I was affected to tears.

“I assure you,” said I, with a sincerity of accent that could not be

mistaken, “this so‐called great catastrophe has only taken away the things

I did not care for: it gives me here all I love, and nearly everything I

desire.”

I looked at him hesitatingly, not yet knowing how far to go. But his look

inspired me with courage, and I continued, with emotion:

“Tell me, in your turn, that you regret nothing, that my presence

suffices, and I pledge you my word, Lorenzo, this hour will be the

happiest of my life.”

Instead of replying directly, he knelt down beside the little divan where

I was sitting, and I saw his eyes beaming with the expression that once

used to flash from them for an instant, not uncertain and transitory as

then, but calm, stable, and profound.

“Ginevra,” said he, “in assuring you to‐day that my reason has been

restored to me, that I have for ever recovered from my detestable

aberration, that I again look upon you as I did when you first effaced

every other image, that I love you as much, yes, a thousand times more

than ever, this is not saying enough, this is not telling you what you

would perhaps listen to far more gladly than all this.”

I opened my eyes and looked steadily towards him. He felt my soul was

trying to read his, and he continued in a low, agitated tone:

“You have made me love in you what is better than yourself. Listen to

me.... Long years of indifference had effaced the memory of divine things

I had been taught in my childhood. Did you think they could ever be

recalled? I had never felt the slightest desire. It is you, Ginevra, who

caused their return. Can you realize it?”

O my God! this hour was too happy for earth! It left me only one wish

more. It realized to the fullest extent all the cherished dreams of the

past, and made me touch at last the summit (alas! always threatening and

uncertain) of earthly happiness! No cloud has ever obscured the bright,

blessed remembrance! No suffering, no trial, has ever checked the effusion

of gratitude I still feel, and which will be eternal!

It will not be difficult to understand that, in this new state of things,

our life speedily and sweetly resumed its course. Strange to say, this

calm, simple life, exempt from splendor, luxury, and worldly _éclat_, was

the precise realization of the secret desire I had always cherished in my

soul, the signification of which had been revealed to me in that great day

of grace which I may call that of my _true birth_!

It would, therefore, have been an absurdity to speak of sacrifice in the

situation in which I now found myself. But Lorenzo did not yet see things

in the same light.

“I acknowledge,” said he one day, after some weeks had passed by—“I

acknowledge we lack nothing essential, that the waifs from our wreck even

afford us a comfortable support, but I wish more than that for you, my

Ginevra. I must work for the means of restoring all my folly has deprived

you of. The public receives my productions with marked favor. They have

all been sold at a fabulous price, except one which I will never part

with. Let me alone, therefore, and I promise you the day shall arrive when

I will place on your brow a diadem even more brilliant than the one you

have lost.”

I made a quick gesture, and was about to express the repugnance such a

prospect inspired. But I stopped. It was better, no matter in what way, he

should be stimulated by some object to be attained by the laborious

efforts to which he devoted all his faculties. I allowed him, therefore,

to dream of the jewels he would adorn me with, and enlarge on his plans

for the future, while I was sitting beside him in his studio, sometimes

reading to him, and sometimes becoming his model again. Whenever he spoke

in this way, I smiled without trying to oppose him.

Mme. de Kergy and Diana hastened to see me the day after my arrival. We

continued to meet almost daily, and I found in their delightful society

the strongest support, the wisest counsels, and an affection which

inspired almost unlimited confidence.

As to Gilbert, he was still absent, and not expected to return till the

autumn of the following year.

When his mother gave me this information, my first feeling was one of

relief. It seemed to me my relations with his family were simplified by

his absence, and I could defer all thought as to what I should do at his

return. But, when I saw my dear, venerable friend secretly wipe away a

tear as she spoke of her son; when she added in a trembling voice that

such a separation at her age was a severe trial which afflicted her more

than any she had ever known; when Diana afterwards came to tell me with a

full heart that Gilbert’s absence was shortening her mother’s days, oh!

then my heart sank with profound sorrow, and I felt an ardent, painful

desire to repair the evil I had caused—an evil which (whatever may be

said) is never altogether involuntary!

Ah! if women would only consider how far their fatal influence sometimes

extends, even those who add hardness of heart to their desire to please

would become indifferent to the wish. They scarcely hesitate sometimes to

sacrifice a man’s career, his abilities, his whole existence. Vanity and

pride take pleasure in ravages of this kind. But if their eyes could

behold the firesides they quench the light of, the maternal hearts they

sadden, the families whose sweet joys they destroy, their trophies would

seem bloody, and they might be brought to comprehend the words of the

Psalmist which I had humbly learned to repeat: _Ab occultis meis munda me,

et ab alienis parce servo tuo._

Lorenzo’s celebrity increased by the productions he now exhibited to the

public. The singularity of our position in returning to Paris, under

circumstances so different from those which surrounded us when we made our

first appearance in the _grand monde_, drew upon us the attention of this

very world which would have enticed us from our retreat. But, thank

Heaven! I did not have to exert my influence over Lorenzo to induce him to

decline it. His pride would have been sufficient, had not his whole time

been absorbed in his labors, and it was even with difficulty he consented

to accompany me one evening to the Hôtel de Kergy.

From that time, however, he willingly repeated his visits, attracted by

Mme. de Kergy’s dignified cordiality and simplicity of manner as well as

by the charm of the intellectual circle of which her _salon_ was the

centre—a charm he would have always appreciated had he not been under the

influence of another attraction. Now there was no counteracting influence,

and he took fresh pleasure every evening in going there to repose after

the fatigue of the day and seek something more beneficial to his mind than

mere recreation.

A person endowed with noble gifts, who returns to the right path after

long going astray, experiences an immense consolation in finding himself

in his true element. It would, therefore, be impossible to tell how great

Lorenzo’s joy now was, or how eloquently he was able to express it. And

nothing could express the feelings with which I listened to him!

The only shadow of my life at this time was my separation from Stella. A

thousand times did I urge her to join me, as she was no longer under any

obligation to remain at Naples. I felt that the only possible solace for

her broken heart would be to leave the place where she had suffered so

much; her courageous soul would find a salutary aliment in the great

charitable movement at Paris, at that time in all the vigor of its first

impulse, given a few years before. I therefore continually urged her to

come, but I begged her in vain. An invincible repugnance to leave the

place of refuge where she had hidden her grief prevented her from yielding

to my wishes.

Thus passed days, weeks, months, yes, even a whole year and more of

happiness. The satisfactory life I had dreamed of was now a reality, and

the world I once fancied I could reveal to Lorenzo unaided he had

discovered himself. It had been revealed to him by trials, humiliation,

and labor. The absolute change in his habits, which Lando had once

indicated as the only remedy, had, as he had foreseen, produced a

beneficial, efficacious, and lasting effect.

But we know one of the anomalies of the human heart is to expect and long

for happiness as its right, and yet to be incapable of possessing it a

single day in its plenitude without trembling, as if conscious it was not

in the nature of things here below for it to endure a long time.

Lorenzo experienced more than most people this melancholy of happiness,

which was often increased by too profound a regret for the errors of his

life. It partook of the vehemence of his character, and it was sometimes

difficult to overcome the sadness awakened by the remembrance of the past.

“Ginevra,” said he one day, “I am far too happy for a man who merits it so

little.”

He said this with a gloomy expression. It was the beginning of spring. The

air was soft, the sky clear, the lilacs of our little garden were in

bloom, and we sat there inhaling the perfume. He repeated:

“Yes, my life is now too happy—too happy, I feel, to be of long duration.”

A remark somewhat trite, which is often thrown like a veil over the too

excessive brightness of earthly happiness! But I could not repress a

shudder as I listened to it. And yet what was there to fear ... to desire

... to refuse ... when I felt the present and the future were in the hands

of Him whom I loved more than anything here below?

To Be Concluded Next Month.

A Bit Of Modern Thought On Matter.

We have now accomplished the first portion of our task, by establishing on

good philosophical and physical grounds the fundamental truths regarding

the essence and the properties of material substance as such. We might,

therefore, take up the second part of our treatise, and begin our

investigation about the nature of the metaphysical constituents of matter

and their necessary relations, in order to ascertain how far the

principles of the scholastic doctrine on matter can nowadays be maintained

consistently with the principles of natural science. But we think it

necessary, before we enter into the study of such a difficult subject, to

caution our readers against some productions of modern thinkers, whose

speculations on the nature of material things confound all philosophy, and

tend by their sophistry to popularize the most pernicious errors. The

number of such productions is daily increasing, owing to the efforts of

powerful societies, and the philosophical imbecility of the scientific

press and of its patrons. The heap of intellectual rubbish thus

accumulated, both in Europe and in America, is quite prodigious; to sweep

it all away would be like purging the Augean stable—a task which some new

Hercules may yet undertake. We shall confine ourselves to a small portion

of that task, by scattering to the winds some plausible quibbles we have

lately met with in an American scientific magazine.

J. B. Stallo is the author of a series of articles published in the

_Popular Science Monthly_ under the title “The Primary Concepts of Modern

Physical Science.” He is a clever writer; but his conclusions, owing to a

lack of sound philosophy, are not always correct. Some of them are

altogether unfounded, others demonstrably false; and many of them, while

attempting to revolutionize science, tend to foster downright scepticism.

We shall single out a few of those propositions which clash with the

common doctrines of modern physics no less than with the common principles

of metaphysics; and we hope to show, by their refutation, the incomparable

superiority of our old over his new philosophy.

_Indestructibility of matter._—“The indestructibility of matter,” says the

writer,(181) “is an unquestionable truth. But in what sense, and upon what

grounds, is this indestructibility predicated of matter? The unanimous

answer of the atomists is: Experience teaches that all the changes to

which matter is subject are but variations of form, and that amid these

variations there is an unvarying constant—the mass or quantity of matter.

The constancy of the mass is attested by the balance, which shows that

neither fusion nor sublimation, neither generation nor corruption, can add

to, or detract from, the weight of a body subjected to experiment. When a

pound of carbon is burned, the balance demonstrates the continuous

existence of this pound in the carbonic acid, which is the product of

combustion, and from which the original weight of carbon may be recovered.

The quantity of matter is measured by its weight, and this weight is

unchangeable.”

So far all is right; but he continues: “Such is the fact familiar to every

one, and its interpretation equally familiar. To test the correctness of

this interpretation we may be permitted slightly to vary the method of

verifying it. Instead of burning the pound of carbon, let us simply carry

it to the summit of a mountain, or remove it to a lower latitude; is its

weight still the same? Relatively it is; it will still balance the

original counterpoise. But the absolute weight is no longer the same....

It is thus evident that the constancy, upon the observation of which the

assertion of the indestructibility of matter is based, is simply the

constancy of a relation, and that the ordinary statement of the fact is

crude and inadequate. Indeed, while it is true that the weight of a body

is a measure of its mass, this is but a single case of the more general

fact that the masses of bodies are inversely as the velocities imparted to

them by the action of the same force, or, more generally still, inversely

as the accelerations produced in them by the same force. In the case of

gravity, the forces of attraction are directly proportional to the masses,

so that the action of the forces (_weight_) is the simplest measure of the

relation between any two masses as such; but in any inquiry relating to

the validity of the atomic theory, it is necessary to bear in mind that

this weight is not the equivalent, or rather the presentation, of an

absolute substantive entity in one of the bodies (the body weighed), but

the mere expression of a relation between two bodies mutually attracting

each other. And it is further necessary to remember that this weight may

be indefinitely reduced, without any diminution in the mass of the body

weighed, by a mere change of its position in reference to the body between

which and the body weighed the relation subsists.”

The aim of the author is, as we shall see, to prove that “there are and

can be no absolute constants of mass”; hence he endeavors at the very

outset to shake our opposite conviction by showing that there is no

absolute measure of masses. Such is the drift of the passage we have

transcribed.

But we beg to remark that absolute quantities may be known to be absolute

independently of any absolute measurement. Three kinds of quantity are

conceivable: intensive quantity, which is measured by _degrees_; dimensive

quantity, which is measured by _distances_; and numerical quantity, which

is measured by discrete _units_. Of course dimensive quantity is

altogether relative, inasmuch as it entirely consists of relations, and

cannot be measured but by relative and arbitrary measures; but intensive

quantity, though measured by arbitrary degrees, is altogether absolute,

because it consists of a reality whose value is independent of correlative

terms. And in the same manner numerical quantity is altogether absolute,

because it consists of absolute units, by which it can be measured,

absolutely speaking, though we may fail to reach such units, and are then

obliged to measure it by some other standard. Now, the mass, or the

quantity of matter in a body, is a numerical quantity; for it consists of

a number of primitive units, independent of one another for their essence

and for their existence, and therefore absolute in regard to their

substantial being. Consequently, every mass of matter has an absolute

value corresponding to the number of absolute units it contains; and thus

every mass of matter is “an absolute constant of mass.” It is true that we

have no means of ascertaining the absolute number of primitive units

contained in a given mass; hence we are constrained to measure the

quantity of matter by a relative measure—that is, by comparing it with an

equal volume of another substance, whose density and weight we assume as

the measure of other densities and weights. But does our ignorance of the

absolute number of primitive units contained in a given mass interfere

with their real existence? or, can our method of measuring change the

nature of the thing measured?

We are told that “the weight of a body may be indefinitely reduced without

any diminution in the mass of the body weighed.” Would not this show that,

contrary to the author’s opinion, the body weighed possesses “an absolute

constant of mass”? We are told at the same time that “the weight of a body

is a measure of its mass.” This cannot be true, unless, while the mass

remains unchanged, the weight also remains unchanged. Hence the author’s

idea of carrying the pound of carbon to the summit of a mountain in order

to diminish its weight, is inconsistent with the law of measurement, which

forbids the employment of two weights and measures for measuring one and

the same quantity.

The atomists measure the quantity of matter by its weight, because they

know that every particle of matter is subject to gravitation, and

therefore that the weights, all other things being equal, are

proportionate to the number of primitive particles contained in the

bodies. Thus, if a body contains a number, _m_, of primitive particles,

and each of these particles is subject to the gravitation, _g_, while

another body contains a number, _m´_, of primitive particles subject to

the same gravitation, the ratio of the weights of the two bodies will be

the same as the ratio of the two masses; for

_mg_ : _m´g_ : : _m_ : _m´_;

and if the two bodies were carried to the summit of a mountain, where the

gravitation is reduced to _g´_, the weights would indeed be changed, but

their ratio would remain unaltered, and we would still have

_mg´_ : _m´g´_ : : _m_ : _m´_.

Hence, whether we weigh two bodies in the valley or at the summit of the

mountain, so long as we keep the same unit of gravitation for both, the

ratio of their masses remains the same. This shows that the quantity of

matter existing in those bodies implies “a constant of mass” _independent_

of the intensity of gravitation, and that the ratio of the two masses is

the ratio of two “absolute” quantities—that is, of two numbers of

primitive material units.

It is not true, therefore, that the weight is not “the presentation of an

absolute substantive entity,” as the author pretends. Weight implies mass

and gravitation, and presents the one as subject to the other. Now, the

mass is an “absolute substantive entity,” as we have shown. Nor is it true

that weight is “the mere expression of a relation between two bodies

mutually attracting each other,” as the author imagines. The pound of

carbon is a pound not because of an attraction exercised by the carbon

upon the earth, but merely because of the attraction exercised by the

earth on the mass of the carbon. Were it otherwise, the mathematical

expression of weight should contain, besides the mass of the body weighed

and the action of gravity upon it, a third quantity representing the

action of the body upon the earth, and the gravitation of the earth

towards the body.

The writer proceeds: “Masses find their true and only measure in the

action of forces, and the quantitative persistence of the effect of this

action is the simple and accurate expression of the fact which is

ordinarily described as the indestructibility of matter. It is obvious

that this persistence is in no sense explained or accounted for by the

atomic theory” (p. 708).

We admit that, owing to our inability to determine the absolute number of

primitive elements in a body, we resort to the persistence of the weight

in order to ascertain the persistence of a certain quantity of matter in

the body. But this does not show that the action of forces is the “only

measure” of masses. A mass is a number of material units; its true measure

is _one of such units_, and it is only in order to determine the relative

number of such units in different bodies that we have recourse to their

weights. It is not the quantity of matter that follows the weight of the

body, but it is the weight of the body that follows the quantity of

matter; and therefore, although we determine the relative quantities of

matter by the relation of their weights, it is not the weight that

measures the quantity of matter, but it is the quantity of matter that

measures the weight. In other terms, the persistence of the mass is merely

_known_ through the persistence of the weight, but the persistence of the

weight is itself _a consequence_ of the persistence of the mass. Hence the

persistence of the mass is perfectly accounted for by the atomic theory,

notwithstanding Mr. Stallo’s contrary assertion.

He says: “The hypothesis of ultimate indestructible atoms is not a

necessary implication of the persistence of weight, and can at best

account for the indestructibility of matter if it can be shown that there

is an absolute limit to the compressibility of matter—in other words, that

there is an absolutely least volume for every determinate mass” (p. 708).

Both parts of this proposition are false. The first is false, because the

weight of a body is the result of the gravitation of all its particles;

and, therefore, it cannot persist without the persistence of the

gravitating particles. The second part also is false, because the

persistence of the weight implies the persistence of the mass

independently of all considerations concerning a limit of compressibility

or an absolute minimum of volume. Hence, whatever the author may say to

the contrary, it is quite certain of scientific certainty that there can

be, and there is, in all bodies, “an absolute constant of mass.”

_Atomic theory._—The writer objects to the atomic theory on the ground

that it does not explain impenetrability, and that it misconceives the

nature of reality. He begins by remarking that “the proposition, according

to which a space occupied by one body cannot be occupied by another,

implies the assumption that space is an absolute, self‐measuring entity,

and the further assumption that there is a least space which a given body

will absolutely fill so as to exclude any other body” (p. 709). We think

that the proposition implies nothing of the kind. The space occupied by

one body cannot _naturally_ be occupied by another, because all bodies are

made up of molecules which at very small distances repel one another with

actions of greater and greater intensities, thus preventing

compenetration, while successfully struggling for the preservation of

their own individuality. This the molecules can do, whether space can be

filled or not, and whether space is a self‐measuring entity or not. Hence

the remark of the author has no foundation.

But he continues: “The atomic theory has become next to valueless as an

explanation of the impenetrability of matter, since it has been pressed

into the service of the undulatory theory of light, heat, etc., and

assumed the form in which it is now held by the majority of physicists.

According to this form of the theory, the atoms are either mere points,

wholly without extension, or their dimensions are infinitely small as

compared with the distances between them, whatever be the state of

aggregation of the substances into which they enter. In this view, the

resistance which a body, _i.e._, a system of atoms, offers to the

intrusion of another body is due not to the rigidity or unchangeability of

volume of the individual atoms, but to the relation between the attractive

and repulsive forces with which they are supposed to be endowed. There are

physicists holding this view, who are of opinion that the atomic

constitution of matter is consistent with its compenetrability—among them

M. Cauchy, who in his _Sept Leçons de physique générale_ (ed. Moigno,

Paris, 1868, p. 38), after defining atoms as material points without

extension, uses this language: ‘Thus, this property of matter, which we

call impenetrability, is explained when we consider the atoms as material

points exerting on each other attractions and repulsions which vary with

the distances that separate them.... From this it follows that, if it

pleased the Author of nature simply to modify the laws according to which

the atoms attract or repel each other, we might instantly see the hardest

bodies penetrate each other, the smallest particles of matter occupy

immense spaces, or the largest masses reduce themselves to the smallest

volumes, the entire universe concentrating itself, as it were, in a single

point’ ” (p. 710).

We think that the author’s notion of the form in which the atomic theory

is now held by physicists is not quite correct. The chemical atoms are now

considered as dynamical systems of material points, so that the atomic

theory is now scarcely distinguishable from the molecular theory. That

such a theory “has become next to valueless as an explanation of the

impenetrability of matter” is not true. Of course two primitive elements

of matter, if attractive, would, according to the theory, as we understand

it, pass through one another; as nothing can oppose their progress except

repulsion, which is not to be thought of in the case of attractive

elements. But the case is different with molecules; for every molecule of

any special substance contains a number of repulsive elements, and

possesses a repulsive envelope(182) which resists most effectually all

attempt at compenetration on the part of other molecules. Hence the

impenetrability of _bodies_ (not of _matter_, as the author says) is a

simple result of the molecular constitution of bodies, as explained in the

atomic theory of the modern chemists.

That the resistance which a body offers to the intrusion of another body

is due “not to the rigidity or unchangeability of volume of individual

atoms, but to the relation between the attractive and repulsive forces

with which they are supposed to be endowed,” is an obvious truth. We do

not see by what kind of reasoning the author can infer from it that “the

atomic theory has become next to valueless as an explanation of

impenetrability.” We rather maintain that the theory is correct, and that

no other theory has yet been found which explains impenetrability without

assuming much that philosophy condemns. As to M. Cauchy’s views, we remark

that, when he defines atoms as “material points without extension,” he

does not speak of the chemical atoms, or equivalents, but of the primitive

elements of which such atoms or equivalents are composed.

The author says: “The assumption of atoms of different specific gravities

proves to be not only futile, but absurd. Its manifest theoretical

ineptitude is found to mask the most fatal inconsistencies. According to

the mechanical conception which underlies the whole atomic hypothesis,

differences of weight are differences of density; and differences of

density are differences of distance between the particles contained in a

given space. Now, in the atom there is no multiplicity of particles and no

void space; hence differences of density or weight are impossible in the

case of atoms” (p. 715).

This conclusion would be quite inevitable, if it were true that the atom

of the chemists contains no multiplicity of particles and no void space;

but the truth is that chemical atoms are nothing but _equivalents_, or

_molecules_—that is, dynamical systems of material points intercepting

void space. Hence the author’s argument has no foundation. The very fact

that men of science unanimously agree in attributing to different atoms a

different weight, should have warned Mr. Stallo that the word “atom” could

not be considered by them as a simple material point.

The author in his second article (November, 1873) argues against the

_actio in distans_. We have given his words in one of our own articles,

where we undertook to show that _actio in distans_ cannot be impugned with

any good argument.(183) The author, however, we are glad to see, honestly

acknowledges that “the transfer of motion from one body to another by

impact is no less incomprehensible than the _actio in distans_” (p. 96);

which shows that, after having rejected the action at a distance, he is at

a loss how to account for any communication or propagation of movement. A

little later he quotes a passage of Faraday, which we have given in

another place, and in which the English professor considers the atoms as

consisting of a mere sphere of power, with a central point having no

dimensions. Then he gives his own view of the subject in the following

words:

“The true root of all these errors is a total misconception of the nature

of reality. All the reality we know is not only spatially finite, but

limited in all its aspects; its whole existence lies in relation and

contrast, as I shall show more at length in the next article. We know

nothing of force, except by its contrast with mass, or (what is the same

thing) inertia; and conversely, as I have already pointed out in my first

article, we know nothing of mass except by its relation to force. Mass,

inertia (or, as it is sometimes, though inaccurately, called, matter _per

se_), is indistinguishable from absolute nothingness; for matter reveals

its presence, or evinces its reality, only by its action, its force, its

tension, or motion. But, on the other hand, mere force is equally nothing;

for, if we reduce the mass upon which a given force, however small, acts,

until it vanishes—or, mathematically expressed, until it becomes

infinitely small—the consequence is that the velocity of the resulting

motion is infinitely great, and that the ‘thing’ (if under these

circumstances a thing can still be spoken of) is at any given moment

neither here nor there, but everywhere—that is, there is no real presence.

It is impossible, therefore, to construct matter by a mere synthesis of

forces.... The true formula of matter is mass × force, or inertia × force”

(p. 103).

The author is greatly mistaken in assuming that those who consider the

atoms (primitive elements) as centres of force totally misconceive the

nature of reality. That Faraday, notwithstanding his saying that “the

substance consists of the powers,” admits with the power the matter also,

is evident from his very mention of the _centre_ of the powers; for such a

centre is nothing else than _the_ matter, as we have proved above. He

says, indeed, that the nucleus of the atom “vanishes”; but by “nucleus” he

means the _bulk_ or the continuous material extension of the atom. This

bulk, says he, must vanish, inasmuch as the centre of the powers must be a

mere unextended point. He therefore denies, not the matter, but only its

intrinsic extension.

Mr. Stallo volunteers to show us “the true root” of all our _errors_.

According to him, we totally misconceive the nature of reality. “All the

reality we know,” he says, “is not only spatially finite, but limited in

all its aspects.” About this we will not quarrel, for we admit that all

created substances are limited; yet we would ask the author whether he

thinks that the range of universal attraction has any known limit in

space; and, if so, we would further ask where it is; for we admit our full

ignorance of its existence. “We know nothing of force,” he continues,

“except by its contrast with mass, or, what is the same thing, inertia.”

Our readers know that mass and inertia are not the same thing; the mass is

a quantity of matter, while inertia is the incapability of self‐motion. A

writer who can confound the two as identical is not competent to correct

our _errors_ and to teach us the nature of reality. As to the contrast of

force with mass, we have no objection; yet, while speaking of the nature

of things, we would prefer to contrast matter with form rather than force

with mass. The term _force_ applies to the production of phenomena, and is

usually confounded with action and with movement, neither of which is a

constituent of substance; whilst the term _mass_ expresses any quantity of

matter from a single element up to a mountain; and thus it does not

exhibit with precision the matter due to the primitive material substance.

“Mass, or matter _per se_, is indistinguishable from absolute

nothingness.” Of course, matter _per se_—that is, without form—cannot

exist. In the same manner “mere force is equally nothing”—that is, the

material form, which is the principle of action, has no separate existence

without its matter. This every one admits, though not on the grounds

suggested by Mr. Stallo. “If we reduce,” says he, “the mass upon which a

given force, however small, acts, until it vanishes—or, mathematically

expressed, until it becomes infinitely small—the consequence is that the

velocity of the resulting motion is infinitely great.” We deny this

consequence, as well as the supposition from which it is inferred. Masses

are numbers of material elements, or units. When such units are reached,

the division is at an end, because those primitive units are without

dimensions. Hence the extreme limit of the reduction of masses is not an

infinitesimal quantity of mass, as the author imagines, but an absolute

finite unit; for this unit, when repeated a finite number of times, gives

us a finite quantity of mass. But, even supposing that the hypothesis of

the author might be entertained (and it must be entertained by all those

who consider matter as materially continuous), his consequence would still

be false. For, let there be a continuous atom having finite dimensions. If

such an atom is acted on, say by gravity, it will acquire a finite

velocity. Now, it is evident that, when the atom has a finite velocity,

every infinitesimal portion of it will have a finite velocity. Therefore

the action which produces a finite velocity in the finite mass of the

atom, produces a finite velocity in the infinitesimal masses of which the

atom is assumed to consist. The error of the author arises from his

confounding quantity of movement with action. A quantity of movement is a

product of a mass into its velocity; and evidently the product cannot

remain constant, unless the velocity increases in the same ratio as the

mass decreases. The action, on the contrary, is _directly_ proportional to

the mass; and therefore, in the author’s hypothesis, the consequence

should have been the very opposite of that which he enounces; that is, the

velocity acquired by an infinitesimal mass would still be finite instead

of infinitely great. But, as we have said, the hypothesis itself is

inadmissible, because only continuous quantity can be reduced to

infinitesimals, whilst masses are not continuous but discrete quantities.

That it is impossible “to construct matter by a mere synthesis of forces”

is undeniable; but there was no need of arguing a point which no one

contests. The author should rather have given us his ground for asserting

that “the true formula of matter is _mass multiplied by force_.” This

assertion can by no means be made good. All physicists know that mass

multiplied by force represents nothing but a quantity of movement; and the

author will not pretend, we presume, that matter is a quantity of

movement. The true formula of matter is its essential definition; and it

is not a mathematical but a metaphysical product, or rather a metaphysical

ratio, as we have shown in another place. Material substance is _matter

actuated by its substantial form_, and nothing else.

The author continues thus: “We now have before us in full view one of the

fundamental fallacies of the atomic theory. This fallacy consists in the

delusion that the conceptual constituents of matter can be grasped as

separate and real entities. The corpuscular atomists take the element of

inertia, and treat it as real by itself: while Boscovich, Faraday, and all

those who define atoms as _centres of force_, seek to realize the

corresponding element, force, as an entity by itself. In both cases

elements of reality are mistaken for kinds of reality” (p. 103).

It is rather singular that a man who is so little at home in questions

about matter should undertake to point out the fallacies and delusions of

the best informed. Is it true that Boscovich, Faraday, and others of the

same school, consider force as an entity by itself? And is it true that

the corpuscular atomists treat the element of inertia as real by itself?

There is much to be said against corpuscular atomists for other reasons,

but they cannot surely be accused of maintaining that the element of

inertia—that is, the mass of the atom—can exist separately without any

inherent power, as they uniformly teach that their atoms are endowed with

resisting powers. The accusation brought against Boscovich, Faraday, and

others, is still more glaringly unjust. They do not seek to realize force

“as an entity by itself”; on the contrary, when they define the atoms as

centres of force, they manifestly teach that both the force and its centre

are indispensable for the constitution of a primitive atom. And, since by

the word _force_ they mean the principle of activity (the form), and in

the centre they recognize the principle of passivity (the matter), we

cannot but conclude that the accusation has no ground, and that the

fallacy and the delusion is on the side of Mr. Stallo himself.

Moreover, is it true that _mass_ and _force_, or, to speak more

accurately, the matter and the form, are nothing more than “the

_conceptual_ constituents” of material substance? This the author assumes

as the base of his argumentation; yet it is plain that, if the

constituents of a thing are only conceptual, the thing they constitute

cannot be anything else than a conceptual being—that is, a being of

reason. We must therefore either deny the reality of matter or concede

that its constituents are more than conceptual. Could not the author

perceive that, if mass is a mere concept, and force another mere concept,

their alliance gives nothing but two concepts, and that the reality of the

external world becomes a dream?

We live in times when men of a certain class presume to discuss

metaphysical subjects without previous study and without a sufficient

acquaintance with the first notions of metaphysics. One of these first

notions is that all real being has real constituents. Such constituents,

when known to us, are the object of our conceptions, and consequently they

may become conceptual; but they do not cease to be real outside of our

mind. Were we to conceive matter as separated from its form, or form as

deprived of its matter, nothing real would correspond to our conception;

for nowhere can real matter be found without a form, or a real form

without its matter. Hence form without matter and matter without form are

at best beings of reason. But when we conceive the matter as it is under

its form, or the form as it is terminated to its matter, we evidently

conceive the real constituents of material substance as they are in

nature—that is, as metaphysical realities contained in the physical being.

Does it follow that “elements of reality,” as the author objects, “are

mistaken for kinds of reality”? By no means. The constituents of physical

reality are themselves metaphysical realities, but they are not exactly

two kinds of reality, because they belong both to the same essence which

cannot be of two kinds. Hence the matter and the substantial form, or, in

general, act and potency, notwithstanding their real metaphysical

opposition and distinction, are one essence, one kind, and one being. But

let us go back to our author.

In his third article (December, 1873) he says: “The ordinary mechanical

explanation of the molecular states of matter, or states of aggregation,

on the basis of the atomic theory, proceeds on the assumption that the

molecular states are produced by the conflict of antagonistic central

forces—molecular attraction and repulsion—the preponderance of the one or

the other of which gives rise to the solid and gaseous forms, while their

balance or equilibrium results in the liquid state. The utter futility of

this explanation is apparent at a glance. Even waiving the considerations

presented by Herbert Spencer (_First Principles_, p. 60 et seq.), that, in

view of the necessary variation of the attractive and repulsive forces in

the inverse ratio of the squares of the distances, the constituent atoms

of a body, if they are _in equilibrio_ at any particular distance, must be

equally _in equilibrio_ at all other distances, and that their density or

state, therefore, must be invariable; and admitting that the increase or

diminution of the repulsive force, _heat_, may render the preponderance of

either force, and thus the change of density or state of aggregation,

possible, what becomes of the liquid state as corresponding to the exact

balance of these two forces in the absence of external coercion? The exact

balance of the two opposing forces is a mere mathematical limit, which

must be passed with the slightest preponderance of either force over the

other. All bodies being subject to continual changes of temperature, the

equilibrium can at best be but momentary; it must of necessity be of the

most labile kind” (p. 223).

This argument against the atomic theory would be very good, if its

premises were not deceptive. Mr. Stallo, unfortunately, relies too much on

the terminology of physical writers, which is not always correct. Thus, it

is not true that the solid form is the result of an actual preponderance

of attraction between the molecules. If attraction prevailed, the

molecules would not remain in their relative position, but would move in

the direction of the attraction. The truth is that molecules, whether in

the solid or in the liquid form, are in equilibrium of position;

accordingly, neither attraction nor repulsion actually prevails between

them.

Their position of equilibrium is determined by their own constitution, and

may change; for the molecules admit of accidental changes in their

constitution. Hence the distance of relative equilibrium is not

necessarily constant, but changes with the change of state of each

molecule. This shows that bodies, whether solid or liquid, can retain

their solid or liquid form while subjected to considerable molecular

changes, and that therefore neither the solid nor the liquid form is

necessarily impaired by “the changes of temperature” or other molecular

movements. The molecules of bodies attract each other when their distance

is great, and repel each other when their distance has become very small;

whence we immediately infer that there is for every kind of molecules a

distance which marks the limit of their mutual attraction and repulsion,

and that at such a distance the molecules must find their position of

equilibrium. A body will be solid when, its molecules being in the

position of relative equilibrium, from a small increase of their distance

an attraction arises, which does not allow of the molecules being easily

separated or arranged in a different order around one another. A body will

be liquid when, its molecules being in the position of relative

equilibrium, from a small increase of their distance a weak attraction

arises, which allows of the molecules being easily separated or easily

arranged, without separation, in a different manner around one another. A

body will be expansive and fluid when its free molecules are at a distance

sensibly less than that of relative equilibrium, and therefore repel each

other, and are in need of exterior pressure to be kept at such a distance.

But we must not forget that the distance of relative equilibrium varies

with the intrinsic dynamical variation of the molecules, and that

therefore “the exact balance of the two opposing forces is _not_ a mere

mathematical limit,” but is comprised between two mathematical limits

determined by the amount of the variations of which each species of

molecules is susceptible before settling into a different form.

Having thus disposed of the main argument by which the author wished to

show “the utter futility” of the ordinary mechanical explanation of the

molecular states of matter on the basis of the atomic theory, we may add a

few words concerning Herbert Spencer’s argument alluded to by the author.

The law of actions inversely proportional to the squares of the distances

is true for each primitive element of matter, but it is not applicable to

molecules acting at molecular distances, as we have proved in another

place.(184) Hence Spencer’s argument, which assumes the contrary, is

entirely worthless. On the other hand, were the argument admissible, we do

not see how the proposition, “The constituent atoms of a body, if they are

_in equilibrio_ at any particular distance, must be equally _in

equilibrio_ at all other distances,” can justify the conclusion that

“their density or state must be invariable.” It seems to us that a change

of molecular distances must entail a change of density; but, of course, we

are behind our age.

_Relativity of material realities._—“It has been a favorite tenet, not

only of metaphysicians, but of physicists as well, that reality is

cognizable only as absolute, permanent, and invariable, or, as the

metaphysicians of the XVIth and XVIIth centuries expressed it, _sub specie

æterni et abroluti_. This proposition,” Mr. Stallo continues, “like so

many others which have served as pillars of imposing metaphysical

structures, is the precise opposite of the truth” (p. 223). Do you

understand, reader? Metaphysicians and physicists of all centuries count

for nothing; they were blind, every one of them; but a great luminary has

appeared at last, a Mr. J. B. Stallo, whose superior wisdom, if not

philosophical infallibility, opens a new era of thought, and dispels the

darkness which has been thickening around us up to the present day. Yet

even the sun has spots; and Mr. Stallo will permit us to remark that his

statement of the metaphysical doctrine of the ancients is not altogether

correct. They did not teach “that reality is cognizable _only_ as

absolute, permanent, and invariable”; they well knew and taught that there

were realities cognizable, both relative and changeable. Substance, of

course, was considered by them, and it is still considered by us, as an

absolute reality; but they never imagined that the essence of such a

reality was cognizable except through its constituent principles as

related to one another, and therefore through an intelligible relation.

This relation, as intelligible, was considered necessary and invariable,

but, as an actual reality in nature, was considered contingent and

changeable; the intelligible essence of things was known _sub specie

æterni_, but their existence was known _sub specie contingentis_. Now, on

what ground does Mr. Stallo impugn this doctrine? How does he prove that

it is “the precise opposite of truth”? Alas! we should be exceedingly

simple were we to expect proofs. Progress consists nowadays of stout

assertions on the part of the writer, and of a silly credulity on that of

most readers. Hence our author, instead of proving what he had rashly

asserted, gives us a strain of other assertions equally rash and

ridiculously absurd.

He says: “All material reality is, in its nature, not absolute, but

essentially relative. All material reality depends upon determination; and

determination is essentially limitation, as even Spinoza well knew. A

thing ‘in and by itself’ is an impossibility” (_ibid._) Spinoza! a great

authority indeed! But we should like to know how the proposition,

“Determination is essentially limitation,” can lead to the conclusion that

“a thing in itself and by itself is an impossibility.” To make a logical

connection between the two propositions, it would be necessary to assume

that “nothing finite can be in itself and by itself.” But the assumption

is so foolish that even Spinoza, who based on it his revolting system of

Pantheism, could never support it except by a false definition of

substance, and by giving to the phrases “in itself” and “by itself” an

extravagant interpretation, which proved, if not his malice and bad faith,

at least his profound philosophical ignorance. Let Mr. Stallo consult any

good philosophical treatise on this subject, and he will see how stolid a

man must be to fall a victim to the gross sophistry of the Jewish

dogmatizer.

What shall we say of the other assertion, “All material reality is, in its

nature, not absolute, but essentially relative”? Can anything be

_relative_ without at the same time being _absolute_? Can relation exist

without two absolute terms? Relativity connects one absolute thing with

another; the things thus connected acquire a relative mode of being, but

they do not for that lose their absolute being. Thus Mr. Stallo may be an

American citizen without ceasing to be a man, though he cannot be a

citizen without being endued with a relation not involved in his nature as

roan. So, also, husband and wife are essentially relative; yet we hope the

author will not say that the relative _Husband_ annihilates the absolute

_Man_, or that the relative _Wife_ excludes the absolute _Woman_.

These remarks apply to all relations, whether merely accidental or founded

in the essence of things. Pantheists imagine that creatures cannot have

any absolute being, because their being is essentially dependent, and

therefore relative. They should consider that a creature is a _created

being_—that is, a being related to its Creator. Such a creature, inasmuch

as it is a being, _is_; and inasmuch as it is related, _connotes_ its

Maker. Now, to be and to connote are not identical. The first means

_existence_, the second _dependence_; the first is perfectly complete in

the creature itself, the second is incomplete without a correlative term;

and therefore the creature is in possession of absolute being, while it is

endued with an essential relativity. Take away the absolute being; nothing

will remain of which any relativity may be predicated.

Perhaps the author, when pronouncing that “all material reality is in its

nature essentially relative,” alludes to the essential constitution of

material realities, and to the essential relation of matter and form. If

such is his meaning, the utmost he can claim is that the reality of the

form is essentially connected with the matter, and the reality of the

matter essentially connected with the form. This every one will concede;

but no one will infer that therefore the reality which results from the

conspiration of matter and form is not an absolute reality. For as the

matter and the form are the principles of one essence, and as their mutual

relativity connotes nothing extrinsic to the same essence, but finds in it

its adequate consummation, it is evident that the resulting reality is

intrinsically complete, and subsistent in its individuality. Hence this

resulting reality is an _absolute_ reality; and only as such can it become

the subject of relativity, and acquire the denomination of _relative_.

Our author, entirely taken up by Spinoza’s views, proceeds in the

following strain: “All quality is relation; all action is reaction; all

force is antagonism; all measure is a ratio between terms neither of which

is absolute; every objectively real thing is a term in numberless series

of mutual implications, and its reality outside of these series is utterly

inconceivable. A material entity, absolute in any of its aspects, would be

nothing less than a finite infinitude. There is no absolute material

quality, no absolute material substance, no absolute physical unit, no

absolutely simple physical entity, no absolute constant, no absolute

standard either of quantity or quality, no absolute motion, no absolute

rest, no absolute time, no absolute space.... There is and can be no

physical real thing which is absolutely simple” (p. 225).

This string of blunders needs no refutation, as no reader who has a

modicum of common sense can be deceived by what is evidently false. Yet,

as to the assertion that “there is and can be no physical real thing which

is absolutely simple,” it must be observed that there are two kinds of

simplicity, as there are two kinds of composition. A being is physically

simple when it is free from physical composition; whilst it is

metaphysically simple, if it has no metaphysical components. Now, God

alone is free from metaphysical as well as physical composition; and

therefore God alone is absolutely simple. Hence, created beings, though

physically simple, are always metaphysically compound.

What follows is a curious specimen of Mr. Stallo’s philosophical

resources. He says: “Leibnitz places at the head of his Monadology the

principle that there must be simple substances, because there are compound

substances. _Necesse est_, he says, _dari substantias simplices, quia

dantur compositæ_. This enthymeme, though it has been long since exploded

in metaphysics, is still regarded by many physicists as proof of the real

existence of absolutely simple constituents of matter. Nevertheless, it is

obvious that it is nothing but a vicious paralogism—a fallacy of the class

known in logic as fallacies of the suppressed relative. The existence of a

compound substance certainly proves the existence of component parts,

which, _relatively to this substance_, are simple. But it proves nothing

whatever as to the simplicity of these parts in themselves” (p. 226).

Our reader will ask when and how Leibnitz’ enthymeme has been “exploded.”

We shall inform him that it has _not_ been exploded, though the attempt

has often been made; because in the whole arsenal of metaphysics no powder

could be found that would produce the explosion. The enthymeme, therefore,

is as good and unanswerable now as it was in Leibnitz’ time; and it will

be as good and unanswerable hereafter, notwithstanding Mr. Stallo’s

efforts against it. He says that “it is nothing but a vicious paralogism”;

but he himself, while endeavoring to prove this latter assertion, resorts

to a paralogism (_vicious_, of course) which we may call “fallacy of the

suppressed absolute.” The existence of a compound proves the existence of

its component parts, as the author admits. These parts are either compound

or simple. If simple, then there are simple substances. If compound, then

they have components; and these parts are again either compound or simple.

We must therefore either admit simple substances, or continue our analysis

by further subdivisions of the compound substance without any chance of

ever coming to an end. But if the analysis cannot come to an end, the

compound has no first components; and thus it will be false that “the

existence of a compound substance proves the existence of the component

parts.” The fallacy of the author consists in stopping his analysis of the

compound before he has reached the first components. If the parts he has

reached are still compound substances, why does he not examine their

composition and point out their components? For no other reason, we

presume, than that he did not wish to meet with an _absolute_ substantial

unit, which he was sure to find at the end of the process. His argument is

therefore nothing but a despicable fraud.

In his fourth article (January, 1874) Mr. Stallo remarks that “the recent

doctrine of the correlation and mutual convertibility of the physical

forces, as a part of the theory of the conservation of energy, has shaken,

if not destroyed, the conception of a multiplicity of independent original

forces” (p. 350). Of course, there are men whose convictions can be

shaken, or even destroyed, by the sophistic generalizations of the modern

school; but there are men also whose convictions rest on too solid a

ground to be destroyed or shaken; and these latter have ere now challenged

the abettors of the “recent doctrine” to clear up their case with

something like logical precision—a thing which modern thinkers must have

found impossible, since they have constantly ignored the challenge. We

have proved elsewhere(185) that “the mutual convertibility of physical

forces,” as understood by the champions of the theory, confounds movement

with action and the effects with their causes. The facts on which the

theory is based are true; but the theory itself is false, for it

attributes to the powers by which the phenomena are produced what

exclusively belongs to “the phenomena”, besides deforming the nature of

the phenomena themselves by denying the production and extinction of

movement. It is plain that such a theory can have no weight in philosophy;

and it is no less plain that no philosopher will, for the sake of the new

theory, renounce his firm conviction concerning “the multiplicity of

independent original forces.”

“I have endeavored,” says the author, “to show that there are no absolute

constants of mass; that both the hypothesis of corpuscular atoms and that

of centres of forces are growths of a confusion of the intellect, which

mistakes _conceptual_ elements of matter for _real_ elements; that these

elements—force and mass, or force and inertia—are not only inseparable, as

is conceded by the more thoughtful among modern physicists, but that

neither of these elements has any reality as such, each of them being

simply the conceptual correlate of the other, and thus the condition both

of its realization in thought and of its objectivation to sense” (p. 350).

As we have already discussed all the points which the author vainly

endeavored to establish, we shall only remind the reader that the matter

and the form have no separate existence; and therefore have no reality in

nature, unless they are together. The author, therefore, is right when

affirming that neither of them has any reality _as such_; but he is wrong

in inferring that they have no reality _as united_. As action has no

reality without passion, nor passion without action, so also matter has no

reality without form, nor form without matter; but as action producing

passion is real, so also is a form actuating matter; and as passion is no

less real than the action whence it proceeds, so matter also is no less

real than the form by which it is actuated. Both are, of course, only

metaphysical realities.

The author says: “The mathematical treatment of mechanical problems, from

the nature of the methods, necessitates the fiction that force and mass

are separate and distinct terms” (p. 351). By no means. It is not the

nature of the methods, but the nature of the things that compels the

distinction of the two terms. Their distinction, therefore, is not a

“fiction.” But the author’s remark has no bearing on the question of the

constitution of matter; for mechanical forces are not substantial forms.

He adds: “A material object is in every one of its aspects but one term of

a relation; its whole being is a presupposition of correlates without....

Every change of a body, therefore, presupposes a corresponding change in

its correlates. If the state of any material object could be changed

without a corresponding change of state in other objects without, this

object would, to that extent, become absolute. But this is utterly

unthinkable, and therefore utterly impossible, as we have already seen....

Mechanically speaking, all force, properly so‐called—_i.e._, all potential

energy—is energy of position.... Whatever energy is spent in actual motion

is gained in position; ... thus we are led to the principle of the

conservation of energy” (p. 351).

This is a heap of absurdities. If a material object is the term of a

relation, it is absolute in itself, as we have shown. Again, the change of

a body presupposes only the exertion of active power, and not the change

of another body, as the author imagines. That the absolute is unthinkable

he has failed to prove. Lastly, mechanical force, properly so‐called, is

the product of a mass into its velocity, whilst “energy of position” is a

myth.(186)

But the author says: “Force is a mere inference from the motion itself

under the universal conditions of reality, and its measure, therefore, is

simply the effect for which it is postulated as a cause; it has no other

existence. The only reality of force and of its action is the

correspondence between the physical phenomena in conformity to the

principle of the essential relativity of all material existence. That

force has no independent reality is so plain and obvious that it has been

proposed by some thinkers to abolish the term _force_, like the term

_cause_, altogether. However desirable this might be in some respects, it

is impossible, for the reason that the concept _force_, when properly

interpreted in terms of experience, is valid; and, if its name were

abolished, it would instantly reappear under another name.... The reality

of force is purely conceptual; ... it is not a distinct and individual

tangible or intangible entity” (p. 354).

Here the author treats us to a luxury of contradictions. Force is “a mere

inference from motion,” yet it causes motion; for it is active. Hence the

causality is a mere inference of its effect. It is therefore the effect

that gives existence to its cause, and the cause “has no other existence”

than that which may be imbibed in the effect for which it is postulated.

What, then, becomes of the “force, properly so‐called”—that is, of the

potential energy, or of the energy of position, which has no actual

effect? Again, “the reality of force, is purely conceptual.” This means

that the reality of force is unreal; which would just amount to saying

that Mr. Stallo’s intellect is unintelligent or that his writings are

unwritten. Again, the “reality of force and of its action is the

correspondence between the physical phenomena”; but, if the reality of

force is merely conceptual, the correspondence between the physical

phenomena must be merely conceptual; which would prove that the concept

“force,” when properly interpreted in terms of experience, is _not_ valid,

though the author maintains the contrary. Moreover, what can the author

mean by “the action of force”? Is this action real or unreal? If unreal,

it is no action at all; and if real, it implies a real active power. We

defy Mr. Stallo to conceive a real action of an unreal force. We are

informed that “some thinkers” wish to abolish the term “force,” like the

term “cause,” and we are told that this proves how plain and obvious it is

that force has no independent reality. This, however, proves only that

some so‐called “thinkers” are either lunatics or knaves. After all, if

force is purely conceptual, as the author pretends, its reality must be

denied without any restriction. Why, then, does he deny merely that force

has an “independent” reality? Has it any “dependent” reality if it is

“purely conceptual”?

But we must come to an end. Mr. Stallo’s conclusion is that “the very

conception of force depends upon the relation between two terms at least,”

and that therefore “a constant central force, as belonging to an

individual atom in and by itself, is an impossibility” (p. 355). In this

argument the term “force” is used equivocally. It stands for _active

power_ in the consequence, while it stands for _action_ or for _movement_

in the antecedent. Hence the conclusion is worthless. “I have shown,” says

he, “that there are and can be no absolute constants of mass. And it is

evident now that there are similarly no constant central forces belonging

to, or inherent in, constants of mass as such” (p. 356). We say in our

turn: No, Mr. Stallo, you have not shown what you imagine; and, if

anything is evident, it is not that there are no constant central forces,

but that philosophical questions cannot be solved without good logic and a

clear knowledge of metaphysical principles.

The Blind Student.

When Ernest D’Arcy left the University of ——, all the glorious

possibilities of life seemed to unfold themselves invitingly before him.

He was young, he was clever, he was ambitious. Unlike too many American

students, he had not wasted the golden hours of college life in idleness,

dissipation, or even social enjoyment. He had been a hard, indeed, an

enthusiastic, student; but on commencement day, when his brow was bound

with victorious wreaths, he felt rewarded for having scorned the seductive

pleasures of youth, and rejoiced that he had lived laborious days and

nights.

But D’Arcy did not consider his education finished because he had passed

through the university brilliantly. He well knew that the college was only

the vestibule to the temple of learning. Through this vestibule he had

passed; and now he wished to enter the noble temple itself. But on its

very threshold he found himself suddenly stopped. A dangerous disease

attacked his eyes. The most eminent oculists were consulted at once;

absolute rest alone could save him from total blindness. He was forbidden

to read or write a line. This was indeed a terrible blow to the ambitious

young student. His golden hopes left him; his sweet dream of fame faded

away; his bright career was blighted in the very bud. Unsustained by the

holy influence of religion, a deep and dangerous despondency seized him;

he abandoned himself to despair, and could not follow the advice of Burke,

“Despair, but work even in despair,” for the affliction that caused his

despair prevented him from working. So depressed was he at times that he

contemplated suicide as a happy relief.

The D’Arcy family were of Norman origin. The grandfather of Ernest escaped

from France in the early days of the Revolution, bringing with him to the

United States the fortune that had descended to him through a long line of

ancestors. Like so many French gentlemen of the last century, M. D’Arcy

had imbibed the fashionable scepticism of the time of Voltaire and the

Encyclopædists. After coming to America, he married a Catholic lady, and

his scepticism gradually settled into a form of mild indifferentism.

Ernest’s father was a devoted Catholic, but he died while his children

were in their infancy. His wife was a Protestant, a woman of fashion,

whose highest ambition was to be a leader of society. Her children, Ernest

and his sister Mary, were brought up from their infancy on the

Chesterfieldian model: _to shine in society_. To this end everything else

was sacrificed. From the nursery they went to the dancing‐school, and had

masters to teach them all those superficial accomplishments which make up

a modern fashionable education. Ernest’s clever and original mind saved

him from the evil effects of such an education. But, unfortunately, he did

not escape a worse danger. With no one to direct his studies, at the

susceptible age of seventeen he began to read the infidel French

literature of the XVIIIth century, which formed a large part of his

grandfather’s library. Fascinated by the diabolical wit of Voltaire,

Ernest’s young and undisciplined mind mistook sophistry for argument,

ridicule for reason, wit for wisdom. The fashionable religion of his

mother had never possessed any charm or interest for him, and now,

rejecting all belief, he became a free‐thinker.

Ernest entered the University of —— in his eighteenth year, eager for

distinction and determined to succeed. Succeed he did; and when he

graduated, four years later, he was the first student of the university

and unanimously chosen the commencement orator. No student ever left the

University of ——, which has been the Alma Mater of so many distinguished

men, with a brighter future before him than Ernest D’Arcy. But it was a

future for this world, and for this world alone. Fame was the god of his

idolatry. His residence at the University of ——, which boasts the absence

of all religious teaching, had strengthened his scepticism. But the

scepticism of Ernest D’Arcy was a scepticism of the head, not of the

heart. His natural love for the true, the beautiful, and the good had kept

him pure, even at the most dangerous period of youth, when the blood is

warm, the passions strong, and the will weak. While the heart is good and

pure, however the head may err, there is always hope. The unbelief of

Ernest D’Arcy was not the cold, heartless, satisfied unbelief of the

hardened scoffer rejoicing in his infidelity. It was the natural result

upon an eager and active intellect of an education without religion, a

home without God.

The same year that Ernest left the university his sister “finished” at the

Academy of the Visitation of ——. Mary D’Arcy was not a brilliant girl, but

very sweet, gentle, and interesting. Three years at the convent school had

removed all traces of her unfortunate home education. Mary’s most intimate

friend at the convent was Edith Northcote, a young Catholic girl from the

South. When they parted on distribution day, it was with the understanding

that Edith should pass the next winter with Mary, and the two young ladies

enter society together.

One morning, towards the end of October, Ernest was sitting in the

library, surrounded by the most enchanting literature of the world, and

not allowed to read a single line. D’Arcy was no sentimental dreamer or

aimless student.

“To sleep away his hours

In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.”

He wished to be a man among men. His ambition was first to teach himself,

and then to teach the world. He wished to elevate the tone of society; to

raise it from its fallen state. His was no splendid dream of

revolutionizing the social world; he had no fond hope of creating an

Utopia out of this busy, bustling America of the XIXth century. But he

knew that life was too precious to be dedicated solely to the one selfish,

absorbing pursuit of wealth; that the entire surrender of mind and heart

and life itself to the accumulation of money was corrupting our people and

exercising a baleful influence over the whole nation. Our merchants rival

the merchant princes of Italy in wealth and enterprise; why should they

not rival them also in their princely tastes? The palaces, the gardens,

the galleries, the libraries, of Florence, Venice, and Genoa, “all tell

the story of great thoughts and noble tastes which gold and trade may

nurture when nobleness and greatness deal with them.” We should take time

to cultivate the beautiful as well as the useful; the poetical as well as

the practical. The artist should be patronized as well as the artisan.

Time should be given to the refinement, the grace, the sweetness of life.

We have followed too long and too earnestly the false philosophy taught in

“Poor Richard’s Almanac,” that money‐getting is a sort of secular

religion, and “there will be sleeping enough in the grave.” Our American

life is one long “fitful fever.” We give no time to rest. Repose, a

cultivated leisure, is not idleness. An elegant essay on this

subject—leisure(187)—by a distinguished Baltimore lawyer, should be read

and pondered by our eager and restless people, who are devoured by their

business as Actæon was by his own dogs. “I mean,” says this writer, “the

rest which is won and deserved by labor, and which sweetens and

invigorates it and furnishes its reward. Whence comes this doctrine, that

life, to be anything, must be for ever in motion? There is no process of

physical development which does not need and depend upon repose. To all

the green and beautiful things that deck the earth—the flowers that give

it perfume, and the fruits and foliage that make it glad—there is needful

the calm sunshine and the peaceful shade, the gentle rain and the yet

gentler dew. Not a gem that flashes but has been crystallized in the

immovable stillness of the great earth’s breast. I believe that to be

false philosophy which denies to individuals their seasons of leisure and

meditation; teaching them that existence was meant to be nothing but a

struggle.” Our very amusements are unwholesome and dangerous: the midnight

“German,” the lascivious drama, the race‐course, the steamboat excursion,

the political meeting. The priceless time of youth should have some better

employment than dancing and novel‐reading. Our young men should be taught

that life is too valuable, time too precious, to be frittered away in idle

pleasures, in frivolous amusement, in heartless dissipation. Our young

women should be taught that there is something nobler in life than the

passing triumphs of the ball‐room, gay flirtations, and dazzling toilets.

Thoughts like these occupied Ernest D’Arcy on that bright October

morning—thoughts that stirred his heart and mind, and made him eager for

the glorious work. With a soul longing to “be up and doing,” he was

compelled to sit idle in the golden prime of his manhood. These were the

moments of his greatest despondency, when all the brightness seemed gone

from his life, and all the hope from his soul. Sitting there in the

library that morning, D’Arcy recalled the beautiful lines of Miss Procter

in “My Picture”:

“He had a student air,

With a look half sad, half stately,

Grave, sweet eyes and flowing hair.”

The library‐door was opened, and there came in one who was always

welcome—Mary D’Arcy.

“Ernest, I have a letter from Edith Northcote,” Mary said. “She will be

here to‐morrow.”

“I am glad to hear it. From all you have told me about Miss Northcote, I

think I shall like her.”

“I am sure of it,” returned his sister. “If you don’t, my opinion of your

taste is gone for ever.”

“She is nothing of the bread‐and‐butter miss, I hope? I have all Byron’s

antipathy, you know, for that class.”

“Byron himself could have found no fault with Edith on that ground,” said

Mary.

“Well, I am relieved of no little apprehension,” said Ernest. “I have a

perfect horror of the common run of girls, who haven’t an idea above the

last novel and the last fashion.”

The next day Edith arrived, and her appearance certainly realized all of

Ernest’s expectations. She was nineteen—an age when the sweet graces of

girlhood still linger and lend an additional charm to the blooming woman.

Her features were not regularly beautiful, but her face possessed a charm

and an interest which no faultlessly beautiful face ever had. If a true

woman’s soul, full of the sweetest sympathy, ever brightened and

beautified a human face, it was that of Edith Northcote. Then, her voice

was so sweet and cordial and warm—and what is more attractive than a low,

sweet voice in woman? Edith was scarcely the medium height, but

exquisitely formed, and perfectly natural and graceful in all her

movements, in charming contrast with the trained glances and artificial

manners of our fashionable society belles. Like Alexandrine, in _A

Sister’s Story_, there was an air of refinement about this lovely girl as

rare as it was delightful; she had all the freshness and fragrance of the

rose without the rose’s thorns. Mrs. D’Arcy, who was a female Turveydrop

in the matter of deportment, said she had never seen in any society

manners so elegant and at the same time so sweet and natural as the

manners of Edith Northcote. Such praise from such a woman was in itself

fame.

Edith soon became the life and joy of the house; she was an elegant lady

in the parlor, an intelligent companion in the library, and the charming,

sweet girl everywhere. The influence of her bright presence pervaded the

whole household. Even stately Mrs. D’Arcy yielded to the general

enthusiasm, and declared that Mary was fortunate in having such a friend.

But of all the family, Ernest felt the influence of Edith’s society the

most. The library, where he had passed so many hours in gloom and

despondency, was now brightened by her daily and hourly presence. She read

beautifully, and with a voice and manner that threw a charm around

everything. Her true, womanly heart sympathized deeply with Ernest in his

great affliction, and she at once determined to do all in her power to

relieve it. So it soon became the custom for Ernest and Edith to retire to

the library every morning after breakfast, where she read the morning

paper to him while he smoked his cigar. Then two or three hours were

devoted to serious study. The books, so long neglected, were again

resumed. The literary work, which Ernest loved so well, was again taken

up. Edith was his librarian, his reader, his amanuensis. He had the true

student’s dislike of any person touching his books and papers; but Edith’s

touch seemed to have magic in it, for she could do what few ladies can

ever do—put papers in order without putting them out of place.

But not only as his literary assistant was Edith serviceable to Ernest;

she was his sweet and gentle companion, his kind and sympathetic friend,

ever ready in all things to make him forget his blindness and his

consequent dependence. Inspiring and stimulating him to renewed exertion,

she also directed his ambition to the noblest ends. She opened a new life

to the brilliant young student—a life full of love and sweetness and

humanity. Her bright and joyous influence banished from his soul the dark

despair that had been enthroned there so long, and again there was raised

in his heart

“A hope

That he was born for something braver than

To hang his head and wear a nameless name.”

Edith found time for everything; duty, as well as pleasure, had each its

allotted place in her daily life. Before the rest of the family were awake

she was up and off to early Mass. In the winter twilight, when other young

ladies were returning from the fashionable promenade, Edith could often be

seen with a little basket on her arm, carrying delicacies to the sick, or

more substantial food to relieve the necessities of Christ’s suffering

children. Ernest sometimes accompanied her on these errands of mercy, and

it was a new revelation to him to see Edith, so gay, sparkling, and

fascinating in society, visiting the humble homes of the poor, cheering

and comforting the sick and destitute. Her very presence seemed like a

sunbeam in their dreary dwellings. Edith did not think she was performing

any heroic virtue by these things. She knew she was only following the

injunction of Him who loved the poor so well that he became like one of

them. She knew the Catholic poor were the blessed inheritance of the

Catholic Church. Many Catholic young ladies, delicately nurtured and

fastidiously refined, are daily doing what Edith did.

Ernest was benefited by attending Edith on those missions of love. His

warm heart was touched and all the latent sweetness of his nature brought

out by the distress which he witnessed, and of which he had never dreamed

amidst the luxuries of his own elegant home. There was one case that

particularly interested him; unfortunately, there are many such in this

age of boasted religious liberty. It was that of a Mrs. White. She was a

woman of education and refinement, and had been accustomed to all the

comforts of life in her father’s house. Early in life she married a poor

but worthy young man. He was a clerk, and labored for his wife and

children with an industry that knew no flagging. By constantly bending

over his desk he literally worked himself into consumption. After

lingering a few months, during which all his little savings were spent, he

died, leaving his family in utter destitution. During his sickness he had

been visited by several Catholic ladies, who attended to his wants with so

sweet a charity that his heart was touched, and he longed to know more of

a religion which taught such blessed humanity. As the Author of all truth

has declared that he who seeks shall find, so Mr. White found the truth

which he sought, and died a most beautiful and edifying death. His wife

soon afterwards became a Catholic, converted by the example of the good

ladies who had so kindly ministered to her dying husband. In the extremity

of her distress Mrs. White appealed to her father, who had refused to have

any intercourse with her since her marriage. What do you think was the

answer of this father to a daughter whose only offence was that she had

left _father and mother to cleave to her husband_? We blush for the

humanity that could send to a grief‐stricken and desolate daughter so

brutal a message as this:

“Now your chosen husband is dead, I will receive you back, provided you

give up, at once and for ever, the Catholic religion, which you have

recently professed. Otherwise, you may die as you have lived—a pauper and

an outcast.”

And so she lived and died a pauper and an outcast; but, so living and so

dying, her lot was more enviable than that of her cruel and unnatural

father. Her last moments were comforted by the promise of Ernest D’Arcy to

provide for her two children. The elder, a bright little fellow of

thirteen, he placed in a lawyer’s office; the other, a boy nine years old,

was admitted into a Catholic orphan asylum.

Thus visiting the sick and relieving the poor, and frequently meeting

Catholic priests and Catholic Sisters in pious attendance on death‐beds,

the conversation of Ernest and Edith naturally took a religious turn. One

evening, after returning from one of their charitable visits, they were

sitting in the library before the great wood‐fire (for Ernest would not

allow that abomination, miscalled a modern improvement, a furnace‐flue, in

his _sanctum_), as they generally did before tea. Ernest was unusually

thoughtful that evening, so much so that Edith observed it and asked him

the cause.

“I am thinking about you and myself—about all your goodness to me,” he

said; “about what I was before I knew you, and what I may be by your noble

example. Edith, the daily beauty of your life makes mine ugly. My father

was a Catholic, and I am—nothing. The cold and fashionable religion of my

mother neither satisfied my mind nor interested my heart. I became a free‐

thinker, an infidel, but never a scoffer at religion. I did not believe,

because I did not know what to believe.”

“We must read together Chateaubriand’s _Genius of Christianity_—that

magnificent tribute to the truth and beauty of the Christian religion,”

Edith replied. “You know the story of his conversion: in his extreme youth

he yielded to the gay scepticism which at the time controlled French

society, and he, a son of the Crusaders, became a disciple of Voltaire,

and wrote in the interest of infidelity. The death of Chateaubriand’s

mother, whose last moments had been saddened by his scepticism, and whose

last words were a prayer for his conversion, recalled him to a sense of

that religion in which he had been educated. ‘_I became a Christian_,’

Chateaubriand wrote. ‘_My conviction came from the heart. I wept and I

believed._’ He resolved to devote to religion the eloquent pen which had

been used against her. The result was his immortal work the _Genius of

Christianity_. The beautiful style, the vast information, the glowing

descriptions of art, scenery, poetry, and music cannot fail to delight and

interest you.”

The next day Edith commenced Chateaubriand’s great masterpiece. As, day

after day, the reading continued, Ernest grew deeply interested. He saw

clearly demonstrated the noble and inspiring fact that “the Christian

religion, of all the religions that ever existed, is the most favorable to

liberty and to the arts and sciences; that the modern world is indebted to

it for every improvement: from agriculture to the abstract sciences; from

the hospitals for the reception of the unfortunate to the temples reared

by the Michael Angelos and embellished by the Raphaels.”

Other books were read, all breathing the same divine spirit, the same

exalted Christian charity, the same sweet human sympathy. The warm, tender

heart of Ernest D’Arcy was fascinated by the beautiful and noble

sentiments expressed in the volumes which were now a part of his daily

reading. He compared them with the false philosophy of a Voltaire and the

senseless sentimentality of a Rousseau, which taught how to destroy, but

not how to save; whose end was the destruction, not the amelioration, of

society. These books certainly opened a newer and a sweeter world to the

student. But it must not be supposed that the young D’Arcy saw immediately

the truth of Catholicity in all its divine beauty. Few, like S. Paul, are

miraculously changed from the enemy to the friend of God’s church. Few,

like Chateaubriand, can say: “I wept and I believed.”

With the opening of spring Edith returned home, and Earnest was again left

alone with his books. But how changed seemed everything! The brightness

was gone from the library. The pleasure was gone from his studies. He

sadly missed her who had been his constant companion for so many months.

Fortunately, about this time his eyes improved sufficiently to allow him

to read for a short time every day. He continued the reading to which

Edith had introduced him. This was some consolation to him, now that he

was separated from her. But, alas! it was a consolation not long allowed

to him. If that stern old moralist, Dr. Johnson, acknowledged that he

found it easier to practise abstinence than temperance in wine, it will

not be surprising that so ardent a student as Ernest D’Arcy found it

absolutely impossible to practise temperance in reading when he read at

all. And now he had a greater incentive to work than ever before. He felt

that he must make himself worthy of the sweet girl whom he loved. The

delicately refined nature of this perfect gentleman would not allow him to

make a formal declaration of love to Edith while she was a guest in his

mother’s house, but that unerring, never‐failing instinct which belongs to

woman enabled her to see plainly that he was deeply, fondly interested in

her. Nor was Edith insensible to the many attractive qualities of Ernest

D’Arcy; his cultured mind, his noble heart, his high ambition, his exalted

sentiments of honor and morality, claimed her enthusiastic admiration,

while the romantic character of their constant intercourse pleased her

girlish fancy.

D’Arcy’s Catholic reading had enchanted his impressible mind. As an

historical institution, the church delighted and astonished him. He saw it

rise triumphantly on the ruins of the empire of the Cæsars; he saw it

conquer and civilize the barbarians of Germany and the North; he saw it

tame the fierce passions of the Franks and Goths; he saw it in the middle

ages standing between the people and princely despots; he saw it always on

the side of right and always against wrong, always raising its powerful

voice in favor of the oppressed; he saw it in the XVIth century

successfully sustain itself against the most formidable religious

revolution the world had ever known; he saw it in the XIXth century serene

in the midst of tumbling thrones and political convulsions, teaching one

faith and one doctrine, while heresy was broken into a thousand

indistinguishable fragmentary sects.

With his mind fresh from these new and interesting studies, Ernest D’Arcy

began to write the story of his mental life, which he called _From

Darkness to Light_. Like Milton, he became so engrossed in his work that

his eyes grew rapidly worse; and, like him also, he was unwilling to

discontinue his studies, until at length study was impossible. Edith

Northcote heard of this new trial through Ernest’s sister Mary; for Ernest

himself was too manly, too considerate, to annoy Edith with his troubles.

She determined at once to make a Novena to Our Lady of Lourdes to obtain

the cure of Ernest’s eyes. She procured some of the celebrated miraculous

water, and sent it to Ernest, telling him that on a certain day she would

commence the Novena, requesting him to apply the water to his eyes each

day, and say the prayer to Our Lady of Lourdes contained in the little

book recently published. The account of the apparition greatly interested

Ernest, and, though not yet a Catholic, he did not hesitate to comply with

both of Edith’s requests.

Thousands of unrecorded miracles have been wrought by the water of

Lourdes, and the restoration of Ernest’s eyes was one of them.(188) As the

darkness left his eyes, the divine light of faith entered his soul; and he

who had been both mentally and physically blind, now saw with the eyes of

the body and saw also with the eyes of the soul. He saw the truth, the

beauty, and the goodness of the Catholic religion; seeing, he believed;

believing, he professed; professing, he practised. Ernest D’Arcy became a

Catholic—a devout, a zealous, a fervid Catholic.

Ernest did not inform Edith by letter of the happy effects of the water of

Lourdes. He visited her in her Southern home. Simply saying a friend

wished to see her, he awaited her entrance with no little impatience. At

length she appeared. Ernest advanced to meet her. The few words he spoke

explained everything: “_Edith, I am a Catholic._”

The next few weeks were the sweetest Ernest had ever known—sweeter than he

had ever dreamed of. He had found what he had so long sought in vain—the

true religion; and in finding the religion which was to make him happy in

heaven, he also found the being who was to make him happy on earth.

Turning From Darwin To Thomas Aquinas.

UNLESS in thought with thee I often live,

Angelic Doctor! life seems poor to me.

What _are_ these bounties, if they only be

Such boon as farmers to their servants give?

That I am fed, and that mine oxen thrive,

That my lambs fatten, that mine hours are free—

These ask my nightly thanks on bended knee;

And I _do_ thank Him who hath blest my hive

And made content my herd, my flock, my bee.

But, Father! nobler things I ask from thee.

Fishes have sunshine, worms have everything!

Are we but apes? Oh! give me, God, to know

I am death’s master; not a scaffolding,

But a true temple where Christ’s word could grow.

The Future Of The Russian Church.

By The Rev. Cæsarius Tondini, Barnabite.