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be understood not of the change of one nature into another, but of the connection of different natures, each lower nature being, according to those philosophers, as it were, a receptacle or subject for the next above it to reside and act in.

difficult to explain to the popular under- | animal soul becomes intellectual; which is to standing, and none over which greater mistakes have been made even by learned men. At the present moment Berkeley seems to be recovering a great deal of his early fame; misunderstandings are being cleared away, and the true bearings of his arguments more correctly appreciated. Within the last few years two splendid editions of his works have been issued, the latest being that in four volumes 8vo, edited, with life, by Professor A. C. Fraser. The same editor has also issued a small volume of selections for students, which, to those who cannot afford time to study the whole of Berkeley's works, will give a very fair idea of their style and arguments.

Berkeley's private life was one of the most simple and lovable it is possible to conceive. If any man ever deserved Pope's warm eulogium he did

"To Berkeley every virtue under heaven."]

THE LIFE OF THE WORLD.

(FROM "SIRIS.")

It was an opinion of remote antiquity that the world was an animal. If we may trust the Hermaic writings, the Egyptians thought all things did partake of life. This opinion was also so general and current among the Greeks that Plutarch asserts all others held the world to be an animal and governed by providence except Leucippus, Democritus, and Epicurus. And although an animal containing all bodies within itself could not be touched or sensibly affected from without, yet it is plain they attributed to it an inward sense and feeling, as well as appetites and aversions, and that from all the various tones, actions, and passions of the universe, they suppose one symphony, one animal act and life to result.

Jamblichus declares the world to be one animal, in which the parts, however distant each from other, are nevertheless related and connected by one common nature. And he teacheth what is also a received notion of the Pythagoreans and Platonics, that there is no chasm in nature, but a chain or scale of beings rising by gentle uninterrupted gradations from the lowest to the highest, each nature being informed and perfected by the participation of a higher. As air becomes igneous, so the purest fire becomes animal, and the

It is also the doctrine of Platonic philosophers that intellect is the very life of living things, the first principle and exemplar of all, from whence by different degrees are derived the inferior classes of life: first the rational, then the sensitive, after that the vegetal, but so as in the rational there is still somewhat intellectual, again in the sensitive there is somewhat rational, and in the vegetal somewhat sensitive, and lastly, in mixed bodies, as metals and minerals, somewhat of vegetation. By which means the whole is thought to be more perfectly connected. Which doctrine implies that all the faculties, instincts, and motions of inferior beings, in their several respective subordinations, are derived from, and depend upon, mind and intellect.

Both Stoics and Platonics held the world to be alive, though sometimes it be mentioned as a sentient animal, sometimes as a plant or vegetable. But in this, notwithstanding what hath been surmised by some learned men, there seems to be no atheism. For so long as the world is supposed to be quickened by elementary fire or spirit, which is itself animated by soul and directed by understanding, it follows that all parts thereof originally depend upon, and may be reduced unto, the same indivisible stem or principle, to wit, a Supreme Mind-which is the concurrent doctrine of Pythagoreans, Platonics, and Stoics.

There is, according to those philosophers, a life infused throughout all things--an intellectual and artificial fire-an inward principle, animal spirit, or natural life, producing and forming within, as art does without, regulating, moderating, and reconciling the various motions, qualities, and parts of this mundane system. By virtue of this life the great masses are held together in their orderly courses, as well as the minutest particles governed in their natural motions, according to the several laws of attraction, gravity, electricity, magnetism, and the rest. It is this gives instinct, teaches the spider her web, and the bee her honey. This it is that directs the roots of plants to draw forth juices from the earth, and the leaves and corticle vessels to separate and attract such particles of air and elementary fire as suit their respective natures.

Nature seems to be not otherwise distinguished from the anima mundi than as life is from soul, and, upon the principles of the oldest philosophers, may not improperly or incongruously be styled the life of the world. Some Platonics, indeed, regard life as the act of nature, in like manner as intellection is of the mind or intellect. As the first intellect acts by understanding, so nature, according to them, acts or generates. But life is the act of the soul, and seems to be very nature itself, which is not the principle, but the result of another and higher principle, being a life resulting from soul as cogitation from intellect.

If nature be the life of the world, animated by one soul, compacted into one frame, and directed or governed in all parts by one mind: this system cannot be accused of atheism, though perhaps it may of mistake or impropriety. And yet, as one presiding mind gives unity to the infinite aggregate of things, by a mutual communion of actions and passions, and an adjustment of parts, causing all to concur in one view to one and the same end-the ultimate and supreme good of the whole, it would seem reasonable to say with Ocellus Lucanus, the Pythagorean, that as life holds together the bodies of animals, the cause whereof is the soul, and as a city is held together by concord, the cause whereof is law, even so the world is held together by harmony, the cause whereof is God. And in this sense the world or universe may be considered either as one animal or one city.

This much the schools of Plato and Pythagoras seem agreed in, to wit, that the soul of the world, whether having a distinct mind of its own or directed by a superior mind, doth embrace all its parts, connect them by an invisible and indissoluble chain, and preserve them ever well adjusted and in good order.

ON AMERICA.

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time Producing subjects worthy fame:

In happy climes, wherefrom the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true.

In happy climes, the seat of innocence, Where nature guides and virtue rules;

Where men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools;

There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decaySuch as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire takes its way, The four first acts already past;

A fifth shall close the drama with the day— Time's noblest offspring is the last.

66

OF ARITHMETIC.

(FROM 'THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE.")

Arithmetic has been thought to have for its object abstract ideas of numbers; of which to understand the properties and mutual habitudes is supposed no mean part of speculative knowledge. The opinion of the pure and intellectual nature of numbers in abstract has made them in esteem with those philosophers who seem to have affected an uncommon fineness and elevation of thought. It hath set a price on the most trifling numerical speculations, which in practice are of no use, but serve only for amusement; and hath heretofore so far infected the minds of some, that they have dreamed of mighty mysteries involved in numbers, and attempted the explication of natural things by them. But if we narrowly inquire into our own thoughts, and consider what has been premised, we may perhaps entertain a low opinion of those high flights and abstractions, and look on all inquiries about numbers only as so many difficiles nuga, so far as they are not subservient to practice, and promote the benefit of life.

Unity in abstract we have before considered, from which, and what has been said in the introduction, it plainly follows there is not any such idea. But number being defined a "collection of units," we may conclude that, if there be no such thing as unity or unit in abstract, there are no ideas of number in abstract denoted by the numeral names or figures. The theories, therefore, in arithmetic, if they are abstracted from the names and figures, as likewise from all use and

practice, as well as from the particular things | same rule or analogy being observed throughnumbered, can be supposed to have nothing at all for their object; hence we may see how entirely the science of numbers is subordinate to practice, and how jejune and trifling it becomes when considered as a matter of mere speculation.

However, since there may be some who, deluded by the specious show of discovering abstracted verities, waste their time in arithmetical theorems and problems which have not any use, it will not be amiss if we more fully consider and expose the vanity of that pretence; and this will plainly appear by taking a view of arithmetic in its infancy, and observing what it was that originally put men on the study of that science, and to what scope they directed it. It is natural to think that at first men, for ease of memory and help of computation, made use of counters, or in writing of single strokes, points, or the like, each whereof was made to signify an unit, i.e. some one thing of whatever kind they had occasion to reckon. Afterwards they found out the more compendious ways of making one character stand in place of several strokes or points. And lastly the notation of the Arabians or Indians came into use, wherein, by the repetition of a few characters or figures, and varying the signification of each figure according to the place it obtains, all numbers may be most aptly expressed; which seems to have been done in imitation of language, so that an exact analogy is observed betwixt the notation by figures and names, the nine simple figures answering the nine first numeral names and places in the former, corresponding to denominations in the latter. And agreeably to those conditions of the simple and local value of figures, were contrived methods of finding, from the given figures or marks of the parts, what figures and how placed are proper to denote the whole, or vice versa. And having found the sought figures, the

out, it is easy to read them into words; and so the number becomes perfectly known. For then the number of any particular things is said to be known when we know the name or figures (with their due arrangement) that according to the standing analogy belong to them. For these signs being known we can, by the operation of arithmetic, know the signs of any part of the particular sums signified by them; and, thus computing in signs (because of the connection established betwixt them and the distinct multitudes of things whereof one is taken for an unit), we may be able rightly to sum up, divide, and proportion the things themselves that we intend to number.

In arithmetic, therefore, we regard not the things but the signs, which nevertheless are not regarded for their own sake, but because they direct us how to act with relation to things, and dispose rightly of them. Now, agreeably to what we have observed of words in general, it happens here likewise that abstract ideas are thought to be signified by numeral names or characters, while they do not suggest ideas of particular things to our minds. I shall not at present enter into a more particular dissertation on this subject, but only observe that it is evident from what has been said those things which pass for abstract truths and theorems concerning numbers, are in reality conversant about no object distinct from particular numerable things, except only names and characters, which originally came to be considered on no other account but their being signs, or capable to represent aptly whatever particular things men had need to compute. Whence it follows that to study them for their own sake would be just as wise and to as good purpose as if a man, neglecting the true use or original intention and subserviency of language, would spend his time in impertinent criticisms upon words, or reasonings and controversies purely verbal.

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[Laetitia Pilkington, daughter of Dr. Van | production of verses anything but contemptLewen of Dublin, was born there in the year 1712. Very early in life she displayed a taste for poetry and reading generally, and while yet very young showed her precocity by the

VOL. I.

ible. After rejecting many admirers she married the Rev. Matthew Pilkington, a person who had some claim to the title of author, having published a volume of miscellanies

14

under the care of Dean Swift. There is no doubt the reverend gentleman was rather a miserable sort of a fellow, for before they were long married, and before he had any cause, he began to be jealous of his wife. This, it seems, was not only a jealousy of her person, which perhaps might be excused, but chiefly an envious jealousy of her poetry, which he could not equal. While one of these fits was on him, in 1732, he went into England as chaplain to Mr. Barber, Lord-mayor of London, leaving behind him a young, and lovely, and disenchanted wife who had scarcely completed her twentieth year. In his case absence made his heart grow fonder, and after a time he wrote her a letter full of kindness, in which he praised her verses as marked by elegance and beauty. He informed her that he had shown some of them to Pope, who was very anxious to see her, and that he himself heartily wished her in London. Obedient to his wish she went to London, and was so well received that the jealousy returned upon him strongly. However, they soon came back to Ireland, where in a few days the most degrading rumours concerning her were afloat. The husband who had sworn to love and to cherish her, and who was a minister of the gospel of charity, was strongly suspected of being the origin of these scandals. Soon after this, either by accident or design, her father was stabbed, and Pilkington, learning that there was now no expectation of a fortune through her, openly charged her with inchastity. By this time it almost seems as if the charge, which was at first a gross insult, had become a truth. A gentleman was discovered in her room one morning about two o'clock, engaged with her, as she declared, in reading an enthralling book. At such a time this rather unsatisfactory story was not likely to satisfy the reverend husband, so he flung her off, and shortly afterwards she went to London.

In London, by the help of Colley Cibber, she made known her story, and many friends and great people came to her assistance. However, before long she was thrown into the Marshalsea; but Cibber, again acting as a friend, solicited subscriptions for her and had her released. Once free and finding herself possessed of five guineas, she determined to be no longer a beggar, but to employ her little capital in some business. Accordingly she took a small shop in St. James's Street, and stocked it with pamphlets and such like. Here she continued some time, and here she produced some of her best work, until, by the

"liberality of her friends, and the bounty of her subscribers, she was set above want, and the autumn of her days were like to be spent in peace." In this better state of affairs she moved to Dublin; but the quiet autumn which she fondly looked forward to she was not destined to see. She died on the 29th of August, 1750, in the thirty-ninth year of her age.

Mrs. Pilkington's principal works are The Roman Father, a tragedy of considerable power; The Turkish Court; or, London Apprentice, a comedy; and her Memoirs, “which are written with great sprightliness and wit," and through which “are scattered many beautiful little pieces written in the true spirit of poetry." "Considered as a writer," says the work from which we have already quoted, "she holds no mean rank," a dictum which possibly many would agree in were her works more readily available than they are at present.]

MRS. PILKINGTON'S PATRONS.

(FROM "MEMOIRS.")

[Mrs. Pilkington was advised to apply to a Mr. Meade, who had sixty thousand pounds left him to distribute in charity, and as she was in great poverty she wrote him asking assistance. He promised to assist her, but apparently forgot his promise. She wrote him a poem, and the result was Dr. Meade asked her to call upon him at his house. Her visit there she thus describes.]

Now were my hopes high raised, high as the spring-tide, to which the ebb quickly succeeds, as it did with me; I fancied, vainly fancied, at least ten guineas in my pocket, and had, like the man with his basket of glasses, turned them into trade, and purchased in my mind an easy subsistence for life; but I was a little mistaken in the matter, as the sequel will show. I dressed myself very neatly, and waited on the doctor; when I knocked at his door a footman with his mouth very full and a bone in his hand opened it, and in an Irish accent demanded my business. I told him I wanted to speak to the doctor.

"By my shoul," said he, "my masther will not be spoke to by nobody."

"Well then, friend, if you please to let him

1 New and General Biographical Dictionary, 15 vols. London, 1798.

know Mrs. Meade1 is here, I believe he will encourage me, I very gratefully accepted them, speak to me." and yet

"Mishtress Maide," replied he, "arrah, are you wantin charity, an' takes up my masther's name to claim kin with him; well, stay there, I'll tell him."

So he went into a back parlour, but was quite confounded when the doctor instantly came out and gave him a severe reprimand for letting me stand in the hall; and I am very certain had I thought it worth my while to acquaint the doctor with his insolence he would have been discharged. A proper caution to liverywearing fellows to speak with civility to everybody.

The doctor showed me into a handsome street parlour, adorned with several curiosities, of which here needs no account. He asked me for Sir John Meade, whom, because he remembered, he expected I should, though he died two years before I was born. When I told him so he seemed displeased. And really I remember that good Mr. Cibber, in his pleasant way, scolded me once for not remembering King Charles the Second, though my father was born in the reign of King William.

As my answers to the doctor with relation to the whole family of the Meades were sufficient to convince him I was not an impostor, he asked me how he could serve me. I told him I had some poems to publish, but for want of a little money to pay for the printing of them I could not proceed."

"Poems," returned he; "why, did you ever know any person get money by poetry?"

"Yes, sir, several; Mr. Pope in particular."

"Oh Lud, Lud," said he, grinning horribly, and squinting hideously, "what vanity thou hast! Can you write like him?"

I was quite abashed, and really knew not what to say for some moments, for my reader may easily perceive I could not but be sensible I had made a foolish speech, unaware to my self; however, upon recollection I assured him I did not presume to put myself in any degree of comparison with so justly an admired writer, but that perhaps on account of my sex I might find a little favour.

"Proud was the Muse I served, unbred to wait A willing stranger at a great man's gate!"

And here, gentle reader, give me leave to trespass a moment on your patience to make one remark, which is, that, amongst all the persons who are celebrated for being charitable, I never met one really so; and the most humane and beneficent are those whose characters have been attacked for their humanity, so that at last they have even been ashamed of well-doing.

I remember Dr. Swift told me he saw a beggar attack a bishop, who charitably, from his abundance, spared him a halfpenny, and said, God bless you; presently after he attacked Brigadier Groves, who threw half-a-crown to him with an oath. "Which," said he, "do think the beggar prayed for at night?"

you

But as I have mentioned Dr. Meade, who was so much in love with Mr. Pope for saying,

"And books for Meade, and rarities for Sloane,"

I think I must give them also a sketch of Sir Hans, to whom the doctor advised me to apply as an encourager of arts. I travelled down to Chelsea to wait upon him; it snowed violently, insomuch that I, who had only a chintz gown on, was wet to the skin. The porter, memorandum, better bred than his master, to whom I had sent up a compliment, which as he did not deserve I shall not do him the honour to insert, invited me into his lodge, where, after about two hours' attendance, I was at length permitted to enter to his supreme majesty; but sure the Holy Father himself in all his pontifical robes never was half so proud. I was conducted by an escort through six or seven rooms, one of which was entirely wainscotted, if I may so term it, with china; but like the idol to whom a stately temple was consecrated, in which a traveller, attracted by its outward magnificence, thought to find an adorably deity, and on search found a ridiculous monkey; so I saw an old fellow, whom I am very well convinced never saw me, for he did not even vouchsafe to turn his eyes off a paper he was writing to see who

"Well," said he, "there are a couple of came in, till at last a beggar-woman entered guineas for you."

This, though far short of my expectations, was a little present relief, and as the gentleman was under no obligation to reward or

1 This was Mrs. Pilkington's nom de plume.

with a sore-eyed child, the inside of whose eyelids he very charitably tore out with a beard of corn, under which cruel operation the girl fainted, but he said that was good for her. It may be so, for by two-headed Janus nature has framed strange doctors in her time. . .

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