idea of visible extension, or figure, exclusive of all colour; and. on the other hand, whether he can conceive colour, without visible extension ? For my own part, I must confess, I am not able to attain so great a nicety of alistraninn ; in a strict sense, I see nothing but light and colours, with their several shades and variations. He who beside these doth also perceive by sight ideas far different and distinct from them, hath that faculty in a degree more perfect and comprehensive than 1 can pretend to. It must be owned, that by the mediation of light and colours, other far different ideas are suggested to my mind : but 30 they are by hearing, which, beside sounds whi'-h are peculiar to that sense. A NEW THEORY OF VISION. Ill doth by their mediation suggest not only space, figure, and motion, but also all other ideas whatsoever that can be signified by words, CXXXl. T/iiril/i/, It is, I think, an axiom universally received, that quantities of the same kind may be added together, and make one entire sum, Mathematicians add lines together ; but they do not add a line to a solid, or conceive it as making one sum with a surface : these three kinds of quantity being thought incapable of any such mutual addition, and consequently of being compared together, in the several ways of proportion, are by them esteemed entirely disparate and heterogeneous. Now let any one try in his thoughts to add a visible line or surface to a tangible line or surface, so as to conceive them making one continued sum or whole. He that can do tliis may think them homogeneous; but he that cannot must, by the foregoing axiom, think them heterogeneous? a blue and a red line I can conceive added toge- ther into one sum, and making one continued line; but to make in my thoughts one continued line of a visible and tangible line added together, is, I find, a task far more difficult, and even insurmountable ; and I leave it to the reflection and experience of every particular person to determine for himself. CXXXII. A farther confirmation of our tenet may be drawn from the solution of Mr. Molyneux's problem, published by Mr. Locke in his Essay : which I shall set down as it there lies, together with Mr. Locke's opinion of it. " ' Suppose a man born blind, and now adult, and taught by his touch to distinguish between a cnbe and a sphere of the same metal, and nighly of the same bigness, so as to tell when he felt one and t'other, which is the cube, and which the sphere. Suppose then the cube and sphere placed on a table, and the blind man to see : Query, Whether by his sight, before he touched them, he could now distinguish, and tell, which is the globe, which the cube.' To which the acute and judicious proposer answers : 'Not. For though he has obtained the experience of, how a globe, how a cube affects his touch ; yet he has not yet attained the experience, that what affects his touch so or so, must affect his sight so or so : or tliat a protuberant angle in the cube, that pressed his hand unequally, shall appear to his eye as it doth in the cube.' I agree witii this thinking gentleman, whom I am proud to call my friend, in his answer to this pro- blem ; and am of opinion that the blind man, at first sight, would not be able with certainty to say, which was the globe, which the cube, whilst he only saw them."— Essay on Human Understanding, b. ii. c. ix. sect. viii. CXXXHI. Now, if a square surface perceived by touch be of the same sort with a square surface perceived by sight, it is certain the blind man here mentioned might know a square surface as soon as he saw it: it is no more but introduced into his mind, by a new inlet, an idea he has been already well acquainted with. Since there- fore he is supposed to have known by his touch, that a cube is a body terminated by square surfaces ; and that a sphere is not terminated by square surfaces ; upon the supposition that a visible and tangible square diffi^r only in numero, it follows that he might know, by the unerring mark of the square surfaces, which was the cube, and which not, while he only saw them. We must therefore allow, either that visible extension and figures are specifically distinct from tangible extension and figures, or else, that the solution of this problem, given by those two thoughtful and ingenious men, is wrong. CXXXIV. Much more might be laid together in proof of the proposition I have advanced : but what has been said is, if I mistake not, sufficient to convince any one that shall yield a reasonable attention : and as for those that will not be at the pains of a little thought, no multiplication of words will ever suffice to make them under- stand the truth, or rightly conceive my meaning. CXXXV. T cannotletgo the above mentioned problem without some reflection on it. It hath been made evident, that a man blind from his birth would not, at first sight, denominate any thing he saw, by the names he had been used to appropriate to ideas of touch. (Vide sect, cvi.) Cube, sphere, table, are words he has known applied to things perceivable by touch, but to things perfectly intangible he never knew them applied. Those words, in their wonted application, always marked out to his mind bodies, or solid things which were perceived by the resistance they gave : but there is no solidity, no resistance or protrusion, perceived by sight. In short, the ideas of sight are all new perceptions, to which there be no names annexed in liis mind ; he cannot therefore understand what is said to him concerning them : and to ask of the two bodies he saw placed on the table, which was the sphere, which the cube, were, to him, a question downright bantering and unintelligible ; nothini!; he sees being able to suggest to his thoughts the idea of body, distance, or, in general, of any thing he had already known. CXXXVI. It is a mistake to think the same thing affects holli sight and touch. If the same angle or square, which is the object of touch, be also the object of vision, 112 AN ESSAY TOWARDS what should hinder the blind man, at first sight, from knowing if! For though the manner wherein it affects tlie sight be different from that wherein it affected his touch, yet there being, beside this manner or circumstance, which is new and un- known, the angle or figure, which is old and known, he cannot choose but discern it. CXXXVII. Visible figure and extension having been demonstrated to be of a nature entirely different and heterogeneous from tangible figure and extension, it remains that we inquire concerning motion. Now that visible motion is not of the same sort with tangible motion, seems to need uo farther proof, it being an evident corollary from what we have shewn concerning the difference there is between visible and tangible extension : but for a more full and express proof hereof, we need only ob- serve, that one who had not yet experienced vision, would not at first sight know motion. Whence it clearly follows, that motion perceivable by sight is of a sort dis- tinct from motion perceivable by touch. The antecedent I prove thus : by touch he could not perceive any motion but what was up or down, to the right or left, nearer or farther from him ; besides these, and their several varieties or complications, it is impossible he should have any idea of motion. He would not therefore think any thing to be motion, or give the name motion to any idea, which he could not range under some or other of those particular kinds thereof. But from sect. xcv. it is plain that by the mere act of vision, he could not know motion upwards or downwards, to the right or left, or in any other possible direction. From which I conclude, he would not know motion at all at first sight. As for the idea of motion in abstract, I shall not waste paper about it, but leave it to my reader to make the best he can of it. To me it is perfectly unintelligible. CXXXVIII. The consideration of motion may furnish a new field for inquiry : but since the manner wherein the mind apprehends by sight the motion of tangible obr jects, with the various degrees thereof, may be easily collected, from what hath been said concerning the manner wherein that sense doth suggest the various distances, magnitudes, and situations, I shall not enlarge any farther on this subject, but pro- ceed to inquire what may be alleged, with greatest appearance of reason, against the proposition we have shewn to be true: for where there is so much prejudice to be encountered, a bare and naked demonstration of the truth will scarce suffice. We must also satisfy the scruples that men may raise in favour of their preconceived notions, shew whence the mistake arises, how it came to spread, and carefully disclose and root out those false persuasions, that an early prejudice might have implanted in the mind. CXXXIX. First, therefore, it will be demanded, how visible extension and figures come to be called by the same name with tangible extension and figures, if they are not of the same kind with them ? It must be something more than humour or acci- dent, that could occasion a custom so constant and universal as this, which has obtained in all ages and nations of the world, and amongst all ranks of men, the learned as well as the illiterate. CXL. To which I answer, we can no more argue a visible and tangible square to be of the same species, from their being called by the same name, than we can, that a tangible square and the monosyllable consisting of six letters, whereby it is marked, are of the same species, because they are both called by the same name. It is cus- tomary to call written words, and the things they signify, by the same name : for words not being regarded in their own nature, or otherwise than as they are marks of things, it had been superfluous, and beside the design of language, to have given them names distinct from those of the things marked by them. The same reason holds here also. Visible figures are the marks of tangible figures, and from sect. lix. it is plain, that in themselves they are little regarded, or upon any other score than for their connexion with tangible figures, which by nature they are ordained to signify. And because this language of nature does not vary in different ages or nations, hence it is, that in all times and places visible figures are called by the same names as the respective tangible figures suggested by them, and not because they are alike, or of the same sort with them. CXLI. But, say you, surely a tangible square is liker to a visible square than to a visible circle : it has four angles, and as many sides ; so also has the visible square, but the visible circle has no such thing, being bounded by one uniform curve, without right lines or angles, which makes it unfit to represent the tangible square, but very fit to represent the tangible circle. Whence it clearly follows, that visible figures are patrons of, or of the same species with, the respective tangible figures represented by them; that they are like unto them, and of their own nature fitted to represent them, as being of the same sort ; and that they are in no respect arbitrary sisns. as words. J s 1 CXLII. I answer, it must be acknowledged, the visible square is fitter than the A NEW THEORY OF VISION. 113 visible circle to represent the tangible square, but then it is not because it is llker, or more of a species with it ; but because the visible square contains in it several distinct parts, whereby to mark the several distinct corresponding parts of a tangible square, whereas the visible circle doth not. The square perceived by touch hath four distinct equal sides, so also hath it four distinct equal angles. It is therefore necessary, that the visible figures which shall be most proper to mark it, contain four distinct equal parts corresponding to the four sides of the tangible square ; as likewise four other distinct and equal parts, whereby to denote the four equal angles of the tangible square. And accordingly we see the visible figures contain in them distinct visible parts answering to the distinct tangible parts of the figures signified or suggested by them. CXLIII. But it will not hence follow, that any visible figure is like unto or of the same species with its corresponding tangible figure, unless it be also shewn, that not only the number, but also the kind of the parts be the same in both. To illustrate this, I observe that visible figures represent tangible figures, much after the same manner that written words do sounds. Now, in this respect, words are not arbitrary, it not being indifferent what written word stands for any sound ; but it is requisite, that each word contain in it so many distinct characters, as there are variations in the sound it stands for. Thus the single letter a is proper to mark one simple uniform sound : and the word adultert/ is accommodated to represent the sound annexed to it, in the formation whereof, there being eight different collisions, or modifications of the air by the organs of speech, each of which produces a difference of sound, it was St the word representing it should consist of as many distinct characters, thereby to mark each particular difference, or part of the whole sound : and yet nobody, I presume, will say, the single letter a, or the word adultery, is alike unto, or of the same species with the respective sounds by them represented. It is indeed arbitrary, that in general, letters of any language represent sounds at all ; but when that is once agreed, it is not arbitrary what combination of letters shall represent this or that particular sound. I leave this with the reader to pursue, and apply it in his own thought. CXLIV. It must be confessed that we are not so apt to confound other signs with the things signified, or to think them of the same species, as we are visible and tan- gible ideas. But a little consideration will shew us how this may be, without our sup- posing them of a like nature. These signs are constant and universal, their connexion with tangible ideas has been learnt at our first entrance into the world ; and ever since, almost every moment of our lives, it has been occurring to our thoughts, and fastening and striking deeper on our minds. When we observe that signs are vari- able, and of human institution ; when we remember, there was a time they were not connected in our minds with those things they now so readily suggest ; but that their signification was learned by the slow steps of experience : this preserves us from con- founding them. But when we find the same signs suggest the same things all over the world ; when we know they are not of human institution, and cannot remember that we ever learned their signification, but think that at first sight they would have sug- gested to us the same things they do now : all this persuades us they are of the same species as the things repectively represented by them, and that it is by a natural resemblance they suggest them to our minds. CXLV. Add to this, that whenever we make a nice survey of any object, succes- sively directing the optic axis to each point thereof; there are certain lines and figur es described by the motion of the head or eye, which, being in truth perceived by feeling, do nevertheless so mix themselves, as it were, with the ideas of sight, that we can scarce think but they appertain to that sense. Again, the ideas of sight enter into the mind, several at once more distinct and unmingled, than is usual in the other senses beside the touch. Sounds, for example, perceived at the same instant, are apt to coalesce, if I may so say, into one sound : but we can perceive, at the same time, great variety of visible objects, very separate and distinct from each other. Now tangible extension being made up of several distinct coexistent parts, we may hence gather another reason, that may dispose us to imagine a likeness or analogy between the immediate objects of sight and touch. But nothing, certainly, doth more eon- tribute to blend and confound them together, than the strict and close connexion they have with each other. We cannot open our eyes but the ideas of distance, bodies, and tangible figures, are suggested by them. So swift, and sudden, and unperceived, is the transition from visible to tangible ideas, that wc can scarce forbear tliinking them equally the immediate object of vision. CXLVI. The prejudice, which is grounded on these, and whatever other causes may be assigned thereof, sticks so fast, that it is impossible, without obstinate striving, and labour of the mind, to get entirely clear of it. But then the reluctancy we find, in I 114 AN ESSAY TOWARDS rejecting any opinion, can be no argument of its truth, to whoever considers what has been already shewn, with regard to the prejudices wc entertain concerning the dis- tance, magnitude, and situation, of objects ; prejudices so familiar to our mmds, so confirmed and inveterate, as thev will hardly give way to the clearest demonstration. CXLVII. Upon the whole, 1 think, we may fairly conclude, that the proper objects of vision constitute a universal language of the Author of nature, whereby we are instructed how to regulate our actions, in order to attain those thingsthat are neces- sary to the preservation and well-being of our bodies, as also to avoid whatever may be hurtful and destructive of them. It is by their information that we are principally guided in all transactions and concerns of life. And the manner wherein they signify and mark unto us the objects which are at a distance, is the same with that of lan- guages and sie;ns of human appointment, which do not suggest the things signified, by any likeness or identity of nature, but only by an habitual connexion, that experience has made us to observe between them. CXLVIII. Suppose one who had always continued blind be told by his guide, that after he has advanced so many steps, he shall come to the brink of a precipice, or be stopped by a wall ; must not this, to him, seem very admirable and surprising? He cannot conceive how it is possible for mortals to frame such predictions as these, which, to him, would seem as strange and unaccountable, as prophecy doth to others. Even they who are blessed with the visive faculty, may (though familiarity make it less ob- served) find therein sufficient cause of admiration. The wonderful art and contrivance wherewith it is adjusted to those ends and purposes for which it was apparently de- signed, the vast extent, number, and variety, of objects that are at once, with so much ease, and quickness, and pleasure, suggested by it : all these aiford subject for much and pleasing speculation, and may, if any thing, give us some glimmering analogous prenotion of things, which are placed beyond the certain discovery and comprehension of our present state. CXLIX. I do not design to trouble myself with drawing corollaries from the doc- trines I have hitherto laid down. If it bears the test, others may, so far as they shall think convenient, employ their thoughts in extending it farther, and applying it to whatever purposes it may be subservient to : only, I cannot forbear making some inquiry concerning the object of geometry, which the siibject we have been upon doth naturally lead one to. We have shewn there is no such idea as that of extension in abstract, and that there are two kinds of sensible extension and figures, which are entirely distinct and heterogeneous from each other. Now, it is natural to inquire which of these is the object of geometry. CL. Some things there are, which, at first sight, incline one to think geometry conversant about visible extension. The constant use of the eyes, both in the practical and speculative parts of that science, doth very much induce us thereto. It would, without doubt, seem odd to a mathematician to go about to convince him, the diagrams he saw upon paper were not the figures, or even the likeness of the figures, which make the subject of the demonstration. The contrary being held an unquestionable truth, not only by mathematicians, but also by those who apply themselves more par- ticularly to the study of logic ; I mean, who consider the nature of science, certainty, and demonstration ; it being by them assigned as one reason of the extraordinary clearness and evidence of geometry, that in this science the reasonings are free from those inconveniences which attend the use of arbitrary signs, the very ideas them- selves being copied out, and exposed to view upon paper. But, by the by, how well this agrees with what they likewise assert of abstract ideas being the object of geome- trical demonstration, 1 leave to be considered. CLT. To come to a resolution in this point, we need only observe what hath been said in sect. lix. Ix. Ixi. where it is shewn that visible extensions in themselves are little regarded, and have no settled determinate greatness, and that men measure altogether by the application of tangible extension to tangible extension. All which makes it evident, that visible extension and figures are not the object of geometry. CLTf. It is therefore plain, that visible figures are of the same use in geometry that words are : and the one may as well be accounted the object of that science as the other ; neither of them being any otherwise concerned therein, than as they represent or suggest to the mind the particular tangible figures connected with them. There is, indeed , this difference between the signification of tangible figures by visible figures, and of ideas by words ; that whereas the latter is variable and uncertain, depending altogether on the arbitrary appointment of men, the former is fixed, and immutably the same in all times and placpK. A visible square, for instance, suggests to the mind the same tangible figure in Europe that it doth In America. Hence it is, that the voice of the Author of nature, which speaks to our eyes, is not liable to that mislnter- A NEW THEORY OF VISION, U5 pretatioii and ambiguity, that languages of human contrivance are unavoidibly subject to. CLIII. Though what has been said may sufiice to shew what ought to be determined with relation to the object of geometry, I shall nevertheless, for the fuller illustration thereof, consider the case of an intelligence or unbodied spirit, which is supposed to see perfectly well, i. e. to have a clear perception of the proper and immediate objects of sight, but to have no sense of touch. Whether there be any such being in nature or no, is beside my purpose to inquire. It sufiiceth, that the supposition contains no contradiction in it. Let us now examine, what proficiency such a one may be able to make in geometry. Which speculation will lead us more clearly to see, whether the ideas of sight can possibly be the object of that science. CLIV. First, then, it is certain, the aforesaid intelligence could have no idea of a solid, or quantity of three dimensions, which followeth from its not having any idea of distance. We, indeed, are prone to think, that we have by sight the ideas of space and solids, which ariseth from our imagining that we do, strictly speaking, see distance, and some parts of an object at a greater distance than others, which hath been demon- strated to be the effect of the experience we have had, what ideas of touch are con- nected with such and such ideas attending vision ; but the intelligence here spoken of is supposed to have no experience of touch. He would not, therefore, judge as we do, nor have any idea of distance, outness, or profundity, nor consequently of space or body, either immediately or by suggestion. Whence it is plain, he can have no notion of those parts of geometry which relate to the mensuration of solids, and their convex or concave surfaces, and contemplate the properties of lines generated by the section of a solid. The conceiving of any part whereof is beyond the reach of his faculties. CLV. Farther, he cannot comprehend the manner wherein geometers describe a right line or circle ; the rule and compass with their use, being things of which it is impossible he should have any notion : nor is it an easier matter for him to conceive the placing of one plane or angle on another, in order to prove their equality : since that supposeth some idea of distance, or external space. All which makes it evident, our pure intelligence could never attain to know so much as the first elements of plane geometry. And, perhaps, upon a nice inquiry, it will be found, he cannot even have an idea of plane figures any more than he can of solids ; since some idea of distance is necessary to form the idea of a geometrical plane, as will appear to whoever shall reflect a little on it. CLVI. All that is properly perceived by the visive faculty, amounts to no more than colours with their variations, and different proportions of 4ight and shade : but the perpetual mutability and fleetingness of those immediate objects of sight, render them incapable of being managed after the manner of geometrical figures ; nor is it in any degree useful that they should. It is true, there are divers of them perceived at once ; and more of some, and less of others : but accurately to compute their mag- nitude, and assign precise determinate proportions, between things so variable and inconstant, if we suppose it possible to be done, must yet be a very trifling and in- significant labour. CLVII. I must confess, it seems to be the opinion of some ingenious men, that flat or plane figures are immediate objects of sight, though they acknowledge solids are not. And this opinion of theirs is grounded on what is observed in painting, wherein (say they) the ideas immediately imprinted on the mind, are only of planes variously coloured, which, by a fudden act of the judgment, are changed into solids: but, with a little attention, we shall find the planes here mentioned, as the immediate objects of sight, are not visible but tangible planes. For when we say that pictures are planes, we mean thereby, that they appear to the touch smooth and uniform. But then this smoothness and unifonnity, or, in other words, thisplanenessof the picture, is not per- ceived immediately by vision : for it appeareth to the eye various and multiform. CLVIIl. From all which we may conclude, that planes are no more the immediate object of sight than solids. What we strictly see are not solids, nor yet planes variously coloured ; they are only diversity of eoloui*. And some of these suggest to the mind solids, and others plane figures ; just as they have been fxpejienced to he connected with the one or the other : so that we see planes in the same way that we see solids; both being equally suggi'»ted by the immediate objects of sight, which accordingly are, themselves, denominated planosanil soli. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. 12^ Xt. But who are these profound and learned men that of late years have demolished the whole fabric which lawgivers, philosophers, and divines, had been erecting for so many ages? Lysicles hearing these words smiled, and said, he believed Euphranor had figured to himself philosophers in square caps and long gowns : but, thanks to these happy times, the reign of pedantry was over. Our philosophers, said he, are of a very difl'erent kind from those awkward students, who think to come at know- ledge by poring on dead languages and old authors, or by sequestering tlieraselves from the cares of the world to meditate in solitude and retirement. They are the best bred men of the age, men who know the world, men of pleasure, men of fashion, and fine gentlemen. Euph. I have some small notion of the people you mention, but should never have taken them for philosophers. Cri. Nor would any one else till of late. The world it seems was long under a mistake about the way to knowledge, thinking it lay through a tedious course of academical education and study. But among the discoveries of the present age, one of the principal is the finding out that such a method doth rather retard and obstruct, than promote knowledge. Ak. Academical study may be comprised in two points, reading and meditation. Their reading is chiefly employed on ancient authors in dead languages : so that a great part of their time is spent in learning words; which, when they have mastered with infinite pains, what do they get by it but old and obsolete notions, that are now quite exploded and out of use ? Then, as to their meditations, what can they possibly be good for ? He thatwants the proper materials of thought, may think and meditate for ever to no purpose : those cobwebs spun by scholars out of their own brains being alike unserviceable, either for use or ornament. Proper ideas or materials are only to be got by frequenting good company. I know several gentlemen, who, since their appear- ance in the world, have spent as much time in rubbing off the rust and pedantry of a college education, as they had done before in acquiring it. Lysicles. I will under- take, a lad of fourteen, bred in the modern way, shall make a better figure, and be more considered in any drawing-room or assembly of polite people, than one at four- and-twenty, who hath lain by a long time at school and college. He shall say better things, in a better manner, and be more liked by good judges. Euph. Where doth he pick up all this improvement ? Cri. Where our grave ancestors would never have looked for it, in a drawing-room, a cotfee-house, a chocolate-house, at the tavern, or groom-porter's. In these and the like fashionable places of resort, it is the custom for polite persons to speak freely on all subjects, religious, moral, or political. So that a young gentleman who frequents them is in the way of hearing many instructive lec- tures, seasoned with wit and raillery, and uttered with spirit. Three or four senten- ces from a man of quality, spoken with a good air, make more impression, and convey more knowledge, than a dozen dissertations in a dry academical way. Euph. There is then no method or course of studies in those places? Lys, None but an easy free conversation, which takes in every thing that offers, without any rule or design. Euph. I always thought that some order was necessary to attain any useful degree of knowledge ; that haste and confusion begat a conceited ignorance ; that to make our advances sure, they should be gradual, and those points first learned which might cast a light on what was to follow. Ale: So long as learning was to be obtained only by that slow formal course of study, few of the better sort knew much of it : but now it is grown an amusement, our young gentry and nobility imbibe it insensibly amidst their diversions, and make a considerable progress. Euph. Hence probably the great number of minute philosophers. Cri. It is to this that sect is owing for so many in- genious proficients of both sexes. You may now commonly see (what no former age ever saw) a young lady, or a petit maitre, nonplus a divine or an old-fashioned gen- tleman, who hath read many a Greek and Latin author, and spent much time in hard methodical study. Euph. It should seem then that method, exactness, and industry, are a disadvantage. Here Alciphron, turning to Lysicles, said he could make the point very clear, if Euphranor had any notion of painting. Euph. I never saw a first- rate picture in my life, but have a tolerable collection of prints, and have seen some good drawings. Ale. You know then the difference between the Dutch and Italian man- ner. Euph. I have some notion of it. Ale. Suppose now a drawing finished by the nice and laborious touches of a Dutch pencil, and another off-hand scratched out in the free manner of a great Italian master. The Dutch piece, which hath cost so much pains and time, will be exact indeed, but without that force, spirit and grace, which appear in the other, and are the effects of an easy free pencil. Do but apply this, and the point will be clear. Euph, Pray inform me, did those great Italian masters begin and proceed in their art without any choice of method or subject, and always draw with the same ease and freedom ] Or did they observe some method, beginning with simple and elementary parts, an eye, a nose, a finger, which they drew with great pains and care, often drawing the same thing, in order to draw it correctly, and so 126 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER, "i^l. v proceeding with patience and industry, till after a considerable length of time they ax-rived at the free masterly manner you speak of. If this were the case, I leave you to make the application. ' Ale. You may dispute the matter if you please. But a man of parts is one thing, and a pedant another. Pains and method may do for some sort of people. A man must be a long time kindling wet straw into a vile smothering flame, but spirits blaze out at once. Euph. The minute philosophers have, it seems, better parts than other men, which qualifies them for a difierent education'! Ale. Tell me, Euphranor, what is it that gives one man a better mien than another; more politeness in dress, speech and motion? Nothing but fte- quenting good company. By the same means men get insensibly a delicate taste, a refined judgment, a certain politeness in thinking and expressing one's self. No wonder if you countrymen are strangers to the advantage of polite conversation, which constantly keeps the mind awake and active, exercising its faculties, and calling forth all its strength and spirit on a thousand different occasions and subjects, that never came in the way of a book-worm in a college, any more than of a ploughman. Cri. Hence those lively faculties, that quickness of apprehension, that slyness of ridicule, that egregious talent of wit and humour, which distinguish the gentlemen of your profession. Euph. It should seem then that your sect is made up of what you call fine gentlemen? Lys. Not altogether, for we have among us some contemplative spirits of a coarser education, who from observing the behaviour and proceedings of apprentices, watermen, porters, and the assemblies of rabble in the streets, have arrived at a profound knowledge of human nature, and made great discoveries about the principles, springs, and motives, of moral actions. These have demolished the received systems, and done a world of good in the city. Ale. I tell you we have men of all sorts and professions, plodding citizens, thriving stockjobbers, skilful men in business, polite courtiers, gallant men of the army ; but our chief strength, and flower of the flock, are those promising young men who have the advantage of a modern education. These are the growing hopes of our sect, by whose credit and influence in a few years we expect to see those great things accomplished that we have in view. Euph. I could never have imagined your sect so considerable. Ale. There are in England many honest folk as much in the dark about these matters as yourselves. XII. To judge of the prevailing opinion among people of fashion, by what a senator saith in the house, a judge upon the bench, or a priest in the pulpit, who all speak according to law, that is, to the reverend prejudices of our forefathers, would be wrong. You should go into good company, and mind what men of parts and breeding say, those who are best heard and most admired, as well in public places of resort as in private visits. He only who hath these opportunities, can know our real strength, our numbers, and the figure that we make. Euph. By your account there must be many minute philosophers among the men of rank and fortune. Ale. Take my word for it, not a few, and they do much contribute to the spreading our notions. For he who knows the world must observe, that fashions constantly descend. It is therefore the right way to propagate an opinion from the upper end. Not to say, that the patronage of such men is an encouragement to our authors. Euph. It seems, then, you have authors among you ? Lys. That we have, several, and those very great men, who have obliged the world with many useful and profound discoveries. Cri. Mos- chon, for instance, hath proved that man and beast are really of the same nature: that consequently a man need only indulge his senses and appetites to be as happy as a brute. Gorgias hath gone further, demonstrating man to be a piece of clock-work or machine ; and that thought or reason is the same thing as the impulse of one ball against another. Cimon hath made noble use of these discoveries, proving as clearly as any proposition in mathematics, that conscience is a whim, and morality a preju- dice ; and that a man is no more accountable for his actions than a clockfis for striking. Tryphon hath written iirefragably on the usefulness of vice. Tlnasenor hath confuted the foolish prejudice men had against atheism, shewing that a republic of atheists might live very happily together. Demylas hath made a jest of loyalty, and convinced the world there is nothing in it : to him and another philosopher of the same stamp this age is indebted for discovering, that public spirit is an idle enthusiasm, which seizeth only on weak minds, It would be endless to recount the disco^jeries made by writers of this sect. Lys. But the master-piece and finishing stroke is a learned anecdote of our great Diagoras, containing a demonstration against the being of God: which it is conceived the public is not yet ripe for. But I am assured by some judicious friends who have seen it, that it is as clear as daylight, and will do a world of good, at one blow demolishing the whole system of religion. These discoveries are published by our philosophers, sometimes in just volumes, but often in pamphlets and loose papers for their readier conveyance through the kingdom. And to them must be ascribed that absolute and independent freedom, which groweth so fast to the ">i'»i.' ». THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. 127 terror of all bigots. Even the dull and ignorant begin to open their eyes, and be influenced by the example and authority of so many ingenious men. Euph. It should seem by this account that your sect extend their discoveries beyond religion; and that loyalty to his prince, and reverence for the laws, are but mean things in the eye of a minute philosopher, Lrjs. Very mean; we are too wise to think there is any thing sacred either in king or constitution, or indeed in any thing else. A man of sense may perhaps seem to pay an occasional regard to his prince ; but this is no more at bottom than what he pays to God, when he kneels at the sacrament to qualify himself for an office. Fear God, and honour the king, are a pair of slavish maxims, which had for a long time cramped human nature, and awed not only weak minds, but even men of good understanding, till their eyes, as I observed before, were opened by our philosophers. Euph. Methinks I can easily comprehend that; when the fear of God is quite extinguished, the mind must be very easy with respect to other duties, which become outward pretences and formalities, from the moment that they quit their hold upon the conscience, and conscience always supposeth the being of a God. But I still thought that Englishmen of all denominations (how widely soever they differ as to some particular points) agreed in the belief of a God, and of so much at least as is called natural religion. Ale. I have already told you my own opinion of those matters, and what I know to be the opinion of many more. Cri. Probably, Euphranor, by the title of Deists, which is sometimes given to minute philosophers, you have been misled to imagine they believe and worship a God according to the light of natures but by living among them, you may soon be convinced of the con- trary. They have neither time, nor place, nor form of Divine worship ; they offer neither prayers nor praises to God in public ; and in their private practice show a contempt or dislike even of the duties of natural religion. For instance, the saying grace before and after meals is a plain point of natural worship, and was once univer- sally practised ; but in proportion as this sect prevailed it hath been laid aside, not only by the minute philosophers themselves, who would be infinitely ashamed of such a weakness as to beg God's blessing, or give God thanks for their daily food ; but also by others who are afraid of being thought fools by the minute philosophers. Euph, Is it possible that men, who really believe a God, should yet decline paying so easy and reasonable a duty for fear of incurring the contempt of atheists'! Cri. I tell you there are many, who, believing in their hearts the truth of religion, are yet afraid or ashamed to own it, lest they should forfeit their reputation with those who have the good luck to pass for great wits and men of genius. Ale. Euphranor ! we must make allowance for Crito's prejudice : he is a worthy gentleman, and means well. But doth it not look like prejudice to ascribe the respect that is paid our ingenious free-thinkers rather to good luck than to merit 1 Euph. I acknowledge their merit to be very wonderful, and that those authors must needs be great men who are able to prove such paradoxes : for example, that so knowing a man as a minute philosopher should be a mere machine, or at best no better than a brute. Ale. It is a true maxim, that a man should think with the learned and speak with the vulgar. I should be loath to place a gentleman of merit in such a light, before prejudiced or ignorant men. The tenets of our philosophy have this in common with many other truths in metaphysics, geometry, astronomy, and natural philosophy, that vulgar ears cannot bear them. All our discoveries and notions are in themselves true and certain ; but they are at present known only to the better sort, and would sound strange and odd among the vulgar. But this, it is to be hoped, will wear off with time. Euph. I do not wonder that vulgar minds should be startled at the notions of your philosophy. Cri. Truly a very curious sort of philosophy, and much to be admired. XIII. The profound thinkers of this way have taken a direct contrary course to all the great philosophers of former ages, who made it their endeavour to raise and refine human kind, and remove it as far as possible from the brute ; to moderate and sub- due men's appetites ; to remind them of the dignity of their nature ; to awaken and improve their superior faculties, and direct them to the noblest objects; to possess men's minds with a high sense of the divinity, of the supreme good, and the immor- tality of the soul. They took great pains to strengthen the obligations to virtue, and upon all those subjects have wrought out noble theories, and treated with singular force of reason. But it seems our minute philosophers act the reverse of all other wise and thinking men ; it being their end and aim to erase the principles of all that is great and good from the mind of man, to unhinge all order of civil life, to under- mine the foundations of morality, and, instead of improving and ennobling our natures, to bring us down to the maxims and way of thinking of the most uneducated and barbarous nations, and even to degrade human kind to a level with brute beasts. And all the while they would pass upon the world for men of deep knowledge. But, in effect, what is all this negative knowledge better than downright savage ignorance ? 128 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. dial i. That there is no Providence, no spirit, no future state, no moral duty ! truly a fine system for an honest man to own, or an ingenious man to value himself upon ! Alciphron, who heard this discourse with some uneasiness, very gravely replied, Disputes are not to be decided by the weight of authority, but by the force of reason. You may pass, indeed, general reflections on our notions, and call them brutal and barbarous if you please : but it is such brutality and such barbarism as few could have attained to if men of the greatest genius had not broken the ice, there being nothing more difficult than to get the better of education, and conquer old pre- judices. To remove and cast off a heap of rubbish that has been gathering upon the soul from our very infancy, requires great courage and great strength of facalties. Our philosopliers, therefore, do well deserve the name of esprits forts, men of strong heads, free-thinkers, and such like appellations betokening great force and liberty of mind. It is very possible, the heroic labours of these men may be represented (for what is not capable of misrepresentation'!) as a piratical plundering, and stripping the mind of its wealth and ornaments, when it is in truth divesting it only of its pre- judices, and reducing it to its untainted original state of nature. Oh nature ! the genuine beauty of pure nature ! Eiiph. Vou seem very much taken with the beauty of nature. Be pleased to tell me, Alciphron, what those things are which you esteem natural, or by what mark I may know them. XIV. Ale. For a thing to be natural, for instance, to the mind of man, it must appear originally therein, it must be universally in all men, it must be invariably the same in all nations and ages. These limitations of original, universal, and invariable, exclude all those notions found in the human mind, which are the effect of custom and education. The case is the same with respect to all other species of beings. A cat, for example, hath a natural inclination to pursue a mouse, because it agrees with the forementioned marks. But if a cat be taught to play tricks, you will not say those tricks are natural. For the same reason, if upon a plum-treee peaches and apricots are engrafted, nobody will say they are the natural growth of the plum-tree. Euph. But to return lo man: it seems you allow those things alone to be natural to him, which show themselves upon his first entrance into the world ; to wit, the senses and such passions and appetites as are discovered upon the first application of their respective objects. Ale, That is my opinion. Euph. Tell me, Alciphron, if from a young apple-tree, after a certain period of time there should shoot forth leaves, blos- soms, and apples; would you deny these things to be natural, because they did not discover and display themselves in the tender bud ? Ale. I would not. Euph. And suppose that in a man after a certain season, the appetite of lust or the faculty of reason shall shoot forth, open and display themselves as leaves and blossoms do in a tree ; would you, therefore, deny them to be natural to him, because they did not appear in his original infancy? Ale. I acknowledge I would not. Euph, It seems, therefore, that the first mark of a thing's being natural to the mind was not warily laid down by you ; to wit, that it should appear originally in it. Ale. It seems so. Euph. Again, inform me, Alciphron, whether you do not think it natural for an orange-plant to produce oranges ? Ale. I do. Euph. But plant it in the north end of Great Britain, and it shall with care produce, perhaps, a good sallad ; in the southern parts of the same island, it may with much pains and culture thrive and produce indifferent fruit ; but in Portugal or Naples it will produce much better with little or no pains. Is this true or not ? Ale. It is true. Euph. The plant being the same in all places doth not produce the same fruit, sun, soil, and cultivation making a difference. Ale. I grant it. Euph. And since the case is, you say, the same with respect to all species, why may we not conclude, by a parity of reason, that things may be natural to human kind, and yet neither found in all men, nor invariably the same where they are found? Ale. Hold, Euphranor, you must explain yourself further. I shall not be over hasty in my concessions. Lys. You are in the right, Alciphron, to stand upon your guard. I do not like these ensnaring questions. Euph. I desire you to make no concessions in complaisance to me, but only to tell me your opinion upon each particular, that we may understand one another, know wherein we agree, and proceed jointly in finding out the truth. But (added Euphranor, turning to Crito and me) if the gentlemen are against a free and fair inquiry, I shall give them no further trouble. Ale. Our opinions will stand the test. We fear no trial : proceed as you please. Euph. It seems then that, from what you have granted, it should follow, things may be natural to men, although they do not actually shew themselves in all men, nor In equal perfection ; there being as great difference of culture and every other advantage with respect to human nature, as is to be found with respect to the vegetable nature of plants, to use your own similitude, is it so or not ? Ale, It is. Euph. Answer me, Alciphron, do not men in all times and places when they arrive at a certain age express their thoughts by speech 1 A-lc They do. WAI.I, THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. 129 Euph. Should it not seem, then, that language is natural ? Ale. It should. Euph. And yet there is a great variety of languages. Ale. I acknowledge there is. Euph. From all this will it not follow, a thing may be natural and yet admit of variety 1 ^Ic. I grant it will. Euph. Should it not seem therefore to follow, that a thing may be natural to mankind, though it have not those marks or conditions assigned ; though it be not original, universal, and invariable? ^fc. It should. £it should seem therefore, that the being of things imperceptible to sense may be collected from effects and signs, or sensible tokens. Ale. It may. Euph. Tell me, Alciphron, is not the soul that which makes the principal distinction between a real person and a shadow, a living man and a carcass? Ale. I grant it is. Euph. I cannot, therefore, know that you for instance are a distinct thinking individual, or a living real man, by surer or other signs than those from which it can be inferred that you have a soul. Ale. You cannot. Evph, Pray tell me, are not all acts immediately and properly perceived by sense reducible to motion ? Ale. Tliey are. Euph. From motions, therefore, you infer a mover or cause; and from reasonable motions (or such as appear calculated for a reasonable end) a rational cause, soul, or spirit ? /lie. Even so. V. Euph. The soul of man actuates but a small body, an insignificant particle, in respect of the great masses of nature, the elements, and heavenly bodies, and system of the world. And the wisdom that appears in those motions, which are the effect of human reason, is incomparably less than that which discovers itself in the structure and use of organized natural bodies, animal or vegetable. A man with his hand can DIAL. IV. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. ib'6 make no machine so admirable as the hand itself: nor can any of those motions by which we trace out human reason, approach the skill and contrivance of those won- derful motions of the heart, and brain, and other vital parts, which do not depend on the will of man. Ale. All this is true. Eaph. Doth it not follow, tlion, that from natural motions, independent of man's will, may be inferred both power and wisdom incomparably greater tlian that of the human soul ? /]lc. It should seem so. Euph. Further, is there not in natural productions and effects a visible unity of counsel and design T Are not the rules fixed and immoveable ? Do not the same laws of motion obtain throughout ? The same in China and here, the same 2,000 years ago and at this day 1 Ale. All this I do not deny. Euph. Is there not also a connexion or relation between animals and vegetables, between both and the elejnents, between the elements and heavenly bodies ; so that from their mutual respects, influences, subordinations, and uses, they may lie collected to be parts of one whole, conspiring to one and the same end, and fuliilling the same design? Jlc. Supposing all this to be true? Euph. Will it not then follow, that this vastly great or infinite power and wisdom must be supposed in one and the same agent, spirit, or mind ; and that we have at least, as clear, full, and immediate, certainty of the being of this infinitely wise and powerful Spirit, as of any one human soul whatsoever besides our own? Ale. Let me consider; I suspect we proceed too hastily. Wh.it! do you pretend you can have the same assurance of the being of a Ood, that you can have of mine, whom you actually-see stand before you and talk to you? Euph. The very same, if not greater. Ate. How do you make this appear? Euph. By the person Alciphron is meant an individual thinking thing, and not the hair, skin, or visible surface, or any part of the outward form, colour, or shape, of Alciphron. Ale. This I grant. Euph. And in granting this, you grant that, in a strict sense, I do not see Alciphron, i. e. that individual thinking thing, but only such visible signs and tokens, , as suggest and infer the being of that invisible thinking principle or soul. Even so, in the self-same manner, it seems to me, that though I cannot with eyes of flesh behold the invisible God, yet 1 do in the strictest sense behold and perceive by all my senses such signs and tokens, such effects and operations, as suggest, indicate, and demonstrate, an invisible God, as certainly and with the same evidence, at least, as any other signs, perceived by sense, do suggest to me the existence of your soul, spirit, or thinking principle ; which I am convinced of only by a few signs or effects, and the motions of one small organized body : whereas I do at all times, and in all places, perceive sensible signs, which evince the being of God. The point, therefore, doubted or denied by you at the beginning, now seems manifestly to follow from the premises. Througliout this whole inquiry, have we not considered every step with care, and made not the least advance without clear evidence ? You and I examined and assented singly to each foregoing proposition ; what shall we do then with the conclusion? For my part, if you do not help me out, I find myself under an absolute necessity of admitting it for true. You must therefore be content henceforward to bear the blame, if I live and die in the belief of a God. VI. Ate. It must be confessed, I do not readily find an answer. There seems to be some foundation for what you say. But on the other band, if the point was so clear as you pretend, I cannot conceive how so many sagacious men of our sect should be so much in the dark, as not to know or believe one syllable of it. Euph. O Alciphron, it is not our present business to account for the oversights, or vindicate the honour, of those great men the free-thinkers, when their very existence is in danger of being called in question. Ale. How so? Euph. Be pleased to recollect the concessions you have made, and then show me, if the arguments for a Deity be not conclusive, by what better arguments you can prove the existence of that thinking thing, which in strictness constitutes the free-thinker. As soon as Enphranor had uttered these words, Alciphron stopped short, and stood in a posture of meditation, while the rest of us continued our walk, and took two or three turns ; after which he joined us again with a smiling countenance, like one who had made some discovery. I have found, said he, what may clear up the point in dispute, and give Enphranor entire satisfac- tion ; I would aay an argument which will prove the existence of a free-thinker, the like whereof cannot be applied to prove the existence of God. You must know then that your notion of our perceiving the existence of God, as certainly and imme- diately as we do that of a human person, I could by no means digest, though I must own it puzzled me, till I had considered the matter. At first niethought a particular structure, shape, or motion, was a most certain proof of a thinking reasonable soul. But a little attention satisfied me that these things have no necessary connexion with reason, knowledge, and wisdom ; and that allowing them to be certain proofs of a living soul, they cannot be so of a thinking and reasonable one. Upon second thoughts, therefore, and a minute examination of this point, I have found, that 166 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. m". >v. nothing so Much convinces me of the existence of another person as his speali, ing to me. It is my hearing you talk that, in strict and philosophical truth, is to me the best argument for your being. And this is a peculiar argument inappli- cable to your purpose ; for you will not, I suppose, pretend that God speaks to man in the same clear and sensible manner as one man doth to another ? VII. Eu^h. How 1. is then the impression of sound so much more evident than that of other senses? Or, if it be, is the voice of man louder than that of thunder? Ale. Alas ! you mistake the point. What I mean is not the sound of speech merely as such, but the arbitrary use of sensible signs, which have no similitude or necessary connexion with the things signified, so as by the apposite management of them to suggest and exhibit to my mind an endless variety of things, differing in nature, time, and place, thereby informing me, entertaining me, and directing me how to act, not only with regard to things near and present, but also with regard to things distant and future. No matter whether these signs are pronounced or written ; whether they enter by the eye or ear : they have the same use, and are equally proofs of an intelli- gent, thinking, designing cause. Eufh. But what if it should appear that God really speaks to man ; would this content you ? Ale. I am for admitting no inward speech, no holy instincts, or suggestions of light or spirit. All that, you must know, passeth with men of sense for nothing. If you do not make it plain to me, that God speaks to men by outward sensible signs, of such sort and in such manner as I have defined, you do nothing. Eupfi. But if it shall appear plainly, that God speaks to men by the intervention and use of arbitrary, outward, sensible signs, having no resemblance or necessary connexion with the things they stand for and suggest : if it shall appear, that by innumerable combinations of these signs, an endless variety of things is discovered and made known to us ; and that we are thereby instructed or informed in their different natures; that we are taught and admonished what to shun, and what to pursue ; and are directed how to regulate our motions, and how to act with respect to things distant from us, as well in time as place ; will this content you ? Ale. It is the very thing I would have you make out ; for therein consists the force, and use, and nature, of language. VIII. Euph. Look, Alciphron, do you not see the castle upon yonder hill ? Ale. I do. Ewph. Is it not at a great distance from you ? Ale. It is. Euph. Tell me, Alciphron, is not distance a line turned end-wise to the eye ? Ale. Doubtless. Euph. And can a line, in that situation, project more than one single point on the bottom of the eye ? Ale. It cannot. Euph. Therefore the appearance of a long and of a short distance is of the same magnitude, or rather of no magnitude at all, being in all cases one single point. Ale. It seems so. Euph. Shoulditnotfollow from hence, that distance is not immediately perceived by the eye ? Ale. It should. Euph. Must it not then be perceived by the mediation of some other thing's Ale. It must. Euph. To discover what this is, let us examine what alteration there may be in the appearance of the same object, placed at different distances from the eye. Now I find by experience that when an object is removed still farther and farther off in a direct line from the eye, its visible appearance still grows lesser and fainter, and this change of appearance being proportional and universal, seems to me to be that by which we apprehend the various degrees of distance. Ale. I have nothing to object to this. Euph. But little- ness or faintness, in their own nature, seem to have no necessary connexion with greater length of distance 1 ^/c. I admit this to be true. Euph. Willitnot follow then, that they cmild never suggest it but from experience ? Ale. It will. Euph. That is to say, we perceive distance, not immediately, but by mediation of a sign, which hath no likeness to it, or necessary connexion with it, but only suggests it from repeated ex- perience as words do things. Ale. Hold,EHphranor; nowl think of it, the writers inoptics tell us of an angle made by the two optic axes, where they meet in the visible point or ob- ject, which angle the obtuser it is the nearer it shews the objecttobe, andbyhowmuoh the acuter, by so much the farther off; and this by anecessary demonstrable connexion. Euph, The mind then finds out the distance of things by geometry ? Ale. It doth. Euph. Should it not follow therefore, that nobody could see but those who had learned geometry, and knew something of lines and angles? Ale. Thereis asortof natural geometry which is got without learning. Euph. Pray inform me, Alciphron, in order to frame a proof of any kind, or deduce one point from another, is it not necessary, that I perceive the connexion of the terms in the premises, and the connexion of the premises with the conclusion ; and, in general, to know one thing by means of another, must, I not first know that other thing? When I perceive your meaning by your words, must I not first perceive the words themselves ? and must I not know the premises before I infer the conclusion 1 Ale. All this is true. Euph. Whoever therefore collects a nearer distance from a wider angle, or a farther distance from an acuter angle, must first per- peive the angles themselves, And he who doth not perceive those angles, can infer DUt. tv. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER, 16? nothing from tbem. Is it so or not ? Ah. It is as you say. J3>ip/i. Ask now the first inan you meet, whether he perceives or ivnows any thing of those optic angles? or whether he ever thinlis about them, or malses any inferences from them, either by natural or artificial geometry 1 What answer do you think he would make 1 Ale. To speak the truth, I believe his answer would be, that he knew nothing of these matters. Euph. It cannot therefore be, that men judge of distance by angles : nor conse- quently can thei'e be any force in the argument you drew from thence, to prove that distance is perceived by means of something which hath a necessary connexion with it. Ale. I agree with you. IX. Euph. To me it seems, that a man may know whether he perceives s. thing or no ; and if he perceives it, whether it be immediately or mediately : and if mediately, whether by means of something like or unlilie, necessarily or arbitrarily connected with it. Ale. It seems so. Euph. And is it not certain, that distance is perceived only by experience, if it be neither perceived immediately by itself, nor by means of any image, nor of any lines and angles, which are like it, or have a necessary con- nexion with it ? Ale. It is. Euph. Doth it not seem to follow, from what hath been said and allowed by you, that before all experience a man would not imagine, the things he saw were at any distance from him? Ale. How! let me see. Euph. The littleness or faintness of appearance, or any other idea or sensation, not necessarily connected with or resembling distance, can no more suggest different degrees of dis- tance, or any distance at all, to the mind which hath not experienced a connexion of the things signifying and signified, than words can suggest notions before a man hath learned the language. Ale. I allow this to be true. JJii/j/i. Will it not thence follow, that a man born blind, and made to see, would, upon first receiving his sight, take the things he saw, not to be at any distance from him, but in his eye or rather in his mind ? Ale. I must own it seems so ; and yet on the other hand, I can hardly persuade myself, that if I were in such a state, I should think those objects, which I now see at so great distance, to be at no distance at all. Euph. It seems then, that you now think the objects of sight are at a distance from you ? Ale. Doabtless I do. Can any one ques- tion but yonder castle is at great distance? Buph. Tell me, Alciphron, can you dis- cern the doors, windows, and battlements, of that same castle ? Ale. I cannot. At this distance it seems only a small round tower. Euph. But I, who have been at it, know that it is no small round tower, but a large square building with battlements and turrets, which it seems you do not see. Ale. What will you infer from thence ? Euph, I would infer, that the very object which you strictly and properly perceive by sight, is not that thing which is several miles distant. Ale. Why so ? Euph. Because a little round object is one thing, and a great square object is another. Is it not? Ale. I cannot deny it. Euph. Tell me, is not the visible appearance alone the proper object of sight ? Ale. It is. What think you now (said Euphranor, pointing towards the heavens) of the visible appearance of yonder planet ? Is it not a round luminous flat, no bigger than a sixpence ? Ale. What then? Euph. Tell me then, what you think of the planet itself. Do you not conceive it to be a vast opaque globe, with several unequal risings and vallies ? Ale, I do. Euph. How can you therefore con- clude, that the proper object of your sight exists at a distance ? Ale. I confess I know not. Euph. For your farther conviction, do but consider that crimson cloud. Think you, that if you were in the very place where it is, you would perceive any thing like what you now see ? Ale. By no means. I should perceive only a dark mist. Euph. Is it not plain, therefore, that neither the castle, the planet, nor the cloud, which you see here, are those real ones which you suppose exist at a distance ? X. Ale. What am I to think then ? Do we see any thing at all, or is it altogether fancy and illusion ? Euph. Upon the whole, it seems the proper objects of sight are light and colours, with their several shades and degrees, all which being infinitely diversified and combined, do form » language wonderfully adapted to suggest and exhibit to us the distances, figures, situations, dimensions, and various qualities, of tangible objects; not by similitude, nor yetby inference of necessary connexion, but by the arbitrary imposition of Providence, just as words suggest the things signified by them. Ale, How I do we not, strictly speaking, perceive by sight such things as trees, houses, men, rivers, and the like? Euph, We do, indeed, perceive or appre- hend those things by the facul ty of sight. But will it follow from thence, that they are the proper and immediate objects of sight, any more than that all those things are the proper and immediate objects of hearing, which are signified by the help of words or sounds? Ale. You would have us think then, that light, shades, and colours, variously combined, answer to the several articulations of sound in language, and that, by means thereof, all sorts of objects are suggested to the mind through the eye, in the same manner as they are suggested by words or sounds through the ear ; that is, peither from necessary deduction to the judgment, nor from similitude to the fancy, 168 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. ''"At. iv. but pui-ely and solely from experience, custom, and habit. Euph. I would not have you thinlf any thing more than the nature of things obligeth you to think, nor_ submit in the least to rayjiidgment, liutonly to the force of truth, which is an imposition that I suppose the freest thinkers will not pretend to be exempt from. Ale. \o\x have led ine, it seems, step by step, till I am got I know not where. But I shall try to get out again, if not by the way I came, yet by some other of my own finding. Here Alci- phron, having made a short pause, proceeded as follows. XI. Answer me, Euphranor, should it not follow from these principles, that a man born blind, and made to see, would at first sight, not only not perceive their distance, but also not so much as know the very things themselves which he saw, for instance, men or trees? which surely to suppose must be absurd. Euph. I grant, in conse- quence of those principles, which both you and I have admitted, that such a one would never think of men, trees, or any other objects, that he had been accustomed to perceive by touch, upon having his mindfiUed with new sensations of light and colours, whose various combinations he doth not yet understand, or know the meaning of, no more than a Chinese, upon first hearing the words man and tree would think of the things signified by them. In both cases, there must be time and experience by_ re- peated acts, to acquire a habit of knowing the connexion between the signs and things signified, tliat is to say, of understanding the language, whether of the eyes or of the ears. And I conceive no absurdity in all this. Ale. I see therefore, in strict philoso- phical truth, that rock only in the same sense that I may be said to hear it, when the word roek is pronounced. Euph. In the very same. Ale. How comes it to pass then, that every one shall say he sees, for instance, a rock or a house, when those things are bjfore his eyes ; but nobody will say he hears a rock or a house, but only the words or sounds themselves, by which those things are said to be signified or suggested, but not heard? besides, if vision be only a language speaking to the eyes, it may be asked, when did men learn this language? To acquire the knowledge of so many signs, as go to the making up a language, is a work of some difficulty. But will any man say he hath spent time, or been at pains, to learn this language of vision t Euph. No wonder we cannot assign a time beyond our remotest memory. If we have been all practising this language, ever since our first entrance into the world : if the author of nature con- stantly speaks to the eyes of all mankind, even in iheir earliest infancy, whenever the eyes are open in the light, whether alone or in company : it doth noi seem to me at all strange, that men should not be aware they had ever learned a language begun so early, and practised so constantly, as this of vision. And if we also consider that it is the same throughout the whole world, and not, like other languages, ditlering in dif- ferent places, it will not seem unaccountable, that men should mistake the connexion between the proper objects of sight and the things signified by them, to be founded in necessary relation, or likeness, or that they should even take them for the same things. Hence it seems easy to conceive, why men, who do not think, should con- found in this language of vision the signs with the things signified, otherwise than they are wont to do, in the various particular languages formed by the several nations of men. XII. It may be also worth while to observe, that signs being little considered in themselves, or for their own sake, but only in their relative capacity, and for the sake of those things whereof they are signs, it comes to pass, that the mind overlooks them, so as to carry its attention immediately on to the things signified. Thus, for example, in reading we run over the characters with the slightest regard, and pass on to the meaning. Hence it is frequent for men to say, they see words, and notions, and things, in reading of a book ; whereas in strictness they see only the characters which suggest words, notions, and things. And by parity of reason, may we not suppose, that men, not resting in, but overlooking, the immediate and proper olijects of sight, as in their own nature of small moment, carry their attention onvvard to the very things signified, and talk as if they saw the secondary objects, which, in truth and strictness, are not seen, but only suggested and apprehended by means of the proper objects of sight, which alone are seen? Ale To speak my mind freely, this disser- tation grows tedious and runs into points too dry and minute for a gentleman's atten- tion. I thought said Ciito, we had been told, that minute philosophers loved to con- sider things closely and minutely. Ale. That is true, but in so polite an age who would be a mere philosopher ? There is a certain scholastic accuracy, which ill suits the freedom and ease of a well-bred man. But, to cut short this chicane, I propound it faiily to your own conscience, whether you really think, that God himself speaks every day and in oveiy place to the eyes of all men. Euph. That is really and in truth my opinion ; and it should be yours too, if you are consistent with yourself, and abide by your own definition of language. Since you cannot deny, that the great mover and author of nature constfintly expjaineth himself to the eyes of men by tljq BUI. IV. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. 169 sensible intervention of arbitrniy signs, wiiich iiavc no similitude or connexion with the things signified ; so as by compounding and disposing them, to suggest and ex- hibit an endless variety of objects differing in nature, time and place, thereby in- forming and directing men how to act with respect to things distant and future, as well as near and present. In consequence, I say, of your own sentiments and conces- sions, you have as much reason to think, the universal agent or God speaks to your eyes, as you can have for thinking any particular person speaks to your ears. Ale. I cannot help thinking, that some fallacy runs throughout tliis whole ratiocination, though perhaps I may not readily point it out. Hold I let me see. In language the signs aie arbitrary, are they nof! Evph. They are. Ale. And consequently, they do not always suggest real matters of fact. Whereas this natural language, as you call it, or these visible signs, do always suggest things in the same uniform way, and have the same constant regular connexion with matters of fact : whence it should seem, the connexion was necessary; and therefore, according to the definition premised, it can be no language. How do you solve this objection 7 Eitph. You may solve it yourself, by the help of a picture or looking-glass. Ate. You are in the right. I see there is nothing in it. I know not what else to say to this opinion, more than that it is so odd and contrary to my way of thinking, that [ shall never assent to it. Xni. Euph. Be pleased to recollect your own lectures upon prejudice, and apply them in the present case. Perhaps they may help you to follow where reason leads, and to suspect notions which are strongly ri vetted, without having been ever examined. Ale. I disdain the suspicion of prejudice. And I do not speak only for myself. I know a club of most ingenious men, the freest from prejudice of any men alive, who abhor the notion of a God, and 1 doubt not would be very able to untie this knot. Upon which words of Alciphron, I, who had acted the part of an indlfl'erent stander-by, observed to him, that it misbecame his character and repeated professions, to own an attachment to the judgment, or build Hpon the presumed abilities, of other men, how ingenious soever; and that this proceeding might encourage his adversaries to have recourse to authority. In which perhaps they would find their account more than he. Oh ! said Crito, I have often observed the conduct of minute philosophers. When one of them has got a ring of disciples round him, his method Is to exclaim againt pre- judice, and recommend thinking and reasoning, giving to understand that himself is a man of deep researches and close argument, one who examines impartially and con- cludes warily. The same man in other company. If be chance to be pressed with reason, shall laugh at logic, and assume the lazy supine airs of a fine gentleman, a wit, a railleur, to avoid the dryness of a regular and exact inquiry. This double face of the minute philosopher is of no small use to propagate and maintain his notions. Though to me it seems a plain case, that If a fine gentleman will shake otf authority, and ap- peal from religion to reason, unto reason he must go : and if he cannot go without lead- ing strings, surely he had hetter be led by the authority of the public, than by that of any knot of minute philosophers. Ale. Gentlemen, this discourse is very irksome, and needless. For my part, I am a friend to inquiry. I am willing reason should have its full and free scope. I build on no man's authority. For my part, I have no interest in denyinga God. Any man may believe or not believe a God, as he pleases, forme. But after all, Enphranor must allow me to stare a little at his conclusions. Euph. The conclusions are yours as much as mine, for you were led to them by your own concessions. XIV. Yon, it seems, stare to find, that " God is not far from every one of us," and that " in him we live, and move, and have our being.'' You, who in the beginning of this morning's conference thought it strange, that God should leave himself without a witness, do now think It strange the witness should he so full and clear. Ale. I must own I do. I was aware. Indeed, of a certain metaphysical hypothesis, of our seeing all things in God by the union of the human soul with the intelligible substance of the ' Deity, which neither I nor any one else could make sense of. But I never Imagined it could be pretended, that we saw God with our fleshly eyes as plain as we sec any human person whatsoever, and that he daily speaks to our senses in a manifest and clear dialect. Cri. This language hath a necessary connexion with knowledge, wis- dom, and goodness. It Is equivalent to a constant creation, betokening an immediate act of power and providence. It cannot be accounted for by mechanical principles, by atoms, attractions, or effluvia. The Instantaneous production and reproduction of so many signs comb'ned, dissolved, transposed, diversified, and adapted to such an endless variety of purposes, ever shifting with the occasions and suited to them, being utterly inexplicable and imaccountable by the laws of motion, by chance, by fate, or the like blind principles, doth set forth and testify the Immediate operation of a spirit or thinking being ; and not merely of a spirit, which every motion or gravitation may possibly infer, but of one wise, good, and provident Spirit, which dircctsand iul»6iind 170 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. BUi. iv. governs the world. Some philosophers, being convinced of the wisdom and power of the Creator, from the malte and contrivance of organized bodies and orderly system of the world, did nevertheless imagine, that he left this system with all its parts and contents well adjusted and put in motion, as an artist leaves a clock, to go thencefor- ward of itself for a certain period. But this visual language proves, not a Creator merely, but a provident governor actually and intimately present and attentive to all our interests and motions, who watches over our conduct, and tal«aI" v leading thither was the love of God and man, the practising every virtue, the living reasonably while we are here upon earth, proportioning our esteem to the value ot things, and so using this world as not to abuse it, for this is what Christianity requires. It neither enjoins the nastiness of the Cynic, nor the insensibility of the Stoic. Can there be a higher ambition than to overcome the world, or a wiser than to subdue our- selves, or a more comfortable doctrine than the remission of sins, or a more joyful prospect than that of having our base nature renewed and assimilated to the Deity, our being made fellow citizens with angels and sons of God ? Did ever Pythagoreans, or Platonists, or Stoics, even in idea or in wish, propose to the mind of man purer means or a nobler end 7 How great a share of our happiness depends upon hope ! How totally is this extinguished by the minute philosophy ! On the other hand, how is it cherished and raised by the gospel ! Let any man who thinks in earnest but consider these things, and then say which he thinks deserveth best of mankind, he who recom- mends or he who runs down Christianity ? Which he thinks likelier to lead a happy life, to be a hopeful son, an honest dealer, a worthy patriot, he who sincerely believes the gospel, or he who believes not one tittle of it ? He who aims at being a child of God, or he who is contented to be thought, and to be, one of Epicurus's hogs ? And in fact do but scan the characters and observe the behaviour of the common sort of men on both sides : observe and say which live most agreeably to the dictates of reason ? How things should be, the reason is plain ; how they are, I appeal to fact. VI. Ale. It is wonderful to observe how things change appearance, as they are viewed in different lights, or by different eyes. The picture, Crito, that I form of religion is very unlike yours, when I consider how it unmans the soul, filling it with absurd reveries and slavish fears ; how it extinguishes the gentle passions, inspiring a spirit of malice, and rage, and persecution: when I behold bitter resentments and unholy wrath in those very men, who preach up meekness and charity to others. Cri. It is very possible, that gentlemen of your sect may think religion a subject beneath their attention ; but yet it seems that whoever sets up for opposing any doctrine, should know what it is he disputes against. Know, then, that religion is the virtuous mean between incredulity and superstition. We do not therefore contend for superstitious follies, or for the rage of bigots. What we plead for is religion against profanencss, law against confusion, virtue against vice, the hope of a Christian against the de- spondency of an atheist. I will not justify bitter resentments and unholy wrath in any man, much less in a Christian, and least of all in a clergyman. But if sallies of human passion should sometimes appear even in the best, it will not surprise any one who reflects on the sarcasms and ill manners with which they are treated by the minute philosophers. For as Cicero somewhere observes, liahet quendam aculeum contumelia, f/iiem pall prudentes ac viri boni difficiliime posmnt. But although you might sometimes observe particular persons, professing themselves Christians, run into faulty extremes of any kind through passion and infirmity, while infidels of a more calm and dispassionate temper shall perhaps behave better. Yet these natural tendencies on either side prove nothing, either in favour of infidel principles, or against Christian. If a believer doth evil, it is owing to the man not to his belief. And if an infidel doth good, it is owing to the man and not to his infidelity. VII. Lys. To cut this matter short, I shall borrow an allusion to physic, which one of you made use of against our sect. It will not be denied, that the clergy pass for physicians of the soul, and that religion is a sort of medicine which they deal in and administer. If then souls in great numbers are diseased and lost, how can we think the physician skilful or his physic good ? It is a common complaint, that vice in- creases, and men grow daily more and more wicked. If a shepherd's flock be dis- eased or unsound, who is to blame but the shepherd, for neglecting or not knowing how to cure them ? A fig therefore for such shepherds, such physic, and such physi- cians, who like other mountebanks, with great gravity and elaborate harangues, put off their pills to the people, who are never the better for them ! Eiiph. Nothing seems more reasonable than this remark, that men should judge of a physician and his physic by its effect on the sick. But pray, Lysicles, would you judge of a physician iiy those sick, who take his physic and follow his prescriptions, or by those who do not? Lys. Doubtless by those who do. Euph. What shall we say then, if great numbers refuse to take the physic, or instead of it take poison of a direct contrary nature, prescribed by others, who make it their business to discredit the physician and his medicines, to hinder men from using them, and to destroy their effect by drugs of their own? Shall the physician be blamed for the miscarriage of those people? Lys. By no means. Euph. By a parity of reason should it not follow, that the tendency of religious doctrines ought to be judged of by the effects which they produce, not upon all who hear them, but upon those only who receive or believe them. Lys, It seems so. Euph, Therefore, to proceed fairly, shall we not judge Dut. V. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. IJ9 of the effects of religion by the religious, of faith by believers, of Christianity by Christians? VIII. Li/s. But I doubt these sincere believers are very few. Etiph. But it will not suffice to justify our principles, if in proportion to the numbers which receive them, and the degree of faith with which they are received, they produce good effects'! Perhaps the number of believers are not so few as you imagine; and if they were, whose fault is that so much as of those who make it their professed endeavour to lessen that number 1 And who are those but the minute philosophers ? Lys. I tell you it is owing to the clergy themselves, to the wicltedness and corruption of clergymen. Euph. And who denies but there may be minute philosophers even among the clergy ? Cri. In so numerous a body it is to be presumed there are men of all sorts. But not- withstanding the cruel reproaches cast upon that order by their enemies, an equal observer of men and things will, if I mistake not, be inclined to think those reproaches owing as much to other faults as those of the clergy, especially if be considers the declamatory manner of those who censure them. Euph. My knowledge of the world is too narrow for me to pretend to judge of the virtue and merit and liberal attain- ments of men in the several professions. Besides I should not care for the odious work of comparison : but I may venture to say, the clergy of this country where I live are by no means a disgrace to it : on the contrary, the people seem much the better for their example and doctrine. But supposing the clergy to be (what all men certainly are) sinners and faulty ; supposing you might spy out here and there among them even great crimes and vices, what can you conclude against the profession itself from its unworthy professors, any more than from the pride, pedantry, and bad lives, of some philosophers against philosophy, or of lawyers against law ? IX. it is certainly right to judge of principles from their effects, but then we must know them to be effects of those principles. It is the very method I have observed, with respect to religion and the minute philosophy. And I can honestly aver, that I never knew any man or family grow worse in proportion as they grew religious : but I have often observed, that minute philosophy is the worst thing that can get into a family, the readiest way to impoverish, divide, and disgrace it. ^tc. By the same method of tracing causes from their effects, I have made it my observation, that the love of truth, virtue, and the happiness of mankind, are specious pretexts, but not the inward principles, that set divines at work : else why should they affect to abuse human reason, to disparage natural religion, to traduce the philosophers as they universally do ? Cri, Not so universally perhaps as you imagine. A Christian indeed, is for con- fining reason within its due bounds ; and so is every reasonable man. If we are forbid meddling with unprofitable questions, vain philosophy, and science falsely so called, it cannot be thence inferred, that all inquiries into profitable questions, useful philosophy, and true science, are unlawful. A minute philosopher may indeed impute, and per- haps a weak brother may imagine, those inferences, but men of sense will never make them. God is the common father of lights; and all knowledge really such, whether natural or revealed, is derived from the same source of light and truth. To amass together authorities upon so plain a point would be needless. It must be owned some men's attributing too much to human reason, hath, as is natural, made others attri- bute too little to it. But thus much is generally acknowledged that there is a natural religion, which may be discovered and proved by the light of reason, to those who are capable of such proofs. But it must be withal acknowledged, that precepts and oracles from heaven are incomparably better suited to popular improvement and the good of society, than the reasonings of philosophers ; and accordingly we do not find, that natural or rational religion ever became the popular national religion of any country. X. ^Ic. It cannot be denied, that in all heathen countries therehave been received, under the colour of religion, a world of fables and superstitious rites. But I question whether they were so absurd and of so bad influence as is vulgarly represented, since their respective legislators and magistrates must, without doubt, have thought them useful. Cri. It were needless to inquire into all the rites and notions of the gentile world. This hath been largely done when it was thought necessary. And whoever thinks it worth while may be easily satisfied about them. But as to the tendency and usefulness of the heathen religion in general, I beg leave to mention a remark of St. Augustine's,* who observes that the heathens in their religion had no assemblies for preaching, wherein the people were to be instructed what duties or virtues the gods required, no place or means to be taught what Persius f exhorts them to learn. Disciteque o miseri, et causas cognoscitc rerum. Quid sumus, et quidnam vlcturi gignimur. — Ale, This ia the true spirit of the party, never to allow a grain of use or goodness to any * De Civitate Dei, lib. li. t Sat, ili. N 2 180 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. i>"i" v. thing out of theii- own pale: but we have had learned men who have done justice to the religion of the gentiles. Cri. We do not deny but there was something useful in the old religions of Rome and Greece, and some other pagan countries. On the con- trary, we freely own they produced some good eifects on the people : but then these good effects were owing to the truths contained in those false religions, the truer therefore the more useful. I believe you will find it a hard matter to produce any useful truth, any moral precept, any salutary principle or notion, in any gentile sys- tem, either of religion or philosophy, which is not comprehended in the Christian, and either enforced by stronger motives, or supported by better authority, or carried to a higher point of perfection. XI. A/c. Consequently you would have us think ourselves a finerpeople than the ancient Greeks or Romans. Cri. If by finer you mean better, perhaps we are ; and if we are not, it is not owing to the Christian religion, but to the want of it. Ale. You say perhaps we are. 1 do not pique myself on my reading : but should be very ignorant to be capable of being imposed on in so plain a point. What! compare Cicero or Brutus to an English patriot, or Seneca to one of our parsons ! Then that invincible constancy and vigour of mind, that disinterested and noble virtue, that adorable pub- lic spirit you so much admire, are things in them so well known, and so different from onr manners, that I know not bow to excuse your perhaps. Euphranor, indeed, who passeth his life in this obscure corner, may possibly mistake the characters of our times, but you who know the world, how could you be guilty of such a mistake ? Cri. O Alciphron, I would by no means detract from the noble virtue of ancient heroes : but I observe those great men were not the minute philosophers of their times ; that the best principles upon which they acted are common to them with Christians, of ivhoni it would be no difficult matter to assign many instances in every kind of worth and virtue, public or private, equal to the most celebrated of the antients. Though perhaps their story might not have been so well told, set off with such iine lights and colourings of style, or so vulgarly known and considered by every schoolboy. But though it should be granted, that here and there a Greek or Roman genius, bred up under strict laws and severe discipline, animated to public virtue by statues, crowns, triumphal arches, and such rewards and monuments of great actions, might attain to a character and fame beyond other men, yet this will prove only, that they had more spirit, and lived under a civil polity more wisely ordered in certain points than ours; which advantages of nature and civil institution will be no argument for their religion or against ours. On the contrary, it seems an invincible proof of the power and ex- cellency of the Christian religion, that without the help of those civil institutions and incentives to glory, it should be able to inspire a phlegmatic people with the noblest sentiments, and soften the rugged manners of northern boors into gentleness and humanity : and that these good qualities should become national, and rise and fall in proportion to the purity of our religion, as it approaches to, or recedes from, the plan laid down in the gospel. XII. To make a right judgment of the effects of the Christian religion, let us take a survey of the prevailing notions and manners of this very country where we live, and compare them with those of our heathen predecessors. Ale. I have heard much of the glorious light of the gospel, and should be glad to see some effects of it in my own dear country, which, by the by, is one of the most corrupt and profligate upon earth, notwithstanding the boasted purity of our religion. But it would look mean and difli- dent, to affect a comparison with the barbarous heathen from vvhence we drew our ori- ginal : if you would do honour to your religion, dare to make it with the most re- nowned heathens of antiquity. Cri. It's a common prejudice, to despise the present, and overrate remote times and things. Something of this seems to enter into the judgments men make of the Greeks and Romans. For though it must be allowed, those nations produced some noble spirits and great patterns of virtue, yet upon the whole, it seems to me they were much inferior in point of real virtue and good morals, even to this corrupt and profligate nation, a« you are now pleased to call it in dis- honour to our religion ; however you may think fit to characterize it, when you would dohonour to the minute philosophy. This, I think, will be plain to anyone, who shall turn off his eyes from a few shining characters, to view the general manners and cus- toms of those people. Their insolent treatment of captives, even of the highest rank and softer sex, their unnatural exposing of their own children, their bloody gladiato- rian spectacles, compared with the common notions of Englishmen, are to me a plain proof, that our minds are much softened by Christianity. Could any thing be more unjust, than the condemning a young lady to the most infamous punishment and death for the guilt of her father, or a whole family of slaves, perhaps some hundreds, for a crime committed by one 1 Or more abominable than tlieir bacchanals and unbridled lusts of every kind ? which, notwithstanding all that has been done by minute philo- DIAL. V. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. l8l sophers to debauch the nation, and their successful attempts on some parts of it, have not yet been matched among us, at least not in every circumstance of impudence and effrontery. While the Romans were poor, they were temperate ; but, as they grew rich, they became luxurious to a degree that is hardly believed or conceived by us. It cannot be denied, the old Roman spirit was a great one. But it is as certain, there have been numberless examples of the most resolute and clear courage in Britons, and in general from a religious cause. Upon the whole, it seems an instance of the greatest blindness and ingratitude, that we do not see and own the exceeding great benefits of Christianity, which, to omit liigher considerations, hath so visibly softened, polished, and embellished, our manners. Xni. Ale. O Crito ! we are alarmed at cruelty in a foreign shape, but overlook it in a familiar one. Else how is it possible that you should not see the inhumanity of that barbairous custom of duelling, a thing avowed and tolerated and even reputable among us ? Or that seeing this, you should suppose our Englishmen of a more gentle dispo- sition than the old Romans, who were altogether strangers to it? Cri. I vfill by no means make an apology for every Goth that walks the streets, with a determined pur- pose to murder any man who shall but spit in his face, or give him the lie. Nor do I think the Christian religion is in the least answerable for a practice so directly opposite to its precepts, and which obtains only among the idle part of the nation, your men of fashion ; who instead of lavv, reason, or religion, are governed by fashion. Be pleased to consider that what may be, and truly is, a most scandalous reproach to a Christian country, may be none at all to tlie Christian religion ; for the pagan encouraged men in several vices, but the Christian in none. Ale. Give me leave to observe, that what you now say is foreign to the purpose. For the question, at present, is not concerning the respective tendencies of the pagan and the Christian religions, but concerning our manners, as actually compared with those of ancient heathens, who I aver that, bad as this is, they had a worse : and that was poisoning. By which we have reason to think there were many more lives destroyed, than by this Gothic crime of duelling: inasmuch as it extended to all ages, sexes, and characters, and as its effects were moie secret and unavoidable ; and as it had more temptations, interest as well as passion, to recommend it to wicked men. And for the fact, not to waste time, I refer you to the Roman authors themselves. Lys. It is very true : duelling is not so general a nuisance as poisoning, nor of so base a nature. This crime, if it be a crime, is in a fair way to keep its ground in spite of the law and the gospel. The clergy never preach against it, because themselves never suffer by it: and the man of honour must not appear against the means of vindicating honour. Cri. Though it be remarked by some of your sect, that the clergy are not used to preach against duelling, yet I neither think the remark itself just, nor the reason assigned for it. In efl'ect one half of their sermons, all that is said of charity, brotherly love, forbearance, meekness, and forgiving injuries, is directly against this wicked custom ; by which the clergy themselves are so far from never sutfering, that perhaps they will be found, all things considered, to sufler oftener than other men. Lys. How do you make this appear? Cri. An observer of mankind may remark two kinds of bully, the fighting and the tame, both pub|ic nuisances, the form»r (who is the more dangerous animal, but by much the less com- mon of the two) employs himself wholly and solely against the laity, while the tame species exert their talents upon the clergy. The qualities constituent of this tame bully are natural rudeness joined with a delicate sense of danger. For, you must know, the force of inbred insolence and ill manners is not diminished, though it acquire a new determination, from the fashionable custom of calling men to account for their be- haviour. Hence you may often see one of these tame bullies ready to burst with pride and ill humour, which he dares not vent till a pi.rsonhas come in the way to his relief. And the man of raillery, who would as soon bite off his tongue as break a jest on the profession of arms in the presence of a military man, shall instantly brighten up, and assume a familiar air with religion and the church before ecclesia-it Ci. Dorcon, who passeth for a poltroon and stupid in all other company, and really is io, when he is got among clergymen, affects a quite opposite character. And many Dorcons there are, who owe their wit and courage to t le passive order. XIV. Ale. But to return to the point in hand, can you deny, the old Romaus were as famous for justice and integrity, as men in these days for the contrary qualities ? Cri. The character of the Romans is not to be taken from the sentiments of Tully, or Cato's actions, or a shining passage here and there in their history, but from the pre- vailing tenor of their lives and notions. Now if they and our modern Britos were weighed in this same equal balance, you will, if I mistake not, appear to have been prejudiced in favour of the old Romans against your own country, probubly because it professeth Christianity. Whatever instances of fraud or injustice may been seen in Christians qarry th§ir own censure with them, in the gate that is taken to conseel 182 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. ©"i" *• them, and the ehame that attends their discovery. There is, even at this day, a sort of modesty in all our public councils and deliberations. And I believe, the boldest ot our minute philosophers would hardly undertake, in a popular assembly, to propose any thing parallel to the rape of the Sabines, the most unjust usage of Lucius Tarquinuis Collatinus, or the ungrateful treatment of Camillus, which, as a learned father observes, were instances of iniquity agreed to by the public body of the Romans. And 'f njOnie in her early days were capable of such flagrant injustice, it is most certam she did not mend her manners as she grew greatin wealth and empire, having produced monsters in evervkind of wickedness, as farexceeding other men, as they surpassed them in power. I freely acknowledge, the Christian religion hath not had the same influence upon the nation, tliat it would in case it had been always professed in its purity, and cordially believed by all men. But I will venture to say, that if you take the Roman history from one end to the other, and impartially compare it with your own you will neither find them so good, nor your countrymen so bad, as you imagine. On the contrary, an indifferent eye mav, I verily think, perceive a vein of charity and justice, the effect of Christian principles, run through the latter ; which, though not equally dis- cernible in all parts, yet discloseth itself sufficiently to make a wide difference upon the whole in spite of the general appetites and passions of human nature, as well as of the particular hardness and roughness of the block out of which we were hewn. And it is observiible (what the Roman authors themselves do often suggest), that, even their virtues and magnanimous actions rose and fell with a sense of Providence, and a future state, and a philosophy the nearest to the Christian religion. XV. Crito having spoke thus, paused. But Alciphron, addressing himself to Euphranor and me, said. It is natuial for men, according to their several educations and prejudices, to form contrary judgments upon the same things, which they view in very different lights. Crito, for instance, imagines that none but salutary effects pro- ceed from religion : on the other hand if you appeal to the general experience and observation of other men, you shall find it grown into a proverb that religion is the root of evil. Tantum religio potuit suadere maloram. And this not only among Epicureans or other ancient heathens, but among moderns speaking of the Christian religion. Now methinks it is unreasonable to oppose against the general concurring opinion of the world, the observation of a particular person, or particular set of zealots, whose prejudice sticks close to them, and ever mixeth with their judgment; and who read, collect, and observe, with an eye not to discover the truth, but to defend their prejudice. Cri. Though I cannot think with Alciphron, yet I must own, I admire his address and dexterity in argument. Popular and general opinion is by him represented, on certain occasions, to be a sure mark of error. But when it serves his ends that it should seem otherwise, he can as easily make it a cha- racter of truth. But it will by no means follow, that a profane proverb used by the friends and admired authors of a minute philosopher, must therefore be a received opi- nion, much less a truth grounded on the experience and observation of mankind. Sadness may spring from guilt or superstition, and rage from bigoti'y ; but darkness might as well be supposed the natural effect of sunshine, as sullen and furious passions to proceed from the glad tidings and Divine precepts of the gospel. What is the sum and substance, scope and end, of Christ's religion, but the love of God and man 1 to which all other points and duties are relative and subordinate, as parts or means, as signs, principles, motives, or effects. Now I would fain know, how it is possible for evil or wickedness of any kind to spring from such a source ? I will not pretend, there are no evil qualities in Christians, norgood in minute philosophers. But this I affirm, that whatever evil is in us, our principles csrtainly lead to good ; and whatever good there may be in you, it is most certain your principles lead to evil. XVI. Ale. It must be owned there is a fair outside, and many plausible things may be said, for the Christian religion taken simply as it lies in the gospel. But it is the observation of one ot our great writers, that the first Christian preachers very cun- ningly began with the fairest face and tlie best moral doctrines in the world. It was all love, charity, meekness, patience and so forth. But when by this means they had drawn over the world and got power, they soon changed their appearance, and shewed cruelty, ambition, avarice, and every bad quality. Cri. That is to say, some men very cunningly preached and underwent a world of hardships, and laid down their lives to propagate the best principles and the best morals, to the end that others some cen- turies after might reap the benefit of bad ones. Whoever may be cunning, there is not much cunning in the maker of this observation. Ale, And yet ever since this religion hath appeared in the world, we have had eternal feuds, factions, massacres, and wars, the very reverse of that hymn with which it is introduced in the gospeU " Glory be to God on high, on earth peace, good.will towards men,'' Cri, This I will 6Ul. V, THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. 183 not deny. I ivill even own that the Gospel and the Christian religion have been often the pretext for these evils ; but it will not thence follow they were the cause. On the contrary, it is plain they could not be the real proper cause of these evils, because a rebellious, proud, revengeful, quarrelsome spirit, is directly opposite to the whole tenor and most express precepts of Christianity : a point so clear that I shall not prove it. And, secondly, because all those evils you mention were as frequent, nay, much more frequent, before the Christian religion was known in the world. They are the common product of the passions and vices of mankind, which are sometimes covered with the mask of religion by wicked men, having the form of godliness without the power of it. This truth seems so plain, that I am surprised how any man of sense, knowledge, and candour, can make a doubt of it. XVII. Take but a view of heathen Rome ; what a scene is there of faction and fury and civil rage ! Let any man consider the perpetual feuds between the patricians and plebeians, the bloody and inhuman factions of Marius and Sylla, Cinna and Octavius, and the vast havoc of mankind, during the two famous triumvirates. To be short, let any man of common candour and common sense but cast an eye, from one end to the other of the Roman story, and behold that long scene of seditions, murders, mas- sacres, proscriptions, and desolations, of every kind, enhanced by every cruel circum- stance of rage, rapine, and reveuge, and then say, whether those evils were introduced into the world with the Christian religion, or whether they are not less frequent now than before 1 Ale. The ancient Romans, it must be owned, had a high and fierce spirit, which produced eager contentions and very bloody catastrophes. The Greeks, on the other hand, were a polite and gentle sort of men, softened by arts and philo- sophy. It is impossible to think of the little states and cities of Greece, without wishing to have lived in those times, without admiring their policy and envying their happiness. Cri. Men are apt to consider the dark sides of what they possess, and the bright ones of things out of their reach. A fine climate, elegant taste, polite amusements, love of liberty, and a most ingenious Inventive spirit for arts and sciences, were indisputable prerogatives of ancient Greece. But as for peace and quietness, gentleness and humanity, I think we have plainly the advantage : for those envied cities composed of gentle Greeks were not without their factions, which persecuted each other with such treachery, rage, and malice, that in respect of them our factious folk are mere lambs. To be convinced of this truth, you need only look into Thucy. dides,* where you will find those cities in general involved in such bitter factions, as for fellow-citizens without the formalities of war to murder one another, even in their senate-houses and their temples, no regard being had to merit, rank, obligation, or nearness of blood. And if human nature boiled up to so vehement a pitch in the politest people, what wonder that savage nations should scalp, roast, torture, and destroy each other, as they are known to do ? It is therefore plain, that without religion there would not be wanting pretexts for quarrels and debates ; all which can very easily be accounted for by the natural infirmities and corruption of men. It would not perhaps be so easy to account for the blindness of those, who impute the most hellish eflfects to the most Divine principle, if they could be supposed in earnest, and to have considered the point. One may daily see ignorant and prejudiced men make the most absurd blunders : but that free-thinkers, divers to the bottom of things, fair inquirers, and openers of eyes, should be capable of such a gross mistake, is what one would not expect. XVIII. jilc. The rest of mankind we could more easily give up : but as for the Greeks, men of the most refined genius, express a high esteem of them, not only on account of those qualities which you think fit to allow them, but also for their virtues. Cri. I shall not take upon me to say how far some men may be prejudiced against their country, or whether others may not be prejudiced in favour of it. But upon the fullest and most equal observation that I am able to make, it is my opinion, that, if by virtue is meant truth, justice, gratitude, there is incomparably more virtue, now at this day in England, than at any time could be found in ancient Greece. Thus much will be allowed, that we know few countries, if any, where men of eminent worth, and famous for deserving well of the public, met with harder fate, and were more ungrate- fully treated, than in the most polite and learned of the Grecian states. Though Socrates, it must be owned, would not allow, that those statesmen, by adorning the city, augmenting the fleet, or extending the commerce of Athens, deserved well of their country ; or could with justice complain of the ungrateful returns made by their fellow-citizens, whom, while they were in power, they had taken no care to make better men, by improving and cultivating their minds with the principles of virtue, which if they had done, they needed not to have feared their ingratitude. If I were »Thucya,lil;,iii, 184 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. i>"i- vl- to declare my opinion, what gave the chief advantage to Greeks and Romans and other nations, which have made the greatest figure in the world, I should be apt to think it was a peculiar reverence for their respective laws and institutions, which inspired them with steadiness and courage, and that hearty generous love of their country, by which they did not merely understand a certain language or tribe of men, much less a particular spot of earth, but included a certain system of manners, cus- toms, notions, rites, and laws, civil and religious. Ale. Oh! I perceive your drift ; you would have us reverence the laws and religious institutions of our country. But herein we beg to be excused, if we do not think fit to imitate the Greeks, or to be governed by any authority whatsoever. But to return : as for wars and factions, I grant they ever were and ever will be in the world upon some pretext or other, as long as men are men. XIX. But there is a sort of war and warriors peculiar to Christendom, which the heathens had no notion of; I mean disputes in theology, and polemical divines, which the world hath been wonderfully pestered with : these teachers of peace, meekness, concord, and what not! if you take their word for it : but, if you cast an eye upon their practice, you find them to have been in all ages the most contentious, quarrel- some, disagreeing crew, that ever appeared upon earth. To observe tlie skill and sophistry, the zeal and eagerness, with which those barbarians the school divines, split hairs and contest about chimeras, gives me more indignation, as being more absurd and a greater scandal to human reason, than all the ambitious intrigues, cabals, and politics, of the court of Rome. Cri. If divines are quarrelsome, that is not so far forth as divine, but as undivine and unchristian. Justice is a good thing; and the art of healing is excellent ; nevertheless in the administering of justice or physic, men may be wronged or poisoned. But as wrong cannot be justice, or the effect of justice, so poison cannot be medicine, or the effect of medicine ; so neither can pride or strife be religion or the effect of religion. Having premised this, I acknowledge, you may often see hot-headed bigots engage themselves in religious as well as civil parties, without being of credit or service to either. And as for the schoolmen in particular, I do not in the least think the Christian religion concerned in the defence of them, their tenets, or their method of handling them : but, whatever futility there may be in their notions, or inelegancy in their language, in pure justice to truth one must own, they neither banter nor rail nor declaim in their writings, and are so far from showing fury or passion, that perhaps an impartial judge will think, the minute philosophers are by no means to be compared with them, for keeping close to the point, or for temper and good manners. But, after all, if men are puzzled, wrangle, talk nonsense, and quarrel about religion, so they do about law, physic, politics, and every thing else of moment. I ask whether in these professions, or in any other, where men have refined and abstracted, they do not run into disputes, chicane, non- sense, and contradictions, as well as in divinity? And yet this doth not hinder but there may be many excellent rules, and just notions, and useful truths, in all those professions. In all disputes human passions too often mix themselves, in proportion as the subject is conceived to be more or less important. But we ought not to con- found the cause of men with the cause of God, or make human follies an objection to Divine truths. It is easy to distinguish what looks like wisdom from above, and what proceeds from the passion and weakness of men. This is so clear a point, that one would be tempted to think, the not doing it was an effect, not of ignorance, but of something worse. XX. The conduct we object to minute philosophers is a natural consequence of their principles. Whatsoever they can reproach us with is an effect, not of our prin- ciples, but of human passion and frailty. Ale. This is admirable. So we must no longer object to Christians the absurd contentions of councils, the cruelty of inquisi- tions, the ambition and usurpation of churchmen ? Cyi. You may object them to Christians, but not to Christianity. If the Divine Author of our religion and his disciples have sowed a good seed ; and together with this good seed, the enemies of his gospel (among whom are to be reckoned the minute philosophers of all ages) have sowed bad seeds, whence spring tares and thistles? is it not evident, these bad weeds cannot be imputed to the good seed, or to those who sowed it ? Whatever you do or can object against ecclesiastical tyranny, usurpation, or sophistry, may, without any blemish or disadvantage to religion, be acknowledged by all true Christians ; provided . still that you impute those wicked effects to their true cause, not blaming any prin- ciples or persons for them, but those that really produce or justify them. Certainly, as the interests of Christianity are not to be supported by unchristian methods, when- ever these are made use of, it must be supposed there is some other latent principle which sets them at work. If the very court of Rome hath been known, from motives of policy, to oppose settling the inquisition in a kingdom, where the secular power BIAL. V. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. 185 hath endeavoured to introduce it in spite of that court ;* we may well suppose, that elsewhere factions of state, and political views of princes, have given birth to trans- actions seemingly religious, wherein at bottom neither religion, nor church, nor churchmen, were at all considered. As no man of common sense and honesty will engage in a general defence of ecclesiastics, so I think no man of common candour can condemn them in general. Would you think it reasonable, to blame all statesmen, lawyers, or soldiers, for the faults committed by those of their profession, though in other times, or in other countries, and influenced by other maxims and other dis- cipline ? And if not, why do you measure with one rule to the clergy, and another to the laity 1 Surely the best reason that can be given for this is prejudice. Should any man rake together all the mischiefs that have been committed in all ages and nations, by soldiers and lawyers, you would, I suppose, conclude from thence, not that the state should be deprived of tliose useful professions, but only that their exorbitances should be guarded against and punished. If you took the same equitable course with the clergy, there would indeed be less to be said against you ; but then you would have much less to say. This plain obvious consideration, if every one who read con- sidered, would lessen the credit of your declaimers. Ale. But when all is said that can be said, it must move a man's indignation to see reasonable creatures, under the notion of study and learning, employed in reading and writing so many voluminous tracts lie land caprind. Cri. I shall not undertake tlie vindication of theological writings, a general defence being as needless as a general charge is groundless. Only let them speak for themselves : and let no man condemn them upon the word of a minute philosopher. But we will imagine the very worst, and suppose a wrangling pedant in divinity disputes and ruminates and writes upon a refined point, as useless and unintelligible as you please. Suppose this same person bred a laymen, might he not have employed himself in tricking bargains, vexatious law-suits, factions, seditions, and such-like amusements, with much more prejudice to the public? Suffer then curious wits to spin cobwebs ; where is the hurt? Ale. The mischief is, what men want in light they commonly make up in heat: zeal, and ill nature, being weapons constantly exerted by the partisans, as well as champions, on either side : and those perhaps not mean pedants or book-worms. You shall often see even the learned and eminent divine lay himself out in explaining things Inexplicable, or contend for a barren point of theory, as if his life, liberty, or fortune, were at stake. Cri. No doubt all points in divinity are not of equal moment, Some may be too finely spnn, and others have move stress laid on them than they deserve. Be the subject what it will, you shall often observe that a point, by being controverted, singled out, examined and nearly inspected, groweth considerable to the same eye, that, perhaps, would have overlooked it in a large and comprehensive view. Nor is it an uncommon thing, to behold ignorance and zeal united in men, who are born with a spirit of party, though the church or religion have in truth but small share in it. Nothing is easier than to make a caricatura (as the painters call it} of any profession upon eiirth : but at bottom, there will be found nothing so strange in all this charge upon the clergy, as the partiality of those who censure them, in supposing the common defects of mankind peculiar to their order, or the effect of religious principles. Ale. Other folks may dispute or squabble as they please, and nobody mind them ; but it seems, these vene. rable squabbles of the clergy pass fur learning, and interest mankind. To use the words of the most ingenious charaeterizer of our times, " A ring Is made, and readers gather in abundance. Every one takes party and encourages his own side. This shall be my champion I This man for my money I Well hit on our side I Again, a good stroke ' There he was even with him I Have at him the next 'bout ! Excel- lent sport ! ''t Cri. Methinks I trace the man of quality and breeding in this delicate satire, which so politely ridicules those arguments, answers, defences, and replications, which the press groans under. Ale. To the infinite waste of time and paper, and all the while nobody is one whit the wiser. And who indeed can be the wiser for reading books upon subjects quite out of the way, incomprehensible, and most wretchedly written ? What man of sense or breeding would not abhor the infec- tion of prolix pulpit eloquence, or of that dry, formal, pedantic, stiff, and clumsy style, which smells of the lamp and the college ? XXI. They who have the weakness to reverence the universities as seats of learning, must needs think this a strange reproach ; but it is a very just one. For the most ingenious men are now agreed, that they are only the nurseries of prejudice, corrup- tion, barbarism, and pedantry. Lys. For my part, I find no fault with universities. All I know is, that I had the spending of three hundred pounds a year in one of them, and think it the cheerfnllest time of ray life. As for their books and style I had not • p. Paolo latoria dell' Inquisitioae, p. K, | Characteristics, vol, iii. sap, ii. 186 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. »lAt. «>. leisure to mind tliem. Cri. Wlioever hatli a mind to weed will never want work ; and he tliat shall pick out bad books on every subject will soon fill his library. I do not know what theological writings Alciphron and his friends may be conversant in ; but I will venture to say, one may find among our English divines many writers, who for compass ot learning, weight of matter, strength of argument, and purity of style, ate not inferior to any in our language. It is not my design to apologise for the uhiver- sities : whatever is amiss in them (and what is there perfect among men?) I heartily wish amended. But I dare affirm, because I know it to be true, that any impartial observer, although they should not come up to what in theory he might wish or imagine, will nevertheless find them much superior to those that in fact are to be found in other countries, and far beyond the mean picture that is drawn of them by minute philosophers. It is natural for those to rail most at places of education, who have profited least by them. Weak and fond parents will also readily impute to a wrong cause, those corruptions themselves have occasioned, by allowing their children more money than they know how to spend innocently. And too often a gentleman who has been idle at the college, and kept idle company, will judge of a whole uni- versity from his cabal. Ale. Crito mistakes the point. I vouch the authority, not of a dunce, or a rake, or absurd parent, but of the most consummate critic this age has produced. This great man characterizeth men of the church and universities with the finest touches and most masterly pencil. What do you think he calls them 1 Euph. What ? Ale. Why, the black tribe, magicians, formalists, pedants, bearded boys, and having sufficiently derided and exploded them and their mean ungenteel learning, he sets most admirable models of his own for good writing : and it must be acknowledged they are the finest things in our language ; as I could easily convince you, for I am never without something of that noble writer about me. Euph. He is then a noble Writer ? Ale. I tell you he is a nobleman. Euph. But a nobleman who writes is one thing, and a noble writer another. Ale. Both characters are coincident as you may see. XXII. Upon which Alciphron pulled a treatise out of his pocket, entitled A Soli- loquy, or Advice to an Author. Would you behold, said he, looking round upon the company, a noble specimen of fine writing'! do but dip into this book : which Crito opening, read verbatim as follows.* Where then are the pleasures whichambitiou promises And employment. And love affords ? How's the gay world enjoy'd ? But here a busy form solicits «l, Or are those to be esteem'd no pleasures Active, industrious, watchful, and despising Which are lost by dulness and inaction ? Pains and labour. She wears the serious But indolence is the highest pleasure. Countenance of Virtue, but with features To live and not to feel ! To feel no trouble. Of anxiety and disquiet. What good then 2 Life itself. And is What is't slie mutters? What looks she on with This properly to live? Is sleeping life 1 Such admiration and astonishment ? Is this what I should study to prolong ! Bags ! coffers ! heaps of shining metal ! What ? Here the For the service of Luxury ? For her Fantastic tribe seems scandalized. These preparations ? Art thou then her friend, A civil war begins : the major part Grave Taney 2 Is it for her thou toilest? Of the capricious dames do range themselves No, but for provision against want. On reason's side. But luxury apart, tell me now. And declare against the languid siren. Hast thou not already a competence ? Ambition blushes at the offered sweet ; 'Tis good to be secure against die fear Conceit and Vanity take superior airs. Of starving. Is there then no death but this ? Ev n Luxury herself in her polite No other passage out of life ? Are other doors And elegant humour reproves Ih' apostate Secured if this be barr'd ? Say, Avarice I ^'^^*^r Thou emptiest of phantoms, is it not vile And marks her as an alien to true pleasure. Cowardice thou serv'st ? What further have I then Away thou To do with thee (thou doubly vile dependent) Drowsy phantom I haunt me no more ; for I When once I have dismiss'd thy patronncss, Have learn'd from better than thy sisterhood And despised her threats? That life and happiness consist in action 'Thus I contend with Fancy and Opinion. Euphranor having heard thus far, cried out. What ! will you never have done with your poetry? another time may serve : but why should we break off our conference to read a play ? You are mistaken, it is no play nor poetry, replied Alciphron, but a famous modern critic moralizing in prose. You must know this great man hath (to use his own words) revealed a grand arcanum to the world, having instructed mankind m what he calls mirror-writing, self-discoursing practice, and author practice, and shewed, " that by virtue of an intimate recess we may discover a certain duplicity of soul, and divide our self into two parties, or (as he varies the phrase) practically form the dual nui^ber.'' In consequence whereof, he hath found out that a man may argue with himself, and not only with himself, but also with notions, sentiments, and vices, which by a marvellous prosopopceia he converts into so many ladies, and so converted, * Part iii, Beet, ii, wAt. r. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHEU. 187 he confutes and confounds them in a Divine strain. Can any thing be finer, bolder, or more sublime ? Euph. It is very wonderful. I thought, indeed, you had been reading a piece of tragedy. Is this he who despiseth our universities, and sets up for reform- ing the style and taste of the age? Ale. The very same. This is the admired critic of our times. Nothing can stand the test of his correct judgment, which is equally severe to poets and parsons. " The British muses (saith this great man) lisp as in their cradles ! and their stammering tongues, which nothing but youth and rawness can excuse, have hitherto spoken in Wretched pun and quibble. Our dramatic Shakespear, our Fletcher, Jonson, and our epic Milton, preserve this style. And according to him, even our later authors, aiming at a false sublime, entertain our raw fancy and unpractised ear, which has not yet had leisure to form itself, and become truly musical.'' 'Euph. Pray what effect may the lessons of this great man, in whose eyes our learned professors are but bearded hoys, and our most celebrated wits but wretched punsters, have had upon the public ? Hath he rubbed off the college rust, cured the rudeness and rawness of our authors, and reduced them to his own attic standard 1 Do they aspire to his true sublime, or imitate his chaste unaffected style ? Ale. Doubtless the taste of the age is much mended : in proof whereof his writings are universally admired. When our author published this treatise, he foresaw the public taste would improve apace ; that arts and letters would grow to great perfection ; that there would be a happy birth of genius : of all which things he spoke, as he saith him- self, in aprophetic style. Cri. And yet, notwithstanding the prophetical predictions of this critic, I do not find any science that throve among us of late, so much as the minute philosophy. In this kind, it must be confessed, we have had many notable productions. But whether they are such master-pieces for good writing, I leave to be determined by their readers. XXIII. In the mean time, I must beg to be excused, if T cannot believe your great man on his bare word ; when he would have us think, that ignorance and ill taste are owing to the Christian religion or the clergy, it being my sincere opinion, that whatever learning or knowledge we liave_among us, is derived from that order. If those, who are so sagacious at discovering a mote in other eyes, would but purge their own, I be- lieve they might easily see this truth. For what but religion could kindle and preserve a spirit towards learning, in such a northern rough people ? Greece produced men of active and subtile genius. The public conventions and emulations of their cities forwarded that genius : and their natural curiosity was amused and excited by learned conversations, in their public walks and gardens and porticos. Our genius leads to amusements of a grosser kind : we breathe a grosser and a colder air : and that curio- sity which was general in the Athenians, and the gratifying of which was their chief recreation, is among our people of fashion treated like affectation, and as such banished from polite assemblies and places of resort ; and without doubt would in a. little time be banished the country, if it were not for the great reservoirs of learning, where those formalists, pedants, and bearded boys, as your profound critic calls them, are maintained by the liberality and piety of our predecessors. For it is as evident that religion was the cause of those seminaries, as it is that they are the cause or source of all the learn- ing and taste which are to be found, even in those very men who are the declared enemies of our religion and public foundations. Every one, who knows anything, knows we are indebted for our learning to the Greek and Latin tongues. This those severe censors will readily grant. Perhaps they may not be so ready to grant, what all men must see, that we are indebted for those tongues to our religion. What else could have made foreign and dead languages in such request among us ? What could have kept in being and handed them down to our times, through so many dark ages in which the world was wasted and disfigured by wars and violence ? What, but a regard to the Holy Scriptures, and theological writings of the fathers and doctors of the churchl And in fact, do we not find that the learning of those times was solely in the hands of ecclesiastics, that they alone lighted the lamp in succession one from another, and transmitted it down to after-ages; and that ancient books were collected and preserved in their colleges and seminaries, when all love and remembrance of polite arts and studies were extinguished among the laity, whose ambition entirely turned to arms? XXIV. Ale. There is, I must needs say, one sort of learning undoubtedly of Chris- tian original, and peculiar to the universities ; where our youth spend several years in acquiring that mysterious jargon of scholasticism ; than which there could never have been contrived a more effectual method, to perplex and confound human understanding. It is true, gentlemen are untaught by the world what they have been taught at the college : bnt then their time is doubly lost. Cri. But what if this scholastic learning was not of Christian but of Mahometan original, being derived from the Arabs ? And what if this grievance of gentlemen spending several years in learning and unlearning this jargon, be all grimace, and a specimen only of the truth and candour of certain 188 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. dial. v. minute phitosophers, who raise gieat invectives from slight occasions, and judge too often without inquiring! Surely it would be no such deplorable loss of time, if a young gentleman spent a few months upon that so much despised and decried art of logic, a surfeit of which is by no means the prevailing nuisance of this age. It is one thing to waste one's time in learning and unlearning the barbarous terms, wire-drawn distinc- tions, and prolix sophistry, of the schoolmen, and another to attain some exactness in defining and arguing: things perhaps not altogether beneath the dignity even of a minute philosopher. There was indeed a time, when logic was considered as its own object : and that art of reasoning, instead of being transferred to things turned alto- gether upon words and abstractions ; which produced a sort of leprosy in all parts of knowledge, corrupting and converting them into hollow verbal disputations in a most impure dialect. But those times are past ; and that, which had been cultivated as the principal learning for some ages, is now considered in another light, and by no means makes that figure in the universities, or bears that part in the studies of young gentle- men educated there, which is pretended by those admirable reformers of religion and learning, the minute philosophers. XXV. But who were they that encouraged and produced the restoration of arts and polite learning? What share had the minute philosophers in this affairl Matthias Corvinus king of Hungary, Alphonsus king of Naples, Cosmus de Medicis, Picus of Mi- randula, and other princes, and great men, famous for learning themselves, and for en- couraging it in others with a munificent liberality, were neither Turks nor Gentiles nor minute philosophers. Who was it that transplanted and revived the Greek language and authors, and with them all polite arts and literature in the west? Was it not chiefly Bessarion a cardinal, Marcus Musurus an archbishop, Theodore Gaza a private clergyman 1 Has tliere been a greater and more renowned patron, and restorer of elegant studies in every kind, since the days of Augustus Caesar, than Leo the Tenth, pope of Rome ? Did any writers approach the purity of the classics nearer than the cardinals Bembus and Sadoletus, or than the bishops Jovius and Vida? Not to men- tion an endless number of ingenious ecclesiastics, who flourished on the other side of the Alps in the golden age (as the Italians call it) of Leo the Tenth, and wrote, both in their own language and the Latin, after the best models of antiquity. It is true, this first recovery of learning preceded the Reformation, and lighted the way to it : but the religious controversies, which ensued, did wonderfully propagate and improve it in all parts of Christendom. And surely, the church of England is, at least, as well calcu- lated for the encouragement of learning as that of Rome. Experience confirms this observation ; and I believe the minute philosophers will not be so partial to Rome as to deny it. Ale. It is impossible your account of learning beyond the Alps should be true. The noble critic in my hands, having complimented the French, to whom he allows some good authors, asserts of other foreigners, particularly the Italians, " That they may be reckoned no better than the corrupters of true learning and erudition." Ci'i. With some sorts of critics, dogmatical censures and conclusions are not always the result of perfect knowledge or exact inquiry ; and if they harangue upon taste, truth of art, a just piece, grace of style, attic elegance, and such topics, they are to be under- stood only as those that would fain talk themselves into reputation for courage. To hear Thrasymachus speak of resentment, duels, and point of honour, one would think him ready to burst with valour, Lifs, Whatever merit this writer may have as a de- molisher, I always thought he had very little as a builder. It is natural for careless writers to run into faults they never think of: but for an exact and severe critic to shoot his bolt at random, is unpardonable. If he, who professes at every turn a higli esteem for polite writing, should yet despise those who most excel in it ; one would be tempted to suspect his taste. But if the very man, who of all men talks most about art, and' taste, and critical skill, and would be thought to have most considered those points, should often deviate from his own rules, into the false sublime or the mauvaise plai- santerie; what reasonaljle man would follow the taste and judgment of such a guide, or be seduced or climb the .strep ascent, or tread in the rugged paths of virtue on his recommendation ? XXVI. Aic. But to return, methinks Ciito makes no compliment to the genius of his country, in supposing that Eiii;lishmen might not have wrought out of themselves, all art and science and good taste, without being beholden to church or universities, or ancient languages. Cri. VV^liat might have been, is only conjecture. What has been, it is not difficult to know. That there is a vein in Britain, of as rich an ore as ever was in any country, I will not deny ; hut it lies deep, and will cost pains to come at : and extraordinary pains require an extraordinary motive. As for what lies next the surface, it seems but indifferent, being neither so good nor in such plenty as in some other countries. It was the comparison of an ingenious Florentine, that the celebrated poems of Tasso an(J Ariosto are like two gardens, the one of cucumbers, the other of BiAt. V. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. 189 melons. In tbe one you shall find few bad, but the best are not a very good fruit ; in the other much the greater part are good for nothiug, but those that are excellent. Perhaps the same comparison may hold, between the English and some of their neigh- bours. Ate. But suppose we should grant that the Christian religion and its semina- ries might have been of use, in preserving or retrieving polite arts and letters ; what then 1 Will you make this an argument of its truth 1 Cri. I will make it an argument of prejudice and ingratitude in those minute philosophers, who object darkness, ignorance, and rudeness, as an effect of that very thing, which above all others hath enlightened and civilized and embellished their country; which is as truly indebted to it for arts and sciences (which nothing but religion was ever known to have planted in such a latitude) as for that general sense of virtue and humanity, and belief of a Provi- dence and future state, which all the argumentation of minute philosophers hath not yet been able to abolish. XXVII. Ale. It is strange you should still persist to argue as if all the gentlemen of out sect were enemies to virtue, and downright atheists ; though I have assured you of the contrary, and that we have among us several, who profess themselves in the interests of virtue and natural religion, and have also declared, that I myself do now argue upon that foot. Cri. How can you pretend to be in the interests of natural reli- gion, and yet be professed enemies of the Christian, the only established religion which includes whatever is excellent in the natural, and which is the only means of making those precepts, duties, and notions, so called,become reverenced throughout the world 1 Would not he be thought weak or insincere, who should go about to persuade people, that he was much in the interests of an earthly monarch ; that he loved and admired his government; when at the same time he shewed himself, on all occasions, a most bitter enemy of those very persons and methods, which above all others contributed most to his service, and to make his dignity known and revered, his laws observed, or his dominion extended ? And is not this what minute philosophers do, while they set up for advocates of God and religion, and yet do all they can to discredit Christians and their worship ? It must be owned, indeed, that you argue against Christianity, as the cause of evil and wickedness in the world ; but with such arguments, and in such a manner as might equally prove the same thing of civil government, of meat and drink, of every faculty and profession, of learning, of eloquence, and even of human reason itself. After all, even those of your sect who allow themselves to be called Deists, if their notions are thoroughly examined, will I fear be found to include little of religion in them. As for the providence of God watching over the conduct of human agents, and dispensing blessings or chastisements, the immortality of the soul, a final judgment, and future state of rewards and punishments ; how few, if any of your free-thinkers, have made it their endeavour to possess men's minds with aseiious sense of those great points of natural religion ! How many, on the contrary, endeavour to render the be- lief of them doubtful or ridiculous ! Lys. Tospeak the truth, I for my part had never any liking to religion of any kind, either revealed or unrevealed: and I dare venture to say the same for those gentlemen of our sect that I am acquainted with, having never observed them guilty of so much meanness, as even to mention the name of God with reverence, or speak with the least regard of piety or any sort of worship. There may perhaps be found one or two formal pretenders to enthusiasm and devotion, in the way of natural religion, who laughed at Christians for publishing hymns and medita- tions, while they plagued the world with as bad of their own : but the sprightly men make a jest of all this. It seems to us mere pedantry. Sometimes, indeed, in good company, one may hear a word dropped in commendation of honour and good nature ; but the former of these, by connoisseurs, is always understood to mean nothing but fashion, as the latter is nothing but temper and constitution, which guides a man just as appetite doth a brute. XXVIII. And after all these arguments and notions, which beget one another with- out end ; to take the matter short, neither I nor my friends for our souls could ever comprehend, why man might not do very well, and govern himself without any religion at all, as well as a brute, which is thought the sillier creature of the two. Have brutes instincts, senses, appetites, and passions, to steer and conduct them ? So have men, and reason over and above to consult upon occasion. From these premises we conclude, the road of human life is sufficiently lighted without religion. Cri. Brutes having but small power, limited to things present or particular, are sufficiently opposed and kept in order, by the force or faculties of other animals and the skill of man, without con- science or religion : but conscience is a necessary balance to human reason, a faculty of such mighty extent and power, especially towards mischief. Besides, other animals are, by the law of their nature determined to one certain end or kind of being, without inclination or means either to deviate or go beyond it. But man hath in him a will and higher principle; by virtue whereof he may pursue di liferent or even contrary ends, 190 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. WAI. v. and either fall short of or exceed the perfection natural to his species in this world, as he is capable either, by giving up the reins to his sensual appetites, of degrading himself into the condition of brutes, or else, by well ordering and improving his mind, of being transformed into the similitude of angels. Man alone of all animals hath understanding to know his God. What availeth this knowledge unless itbe to ennoble man, and raise him to an imitation and participation of the Divinity ? Or what could such ennoblement avail if to end with this life ? Or how can these things take effect without religion ? But the points of vice and virtue, man and beast, sense and intel- lect, have been already at large canvassed. What ! Lysicles, would you have us go back where we were three or four days ago 1 l^s. By no means : I had much rather go forward, and make an end as soon as possible. But to save trouble, give me leave to tell you at once for all, that, say what you can, you shall never persuade me so many ingenious agreeable men are in the wrong, and a pack of snarling sour bigots in the right. XXIX. Cri. Lysicles ! I neither look for religion among bigots, nor reason among libertines ; each kind disgrace their several pretensions ; the one owning no regard even to the plainest and most important truths, while the others exert an angry zeal for points of least concern. And surely whatever there is of silly, narrow, and uncharitable, in the bigot, the same is in great measure to be imputed to the conceited ignorance and petulant profaneness of the libertine. And it is not at all unlikely, that as liber- tines make bigots, so bigots should make libertines, ^the extreme of one party being ever observed to produce a contrary extreme of another. And although, while these adversaries draw the rope of contention, reason and religion are often called upon, yet are they perhaps very little considered or concerned in the contest. Lysicles, instead of answering Crito, turned short upon Alciphron. It was always my opinion, said he, that nothing could be sillier than to think of destroying Christianity, by crying up natural religion. Whoever thinks highly of the one can never, with a consistency, think meanly of the other ', it being very evident, that natural religion, without re- vealed, never was and never can be established or received any where, but in the brains of a few idle speculative men. 1 was aware what your concessions would come to. The belief of a God, virtue, a future state, and such fine notions are, as every one may see with half an eye, the very basis and corner-stone of the Christian religion. Lay but this foundation for them to build on, and you shall soon see what superstructures our men of divinity will raise from it. The truth and importance of those points once admitted, a man need be no conjuror to prove, upon that principle, the excellency and usefulness of the Christian religion : and then to be sure, there must be priests to teach and propagate this useful religion. And if priests, a regular subordination without doubt in this worthy society, and a provision for their maintenance, such as may enable them to perform all their rites and ceremonies with decency, and keep their sacred character above contempt. And the plain consequence of all this is, a confederacy be- tween the prince and the priesthood to subdue the people ; so we have let in at once upon us, a long train of ecclesiastical evils, priestcraft, hierarchy, inquisition. We have lost our liberty and properly, and put the nation to vast expense, only to pur- chase bridles and saddles for their own backs. XXX. This being spoke with some sharpness of tone, and an upbraiding air, touched Alciphron to the quick, who replied nothing, but shewed confusion in his looks. Crito smiling looked at Euphranor and me, then casting an eye on the two philosophers, spoke as follows : If I may be admitted to interpose good offices, for preventing a rupture between old friends and brethren in opinion, I would observe, that in this charge of Lysicles there is something right and something wrong. It seems right to assert as he doth, that the real belief of natural religion will lead a man to approve of revealed : but it is as wrong to assert, that inquisitions, tyranny, and ruin, must follow from thence. Your free-thinkers, without offence be it said, seem to mistake their talent. They imagine strongly, but reason weakly ; mighty at exaggeration, and jejune in argument ! Can no method be found, to relieve them from the terror of that fierce and bloody animal an English parson? Will it not suffice to pare his talons without chopping off his fingers ? Then they are such wonderful patriots for liberty and pro- perty ! When I hear these two words in the mouth of a minute philosopher, I am put in mind of the Teste di Ferro at Rome. His holiness, it seems, not having power to assign pensions on Spanish benefices to any but natives of Spain, always keeps at Rome two Spaniards, called Testo di Ferro, who have the name of all such pensions but not the profit, which goes to Italians. As we may see every day, both things and notions placed to the account of liberty and property, which in reality neither have nor are meant to have any share in them. What ! is it impossible for a man to be a Christian, but he must be a slave ; or a clergyman, but he must have the principles of an inquisi- tor; I am far from screening and justifying an appetite of domination or tyrannical BiAi. V. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. 191 power in ecclesiastics. Some, who have been guilty in that respect, have sorely paid for it, and it is to be hoped they always will. But having laid the fury and folly of the ambitious prelate, is it not time to look about and spy whether, on the other hand, some evil may not possibly accrue to the state, from the overflowing zeal of an inde- pendent whig 1 This I may affirm, without being at any pains to prove it, that the worst tyranny this nation ever felt was from the hands of patriots of that stamp. XXXI. Lys. I don't know. Tyranny is a harsh word, and sometimes misapplied. When spirited men of independent maxims create a ferment or make a change in the state : he that loseth is apt to consider things in one light, and he that wins in another. In the mean time this is certainly good policy, that we should be frugal of our money, and reserve It for better uses, than to expend on the church and religion. Cri, Surely the old apologue of the belly and members need not be repeated to such knowing men. It should seem as needless to observe, that all other states, which ever made any figure in the world for wisdom and politeness, have thought learning deserved encouragement as well as the sword ; that grants for religious uses were as fitting as for knights' ser- vice ; and foundations for propagating piety, as necessary to the public welfare and defence, as either civil or military establishments. But I ask who are at this expense, and what is this expense so much complained of? Lys. As if you had never heard of church-lands and tithes. Cri. But I would fain know, how they can be charged as an expense, either upon the nation or private men. Where nothing is exported the nation loseth nothing : and it is all one to the public, whether money circulates at home through the hands of a vicar or a squire. Then as for private men, who, for want of thought, are full of complaint about the payment of tithes ; can any man justly com- plain of it as a tax, that he pays what never belonged to him ? The tenant rents his farm with this condition, and pays his landlord proportionably less, than if his farm had been exempt from it : so he loseth nothing ; it being all one to him, whether he pays his pastor or his landlord. The landlord cannot complain that he has not what he hath no right to, either by grant, purchase, or inheritance. This is the case of tithes; and as for the church-lands, he surely can be no free-thinker, nor any thinker at all, who doth not see that no man, whether noble, gentle, or plebeian, hath any sort of right or claim to them, which he may not with equal justice pretend to all the lands in the kingdom. Lys, At present Indeed we have no right, and that is our complaint. Cri. Vou would have then what you have no right to. Lys. Not so neither; what we would have Is first a right conveyed by law, and in the next place, the lands by virtue of such right. Cri. In Order to this, it might be expedient In the first place, to get an act passed for excommunicating from all civil rights every man, that is a Christian, a scholar, and wears a black coat, as guilty of three capital otFences against the public weal of this realm. Lys. To deal frankly, I think it would be an excellent good act. It would provide at once for several deserving men, rare artificers in wit and argument and ridicule, who have, too many of them, but small fortunes with a great arrear of merit towards their country, which they have so long enlightened and adorned gratis. Evph. Pray tell me, Lysicles, are not the clergy legally possessed of their lands and emoluments? Lys. Nobody denies it. Eiiph. Have they not been possessed of them from time immemorial ? Lys. This too I grant. Euph. They claim them by law and ancient prescription ? Lys. They do. Euph. Have the oldest families of the nobility a better title ? Lys. I believe not. It grieves me to see so many overgrown estates in the hands of ancient families, on account of no other merit, but what they brought with them into the world. Euph. May you not then as well take their lands too, and be- stow them on minute philosophers, as persons of more merit ? Lys. So much the better. This enlarges our view, and opens a new scene : it is very delightful, in the contemplation of truth, to behold how one theory grows out of another. Ale. Old Paetus used to say, that if the clergy were deprived of their hire, we should lose the most popular argument against them. Lys. But so long as men live by religion, there will never be wanting teachers and writers in defence of it. Cri. And how can you be sure they would be wanting though they did not live by it ; since It Is well known Christianity had its defenders even when men died by it ? Lys. One thing I know, there is a rare nursery of young plants growing up, who have been carefully guarded against every air of prejudice, and sprinkled with the dew of our choicest principles ; mean while, wishes are wearisome, and to our infinite regret nothing can be done, so long as there remains any prejudice in favour of old customs and laws and national constitutions, which, at bottom, we very well know and can demonstrate to be only words and notions. XXXII. But I can never hope, Cri to, to make you think my schemes reasonable. We reason each right upon his own principles, and shall never agree till we quit our principles, which cannot be done by reasoning. We all talk of just, and right and wrong, and public good, and all those things. The names may be the same, but the 192 THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. »iai» v, notions and conclusions very different, perhaps diametrically opposite ; and yet each may admit of clear proofs, and be inferred by the same way of reasoning. For instance, the gentlemen of the club which I frequent, define man to be a sociable animal : con- sequently, we exclude from this definition all those human creatures of whom it may be said, we would rather have their room than their company. And such, though wearing the shape of man, are to be esteemed in all account of reason, not as men, but only as human creatures. Hence it plainly follows, that men of pleasure, men of humour, and men of wit, are alone properly and truly to be considered as men. What- ever therefore conduceth to the emolument of such, is for the good of mankind, and consequently very just and lawful, although seeming to be attended with loss or damage to other creatures : inasmuch as no real injury can be done in life or property to those who know not how to enjoy them. This we hold for clear and well-connected reason- ing. But others may view things in another light, assign different definitions, draw other inferences, and perhaps consider, what wc suppose the very top and flower of the creation, only as a wart or excrescence of human nature. From all which there must ensue a very different system of morals, politics, rights, and notions. Cri. If you have a mind to argue, we will argue ; if you have more mind to jest, we will laugh with you. Lys. Ridcntem dicere verum Quid vetat ? This partition of our kind into men and human creatures, puts me in mind of another notion, broached by one of oar club, whom we used to called the Pythagorean. XXXIII. He made a threefold partition of the human species, into birds, beasts, and fishes, being of opinion that the road of life lies upwards, in a perpetual ascent through the scale of being: in such sort, that the souls of insects after death make their second appearance, in the shape of perfect animals, birds, beasts, or fishes; which upon their death are preferred into human bodies, and in the next stage into beings of a higher and more perfect kind. This man we considered at first as a sort of heretic, because his scheme seemed not to consist with our fundamental tenet, the mortality of the soul : but he justified the notion to be innocent, inasmuch as it in- cluded nothing of reward or punishment, and was not proved by any argument, which supposed or implied either incorporeal spirit or Providence, being only inferred, by way of analogy, from what he had observed in human affairs, the court, the church, and the army ; wherein the tendency is always upwards from lower posts to higher. According to this system, the fishes are those men who swim in pleasure, such aspelils maitres, bans vivans, and honest fellows. The beasts are dry, drudging, covetous, rapacious folk, and all those addicted to care and business like oxen, and other dry- land animals, which spend their lives in labour and fatigue. The birds are airy notional men, enthusiasts, pjojectors, philosophers, and such-like : in each species every individual retaining a tincture of his former state, which constitutes what is called genius. If you ask me which species of human creatures I like best, I answer the flying fish ; that is, a man of animal enjoyment with a mixture of whim. Thus you see we have our creeds and our systems, as well as graver folks; with this difference, that they are not strait-laced but sit easy, to be slipped off or on, as humour or occa- sion serves. And now I can, with the greatest eqCianiraity imaginable, hear my opinions argued against, or confuted. XXXIV. Ale. Itwere to be wished, all men were of that mind. But you should find a sort of men, whom I need not name, that cannot bear with the least temper to have their opinions examined or their faults censured. They are against reason, because reason is against them. For our parts we are all for liberty of conscience. If our tenets are absurd, we allow them to be freely argued and inspected ; and by parity of reason we might hope to be allowed the same privilege, with respect to the opnions of other men. Cri. O Alciphron, wares that will not bear the light are justly to be suspected. Whatever therefore moves you to make this complaint, tiike my word I never will : but as hitherto I have allowed your reason its full scope, so for the future I always shall. And though I cannot approve of railling or declaiming, not even in myself, whenever you have shewed me the way to it : yet this I will answer for, that you shall ever be allowed to reason as closely and as strenuously as you can. But for the love of truth, be candid, and do not spend your strength and our time, in points of no significance, or foreign to tlie purpose, or agreed between us. We allow that tyranny and slavery are bad things : but why should we apprehend them from the clergy at this time 1 Rites and ceremonies we own are not points of chief moment in religion : but why should we ridicule things in their nature, at least innocent, and which bear the stamp of supreme authority ? That men in divinity, as well as other subjects, are perplexed with useless disputes, and are likely to be so as longas the world lasts Ifreely acknowledge; but why must all the human weakness and mistakes of clergymen be B'AL. V. THE MINUTE PHILOSOPHER. 193 imputed to wicked designs'! Why indiscriminately abuse their character and tenets 1 Is this li]