closet, and nobody by to perceive them. I a answer, you may so, there is no difficulty in it. But what is all this, I beseech you, more than framing in your mind certain ideas which you call books and trees, and at the same time omitting to frame the idea of any one that may perceive them? but do not you yourself perceive or think of them all the while?" Thus the idea widens, gathering to itself all forces of ima gination and memory. These outside mysteries of nature live in your perception of them, live in your thought of them. When darkness falls over those woods you know, and makes them invisible, are they not there alive, breathing, rustling under the night wind, in your thoughts? and if not even in your thoughts, how can you tell what benighted creature, desolate of all comforts, may haunt them, making the gloomy glades alive with the consciousness of a human eye? or what angel, leaning from the heavens, may charm them into reality? Or, higher still, does not God look and behold, giving them existence with His glance? "Some truths," says the philosopher, his gaze widening, his mind swelling with an exaltation worthy his subject, "are so near and obvious to the mind that a man need only to open his eyes to see them. Such I take this important one to be-to wit, that all the choir of heaven and furniture of earth-in a word, all those bodies which compose the mighty frame of the world, have not any existence without a mind, that their being (esse) is to be perceived and known; that, consequently, so long as they are not actually perceived by men, or do not exist in my mind, or that of any other created spirit, they must either have no existence at all, or else subsist in the mind of some eternal spirit." Where could there be found a theory more touching or more sublime? All the choir of heaven, and all the furniture of earth-all the little stars unnamed and unknown in their

systems-all those unseen isles of paradise which lie in undiscovered seas,-hanging, as in their proper atmosphere, like the motes in the sunshine, in the light of the eyes of God! Never has a nobler conception filled the heart of any poet. The young soul in which it had its origin has such a right to the name of Seer as falls to few of the most nobly endowed among men.

"He

It is not within our range or sphere to follow this new system through the storm of argument, laughter, and discussion which it called forth. It is enough for us to state what the theory was, which even at this present day brings a smile to the lip of many an ignorant bystander at Bishop Berkeley's name. The strain of subdued enthusiasm and lofty poetry in the book attracted many minds; and so did the close and unbroken chain of reasoning, of which Hume said, "that it admitted of no answer," although it produced no conviction. If the pretensions of philosophy are admitted at all, Mr. Lewes tells us that Berkeley is irrefutable. failed, as the greatest philosophers of all times have failed, not because he was weak, but because philosophy was impossible," says the historian of philosophy. The book, a small octavo volume, never came to a second edition so long as its author lived, but yet became at once sufficiently known to win him some fame, and to puzzle the brains of the philosophical world. "Mr. Berkeley published, A.D. 1710, at Dublin, the metaphysic notion that matter was not a real thing," says Whiston in the 'Memoirs of Dr. Clarke'; "nay, that the common opinion of its reality was groundless, if not ridiculous. He was pleased to send Dr. Clarke and myself, each of us, a book. After we had both perused it, I went to Dr. Clarke and discoursed with him about it to this effect, that I, being not a metaphysician, was not able to answer Mr. Berkeley's subtle premises, though I did not at all

I

believe his absurd conclusion. therefore desired that he, who was deep in such subtleties, but did not appear to believe Mr. Berkeley's conclusions, would answer him; which task he declined." Thus the young Irishman splintered his lance upon the world without finding any immediate champion to do battle with him. There was a pause of consternation in that misty, doubtful, uncertain sphere. The old philosophy "did not appear to believe," but "declined the task" of replying. It was some time before it found breath and courage enough even to acknow ledge the challenge.

For two years after this the young Fellow of Trinity remained in Dublin, no doubt doing his work with the joyful energy of his youth and enthusiastic temperament. During this time "the principles inculcated in Mr. Locke's two treatises on Government seem to have turned his attention to the doc

trine of passive obedience," says his biographer, "in support of which he printed the substance of three Commonplaces delivered by him that year in the College chapel." He himself explains this publication, by way of preface, with a mixture of that lofty optimism which distinguishes all his thoughts, and which so often carries men of his stamp, in their very pursuit of the highest good, into conjunction with the meanest tyrannies-with that frank straight forward opposition to the great antagonist he had chosen for himself, which is equally characteristic of the man. The age was not favourable to the doctrine of passive obedience; all its political order, in short, was founded upon a flat and practical contradiction of the theory. So far from passively obeying, England had but lately expelled her hereditary monarch, had set in succession two daughters of the exiled king upon his throne, and was now plotting the introduction of an altogether new family of rulers, leaving the old in banishment, in the hope that her new lords would do

her will instead of demanding of her that she should do theirs. Right or wrong, such was the principle rooted deeply by recent events in the heart of the nation. An opposite opinion meant at that moment Jacobitism, revolutionism, anything but devotion to the powers that be. In short, the title of the powers then actually existing to the obedience and devotion of the people was of so unreal a character that such a treatise at such a time looked very much like either rebellion or nonsense. Berkeley, however, meant it as neither. This is how he explains his curious exposition of duty:

"That an absolute passive obedience ought not to be paid to any civil power, but that submission to government should be measured and limited by the public good of society; and that, therefore, subjects may lawfully resist the supreme authority in those cases where the public good shall plainly seem to require it-nay, that it is their duty to do so, inasmuch as they are all under an indispensable obligation to promote the common interest: these and the like notions, which I cannot help thinking pernicious to mankind and repugnant to right reason, having of late years been industriously cultivated and set in the most advantageous lights by men of parts and learning, it seemed necessary to arm the youth of our University the world well principled; I do not against them, and take care they go into of a party, but, from a nearly acquaintmean obstinately prejudiced in favour ance with their duty, and the clear rational ground of it, determined to such practices as may speak them good Christians and loyal subjects."

Perhaps nobody but an Irishman could have sent forth in perfect good faith at such a crisis a work of such a kind. Queen Anne was sinking towards her end. It was the general meaning and expectation that the new family, with no claims whatever upon the obedience of the nation, should be set in her place; and it is little wonder that this whimsical big bull should have been afterwards produced against

Berkeley, when he was recommended for promotion to the new Majesties. In the long-run, happily, it did him no harm; nor is there the least trace that he had any intention of turning the eyes of the young fervid English-Irish community towards the exiled Stuarts, who alone, sacred in their divine right, could have any claim upon the passive obedience of their hereditary subjects. His aim was honestly to prove "that there is an absolute unlimited non-resistance or passive obedience due to the supreme power, wherever placed in any nation;" and unappalled by the amazing contradiction of circumstances around him, he worked out his theory with a calm as perfect as if the social order of the empire had never been disturbed. A few months after this publication, he went to England for the first time, and was received with enthusiasm. The whole guld of literature scems to have opened its arms to the young philosopher. Steele on the one side, and Swift on the other, brought him into the heart of all the society of the day, Addison, at this or a subsequent time, was so much interested in him that he took the trouble of bringing about a meeting at his own house between him and Dr. Clarke, in order to the discussion and reconciliation, if possible, of their different views. Pope writes to him that "my Lord Bishop Atterbury was very much concerned at missing you yesterday," and entreats him to "provide yourself of linen and other necessaries sufficient for the week; for as I take you to be almost the only friend I have that is above the little vanities of the town, I expect you may be able to renounce it for one week, and to make trial how you like my Tusculum, because I assure you it is no less yours, and hope you will use it as your own countryvilla in the ensuing season." Atterbury himself, a more congenial spirit, adds his praise of the young

adventurer in terms which seem high-flown to the sober ears of posterity. "So much learning, so much knowledge, so much innocence, and such humility, I did not think had been the portion of any but angels till I saw this gentleman," says the Bishop. Thus, universally admired and adopted by the wits, the young man's short career "in town" must have been a continued triumph. He published there the Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous,' in which his new system of philosophy was once more set forth and elucidated to the world. The form of dialogue was one which pleased the age; but it has radical disadvantages at all times, and especially when dealing with a subject so difficult, The reader cannot but feel that the hapless interlocutor, set up there to be driven into one corner after another, compelled to make the most damaging admissions, and finally beaten and triumphed over, is in every respect a man of straw, rather enfeebling than strengthening, with his weak objections, the strain of the argu ment; nor are the dialogues so readable (although so evidently intended to be more readable) as the grave work which preceded them. What with this publication, and his warm reception by society, Berkeley's short stay in London must have been sufficiently full. He is said to have written several papers for the 'Guardian,' only one of which, however, can be identified as his. He was introduced and recommended specially, it would seem, by Swift, who was one of his many friends, to that strange hero of romance the Earl of Peterborough, then about to start upon a mission as Ambassador to the Court of Sicily and other Italian States, and became his secretary and chaplain. In the snite of this remarkable and eccentric personage Berkeley left philosophy and England, and went out, wandering on an errant course

which lasted for years, abroad into the world. He was still but nineand-twenty, and yet this is something like the end of his purely philosophical career. Hereafter the young man, afloat in the full tide of life, finds other pieces of work to do, and matters thrown into his hands of which he had not dreamed. His intellect goes on in the activity inseparable from such a nature; but the silence and the leisure have gone from him. Henceforward he is in a busier scene, amid influences more urgent and less subtle. And we do not suppose that any other philosopher has proved himself capable of thus setting his mark upon the most difficult of all sciences, and turning its stream into a new channel, before he had even attained the maturity of manhood. This Berkeley did while still under thirty; and thereafter went upon his way, not to forget or abandon the speculations of his youth, but yet to play the part of a man in a world too busy for philosophers, and to demonstrate what force of healthful vitality, what stout service and helpfulness, could exist in the prophet of Idealism, the destroyer of matter, the exponent of what, to so many sober-minded critics, has seemed the most fantastic of all creeds.

The young Irishman, thus setting out upon his travels with a reputation already at a height which only one or two men in a century ever gain-with manners and morals so high that only among the angels had Bishop Atterbury hoped to behold the like of him with "every virtue under heaven" attributed to him by the most satirical of poets, was, in addition to all this, endowed with that beauty of form and face which does not always accompany beauty of character. He was "a handsome man, with a countenance full of meaning and benignity, remarkable for great strength of limbs, and of a very robust constitution." A natural, genial, joy

ous young soul, the very best and highest type of the adventurer, going blithely out to face the world and seek his fortune; and yet already the author of works, one of which had "made an epoch in science," and the other an epoch in metaphysics! Such wonders happen but rarely in this limited world. It is evident that he carrried all that weight of learning lightly as a flower, and went away with the simplicity of genius, glad of opportunities of speaking French, and writing such letters to his "dear Tom" as any young Irish chaplain on his travels might have written. He was a week on the road between Calais and Paris in the stage-coach, but having "good company," did not mind. He was dazzled by the grandeur of everything he saw in Paris, finding there "splendour and riches" to pass belief, but "has some reasons to decline speaking of the country or villages that I saw as I came along." These reasons, as he afterwards permits us to divine, were "the poverty and distress," which he sadly allows to be enough" to spoil the mirth of any one who feels the sufferings of his fellow-creatures;" for we must not forget that it was the eighteenth century, and those awful seeds of oppression and wretchedness which produced the Revolution were already germinating. "I cannot help observing," he says, "that the Jacobites have little to hope, and others little to fear, from that reduced nation. The king, indeed, looks as if he wanted neither meat nor drink, and his palaces are in good repair, but through the land there is a different face of things." Evidently to the traveller matters appeared too serious to be talked of; and yet some eighty years passed before the awful explosion came!

"I was present," he adds, "at a disputation in the Sorbonne, which, indeed, had much of the French fire in it;" and he goes on to say that he was about "to visit Father Malebranche, and discourse him on