your character, would tempt me to indulge myself the pleasure men
naturally take in giving applause to those whom they esteem and honour:
and it should seem of importance to the subjects of Great Britain that
they knew the eminent share you enjoy in the favour of your sovereign, and
the honours she has conferred upon you, have not been owing to any
application from your lordship, but entirely to her majesty’s own thought,
arising from a sense of your personal merit, and an inclination to reward
it. But, as your name is prefixed to this treatise with an intention to do
honour to myself alone, I shall only say that I am encouraged by the
favour you have treated me with to address these papers to your lordship.
And I was the more ambitious of doing this, because a Philosophical
Treatise could not so properly be addressed to any one as to a person of
your lordship’s character, who, to your other valuable distinctions, have
added the knowledge and relish of Philosophy.
I am, with the greatest respect,
My Lord,
Your lordship’s most obedient and
most humble servant,
GEORGE BERKELEY.
The Preface(784)
Though it seems the general opinion of the world, no less than the design
of nature and providence, that the end of speculation be Practice, or the
improvement and regulation of our lives and actions; yet those who are
most addicted to speculative studies, seem as generally of another mind.
And indeed if we consider the pains that have been taken to perplex the
plainest things, that distrust of the senses, those doubts and scruples,
those abstractions and refinements that occur in the very entrance of the
sciences; it will not seem strange that men of leisure and curiosity
should lay themselves out in fruitless disquisitions, without descending
to the practical parts of life, or informing themselves in the more
necessary and important parts of knowledge.
Upon the common principles of philosophers, we are not assured of the
existence of things from their being perceived. And we are taught to
distinguish their _real_ nature from that which falls under our senses.
Hence arise scepticism and paradoxes. It is not enough that we see and
feel, that we taste and smell a thing: its true nature, its absolute
external entity, is still concealed. For, though it be the fiction of our
own brain, we have made it inaccessible to all our faculties. Sense is
fallacious, reason defective. We spend our lives in doubting of those
things which other men evidently know, and believing those things which
they laugh at and despise.
In order, therefore, to divert the busy mind of man from vain researches,
it seemed necessary to inquire into the source of its perplexities; and,
if possible, to lay down such Principles as, by an easy solution of them,
together with their own native evidence, may at once recommend themselves
for genuine to the mind, and rescue it from those endless pursuits it is
engaged in. Which, with a plain demonstration of the Immediate Providence
of an all-seeing God, and the natural Immortality of the soul, should seem
the readiest preparation, as well as the strongest motive, to the study
and practice of virtue.
This design I proposed in the First Part of a treatise concerning the
_Principles of Human Knowledge_, published in the year 1710. But, before I
proceed to publish the Second Part(785), I thought it requisite to treat
more clearly and fully of certain Principles laid down in the First, and
to place them in a new light. Which is the business of the following
_Dialogues_.
In this Treatise, which does not presuppose in the reader any knowledge of
what was contained in the former, it has been my aim to introduce the
notions I advance into the mind in the most easy and familiar manner;
especially because they carry with them a great opposition to the
prejudices of philosophers, which have so far prevailed against the common
sense and natural notions of mankind.
If the Principles which I here endeavour to propagate are admitted for
true, the consequences which, I think, evidently flow from thence are,
that Atheism and Scepticism will be utterly destroyed, many intricate
points made plain, great difficulties solved, several useless parts of
science retrenched, speculation referred to practice, and men reduced from
paradoxes to common sense.
And although it may, perhaps, seem an uneasy reflexion to some, that when
they have taken a circuit through so many refined and unvulgar notions,
they should at last come to think like other men; yet, methinks, this
return to the simple dictates of nature, after having wandered through the
wild mazes of philosophy, is not unpleasant. It is like coming home from a
long voyage: a man reflects with pleasure on the many difficulties and
perplexities he has passed through, sets his heart at ease, and enjoys
himself with more satisfaction for the future.
As it was my intention to convince Sceptics and Infidels by reason, so it
has been my endeavour strictly to observe the most rigid laws of
reasoning. And, to an impartial reader, I hope it will be manifest that
the sublime notion of a God, and the comfortable expectation of
Immortality, do naturally arise from a close and methodical application of
thought: whatever may be the result of that loose, rambling way, not
altogether improperly termed Free-thinking by certain libertines in
thought, who can no more endure the restraints of logic than those of
religion or government.
It will perhaps be objected to my design that, so far as it tends to ease
the mind of difficult and useless inquiries, it can affect only a few
speculative persons. But if, by their speculations rightly placed, the
study of morality and the law of nature were brought more into fashion
among men of parts and genius, the discouragements that draw to Scepticism
removed, the measures of right and wrong accurately defined, and the
principles of Natural Religion reduced into regular systems, as artfully
disposed and clearly connected as those of some other sciences; there are
grounds to think these effects would not only have a gradual influence in
repairing the too much defaced sense of virtue in the world, but also, by
shewing that such parts of revelation as lie within the reach of human
inquiry are most agreeable to right reason, would dispose all prudent,
unprejudiced persons to a modest and wary treatment of those sacred
mysteries which are above the comprehension of our faculties.
It remains that I desire the reader to withhold his censure of these
_Dialogues_ till he has read them through. Otherwise, he may lay them
aside in a mistake of their design, or on account of difficulties or
objections which he would find answered in the sequel. A Treatise of this
nature would require to be once read over coherently, in order to
comprehend its design, the proofs, solution of difficulties, and the
connexion and disposition of its parts. If it be thought to deserve a
second reading, this, I imagine, will make the entire scheme very plain.
Especially if recourse be had to an Essay I wrote some years since upon
_Vision_, and the Treatise concerning the _Principles of Human Knowledge_;
wherein divers notions advanced in these _Dialogues_ are farther pursued,
or placed in different lights, and other points handled which naturally
tend to confirm and illustrate them.
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? 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 those 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 deprive myself
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 reflexions to you.
_Phil._ With all my 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 affectation 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 less leisure see them who are supposed to have
spent their whole time in the pursuits of knowledge professing an entire
ignorance of all things, or advancing such 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(786).
_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(787), 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 thing as _material substance_ in the
world.
_Phil._ That there is no such thing as what _philosophers_ call _material
substance_, I am seriously persuaded: but, if I were made to see anything
absurd or sceptical in this, I should then have the same reason to
renounce this that I imagine I have now to reject the contrary opinion.
_Hyl._ What! can anything be more fantastical, more repugnant to Common
Sense, or a more manifest piece of Scepticism, than to believe there is no
such thing as _matter_?
_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 repugnances to Common Sense, than I who believe no such
thing?
_Hyl._ 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, are you content to admit that opinion for true, which
upon examination shall appear most agreeable to Common Sense, and remote
from Scepticism?
_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 everything.
_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 denies any point, can no more be said to doubt of it,
than he who affirmeth 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.
_Hyl._ 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 everything; 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(788).
_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.
_Phil._ What mean you by Sensible Things?
_Hyl._ Those things which are perceived by the senses. Can you imagine
that I mean anything 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 _God_ or _virtue_ 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 perceived _immediately_ by sense?
_Hyl._ Right.
_Phil._ Doth it not follow from this, that though I see one part of the
sky red, and another blue, and that my 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?
_Hyl._ It doth.
_Phil._ In like manner, though I hear variety of sounds, yet I cannot be
said to hear the causes of those 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 kind, 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 effects and appearances, which alone
are perceived by sense, entirely relates to reason(789).
_Phil._ This point then is agreed between us—That _sensible things are
those only which are immediately perceived by sense_. You will farther
inform me, whether we immediately perceive by sight anything beside light,
and colours, and figures(790); or by hearing, anything but sounds; by the
palate, anything 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?
or, is it something 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(791)?
_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 to 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._ I tell you, the reason is plainly the same in respect of both. They
are both perceived 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?
_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 acknowledge 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? I desire you would clear this point.
_Hyl._ 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 effect 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?
_Hyl._ True.
_Phil._ Seeing therefore they are both immediately perceived at the same
time, and the fire affects 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, consequently, 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?
_Hyl._ It is undeniable; and, to speak the truth, I begin to suspect a
very great heat cannot exist but in a mind perceiving it.
_Phil._ What! are you then in that sceptical state of suspense, between
affirming and denying?
_Hyl._ I think I may be positive in the point. A very violent and painful
heat cannot 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
hot?
_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 you 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 I now plainly see. And it is
this: because intense heat is nothing else but a particular kind of
painful sensation; and pain cannot 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
unperceived; 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 pleasure, any more than of pain.
_Hyl._ I did.
_Phil._ And is not warmth, or a more gentle degree of heat than what
causes uneasiness, a pleasure?
_Hyl._ What then?
_Phil._ Consequently, it cannot exist without the mind in an unperceiving
substance, or body.
_Hyl._ So it seems.
_Phil._ Since, therefore, as well those degrees of heat that are not
painful, as those that are, can exist only in a thinking 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 it to be even a small pleasure, it serves to make
good my conclusion.
_Hyl._ I could rather call it an _indolence_! It seems to be nothing more
than a privation of both 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 you 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.
_Phil._ 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?
_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(792)?
_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 anything be more absurd than to say, _there is
no heat in the fire_?
_Phil._ To make the point still clearer; tell me 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 anything like it to be in the pin; you should
not, conformably to what you have now granted, judge the sensation
occasioned by the fire, or anything like it, to be in the fire.