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reduced to a mere question of words. On either alternative, the realities remain exactly the same, only their relations to each other are changed. The difference is simply that signalised in the celebrated mot about the fortifications of Paris, when they were first decided on—that while formerly the Bastille was inside Paris, now Paris would be inside the Bastille. In the same way, the difference between Berkeley and thinkers of an opposite school is, that while with them the mind is in the body, with him the body is in the mind, without being on that account one jot or tittle less material than before. Berkeley is thus as thorough a dualist as anv natural realist, and his system contains a far more explicit and direct recognition of bodies as distinct from mind than is to be found in any school of hypothetical realism or dualism. This part of Berkeley's doctrine, though fatal to his idealism, is of special interest, as involving the recognition, in a somewhat perverted form, of one of the most vital and fundamental psychological truths—that our primitive sense experiences contain objective as well as subjective elements of knowledge. Berkeley found, in spite of his definition, that amongst the mass of sensible impressions he called ideas, some give us the knowledge of objects, and of objects distinct from the mind— in other words, that we have original perceptions as well as sensations. And, having already abolished space and matter, he could find no place for these objects except in the vague infinitude of mind that remained. But mind in this local scuse, as the place of bodies essentially different from itself, is simply vitalised space, a diffused and essentially active element, the To airetpov of Anaximander in another form. The recognition of bodies, even in Berkeley's sense, is, however, of considerable value as the unconscious but powerful testimony of an acute thinker in favour of a wider theory of knowledge than he himself nominally accepted. At the same time it is, as we have seen, fatally at war with his idealism. The radical elements, even of his psychological system, are thus mutually opposed, and no amount of expository mending and patching, of retrenching in one part and eking out in another, will ever give them the unity and coherence of a consistent whole.
The result is that, excepting his theory of acquired perceptions, no parts of his system are of permanent value in philosophy, except as beacons to warn inexperienced speculators of the shoals, quicksands, and sunken rocks below. The real service he rendered to philosophy is indirect rather than direct. By his pointed development of the inconsistencies involved in Locke's theory of ideas, he fixed attention on the narrowness and insecurity of the foundation on which that eminent thinker built, and this stimulated more profound and original minds to go deeper, and find a broader and truer philosophical basis. This was just the kind of service that Berkeley's acute and flexible intellect, combined with his subtle power of analysis, was well fitted to render. His love of scientific novelties, his critical dexterity in discovering them, and comparative fearlessness of speculative results where his special sympathies were not affected—a fearlessness due in great part to his narrower range of vision—all worked in the same direction. They enabled him to detect and bring vividly into view some of Locke's more vital inconsistencies. In this way Berkeley becomes an important link in the history of philosophy. He may be justly said to have contributed, indirectly indeed, but powerfully, towards a more complete and scientific theory of knowledge. As connected historically with Descartes and Locke on the one hand, with Hume and Kant on the other, as well as with the modern schools of realistic idealism and extreme sensationalism, he well deserves to occupy a niche of his own in the history of philosophy, and his writings must be carefully studied in order to follow intelligently its modern development.
Professor Eraser's edition supplies ample materials for such a study. All that zeal, industry, and untiring devotion can do for ascertaining the facte of Berkeley's life, and elucidating his doctrines, has been done by his accomplished and sympathetic editor. At length we have a complete edition of Berkeley's works which reflects honour alike on the Clarendon Press and the University of Edinburgh.
Art. II.—Les Derniers Stuarts a. Salnt-Germain-en-Layc. Documents inedits et authentiqucs puises aux archives publiques et privees par la Marquise Campana' De Catelli. Paris, London, and Edinburgh: 1871. 2 vols. 4to.
Tt is long since the Stuarts have found as industrious and disinterested a devotee as the Marchesa Campana de Cavelli—an English lady, as we gather from the introduction to these volumes, by birth, though Italy is the country of her adoption, and French appears to be the language of her choice. The amount of pains and research which she has bestowed on this collection of documents, the first instalment we find of what will eventually form a very considerable addition to the mass of Stuart records, must have been immense, and we doubt if anyone before has ever been so prodigal of time and expense in the collection of historic papers.
In July 1864, the Marchesa tells us, she arrived at SaintGermain-en- Laye, and stood in front of the old chateau. Accustomed as she had been to meditate upon the ruins of Rome, and to live in imagination with the people of the past, she could not fail to call to mind the strange connexion of the gloomy and massive old edifice with the race of Stuart. Here had Mary Queen of Scots shone in all the brilliancy of her unhappy beauty, and received the homage of the court of the Valois as the bride of the Dauphin, and from this place she bade farewell for ever to the gay chivalry of France, with a sadness which seemed a presentiment of her tragic destiny. Here did Henrietta Maria, the queen of Charles I., seek a refuge from the troubles of the Fronde, when the axe sent her forth from the kingdom in which she had shared a throne to finish her days as a widow and in want in the country of her birth. Here, too, did another queen of England make her entry in tears as an exile, accompanied by her infant son, and led by the hand by the great monarch, who, with unrivalled generosity, had done all that delicacy could suggest and munificence could supply to make the fugitive forget the state of Whitehall and Saint James'. The magnificent toilet chamber of the queen, the caskets of silver and gold, the jewels which lay waiting for her, together with the sum of 6,000 livres d'or, in a splendid casket, of which the key was presented to her, were long the subject of talk of all the courts of Europe; nor were the apartments of the Prince of Wales, into which the French King himself conducted his little guest, fitted up with less care. On the next day arrived the dethroned king. The staircase is yet pointed out, to the bottom of which the dauphin descended by order of Louis to receive the royal guest, while the king himself awaited the unhappy monarch in the Salle des gardes. When James arrived, Louis took him in his arms, as the former bowed low before him, and embraced him again and again, after which he led him to the queen and presented him, saying,
* Madame, I bring you a gentleman of your acquaintance whom 'you will be glad to see.' And then, to the surprise of the French courtiers, the King and Queen of England, in the joy of meeting, ' closely embraced in the presence of all the world.' Nor did the French monarch omit to give himself the pleasure of conducting his royal guest to the apartment of the infant Prince of Wales, and of showing the child to his father, saying, 'J'en ai eu grand soin; vous le trouverez en bonne sante.'
Here, too, within these walls was born the last princess of the House of Stuart, the graceful and charming Louisa Maria —the child of exile—whose sweet attractiveness is portrayed in the pages of Hamilton, and whose premature death added a new bitterness to the cup of affliction of her widowed mother. Here, too, did Louis XIV. say farewell and God speed to his royal cousin, after having furnished him with ships, and men, and arms, and millions, when the English king was about to depart on his luckless expedition to Ireland for the recovery of his throne. 'Monsieur,' the French king said, 'je vous vois
* partir avec douleur, cependant j'espe're de ne vous revoir 'jamais; mais si par malheur vous revenez, soyez persuade que
* vous me trouverez tel que vous me laissez.'
Here, too, thirteen years after the date of his flight from England, the dethroned Stuart monarch breathed his last, after that eventful interview in which Louis XIV. promised to recognise his son as king of England and to protect his interest. From hence, too, on the morrow, Mary Beatrice went to bury her widowed desolation in the convent of Chaillot, after having recognised her son as her king.
Miss Strickland relates her arrival as follows:— 'Mary Beatrice left St. Germains about an hour after her husband's death, attended by four ladies only, and arrived at Chaillot a quarter before six. The conventual church of' Chaillot was hung with black. As soon as her approach was announced the bells tolled, and the abbess and all the community went in procession to receive her at the ancient gate. The widowed queen descended from her coach in silence with her hood drawn over her face, followed by four noble attendants, and apparently overwhelmed with the violence of her grief. The nuns gathered round her in silence; no one offered to speak comfort to her, well knowing how tender had been the union that had subsisted between her and her deceased lord. The abbess kissed the hem of her robe, some of the sisters knelt and embraced her knees and others kissed her hand; but no one uttered a single word, leaving their tears to express how much they felt for her affliction. The tragedy of real life, unlike that of the stage, is usually a veiled feeling. "The Queen" (one of the nuns of Chaillot has written in her account of the event) "walked directly into the choir without a sigh, a cry, or a word, like "one who has lost every faculty but the power of motion. She re"mained in this mournful silence, this stupefaction of grief, till one of "our sisters (it was the beloved Franeoise Angelique Priolo) approached, "and, kissing her hand, said to her in a tone of tender admonition, in "the words of the royal Psalmist, 'My soul, will you not be subject "unto God?' 'Fiat voluntas tua,' replied Mary Beatrice in a voice "stifled with sighs; then advancing towards the choir, she said in a ** firmer tone: 'Help me, my sisters, to thank my God for his mercies "to that blessed spirit who is, I believe, rejoicing in his beatitude. Yes, "I feel certain of it in the depth of my grief.' The abbess told her she "was happy in having been the wife of such a holy prince. 'Yes,' "answered the queen, 'we have now a great saint in heaven.' "'
Indeed, James died, as he had lived in his later years, in the most fervent spirit of piety, with forgiveness on his lips towards all whom he considered his enemies, and with messages of love for his daughters, whom he might be excused for regarding as unnatural children. There is no reason to doubt that his Catholicism was sincere, since he sacrificed everything on its behalf, and that his profession of religious toleration, although he endeavoured to carry it into practice by unconstitutional means, was sincere also; but it was the toleration of an outlawed, not a dominant Church. So great was the impression which the piety of his latter days made upon the ecclesiastics around him, and so strong was the conviction at Rome that he had lost his crown from his attachment to Catholicism, that there was some thought at one time of his being made a saint in the calendar.
After the death of her husband, Mary Beatrice resolved to wear mourning for the rest of her life, and ever after she appeared in black. As the grief of his attached wife subsided into something like calm regret, the life of the dark old chateau assumed the gayest aspect which it knew during the time of its Stuart occupation. Mary Beatrice, as regent and the mother of her son, shook off her natural aversion to politics, and carried on the negotiations with the Jacobite party; and as her son was as yet too young to be engaged in perilous expeditions, the heart of the mother was at peace for a while. The young prince and princess, both attractive in form and face, engaging in manners, and gay and sportive in tastes, filled the gloomy chateau with the light of
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