be considered as a most valuable factor in the development of English philosophy.

Let us first say something about his life; for personally he was one of the most charming men that ever livedwho never made an enemy, and secured, not merely the friendship, but the adoration of men the most jealous and the most irritable of the time. Pope, who had so few friends, said that Berkeley possessed "every virtue under heaven." The terrible Swift worshipped him. Addison and Steele thought him worthy of all admiration. Nor was he thus loved only in his own country, but even on the continent, where he traveled.

Berkeley was born in Ireland in 1685, and educated at the best schools there, finishing his course at the famous Trinity College of Dublin, of which he became an M.A., tutor, fellow, and Professor of Greek, in addition to holding an important office in the direction of the university. Here his mind was formed, first by the study of Locke, afterwards by the study of Plato. At the university he wrote his first works. Resigning his position, and going to London, he at once became a universal favourite in the best society by reason of his amiability, his great learning, and, last, not least, his remarkable beauty; for he was one of the handsomest men of his age. We next hear of him, after a course of travel in Europe, appointed to the church dignity of Dean of Kerry, a very lucrative position. Then we hear of him before the English Parliament, arguing so eloquently on the advantages of founding an ideal university in the West Indies, or at least in the Bermuda Islands, that the Parliament forgot its common sense and voted twenty thousand pounds towards the establishment of the imagined institution. Afterwards the project was wisely abandoned; if it had not been, it would have proved, like the university of Tennyson's “Princess," only a beautiful dream. The incident is worth mentioning simply to show how Berkeley could fascinate and charm men by his manner and by his

earnestness. As for himself, he determined to go to America in any event. Perhaps he wanted to be left alone, in order to study, and felt that America was the best place for this, because in England or Ireland society wanted him -wanted to pet him, caress him, to make him rich, to give him great positions of honour which would have allowed him no opportunity to think or to write. He went to America in 1729, to the neighbourhood of Rhode Island, where he remained for three years. Even there he interested himself in education; and he was one of the first to assist in the prosperity of the now famous Yale College. After returning to England, he hoped to obtain the quiet which he needed, and expressed his wish to live in some very retired place. King George II loved him, and sent him word that he must become a bishop whether he liked it or not, but that otherwise he might live wherever he pleased. In 1753 he died one of those painless and beautiful deaths to which we give the name of euthanasia. The whole of his life was without blame of any sort, and few men have been so universally regretted.

Now we shall turn to the subject of this man's philosophy. His great work was the destruction of materialism. Since the day of Berkeley, there has been no real materialism among thinkers. He made that impossible. He made mistakes undoubtedly; but he also made great discoveries— which may not seem discoveries to you, because Berkeley's views had been anticipated by thousands of years in India, but which were very new to Englishmen in the time when he made them.

What materialism did he destroy? Let us consider what materialism means. In the first place, it may be argued that we know the world only as matter, and that everything which we see, hear, touch, smell, and taste is matter. This can be granted, provisionally. Then it can be argued that we know nothing about mind except in its relation to matter; that we have no evidence of an immaterial man or

future life. But he wrote religious poetry also, showing us that he thought of God as a very good-natured person like himself who was not going to be angry with a man for his taking a little amusement.

To-day Herrick is more read than he was during his lifetime, and yearly many new editions of his works are issued, some of them beautifully illustrated. One reason for the increasing popularity of this old poet is certainly that he reflects the love of English customs and manners that have been rapidly passing away since the introduction of railroads and telegrams. But a deeper and better reason is that he possesses, to a most eminent degree, one quality extremely rare in poets of the nineteenth century,-I mean simplicity. We are feeling more and more every year how great a quality this is, because modern life and modern education make simplicity of thinking almost impossible-much more, simplicity of expression. If you understand that simplicity means truthfulness-truthfulness in feeling and in expression-you will better perceive what I mean. The times in which we live are artificial; the time in which Herrick lived was more natural, and so far as the good side of life was concerned, much happier. And this reflection of old time happiness and joyousness is the great secret of Herrick's charm.

You will have seen a great many pieces from Herrick in the anthologies; even children learn something of Herrick by heart. What I am trying to do now is to give you examples of the best class of those lyrical pieces which you will not find in the ordinary anthologies. Whether you will be pleased or not I don't know; but I believe that you can not fail to perceive how pretty many of the thoughts are, and how remarkable the effect that the singer can produce with words of only one and two syllables where a modern poet would certainly use many long and sonorous words of Greek or Latin derivation. And remember that this Herrick was also a good Latin and Greek scholar, yet

in those bodies; that those ideas are in us, the one the perfect resemblance of the other as they are in a mirror; and it would by most men be judged very extravagant if one should say otherwise. And yet he that will consider that the same fire that at one distance produces in us the sensation of warmth, does, at a nearer approach, produce in us the far different sensation of pain, ought to bethink himself what reason he has to say that this idea of warmth, which was produced in him by the fire, is actually in the fire, and his idea of pain . . . is not in the fire. Why are whiteness and coldness in snow, and pain not, when it produces the one and the other idea in us; and can do neither but by the bulk, figure, number, and motion of its solid parts?"

Locke thus shows very clearly his conviction that impressions received through the senses have little or no resemblance to that which causes them. Modern science tells us the same thing,—and tells it to us much more positively than Locke does. I quote from Professor Huxley: "No similarity exists, nor indeed is conceivable, between the cause of the sensation and the sensation." But you will observe that Locke makes a distinction. He speaks of bulk, figure, and motion, as real, although pain, colour, etc., exist only in the mind. The fact is that Locke had not gone nearly so far as modern science. He went only half way. He made a distinction between what he called the primary and secondary qualities of matter. The secondary qualities according to Locke would have been colour, sound, smell, taste, warmth, cold, etc.; and these he said had no existence outside of the mind. But the primary qualities he believed to exist outside of the mind. These were extension, figure, solidity, motion, rest, and number. Now we come to the great difference between him and Berkeley. Berkeley said that even these primary qualities had no existence outside of the mind. In the sense that he meant, he is unquestionably right, so far as contemporary science is authorita

as beautiful young girls who wish to please by their smiles and pretty ways; but smiles and pretty ways have very little influence in this world where interest is concerned. Fruit-that is, material value-is more important by far than mere outward charm; the world wants substantial worth.

Again let us take this little poem about fields in the The poet personifies the fields, and ad

autumn season.

dresses them as if they were sad people.

Ye have been fresh and green,

Ye have been filled with flowers,
And

ye the walks have been

Where maids have spent their hours.

Ye have beheld how they

With wicker arks did come

To kiss and bear away

The richer cowslips home.

You've heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round;
Each virgin like a spring
With honeysuckles crowned.

But now ye see none here
Whose silvery feet did tread,

And with dishevelled hair,

Adorned this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock and needy grown

You're left here to lament

Your poor estates, alone.

This has been called one of the prettiest poems in the whole of English literature, and I am sure that you will wonder why. Certainly it is not because of the mere language used, neither is it because there is any strange or new idea in the composition. It is because the little verses, describing only what everybody has seen, produce in the