of budding genius. Make yourself known, make yourself known, and you will
find me! But if your courage fails, you will commit blunders and spoil
your talent, for which I will not be responsible; like Pilate, I wash my
hands of you!”
I listened to them going down the stairs.
“No, no,” said he to his wife; “you see for my portrait I must have a
master, a signature.”
“Perhaps,” replied the baroness—“perhaps we have done wrong to discourage
the young man.”
“Discourage? What are you talking about? I told him he had great talent.
Do you wish to know what I think?” he added, as he stood for an instant
before her. “What ruins art in the present day is that it is gorged with
gold, and that too few men of genius die in the hospital—that is the
reason!”
Adieu, Marie.
Something else was said, which Paul did not hear.
The baroness paused, as she was about to enter the carriage.
“Well, what is the matter with you?” said her husband.
“I am not very well,” she replied.
“So much more reason for getting in the carriage. What ails you?”
“The face of that young man haunts me. Who knows what despair may drive
him to? Who knows how terrible may be his hidden suffering? Let us go
back. I feel as though we had just committed a crime. Let us go back.
Thirty years ago I read a story which I had long forgotten, but that now
returns vaguely to my memory as a warning. I no longer remember the whole,
but the impression comes back vague and terrible after thirty years. Ah!
let us go back.”
The baron stopped, and laughed immensely.
“Ha! ha! Are you crazy? Haven’t I the _right_ to choose the pictures I
wish to buy? Is there a law which compels me to buy pictures from this
gentleman? I speak to you very seriously, my dear; such fancies as these
will make you crazy. There is a great deal of insanity in our present day.
Let us take care, let us take care!”
II.
Marie, after reading her brother’s letter, was half frantic with terror,
as she knew him thoroughly, and understood his bitter despair. She lost no
time, but left in the first train. Arrived in Paris, she ran to the little
house in the Quartier Latin where Paul lived. She was too excited to take
a carriage. The rapid walk seemed to soothe her. In the cars she longed
for quicker movement; in the street she wished for wings; at the door she
would rather have been at the other end of the world. She dared not go up.
She stopped, suffocated with the beating of her heart. If it was already
too late—the thought nearly paralyzed her with horror. If she were a
minute too late!
Finally, when on the stairs, she wept. Then she dared ring.
“I have wept,” she thought; “he is saved.” Taught by a long and singular
experience, the young girl knew that tears were for her the mysterious and
certain sign that her prayer was granted. She rang. A servant‐girl,
without speaking, led her to a bed, and uttered a single word—“Dead”—and
then added: “The funeral will take place in two hours. He threw himself
into the Seine from the bridge of Austerlitz.”
“He is not dead,” said Marie.
“The registration of the death has been made,” said the woman.
Without replying, Marie looked fixedly at him, and said to herself:
“He is not dead. I have wept; he is not dead. Paul!” she called. Silence.
“Paul!” Silence.
She seized a mirror, and held it to her brother’s lips. At the moment she
took it in her hand she burst into tears. “You will see that he is saved!”
she said.
The woman thought her crazy. Marie still held the mirror before Paul’s
lips. Dead silence; her own poor heart nearly stopped—the mirror was
tarnished!
III.
Seven years afterwards M. le Baron de Brienne was conversing in a numerous
and choice circle. It was at a grand dinner. The women were crowned with
flowers and sparkling with jewels. The conversation turned upon a great
crime which had recently been committed, the details of which filled two
columns of every paper. Suddenly the Baron de Brienne became singularly
agitated, and then, in a voice which he endeavored to keep calm, but whose
trembling was still further shown by the effort to subdue it, said:
“It appears that the police have not yet discovered any trace of the
assassin.”
“I don’t know,” replied a guest.
“I believe not,” said another.
“Excuse me,” replied a third person; “according to the latest accounts,
the police, if not positively sure, had at least great hopes.”
The Baron de Brienne was as white as his napkin. He tried to overcome and
conceal his excitement, and attempted to eat; but the effort was too
great. He swooned, and fell heavily to the ground.
Every one rose and crowded around him. Water was thrown in his face, salts
were held for him to inhale. The hostess neglected none of the ceremonies
usual in such cases. Fortunately, there was a physician among the guests.
Every attention was lavished upon M. le Baron. His carriage was called,
and he was taken home.
The next day he was better; at the end of three days he was well. He made
them bring any quantity of papers, and read them to him. Mme. la Baronne,
who was the reader, suddenly paused, and said:
“Here is more of the horrid crime of which we were all talking when you
were taken ill.”
“Well?” said the baron in a singular tone.
“Well,” continued the baroness, “the murderer has been arrested. But what
a strange interest you take in the affair!”
“I?” replied the baron. “Oh! not at all; I can very truly say that. Why do
you think otherwise?”
“Because you are so strangely excited whenever the subject is mentioned.”
“What do you mean, talking about my excitement?” he replied. “Can you
possibly imagine, like those stupid people at dinner the other evening,
that this affair interests me in the slightest degree? They were all there
looking at me, looking at me ... with eyes ... with eyes.... Are you, too,
going to stare at me now with those eyes ... with those eyes....”
Mme. la Baronne rose, and wrote two lines: “_Dear doctor, come
instantly._”
“Carry that to the telegraph office,” she said to the servant.
“She did not count the words,” muttered the man in astonishment, as he
withdrew. “It must be something very serious.”
IV.
Three months had elapsed, and the baron had resumed his ordinary life,
when one evening, in a _salon_ in the faubourg Saint‐Honoré, a gentleman
remarked, in the course of conversation, that it was astonishing the
number of crimes one daily heard of. And he related the last murder that
the daily paper had brought under his eyes.
Said the baron: “Why do you make such an assertion? Never were crimes so
rare as to‐day; manners and customs are so much softened, we can almost
say there are no longer any criminals. None can be found in the higher
class of society; and when we speak of the aristocracy, it means the
entire nation. Indeed, to speak the truth, I believe very little in the
wonderful crimes with which the daily journals fill their columns when
there is a dearth of political news.”
“You are very incredulous, M. le Baron,” replied the Comte de Sartigny.
“Probably it is from kindness to the editors that the police seek the
criminals, and the courts judge them.”
“You say,” answered the baron, “that the police seek the criminals. It is
false, M. le Comte. In the first place, only one is guilty, and the police
are not hunting him up; he is already found, and he has no accomplice. He
has been found, I tell you, he has been found; and the man has no
accomplice. Perhaps I don’t know it. Ha! ha!”
While the baron, pale as death, spoke these words, with terror imprinted
on his face, the count looked steadily at him, and said:
“You say that I have spoken falsely, M. le Baron? Will you repeat that
remark? I think those were your words, but perhaps I was mistaken.”
“I only say one thing,” replied the baron, “which is, that the criminal
has been found and arrested.”
“But a moment ago you denied the reality of the crime.”
“I only say one thing, M. le Comte: that there is no doubt about the name
of the assassin.”
The master of the house took the count by the arm, and led him to the
recess of a window....
“Ah! very well, very well; I did not know it,” said the count, as he left
the room.
While they were conversing together, the baron made several vain efforts
to rise. He experienced the supreme anguish of a man who, while still in
the possession of his faculties, feels they are leaving him—of a man who
has not fainted, but who is about to faint, and who feels on his brow the
first drops of cold sweat.
The baroness made her excuses for leaving so early, and, when alone with
her husband, asked anxiously:
“What can be the matter with you?”
“And you too, you too,” he replied, pushing her from him, as he raised his
blood‐shot eyes.
V.
“We must,” said the doctor, “enter into his mania, so as to endeavor to
discover the cause. We must make him talk without questioning him. Do you
know, madame, in the life of M. le Baron, of any fact that may have left a
disagreeable remembrance?”
“Doctor, do you mean a guilty remembrance?”
“No, madame; something terrifying.”
The baroness thought a long while.
“No,” said she, “not one. Our life has always passed most tranquilly. You
know how people of the world live; well, so we live, and have always
lived. My husband is a quiet man, who has never had a quarrel in his life
with any one, and has never done an injury that I know of.”
“You have never seen in the baron any anxiety of conscience?”
“Any anxiety of conscience? He? Why should he have any? He has never in
his life done anything to reproach himself with.”
“The baron,” replied the doctor, “has the reputation of being benevolent
and kind‐hearted. I don’t think he is naturally very imaginative; do you,
madame?”
“Not at all, doctor. I think he is just the contrary. I can even say he
has very little faith.”
“But when and where did you first perceive the commencement of this
mania?”
“It was one day when nothing strange had happened. Some one had been
speaking of a young sculptor, who now is very famous. A friend told us
that he owed his success to a rich banker, who had discovered his talents
by some happy accident, and had aided him with his fortune and influence.
When our guests had left, and we were alone, I thought he would kill
himself; as now, without the slightest reason.”
“In his daily life does he show any eccentricity of which I am yet
ignorant?”
“Not precisely eccentricity,” said Mme. de Brienne. “His tastes have
changed very much, but that cannot be called eccentricity. He formerly
spent quite a fortune in purchasing pictures, of which he has a very fine
collection, that he admired extravagantly; now he never looks at them. But
he has always been rather fickle.”
“Does he talk in his sleep?”
“No; but one morning (now that you make me think of it) he awoke terribly
frightened at a dream. ‘Ah! what a dream I have had,’ he said to me. His
face looked worn and haggard, and, as I begged him to relate it, he turned
away his eyes, and refused peremptorily. I insisted, but he kept silent,
and I have never been able to make him relate it.”
The doctor reflected.
“Perhaps that is the whole secret,” said he. “But if we were to ask him
about it now, probably to‐morrow we would be obliged to confine him.”
“Confine him?” cried the baroness. “Do you think him so seriously
affected?”
“Very seriously, madame, and more so as he is perfectly sane in relation
to other affairs. His mania is confined to one point, and is what we call
hallucination. My duty compels me to tell you, madame, that it is a case
where science up to the present time has been very unsuccessful.”
“But, doctor, never was there a man less crazy. As for the pictures, which
was the only passion I ever knew him to have, he prided himself on never
having done a foolish thing; he only bought pictures of known value, with
the signatures of the artists fully guaranteed. I, for instance, who am
speaking to you, would have sometimes acted more unwisely than he. I
remember once he even refused....”
“Nevertheless,” interrupted the doctor, “the case is very serious.”
The baron was alone in his room. His wife listened attentively at the
door, and watched him through the key‐hole. He raised the curtains, shook
the cushions on the sofa, searched around, and, when convinced that he was
alone, spoke in a low voice; but his wife caught his words.
“No one suspects me. No one, not even she; and yet everything should warn
them, everything.... The circumstances that accompanied the act are
reproduced every instant. For example, the clouds in the sky have nearly
always the same form as at that moment.... The clouds do it purposely;
they have assumed since that day certain positions always the same. What
do they resemble? What I do not wish to say, but I know well since my
dream. Oh! that dream.... I am cold, frozen. Why is it no one ever speaks
to me of that dream; that no one in this house remembers it? And yet they
were all there ... in the dream.... My wife was there, and the other one
also,” he added, lowering his voice.
And after a silence, occasionally broken by unintelligible words, and
joined to a strange pantomime, he continued:
“It was frightful. How that man struggled for his life!”
And speaking always lower and lower, the baron gasped out:
“He clung to me, and, when I pushed him into the water, an expression
passed over his face such as was never seen but then in this world. It was
near the bridge of Austerlitz. How he glared at me as he disappeared the
last time! How is it that in the street the passers‐by do not say on
seeing me, ‘There is the man, there he is—the man who had the dream’? But
was it a dream or reality? Men often pass me quickly in the street. Who
knows but that they know or see something?”
The baron walked around the room, greatly excited, and then, pausing, he
sighed, and said in a mournful tone:
“How do other men act—those who are not followed? They can take a step
without hearing behind them another step that goes quicker or slower,
according as they walk. Then there are men who do not hear steps behind
them as they walk. Yet I always seek the noisiest places; but no noise
ever deadens the sound of that step, so faint but so invincible. The noise
of carriages, the roar of cannon—I have tried everything.... If possible I
would live amidst thunder; but the lightning might fall near me, and cover
me with ruins; still should I hear that faint, almost imperceptible noise,
a foot that just touches the ground. I am cold! How cold it is! Fire no
longer warms me! How lightly that foot touches the ground. It does not
press heavily like ours. No, decidedly not; it was no dream—it was
reality. That foot never is tired; but when I stop, it stops. It has a
certain manner of stopping that makes me always feel that it is there, and
that it will resume its walk when I do mine. Sometimes I would rather hear
it, and I walk to make it walk; when it is silent, its menace is to me
more terrible than the sound of the step.... If it would only change
place!... But, no; always at an equal distance from me. Ah! how cruel. If
I could but see some one, I think the most horrible spectacle would be
less terrifying than this dreary void. To hear and not see!”
Here the baron rapidly jumped backwards, and put out his hand as though to
grasp something in the air, then exclaimed:
“Gone! He has escaped—escaped, as ever!”
VI.
The course of the baron’s ordinary life flowed on as smoothly as ever.
Nothing was changed, and those who were not much with him perceived no
difference; to them he was the same as heretofore.
The following summer he wished to go to the sea‐shore.
They left for Brittany. They spoke of the pleasant walks and drives, and
the baron, in an absent manner, asked on which part of the coast was the
most sand. He would not hear of the cliffs; he wanted sand—only sand.
Gâvre was recommended by a gentleman who was seated near them at the
_table d’hôte_.
The baron instantly decided upon going to Gâvre.
“At what hour shall we leave?” asked the baroness.
The _we_ evidently displeased the baron. He wished to go alone. He gave a
thousand pretexts to prevent his wife accompanying him. As she would not
admit them, he said, contrary to his usual custom, “I will” ... “I wish to
go alone,” said he. “Am I in prison? Do you take me for a criminal?”
The baron left Port Louis in the steamboat. His wife followed him, without
being seen, on another boat, and watched his movements through a spy‐
glass, as he paced up and down the shore at Gâvre.
First, according to his usual custom, he assured himself that he was
alone. Then he would take several steps, and return quickly, seeing
nothing; he searched in the sand, and, finding his own footsteps, he
sought a little further on the trace of the _other_ one. All in vain.
Disappointed, he went to another spot, and recommenced his weary walk,
always seeing his own footprints, never the _other_. He had hoped in the
sand; the sand had proved false, as everything else.
VII.
Meanwhile, the doctor was in Paris, and one evening in a _salon_ in the
faubourg Saint Germain. The conversation was on madness; and the doctor,
who was a celebrated _alieniste_, was asked many questions as to the
causes of insanity.
“The causes of insanity,” said he, “are so profound and mysterious that to
know them one must make the tour of the invisible world.”
“I have known,” said one gentleman, “insane persons who thought themselves
guilty of crimes which they had never committed—innocent men, intelligent
and good, incapable of harming a bird, and who thought themselves
assassins.”
Among the guests that evening was a famous artist, M. Paul Bayard, whose
most admired works, The First Glance, and Cain after his Crime, ranked
with the _chefs‐d’œuvre_ of the greatest masters of the day.
Said M. Bayard: “I have not studied, like you, doctor, from life. I don’t
know any insane persons, and what I am going to tell you is not founded on
fact. But this is what I think about this strange remorse felt by innocent
people: who knows if they may not have committed _spiritually_ the crime
of which they think themselves guilty _materially_? In this hypothesis
they have completely forgotten the real and spiritual crime, which they
committed really and spiritually; they did not even know or feel it at the
instant they committed it. But this crime real, spiritual, and forgotten
is transformed, by virtue of madness, into a material crime, of which they
are innocent, but of which they believe themselves guilty. Perhaps a man
has betrayed his friend; instead of accusing himself of this treason, he
accuses himself of another fault which resembles that one, as the body
resembles the soul. I repeat, I cannot cite an example. It is purely
hypothetical; but something which I cannot define makes me think it
possible, nay, even probable. The guilty person deceived his conscience;
conscience in turn deceives him. To make a child understand, we give
examples of sensible things. Perhaps justice thus acts with these men,
and, finding them insensible in the sphere of the mind, transports their
crime into the sphere of the body.
“Perhaps it is a real crime, but too subtle to be understood by them, that
descends to their level, and pursues them under the appearance of an
external and sensible crime, the only one which they can understand. There
are whimsical scruples which resemble madness, as exaggeration resembles
falsehood. Who knows if these scruples are not the wanderings, or, if you
prefer it, the transpositions of remorse? I say _remorse_. I do not say
repentance, for repentance enlightens, and remorse blinds. Between
repentance and remorse there is an abyss: the first gives peace, the
second destroys it. Perhaps conscience, not being able to make itself felt
by the guilty person on its own ground, speaks to him, by way of revenge,
in language as coarse as himself, on his own domain. Through a terrible
justice, it makes him reproach himself with what appears unjust on the
surface, but which is a thousand times just at the bottom. Conscience,
which spoke in vain at the moment of the crime, now arms itself against
the criminal as a phantom. We are men here to‐night, as we appear to each
other; but who knows if we are not for some one somewhere, at this moment,
phantoms?”
The doctor rose, and, taking the artist’s hand, said: “I do not know how
much truth there may be in your theory. I only know one thing: that you
are a man of genius, and, if I had doubted it before, I am now convinced
of it. I will reflect on your words; they open to me a new horizon.”
“I have always been pursued by the thought,” said the artist, “that there
is a moment when a man understands for the first time what he has seen
since his infancy. It is the day when the eyes of the mind open. It is
this I have attempted to show in my picture—The First Glance. But as the
horizon is constantly enlarging, I endeavor to throw upon everything, each
time, a look which I may call The First Glance. In the other composition,
Cain after his Crime, I wished to show in Cain, not the melodramatic
assassin, but a vulgar, common man. The _stigmata_ of anger, of which he
received the visible mark, opens to him the eyes of the soul. He throws
upon his crime a first glance. There are spiritual Cains whose arms are
innocent. Perhaps there may be some among the insane, of whom we have
spoken; and in that case there is more truth in their madness than in
their previous security. Their insanity only deceives them about the
nature of the crime; their security deceived them about the crime itself.”
The doctor was thoughtful. He took the artist aside, and in a low tone
said: “Shall we leave together?” And they left.
After their departure the conversation turned on what had just been said.
“Were you always a materialist?” asked one person of his neighbor.
“It is scarcely fair or generous to choose this moment for such a
question,” was the reply.
“As for me,” said a young lady, “I don’t like to hear M. Bayard talk. He
is a great artist—that I admit; but when he commences in that style, he
worries me!”
“Would it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you why?” timidly inquired a young
man with a badly‐tied cravat.
“Because I am afraid he is right in his opinions. I wish to pass gaily
through life; and if we believe what he says, life would be such a serious
affair, we should have to think. Really, to hear him, we can imagine
ourselves surrounded with mysteries.”
VIII.
“I wish to see and study your picture of Cain. I was going to say your
portrait of Cain,” said the doctor to the painter; “for it seems to me
that you must have known him personally, from the manner in which you have
spoken to me of him.”
“Perhaps I have known him,” said Paul. “At any rate, come!” And they
entered the studio.
Arrived before the picture, the doctor started back in surprise.
The portrait of Cain was that of the baron, horrible in the resemblance.
There was on that face the coldness of the criminal and the horror of the
cursed. The coldness did not impair the horror, nor the horror the
coldness; and from the mouth of Cain the spectator might expect to hear
the words that S. Bridget heard from the mouth of Satan when he said to
God:
“O Judge! I am coldness itself.”
Indifference and despair were in those eyes, on those lips, and on that
brow. But the despair was not heartrending, for repentance was wanting,
and this despair even appeared expiatory, like justice eating its bread.
The doctor remained a long while motionless. The horizon opened before his
eyes. His science sought new depths. He did not precisely reflect, but he
remembered, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, passed an hour in
profound contemplation.
“So you know him?” said he at last to Paul.
“Whom do you mean?”
“Why, my patient!”
“I don’t know any of your patients.”
Professional discretion arrested the name before it passed the doctor’s
lips.
“But, really,” said he, “this head is a portrait. You could not have drawn
it by chance.”
“Neither one nor the other,” replied Paul. “No one sat for me, and I did
not draw it by chance. It appears to me, when I work, certain faces are
offered to me without forcing themselves upon me. I perceive them
interiorly; for my eyes are closed and I see nothing. Perceive is not the
proper word, for the sense of sight is not needed. If I perceive them, it
is with an unknown sense which is not that of sight, and in a peculiar
condition, in comparison with which wakefulness is profound sleep. I think
these perceptions correspond with some reality, either distant or future,
whose photographic likeness at that moment passes before the eyes of the
mind.
“This faculty, which may be called natural inspiration, has never
abandoned me. The aptitude to surmise what I do not know is the highest
form of the activity of my mind, and not only do I surmise what I do not
know, but very often I do it, I realize it, without intention and without
knowledge. It is as though I were an actor in a drama of which I was
ignorant. I recite a part in a play that I do not know, and whose title
and plot are equally unknown.
“Yet I feel myself free, and the profound sentiment of my liberty bursts
forth, above all, in the remembrance of my faults. I wished to die, but
death did not want me. I have sometimes asked myself if, having wished to
lose my life, I might not lose inspiration, which would be for me a subtle
and cruel manner of death. It has seemed to me that the question has been
agitated somewhere, and that inspiration, which has compassion on the
weak, came back to me gratuitously. If I had been criminal from malice, it
would have abandoned me, perhaps, or have become in me the auxiliary of a
future crime. It might have refused to help me, or have assisted me in
doing wrong.”
IX.
Shortly after this interview the baron returned to Paris, apparently
calmer than usual.
“He is much better,” said Mme. la Baronne. “The doctor alarmed me
terribly; but I knew very well in reality there was no danger. My husband
is a cold man, and I have nothing to fear for his reason.”
The following night the baron waited until the house was quiet, and then
went on tiptoe, as though afraid of being surprised or disturbed. Once
safely in his picture gallery, he cut each of the pictures with a
penknife, and then one by one burst them open by placing his knee against
the canvas; and, that accomplished, left the house toward morning. The
porter saw him pass, but did not recognize him.
“Who is that old man,” said he to his wife, “who passed the night in the
house?”
The baron’s hair, black the night before, was white as snow.
They waited for him at breakfast, they waited for him at dinner; he did
not return. In searching his papers his wife found a note containing these
words:
“This time I will not escape; the police are on my track.”
Said madame: “I always feared some misfortune would happen to me.”
The next day the baron’s body was found in the Seine under the bridge of
Austerlitz.
“I am much distressed, but not astonished,” said the doctor to madame. “I
always thought his madness absolutely incurable.”
“Ah! doctor, he destroyed all the pictures. I have not even his portrait.”
“You shall have it, madame,” said the doctor.
Eight days afterwards the doctor kept his promise. He brought the baroness
a photograph.
Madame de Brienne was profoundly agitated, and nearly fainted.
“Oh! what a resemblance,” she gasped, “what a resemblance! Doctor, how was
it done? This is not natural. It is not his portrait, it is himself. He is
going to speak. I am afraid!”
There was horror in the astonishment of the poor woman. She threw upon her
husband and herself a first glance.
“But tell me, doctor, where did you find it?”
“Allow me to keep the secret, madame.”
In reality, the thing was very simple: they had only photographed the
picture of the great artist—Cain after his Crime.
The Legend Of Vallambrosa.
An ancient myth like ivied vesture clings
About fair Vallambrosa’s cloistered walls,
Telling that ’neath the roof sweet charity
Has spread her soft, warm draperies within
What time eight circling centuries have traced,
In memories gray and green, her blessedness.
Of the fair, nestling valley here to sing,
With sweet‐strung choice of cadenced synonymes,
Could better music hold the ear, to note
Its silver‐dropping streams and shadowy dells
Than that wherewith Italia christened it,
Calling it _Aqua‐Bella_, or the _Val‐Ambrosa_, liquid‐toned and clear? No
ripple,
Methinks, of happier tones or tenderer hues
Could voice its lapsing falls and verdant vales
Than lives within such naming!
Hither came
Long years agone—long years before the years
That gave the legend birth—a prayerful priest,
Bearing the cross where untamed beast and bird,
Alone frequenting, poured in wildest notes
The praise for life which lowest life uplifts!
And here, as ever, man’s triumphant voice
Leaped up above the brute’s, beseeching heaven
To consecrate with holy dews, and bless,
The heights which, cycles later, cradling held
The hermitage of one so famed; and grew,
As seed luxuriant in rich soil _will_ grow,
Because all teeming life must needs expand,
These walls of generous hospice that outstretch
Their sheltering arms to weary travellers.
If it be true, as we have often heard,
That lukewarm sinners make but lukewarm saints,
Perhaps the converse proof we hold in hand;
For, mark! once lived in Florence, of the proud
Gualberto house, one heir to all its pride,
Giovanni named—_he_ this same sinner‐saint.
Quickened by summers of some eighteen years,
And flushed by southern suns to fervid warmth
Of life impetuous, his youthful form
Bore stamp already of the venturous will
Of a gay, dashing cavalier outgiven
To heedless coursings in the round of sense.
And yet there dwelt adeep within his breast
A living well of tenderness that flowed
In gentle care for Hubert, his beloved
And only brother.
Hubert (a twelvemonth
Scarce younger) stood between his tempted soul
And much that might have swayed it past recall
Over the margin of sin’s dread abyss.
’Twas not that Hubert was a chastened saint,
But love within the brother’s ardent soul
Invested him with raiment pure and white—
Love holding from assoil the fabric fine
Itself had wove, and still will choose to weave
So long as life is life, or love is love.
Thus, when unto Giovanni came a dawn
That kindled to a conscious glow of health
His own quick pulse, yet, warming, failed to melt
The frozen current in pale Hubert’s veins,
Because those veins had felt the frigid touch
Of steel in duelling combat, there arose
Within his anguished heart a stern demand
Against the murderer of life for life—
An unrelenting thirst of blood, to quell
The ghostly phantoms of his fevered brain,
And satisfy with feast of sweet revenge
His brother’s manes.
On one Good‐Friday morn,
Followed by armed retainers, and slow bent
Unto San Miniato to attend
High Mass, in faithfulness to Hubert’s soul,
He met unwittingly within a pass
That leads to the Basilica this man,
Of all men hated most. Close, face to face,
Spell‐bound they stood a moment’s span; then flashed
From out Giovanni’s sheath his gleaming sword,
And by its glittering sign with one will rose
From every trusty scabbard near at hand
Sharp kindred swords that gleamed defiant fire
Into the bright’ning day, and in _his_ face
Who stood unarmed, alone.
The unsheathed sword
Of pitiless Giovanni had well‐nigh
Its rueful deed of deadly wrath made sure
When he, the helpless foe confronted thus
By certain death, saw in death’s pallid light
The spectre of his sin as it must seem
To disembodied spirits, and he fell
Prone, horror‐stricken, at the avenger’s feet.
There, graving on the ground with level arms
The crucial sign, he prayed for pardoning grace,
And grace of lengthened days for penitence,
And all in name of Him whose agony
Upon the cross he thus in dust recalled!
The sword is stayed, and in the tremulous pause
Great waves of varying passions meet
And battle in Giovanni’s breast. Through all
A voice, as of faint music o’er the din
Of tumult, whispers: “_Who loveth brother more_
_Than me, or any loved one more than me,_
_Is all unworthy of me._” Quick, with ever
Conquering motions of the Spirit’s power,
As winds of peace the passionate waters calm,
His sword is dropped, and, offering helpful hands,
He cries: “Thou who hast slain my brother be
As Christ doth will—a brother unto me.”
O’erwhelmed with gratitude, and filled with deep
Contrition for his sin, the uplifted foe
Lets fall his head upon Giovanni’s neck,
And there with loosened torrent of remorse
He pours the unguent of his tears, as once
Another penitent poured costly balm
Upon the Holiest One, growing therefrom
Through mercy’s twofold grace to peace and joy.
While yet the day was young, the legend tells
How both these humbled, contrite cavaliers
Offered their thanks for comfort at the shrine
Whither their steps together now were led;
And how, while kneeling at the crucifix,
Broke from the Saviour’s parted lips a smile
Upon Giovanni, while the sacred head
In gracious token bowed.
O crowning joy!
Too much to halo one poor human brow,
And not the radiance divine extend
To others all unconscious, even as once
Himself had been of its illumining might!
Henceforth no other smile was aught to him
If for a passing moment it could hide
The memory of that glory from his eyes.
Henceforth the impulse of his life was one
Deep, passionate desire to shadow forth,
In the best shadowy way a mortal can,
The glowing flame of beatific fire
_That_ hallowed smile had kindled in his soul.
And thence so perfect was his Godward walk
That scarce five summers of devoted life
Were added to his eighteen worldly years
Before San Miniato’s brotherhood
Decreed him to its abbacy. But, no!
Nor stole nor triple crown had charm for one
Too wholly Christ’s to care for stole or crown,
Save for that lustrous crown of ransomed souls
His earnest life might win to shine as stars.
For _this_ to Vallambrosa’s lonely height
In rapt and silent vigil he withdrew;
But even as sweetness bursts the seedling’s cell,
So holiness from him exhaled in light
That drew, to seek his counsel, devotees
Led faithfully by his unswerving faith
To live with him a life of prayer and praise.
Or, if they came not cowled as lowly monks,
Still hither fared the noble of the land,
Even kings whose purple paled beside his gray,
And royal ladies and most knightly knights,
To pour their wealth of treasure at the feet
Of one all saintly.
Thus the order grew
Of world‐famed Vallambrosa, where to‐day
The weary find repose and welcoming cheer,
And benison of heavenly graciousness.
And thus of one soul’s overflow of light
The Saviour’s smile is seen in saving love
To stream adown the ever‐widening years
That close and closer bring us to the day
Of promised joy, when all our utmost need
Shall in that glorious smile be satisfied.
Odd Stories. VIII. Snifkin.
There certainly was a time when dogs were more respected than now. Such a
period in particular must have been the reign of Gigag, when the Odomites,
who had once kicked, maimed, and starved their poor curs in a manner
inhuman, now fed and fondled them with an affection that was almost
canine. This revolution in sentiment was entirely due to what may be
called a genius of instinct possessed by one extraordinary dog. His owner,
who was none other than the goblin Gigag, had, in one of those journeys
which he sometimes took through his underground thoroughfare, named his
four‐footed companion, with a fond conceit, Snifkin; and when they emerged
into the atmosphere of the king’s grounds, the latter was allowed the
chief place at supper among the royal dogs. Some of this many‐colored pack
were wont to bark, as others were to bite. Some were renowned for scent
and vigilance, and others for speed and courage; still others for motley
skins, lapping lips, great ears, and yelling, yelping, and howling. But
the dog Snifkin united their best qualities with a sagacity that was
almost diplomatic. He never barked till he was prepared to bite, and he
sometimes bit without barking. He had a scent and sight which are only
acquired by dogs who have seen a great deal of human nature. So various
and cabalistic seemed the marks and colors upon him, that the vulgar
ascribed them to the science of Gigag rather than to natural revelation.
To crown all, the dog Snifkin showed his ivory teeth at times, sneezing,
snorting, and laughing in a way next to human for its friendliness.
From a number of the faculties described arose two incidents which
increased the fame and worth of all dogs, and which no man can
sufficiently admire. A miser, in whom the sagacious Snifkin recognized a
former oppressor of his kind, came to plead his cause at court, alleging
his ownership of four hundred and ninety‐five thriving estates, and
prosecuting his poor nephew for about as many cents. At a contrast so
preposterous the knowing dog could not contain himself, and sniffed,
snorted, and showed his teeth to such a degree that even his royal master,
at whose side he sat during the hearing of the plea, was forced to join in
the general guffaw which greeted the miser.
Another incident related chiefly to one of four malcontent noblemen, who,
with bows and smiles, came to the royal presence. With no more ado the dog
Snifkin jumped at his throat, bringing him to the foot of the king, when a
concealed bodkin fell out of his bosom, and a number of poisons, which
Gigag recognized as badly prepared, were strewn upon the floor. Without a
word the king understood why it was that his dumb counsellor had not taken
soup that day. While irons were being placed on the limbs of the
malcontents, a collar made of the finest cloth of gold, adorned with
precious stones, was put upon the neck of the loyal dog. By sovereign
order it was decreed that, taking with him all the dogs in the kennels of
the palace, the crown crier should go out and cry to all the people the
patriotism of Snifkin, and the fidelity of dogs generally.
But it would require a million miracles to convince those whose unreason
has placed them nearest to the brutes, that dogs and other animals, human
and inhuman, exist for the trying and proving of the souls of men. As
Snifkin was one day seated in the high easy‐chair of the barber who
clipped and shaved for the king’s dogs, a commotion in the street provoked
him to bark loudly, hazarding thereby the loss of his nose at the hands of
the barber. Arrived in the street, what was his surprise to see fifty of
the royal hounds yelping in the most distressful manner over the loss of
his tail by the chief hound, who had provoked by impudent barking a
slashing cut from the sword of a cavalier, who, it came to be known, was a
conspirator against the life of King Gigag. Not being able to contend with
swordsmen, Snifkin quickly seized upon the largest and finest specimen of
the breed of curs who barked against the king’s hounds, and made short
work of him.
This act, loyal though it was, became the signal for that factious state
of feeling among the Odomites which eventuated in the famous war of tails.
Most of the best dogs belonging to the houses which barked against the
king having had their tails cut off, it grew to be a fashion with the
malcontents of the realm to reject everything with a tail to it, even were
it a shirt, or an entailed estate not already owned and occupied by one of
their number, or a story which was not to be continued. In fact, it became
a question whether they would give ear to any tale whatever, and hence it
was truly said of the malcontent faction that their ears were longer than
their tails. Of course the scientific king lost no time in improving the
situation; indeed, of putting an end to it. He trained a pack of dogs,
under the teaching of Snifkin, to scent out treason, and, when that was
done, he managed to give the hydrophobia to a large number of rebellious
curs, who afterwards bit their masters. The dog Snifkin barked against
this measure in vain.
A war now broke out, assisted by the prince of a neighboring country, who
had conceived a great hatred of the goblin Gigag. It was the habit of the
royal dogs to discover supplies to their masters, and guard their camp at
night, and, besides, to indicate in what direction were the princely
headquarters and trains of the enemy, which they knew by the smell of many
viands.
The same, perhaps, would have been the practice of those dogs without
tails who barked for the malcontents and their ally, were it not that the
poor fare they received compelled their flight to the better provisions of
the enemy. Nevertheless, it would have gone hard with King Gigag if his
rival’s device of drawing off the dogs by a concentration of savory meats
in an ambushed ravine had succeeded; for the king, had it not been for the
sagacity of Snifkin, would certainly have gone to the dogs. Despairing now
of being able to foil their antagonists, the allies heard with growing
dismay the general bark and howl in the king’s camp at night ere his
warriors slept upon their arms. Only a low growl here and there, or
perhaps the voice of some lonely hound who had strayed out of camp to bay
the moon, broke the silence of the sleep of war.
While thus the silent avalanche was prepared that was to overwhelm the
allies in the carnage of civil strife, a most unforeseen accident
occurred. King Gigag was on his rounds through the camp when a dog taken
with hydrophobia bit him in the leg. Returning mad to his headquarters, he
saw the dog Snifkin laughing and wagging his tail, and, frenzied by the
sight, he drew his sword, and at once cut off the whole of that pleasant
appendage. Immediately the dog Snifkin became the most beautiful young
prince you ever saw. Seizing an enchanted blade that hung up in the tent
of the goblin, he defended himself with fury, and by an artful stroke put
the unlucky Gigag out of his pains. When it became known throughout both
camps that King Gigag had cut off the tail of the dog Snifkin, a
reconciliation grew apace between those dogs who had tails and those dogs
who had none; and, indeed, the royal hounds especially were anxious to
have their tails cut off, so that they might turn at once into princes;
but, unfortunately, this result never happened, two of these dogs at least
having been curtailed, to their great shame and mortification, without so
much as becoming scullions, or anything but unlucky dogs. It was then seen
by the Odomites that the dog Snifkin was none other than their long‐lost
Prince Gudood, who would have been devoured by the giant Googloom, had not
the goblins got hold of him and changed him into a dog; in which character
he served the excellent goblin Gigag, who, however, was not made aware of
his identity by the evil goblins from whom he had escaped. By means of a
birthmark on his right arm the allied lords were speedily brought to
understand that this, indeed, was the long‐lost prince who had been
affianced to the daughter of the neighboring king. And now with one heart
and soul they hastened the marriage of the prince and princess, who ever
afterwards lived happily in the joy and glory and union of both kingdoms.
In the magnificent bridal procession nothing was more astonishing than the
thousand trained dogs of all kinds, large and small, who marched in order,
clad sometimes in variegated suits, and wearing rich collars. First came
the royal hounds and mastiffs; second, a fine breed of mountaineer dogs as
large as wolves; third, two or three hundred pointers, spotted all colors;
fourth, as many setters, their backs streaked with colors like gold and
snow; fifth, a battalion of mixed red, white, and blue dogs; sixth, a body
of sky‐terriers, followed by the finest array of black‐and‐tan dogs that
was ever known; sixth, a large number of dogs who looked like nothing so
much as walking hearth‐rugs; seventh, a noble lot of shaggy water‐dogs as
large as men; then a great many shepherd‐dogs, spaniels, poodles, pups;
after these a battalion of dogs shaved to look like lions; and finally a
rear‐guard of bull‐dogs with their tails cut off, walking as steadily as
firemen on parade. A loud and harmonious barking at intervals interrupted
the sound of the wedding bells, and five hundred terrier dogs at least
stood up on their hind legs when the marriage ceremony was performed.
Thus the reign of humanity and utility succeeded to the reign of science
and pelf. Only dogs were allowed to do the fighting, and they were treated
so well that they did nothing worse than bark. The following conversation
was one time overhead among them in a street near the king’s palace:
_Royal Mastiff._—Bowoghowow! Bowgh!
_Hound without tail._—Boowoogh! Boohoo! Wowoo!
_Terrier dog._—Gr‐r‐r‐r‐row, r‐row!
_Bull‐dog._—Hr‐r‐r‐um‐g‐r‐r‐u‐m. Bowowgh!
From these syllables it was conjectured by the knowing that the new King
Gudood had no enemies, and that peace abode in the land.
New Publications.
DE L’AUTORITE; OU, LA PHILOSOPHIE DU PERSONNALISME. LETTRE AU REV.
PERE J. F. HECKER, SUIVIE D’UN APPENDICE SUR LA SOUVERAINETE DU
PEUPLE. PAR DWIGHT H. OLMSTEAD. Traduction approuvée par l’auteur.
Genève: Japonnier et Steuder. 1874.
This pamphlet, the English original of which we have not seen, has been
sent to us from Geneva, by the author, we presume. The Rev. F. I. T. (not
J. F.) Hecker has been abroad, travelling for the restoration of his
impaired health, for more than a year, and cannot, therefore, give his
personal attention to Mr. Olmstead’s very courteous _Letter_, at least for
the present, and in the columns of THE CATHOLIC WORLD. Moreover, the
author is mistaken in attributing a certain article in THE CATHOLIC WORLD,
with which he chiefly employs his pen in the _Letter_, to F. Hecker. The
article in question is one of the numerous contributions with which Dr.
Brownson enriched and adorned our pages during the interval of the
suspension of his own _Review_. In our opinion, Mr. Olmstead has not dealt
a very heavy blow upon the head‐piece of his veteran antagonist. In fact,
we do not see that he has attempted any serious answer to arguments which
he would find it no easy task to refute. Mr. Olmstead deals more in
objections and assertions than in arguments, and his assertions are so
general and vague that one would need to write a treatise on general and
special metaphysics to refute them. They merely amount to this: that Mr.
Olmstead agrees with Kant and J. Stuart Mill. F. Hecker’s works were
written for persons who either believe in some sense in Christianity, or
at least in God and in human reason and intelligence. It is not necessary
to prove the premises admitted by the persons with whom you argue. If they
are Protestants, you assume the truth of Christianity. Your only effort is
then to prove that Catholicity is the genuine Christianity. If they are
rationalistic theists, you prove that the truth of Christianity, and
specifically the authority of the church as one of its essential doctrines
and laws, is demonstrable from principles of reason and natural theology.
When it is a question of arguing with an atheist or sceptic, these topics
must be postponed, and the discussion turned upon the first principles of
metaphysics. Even here something in common must be admitted as a starting‐
point for argument. If a man denies everything or doubts everything, the
only thing which can possibly be done is to watch him closely until he
asserts something, and then you can do no more than show to a bystander
his absurdity. If we understand Mr. Olmstead correctly, he admits the
reality of all that is contained within self‐consciousness, and considers
all else, by the mere fact of its being exterior to consciousness, as an
unknown quantity in respect to its reality. He merely holds this, however,
as an opinion, and admits that the contrary is very probable. If he is in
earnest—and it is fair to presume that he is—in searching for
philosophical truth, the only way in which a Catholic philosopher could
argue with him to any purpose would be by presenting a theory of the
origin of ideas and knowledge, which would give him something objective as
a primitive element in his very first act of intellectual self‐
consciousness. This is rather too serious a task to be performed in a
hurry. Whatever we have to say on these great fundamental topics of
philosophy has been already partly said in the elaborate articles which
have appeared in our columns, and will be said hereafter in articles of a
similar nature. We refer the author of the _Letter_ and others in a
similar position to THE CATHOLIC WORLD, _passim_, to get what modicum of
light we are able to furnish them. If they wish for more light, they must
go to the great works of great authors, and study them carefully. As for
the great number of very excellent persons who do not trouble their heads
with philosophy, and who complain that our philosophical articles are too
dry and abstruse, we must beg them to content themselves with the lighter
portions of the magazine, and allow us to give a reasonable amount of
space to the few readers who have some taste and capacity for real
science.
HOLY PLACES: THEIR SANCTITY AND AUTHENTICITY. By F. Philpin de
Rivières, of the London Oratory. London: Washbourne. 1874. (New
York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)
F. De Rivières gives play both to reason and imagination in an instructive
and agreeable manner in treating of the attractive topic of holy places.
The book contains some interesting information about the recent
explorations in Jerusalem.
THE MONTH OF MARY OF OUR LADY OF LOURDES. By Henri Lasserre.
Translated from the French (23d edition) by Mrs. Crosier. London:
Burns and Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication
Society.)
Henri Lasserre’s beautiful work—of which a translation, which the best
judges have pronounced to be of the very highest literary merit as well as
the most literal accuracy, appeared in this magazine—is abridged and
divided into thirty‐one chapters for each day of the month of May, in this
neat and pretty volume.
The Blessed Virgin pressed very hard on the head of the old serpent when
she appeared at the rocks of Massabielle. The sympathizers with this
“revolutionnaire malheureux,” as Renan calls him, in his warfare on the
Queen of Heaven, frequently show their perplexity and vexation at the
overwhelming proof of the miracles she has wrought, by an attempt at
scornful ridicule, which is always unaccompanied by any argument, or any
attempt at meeting the challenge so often addressed to them to rebut the
evidence M. Lasserre has furnished. Louis Veuillot, probably the wittiest
man now on the earth, once said of a certain Frenchman that he was a
clever writer, but _fort piqué contre le Saint Esprit_. Dr. Coxe, who has
formerly shown himself to be a clever poet, to say the least, in his
recent pamphlet against Bishop Ryan, which is not at all clever, but only
cunning, has exhibited a great pique against Our Lady of Lourdes. In this
we see a fulfilment of the ancient prophecy, “I will place enmity between
thee and the woman, between thy seed and her seed.” The vulgar and
unmeaning jibes of the infidel and the heretic, as well as the pious
writings and devout pilgrimages of the faithful, alike serve to make the
wonderful event of Lourdes more and more widely known all over the world,
to the greater glory of God, and his Blessed Mother.
A FULL CATECHISM OF THE CATHOLIC RELIGION (preceded by a short
history of religion), from the creation of the world to the
present time. With Questions for Examination. Translated from the
German of the Rev. Joseph Deharbe, S.J., by the Rev. John Fander.
Fourth Edition. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by
The Catholic Publication Society.)
This is the most celebrated catechism of the century, has been most
extensively approved and brought into use, and will be of great service to
those who are employed in teaching young people the Christian doctrine, as
well as for the instruction of converts.
THE COMMONITORY OF S. VINCENT OF LERINS. London: Washbourne. 1874.
(New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)
There is no treatise of such small size as the _Commonitory_ among
Christian writings, so far as we know, which has been so universal in fame
and influence, and has made its author so illustrious, as this one.
The neat little _libretto_, containing the translation, with some
accompanying testimonies of eminent Protestant divines to the excellence
of the work, is edited by the Rev. John Lynch, of Ballymena, Diocese of
Down and Connor, Ireland. In the preface he mentions the fact that S.
Vincent and S. Patrick were fellow‐students. The treatise can be easily
read and understood by any intelligent person, and yet contains an amount
of instruction and information on Catholic doctrine equal to that which is
ordinarily spread through volumes.
MONASTICON HIBERNICUM. With Engravings in Gold and Colors, Maps
and Views. By Mervyn Archdall, A.M. Edited by the Right Rev. Dr.
Moran. Vol. I., 4to. Dublin: W. B. Kelly. 1873.
This well‐known historical work is now republished in the most splendid
style. It is a history of religious houses and orders in Ireland,
extensive, learned, and full of romantic and religious interest. The first
volume contains two fine views of the exterior and interior of S.
Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, one of the ancient episcopal palace, and
several engravings, in gold, of different religious orders. The work is,
of course, a costly one, and is only published by subscription. Every
wealthy Irishman in the United States ought to subscribe for a work which
is an honor to his country and the Catholic religion. The first edition
is, however, limited to one thousand copies, and we presume that persons
desiring to procure a copy will find it necessary to send on their names
immediately.
CHERUBINI: MEMORIALS ILLUSTRATIVE OF HIS LIFE. By Edward Bellasis,
Barrister‐at‐Law. London: Burns & Oates. (With a portrait.)
This is an elaborate biography of the great musical composer, edited and
published with the greatest care in an attractive style of typography. It
cannot fail to interest very much those who have a taste for musical
literature.
LA SAINTE ECRITURE ET LA REGLE DE FOI. Par l’Abbé Bégin, de
l’Université Laval. Québec: Coté et Cie. 1874.
With admirable precision and clearness the Abbé Bégin develops and defends
in this volume the Catholic doctrine of the rule of faith in accordance
with the soundest and most orthodox theology. We cannot sufficiently
recommend his treatise to clergymen and other students of sacred science.
There are some mistakes in the spelling of English names, as is very usual
in French books. For example, we have Richard Buxter instead of Baxter.
Whoever wishes to preach, lecture, or write for the press on the topics
treated in this volume will find it even more available for use than the
treatises contained in our dogmatic text‐books.
SKETCHES OF ILLUSTRIOUS SOLDIERS. By James Grant Wilson. New York.
George P. Putnam’s Sons. 1874.
This work has a promising look, the author’s name reminding us that the
military profession was for some time his own, and that he is a diligent
student of the literature of his subject.
Military biography has a strange charm for most readers; indeed, it is
doubtful whether fiction has an equal fascination at certain periods of
our lives. Few of us have attained middle age without having had our
cheeks frequently glow and our patriotism grow warm at the narration of
deeds of prowess performed by our favorite heroes. Unfortunately, however,
the production of this species of literature has fallen to a great extent
into the hands of literary adventurers‐writers who looked only to making
the most of a profitable enterprise. Hence the periodical eruption of
lives of great captains, distinguished, indeed, as men count greatness,
but whose most valid claim to eminence consisted in their ability to
destroy whatever opposed the realization of the objects of their ambition,
and the permanent maintenance of unjustly‐won crowns. To this cause we may
partly attribute the fact that people have well‐nigh lost sight of the
loftiest form of heroism—that which prompts a man to stake everything on
the defence of a principle; to brave all dangers and sustain all
privations, so that conscience be kept pure and the Christian character
preserved unsullied.
The work under notice belongs to a different category. It is written, for
the most part, in a calm, judicial spirit, the author evidently intending
to avoid partisanship, and exhibiting a painstaking fidelity to the data
before him. Occasionally, however, he betrays the hero‐worshipper in the
case of individuals who appear anything but admirable to us. On such
common ground as the sketch of Washington we are glad to express our
agreement with the author. We also like his estimate of anecdotes as
illustrations of character.
UNIVERSAL PRONOUNCING DICTIONARY OF BIOGRAPHY AND MYTHOLOGY. By J.
Thomas, A.M., M.D. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1874.
A COMPLETE PRONOUNCING GAZETTEER. Edited by J. Thomas and T.
Baldwin, assisted by several other gentlemen. Philadelphia: J. B.
Lippincott & Co. (Sold at 25 Bond St., New York)
Next to a dictionary of the language we rank dictionaries of persons and
places, as works of reference for those engaged in writing, and, indeed,
for all intelligent readers as well. We hear of so many men of eminence,
or of localities so nearly alike in orthography, that we never feel
entirely at ease without reference to a good authority; so that, for the
mere purpose of identification, books like these are worth all they cost.
The period and country at and in which a given subject lived, his
occupation, his contemporaries, and for what he was distinguished; the
county, state, or kingdom in which a certain city or town lies, serve all
ordinary uses. Should we desire more, we can at our leisure resort to the
encyclopædias or individual biographies for fuller information. Of course
these works would be more acceptable if written from our point of view;
but that we cannot expect for a long time to come. Meanwhile, being
reasonably impartial, as we have found them to be so far as we have
examined, we accept them as the best attainable. Lest the fact that they
are each in one volume should convey an inadequate idea of their extent,
we may state that the _Biographical Dictionary_ has 2,345 closely‐printed
royal octavo pages, and the _Gazetteer_ xviii.‐2,182 pages of the same
size and compactness. We know of no works of the kind so convenient and
full in all matters for which they are ordinarily consulted.
A DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. By Joseph E. Worcester,
LL.D. Boston: Brewer & Tileston. 1874.
As it would be quite superfluous to advise any one to get a dictionary at
the present time, we content ourselves with asking our readers to get _the
best_—Worcester’s Unabridged. We have warmed towards this author, among
other reasons, because he is less of an iconoclast than some of his
fellow‐lexicographers. It has grieved us not a little to see our favorite
words maltreated as if they had no personality about which to be
sensitive, or pedigree whereof to be proud. We can scarcely recognize them
in the new dress, or rather mask, in which they are often presented. Were
we a boy again, not a hair of our head would rise at a spect_er_, and we
should have an additional reason for refusing allegiance to a sovereign
who held only a scept_er_—though the sun should still refuse to set on her
dominions.
In saying this we would by no means disparage a standard in spelling. When
some new Ursa Major shall arise who will not only give us an uniform,
harmonious system of orthography, but such substantial reasons in favor of
it as will satisfy the learned and confound all opponents, we may yield to
the general verdict. But we are not at all on the lookout for such a
contingency while our language is in the process of formation, and expect
to possess our Worcester Unabridged in peace for many long years to come.
The work has lxviii.‐1,786 pages quarto, and is quite as full, we believe,
as any other extant in the various tables, grammatical and other
information having a bearing on the main purpose of the volume.
The same publishers also issue Worcester’s _Comprehensive Dictionary_,
Worcester’s _Primary Dictionary_, and _A Pocket Dictionary_, compiled from
the quarto and school dictionaries of J. E. Worcester, by Loomis J.
Campbell; for those who desire inexpensive and portable manuals.
THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XIX., NO. 114.—SEPTEMBER, 1874.
Matter.
II.
The activity displayed by matter in the production of natural phenomena is
twofold, viz., attractive and repulsive; and the question has been raised
whether these two kinds of activity can reside in one and the same
subject, or, owing to their opposite nature, require separate subjects.
With regard to molecules, it is quite certain, though some have thought
otherwise, that in all ponderable bodies each molecule is in possession of
both powers; but with regard to the primitive elements which enter into
the constitution of a molecule, the question needs a special treatment, as
no direct evidence is supplied by experimental science for an affirmative
more than for a negative solution, and different views have been advanced
which it is important to examine in the light of philosophical principles,
that we may ascertain which of them has the best claim to adoption both in
philosophy and in molecular mechanics.
Attractive and repulsive powers.
Since it is well known that all the phenomena of the material order,
whether physical or chemical, ultimately depend on attractions and
repulsions, we are compelled to admit the existence in nature of
attractive and repulsive powers. Neither attractive powers alone nor
repulsive powers alone would afford us a rational explanation of natural
facts. If the primitive elements of matter were all repulsive, and nothing
but repulsive, then neither the cohesion of material particles nor the
gravitation of bodies would be possible; no solid and no liquid would
exist; and all matter from the very beginning of its existence would have
vanished in a state of extreme attenuation through the immensity of space.
If, on the contrary, the primitive elements of matter were all attractive,
and nothing but attractive, no expansive power would be found in nature;
for the expansion of bodies evidently depends on a repulsion prevailing
between their molecules. All solid and liquid bodies likewise proclaim the
existence of repulsive powers by the resistance they oppose to
compression. This resistance shows that their molecules are endowed with
powers whose exertion impedes their mutual approach as soon as they have
reached a certain limit of distance. It is plain that the power which
impedes the approach under pressure must be a repulsive one. Thus both
attractive and repulsive powers exist in nature.
But do they exist together in the same primitive element of matter?
Boscovich answers in the affirmative; but his answer is not supported by
any cogent reason. Having found no other means of accounting for the
impenetrability of bodies, he assumed that every element of matter is so
constituted as to be attractive at all great distances, according to the
law of universal attraction, but that each element, at molecular
distances, becomes repulsive in order to resist pressure, and again
attractive in order to exercise chemical affinity, and then repulsive
again, these alternations going on a certain number of times, till at last
repulsivity alone prevails, which indefinitely increases when the distance
of two elements indefinitely diminishes.
Yet this theory is by no means needed to account either for the
impenetrability of bodies or for any other phenomenon; as what Boscovich
ascribes to elements may be, and is in fact, a property of molecules—that
is, of a compound system of elements. On the other hand, the theory is
unnaturally complex, and the alternation of the attractive and repulsive
exertions looks as unscientific as the epicycles of the old astronomers
and other hypotheses once admitted as plausible, and now superseded by a
fuller knowledge of natural laws. To a mind which examines the question of
attractive and repulsive powers in the light of philosophy, it must be
evident that each primitive element of matter cannot possess them both.
_If an element is attractive at any distance, it must be attractive at all
distances, whether enormously great or indefinitely small; likewise, if an
element is repulsive at any distance, it must be repulsive at all
distances._
This proposition can be proved as follows: Opposite actions cannot
originate from one and the same simple principle when such a principle has
no control over itself, but acts by inherent necessity. But in each
primitive element of matter there is but one simple principle of activity,
which has no control over itself, as it acts by inherent necessity. And
therefore no primitive element can be both attractive and repulsive, but
is either attractive at all distances or at all distances repulsive.
In this syllogism the major is evident. An active principle which, like
the human soul, can, by immanent operations, assume at pleasure different
attitudes towards the term of its action, and which masters the conditions
and controls the intensity of its exertions, may perhaps be considered
competent to originate actions of opposite kinds.(159) But a being which
is destitute of immanent operations, and acts by an inherent necessity of
its nature, has no power to modify itself or to alter its intrinsic
determination; and its action is so ruled by its intrinsic determination
that there is no chance of its being either transmuted into its opposite,
or even partially suspended. Now, in a primitive being the principle of
activity is nothing else than the simple act which formally determines its
nature; and it is plain that wherever there is one simple formal act,
there can be only one formal determination to act. And consequently a
simple principle of activity which has no immanent operations cannot be
the source of two opposite kinds of actions. Bodies and their molecules,
on account of their physical composition, contain as many distinct
principles of activity as they contain physical components or elements;
hence we can easily account for their capability of originating opposite
actions by admitting that among those elements some are attractive and
others repulsive. But in a primitive element it is impossible to admit of
two opposite active principles; for a primitive element is a being
entitatively one, having only one essential act, and consequently only one
active principle and one intrinsic determination to act. It would
therefore be absurd to expect from such an element actions of such an
opposite nature as are attraction and repulsion. For evidently, to enable
the element to display two opposite powers, two opposite determinations
would be necessary. Hence, if the intrinsic determination enables the
primitive element to attract, such an element will always attract, and
never repel; and if, on the contrary, the intrinsic determination enables
the primitive element to repel, such an element will always repel, and
never attract. In other terms, the attractive and the repulsive power
cannot coexist in the same primitive element.
This conclusion, which affords the only possible basis for the
speculations of molecular mechanics, is one of those which mere scientists
cannot reach through their empirical and inductive method; but its truth
is not less certain for that; it is rather all the more certain, as it is
not founded on accidental facts, but on the unchangeable nature of things
and the transcendental relation of the principles involved in the
constitution of real beings.
Our proposition may be confirmed by reflecting that the change of
attraction into repulsion, according to Boscovich, would depend on the
diminution of the distance between the agent and the patient. Now, this
view is inadmissible. For a change of distance, though necessarily
accompanied by a change in the intensity of the action, cannot exercise
any influence on the specific nature of the action. The _intensity_ of the
action is an accidental thing, and can change without in the least
interfering with the nature of the agent; and for this reason it can, and
must, depend on distance as a condition implied in the exercise of the
active power. But the _nature_ of the action always follows the nature of
the substance from which it proceeds. Now, a change of distance does not
change the nature of the substance. And accordingly the nature of the
action must remain the same, even though the distance be indefinitely
diminished.
Moreover, if there were any distance at which the action of a primitive
element could change from attractive to repulsive, evidently the element,
at such a distance, would be unable to exercise either attraction or
repulsion, as Boscovich concedes; and therefore, at such a distance, the
material element would have no activity. We may, then, ask: Whence does
the attractive power emanate which is to have uncontrolled sway at all
greater distances? Does it emanate from any point of space outside the
element? Then it would not be the active power of the element, as it would
have nothing to do with it. On the other hand, it is obvious that if it
emanates from the element, it does not end at a distance from it. For,
since the active power is really identical with the formal principle from
which the primitive element receives its nature, it is as necessary for
the elementary power to reach the very centre of the element as it is for
the form to be intrinsically terminated to its matter. Whence it follows
that the elementary power of attraction, which prevails at all great
distances, must emanate from the very centre of the element. But if so,
why shall it not prevail up to that very centre? Is it, forsooth, because
in the neighborhood of the centre an opposite principle prevails? Were
this the case, the same primitive being would have two formal acts, and it
would be _two beings_ and _two natures_; which is an evident
contradiction. As long, therefore, as we adhere to the fundamental
doctrine that a primitive being cannot have more than one simple principle
of activity, we must admit that a primitive element, if attractive at any
distance, is attractive at all molecular distances, and, if repulsive at
molecular distances, is repulsive at all distances.
Against the existence of attractive and repulsive powers in distinct
primitive elements some objections now and then have been made. It has
been said, first, that what we call repulsion is only a result of certain
vortical movements of the ether all around the molecules of ponderable
bodies. This objection is based on a false supposition. We have already
shown that the arbitrary theory of the vortices fails altogether to
explain the great phenomenon of universal attraction; and we may easily
show that it fails as completely in regard to molecular repulsion. In
fact, the centrifugal forces which are developed by vortical movements,
and which in this theory are assumed as the cause of the phenomena of
molecular resistances, are not active powers. They are components of the
vortical movements, and nothing more; that is to say, they do not
_efficiently_ produce movements, but are the _formal_ principles of
movements already produced. To ascribe to them the molecular resistances
and the impenetrability of bodies is, therefore, to admit the effect
without the cause.
Secondly, some authors object that the resistance called into play by
pressure is not a real action, and requires no efficient repulsive powers.
They consider it, according to the vulgar prejudice, as a merely _passive_
resistance; for they imagine that a body, when pressed or impinged on,
resists the progress of the obtruding body _by its own inert matter_,
which with its materiality obstructs the way onward. This old explanation
is still popular with the great mass of the uninstructed, but is
scientifically and philosophically worthless. For whatever causes a real
change really acts; now, a body resisting the advance of another body
causes a real change in the rate of its movement; therefore a body
resisting the advance of another body really acts. Its resistance is
therefore _active_, and not passive; that is, it consists in an exertion
of repulsive power, and not in a material obstruction of the path.
Hence what physicists call “force of inertia” is not a passive resistance
proceeding from the inertia of matter, but an active exertion of the
molecular powers, and has been so called only because, all other things
being equal, its intensity is proportional to the mass of the inert
body.(160) Evidently, inertia itself cannot resist or check the advance of
an impinging body. Nothing but a positive action can do it; for nothing
but a positive action can communicate to the advancing body that impetus
in the opposite direction which alone is competent to neutralize the
impetus of the advance. Physicists know this very well, though many of
them, owing to the difficulty of analyzing and expressing certain things
with philosophical accuracy, do not always use, in this particular, a very
correct language—a thing which, after all, must not surprise us, as one
can be well read in physics without necessarily being a profound
philosopher.
The third objection is aimed at our argument against Boscovich’s theory,
in which we have said that attraction and repulsion are actions of
opposite kinds. Boscovich, on the contrary, maintains that attraction and
repulsion differ only as the greater from the less, and therefore cannot
be considered as actions of a different kind. He says: “Both actions are
of the same kind; for the one, as compared with the other, is negative;
and negative things do not differ in kind from positive ones. That the
one, as compared with the other, is negative, is evident from this: that
they differ only in direction. That the negative and the positive belong
to the same kind is evident from the principle, _More and less do not
differ in kind_. In fact, from the positive, by a continued subtraction or
diminution, we obtain first some smaller positive quantities, then zero,
and lastly, if we still go on in our subtraction, negative
quantities.”(161)
This argument, notwithstanding its speciousness, is not difficult to
upset. It is not true, in the first place, that attraction and repulsion
differ only in direction; on the contrary, they differ in everything
except in direction. Two points _A_ and _B_ being given, there is only one
direction from _A_ to *B*, whether _A_ be attractive or repulsive. If _A_
is attractive, its attraction is directed from _A_ to _B_; and if _A_ is
repulsive, its repulsion is no less directed from _A_ to _B_. This is
quite evident, as the action must in all cases proceed from the agent to
the patient. It is evident, therefore, that the two actions must have the
same direction. The movements of _B_ will indeed have opposite directions,
according as _B_ is attracted or repelled; but this does not show that the
actions themselves have opposite directions; it shows, on the contrary,
that those actions, though directed in the same manner from _A_ to _B_,
are of a different nature, and proceed from opposite principles. And this
conclusion may be confirmed by remarking that the direction is always from
a point to a point, or from matter to matter; and consequently it is not
the active power or the action, but only the position of the material
centres, that can determine any direction. Accordingly, so long as such a
position is not inverted, it is impossible to conceive two opposite
directions from _A_ to _B_. It is therefore evidently false that
attraction and repulsion differ in direction.
It is not true, in the second place, that attraction and repulsion differ
only as the positive differs from the negative, or the greater from the
less. In the mathematical expression of mechanical relations, if we
consider a movement as positive, the movement which points to an opposite
direction must, of course, be affected by the negative sign. The same we
must do with regard to forces and actions; for we estimate the actions by
the movements which they produce, and we express them only in terms of
movement—that is, by their effects. But this does not mean that there is
either any movement or any action _absolutely_ negative; for a negative
movement would be no movement, and a negative action no action. It is in a
relative and conventional sense only that movements are considered as
positive or negative; and, moreover, either of the two opposite movements
can be assumed as positive or as negative, at will; which shows very
clearly that the negative and the positive do not differ in this case as
the greater differs from the less, as Boscovich assumes; for either of the
two can, at pleasure, be taken as positive, whereas it would be absurd to
pretend that either of the two can, at pleasure, be pronounced to be the
greater. Thus, when a stone is thrown up vertically, and abandoned to
itself, if its ascent is taken as positive, its descent will be considered
as negative. Now, according to Boscovich’s reasoning, we should infer that
_the ascent is greater than the descent_, though they are evidently equal.
And in the same manner, if the ascent is taken as negative (which nothing
forbids), the descent must be taken as positive; whence, according to
Boscovich, we ought to infer also that _the descent is greater than the
ascent_. Any argument which leads to such glaring contradictions must be
radically false. And therefore it is false that attraction and repulsion
differ from one another as the greater from the less.
It might be urged, as a fourth objection, that if an attractive and a
repulsive power differ in kind, then a repulsive element and an attractive
element will be two kinds of material substance; which is inadmissible.
For we cannot admit two kinds of primitive material beings essentially
different, as the essence of matter must be the same in all the elements.
To this we answer that although there are two kinds of elements, there are
not two kinds of matter. In other terms, an attractive element differs
from a repulsive one as to the principle of action, but not as to the
matter itself. In fact, the essence of a material being _as such_ requires
nothing more than a form giving existence to matter; hence, wherever there
is a form giving existence to matter, there also is the essence of matter.
Now, matter is as much and as completely actuated by a form or act which
is a principle of attraction as by a form or act which is a principle of
repulsion. For the actuation of the matter by its form is not _efficient_,
but _formal_; and its result is not _to approach_ by attraction or _to
recede_ by repulsion, but _to be_ simply and absolutely; so that neither
attractivity nor repulsivity has any bearing on the essential constitution
of a material element as such—that is, inasmuch as it is material.
Accordingly, two elements of opposite natures differ in kind as agents,
but not as _material_ beings; and thus the essence of matter _as such_
remains one and the same in all the elements. Matter, as we have already
shown, is the centre of a sphere of activity; and it is evident that, by
this activity of an attractive or of a repulsive nature, the centre
remains a centre, and the sphere a sphere, without the least alteration.
Gold and ivory differ in kind; but a sphere of ivory and a sphere of gold
do not differ in kind _as spheres_, and their centres do not differ in
kind _as centres_. In a like manner the sphere of activity of an
attractive element does not differ from the sphere of activity of a
repulsive element, nor the centre of the one from the centre of the other.
And therefore two elements, however different in their nature as agents,
do not cease to be of the same kind as material. Their form is different,
but informs equally, and their matter is exactly the same.
We have stated that Boscovich was led to admit two opposite powers in the
same element, because he thought this to be the only means of accounting
for the impenetrability of bodies. We observe that, although the
impenetrability of bodies peremptorily proves the existence of repulsive
powers, it by no means proves that the repulsive power coexists with the
attractive _in the same primitive element_. Hence Boscovich’s inference is
not legitimate. Molecules, as we have already remarked, may possess both
powers, as their composition involves a great number of elements, which
can be of different natures. And this suffices to explain the
impenetrability of bodies, and all other properties dependent on molecular
actions, without need of arbitrary hypotheses.
A last objection against the doctrine we have established might be drawn
from the difficulty of reconciling the existence of repulsive elements
with universal attraction; for if we admit that repulsion can be exercised
at astronomical distances, it will be difficult to see how the celestial
bodies can attract one another in the direct ratio of their masses, as the
law of attraction requires.
The answer is obvious. If all matter were repulsive, universal repulsion
would be the consequence. But if bodies are made up partly of attractive
and partly of repulsive elements, then will either universal repulsion or
universal attraction prevail, according as the number and power of the
repulsive elements is greater or smaller than that of the attractive ones.
Hence, from the fact that in the solar system and elsewhere attraction
prevails, it follows, indeed, that the attractive powers are the stronger,
but it does not follow that they are the whole stuff of which bodies are
compounded.
As to the law of attraction _in the direct ratio of the masses_, a
distinction is to be made. The law is certainly true if by masses we mean
the masses _acted on_; not so, however, if for the masses acted on we
substitute the masses of the attracting bodies. The fact of universal
attraction shows that two planets, all other things being equal, must be
attracted by the sun in the direct ratio of their masses. This is an
established truth. But to say that, all other things being equal, the sun
and the earth would attract the moon in the direct ratio of their
_absolute_ masses, is to assume what no fact whatever gives us the right
to assert. Physicists very commonly admit this second assumption, and
consider it a part of the law of attraction; but they would be not a
little embarrassed were they required to undertake its demonstration. They
take for granted that all the particles of matter are equally and
uniformly attractive. Now, this assumption has never been established by
facts; it simply arises from an unlawful generalization—that is, from the
extension of the law of kinetic forces to dynamical actions. The momenta
of two bodies animated by equal velocities are proportional to the masses
of the same bodies; but nothing justifies the inference that therefore the
attractive powers must be proportional to the masses. Indeed, it is
scarcely possible to believe that equal masses of lead, iron, and zinc
possess equal powers. Their properties are, in fact, so different that we
cannot assume their constitution to be the result of an assemblage of
equal powers. Hence we maintain that, unless two bodies have the same
molecular constitution, their attractions cannot be proportional to their
masses.(162)
Universal attraction being also proportional to the inverse squares of the
distances, as we are going to show, we may add that the existence of
repulsive elements in the sun and in the planets by no means interferes
with this law. In fact, the total action of one celestial body on another,
on account of the great distance at which the law of universal attraction
is applied, equals the algebraic sum of all the actions by which one body
makes an impression upon the other. Hence, if all the elements of which
the body consists, whether they be attractive or repulsive, act
proportionally to the inverse square of the distance, it is evident that
the resultant of all such actions will also be proportional to the inverse
square of the distance, whenever the form of the body is spherical, or
nearly so, as is the case with the celestial bodies. And thus it is plain
that no valid objection can be drawn from universal attraction against the
existence of repulsive elements.
Law of elementary actions.
We have now to establish the general law of elementary attraction and
repulsion. We hold that _the actions of every primitive element are always
inversely proportional to the squares of the distances, no matter whether
such distances be great or small, astronomical or molecular_.
This proposition can be briefly proved in the following manner: Astronomy
teaches us that the Newtonian law, according to which the actions are
inversely proportional to the squares of the distances, is true for all
the celestial bodies. Now, the total action of one celestial body upon
another is a resultant of elementary actions, and arises from the
algebraic sum of them all. Hence it follows that every element of matter,
when acting from certain distances, obeys the Newtonian law; for it is
evident, from the theory of the composition of forces, that the sum of the
elementary actions cannot follow the Newtonian law unless these actions
themselves follow it. But if the law is true in the case of astronomical
distances, it must be true also in the case of microscopical and molecular
distances. For as a primitive element cannot have two laws of action, so
neither can it follow at molecular distances any other law than that which
it follows at all other distances.
That a primitive element cannot have two different laws of action will be
manifest by considering that the law which an element obeys in its actions
results from the intrinsic determination of its nature—that is, from its
formal constitution—inasmuch as the principle of action is, in every
primitive substance, the formal principle of its very being: _Principium
essendi est principium operandi_. Now, a primitive element has but one
formal principle of being; for it is entitatively one, and therefore it
has but one formal determination to act, which, as resulting from its
essential constitution, is unchangeable and inviolable. But it is evident
that from _one_ formal determination to act only _one_ law of action can
possibly result. Two laws would be two formal results, and would require
two formal principles giving two different determinations. Accordingly,
since each primitive element has but one formal principle, it cannot have
two laws of action. And therefore the Newtonian law, which primitive
elements follow at astronomical distances, must prevail also at all other
distances.
Let the reader observe that this conclusion regards the action of
primitive _elements_, not the action of _molecules_. That molecular
actions at molecular distances are not inversely proportional to the
square of the distance is a known fact. Molecular cohesion, for instance,
is immensely greater than it could possibly be by the Newtonian law; so
also molecular repulsion. This is what prevented physicists from
recognizing the applicability of the Newtonian law at molecular distances.
As long as the primitive elements were confounded, under the name of
atoms, with the molecules of the so‐called primitive bodies, hydrogen,
oxygen, carbon, etc., it was impossible to recognize in the molecular
actions any trace of the Newtonian law; hence came the division of
attraction into _universal_ and _molecular_, the first following a known
law, the second following some other law or laws which physicists could
never discover. Their embarrassment was a necessary consequence of an
incomplete analysis of the material compound. The molecule of a given
substance, though often called an atom, is a system of primitive elements;
and elements acting according to the Newtonian law can give rise to
molecular systems which, at very small distances, will act according to
any other law that may be indicated by molecular phenomena. This other law
depends entirely on the number, kind, strength, and geometrical
arrangement of the primitive elements which enter into the constitution of
the molecule; and since molecules of different primitive substances are
very differently constituted, every kind of molecule must have its own
peculiar law of acting at molecular distances—a fact on which the
scientific explanation of the different physical and chemical properties
of different substances entirely depends. Hence it is clear that all the
attempts at finding a general law of molecular attraction were, from the
very nature of the case, destined to fail. The only general law of action
which all matter obeys is the Newtonian law; and what was once considered
to form an exception to it is now acknowledged to be the result of its
application to a complex system of attractive and repulsive elements.
From the fact that the actions of all elements are proportional to the
inverse squares of the distances, it follows that the sphere of activity
of material elements extends beyond any assignable limit. The intensity of
the action cannot, in fact, become = 0 unless the distance becomes
infinite. The objections to which this corollary of the Newtonian law may
give rise will be answered in our next article, where all the difficulties
concerning the _actio in distans_ will be solved.
Mode of action.
A last question remains here to be examined respecting the action of
primitive material elements—viz., whether such an action needs a medium
through which it may be transmitted and communicated to distant bodies, or
whether, on the contrary, it is exerted upon them directly without
dependence on any material medium.
In answering this question we must be careful not to confound action with
movement. Movement, though not properly transmitted, is propagated, as we
shall explain; and this cannot take place where there is no movable
matter. Those who are wont to identify movement with force, and force with
action, as is unfortunately the fashion even in scientific treatises, will
no doubt imagine that actions must be transmitted or propagated through a
material medium, just as sound through air, or as light through
luminiferous ether. But action is not movement; and therefore the question
how elementary actions—that is, how attractions or repulsions—reach
distant bodies has to be resolved on its own merit, as one altogether
distinct from the question about the propagation of movement. This
premised, we are going to show that _the elementary actions are
independent of all material medium of communication_.
In the first place, there is no reason why we should assume that the
elementary action (attraction or repulsion) depends on a medium of
communication, except inasmuch as we may apprehend that the action itself,
or the active power whence it proceeds, is in need of being transmitted to
some matter located at a certain distance. But neither the elementary
power nor the elementary action can be transmitted to the distant matter.
And therefore neither the power nor the action can be dependent on a
medium of communication.
In this syllogism the major is evident; and the minor can be proved in two
manners: First, because the power and the action are, of their own nature,
intransmissible. Secondly, because, prescinding from their
intransmissibility, no medium can be assigned which would be capable of
transmitting them. And as to the first, we know that nothing can be
transmitted to a distant place except by local movement; but neither the
active power nor the elementary action is capable of receiving local
movement; for there is no other subject capable of local movement than
matter alone, on account of its passive potentiality. Hence neither power
nor action can be transmitted. And in the second place, even were they
transmissible, what medium could be found for their transmission? If any
such medium could be found, it would consist of some matter like ether or
air, this being the view of those who admit the necessity of such a
medium. On the other hand, a material substance is not a suitable medium
for transmitting action or power. For whenever an active power is exerted
upon matter, the result of the exertion is nothing but a determination to
a change of place; as it is well known that matter cannot receive any
other determination. And therefore it is not the power that is received in
the matter acted on, but only the act produced by its exertion, which act
is otherwise called a momentum either statical or dynamical. Strictly
speaking, not even the action itself is received in the matter, although
we are wont to tolerate such an expression; for the action properly so
called is the production of an act, and the matter receives, indeed, the
act produced, but not its production. And thus the action, properly
speaking, is _terminated_ to the matter, and not _received_ in it. Hence
we see that neither the power of the agent nor its exertion is received in
the matter acted on; it is merely the produced accidental act, or, in
other terms, the momentum, that is received. But evidently matter cannot
transmit what it does not receive. And therefore matter cannot be a medium
for transmitting either power or action. Whether it can transmit movement
we shall examine at the end of the present question.
This argument would suffice to show that elementary actions are quite
independent of a material medium. Yet as the prejudice against which we
are fighting is ancient, popular, and deeply rooted, we think it will not
be superfluous to confirm our proof by a few other considerations.
Those who maintain the transmission of forces admit a material medium, in
which, by successive contact of particles with particles, the transmission
of the force to a distant body is supposed to be carried on. By the word
“force” they understand action as well as movement. Now, let us ask them
whether the particles of their material medium come into mathematical
contact or not. If they do not come into mathematical contact, then the
action is not transmitted by the medium from one particle to another, for
there will be a vacuum between them; and vacuum is not a material medium.
If, on the contrary, the particles come into mathematical contact with
their own matter, then, as we have already shown in our past article, they
cannot by such a contact communicate any movement to each other; and since
the transmission in question should be carried on by successive
communications of movement, it is plain that no such transmission will be
possible. And accordingly the theory of the transmission of actions
through a medium must be rejected.
Moreover, elementary actions are either attractive or repulsive, and
neither of them can be conceived without intensity and direction. Now, no
direction is possible unless there be two points distinctly ubicated in
space. And therefore the action, no matter whether attractive or
repulsive, cannot reach any material point which is not distant from the
matter of the agent. But if so, the action is independent of a medium of
communication; for the material medium, if it were needed, should lie
between the agent and the patient in such a manner as to link them
together, and fill by its material continuity the gap by which they are
separated; and if this were the case, the medium could not be set in
motion, as its contact with the agent would exclude distance, and
consequently the possibility of any direction from the agent to the medium
itself.
Some will say that this argument proves nothing, as the direction of the
action can be sufficiently accounted for by the direction of the impulse.
But this conclusion is evidently wrong. For what impulse can they imagine
to proceed from the sun to the moon? Uncultivated minds are easily deluded
by unlawful generalizations. They apply to all actions what they imagine
to agree with some special phenomenon; and because they see that in the
case of impact there is an impulse in a certain direction, they hastily
conclude that the direction of every action depends on the direction of
some impulse. We may remark that, even in the case of impact, it is not
safe to conclude that the direction of the movement will follow the
direction of the impulse, unless the impulse be central, and the body
impinged upon homogeneous. But leaving aside the theory of impact, which
has nothing to do with the present question, what impulse can explain the
continuous resistance of a body to statical forces? What impulse can
account for the expansive tendency of gases, and for their continuous
pressure against the recipients in which they are contained? What impulse,
above all, can account for universal attraction?
We have mentioned this objection, not because it needed any scientific or
philosophical discussion, but simply because it is one of those notions to
which the prejudices of our infancy give easy admittance into our minds
when we allow ourselves to be guided, as is often the case, by our senses
and imagination, in matters pertaining in great part to the intellectual
order. Our mistakes in the appreciation of the character and conditions of
natural facts most ordinarily originate in the unwarranted assumption
that, since the facts are sensible, our knowledge of them must wholly
depend on our senses; whilst the truth is that our senses perceive the
movements, but not the actions which cause them, and therefore do not see
the entirety of the natural facts, but that portion only which is most
superficial. “A fundamental fact, like an elementary principle, never
fails us,” says M. Faraday, speaking of natural philosophy; “its evidence
is always true; but, on the other hand, we frequently have to ask, What is
the fact? often fail in distinguishing it—often fail in the very statement
of it—and mostly overpass or come short of its true recognition. If we are
subject to mistake in the interpretation of our mere sense impressions, we
are much more liable to error when we proceed to deduce from these
impressions (as supplied to us by our ordinary experience) the relation of
cause and effect; and the accuracy of our judgment, consequently, is more
endangered.”(163)
And now, let no one imagine that we have any intention of denying the
existence of a material medium between the celestial bodies. We only deny
that there is a medium _for transmitting actions_. Again, we do not deny
that when the earth, for instance, acts upon the moon, the elements of
matter lying between the earth and the moon exert their activity on one
another. But we maintain that their actions are _their own_, and proceed
from their own intrinsic and permanent power, and not from any extrinsic
agent, and that such actions are not travelling from element to element
till they reach the moon. Neither do we deny that the elements located
between the earth and the moon are also acted on, for it is clear that
gravity must tend to alter their position in space; but we hold that the
whole possible effect of gravity on all such elements is movement, and
that movement is a mere change of place, and not a transmission of the
action by which it is produced. How the movements themselves are
communicated from element to element we shall explain presently.
Meanwhile, from the fact that the elementary actions are independent of
all material medium of communication, we infer that bodies, in attracting
and in repelling, act with equal promptitude, and without loss of time,
whether the distance of the body acted on be great or small. Time, in
fact, follows movement; for without movement there is no succession. Now,
the action of a body does not reach the distant body through movement—that
is, through successive transmission; on the contrary, each element is, of
its own nature, determined to act _directly_ and _immediately_ on every
other element existing in the indefinite sphere of its activity. Hence a
body will indeed act with a greater intensity at a less distance, but will
not act sooner than at a greater distance. There have been scientists who
surmised that the solar attraction may perhaps need time for reaching the
earth and the planets, and therefore that the attraction may reach Mercury
in a shorter time than Jupiter or Neptune. From what precedes it is
manifest that the surmise is wholly without foundation. Light needs time
for its propagation, because it consists in a kind of movement; but
attraction, as we have just remarked, is not movement, and therefore is
not dependent on time.
Propagation of movements.
We have shown that there is no material medium for the transmission of
forces, if the word “forces” is taken to mean “actions”; but if the word
is intended to express “movements,” then the material medium is quite
indispensable. We read very frequently in scientific books that actions
are transmitted; but as this is not true of the actions themselves, we
must suppose that the phrase is intended to express only the fact of a
progressive development of the effects resulting from those actions. In
the same way, when we read that actions are conveyed through a material
medium, we interpret this expression as meaning that a material medium is
strictly required for the progressive development of the series of effects
due to such actions. We will explain the fact by an example.
If, a mass of air being at rest, a string is stretched in order to elicit
sound, the vibrations of the string will be communicated to the
neighboring molecules of air by the action (not by the movement) of the
string itself; these first molecules, being thrust out of their position
of equilibrium, will, by their action (that is, by the exertion of a power
residing in each of their component elements, not of a power coming from
the string, nor by their movement, nor by transmitted action), put in
movement a following set of molecules, and so on indefinitely; so that, in
the whole series of molecular vibrations, each preceding molecule causes
the motion of the following one, and causes it by the exertion of its own
powers, not of any power transmitted. It is evident that the string cannot
give activity to the molecules of air. These molecules, whether the string
vibrates or not, have already their own activity and their own mutual
action; only their actions balance each other as long as the mass of air
is at rest. But when the string begins to vibrate, the equilibrium being
broken near it, those molecules of air which first cease to be in
equilibrium begin to act on the following molecules with a different
intensity, according to the change of the molecular distance. Thus the
movement by which the distance is altered is not the cause, but the
condition, of the phenomenon.
What we say of air and sound applies to any other medium, as ether with
its vibrations, whether luminous or calorific. The molecules of ether have
their own powers, and exert them continually, whether there exists a flame
determining a series of vibrations or not; but with the flame the first
molecules of ether which are displaced from their position of equilibrium
will acquire a new local relation with regard to the following, and their
actions will be of a new intensity, sufficient to cause the displacement
of the next set of molecules, and so on. The flame, then, causes the
displacement of the first set of molecules; the first set displaced causes
the displacement of the second; the second displaced causes the
displacement of the third, etc.; each set producing its own effect by its
own inherent powers, not by the exertion of any power communicated to them
by the flame, and their displacement being not a cause, but only a
condition, on which the intensity of the exertion depends.
Hence it appears that in phenomena of this description it is not the
action, and much less the power, that is transmitted, but only the
movement, or the formal perturbation of the equilibrium; and even the
movement is not properly _transmitted_, but only _propagated_; because the
movement of each following molecule is not the identical movement of each
preceding one, but is a movement really produced in the very impact of the
one on the other, as our reader must have easily gathered from our
preceding discussion. And therefore one movement succeeds another
indefinitely, the one being a condition for the existence of the other;
which constitutes propagation, not properly transmission.
To Be Continued.
Antar And Zara; Or, “The Only True Lovers.” V.
An Eastern Romance Narrated In Songs.
By Aubrey De Vere.