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Language and the Structure of Berkeley’s World

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Language and the

Structure of
Berkeley’s World
Kenneth L. Pearce

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3
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a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an
image helps, into arcades or domes.
—Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

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Contents

Acknowledgments xi
Abbreviations xiii

Introduction 
The Problem: Structure 
The Solution: Language 
Aims and Methodology 
Summary of the Chapters 
. Berkeley’s Attack on Meanings 
The Theory of Meanings 
The Dialectical Structure of Berkeley’s Attack 
The Case against Abstraction 
The phenomenological appeal 
The impossibility of abstract ideas 
The uselessness of abstract ideas 
Conclusion 
. Berkeley’s Early Thoughts on Language 
General Words 
Operative Language 
Mathematical and Scientific Language 
Arithmetic and algebra 
Geometry 
Physics 
Conclusion 
. Berkeley’s Theory of Language in Alciphron  
Overview of the Dialogue 
A General Theory of Language 
Meaning as Use 
Ideational and Operative Language 
Conclusion 
. Rules and Rule-Following 
Implicit and Explicit Rule-Following 
Rules and Knowledge 
The Conventional Rules of Language 
Inference Rules 

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viii contents

. Reference and Quasi-Reference 

Labeling 
Generalizing 
Labeling and Existence 
Quasi-Referring 
The Metaphysics of Quasi-Entities 
. Quasi-Referring to Bodies 
Against Materialist Semantics 
Bodies as Linguistic Constructions 
Alternative Interpretations 
Subjunctive interpretations 
Idea interpretations 
The Richness of Berkeleian Bodies 
Knowledge of Bodies 
Predication 
Existence, Reality, Identity 
. Referring to Spirits and Their Actions 
Referring to Actions 
Referring to Spirits 
Existence, Reality, Identity 
Conclusion 
. Assent and Truth 
The Nature of Assent 
Assent without ideas 
Scientific knowledge: Berkeley’s anti-skepticism 
Religious faith: Berkeley’s replies to Toland and Browne 
Partial assent 
The Nature of Truth 
Truth and usefulness 
Degrees of truth 
Holism 
Fit with reality 
Conclusion 
. The Linguistic Structure of Berkeley’s World 
A Literal Language of Nature 
Visual language 
Other sense modalities 
Lexicography: Co-Instantiation 
Syntax: Causation and Laws 
Excursus on Common Sense and Natural Science 
Semantics 
Informing and instructing about ideas 
Informing about other finite minds 

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contents ix

Informing about God 

The interpretation of the discourse of nature 
Conclusion: From Fleeting Ideas to Robust Structure 

Bibliography 
Index 

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Acknowledgments

This book has been a long time in the making and many people have contributed
in many ways, for which I am extremely grateful. I first began to study Berkeley
as an undergraduate at the University of Pennsylvania in . Karen Detlefsen
invested a great deal of time and energy in my education and development as a
philosopher and a Berkeley scholar, including the supervision of two independent
research projects. The first of these projects received funding and other support
from the Penn Humanities Forum. It was in the course of these projects that I first
developed the conviction that Berkeley’s divine language hypothesis was a central
aspect of his thought and that this hypothesis must be interpreted through the
lens of Berkeley’s own philosophy of language. This conviction was the seed from
which the present project grew.
I began work on my PhD at the University of Southern California in . USC’s
philosophy faculty showed an impressive level of commitment to graduate educa-
tion and to the success of their students. This book is based on the dissertation I
wrote there and I owe a great deal to the entire department for creating the kind
of environment that makes this sort of philosophical work possible.
Special thanks are due, of course, to the members of my dissertation committee:
to Samuel Rickless for providing extremely detailed and helpful written comments
and for exhibiting a healthy skepticism of my more contentious interpretive
claims; to Gideon Yaffe for important philosophical insights and especially for
extremely helpful practical advice about the process of composing a large work of
this nature; to Edwin McCann for fascinating and wide-ranging conversations on
the history of philosophy, science, and religion as well as more specific discussions
of the material presented in my dissertation; and especially to James Van Cleve
for supervising my dissertation and constantly bringing to my attention further
philosophical questions raised by my work.
The transformation of this material from a dissertation into a book took place
during a postdoctoral fellowship at Valparaiso University in Indiana. I thank the
Lilly Fellows Program for the generous support that made this work possible. I am
especially grateful to Sandra Visser, who read and commented on every chapter
of this book (some of them multiple times) and offered invaluable comments and
suggestions. I also thank Oxford University Press and its anonymous readers for
the extremely helpful reports I received, first on my proposal and then on my
manuscript.

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xii acknowledgments

Additionally, I would like to thank Janet Levin for comments on an early

version of chapter ; Matthew Babb for comments on chapter ; Melissa Frankel
for comments on chapter ; Robert Schwartz for helpful discussion of Berkeley’s
relationship to American pragmatism; and Margaret Atherton for comments on
several portions of the book. Finally, I would like to thank my wife, Lauren, for her
patience and support during the several years that I have been trying to explain
why matter doesn’t exist while she has been trying to explain why it does!1 (For
the record, we don’t mean the same thing by ‘matter.’)

1 See Sarah Kaplan, “Scientists may have solved mystery of matter’s origin,” The Washington

Post Morning Mix, February , , https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/

///scientists-may-have-solved-mystery-of-matters-origin/ (accessed April , ).

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Abbreviations

Alc Berkeley, George. () . Alciphron, or The Minute Philosopher. In

Jaffro, Brykman, and Schwartz , –.
An Berkeley, George. () . The Analyst, or A Discourse Addressed to an
Infidel Mathematician. In Jesseph a, –.
BW Luce, A. A., and T. E. Jessop, eds. –. The Works of George Berkeley,
Bishop of Cloyne.  vols. London: Thomas Nelson and Sons.
CGB Hight, Marc A., ed. b. The Correspondence of George Berkeley. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press.
CSM Cottingham, John, Robert Stoothoff, Dugald Murdoch, and Anthony
Kenny, trans. –. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes.  vols.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
DFM Berkeley, George. () –. A Defence of Free-Thinking in Mathe-
matics. In BW, : –.
DHP Berkeley, George. () . Three Dialogues between Hylas and
Philonous. Cited by marginal numbers from Clarke , –.
DM Berkeley, George. () . An Essay on Motion. In Clarke ,
–. Latin edition: De Motu, sive De Motus Principio & Natura, et de
Causa Communicationis Motuum. In Jesseph a, –.
EHU Locke, John. () . An Essay Concerning Human Understanding.
Edited by Peter H. Nidditch. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
LW Locke, John. . The Works of John Locke.  vols. London: Thomas Tegg.
MI Berkeley, George. . George Berkeley’s Manuscript Introduction: An Edi-
tio Diplomatica. Edited by Bertil Belfrage. Oxford: Doxa.
N Berkeley, George. . Philosophical Commentaries. Edited by George
Hasson Thomas. The Philosophy of George Berkeley. Ohio: Garland.
NTV Berkeley, George. () . An Essay Toward a New Theory of Vision.
In Clarke , –.
PHK Berkeley, George. () . A Treatise Concerning the Principles of
Human Knowledge. In Clarke , –.

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xiv abbreviations

PO Berkeley, George. () –. Passive Obedience. In BW, : –.

Siris Berkeley, George. () –. Siris: A Chain of Philosophical Reflex-
ions and Inquiries Concerning the Virtues of Tar-water, and divers other
Subjects connected together and arising One from Another. In BW, : –.
TVV Berkeley, George. () . The Theory of Vision, or Visual Language,
Shewing the Immediate Presence and Providence of a Deity, Vindicated and
Explained. In Philosophical Works Including the Works on Vision, edited by
Michael Ayers, –. London: J. M. Dent.

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Introduction

According to George Berkeley, “the doctrine of signs [is] a point of great impor-
tance, and general extent, which, if duly considered, would cast no small light upon
things, and afford a just and genuine solution to many difficulties” (Alc, §.).
As has long been recognized (White ; Winkler a; Brykman , ),
this is certainly true of Berkeley’s own philosophy. Nevertheless, this lesson has
yet to be applied in a thorough and systematic way to the solution of problems in
Berkeley’s philosophy. The aim of this book is to argue that Berkeley believed that a
proper understanding of signs—and, specifically, of language—could solve one of
the most central difficulties of his philosophy, namely, the problem of how a world
of fleeting ideas could exhibit the sort of robust structure attributed to physical
reality by common sense and Newtonian physics.

The Problem: Structure

Berkeley’s ontology is extraordinarily sparse. It consists only of ideas and the
minds that perceive them. These ideas are conceived as sense data, or pure
phenomenal ‘feels,’ with no intrinsic representational capacity. Furthermore, as
Berkeley emphasizes (DHP, , –), ideas are ‘fleeting’ and ‘variable’—
one is always succeeded by another. Little or nothing remains constant in our
experience. Yet these ideas are meant to be the building blocks of human thought
and of the perceived world. If these ideas are the building blocks of the perceived
world, what gives structure to that world, and how?
Two sorts of structure are of particular importance: the co-instantiation of
qualities in a single, enduring object perceived by more than one subject and the
relation of physical causation.1 Under both the former and the latter heading, we

1 Spatio-temporal relations are likewise quite important, but will not be addressed in any detail.

These relations are somewhat less problematic, insofar as visual sensations are, according to Berkeley,
ordered in a visual space, and tangible sensations in a tangible space. Further, Berkeley holds that
we derive our notion of time from the succession of ideas in our own minds (PHK, §). However,
problems remain. Insofar as the visual and tangible spaces we experience are simply relations within

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 the solution: language

must be able to address the relations between actually sensed qualities as well
as those between the theoretical qualities (and quantities) introduced by natural
science. Given Berkeley’s sparse resources, we must explain how we manage to
construct mental representations with this sort of structure. Further, if Berkeley
is to be a defender of common sense, we must give an account of how, on his
theory, these representations can be regarded as accurate—that is, how the world
can actually be structured.

The Solution: Language

Berkeley’s solution to this problem, I argue, lies in his theory of language. Berkeley
repeatedly emphasizes the importance of the theory of signs, and specifically of
language, to his philosophy. In the Introduction to the Principles, he describes
his critique of abstraction as a discussion of “the nature and abuse of language”
(PHK, Intro §). Early in the body of the Principles, he asserts that “an intuitive
knowledge may be obtained of [immaterialism] by any one that shall attend to
what is meant by the term ‘exist’ when applied to sensible things” (PHK, §).
More to the point, in the Three Dialogues, Hylas’s assertion that the variability of
ideas renders an immaterialist account of co-instantiation impossible is alleged
by Philonous “to have taken its rise from not rightly understanding the common
language of men speaking of several distinct ideas, as united into one thing by
the mind” (DHP, ). Finally, in De Motu Berkeley says that realism about forces
and the other theoretical entities by means of which physicists attribute structure
to the world is a result of human thought “being obstructed by words which are
poorly understood” (DM, §).
Berkeley’s linguistic solution, I argue, works at two levels. At the first level, it is
by the adoption of conventional rules that ideas, including words, become signs
and acquire the representational content that makes the attribution of structure
possible. This is sufficient to explain how it is possible for us to represent the world
as structured. However, as I argue in chapter , Berkeley’s understanding of truth
does require a sort of matching with objective reality. Thus if our representation
of the world as structured is to be a true (faithful) representation, the world must
somehow be structured. It is here that the second level of Berkeley’s solution enters
the picture. According to Berkeley, the perceived world is itself a language—or,
rather, a discourse in a language. Berkeley intends this claim quite literally. It is the

the momentary experience of a single perceiver under a single sense modality, this is far more
impoverished than our ordinary notion of space. Likewise, a single perceiver’s subjective time is
certainly not the ordinary notion of time. The latter issue is briefly addressed on pp. –, in the
present volume.

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introduction 

linguistic structure of the perceived world that our thought and speech about co-
instantiation, physical causation, and other structural concepts aims to capture. In
this way, I argue, Berkeley succeeds in preserving the common sense and scientific
structure of the perceived world.
This approach leads to surprising conclusions regarding a number of the
most discussed questions in Berkeley’s metaphysics. Most notably, I argue that
Berkeley holds that bodies (ordinary macro-physical objects), like forces, owe
their existence and nature to our linguistic practices. These linguistic practices are
themselves part of our project of interpreting the language of nature. As a result,
bodies can be regarded as a joint product of God’s activity as speaker and our
activities as interpreters and grammarians of nature.

Aims and Methodology

This book is an exercise in the history of philosophy. History of philosophy, as a
discipline, might be defined as intellectual history in the service of philosophy. The
philosophical enterprise is one of coming to grips with some of the deepest and
most difficult questions that have been asked by human beings. The historian of
philosophy hopes, by engagement with the history of human thought, to shed light
on these questions.
There are many different ways of approaching this task. In Anglophone philos-
ophy, it is presently customary to divide these approaches into two camps, known
as analytic and contextual (see Watson ).2 One may say, rather crudely, that
the analytic historian of philosophy approaches her task by reading the classic
writings of the Great Dead Philosophers and applying to them the same sort
of logical analysis she would apply to the work of a living philosopher. On the
other side of this crude contrast, the contextual historian approaches his task
by immersing himself in the intellectual context of the time and place in which
some Great Dead Philosopher lived and wrote, in order to understand the Great
Dead Philosopher’s ideas and arguments. Having drawn this crude contrast, one
may proceed to criticize the analytic historian as unhistorical, and the contextual
historian as unphilosophical.
Somewhat less crudely, one may position projects in the history of philosophy
on a spectrum, with pure intellectual history at one extreme and the casual use
of quotations from the Great Dead Philosophers in the course of philosophical

2 Watson, however, prefers the term ‘historicist history of philosophy’ over the more common

moniker ‘contextual history of philosophy.’

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 aims and methodology

argument at the other. It is then incumbent on the historian to situate her project
in some region of this spectrum and explain why such a project is valuable.
In my view, every region of this spectrum has its value for the broader project
of gaining philosophical insight by means of historical insight, but the contextual
must precede the analytic. I take this position because it is a presupposition of
my historical work that the philosophers being studied are indeed great philoso-
phers, and precisely insofar as they are great philosophers it is to be assumed
that the positions they actually held, and the arguments they actually made, as
the philosophers themselves understood them, are likely to be superior to the
positions and arguments that emerge from casual readings of a handful of well-
known texts. Thus if we wish to gain maximum philosophical insight from the
study of a particular Great Dead Philosopher, we must begin by seeing things
from that philosopher’s perspective, by understanding his philosophical aims and
concerns, and the particular arguments and positions to which he was responding
(cf. Adams , –).
On the other hand, if our work is to be genuinely philosophical, we cannot stop
here, for this contextual approach will usually leave the relevance of the Great Dead
Philosopher’s arguments and positions to our own concerns in doubt. We must
proceed to take a more analytic approach and show how these arguments and
positions can be brought to bear on contemporary issues.
In this, as in many other tasks, division of labor is desirable. The primary focus of
this book is on sympathetic, contextual exposition of Berkeley’s philosophy. I have
used comparisons to twentieth-century and contemporary philosophy sparingly
and mostly in footnotes. However, the aim of this expository work is a more
thorough appreciation of the insights and challenges of Berkeley’s thought for
twenty-first-century philosophy.
At this point one must surely ask, why Berkeley? Does Berkeley really have so
much to say to contemporary philosophical concerns?
The answer, I believe, is a resounding ‘yes’ and I hope the reason why will
become clear as my argument progresses. If I am right, then Berkeley’s philosophy
would, in certain respects, be very much at home in the intellectual milieu of
such thinkers as Wittgenstein and Quine. Berkeley’s revisionary program in
metaphysics, epistemology, and philosophy of science is driven by a revisionary
program in the philosophy of language. The first revolutionary move Berkeley
makes is the rejection of his predecessors’ reification of ‘meanings’ and the replace-
ment of that view with a theory of meaning as use. It is by analysis of the proper
use of words in ordinary and scientific language that Berkeley argues “[t]hat there
is no such thing as what philosophers call ‘material substance’ ” (DHP, ) and
that the existence of a sensible object cannot be separated from its being perceived.

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introduction 

From the perspective of analytic philosophy, Berkeley’s premises look surpris-

ingly contemporary, while some of his conclusions (e.g., regarding God and the
soul) look surprisingly old-fashioned and others are just plain surprising. As a
result it becomes extremely important to understand just what is driving Berkeley’s
arguments, whether the arguments work, what are the costs of accepting the con-
clusions, and, should the conclusions prove too costly, what can be done to escape
them. This book is concerned primarily with the first step, the understanding of
Berkeley’s arguments and theories and the fundamental philosophical insights
behind them. This is intended as a preliminary to an evaluation of the success
of Berkeley’s arguments and the tenability of his theories.

Summary of the Chapters

I begin, in chapter , with an examination of the negative argument of the
Introduction to Berkeley’s Treatise on the Principles of Human Knowledge. Here
scholars have usually focused on the criticism of abstraction and assumed that
Locke is the primary or only target. Further, scholars have often held that Berke-
ley’s arguments depend on the assumption that ideas are images. I argue that
this approach is mistaken. The argument against abstraction is only a lemma in
a larger polemic against a theory of language which, as Berkeley clearly sees,
was held by nearly all of his predecessors. I call the view Berkeley opposes ‘the
Theory of Meanings’ because it holds that a word gets to be meaningful by
having a conventional association with a special, intrinsically representational
entity which is the meaning of that word. Berkeley argues that no entity could
possibly be the (one and only) meaning of a word like ‘triangle.’ From this he
draws the conclusion that his predecessors were radically mistaken about how
words get to be meaningful and, more generally, about the nature and purpose
of language.
Chapter  explores Berkeley’s early (–) efforts in the direction of a
replacement theory by examining Berkeley’s remarks in this period on three types
of language: general terms, operative language, and the technical discourses of
math and science. In each case, I argue, Berkeley asks the same two questions:
first, what is the purpose of this use of language? Second, what rules are followed
by speakers and hearers in order to accomplish that purpose?
In the  work Alciphron, Berkeley pulls the threads of his previous dis-
cussions together into a general theory of language. This theory is the topic
of chapter . I argue that in this work Berkeley develops a general theory of
meaning as use. Specifically, words get to be meaningful by being used according
to conventional rules in a public social practice which aims at some good.

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 summary of the chapters

A key question for such a theory is the nature of these conventional rules and
how we learn and follow them. This is the topic of chapter . I show that Berkeley
recognizes that rules may be followed in the absence of an ability to formulate
them and that, more generally, he holds that we cannot easily and infallibly identify
the rules we follow by introspection. Nevertheless, rule-following does require a
certain sort of knowledge. What it requires is the ability to recognize the situation
one is in and ‘see’ what the rule requires in that situation.
Chapter  begins the process of applying this understanding of Berkeley’s
theory of language to his views in metaphysics, epistemology, and philosophy
of science. I show that in De Motu Berkeley distinguishes between two uses of
names (noun phrases) which I call ‘reference’ and ‘quasi-reference.’ Referring
expressions, like ‘red,’ pick out entities which exist independently of the sign
system while quasi-referring expressions like ‘force’ (as a technical term of physics)
do not. Nevertheless, quasi-referring expressions are meaningful. Quasi-referring
expressions and genuine referring expressions get to be meaningful in precisely
the same way: by being used according to conventional rules to accomplish
practical ends. Berkeley’s distinction is a distinction between two sorts of rules
with which words may be associated. Berkeley argues from this semantic dis-
tinction to metaphysical conclusions. However, perhaps somewhat surprisingly,
Berkeley’s conclusion is not that forces do not (really) exist, but rather that forces
depend for their existence on our linguistic conventions in a way that (some) red
things do not.
In chapter  we turn back to Berkeley’s more familiar earlier works, the
Principles and Dialogues. In light of Berkeley’s clearer exposition in De Motu
and Alciphron, we can see how Berkeley’s arguments for immaterialism are in
fact driven by his philosophy of language. In particular, Berkeley holds that the
materialist is committing the same error as the realist about forces, the error of
thinking that because we have a meaningful name which occurs in true sentences
there must be a corresponding language-independent object in the world. This
is a linguistic confusion driven by the Theory of Meanings. The confusion is to
be unraveled by careful attention to the practical purpose of body talk and the
rules by which it accomplishes that purpose. This analysis reveals that bodies, like
forces, are mere quasi-entities whose existence and nature depend on our linguistic
conventions.
Chapter  addresses our talk of spirits, and the corresponding metaphysical
question of the role of spirits in Berkeley’s system. I argue that Berkeley’s desire
to see spirits as genuine, metaphysically fundamental, substances can be satisfied
without violating the strictures of his philosophy of language: ‘spirit’ and related
terms can genuinely refer.

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introduction 

Chapter  examines Berkeley’s views on assent (i.e., belief) and truth. I argue
that Berkeley holds that assent to a sentence is constituted by a variety of disposi-
tions to thought, feeling, speech, and action. This raises the question, what can it
mean for assent to be correct, i.e., for the sentence to which one assents to be true?
I argue that Berkeley endorses a radical form of holism, on which truth is first and
foremost a property of sign systems. This theory has strong pragmatic elements: a
sign system is judged, in large part, on the basis of its ability to put us in a beneficial
relation to the world around us. Nevertheless, Berkeley’s theory does maintain that
some sort of fit with an underlying reality is necessary for truth.
If truth does, after all, involve fit with reality, to what underlying reality is our
body talk answerable? In chapter , I argue that our body talk—in both plain
language and physics—aims to capture the linguistic or grammatical structure
of the divine ‘discourse’ that, according to Berkeley, is composed of our sensory
perceptions. Thus bodies are quasi-entities created by our linguistic practices but
those practices are themselves answerable to an independent standard created by
God: the grammar of nature. The divine discourse that constitutes the perceived
world represents to us the world of minds—other finite minds and God. The
structure of Berkeley’s world is, from beginning to end, a linguistic structure.

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
Berkeley’s Attack on Meanings

In order, Berkeley says,

to give a farther account how words came to produce the doctrine of abstract ideas, it
must be observed that it is a received opinion that language has no other end but the
communicating our ideas, and that every significant name stands for an idea.
(PHK, Intro §)

This is the confusion about language Berkeley believes must be ‘unraveled’ before
we will be prepared to investigate the ‘principles of human knowledge’ (see PHK,
Intro §).
Here as elsewhere, commentators have typically assumed that Berkeley’s pri-
mary or only target is Locke.1 I will argue that Berkeley intends his criticism to
be of much wider application. Berkeley’s criticisms strike at the heart of an entire
tradition of theorizing about language that stretches back to Plato and Aristotle.
I will refer to the common core of this tradition as ‘the Theory of Meanings’
because it involves the postulation of a special class of entities which I will call
‘meanings.’ The Introduction to the Principles is an argument that no entity of any
kind could possibly play the role that this theory attributes to meanings.
I begin, in the first section below, by explicating the Theory of Meanings and
showing that it was, indeed, a ‘received opinion’ in Berkeley’s day. Next, I give an
overview of the structure of Berkeley’s argument against this theory. In the final
section, I provide a detailed examination of Berkeley’s defense of the key lemma
of his argument, the non-existence of abstract ideas.

1 George Pappas affirms that Berkeley had targets other than Locke in mind—he identifies the

Scholastics and Malebranche, among others—but his discussion is nonetheless firmly focused on
Locke (Pappas , , –, –). Other commentators do not mention the possibility of other
targets at all (see, e.g., Atherton ; Winkler , chs. –; Stoneham , ch. ; Dicker ,
–). However, Martha Brandt Bolton (, –) does emphasize the wider range of targets
Berkeley has in mind, and Julius Weinberg (, –) places Berkeley’s attack in the context of the
Scholastic background.

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berkeley’s attack on meanings 

The Theory of Meanings

The Theory of Meanings is an answer to the question, what does it take for a word
to be meaningful? The answer that it gives is a rather straightforward and intuitive
one: for a word to be meaningful is for that word to have a meaning. A ‘meaning’
is here understood as a special sort of entity with which the word in question has
a merely conventional association.
In typical cases, a meaningful word is about some (actual or merely possible)
things in the world. To understand the word ‘apple’ is to grasp the meaning of that
word, and to grasp the meaning of that word is to think about apples. If, however,
the Theory of Meanings is not just to push the problem of meaningfulness one
step back, by raising the question of how our thoughts get to be about things,
then the connections between the meanings and the objects in the world must
not be a matter of convention (see Figure .). Thus, for instance, Aristotle holds
that “spoken sounds are symbols of affections of the soul” and that although the
sounds vary from one culture to another the affections of the soul are universally
the same (Aristotle De Int.  a–). The affections of the soul are intrinsically, by
their very nature, about things in the world, but words get to be about things in
the world only in virtue of their conventional connection to affections of the soul.
Similarly, it is Gottlob Frege’s view that it is merely a matter of convention that a
particular word is associated with a particular sense, but it is the very nature of
that sense to pick out the objects it does (Frege [] ).
On this model, successful communication, which is taken to be the central
purpose of language, occurs when a speaker uses her familiarity with the linguistic
conventions to ‘translate’ the meanings she has in mind into a sequence of spoken
or written signs which the hearer, being familiar with the same conventions,
can then translate back into the meanings, so that the hearer comes to have the
same meanings as the speaker. Thus, for instance, if the meanings are taken to be
ideas we may suppose that I am thinking of apples and my thinking of apples is
constituted by my (occurrently) having an apple idea. In virtue of my familiarity
with English, I know that the word associated with that idea is ‘apple.’ I can now

Meaning no
l n-
na co
nv
tio en
en tio
nv na
co l
Word Object

Figure . The Theory of Meanings.

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 the theory of meanings

utter that word and you, being likewise familiar with the conventions, will thereby
come to have the same idea I have.
A consequence of this view is that it is absolutely crucial to our linguistic success
that we establish determinate conventions associating each word with some one
meaning. Any variation in the meaning associated with a word will interfere with
successful communication by creating the risk that the speaker and hearer may not
have the same meaning in mind. Accordingly, such variation must be classified as
an ‘imperfection’ or ‘abuse’ of language (see, e.g., Arnauld and Nicole [] ,
–; EHU, §§..–, ..–, , ).
The establishment of these conventions requires that speakers have a prior
grasp of the meanings in question. Language learning, on this picture, involves
first having a separate grasp of the words (considered as mere sounds) and the
meanings, and then learning to associate them with one another. Thus a corollary
of the Theory of Meanings is that the introduction of language cannot expand
the representative power of thought. As Berkeley’s contemporary Anthony Collins
put it, “Words . . . suppose Men acquainted with the things themselves before”
([Collins] , ).2 We cannot talk about things in the absence of a prior ability
to think about them.
The Theory of Meanings was an almost unquestioned assumption across the
entire spectrum of seventeenth-century European philosophy. For instance, the
English Aristotelian John Sergeant, in his  Solid Philosophy Asserted, writes,
“Notions are Meanings, or (to speak more properly) what is meant by the words
we use” (Sergeant , ). In order for us to use words meaningfully, Sergeant
assumes, we must have such ‘meanings’ in our minds. Furthermore, Sergeant
insists, “Words are good for nothing in the World but meerly and purely to Signifie”
(Sergeant , ).3
In addition to Sergeant’s more strictly Aristotelian approach, a number of
thinkers in this period sought to adapt the broadly Aristotelian theory of language
to modern idea-based theories of mental representation.4 The most detailed of
these attempts is the one put forward in the Port-Royal Grammar and Logic
(Arnauld and Lancelot [] ; Arnauld and Nicole [] ).5 According
to this theory, “words are distinct and articulated sounds that people have made

2 On Berkeley’s familiarity with this text, see Pearce, forthcoming(c).

3 Sergeant does insist, contrary to the ‘ideists’ (his term for modern philosophers), that notions
are in some sense identical with their objects: “A notion is the very thing it self existing in my
understanding” (Sergeant , ). However, Sergeant’s theory of sensory perception (Sergeant ,
–), together with the Aristotelian background, strongly suggests that the thing that is both in the
understanding and in the world is in fact a universal, not a particular.
4 For a detailed survey, see Nuchelmans .
5 For an overview of this theory, see Pearce .

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berkeley’s attack on meanings 

into signs to indicate what takes place in the mind” (Arnauld and Nicole []
, ). These mental happenings are of two sorts, ideas and operations on
ideas.6 The former are signified by nouns, the latter by verbs, conjunctions, and
interjections (Arnauld and Lancelot [] , –, , –, –).
These mental operations give structure to our thought, and this structure is prior to
language. Following Aristotle and Aquinas, the Port-Royalists hold that linguistic
conventions consist only in the linking of ‘articulated sounds’ with universal and
non-conventional ideas and mental operations (Arnauld and Nicole [] ,
; see Buroker , –; , §).7
Following Descartes, the Port-Royalists regard meanings (ideas) as non-
imagistic representations which are innate to the pure intellect and cannot be
derived from the senses (Arnauld and Nicole [] , –; CSM, :–).
However, their theory of language is adopted almost unmodified by John Locke,
despite his radically different theory of ideas.8 According to Locke, the use of
language requires the ability “to frame articulate Sounds,” and “to make [these
sounds] stand as marks for the Ideas within [one’s] own Mind, whereby they might
be made known to others, and the Thoughts of Men’s Minds be conveyed from one
to another” (EHU, §§..–; LW, :, :). This is a clear endorsement of the
Theory of Meanings.
Berkeley, then, is by no means exaggerating when he calls this view a ‘received
opinion.’ Nearly all of Berkeley’s predecessors held that words got to be meaningful
by being conventionally linked to meanings. These meanings were thought to be
special intrinsically representational entities apprehended by the mind indepen-
dent of language. Both the structure and the content of language were thought to
depend on the prior structure and content of the meanings.
As other scholars have carefully documented (Belfrage , b; Berman
, –), Berkeley too initially held this view. However, at some point between
the presentation of his paper “Of Infinities” to the Dublin Philosophical Society
(November , ) and the writing of the Manuscript Introduction (draft com-
pleted before November , ), Berkeley came to see the Theory of Meanings as
a serious philosophical error with disastrous consequences for human knowledge
and, especially, for religion.

6 This contrast between ideas and mental operations appears to be inconsistent with Arnauld’s

direct realism, but I have argued elsewhere that the inconsistency is merely apparent (Pearce,
forthcoming[a]).
7 This view is explicitly associated with Aristotle and Aquinas in Arnauld () –,

–. These themes were further developed in Scholastic sources with which the figures under
discussion here would have been familiar. For a brief summary, see Ashworth () , –.
8 On the influence of the Port-Royal Logic on Locke, see Yolton ; Bolton ; Schaar ;

Marušić .

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 the dialectical structure of berkeley’s attack

As Berkeley makes explicit in the late () work Alciphron, he takes the
Theory of Meanings to be pernicious to religion primarily because it underwrites
John Toland’s notorious argument against religious mysteries (Toland ): if
the meaningful use of language requires a pre-linguistic grasp of the reality
our words are about, then we cannot meaningfully confess our faith in (e.g.)
the Trinity since we lack any pre-linguistic grasp of the triune nature of God.
These religious concerns provide Berkeley’s central motivation for attacking the
Theory of Meanings. However, Berkeley’s response to these concerns is not
merely to develop a new theory of religious language, but rather to argue that,
as an attempt to make sense of mind, language, and knowledge, the Theory of
Meanings is a total failure. As a result, Berkeley concludes, it should be rejected
entirely.

The Dialectical Structure of Berkeley’s Attack

The Introduction to Berkeley’s Treatise on the Principles of Human Knowledge is
an attack on the Theory of Meanings. In order to understand this attack, it is nec-
essary to distinguish the textual structure of the Introduction from the dialectical
structure of the attack. Determining the textual structure is straightforward, but
determining the dialectical structure is rather more complicated, and the latter is
what we must achieve if we are to understand what each argument is meant to do,
and whether it succeeds at its task.
The textual structure of the Introduction to the Principles is as follows. After
some prefatory remarks on aims and methodology (PHK, Intro §§–), Berkeley
introduces the doctrine of abstraction, and describes different versions of that doc-
trine at some length (PHK, Intro §§–). He then raises his most often repeated
consideration against abstraction, which I will call the ‘phenomenological appeal’
(PHK, Intro §). He simply reports that upon introspection he cannot find, in his
own mind, any abstract ideas. He also claims that “there are grounds to think most
men will acknowledge themselves to be in [his] case. The generality of men which
are simple and illiterate never pretend to abstract notions” (PHK, Intro §). Now,
if Berkeley is right that the existence of abstract ideas is, at least, not immediately
and obviously confirmed by introspection, then one wonders why anyone believes
in such things in the first place. Berkeley says that he will therefore “examine
what can be alleged in defence of the doctrine of abstraction, and try if [he] can
discover what it is that inclines the men of speculation to embrace an opinion,
so remote from common sense as that seems to be” (PHK, Intro §). Berkeley
now produces his main arguments against abstraction (PHK, Intro §§–).
After this, he reconstructs what he takes to be his opponents’ argument for

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berkeley’s attack on meanings 

abstraction, and tells us that, since the conclusion is false, we must reject one of
the premises. The premise to be rejected is the Theory of Meanings, which, he
argues, is independently implausible (PHK, Intro §§–). Lastly, Berkeley gives
an account of the philosophical benefits that will follow from having corrected the
errors in question (PHK, Intro §§–).
Berkeley begins his discussion of abstraction by writing, “In order to prepare the
mind of the reader for the easier conceiving what follows, it is proper to premise
somewhat, by way of introduction, concerning the nature and abuse of language”
(PHK, Intro §). What follows is a prolonged discussion of the nature of mental
representation in which Berkeley says very little about language. This has led some
scholars to question whether we can really take Berkeley at his word and see the
Introduction as making a point about “the nature and abuse of language” (see, e.g.,
Atherton , –).
This puzzlement stems from the assumption that the dialectical structure can
be understood simply by tracing out the textual structure in a linear fashion.
The expectation is that Berkeley will first identify his opponents’ fundamen-
tal mistake and then argue against it. If this were correct, then the falsity of
the doctrine of abstract ideas (a thesis about mental representation) would be
Berkeley’s basic point in the Introduction and the remarks about language a mere
digression.
Berkeley does not proceed in this linear fashion. In Berkeley’s view, his oppo-
nents’ fundamental mistake is indeed a mistake about language—namely, the
Theory of Meanings. However, Berkeley does not think the reader will be prepared
to grasp this point until he has done away with abstract ideas. As a result, the
dialectical structure of Berkeley’s argument comes apart from the textual structure
of the Introduction.
In §, Berkeley identifies “the nature and abuse of language” as the topic he
is addressing. Accordingly, we must assume that he has not gotten to his point
until he has returned to the topic of language. This happens in §§–. We will
therefore best understand the dialectical structure by reversing the textual order
and considering Berkeley’s opponents’ argument for abstraction first. Berkeley
presents the argument like this:

it is a received opinion . . . that every significant name stands for an idea. This being so,
and it being withal certain that names, which yet are not thought altogether insignificant,
do not always mark out particular conceivable ideas, it is straightway concluded that they
stand for abstract notions. (PHK, Intro §)

The argument can be reconstructed as follows:

() Every meaningful name signifies some one idea.

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 the dialectical structure of berkeley’s attack

() Not every meaningful name signifies some one particular idea.

Therefore,

() Not all ideas are particular.9

This is a fair reconstruction of an argument endorsed by Locke. Locke affirms

explicitly that “so far as Words are of Use and Signification, so far there is a
constant connexion between the Sound and the Idea; and a designation, that the
one stand for the other: without which Application of them, they are nothing
but so much insignificant noise” (EHU, §..). Furthermore, any shift in which
an idea is immediately signified by a word is classified by Locke as an “abuse of
Words” (EHU, §..). The proper use of words10 requires that some one idea
be attached consistently as the immediate signification of each word. This is an
endorsement of ().
According to Locke, although the proper use of words requires that each word
be consistently attached to one and only one idea, it is nevertheless crucial to “the
perfection of Language” that “signs can be so made use of, as to comprehend several
particular Things.” Locke says that this “advantageous use of Sounds was obtain’d
by the difference of the Ideas they were made signs of. Those names becoming
general, which are made to stand for general Ideas” (EHU, §..). Locke thus
endorses (), and draws the conclusion that there must be general (i.e., non-
particular) ideas.
Unlike Locke, Sergeant and the Port-Royalists begin from general thought, and
only afterward introduce general words (Arnauld and Nicole [] , –;
Sergeant , Pref §). However, they are committed to the two premises of
the argument, and it is not unreasonable to suppose that something like this was
among their implicit reasons for believing in abstract ideas.11

9 For similar reconstructions of this argument, see Weinberg , ; Stoneham , –.
10 Or at least names. Although Locke qualifies his view by saying that some meaningful words,
the ‘particles,’ stand for mental actions rather than ideas (EHU, ch. .), he usually neglects this
qualification.
11 Sergeant actually frames these considerations as an argument against abstract ideas: since ideas

cannot be general, he claims, we must have notions instead. His reasons for holding that ideas
(phantasms) cannot be general are similar to Berkeley’s (see next section). For Sergeant’s own account
of general notions, see Sergeant , . I will argue in the next section that the key feature of abstract
ideas that makes them objectionable to Berkeley is that they are supposed to be intrinsically well suited
to represent generally. Despite Sergeant’s attempt to differentiate himself from the ideists, Sergeant’s
general notions do have this feature and therefore fall within the scope of Berkeley’s attack. (Note
that in the text quoted above Berkeley uses the phrase ‘abstract notions,’ apparently as a synonym of
‘abstract ideas.’)

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described as standing south on land of the said Hospital and north
on the king’s highway. This description certainly does not warrant
the statement of Parton that the inn must “have been situate
somewhat eastward from Drury Lane end, and on the south side of
Holborn.”[538]
Immediately to the west of The Swan came The Greyhound.
Unfortunately no description of the inn or the property connected
with it has come down from Elizabethan times. In 1679, however,
Thomas Short, son and heir of Dudley Short, sold the whole to John
Pery, and the indenture[539] embodying the transaction gave a
description of the property as it then existed. It included two houses
in the main thoroughfare, both extending southward to Greyhound
Court and one of them being “commonly called ... or knowne by the
name or signe of The Crowne.” It would seem therefore that The
Greyhound had by now been renamed The Crown, although the
court still retained the old name. By 1704 the court had also been
renamed Crown Court.[540] Included in the sale was a quantity of land
in the rear, with buildings, garden ground and other ground,
including the house in Greyhound Court where Thomas Short had
himself lived. The details given, though full, are not sufficient to
enable a plan to be drawn of the property. It certainly included the
eastern portion of the site of St. Giles’s Workhouse,[541] and did not
extend as far south as Short’s Gardens, as it is said to be bounded in
that direction by a “peice of ground commonly called the mulberry
garden, late in the possession of Robert Clifton.”
To the west of The Greyhound, were a number of houses,
which in 1567 were sold[542] by Lord and Lady Mountjoy to Henry
Ampthill.[543] They are described as in eleven occupations, adjoining
The Greyhound on the east, the highway on the north, and a close
(probably Greyhound Close) on the south. The western boundary,
unfortunately, is not given. The property was subsequently split up,
about half coming into the hands of a family named Hawkins,[544]
and this in 1726 certainly included property on either side of Lamb
Alley,[545] probably as far as the site of the present No. 45, Broad
Street. How much further the Ampthill property extended is not
known.
In 1631 Ann Barber, widow, and her son Thomas, sold[546] to
Henry Lambe a tenement and two acres of land, the said two acres
being garden ground and adjoining on the west “a parcell of ground
called Masslings,” on the south “a parcell of ground in the occupation
of one Master Smith,” on the east a “parcell of ground in the
occupation of Mistris Margarett Hamlyn,” and on the north certain
tenements and garden plots in the occupation of Robert Johnson and
others. In 1654 John Lambe sold the property to Henry Stratton,
who in the following year parted with it to Thomas Blythe.[547] In the
indenture accompanying the latter sale, the two acres are stated to be
“a garden or ground late in the occupation of Samuel Bennet,” and
the remainder of the property is described as 10 messuages late in
the tenure of Edmund Lawrence, 4 small messuages also late in
Lawrence’s occupation, a chamber commonly called the Gate House,
a messuage called The Bowl, and a messuage called The Black Lamb.
The property had formerly belonged to William Barber,[548] Ann’s
husband. There is nothing to show how he became possessed of it,
but it is possible that the property is identical with the “one
messuage, one garden and two acres of land with appurtenances”
sold by John Vavasour in 1590 to Thomas Young.[549]
The eastern limits of the property above described may be
fixed within a little, as it is known that a portion of it was utilised in
the 18th century for the building of the original workhouse, and is
described in a deed quoted by Parton[550] as bounded on the east by
the backs of houses in Crown Court. It may be regarded therefore as
including the site of the central portion of the present workhouse.
The “parcel of ground in the occupation of one Master Smith”
described as the southern boundary, and referred to in a deed of
1680[551] as the garden and grounds of William Short, is obviously the
strip of ground on the north side of Short’s Gardens, leased by Short
to Edward Smith.[552] The western boundary, “Masslings,” has been
strangely misconstrued. Parton read it as “Noselings,”[553] which he
regarded as a corruption of “Newlands,”[554] and located the ground
on the east side of Neal Street. Blott copied the error and, in a highly
imaginative paragraph, connected it with Noseley, in Leicestershire.
[555]
As a matter of fact, there is not the slightest doubt that
“Masslings”[556] is “Marshlands,” between which the form
“Marshlins” appearing in a deed of 1615[557] is evidently a connecting
link.
 The boundary between Marshland and The Bowl property is
shown on Plate 39.
By 1680[558] a considerable portion of The Bowl property had
been built on and Bowl Yard had been formed. In the first instance,
the latter led by a narrow passage into Short’s Gardens, but
afterwards the entrance was widened, and the southern part of the
thoroughfare was named New Belton Street, Belton Street proper
being distinguished as Old Belton Street. About 1846 both were
widened on the east side to form Endell Street, and the still
remaining portion of Bowl Yard at the northern end was swept away.
Bowl Yard obviously derived its name from The Bowl inn, which,
together with The Black Lamb, is mentioned in the deed of 1655,
above referred to. The sign had no doubt reference to the custom
mentioned by Stow[559] that criminals on their way to execution at
Tyburn were, at St. Giles’s Hospital, presented with a great bowl of
ale “thereof to drinke at theyr pleasure, as to be theyr last refreshing
in this life.” The inn itself probably fronted Broad Street, and the
brewhouse attached to it was situated behind, on the west side of
Bowl Yard.
Plate 38 shows the west front of The Bowl Brewery in 1846,
and the houses at the northern end of Belton Street.
In the Council’s collection are:—
[560]
The Bowl Brewery in 1846 (photograph).
Nos. 7 and 9, Broad Street. Exterior (photograph).
 LI.—SITE OF MARSHLAND (SEVEN DIALS.)

Included in the property transferred to Henry VIII. in 1537

was “one close called Marshland.”[561] In 1594, Queen Elizabeth
farmed the close to Thomas Stydolph, his wife, and his son, Francis,
for the life of the longest liver, and in 1598 she farmed it for the sixty
years following the death of the longest lived of the three to Nicholas
Morgan and Thomas Horne. The latter immediately conveyed their
interest to James White, and subsequently it came into the hands of
Sir Francis Stydolph, who thus held a lease for the length of his own
life and for sixty years afterwards. In 1650, while he was still in
possession of the close, it was surveyed by Commissioners appointed
by Parliament[562]. In their report, the close is described as “all yt
peice or parcell of pasture ground comonly called ... Marsh close
alias Marshland ... on the north side of Longe Acre,[563] and ...
betwene a way leadinge from Drury Lane to St. Martin’s Lane on the
north;[564] and a way leadinge from St. Gyles to Knightsbridge, and a
way leadinge from Hogg Lane into St. Martin’s Lane on the west;[565]
and Bennet’s Garden[566] and Sir John Bromley[567] and Mr. Short on
the east.” These boundaries are in accord with the plan showing the
design for laying out (Plate 39), and with Faithorne’s Map of 1658
(Plate 4). The extension of Marshland to the east of Neal Street
(formerly King Street) has never been noticed, but the fact is quite
clear. One proof will suffice. On 23rd September, 1728, James Joye
sold to trustees of the charity schools of St. Giles, Cripplegate,
property specified as “part of the Marshlands in St. Giles-in-the-
Fields,”[568] and situated on the east side of King Street. Part of the
property has since been thrown into the public way, but part can still
be identified as No. 82, Neal Street,[569] on the east side.
In 1650 the buildings on the Close were:—
 (i.) The Cock and Pye inn, a brick building of two storeys and
a garret, standing on ground 117 feet from north to south, with a
breadth of 48 feet at the north end. This is probably the building
shown on Hollar’s Plan of 1658 (Plate 3), at the southern angle of the
close. From it the close was sometimes known as Cock and Pye
Fields.
(ii.) A house with wheelwright’s shop and shed attached,
covering with yards, gardens, etc., 3 roods.
(iii.) A shed of timber and Flemish wall, with tiled roof,
containing two small dwelling rooms, occupying, with a garden, half
an acre.
(iv.) A piece of ground, half an acre in extent, “late converted
into a garden, beinge very well planted wth rootes.”
(v.) Three tenements of timber and Flemish wall, with
thatched roof, on the north side of what was afterwards Castle Street,
occupying, with gardens, etc., half an acre.
(vi.) “All that conduit scituate and adjoyninge to the aforesaid
3 tenements, and standeth on the southest corner of the aforesaid
Marsh Close, consistinge of one roome heirtofore used to convey
water to the Excheqr. Office, but of late not used.”
Sir Francis Stydolph died on 12th March, 1655–6, and his
successor, Sir Richard, at once entered on the remaining 60 years’
term and in 1672 obtained an extension of this for 15 years.[570]
Morden and Lea’s Map of 1682 shows that by that date a
considerable amount of building had taken place on the close,
though the details are not clear.[571] This is probably to be connected
with the lease which James Kendricke obtained for 31 years as from
Michaelmas, 1660.[572] In 1693 Thomas Neale, “intending to improve
the said premisses by building”[573], obtained a lease of the close until
10th March, 1731–2, undertaking to build within two years sufficient
houses to form ground rents amounting to £1,200, the ground rents
to be calculated at from 5s. to 8s. a foot frontage, except in the case of
houses fronting King Street (now Neal Street), Monmouth Street
(now Shaftesbury Avenue), St. Andrew Street and Earl Street, where
the amount was to be from 8s. to 12s. a foot. Building operations
were apparently started immediately,[574] but do not seem to have
been completed until well into the 18th century.[575]
 Neale’s plan was one which excited considerable notice at the
time, the streets all radiating from a common centre. Evelyn records
in his Diary under date of 5th October, 1694: “I went to see the
building neere St. Giles’s, where 7 streets make a star from a Doric
pillar plac’d in the middle of a circular area.” From the fact that on
the summit of the column were dials, each facing one of the streets,
the district obtained the name of Seven Dials. The top part of the
pillar, however, has only six faces, a fact which has worried
antiquaries. In explanation Mr. W. A. Taylor, the Holborn Librarian,
has pointed out[576] that the plan (Plate 39) now at the Holborn
Public Library, of the proposed laying out shows only six streets,
Little White Lion Street not being provided for.[577]
The pillar was taken down in July, 1773, on the supposition
that a considerable sum of money was lodged at the base. “But the
search was ineffectual, and the pillar was removed to Sayes Court,
Addlestone, with a view to its erection in the park. This, however,
was not done, and it lay there neglected until the death of Frederica,
Duchess of York, in 1820, when the inhabitants of Weybridge,
desiring to commemorate her thirty years’ residence at Oatlands and
her active benevolence to the poor of the neighbourhood, bethought
them of the prostrate column, purchased it, placed a coronet instead
of the dials on the summit, and a suitable inscription on the base,
and erected it, August, 1822, on the green. The stone on which were
the dials, not being required, was utilised as the horseblock at a
neighbouring inn, but has been removed and now reposes on the
edge of the green, opposite the column.”[578] Plate 40 shows the
column as at present.
Little of architectural interest now remains in the district of
Seven Dials. Plate 41 is a view of Little Earl Street at the present day.
Suspended from No. 56, Castle Street is a wooden key used as a
street sign and trade mark, probably dating from the reign of George
III., at which time the predecessors of the present firm carried on a
locksmith’s business at the premises. The exterior retains an 18th-
century appearance, and a small Georgian coat of arms remains over
the doorway. The interior has been many times reconstructed, and
does not now contain anything of architectural interest.
In the Council’s collection are:—
No. 54, Neal Street. Exterior (photograph).
No. 54, Neal Street. Detail of staircase (measured drawing).
Nos. 54, 56 and 58, Castle Street. Exterior (photograph).
[579]No. 56, Castle Street. Street sign (photograph).

No. 50, Castle Street. Exterior (photograph).

Nos. 1–6, Little White Lion Street. General view (photograph).
No. 10, Lumber Court. Exterior of ground floor (photograph).
 [579]LittleEarl Street. General view looking east (photograph).
Little Earl Street. General view and No. 15 (photograph).
No. 15, Little Earl Street. Exterior (photograph).
Nos. 12–16, Great White Lion Street. General view of exteriors
(photograph).
LII.—THE CHURCH OF ALL SAINTS, WEST
STREET.
General description and date of
structure.
On 20th February, 1699–1700, John Ardowin obtained a lease
of a plot of Marshland, 73 feet long, by 46 feet deep, abutting south
on West Street and north on Tower Street, “as the same was laid out
and designed for a chapel.”[580] The chapel in question, which was for
the use of the little colony of Huguenots lately settled in the district,
was duly built, and received the title of “La Pyramide de la
Tremblade.” The following inscription, however, which occurs on
two chalices in the possession of the West London Mission, shows
that the congregation had for more than two years had a temporary
place of worship on this spot. “Hi duo Calices dono dati sunt ab
Honesto Viro Petro Fenowillet die octavo Julii MDCIIIC in usum
Congregationis Gallicae quae habetur in via vulgo dicta West Street
de Parochia S. Ægidii. Si vero dissolvitur Congregatio in usum
Pauperum venundabuntur.” In 1742 the congregation removed
elsewhere, and in the following year John Wesley took a seven years’
lease of the building, holding his first service there on Trinity
Sunday, 1743. His house, which stood immediately to the west of the
chapel, was demolished in 1902. The lease of the chapel was renewed
from time to time until Wesley’s death in 1791, after which the
premises were used for various religious purposes until 1888, when
they were purchased for the use of the Seven Dials Mission.[581]
The exterior is of stock brick with large semi-circular headed
windows, as shown on the previous page.
The interior has three large galleries supported on panelled
square wood pillars. The ceiling and roof are carried by Ionic
columns. Over the bay of the nave next to the chancel is a large
square lantern with flat ceiling; in each side of the lantern are three
light windows.
The chancel is the full width of the nave between the galleries.
The end wall had a window, known in Wesley’s time as the
“Nicodemus Window.” It connected with Wesley’s house, and by its
means many of his secret admirers could take part in the service
without being observed by the congregation. It was filled in after
Wesley’s death and was not found again until 1901, when the wall
was pulled down and rebuilt. Vestries with rooms over now occupy
the sides of the chancel, but formerly these were a portion of the
church.

The top part of the pulpit, formerly a “three decker,” occupied

by Wesley, is still in use as the reading desk. The present pulpit, of
18th-century oak, was a gift from the church of St. George,
Bloomsbury, and the white marble font, dated 1810, came from the
parish church of St. Giles.
In the Council’s collection are:—
[582]Church of All Saints, West Street. Exterior in 1901 (photograph).
General view of interior (photograph).
[582]Top part of Wesley’s pulpit (photograph).
LIII.—SITE OF THE HOSPITAL OF ST. GILES.

The Hospital of St. Giles-in-the-Fields was founded by Maud,

[583]
Henry I.’s Queen, probably in 1117 or 1118.[584] Stow[585] giving, on
unknown authority, the date as “about the yeare 1117,” and the
Cottonian MS. Nero C.V.[586] placing the event in 1118. The number of
lepers to be maintained in the Hospital was stated, in the course of
the suit between the Abbot of St. Mary Graces and the Master of
Burton Lazars in the fourth year of Henry IV.’s reign, to be fourteen,
[587]
and this is to a certain extent confirmed by a petition[588] from
the brethren of the Hospital, dating from the end of Edward I.’s
reign, which gives the number as “xiij,” apparently a clerical error.
On the other hand, the jury who were sworn to give evidence at the
above-mentioned suit, declared that from time immemorial it had
not been the custom to maintain fourteen, but that sometimes there
had been only three, four or five.
Maud had assigned 60s. rent, issuing from Queenhithe, for
the support of the lepers, and had afterwards granted the ward of the
Hospital to the citizens of London,[589] who appointed two persons to
supervise the Hospital. Certain of the citizens had given rents, etc.,
amounting to upwards of £80 a year towards the maintenance of
lepers of the City and suburbs,[590] and an arrangement come to[591] in
the reign of Edward III. between the City and the Warden of the
Hospital provided that, apparently in accordance with the ancient
custom, the whole of the fourteen lepers should be taken from the
City and suburbs and presented by the Mayor and Commonalty, or
that if there were not so many within those limits, the County of
Middlesex should be included, and that in the event of further gifts to
the Hospital by good men of the City, the number of lepers should be
increased in proportion. It will be seen, therefore, that the Hospital
of St. Giles was, in early times, a peculiarly London institution, and
very closely connected with the governing body of the City.
On 4th April, 1299,[592] it was granted to the Hospital of
Burton Lazars in Leicestershire. It thus became a cell to that house,
and a member of the order of St. Lazarus of Jerusalem. Except for a
short intermission, it remained under the control of the house of
Burton Lazars until the dissolution in 1539, but it must long before
have ceased to serve its original purpose. Its constitution during the
later period of its existence is obscure, but the place of the lepers was
probably taken by infirm persons, when leprosy became extinct. The
hospital appears to have been governed by a Warden, who was
subordinate to the Master of Burton Lazars.
The Precinct of the Hospital probably included the whole of
the island site now bounded by High Street, Charing Cross Road[593]
and Shaftesbury Avenue; it was entered by a Gatehouse in High
Street. The Hospital church is sufficiently represented by the present
parish church, while the other buildings of the hospital included the
Master’s House (subsequently called the Mansion House) to the west
of the church, and the Spittle Houses, which probably stood in the
High Street to the east of the church. There is no evidence of the
internal arrangement of these buildings, with the exception of the
church, which survived till 1623, and will be described below.
The Gatehouse.
The position of The Gatehouse may be roughly gathered from
a deed of 1618[594], which refers to “all that old decayed building or
house commonly called the Gatehouse, adjoyning next unto one
small old tenement or building set and being att or neare unto or
uppon the north-west corner of the brickwall inclosing the north and
west parte of the churchyard.”
Mansion House and Adjacent Buildings.
A few years after the dissolution in 1539, the property of the
Hospital was divided between Lord Lisle and Katherine Legh[595],
when there fell to the share of the former the mansion place or
capital house of the Hospital; a messuage, part of the Hospital, with
orchards and gardens, in the tenure of Doctor Borde; and a
messuage, part of the Hospital, with orchard and garden, in the
tenure of Master Densyle, formerly of Master Wynter. Lisle
transferred the property to Sir Wymonde Carew, who at his death
was found to be seized of and in “the capital mansion of the Hospital
of St. Giles-in-the-Fields and of and in certain parcels of land with
appurtenances in the parish of St. Giles-in-the-Fields.”[596] Thomas
Carew, his son, seems to have disposed of the whole of the property,
and in 1563 the above-mentioned, described as four messuages, were
in the possession of Francis Downes.
On 10th April, 1566, Robert and Edward Downes sold[597] to
John Graunge “all those messuages, tenements, houses, edyfices,
barns, stables, gardens, orchards, meadows, etc., with the
appurtenances, now or late in the several occupations of the Right
Hon. Sir Willyam Herbert, knyght, now Erell of Pembroke, ——
Byrcke, Esq., Johan Wyse, wydowe, Anthony Vuidele, Thomas More,
Henrye Hye, and —— Troughton, —— Wylson, lyng and being in St.
Gyles in the Fieldes.”
There are no records by which the history of these several
houses may be traced, but at the beginning of the 17th century the
property, having then passed into the hands of Robert Lloyd[598]
(Floyd, or Flood), seems chiefly to have comprised five large houses.
[599]

On 19th March, 1617–8, Robert Lloyd[600] sold to Isaac

Bringhurst the reversion of a house, formerly in the occupation of
Jas. Bristowe and then in that of Thomas Whitesaunder, situated
“nere unto the west end of the ... parish church” and to the south of
Sir Edward Cope’s residence, having an enclosure on its east side 45
feet wide by 17½ and 18 feet, and gardens and ground on the west
side, extending 288½ feet to Hog Lane. Assuming a depth of from
30 to 40 feet for the house itself, it will be seen that the premises
stretched between the church and Hog Lane for a distance of about
340 feet, and after making due allowance for the fact that Hog Lane
was much narrower than Charing Cross Road, its modern
representative, it will be apparent that the only possible course taken
by the above mentioned property was along the line of Little
Denmark Street, formerly Lloyd’s Court. Unfortunately the history of
the house in question cannot be definitely traced after 1629[601], but if
the site suggested above is correct, the premises subsequently came
into the possession of Elizabeth Saywell (née Lloyd) who, by will
dated 5th January, 1712–3, gave all her real estate in St. Giles, after
several estates for life, to Benjamin Carter for his life, and devised a
fourth part of her estate to trustees for charitable purposes.
Benjamin Carter on 12th March, 1727, accordingly granted to
trustees all that old capital messuage or tenement wherein Mrs.
Saywell had resided, “which said capital messuage had been pulled
down and several messuages, houses or tenements, had been erected
on the ground whereon the said capital messuage stood situated in a
certain place, commonly called Lloyd’s Court.”[602]
Immediately to the north of the last mentioned house was the
mansion of Sir Edward Cope, described in 1612[603] as “with twoe litle
gardens before on the north side thereof impalled, and a large garden
with a pumpe and a banquetting house on the south side of the same
tenement, walled about with bricke, and a stable and the stable yard
adjoyning to the same garden.”
If the site ascribed to the previous house is correct, Sir
Edward Cope’s mansion must have been identical with that shown in
the map in Strype’s edition of Stow (Plate 5) as “Ld. Wharton’s,”
situated between the houses on the north side of Lloyd’s Court and
on the south side of Denmark Street. In 1652, the house was in the
tenure of John Barkstead or his assigns.[604] Philip, 4th Lord
Wharton, was resident in St. Giles in 1677,[605] probably at this house,
and the “garden of Lord Wharton” is in 1687 mentioned[606] as the
southern boundary of premises in Denmark Street. It seems a
reasonable suggestion that this house was originally the capitalis
mansio, or master’s house.
 The same deed of 1612 mentions(i) a house in the tenure of
Tristram Gibbs, with a stable towards the street on the north side,
and a large garden on the south, “walled on the east side and toward
a lane of the south side,” abutting west on the garden of Frances
Varney’s house; and (ii) a house “now or latelie in the tenure of Alice,
the Lady Dudley,” with a paved court on the north side before the
door, a stable on the north side towards the street, another paved
court backwards towards the south, walled with brick, and a large
walled garden on the south side.
The position of Tristram Gibbs’s house can be roughly
identified by the fact that a parcel of ground abutting north on
Denmark Street and south on Lord Wharton’s garden and ground is
stated[607] to have been formerly “part of the garden belonging to the
messuage in tenure of Tristram Gibbs, Esq.” The house was therefore
to the north of Lord Wharton’s house, and its site probably extended
over part of Denmark Street.
The position of Lady Dudley’s house may be roughly
ascertained from the particulars given in the deed of 1618,[608] which
mentions the Gatehouse. Therein reference is made to the site of a
certain house formerly adjoining the north part of the Gatehouse,
“conteyninge in length from the north part to the south part, viz.,
from the end or corner of a certain stone wall, being the wall of the
house or stable there of the Lady Dudley unto the south-east corner
post or utmost lymittes of the said Gatehouse 39½ feet, and in
breadth att the north end, viz., from the uttermost side of the said
stone wall att the south east corner thereof to a certen little shed or
building there called a coach house of the said Lady Dudley, 19 feet;
and in length from south to north, viz., from the uttermost lymittes
or south-west corner post of the said Gatehouse to a certen old
foundacion of a wall lying neare unto the south side of the said
coache house 28 feet, and in breadth from east to west att the south
end and so throughe all the full length of the said 28 feet of the said
soile or ground 28½ feet.” The above is not as clear as it might be,
but it certainly shows that Lady Dudley’s stable was to the north of
the Gatehouse, which, as has been shown, was near the north-west
angle of the churchyard. Lady Dudley’s house, therefore, probably
occupied a site to the north of Denmark Street.
 The most northerly of the five large houses existing here at the
beginning of the 17th century was the White House. This was, in
1618, when it was sold by Robert Lloyd to Isaac Bringhurst,[609] in the
occupation of Edmund Verney, and was then described as “all that
one messuage or tenement, with appurtenances, commonly known
by the name of the White House, and one yard, one garden and one
long walke, and one stable with a hay lofte over the same.” In 1631 it
was purchased by Lady Dudley,[610] who three years later
transferred[611] it to trustees to be used for the purposes of a
parsonage. At the time a lease of the premises for three lives was held
by Edward Smith, and this was not determined until 1681, when the
house had become “very ruinous and scarcely habitable.”[612] The
Rector at once entered into an agreement with John Boswell, a
hatmaker of St. Dunstan’s West, for rebuilding, and it was arranged
that the houses to be erected on the site should be built “with all
materials and scantlings conformable to the third rate buildings
prescribed by the Act of Parliament for rebuilding the City of
London.” The result was presumably Dudley Court, now Denmark
Place.