Bianca sang

“O roses dewy, roses red and sweet!

Tinting with your hues the summer air,

Give my cheeks your blushes, give my mouth your breathing,

Add such rounded beauty as is meet,

Wrap me in the graces all your tendrils wreathing;

For he loves me, and I would be fair.

“O sunshine, playing with the swinging vine,

Sift your gold through all my dusky hair,

Gild each braid and ringlet with a softened glimmer,

Hint the crown his love has rendered mine.

Than the brightest eyes, oh! let not mine be dimmer;

For he loves me, and I would be fair.

“O lilies! in a drift of scented snow,

Willing all your sweetness to immure

In a leafy cloister, waves alone caressing,

Give my soul your whiteness ere ye go,

That its stainless beauty be to him a blessing;

For he loves me, and I would be pure.

“O faithful stars! I pray ye, touch me so

With the virtue given unto you

That I fail him never, living, nor yet dying,

Howsoe’er the days may come and go,

With a steadfast tenderness his life supplying;

For he loves me, and I would be true.”

The first stroke of the _Ave Maria_ broke off the last chord of the song,

and there was silence in the room till the bells had sung their evening

chorus.

Matter. VI.

_Constitution of bodies._—We have hitherto explained and vindicated those

facts and principles which experience and reason point out to us as the

true foundations of a sound philosophical theory of matter. We are now

prepared to examine the much‐vexed question of the constitution of bodies;

nor are we deterred from our undertaking by the very common belief that

the essence of matter is, and will ever be, an impenetrable mystery; for

although the different schools of philosophy have long disputed about the

subject without being able to agree in their conclusions, we are confident

that these very conclusions, every one of which contains a portion of

truth, will afford us the means of reaching the true and complete solution

of the question.

The opinions at present entertained by philosophers about the constitution

of matter may be reduced to the three following:

Some affirm that the first constituents of natural bodies are the _first

matter_ and the _substantial form_, as explained by Aristotle and by his

followers. This view, which reigned supreme for centuries, we shall call

the _scholastic_ solution of the question.

Others affirm, on the contrary, that the first constituents of bodies are

_simple elements_, or points of matter, acting on each other from a

certain distance, and thus forming dynamical systems of different natures

according to their number, powers, and geometrical arrangement. This

second view, which, after Boscovich, found a great number of advocates, we

shall call the _dynamic_ solution of the question.

Finally, others affirm that the first constituents of bodies are

_molecules_, or _chemical atoms_. This view, based entirely on chemical

considerations, originated with Dalton, of Manchester, early in the

present century, and it was very favorably received by all men of science

as the true interpretation of chemical facts. This third view we shall

call the _atomic_ solution of the question.

The investigation of the grounds on which these three solutions are

supported will soon convince us that none of them can be entirely

rejected, as each of them has some foundation in truth. To begin with the

scholastic solution, all true philosophers know that God alone is a _pure

act_; whence it follows that all creatures essentially consist of _act_

and _potency_. This act and this potency, when there is question of

material things, are called _the substantial form_ and _the matter_. It is

therefore an evident truth that material substance is essentially

constituted of matter and substantial form. Against this doctrine nothing

can be objected by the advocates of the dynamic or of the atomic solution.

On the other hand, the doctrine which teaches that bodies are made up of

chemical atoms, or molecules, which have a definite nature and combine in

definite numbers, is very satisfactorily established by experimental

science; and nothing can be objected against it by speculative

philosophers. But, to prevent misconceptions, we must observe that this

theory does not consider the chemical atoms as absolutely indivisible, or

as absolutely primitive, or as so many pieces of continuous matter. The

word “atom” in chemistry signifies the least possible quantity of any

natural substance known to us. Atoms are chemical equivalents. Their

chemical indivisibility, on account of which they are called “atoms,” is a

fact of experience; but they are absolutely divisible, owing to their

physical composition; for we know by the balance that atoms of different

substances contain different quantities of matter; and their vibrations,

change of size, and variations of chemical activity with the variation of

circumstances, unmistakably show that their mass is a sum of units

substantially independent of one another, though naturally connected

together by mutual actions in one dynamical system. Their matter is

therefore discrete, not continuous.

As to the doctrine of simple and unextended elements, we have no need of

saying anything in particular in this place, as such a doctrine is a

simple corollary of the thesis concerning the impossibility of continuous

matter, which we have fully developed in our last article.

From these remarks it will be seen that to the question, _What are the

primitive constituents of bodies?_ three answers may be given, and each of

them true, if properly interpreted, as we shall presently explain. Thus it

is true, in a strictly metaphysical sense, that the primitive constituents

of bodies are the matter and the substantial form; it is true again, in a

certain other sense, that the primitive constituents of bodies are

chemical atoms; and it is true also, in a still different sense, that the

primitive constituents of bodies are simple and unextended elements. Hence

the scholastic solution does not necessarily clash with the atomic, nor

does this latter exclude the dynamic, but all three may stand together in

perfect harmony, or rather they are required by the very nature of the

question, in the same manner as three solutions are required by the nature

of a problem whose conditions give rise to an equation of the third

degree. The duty, therefore, of a philosopher, when he has to handle this

subject, is not to resort to one of the three solutions in order to attack

the others, as it is the fashion to do, but to investigate how the three

can be reconciled, and how truth in its fulness can be attained to by

their conjunction.

This may appear difficult to those whose philosophical bias in favor of a

long‐cherished opinion prevents them from looking at things in more than

one manner; but those whose mind is free from prejudice and exclusiveness

will readily acknowledge that whilst the atomists determine the

constituents of bodies by _chemical_ analysis, the dynamists, on the

contrary, determine those constituents by _mechanical_ analysis, and the

scholastics by _metaphysical_ analysis. Now, these analyses do not exclude

one another; they rather prepare the way to one another. Hence their

results cannot exclude one another, but rather lead to one another, and

give by their union a fuller expression of truth.

If we ask of an atomist, “What are the primitive constituents of a mass of

gold?” he will answer that they are _the atoms_, or the molecules, _of

gold_, as chemistry teaches him. This answer is very good, as it points

out the first _specific_ principles of the compound body; for we cannot go

further and resolve the molecule without destroying the specific nature of

gold. For this reason the atomist, when he has reached the atoms of gold,

stops there, and declares that the _analysis cannot go further_. He

evidently refers to the _chemical_ analysis.

If now we ask a dynamist, “What are the primitive constituents of a mass

of gold?” he will answer that they are _the simple elements_ of which the

molecules of gold are made up. This answer, too, is very good, as it

points out the first _physical_ principles of the compound body; for we

cannot go further and resolve the simple element without destroying the

physical being. For this reason the dynamist, when he has reached the

simple elements, stops there, and declares that _the analysis can go no

further_. Of course he means the _physical_ analysis.

Let us now ask of a schoolman, “What are the primitive constituents of a

mass of gold.” He will answer that they are the _substantial form_ and

_the matter_, as the last terms obtained by the metaphysical analysis of

substance. This last answer also is very good, as it points out the first

_metaphysical_ principles of substance. It should, however, be borne in

mind that this answer does not apply to the mass of the body as such, nor

to its molecules, but only to each primitive element contained in the mass

and in the molecules of the body, as we shall fully explain in another

place. When he has reached the substantial form and the matter, the

schoolman stops there, and declares that _the analysis can go no further_.

He means the _metaphysical_ analysis, which resolves the physical being

into metaphysical realities incapable of further resolution.

It is manifest that these three answers, however different, do not clash

with one another. Accordingly, the atomist, the dynamist, and the

schoolman may all agree in teaching truth, while they give different

answers. The fact is, they do not look at the question from the same point

of view, and, rigorously speaking, they solve different questions.

The first answers the question, What are the first _specific_ principles

of gold or the first golden particles; and he affirms that they are the

_molecules_ or _atoms_ of gold.

The second answers the question, What are the first _physical_ principles

of such golden particles? and he affirms that they are _unextended

elements_ or _primitive substances_.

The third answers the question, What are the first _metaphysical_

principles of those primitive substances? and he affirms that they are

_the matter_ and _the substantial form_.

This being the case, it may be asked how it came to pass that the atomic,

the dynamic, and the scholastic solutions have hitherto been considered as

irreconcilable. We reply that the three solutions would never have been

held irreconcilable, if their advocates had kept within reasonable limits

in the expression of their views. But as philosophers, like other people,

are often exclusive, narrow‐minded, and ready to oppose whatever comes

from a school which is not their own, it frequently happens that they are

too easily satisfied with a partial possession of truth, and disdain the

views of others who regard truth under a different aspect. By such a

course, instead of promoting, they hinder, the advance of philosophical

knowledge; and while fighting under the banner of a special school, which

they mistake for the banner of truth, they allow themselves to be carried

away by a spirit of contention, the unyielding character of which is the

greatest impediment in the way of philosophical progress. The constitution

of bodies is one of the subjects which, unfortunately, have been and are

still handled by different schools with remarkable unfairness to one

another. The atomist fights against the dynamist, and both despise the

follower of the schoolman; whilst the schoolman from the stronghold of his

metaphysical castle looks superciliously on both, confident that he will

eventually drive them out of the field of philosophy. This attitude of one

school towards another is not worthy of men who profess to love truth. If

the atomistic philosopher cannot go beyond the chemical analysis, we will

allow him to stop there, on condition, however, that he shall not claim a

right to prevent others, who may know better, from proceeding to further

investigations beyond the boundaries of chemistry. In like manner, if the

dynamist cannot rise to the consideration of the metaphysical principles

of substance, let him be satisfied with the consideration of the primitive

elements of matter, and dispense with further inquiries; but let him not

interfere with the work of the metaphysician, whose method and principles

he does not understand. As to the metaphysician himself, we would warn him

that, however deeply conversant he may be with the _general truths_

concerning the essential constituents of things, he is nevertheless in

danger of erring in their application to particular cases, unless he tests

his conclusions by the principles of chemical, mechanical, and physical

science; for it is from these sciences that we learn the true nature of

the facts and laws of the material world; and all metaphysical

investigation about the constitution of bodies must prove a failure, if it

lacks the foundation of real facts and their correct interpretation.

It is obvious, after all, that truth cannot fight against truth; and since

we have shown that each of the three solutions above given contains a

portion of truth, we cannot reject any of them absolutely, but we must

discard that only which troubles their harmony, and retain that through

which they complete and confirm one another.

We therefore admit the substantial points of the three systems on the

constitution of bodies, and recognize the general principles on which they

are established. The analysis of bodies carried on through all its degrees

leads to the following results:

First, by analyzing _the body_ chemically, we find the _atoms_, or

molecules, endowed with a determinate mass and with specific powers,

corresponding to the specific nature of the body. Such atoms are not

absolutely indivisible, though chemistry, as yet, cannot decompose them:

hence atoms are further analyzable.

Secondly, by analyzing _the atom_, or the molecule, we discover its

components, or primitive parts, called _primitive elements_, and primitive

substances, which are physically simple and unextended, and concur in

definite numbers to the constitution of definite molecular masses.

Finally, by analyzing _the simple element_ or the primitive substance,

which can no longer be resolved into physical parts, we find that such an

element consists of _act_ and _potency_, or, as we more frequently express

ourselves, of _form_ and _matter_, neither of which can exist separately,

as the first physical being which exists in nature is the substance

arising from their conspiration. Accordingly the form and the matter of

which the simple element consists are not physical, but only metaphysical,

principles, and they constitute a metaphysical, not a physical, compound.

These three conclusions are scientifically and philosophically certain;

and while they afford a sound basis to our reasonings on material objects,

they reconcile modern physics with the principles of old metaphysics. We

say _with the principles_, not _with the conclusions_; for we must own

that the old metaphysicians, owing to their insufficient knowledge of the

laws of nature, not unfrequently failed in the application of their

principles to the interpretation of natural facts. Thus the chemical, the

dynamical, and the scholastic views of the constitution of bodies cease to

be antagonistic, and each of the three schools is awarded all it can claim

consistently with the rights of truth.

As we intend to speak hereafter more in detail of the constitution of

bodies, we shall content ourselves at present with these general remarks

on the subject. It is manifest from what precedes that bodies and

molecules arise from simple elements, and are substances, not on account

of their bodily or molecular composition, but merely because their

primitive physical components, the elements, are substances. Hence the

question concerning the constitution of material substance, as such, does

not necessarily require any further research after the constitution of

bodies, but may be directly settled by the consideration of the elements

themselves.

We have already seen that the primitive elements of matter are rigorously

unextended; that each of them is endowed with _activity_, _passivity_, and

_inertia_, and is thus fitted to produce, receive, and conserve local

movement; and that the elementary activity, whether attractive or

repulsive, is exercised in a sphere according to a permanent law. And

since the essential constitution of things must be gathered from their

essential properties, it is of the utmost importance for us to ascertain

whether the principles of the material element may be fully determined by

its known properties, or whether the element may possess occult properties

which, if known, would modify our notion of its principles; for it is only

after an adequate knowledge of its principle of activity, of its principle

of passivity, and of the relation of the one to the other, that we can

safely pronounce a judgment about the essence of a primitive being.

We may ask, therefore, in the first place: _Does a simple element possess

any occult power besides its known power of attracting or repelling?_

This question must be answered in the negative. Occult powers and occult

qualities have been admitted by the ancient philosophers, and are admitted

even now, in _compound_ substances, not because any unknown power resides

in the first elements of which they are made up, but because the manner of

their composition, and consequently the manner of determining the

resultant of their elementary actions, transcends our conception and

baffles our calculations. Thus the phenomena of chemical affinity,

cohesion, capillarity, electricity, and magnetism depend on actions which

science cannot trace to their _primitive_ causes—viz., to the simple

elements—but only to their proximate causes, which are complex, and, as

such, follow different laws of causation corresponding to the different

modes of their constitution. Before we are able to trace such phenomena to

their simple and primitive causes, it would be necessary to find out the

intrinsic constitution of every molecule; the number, quality, and

arrangement of its constituent elements; the arrangement and distance of

the molecules in the body; and the mathematical formulas by which every

movement of each particle could be determined for every instant of time.

As this has not been done, and will never be done, the determination of

the causality of molecular phenomena remains, and will ever remain, an

insoluble problem, and the complex power from which any such phenomenon

proceeds remains, and will ever remain, unknown so far as it is the result

of an unknown composition, though we know, at least in general, the nature

of the primitive powers from which it results. In other terms, there are

no occult powers in matter, but only unknown resultants of known primitive

powers.

To prove this, we observe that an occult power is to be admitted, then,

only when a phenomenon occurs which cannot proceed from powers already

known. This is evident; for, when phenomena can be accounted for by known

powers, there is no ground for any inquiry about occult causes. In other

words, to look for occult causes without data or indications on which to

ground the induction, is to propose to one’s self a problem without

conditions; which no man in his senses would do. Now, no phenomenon has

been observed anywhere in material things which cannot proceed from the

known powers of attraction and repulsion; nay, it is positively certain

that all phenomena proceed from the same powers. For each material point,

when acted on, receives a determination to local movement, and nothing

else; and therefore the effect of the action of matter upon matter is

nothing but local movement, one element approaching to or retiring from

the other. Now, this is precisely what attractive and repulsive powers are

competent to do. Hence it is that in all the works of science and natural

philosophy the causality of phenomena of every kind is uniformly traced to

mere attractions and repulsions.

Again, if any occult power, besides that of attracting or repelling, be

assumed to reside in a primitive element of matter, such a power will

remain idle for ever, inasmuch as it will never be applicable to the

production of natural phenomena. On the other hand, it is obvious that a

power destined to remain idle for ever is an absurdity. It is therefore

absurd to assume that there is in the elements of matter any occult power

besides that of attracting or repelling. In this argument the minor

proposition is evident, because all active power is naturally destined to

act; whilst the major proposition is evidently inferred from the fact that

matter has no passivity, except with regard to local motion, as is

acknowledged by all philosophers, and as we shall presently show from

intrinsic reasons. Whence it follows that, if there were in matter any

hidden power not destined, as the attractive and the repulsive are, to

produce local movement, such a power would be absolutely useless, as

absolutely inapplicable to any other matter, and would remain in this

absurd condition for ever. We need not, therefore, trouble ourselves with

the absurd hypothesis of occult powers; and we conclude, accordingly, that

the principle of activity of a primitive element is merely attractive or

repulsive, as explained in one of our past articles.

It may be asked, in the second place: _Is the centre of a simple element

to be identified with the principle of passivity of the element?_

This question must be answered in the affirmative. For the principle of

passivity is that to which the action is terminated; but the action of any

one element of matter is terminated to the centre of any other element;

therefore the centre of any element is its principle of passivity. The

minor proposition of this syllogism might be proved by metaphysical

considerations(156); but we may prove it more clearly in the following

manner: Locomotive action implies direction, and no direction can be

really taken in space except from a real point to another real point. Now,

that by which any two elements, _A_ and _B_, mark out two distinct points

in space, is the centre of their sphere of action. The direction of the

action is therefore from the centre of _A_ to the centre of _B_, and _vice

versa_—that is, the action of the one is terminated to the centre of the

other. And thus it is evident that each single element receives the action

of every other element in its central point, which is, accordingly, the

passive principle of the element. This conclusion may be expressed in this

other manner: In a material element the matter (passive principle) is a

point from which the action of the element is directed towards other

points in space, and to which the actions of other material points in

space are directed.

We may remark, also, that material elements, whilst they are always ready

to receive movement from extrinsic agents, cannot apply their own power to

themselves, because they are inert. This being the case, it obviously

follows that the action of an extrinsic agent on an element is terminated

there where the action of the element itself cannot be terminated. Now, a

little reflection will show that the centre of the element is just the

point where the action of the element itself cannot be terminated. For as

locomotive action implies direction, and as no direction can be had from

the centre of activity to itself, but only from a point to a distinct

point, the action of the element upon its own centre is a metaphysical

impossibility. Whence we conclude that the principle of passivity, or that

in which the primitive element is liable to receive a determination to

local movement, is nothing else than the intrinsic term of its essence,

the centre from which it directs its action in a sphere, or, in other

terms, the matter itself as contradistinguished from the substantial form.

In the third place, it may be asked: _Can it be proved that a material

element is susceptible of nothing but local movement?_

We answer: Yes. For we have shown that the passivity of the material

element resides in a mere mathematical point, which, having no bulk,

cannot be liable to _intrinsic_ changes, and therefore is susceptible of

such determinations only as will bring about a change of _extrinsic_

relations. It is hardly necessary to explain that such a change of

extrinsic relations is always brought about by local movement; for such

relations either are distances or depend on distances; and distances

cannot be modified except by local movement. It is thus manifest that

material elements are susceptible of nothing but local movement. Hence the

passivity of matter is confined to the reception of local movement alone.

From this well‐known truth we may again confirm our preceding solution of

the question concerning occult powers. For the activity and the passivity

of a simple element essentially respond to one another in the same manner

and with as strict a necessity as _giving_ and _receiving_, and since they

spring from the principles of one and the same primitive essence, they

must belong to one and the same kind. If, then, there were in the material

elements any occult power besides that which produces local movement,

there would be also a correspondent passivity not destined to receive

local movement; for without this new passivity the occult power could not

be exercised. And since the passivity of matter is limited to the sole

reception of local movement, none but locomotive power can be admitted to

reside in matter.

_Essence of material substance._—We are now ready to answer with all

desirable precision and clearness the question, “What is the essence of

material substance?”—a question not at all formidable, when the active and

the passive principle of matter have been properly defined and elucidated.

Our answer is as follows:

The essence, or quiddity, of a thing is really nothing else than its

nature; hence if we know the principles which constitute the nature of the

material element, we know in fact the essence of material substance. Now,

the principles which constitute any given created nature are _an act of a

certain kind_—that is, a certain principle of activity; and _a

corresponding potency_—that is, a corresponding principle of passivity.

Whence we conclude that the principles of a material nature are _the act

by which such a nature is determined to act in a sphere and to cause local

movement_, and _the potency on account of which the same nature is liable

to receive local movement_. And since the said act is called “the

substantial form,” and the said potency “the matter,” we conclude that the

essence of material substance _consists of matter and substantial form_.

This conclusion is by no means new; it expresses, on the contrary, the

universal doctrine of the ancient philosophers on the essence of material

substance. But it must be observed that we limit this doctrine to the

essence of primitive elements, which alone can be rigorously styled “first

substances,” whilst the ancients, owing to their imperfect notions of

natural things, applied the same doctrine to compound substances, which

they believed to arise by substantial generation instead of material

composition. Thus our conclusion is more guarded and less comprehensive

than that of the old metaphysicians. Moreover, the ancient philosophers,

who did not know the primitive elements, but assumed the continuity of

matter, could not picture to themselves the intellectual notions of matter

and substantial form in a sensible manner, and certainly were unable to

find any _true_ sensible image of them; and for this reason their

speculations about the essence of material substance remained imperfect

and their explanations obscure and unsatisfactory. We, on the contrary,

thanks to the investigations and discoveries made in the last centuries,

have the advantage of knowing that all matter is subject to gravitation,

and acts in a sphere according to a constant and very simple law, which

presides over the molecular and chemical no less than the astronomical

phenomena; and we are thus enabled to form a true and genuine conception

of the matter and form of the primitive element, founded on ascertained

facts, and free from false or incongruous imaginations. Hence the words

“matter” and “form,” as employed by us, have such a clear and precise

sense that no room is left for their misinterpretation.

We therefore know, and _clearly_ too, the essence of primitive material

substance, whatever may be said to the contrary by some admirers of the

old philosophy, who spurn the discoveries of modern physics, or by some

modern thinkers, who revile all metaphysical analysis as mere rubbish.

The essential definition of material substance, as such, is therefore the

following: _Material substance is a being fit to cause and receive merely

local motion._ This definition is fuller than the one adopted by the

ancients, who defined matter to be “a movable being”—_Ens mobile._ Of

course, when they spoke of a “movable” being, the ancients referred to

“local” movement; but, as there are movements of some other kinds, none of

which can be produced or received by matter, we prefer to keep the epithet

“local” as prominent as possible in our definition, and we add the adverb

“merely” as a further limitation required by the nature of the subject.

The old definition mentions nothing but the mobility of matter. This is

owing to the fact that the ancients had no notion of universal attraction,

and considered the activity of material substance as dependent on

movement, according to their axiom: _Nihil movet nisi motum._ But as we

know, on the one hand, that the specific differences of things must be

derived from their formal rather than from their material constitution,

and, on the other, as the constituent form of the material element is an

efficient principle of local motion, we include in the definition of

matter its aptitude both to produce and to receive local motion “as the

_complete_ specific difference” which distinguishes material substance

from any other being whatever.

It seems to us that our definition of matter wants neither clearness nor

precision. Indeed, we would be unable to make it clearer or more accurate;

and as for its soundness, let our readers, who have hitherto followed our

reasonings, judge for themselves.

In the opinion of most modern philosophers, the essence of matter consists

of _extension_ and _resistance_. From what has preceded it is evident that

this opinion is utterly false. Extension is not a property of matter as

such, but only of physical compounds containing a multitude of distinct

material points; and, even in this case, it is not the matter, but the

volume, or the place circumscribed by the extreme terms of the body, that

can be styled “extended,” as we have shown in our last article. As to

resistance, it suffices to remark that no accidental act belongs to the

essence of substance; hence resistance, which is an accidental act, cannot

enter into the definition of matter. Some will say that, if not

resistance, at least _the power of resisting_, belongs to the essence of

matter. But not even this is true. The material element has the power of

attracting or of repelling; but such a power cannot be considered as

formally _resisting_. Resistance is a particular case of repulsion, when

the agent by its repulsive exertion gradually lessens and exhausts the

velocity of an approaching mass of matter; but resistance may also be a

particular case of attraction, inasmuch as the agent by its attractive

exertion gradually lessens and exhausts the velocity of a mass of matter

receding from it. Hence all material substance has a motive power, either

attractive or repulsive; but neither of them can be described as a

resisting power; for attractivity does not resist the movement of an

approaching body, nor does repulsivity resist the movement of a receding

body. It is scarcely necessary to add that the notion of a resisting power

essential to matter is a remnant of the old prejudice consisting in the

belief that, when two bodies come in contact, the matter of the one

precludes, by its materiality, bulk, and inertia, the further advance of

the other. Nothing is more common, with the followers of the ancient

theories, than the assumption that the matter of bodies _by its quantity

and by its occupation of space_ resists the passage of any other matter.

We have shown elsewhere that resistance is action, and therefore is not

owing to the inert matter standing in the way of the approaching body, but

to the active power of which the inert matter is the centre.

To complete our elucidation of the essential definition of matter,

something remains to be said about the inertia of material substance. We

shall see that inertia is not a constituent, but only a result of the

constitution, of matter; whence it follows that no mention of inertia is

needed in the essential definition of material substance. In fact, the

notion of this substance includes nothing but the essential act and the

essential term, that is, the principle of activity and the principle of

passivity, both concerned with local motion only. To have a principle of

activity and a principle of passivity is in the nature of all created

substances, and constitutes their _generic_ entity; hence the mention of

these two principles in our definition serves to point out the _genus_ of

material substance; whilst the intrinsic ordination of the same principles

to _local_ motion serves to point out the essential _difference_ which

separates matter from any other substance.

_Inertia._—Many confound the inertia of matter with its passivity, and

consider inertia as one of the essential constituents of matter. It is not

difficult, however, to show that inertia and passivity are two distinct

properties. Those who reduce the principles of real being to an _act_ and

a _term_, without taking notice of its essential _complement_,(157) reduce

in fact the intrinsic properties of real being to activity and passivity,

the one proceeding from the act, and the other from the potential term;

and thus the inertia of matter, for which they cannot account by any

distinct principle, is considered by them as an attribute of matter

identical with, or at least involved in, its real passivity. The truth is

that, as the act and the potency, which constitute the essence of a

material being, are the formal source of its actuality, so also the

activity connatural to that act, and the passivity connatural to that

potency, are the formal source of the inertia by which the same being is

characterized. This will be easily understood by a glance at the nature of

inertia.

That inertia is not passivity is clear enough; for passivity is the

potentiality of receiving an impression from without, whereas inertia is

the incapability of receiving an impression from within; passivity is that

on account of which matter receives the determination to move, whereas

inertia is that on account of which matter cannot change that

determination, but is obliged to obey it, by moving with the received

velocity in the given direction. The determination to move is received

only while the agent acts, that is, as long as the passivity is being

actuated, and no longer; whereas the movement itself, which follows such a

determination, continues, owing to inertia, without need of continuing the

action, so that, if all further action were to cease, the moving matter,

owing to its inertia, would persevere in its movement for ever.

Moreover, whence does the passivity and whence does the inertia of matter

proceed? Matter is passive, because its substantial term, whose reality

entirely depends on actuation, is still actuable or potential with regard

to accidental acts. Passivity is therefore nothing but the further

actuability of the substantial term; whilst, on the contrary, matter is

inert, because its substantial act and its substantial term are so related

to one another that the motive power possessed by the former can never

terminate its action to the latter; for this is the only reason why a

material element cannot modify the determinations which it receives from

without. Hence inertia is nothing but the result of the special relation

intervening between the principle of activity and the principle of

passivity in the constitution of material substance; or, in other terms,

inertia is a corollary of the essential correlation of form and matter,

and, therefore, is to be traced, not, as passivity, to the essential term

of the substance, but to its essential complement. This shows that, in the

phrase _matter is inert_, the word “matter” stands for the material

substance itself, and not for _the_ matter, or potential term, which is

under the substantial form, and whose character is passivity.

The question we have here discussed may seem of very little importance;

yet we had to give its solution, not only because the confusion of

distinct notions is a source of difficulties and sophisms, but also

because the given solution confirms the necessity of admitting the

essential complement as the third principle of real being, and because in

spiritual substances there is passivity, though not inertia; which shows

how indispensable is our duty of distinguishing between the two.

From the preceding remarks we infer also that inertia belongs to the

essence of material substance, not, however, as a constituent principle,

but only as something implied in the nature of its constituent principles.

As it is impossible to alter the nature of such principles without

destroying the essence of matter, so also it is impossible for matter to

cease to be inert so long as its essence remains unchanged. In a word,

_non‐inert matter_ is a metaphysical impossibility.

Lastly, we may add that inertia does not admit of degrees; and therefore

all material elements are equally inert. In fact, when we say that matter

is inert, we mean, as has been explained, that material substance is

entirely and absolutely incapable of imparting motion to itself. Now,

absolute incapacity is perfect incapacity, and does not admit of degrees.

Hence we may find in different bodies more or less of inert matter, but

not more or less of inertia. This is true also of the passivity of matter;

that is, we may find in different bodies more or less of passive matter,

but not more or less of passivity; for passivity, as consisting in an

absolute liability to accidental actuation, cannot admit of degrees.

_A few conclusions._—It may be useful, and may prove satisfactory to our

readers, to cast a glance over the ground we have trodden and the results

so far reached. The sum and substance of the doctrine which we have

endeavored to establish is contained in the following propositions:

I. Matter is not continuous, nor divisible _in infinitum_, nor has it any

intrinsic quantity connected in any manner with its essential

constitution.

II. All bodies are ultimately made up of primitive elements, physically

simple and unextended, which being reached, the physical division of

bodies cannot go further.

III. The primordial molecules, or so‐called “atoms,” of all substances are

so many systems of simple elements dynamically bound with one another by

mutual action.

IV. The continuous extension, or geometric quantity, usually predicated of

bodies, is the extension of the place comprised within the extreme limits

of each body. It is, in other terms, the extension of the volume, not of

the matter. Nevertheless, such an extension may be called “material,” not

only because the terms of its dimensions are material, but also because in

most bodies the elements and the molecules are so close that their action

on our senses produces the appearance of material continuity.

V. The extension of bodies is real, though their material continuity is

merely apparent; hence only the volumes of bodies, and not their masses,

can be properly styled _extended_.

VI. The true _absolute_ mass of a body is the number of primitive elements

it contains.

VII. The primitive elements are of two kinds, some of them always and

everywhere attractive, others always and everywhere repulsive. The matter,

however, is the same in both kinds, and bears the same relation to its

form, whether this be of an attractive or of a repulsive nature.

VIII. There are no other powers in the primitive elements than that of

attracting and that of repelling.

IX. All primitive elements have a sphere of activity, throughout which

they constantly act according to the Newtonian law—that is, in the inverse

ratio of the squared distances, even when the distance is molecular; and

no distance, however great, can be designated where the action of an

element will not have a finite intensity.

X. The active power of primitive elements cannot be exerted in the

immediate contact of matter with matter, distance being an essential

condition of all locomotive actions.

XI. The elementary power acts immediately on all distant matter throughout

its sphere, independently of any material medium of transmission or

communication. Movement, however, cannot be propagated without a material

medium.

XII. The term _from which_ the action of any given element is directed,

and the term _in which_ the same element receives the motion caused by

other elements, is one and the same, viz., the real centre of its sphere

of activity; and it is called _the matter_. The act from which such a

centre receives its first existence is called _the substantial form_; and

it has a spherical character, inasmuch as it constitutes a virtual

indefinite sphere.

XIII. The essence of a primitive element of matter is by no means a

mystery. The essential definition of such an element is “a substance fit

to cause and to receive mere local motion.”

XIV. Inertia is an essential property of material substance, no less than

activity and passivity. Inertia admits of no degrees.

XV. The so‐called “force of inertia” is neither the inertia itself nor any

special motive power; but it merely expresses a certain exercise of the

elementary powers dependent on the inertia of the matter acted on; for

bodies, on account of their inertia, cannot leave their place before they

have received in all their parts a suitable velocity. Hence while such a

velocity is being communicated to a body, the body which is acted on

cannot yield its place to the impinging body; and consequently, during the

struggle of two bodies, the one which impinges loses a quantity of

movement equal to that which it imparts to the mass impinged upon. The

loss of movement in the impinging body is therefore caused, not by the

inertia of the body impinged upon, but by its elementary powers as

exercised by it during the reception of the momentum.

The foregoing conclusions, as every attentive reader must have noticed,

have been drawn from nothing but known facts and received principles; we

may therefore consider them as fully established. The more so as we have

taken care to examine both sides of each question, and have given not only

such direct proofs of each conclusion as would suffice to convince all

unprejudiced minds, but also every objection that we have been able to

find against our own views, and have thus found the opportunity of

confirming, by our answers to the same, the truth of the doctrine

propounded. There may be other objections which did not occur to our mind;

yet it is likely that their solution will need no new considerations

besides those already developed in the preceding pages. Should any other

difficulty occur to the reader which cannot be answered by those

considerations, we would earnestly entreat him to propound it to us, that

we may try its strength. We are always glad to hear a new objection

against what we hold to be true. For objections either can or cannot be

solved. If they can, their solution will throw a new light on the doctrine

we defend; and if they cannot, their insolubility will show us some weak

point, or at least some impropriety of our language, and will thus cause

us to correct our expressions or modify our opinions. Whatever helps us to

regard things under some new point of view is calculated to enlarge our

conceptions, to make our language clearer and more precise, and to

strengthen our philosophical convictions. Those alone need to be afraid of

objections who draw their conclusions from arbitrary hypotheses, instead

of established truths.

We conclude the present article with a short answer to a question, which

has often been raised by timorous people, concerning what may be styled

the cardinal point of our doctrine on matter‐viz., the _simplicity_ of

material elements. The question is the following: If we admit that the

elements of matter are physically simple, is there not a serious danger of

setting at naught the essential difference between the spiritual and the

material substance, and are we not drifting thus into materialism?

We reply that no such danger needs to be apprehended. For it is not true

that physical simplicity constitutes the essential difference between

spirit and matter. Every primitive being is physically simple; and yet it

does not follow that all primitive beings belong to the same species. On

the other hand, spirit and matter, notwithstanding their physical

simplicity, evidently belong to different species. The element of matter

is inert—that is, though acting all around itself, it cannot exercise its

activity within itself; whereas the spiritual substance exercises its

activity within as well as without itself, and continually modifies its

own interior state by its vital operations. Again, the element of matter

is ubicated in space, and marks a local point, from which it directs its

action in a sphere; whereas the spiritual substance neither marks a local

point in space nor acts in a sphere, but determines both the direction and

the intensity of its action as it pleases. Moreover, the element of matter

has nothing but locomotive power; whereas the spiritual substance

possesses not only the locomotive, but also, and principally, the thinking

and the willing powers, by which it vastly transcends all material being.

This suffices to show that spirit and matter, though physically simple,

have an entirely different metaphysical constitution—that is, a different

substantial act, a different substantial term, and a different substantial

complement. Hence the simplicity of the material element does not set at

naught the essential difference between matter and spirit.

Those whose metaphysical notions about material substance still hang upon

the physics of the ancients will be loath to admit that our unextended

element can be physically simple; for they have been taught to believe

that wherever there is matter and form, there is _physical_ composition.

But such a notion is evidently wrong; for where in the element are the

_physical_ components, without which physical composition is impossible?

Can we say that the matter and the substantial form are _physical_

components? Certainly not; for the form without the matter cannot exist,

nor can the matter exist without the form. Both are absolutely required

for the constitution of the _primitive_ physical being. How, then, can

they be conceived as physical beings, if no physical being can be

conceived before their meeting in one essence and in a common existence? A

physical compound is a compound whose components have a distinct and

independent existence in nature; for physical beings alone can be physical

components, and nothing which has not a distinct and independent existence

in nature can be called a physical being, except by an abuse of terms. The

physical being is a complete being—that is, an act materially completed by

its intrinsic term, and formally completed by its individual actuality.

All beings that are incomplete, and whose existence depends on other

cognate beings, are no more than _metaphysical_ realities. Hence the

substantial form of the element, which has no separate existence, is not a

physical, but only a metaphysical, being; and in the same manner, the

matter to which that form gives the first existence is not a physical, but

only a metaphysical, reality. Whence it follows that the composition of

matter and substantial form is not a physical, but only a metaphysical,

composition; and, further, that the primitive element is indeed a

metaphysical, but not a physical, compound.

On this subject we shall have more to say when explaining the peripatetic

theory of substantial generations, which assumes that the substantial form

can be changed without changing the matter. It is on this assumption that

the physical distinction between matter and form has been maintained. We

shall prove in the most irrefragable manner that the assumption is based

on an equivocation about the meaning of the epithet “substantial” as

applied to natural forms, and that no form which is truly and strictly

substantial—that is, which gives the first being to its matter—can leave

its matter and be subrogated by another substantial form.

To Be Continued.

Robespierre. Concluded.

We know how the son of S. Louis passed his last hours on earth; let us see

how the men who sentenced him—against their consciences—prepared for that

solemn passage. One, named Valazé, on hearing the sentence, stabbed

himself, and fell dead in the court; he was dragged back with the others

to prison. The remaining twenty‐one passed their death‐vigil in riotous

singing and drinking and making merry; in improvising a comedy where

Robespierre and the devil conversed in hell; the dead Valazé meanwhile

lying in his blood in the same room. Vergniaud, who so hesitated to vote

“death” for the king, is now bent on escaping the block by poisoning

himself; but he has only poison enough for one, so he throws away the

dose, too generous to desert his companions in their last journey. They

will all go together; so, after a night of bacchanalian shouting and

carousing, they all set forth in the fatal tumbrel; even dead Valazé is

flung in to have his head cut off, that the guillotine may not be done out

of its prey. They jolt on, singing the _Marseillaise_ and crying Vive la

République. One by one the heads fall, the chorus grows weaker, and at

last ceases to be heard. The Girondists are gone. Robespierre is King of

the Revolution now, and reigns supreme over its destinies. Now let him

prove what truth there is in the plea put forth by his apologists that he

was only cruel from necessity, from the pressure put upon him by his

fellow‐demagogues. His accession to undivided responsibility was, on the

contrary, the signal for greater slaughter, and we see the number of

victims swelling in proportion to the growth of his individual power. Look

at the lists of the _Moniteur_. In July, 1793, there were thirteen persons

condemned by the revolutionary tribunal of Paris, and in July of the

following year the number sent by it to the guillotine was eight hundred

and thirty‐five!

But this system of legal assassination was beginning to recoil on the head

of its inventor. The murder of the Girondists was an impolitic act that

Robespierre soon repented of. He had made a precedent in attacking the

representatives of the nation, hitherto inviolate; and now that the

longing for vengeance was satisfied, he was clear‐sighted enough to

perceive what the cost was likely to be. He had sacrificed his rivals, but

he had imperilled his own head. From this day forward he seemed haunted by

the shadow of coming retribution. He had poured out the blood of those who

stood beside him, and now he was slipping in it; his footing was no longer

secure; the words “assassination,” “victim of the poignard of revenge,”

etc., etc., were continually on his lips, and there is evidence that his

life was poisoned by the constant dread of being murdered by some of the

friends of his victims. Those who had hitherto aided and abetted his

atrocities now began to look with suspicion and terror on him; even Danton

tried to back out of the partnership, and to talk of “the joys of private

life” in a way that suggested he had had enough of the glories of public

life. He had just married a young and beautiful woman, whose influence was

said to have already exercised a humanizing effect on his ferocious

nature. She had brought him independence, too, so there was every

inducement to him to quit the shambles, and leave Robespierre there alone

in his glory. He withdrew from the Public Safety Committee, and ceased

almost altogether to attend the meetings of the Convention. Robespierre

understood this significant change. He saw his accomplices were deserting

him, and he trembled. The Revolution, Saturn‐like, was devouring her own

children; why should not the hunters be devoured by their own dogs? Every

one was falling away from the tyrant. Camille Desmoulins and Hébert,

lately his devoted friends, were gathering up a rival faction dubbed

Ultra‐Revolutionists, and, aided by Hébert’s abominable newspaper, _Père

Duchêsne_, they and their followers set to work to hunt down the popular

idol. Robespierre was known to harbor a sneaking prejudice in favor of

some sort of religion, and once even openly declared his opinion that some

such institution was necessary for governing with effect. The Ultras used

this admission as a means of insulting him, and at the same time weakening

his prestige. They got hold of an unfortunate, half‐witted man named

Gobel, an apostate priest, dressed him up as an archbishop, and,

surrounded by a crowd of mock priests and prelates, they led him, riding

on an ass, to the Convention; here he made a burlesque and blasphemous

abjuration of his former state and belief, and solemnly pronounced the

_Credo_ of atheism, and the worship of the goddess Reason. The law‐givers,

thereupon, amidst the frantic enthusiasm of the crowd, decreed that “God

and all superstition were abolished,” and the worship of Reason

substituted in their place. A monstrous ceremony was at once organized to

celebrate the new religion: an actress was carried to the cathedral of

Notre Dame, dressed—or undressed—as the goddess of this adoption,

enthroned on the consecrated altar of the living God, while the populace

passed before her in adoration. The walls of the sacred temple re‐echoed

to the hymn of liberty, the _Marseillaise_, and were profaned with horrors

that no Christian pen may retrace. Similar scenes were enacted in the

other churches. Venerable old S. Eustache was turned into a fair; tables

were spread with sausages, pork‐puddings, herrings, and bottles; children

were forced to sing songs and give toasts, and to drink to the half‐naked

goddess; and when the little ones—the precious little ones of Jesus—got

drunk, there was huge merriment amongst the spectators.

The shrine of S. Geneviève was torn down and desecrated. The tombs of the

kings of France at S. Denis were broken open, and the ashes scattered

abroad with every species of insult. The _Moniteur_ thus describes the

spectacle the streets of Paris presented during the Festival of Reason:

“Most of the people were drunk with the brandy they had swallowed out of

Chalices—eating mackerel on the Patens!... They stopped at the doors of

dramshops, held out Ciboriums, and the landlord, stoop in hand, had to

fill them thrice.” Other things are recorded of this demoniacal saturnalia

which had best be left unsaid—if happily they be yet unknown to Catholic

hearts.

The provinces followed suit. Lyons sacked her churches, and drove a mitred

ass through her streets, trailing the sacred volumes at his tail. The

Loire was polluted with drowned bodies of priests. At Nantes ninety

priests are embarked at dead of night under hatches; in the middle of the

stream the boat is scuttled, and goes down with her human cargo. These are

the _noyades_. Then follow others of more than a hundred at a time. Oh!

these priests, these men of the Gospel of Christ, at any cost they must be

got rid of! The guillotine is too slow; let us have fire and water to the

rescue! So there are the fusillades; men, women, priests, and nuns fall

under the showers of grapeshot as fast as they can be gathered and ranged

in line—mothers with infants at their breasts, children clinging to one

another—five hundred at a batch they go. The mother Revolution herself is

turning sick of it. Robespierre alone shows no signs of squeamishness;

but, whether from sagacity or some latent moral—perhaps even

religious—instinct, he repudiated the sacrilegious excesses which

inaugurated and followed the installation of the new goddess. He saw, too,

that it was an arrow pointed at himself. He denounced Hébert at the

Jacobin Club, ridiculed his new‐fangled divinity, and declared that if

“God did not exist, a wise law‐giver would have invented him.” Hébert

winced; Camille Desmoulins started the _Vieux Cordelier_, and began to

broach the doctrine of clemency and the savage stupidity of useless blood‐

shedding. Never since the Revolution began had such theories been hinted

at. The country was growing nauseated with wholesale butcheries; the

daring words of the _Vieux Cordelier_ were heard with wonder and welcomed

with deep though silent applause. Robespierre might have tolerated the

humane doctrines of the newspaper, if it had abstained from personal

aggression; but Desmoulins used his weapon of sarcasm unsparingly against

the tyrant, on one occasion twitting him, half facetiously, with his

aristocratic origin, as proved by the discarded _de_ formerly prefixed to

his name. Robespierre grew pale—paler than his usual sea‐green hue—on

reading this, and Desmoulins’ doom was sealed. Hébert went first; he, with

nineteen of the faction, perished in one hour on the scaffold, in March,

1794. Ten days later Camille and Danton fell. It is yet a mystery why

Danton was thus quickly sacrificed; he was apparently on good terms with

Robespierre, and had pointed no witticisms at him like the editor of the

_Vieux Cordelier_. The tyrant himself gives no explanation in his long‐

winded speeches on the hard necessity which compelled him “to sacrifice

private friendship to the good of the country,” and so on. But whatever

the motive may have been, the act drew upon its perpetrator the aversion

and contempt of those who till then had been his staunchest followers and

supporters. Every one was terrified for his own head. Danton’s fall seemed

to bring the axe to every man’s door. Robespierre was now alone, more

terribly alone than the lost traveller in the desert. His fellows shunned

him, or shuddered when he passed. He lived in perpetual fear of being

assassinated, though it is doubtful whether any attempt was ever made on

his life. Several were trumped up with a view to uplifting his tottering

popularity; but though the accused persons were guillotined with great

pomp and _éclat_, the proofs of their intended crime were extremely

doubtful. A last expedient yet remained.

Robespierre would re‐establish the existence of God, and thus be a prophet

as well as a king. He decreed, accordingly, a great meeting which should

atone for Hébert’s Feast of Reason and annihilate its brief triumph. It

was to take place in the Tuileries gardens. Robespierre, while working the

axe so assiduously, never bespattered himself with the blood of his

instrument. In a time when _sans‐culottism_ made dirt and Bohemian gear

the fashion, he remained a dandy, powdered and frizzled in the midst of

legislators who prided themselves on dirty hands and begrimed linen. For

this gala‐day of his new religion he ordered a fine sky‐blue silk coat,

white‐silk waistcoat embroidered with silver, white stockings, and gold

shoe‐buckles. Thus equipped, the Prophet of the Mountain sallied forth to

patronize the Omnipotent and decree the existence of a Supreme Being. He

ascended the rostrum with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, made a fulsome

discourse in a vein of sentimental deism, and then proceeded to unveil the

effigy of atheism, a hideous caricature, made of paste‐board, besmeared

with turpentine and other inflammable stuffs, to which he applied a

lighted torch. The flame leaped up, and Atheism, amidst shouts and

cracklings, burned itself to dust; then from the ashes rose up another

effigy, the statue of Wisdom, supposed to symbolize the new religion, but

sorrily smutted and begrimed by the subsiding smoke of Atheism. No wonder

Billaud should exclaim, “Get thee gone! Thou art a bore, thyself and thy

_Etre Suprême_.”

O merciful God! may heaven and earth praise thee, and all the creatures

therein, for thou art verily a God of love, long suffering and patient!

And now that Robespierre has duly installed his _Etre Suprême_, and

decreed, moreover, “that consoling principle, the immortality of the

soul,” and obliterated from the graves of murdered citizens the hitherto

obligatory inscription, “Death is an eternal sleep,” what is there left

for him to do? Nothing, apparently, but to go on killing. The

revolutionary tribunal must be made to work with greater speed, and so it

is split into four fractions, each with its president, and empowered to

try and condemn as fast as it can. Even the Mountain quaked when this

proposition was uttered at its base; but the law was carried, and

henceforth the guillotine quadruples its business. Fouquier‐Tinville sets

up one of “improved velocity,” and boasts of being able to make room for a

batch of one hundred and fifty at one time. He wants to establish one in

the Tuileries itself, but Collot protests that this would “demoralize the

instrument.” It did not matter, apparently, how much the instrument

demoralized the people. These sit at their windows watching for the

tumbrels to pass, criticising the occupants, joking and enjoying

themselves. Women fight for seats near the scaffold, where day after day

they sit knitting, counting off the heads, as they fall, by the prick of a

pin in a bit of card‐board. These are the “furies of the guillotine.”

But to make the new law, called _22me Prairial_, more fully available, it

was necessary to provide extra work for the executioners. Fouquier‐

Tinville was equal to the occasion. He got up an accusation against the

occupants of the prisons for “conspiring against the Convention.” Let us

cast a glance into these prisons, where, at this crisis, twelve thousand

human beings lie literally _rotting_ to death. The memoirs of the time

agree in describing the twelve houses of arrest (the original prisons had

long since been increased to that number) as dens of noisome horror never

equalled in any other clime or period. Noble dames, maidens of tender

years, were huddled pell‐mell with the worst and most wretched of their

sex; nobles and shoe‐blacks, priests and ruffians, nuns and actresses,

crowded by day and night into the condemned cells, where every night the

turnkey came and read his list for the morrow’s “batch.” Then followed

scenes such as no pen or painter’s brush could adequately describe. “Men

rush towards the grate; listen if their name be in it; ... one deep‐drawn

breath when it is not. We live still one day! And yet some score or scores

of names were in. Quick these; they clasp their loved ones to their heart

one last time. With brief adieu, wet‐eyed or dry‐eyed, they mount and are

away. This night to the _Conciergerie_; through the palace, misnamed of

Justice, to the guillotine to‐morrow.” These were the persons whom

Tinville’s ready wit accused of getting up a plot to overthrow the

Convention! But what did it signify whether the story was an impossibility

as well as a lie? The four tribunals must have work, the guillotine must

have food. In three days—the 7th, 9th, and 10th of July—one hundred and

seventy‐one prisoners were executed on the charge of conspiring from the

depth of their squalid dungeons to overturn the state. So much did the

newly‐discovered _Etre Suprême_ do towards softening the rule of

Robespierre.

But, oh! are we not sick of the ghastly tale? It is now hurrying to a

close.

Barère, one of the fiercest of the revolutionary gang who had so far

escaped the guillotine, gave a bachelor’s dinner at a suburban villa on a

warm day in July, Robespierre being among the guests. The weather was

intensely hot, and the company, unshackled by stiff conventionalities,

threw off their coats, and sauntered out to sip their coffee under the

trees in easy _déshabillé_. Carnot wanted his pocket‐handkerchief, and

went indoors to fetch it. While looking for his own coat he espied

Robespierre’s fantastic sky‐blue garment, and, prompted by a sudden

thought, put his hand into the pockets, wondering if any secret might be

lurking there. What were his feelings on discovering a list of forty names

told off for the guillotine, his own amongst the number! He carried off

the paper, showed it discreetly to his friends, and they agreed that

Robespierre must be made away with. Two days later he appears at the

Convention, and is met by dark faces that scowl when he ascends the

tribune, and show no docile acquiescence when he speaks. Terror for their

own lives has at last stirred these dull, brutalized accomplices to raise

their voice and protest against the tyrant. He is impeached by common

acclamation. He defends himself in a passionate harangue, accusing Mr.

Pitt and King George of having bribed the Convention to arrest him, after

sowing calumnies against him in the minds of the people. The charges

against him were numerous and heavy; he answered them all with vehemence

and a certain wild, disjointed eloquence, and wound up by the following

denunciation: “No, _death is not an eternal sleep_! The nation will not

submit to a desperate and desolating doctrine that covers nature itself

with a funereal shroud; that deprives virtue of hope, and misfortune of

consolation, and insults even death itself. No; we will efface from our

tombs your sacrilegious epitaph, and replace it with the consoling truth,

‘Death is the beginning of immortality!’ ” The speech produced an effect

on the Assembly, but it did not secure a real success. The next day Saint‐

Just mounted the tribune to defend Robespierre; but he had hardly begun

his discourse when cries of “Down with the tyrant!” forced him to give it

up. Robespierre stood at his place, utterly abandoned by the members of

the Assembly, where twenty‐four hours ago he ruled with despotic and

unrivalled sway. Not a voice was raised in his behalf. He strove to obtain

a hearing, but his words were drowned in shouts of “Away with him! down

with him!” He stood dumb and petrified at the sound of those words, bowed

his head, and slowly descended the steps of the tribune; suddenly he

looked up and cried, “Let me die, then, at once!” The younger Robespierre

advances and takes his brother’s arm, asking to share the same fate with

him. This generous movement excites the Convention to still greater rage;

it yells and bellows, gesticulating like so many madmen. The president

puts on his hat, and calls for order; a temporary lull ensues. Robespierre

again tries to make himself heard, but his voice is again drowned in

shouts and hisses; he rushes up and down the steps and about the hall,

clenching his fist and breathing menaces that now fall powerless and are

met with taunts of triumphant hate. At last, over‐mastered by his own

emotions, he drops into a chair. The arrest of the two brothers is voted

unanimously. The elder one endeavors to resist, but is seized and carried

forcibly down to the bar. In the midst of this stormy ebullition, one of

the deputies, seeing Robespierre unable to speak from the violence of his

rage and terror, cried out: “It is Danton’s blood that is choking him!”

Stung by the taunt, Robespierre found breath and courage to retort,

“Danton! Is it Danton that you regret? Cowards! why did you not defend

him!” These spirited words were the last he ever uttered in public. He and

his brother were now removed in custody to a hall close by the Convention,

and with them Saint‐Just, Couthon, and Lebas. It had been an arduous day’s

work for the Convention, and it is not surprising that the deputies

“clamored for an adjournment, that they might repose themselves and dine”;

for whether men live or die, legislators must dine. They were thoughtful

enough to remember that the five in custody would also like to dine, even

for the last time; so the guilty deputies had a good dinner provided for

them, and immediately after were transferred to separate prisons:

Robespierre to the Luxembourg, his brother to St. Lazare, Couthon to Port

Royal (dubbed Port _Libre_ since it had been turned into a prison!), Lebas

to Le Force, and Saint‐Just _aux Ecossais_. Henriot, who commanded the

troops devoted to Robespierre, was seized in the act of attempting an

attack on the Convention, bound, and locked up in one of the courts. Two

bold friends of his rallied the soldiers, stormed the Convention, released

him, and placed him again at the head of his men. Meantime, the jailer of

the Luxembourg had refused to admit Robespierre, and the bailiffs had to

take him to the _Mairie_, where he was received with acclamations of

respect as the “father of the people.” Henriot and his band by midnight

had set him and the other four deputies free, and they were installed at

the Hôtel de Ville, with a large body of soldiers drawn round the edifice

to protect them. But the Convention, on its side, had not been idle.

Barras was placed in command of all the troops that could be mustered, and

in company with twelve energetic leaders, at the head of the _gendarmerie_

and the artillery, marched on the Hôtel de Ville, dispersed Henriot’s

troops, and penetrated into the building, where they found the five

deputies and captured them. The younger Robespierre flung himself out of a

window in a frantic effort to escape the more tragic death that was now a

certainty; he was picked up horribly mutilated, but with life enough yet

to realize the horrors of his position. Lebas, on hearing the _gendarmes_

battering on the door of the room, blew his brains out with a pistol.

Saint‐Just was seized with a knife in his hand, which he was going to

plunge into his heart; he gave it up without a word, and allowed himself

to be bound. Couthon, who was nearly blind and half‐paralyzed, being

powerless to offer the slightest resistance, was flung into a wheelbarrow

that chanced to be in the court‐yard. Robespierre himself, the centre of

this group of suicides and murderers, attempted to cheat the guillotine as

Lebas had done; but either his cowardly hand trembled and betrayed his

will or was seized as he pulled the trigger, for the bullet went through

the cheek instead of through the forehead. The jaw was frightfully

fractured, and hung loose from the face, held on only by the flesh. Some

spectator had the humanity to help the unfortunate man to tie it up with a

handkerchief, and in this miserable plight he and his companions were

conveyed at about two o’clock in the morning to the Committee of Public

Safety. The official report of the day gives the following graphic

description of what then occurred: “Robespierre was brought in on a plank

... by several artillery‐men and armed citizens. He was placed on the

table of the ante‐chamber which adjoins that where the Committee holds its

sittings. A deal box, which contained some samples of the ammunition‐bread

sent to the army _du Nord_, was put under his head by way of pillow. He

was for nearly an hour in a state of insensibility which made us think

that he was no more; but after an hour he opened his eyes. Blood was

running in abundance from the wound he had in the left lower jaw; the jaw

was broken, and a ball had gone through the cheek. His shirt was bloody.

He was without hat or neckcloth. He had on a sky‐blue coat,(158) nankeen

breeches, white stockings hanging down at his heels.... At six in the

morning a surgeon who happened to be in the court‐yard of the Tuileries

was called in to dress the wound. By way of precaution he first put a key

in Robespierre’s mouth. He found the left jaw broken. He pulled out two or

three teeth, bandaged up the wound, and got a basin of water, which he

placed at his side.” All this time no word was spoken by the wounded man;

not even a sigh escaped him when the teeth were being extracted, yet the

agony he endured must have been terrific. There he lay, a spectacle to

gods and men, in his sky‐blue coat, a tiger caught in his own lair, barked

at and cursed and triumphed over by a band of wolves. Who could pity

him—he who had never known pity for man or woman? For more than twenty

hours he lay there in this mental and bodily torture. Once he made a sign

which was understood to express thirst. The burning fever of his wound had

parched him till he gasped for breath: but no one was so merciful as to

get him a glass of water. Vinegar and gall they gave him in abundance.

Many cursed him as the murderer of their kith and kin, and bade him drink

his own blood, if he was thirsty.

All this while the tocsin is ringing out the glad news to Paris. Crowds

rush out on the house‐tops, and wave signals to the prisoners in the

_Conciergerie_ that the hour of deliverance is at hand. The prisoners

cannot understand; they think the tocsin is the signal for a new September

massacre. The word flies from cell to cell, and all fall on their knees

and prepare for instant death.

Others, too, are making ready for death, but not thus. The tumbrels jolt

up to the Convention, and collect for the last time their “batch”; this

time there are but twenty‐three victims. Amongst them, by an exquisite

touch of retributive justice, is Simon the Cordwainer, going to die with

Robespierre! And now they are ready, and the tumbrels move on. The corpse

of Lebas is flung in with Robespierre, as that of Valazé was with Brissot;

the other three were so disfigured with blood and the traces of the death‐

scuffle in the town‐hall that they are hardly to be recognized. The entire

city is out, shouting itself hoarse with joy. The roofs of the houses are

alive with human eyes, all watching for the figure of Robespierre. When it

appears, the soldiers point to it with their swords—show the tyrant, bound

and gagged, to the people. The sight causes a frantic thrill of exultation

that finds utterance in a yell of something too unholy for joy, too fierce

for laughter. A woman breaks through the crowd, dashes aside the bayonets

of the escort, and leaps to the side of the tumbrel. “Ah! thou demon,” she

cries, waving her hand above her head, “the death of thee is better than

wine to my heart Wretch, get thee down to hell with the curses of all

wives and mothers!”

Surely this is hell already begun. The wretched man opens his eyes, glued

together with blood; a shade of deadlier hue passes over his livid, sea‐

green face; he shudders, but utters no sound. The tumbrel reaches the

Place de la Revolution. The furies of the guillotine rush round it, and

execute a dance of fiendish joy, the crowd making room for them and

applauding. Now the cart stops, and the condemned alight. In the first are

the two Robespierres, Couthon, Henriot, and Lebas. Maximilien Robespierre

is the only one who has strength left in him to ascend the scaffold

without help. He stood on the fatal step whither a few days ago his nod

sufficed to send the noblest heads in France; within a few yards of the

spot where only six weeks ago he had decreed the existence of the

Omnipotent, at whose judgment‐bar he was now going to appear. Seldom

indeed does that silent, inscrutable Judge allow us to behold the

judgments of his justice accomplished here below, and amidst circumstances

so palpably impressive, and to our human eyes so fearfully appropriate, as

was this death‐scene of Robespierre’s. He showed no sign of terror or

remorse, but, dumb and self‐contained to the last, yielded himself to

Samson’s hands. Only when the bandage was wrenched brutally from the

broken jaw, letting it drop from the face, he uttered a piercing cry that

rang above the yells of the multitude. It was the last sound his voice

emitted in this world. Samson did his work, and Robespierre was no more.

One long, loud shout of gladness went up to heaven, and carried the

tidings to the ends of France on wings quicker than words. It penetrated

the iron doors of the prisons, like the sweet beams of the golden dawn,

and bade men hope and rejoice, for the Reign of Terror was at an end and

the gates of their dungeons unlocked.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

The guillotine has been so prominent a figure in the foregoing sketch, as

indeed throughout the whole span of the Reign of Terror, that a word on

its origin may not be uninteresting. It is popularly supposed to have been

invented by Dr. Guillotin, but this is a mistake. The first idea of it

emanated from him, and he had the unenviable glory of giving it his name;

but these are his only claims to its invention. The guillotine would seem

to be almost a creature born spontaneously of the Revolution, a cruel

offspring of the self‐devouring monster. It is strange that, until the

“_Sainte Guillotine_” was enthroned as the agent of that murder‐mad reign,

no mention is ever made in the reports of the time of the exact kind of

machine used in capital punishment. We read of persons being “condemned”

and “executed,” but there is no more definite account of the manner of

execution. The _lanterne_ was the mode of capital punishment up to the

Reign of Terror, and the mob could always do summary justice on its

victims by making a gallows of the nearest lamp‐post; but when speed

became the primary object, this was found too tedious, besides being

troublesome. Towards the close of the year 1789 Dr. Guillotin was elected

to the States‐General. He was such a mediocre, insignificant person in

every way that his appearance in the Assembly caused general surprise and

laughter. In the _Portraits of Celebrated Persons_, a contemporaneous

work, we find him thus treated: “By what accident has a man without either

ability or reputation obtained for himself a frightful immortality? He

_fathered_ a work written by a lawyer—Hardouin—who had too much character

to produce it in his own name; and his work having been censured by the

parliament, Guillotin, who assumed the responsibility of it, became the

man of the day, and owed to it that gleam of reputation which ensured his

election to the States‐General. He was, in truth, a _nobody_ who made

himself a _busy‐body_, and by meddling with everything was at once

mischievous and ridiculous.” This meddling personage made himself

extremely ridiculous on the one occasion to which may be traced his ill‐

starred celebrity. He proposed in the Assembly that some machine, more

humane and expeditious than the process of hanging, should be invented for

capital punishment, and, after describing the idea that was in his mind,

he proceeded to illustrate it by a pantomime with his fingers,

straightening out the left index, and bringing down that of the right hand

over the thumb with a snap. “There, now, I put your head here; this falls,

and it is cut off; you feel nothing; it is the affair of a moment!” Roars

of laughter followed this lucid and cheerful explanation, and the next day

the ballad‐mongers diverted Paris with a song, the burden of which was “a

machine that will kill us right off, and be christened _la guillotine_!”

The doctor said no more about his idea, but, jocosely presented as it was,

it nevertheless made an impression on the Assembly, who adopted it three

years later. Meantime, they were beset by complaints from the _Tiers

Etat_, who could not reconcile it to their dignity that the _bourgeoisie_

should be hanged while the _noblesse_ were beheaded. Let it be hanging all

round, they said, and they would be satisfied; but why should nobles have

their head cut off, while plebeians “swung at the lantern?” The grievance

met with cold sympathy, however, until the times were ripe for reform, and

it became urgent to find some more expeditious means of despatching both

nobles and plebeians into the other world. Dr. Guillotin’s proposal was

reconsidered; an officer of the Criminal Court, named Laquiante, designed

an instrument, which was approved of by the authorities and confided for

execution to a piano‐maker—a native of Strasbourg, we believe—named

Schmidt. There was a good deal of haggling over the cost. Schmidt, in the

first instance, wanted nine hundred and sixty francs, which was found

exorbitant and refused. In consideration, however, of his having suggested

some improvements in the original design, they consented to let him take

out a patent, and to give him an order for eighty‐three machines, one for

every department in France, at five hundred francs each, and to be made as

quickly as possible. They were three months quarrelling over the bargain,

and all this time an unfortunate criminal, of the name of Pelletier, was

lying in prison, waiting to be executed; when at last the price was

settled and the first machine ready, he had the miserable distinction of

inaugurating it on the 25th of April, 1792. The prejudice had been very

strong against the new mode of decapitation, the clergy especially arguing

that “the sight of blood would prove highly demoralizing to the people.”

Samson, the executioner, was one of the staunchest opposers of the

innovation on the same grounds, and also because of the shock the

spectacle would give to many spectators. His letter to the Assembly

embodying his opinions and experience on the subject is a curious bit of

literature, highly creditable to the hangman, as indeed all that has come

down to us concerning him seems to be. The humane desire to abridge the

sufferings of the criminal overcame, however, every objection, and hanging

was formally abolished and replaced by decapitation. The new

instrument—most unjustly, as we see—was called the guillotine, in spite of

a semi‐official mention of it as _Louison_, and some efforts to make that

name adhere. The worthy doctor was doomed to notoriety on account of his

having first mooted the affair and made Paris laugh over it. Nothing

secures immortality with the Parisians like a joke.

Apropos of the guillotine, we may mention that the Samsons were a

respectable family of Abbeville, and held the office of “Executioner of

the High Acts of Justice,” by descent, from the year 1722. Charles Henri

Samson, who beheaded Louis XVI., came into office in 1778, and retired on

a pension in 1795. He was succeeded by his son in his formidable

functions, the latter having resigned the grade of captain in the

artillery to undertake them.

Robert Cavelier De La Salle.

The pious hymns of the good and noble Marquette and his companions had not

ceased to reverberate over the waters of the Great River, awakening the

echoes of its banks and overhanging forests, when a bold and devoted

spirit, fired by the fame of previous explorations, was meditating on the

shores of Lake Ontario the prosecution of the grand work begun by the

illustrious missionary. The world was startled with the news that the

waters over whose bosom the missionaries and traders of Canada drove their

canoes at the north, after meandering through the vast plains and forests

of the continent, poured themselves into the Gulf of Mexico. This great

physical problem was settled by Father Marquette and the Sieur Joliet,

who, after having explored the course of the Mississippi for eleven

hundred miles, returned to electrify the world by the reports of their

brilliant success. But as yet comparatively little was known of this

gigantic stream. The imagination of the most sanguine and the hearts of

the boldest were appalled at the task; but it was a destined step in the

onward march of religion and civilization. A Catholic missionary had

gloriously led the way; a Catholic nobleman no less gloriously advanced to

complete the work. This was Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

He was born at Rouen, in Normandy, of a good family, but the date of his

birth has not been transmitted to us. He spent ten or twelve years of his

early life in one of the Jesuit seminaries of France, where he received a

good education, and he was well acquainted with mathematics and the

natural sciences. His renunciation of his patrimony and his long sojourn

among the Fathers of the Society of Jesus justify the belief that he was

intended for the priesthood. Providence, however, destined him for a

somewhat different sphere of labor and usefulness, but one in close co‐

operation with the great work of the church among mankind. He carried with

him from the seminary of the Jesuits the highest testimonials of his

superiors for purity of character, unblemished life, and exhaustless

energy. By his own high qualities and noble achievements he has won a

diploma for himself, inscribed on the brightest pages of our history, and

more honorable than man can confer.

Emerging from the seminary full of youth, intelligence, and daring spirit,

he joined one of the numerous bands of emigrants from France who came to

seek adventures and fortunes in the New World. He came to Canada about the

year 1667, and embarked with great energy in the fur trade, then the

prevailing means of obtaining an exchange of European wealth and

merchandise. His enterprising spirit soon carried him to the frontiers,

and in his frail canoe he traversed the vast rivers and broad lakes of the

continent, mingling with the aborigines, and acquiring information and

experience of their modes of life, character, and languages. He explored

Lake Ontario, and ascended Lake Erie. The activity of his mind and the

restlessness of his genius could not be satisfied even with the vast and

adventurous field of trade presented to him; for he shared largely in the

prevailing ambition of discovering a northwest passage across the

continent to China and Japan, an evidence of which he left behind him in

the name of Lachine, which he bestowed upon one of his trading posts on

the island of Montreal. He saw in that extended chain of lakes the link

that united America with Asia, and indulged in the fond and proud dream

that, as the discoverer of the long‐sought passage, his name would be

inscribed beside that of Columbus on the scroll of immortality.

Seeing the advantages of the position selected by the Comte de Frontenac,

the Governor of Canada, in fortifying the outlet of Lake Ontario, La Salle

erected one of his trading posts under the protection of Fort Fontenac. He

acquired the favor and friendship of the governor, and soon rejoiced in

the esteem and confidence of the public. Up to this time his efforts were

apparently chiefly expended in bold and energetic efforts to build up his

fortunes. But his resources were inferior to the grand enterprises which

he contemplated. He accordingly repaired to France in 1675, where, aided

by the influence of Frontenac and the recommendations of the minister

Colbert, he obtained from his sovereign, Louis XIV., letters‐patent,

granting him Fort Frontenac and the seigniory of a large tract of land

about the same, upon condition that he would rebuild the fort of stone,

garrison it at his own expense, and clear up certain lands. This grant

secured to him a large domain and the exclusive traffic with the Five

Nations. The king also raised him and his family to the rank of nobility

as a reward for his services and noble actions. His patent of nobility

bears date the 13th of May, 1675.

Returning to America, the Cavalier de La Salle took possession of his

seigniory, and soon proved how well he merited the confidence and favors

he enjoyed. He fulfilled all his stipulations with the king. In two years

Fort Frontenac reared its massive walls and bastions of stone which cast

their shadows on the waters of Ontario. A number of French families

clustered around the fort; the Recollect missionaries induced their Indian

neophytes and catechumens to pitch their tents and offer up their newly‐

learned devotions under its shadow; the rugged wilds were supplanted by

cultivated fields, gardens, and pastures, and the new lord of Cataraqui

was at once the pioneer of civilization and the friend of religion. Such

was the origin of the present city of Kingston.

At the same time La Salle prosecuted his commercial enterprises with

renewed vigor, and these, in return, seemed at first to promise to repay

his perseverance and energy. Now for the first time the rapids of the St.

Lawrence were stemmed, and the waters of Ontario ploughed by the keels of

three small barks with decks erected on them. Had all depended on energy

and zeal, success and prosperity would have followed, and the young

nobleman would have achieved a fortune, fame, and power that would not

have been long in winning for him a position among the proudest and most

powerful nobility of France. But his fame was destined rather to be

associated with the foundation of a great republic than with the more

limited work of founding a noble family, to whom to transmit a princely

fortune, and with building up the power of a brilliant despotism. His

enterprises failed, wealth eluded his grasp, and he found himself

oppressed with vast debts, incurred in the great undertakings in which he

had embarked. Turning from this field of disaster, his vigorous mind again

became filled with visions of the northwest passage and with his darling

projects of discovery. He studied the accounts of the Spanish and other

adventurers and discoverers on the continent. Joliet, in 1674, passing

down from the upper lakes, had visited Fort Frontenac, of which La Salle

was then commander under Gov. Frontenac, and thus La Salle was one of the

first to learn of the brilliant achievements and discoveries of the

illustrious Marquette and Joliet, and was probably one of the first to see

the maps and journal which the latter lost between the fort and the next

French post. These did not seem, at the time, to have deeply impressed the

mind of La Salle, who was then engaged in other plans; for it was after

this that he embarked in the project of founding the seigniory of

Cataraqui on the shores of Ontario, and in the vast trading operations

above referred to. On the failure of these he began to plan new adventures

and discoveries. His study of the reports of Spanish and French explorers

led him before all others to identify the great river of Marquette and

Joliet with that of De Soto. Blending the taste for commerce with the

thirst for fame, he saw in the vast herds of bison, described as roaming

over the prairies that extended from the banks of the Missouri and

Illinois rivers, the means of shipping cargoes of buffalo‐skins and wool

to France from the banks of those rivers _via_ the Mississippi and the

Gulf of Mexico. Nor did he yet relinquish his trading projects at the

north; for these he expected to connect with his contemplated trading

posts on the Mississippi, Fort Frontenac still remaining his principal

post. Nor did he yet abandon the hope of discovering from the head‐waters

of the Mississippi a passage to the China Sea.

Filled with these grand and noble views, he returned to France in 1677,

and still enjoying the recommendation of Frontenac and the favor of the

great Colbert and of his son and successor in the ministry, the Marquis de

Seignelay, he succeeded in obtaining from the king, on the 12th of May,

1678, new letters‐patent, confirming his rights to the fort and the

seigniory of Cataraqui, and authorizing him to advance as far westward as

he desired, to build forts wherever he might choose, and prosecute his

commercial enterprises as before, with the single exception that he should

not trade with the Hurons and other Indians who brought their furs to

Montreal, in order that there might be no interference with other traders.

At the recommendation of his friend, the Prince de Conti, La Salle took

into his service as his lieutenant the veteran Chevalier de Tonty, an

Italian by birth, who proved a great acquisition to the work, and was the

ever‐faithful friend and companion of the great captain.

In two months La Salle completed his work in France, and in the autumn of

1678, sailed from Rochelle, accompanied by Tonty, the Sieur de la Motte, a

pilot, mariners, ship‐carpenters, and other workmen. He was well provided

with anchors, sails, cordage, and everything necessary for rigging

vessels, with stores of merchandise for trading with the Indians, and

whatever might be useful for his projected expedition. Arriving at Quebec

in September, he immediately pushed forward to Fort Frontenac—but not

without having to surmount great difficulties and labors in getting his

heavy canoes and freight over the perilous rapids of the St.

Lawrence—where he arrived exhausted and emaciated by his fatigues, but

full of courage and hope.

As the winter approached La Salle pressed forward the preparations for his

grand enterprise, which he resolved to enter upon in the spring. On the

18th of November, 1678, he despatched the hardy and faithful Tonty,

accompanied by Father Louis Hennepin, to the Niagara River in one of his

brigantines of ten tons, with workmen, provisions, implements, and

materials, to undertake the construction and equipment of a vessel to bear

his party over the upper lakes—a work which was to be accomplished with a

handful of men, in the midst of winter, at a distance of hundreds of miles

from any civilized settlement, and surrounded by savage tribes, whose

enmity had been enkindled by the malice of La Salle’s enemies, who,

actuated by the rivalry of trade, had induced the Indians to believe that

he intended to monopolize their trade upon terms dictated by himself at

the cannon’s mouth. Tonty set to work with a cheerful heart. He

encountered perils and hardships, which overcame the endurance of La

Motte, who abandoned the enterprise, and retired to Quebec to seek ease

and rest from such labors. Tonty persevered until the 20th of January,

when La Salle by his presence inspired him and his companions with new

ardor and courage. About this time the brigantine was cast away on the

southern shore of Lake Ontario, in consequence of dissensions among the

pilots; and several bark canoes, with their valuable freight of goods and

provisions, were wrecked and lost. His difficulties with the Senecas also

compelled La Salle to relinquish the fort which he had begun to build at

the falls of Niagara as a protection to his ship‐builders, and to content

himself with a mere shed or store‐house. A spirit less brave and firm than

La Salle’s would have quailed under the misfortunes which, through the

inclemency of the season and the malice of men, surrounded his steps. But

these only nerved him to greater exertion. In six days after his arrival

the keel of his vessel was laid, the cavalier driving the first bolt with

his own hand. “When he saw the snow began to melt,” he sent out fifteen

men in advance of his exploring expedition, with instructions to pass over

the lakes to Mackinac, provide provisions for the expedition, and await

the arrival of the main party.

Leaving Tonty now to conduct the building of the vessel, La Salle made a

journey of over three hundred miles of frozen country to Fort Frontenac,

to arrange his financial business before setting out in the spring. His

only food was a bag of corn; his baggage was drawn over the snow and ice

by two men and a dog. At the fort he had to exert all his ability and

energy to counteract the malicious efforts and practices of his enemies

for his ruin. His creditors at Quebec became alarmed by the reports and

calumnies of his foes. His effects at that town were seized and

sacrificed, while the property which he was compelled to leave at Fort

Frontenac was in value double all his debts. But the delay of his

expedition would be to him a greater evil than the loss of property, so

that he could not stop to remedy or resist these proceedings. In the midst

of such harassing cares he bore in mind the necessity of providing for the

religious wants of his companions and of the benighted heathen nations

which he intended to visit. He secured the services of three Recollect

missionaries, Fathers Gabriel de la Ribourde, Louis Hennepin, and Zenobe

Membré. He had already, while commanding at Fort Frontenac, built for

these good missionaries a house and chapel; he now bestowed upon their

order eighteen acres of land near the fort, and one hundred acres of

forest‐land.