I AM THE DOOR.
“To him that knocketh it shall be opened.”
Truly, I see Thou art!—with nails hinged fast:
Yet faster barred and locked with bolts of love.
I, treasure seeking, through Thee would go past.
Than lock or hinges must I stronger prove?
“A knock will do’t.” A knock! Where durst I, Lord?
“Knock at my heart; there all my wealth is stored.”
THE TRAGEDY OF THE TEMPLE.
CONCLUDED.
While the so-called King of France was thus subjected to the fierce and brutal caprice of one man, there were thousands of loyal hearts beating in pity for him, and longing to liberate and crown him, even at the price of their blood. The faithful army of La Vendée was fighting for him, and with a courage and determination that caused some anxiety among the good patriots as to the possible issue of the campaign. The movement was held up to ridicule; the young prince was mockingly styled King of La Vendée. Nevertheless, the republicans were alarmed, and the hopes of the royalists were reviving. The Simons were discussing these matters one evening over the newspaper, when Simon, looking at the forlorn, broken-spirited little monarch, whose cause was thus creating strife and bloodshed far beyond his dungeon’s walls, exclaimed sneeringly: “I say, little wolf-cub, they talk of setting up the throne again, and putting thee in thy father’s place; what wouldst thou do to me if they made thee king?” The boy raised his dim blue eyes from the ground, where they were now habitually fixed, and replied: “I would forgive thee!” Mme. Simon, in relating this incident long after, said that even her husband seemed for a moment awed by the sublime simplicity of the answer.
They were both of them sick and tired of their office by this time; she of the cruel work it involved, he of the close confinement to which it condemned them. He tried to get released from his post, and after some fruitless efforts succeeded. On the 19th of January, 1794, they left the Temple. The patriot shoemaker died six months afterwards on the guillotine. He had no successor, properly speaking, in the Tower; in history he has neither successor nor predecessor; he stands alone, unrivalled and unapproachable, as a type of the tiger-man, a creature devoid of one humane, redeeming characteristic. Other men whose names have become bywords of cruelty or ferocious wickedness have at least had the excuse of some all-absorbing passion which, stifling reason and every better instinct of their nature, carried them on as by some overmastering impulse; but Simon could not plead even this guilty excuse. His was no mad delirium of passion, but a cold-blooded, deadly, undying, unrelenting cruelty in the execution of a murder that he had no motive in pursuing except as a means of adding a few coins more to his salary. He entered on his task of lingering assassination with deliberate barbarity; he was not stimulated by the sense of personal wrong, by a thirst for revenge, by any motive that could furnish the faintest thread of extenuation. He rose every morning and went to his victim as other men rise and go to their studies or their work. He devoted all his energies, all his instincts, to coolly inflicting torture on a beautiful, engaging, and innocent little child. No, happily for the world, he has no prototype in its history; nor, for the honor of humanity, has he ever found an apologist. He is perhaps the only monster of ancient or modern times who has never found a sceptic or a casuist to lift a voice in his behalf. Nero and Trajan, Queen Elizabeth and Louis XI., have had their apologists; nay, even Judas has found amongst the fatalists of some German school an infatuated fellow-mortal to attempt a defence of the indefensible; but no man has yet been known to utter a word of excuse for the brutal jailer of Louis XVII.
And yet his departure, though it rid the helpless captive of an active, ever-present barbarity, can hardly be said, except negatively, to have bettered his position. The Convention decreed that it was essential to the nation’s life and prosperity that the little Capet should be securely guarded; and as if the insane precautions hitherto used were not sufficient to secure a feeble, attenuated child, he was removed to a stronger and more completely isolated dungeon, where henceforth his waning life might die out quicker and more unheard of. There was only one window to the room, and this was darkened by a thick wooden blind, reinforced by iron bars outside. The door was removed, and replaced by a half-door with iron bars above; these bars, when unlocked, opened like a trap, and through this food was passed to the prisoner. The only light at night was from a lamp fastened to the wall opposite the iron grating.
Mme. Royale thus describes the state of her brother in this new abode, to which he was transferred—whether by accident or design we know not—on the anniversary of his father’s death, January 21: “A sickly child of eight years, he was locked and bolted in a great room, with no other resource than a broken bell, which he never rang, so greatly did he dread the people whom its sound would have brought to him; he preferred wanting any and every thing to calling for his persecutors. His bed had not been stirred for six months, and he had not strength to make it himself; it was alive with bugs and vermin still more disgusting. His linen and his person were covered with them. For more than a year he had no change of shirt or stockings; every kind of filth was allowed to accumulate about him and in his room; and during all that period nothing had been removed. His window, which was locked as well as grated, was never opened, and the infectious smell of this horrid room was so dreadful that no one could bear it for a moment. He might indeed have washed himself—for he had a pitcher of water—and have kept himself somewhat more clean than he did; but overwhelmed by the ill-treatment he had received, he had not resolution to do so, and his illness began to deprive him of even the necessary strength. He never asked for anything, so great was his dread of Simon and his other keepers. He passed his days without any kind of occupation. They did not even allow him light in the evening. This situation affected his mind as well as his body, and it is not surprising that he should have fallen into a frightful atrophy. The length of time which he resisted this treatment proves how good his constitution must have originally been.”
While the boy-king was slowly telling away his remnant of miserable life in the dark solitude of the Tower, thousands were being daily immolated on the public places, where the guillotine, insatiable and indefatigable, despatched its cartloads of victims. On the 10th of May Mme. Elizabeth, the most revered and saintly of all the long roll of martyrs inscribed on that bloody page, was sacrificed with many other noble and interesting women, amongst them the venerable sister of M. de Malesherbes, the courageous advocate of the king. She was seventy-six years of age. By a refinement of barbarity the municipals who conducted the “batch” obliged Mme. Elizabeth to wait to see her twenty-five companions executed before laying her own head on the block. Each of them, as they left the tumbrel, asked leave to embrace her; she kissed them with a smiling face, and said a few words of encouragement to each. “Her strength did not fail her to the last,” says Mme. Royale, “and she died with all the resignation of the purest piety.”
Mme. Royale was henceforth left in perfect solitude like her brother. She thus describes her own and the Dauphin’s life after the departure of her beloved aunt, of whose death she was happily kept in ignorance for a long time: “The guards were often drunk; but they generally left my brother and me quiet in our respective apartments until the 9th Thermidor. My brother still pined in solitude and filth. His keepers never went near him but to give him his meals; they had no compassion on this unhappy child. There was one of the guards whose gentle manners encouraged me to recommend my brother to his attention; this man ventured to complain of the severity with which the boy was treated, but he was dismissed next day. I, at least, could keep myself clean. I had soap and water, and carefully swept out my room every day. I had no light.… They would not give me any more books, but I had some religious works and some travels, which I read over and over.”
The fall of Robespierre, which rescued so many doomed heads from the guillotine, and opened the doors of their prison, had no such beneficent effect on the fate of the two royal children. It gave rise, however, to some alleviation of their sufferings. Immediately on the death of his cowardly and “incorruptible” colleague, Barras visited the Tower, and dismissed the whole set of commissaries of the Commune, who were forthwith despatched to have their heads cut off next day, while a single guardian was appointed in their place.
Laurent was the man’s name. He had good manners, some education, and, better than all, a human heart. The lynxes of the Temple eyed him askance; he was not of their kin, this creole with the heart of a man, and they mistrusted him. It was not until two o’clock in the morning that they conducted him to the presence of his charge. He tells us that when he entered the ante-room of the dungeon he recoiled before the horrible stench that came from the inner room through the grated door-way. Good heavens! was this the outcome of the reign of brotherhood which talked so mightily of universal love and liberty? It was in truth the most forcible illustration of the gospel of Sans-culottism that the world had yet beheld. “Capet! Capet!” cried the municipals in a loud voice. But no answer came. More calling, with threats and oaths, at last brought out a feeble, wailing sound like the cry of some dying animal. But nothing more could threats, or even an attempt at coaxing, elicit. Capet would not move; would not come forth and show himself to the new tutor. Laurent took a candle, and held it inside the bars of the noxious cage; he beheld, crouching on a bed in the furthest corner of the dungeon, the body which was confided to his guardianship. Sickened with the sight, he turned away. There was no appliance at hand for forcing open the door or the grating. Laurent at once sent in an account of what he had seen, and demanded that this remnant of child-life, that he was appointed to watch over, should be examined by proper authority. The next day, July 30, some members of the Sûreté Générale came to the Tower. M. de Beauchesne tells us what they saw: “They called to him through the grating; no answer. They then ordered the door to be opened. It seems there were no means of doing it. A workman was called, who forced away the bars of the trap so as to get in his head, and, having thus got sight of the child, asked him why he did not answer. Still no reply. In a few minutes the whole door was broken down, and the visitors entered. Then appeared a spectacle more horrible than can be conceived—a spectacle which never again can be seen in the annals of a nation calling itself civilized, and which even the murderers of Louis XVI. could not witness without mingled pity and fright. In a dark room, exhaling a smell of death and corruption, on a crazy, dirty bed, a child of nine years old was lying prostrate, motionless, and bent up, his face livid and furrowed by want and suffering, and his limbs half covered with a filthy cloth and trowsers in rags. His features, once so delicate, and his countenance, once so lively, denoted now the gloomiest apathy—almost insensibility; and his blue eyes, looking larger from the meagreness of the rest of his face, had lost all spirit, and taken, in their dull immovability, a tinge of gray and green. His head and neck were eaten up (rongés) with purulent sores; his legs, arms, and neck, thin and angular, were unnaturally lengthened at the expense of his chest and body. His hands and feet were not human. A thick paste of dirt stuck like pitch over his temples, and his once beautiful curls were full of vermin, which also covered his whole body, and which, as well as bugs, swarmed in every fold of the rotten bedding, over which black spiders were running.… At the noise of forcing the door the child gave a nervous shudder, but barely moved, not noticing the strangers. A hundred questions were addressed him; he answered none of them. He cast a vague, wandering, unmeaning look at his visitors, and at this moment one would have taken him for an idiot. The food they had given him was still untouched; one of the commissioners asked him why he had not eaten it. Still no answer. At last the oldest of the visitors, whose gray hairs and paternal tone seemed to make an impression on him, repeated the question, and he answered in a calm but resolute tone: ‘Because I want to die!’ These were the only words which this cruel and memorable inquisition extracted from him.”
Barras, the stuttering, pleasure-loving noble of Provence, “a terror to all phantasms, being himself of the genus Reality”—Barras, who had stood, like a bewildered, shipwrecked man while the storm-wind was whirling blood-waves round about him, now enters and beholds the royal victim whom it has taken nearly eighteen months of Simon the Cordwainer’s treatment “to get rid of”—perishing, but still alive in his den of squalor, darkness, and fright. His knees were so swollen that his ragged trowsers had become painfully tight. Barras ordered them to be cut open, and found the joints “prodigiously swollen and livid.” One of the municipals, who had formerly been a surgeon, was permitted to dress the sores on the head and neck; after much hesitation a woman was employed to wash and comb the child, and at Laurent’s earnest remonstrance a little air and light were admitted into the damp room; the vermin were expelled as far as could be, an iron bed and clean bedding replaced the former horrors in which the boy had lain so many months, and the grated door was done away with. These were small mercies, after all, and to which the vilest criminal had a right. All the other rigors of his prison were maintained. He was still left to partial darkness and complete solitude. Laurent, after a while, wearied the municipals into giving him leave to take him occasionally for an airing on the leads. The indulgence was perhaps welcome, but the child showed no signs of pleasure in it; he never spoke or took the smallest notice of anything he saw. Once only, when on his way to the leads, he passed by the wicket which conducted to the rooms that his mother had occupied; he recognized the spot at once, gazed wistfully at the door, and, clinging to Laurent’s arm, made a sign for them to go that way. The municipal who was on guard at the moment saw what the poor little fellow meant, and told him he had mistaken the door; it was, he said, at the other side. But the child had guessed aright. The kind-hearted Laurent began soon to feel his own confinement, almost as solitary as the prince’s, more than he could bear. He petitioned to have some one to assist him in his duties, and, owing to some secret influence of the royalists, a man named Gomin, who was at heart devoted to their cause, was appointed. The only benefit which the young prisoner derived from the change of his jailers was that civility and cleanliness had replaced insolence and dirt. For the rest, he was still locked up alone, never seeing any one except at meal times, when the two guardians and a municipal were present, the former being often powerless to control the insulting remarks and gratuitous cruelty of the latter. So the wretched days dragged on, silent, monotonous, miserable. Meanwhile, Paris was breathing freely after the long night of Terror. The Fraternity of the Guillotine was well-nigh over, and the Jeunesse dorée had flung away the red caps and the Carmagnole, and was disporting itself with a light heart in gaudy attire of the antique cut. Fair citoyennes discarded the unbecoming and therefore, even to the most patriotic among them, odious costume of the republic, and decked themselves out in flowing Greek draperies, binding their hair with gold and silver fillets like Clytemnestra and Antigone, and replacing the sabots of the people with picturesque sandals, clothing their naked feet only in ribbons, despite the biting cold of this memorable winter. The death-beacons one by one had been quenched, not by nimble hands, like the lights of the ballroom or the gay flame of the street, but in blood dashed freely over their lurid glare. Terrified men were emerging from their holes and hiding-places; nobles were returning from exile; there was a sudden flaming up of merriment, an effervescence of luxury, an intoxicating thirst for pleasure, a hunger to eat of the good things of life, of which the reign of sans-culottism had starved them. There were gay gatherings in all ranks; in the highest the bals des victimes, where the guests wore a badge of crape on their arm, as a sign that they had lost a near relative on the guillotine—none others being admitted. So, while the waltzers spun round to the clang of brass music and in the blaze of wax-lights, and all the world was embracing and exchanging congratulations, like men escaped from impending death, the tragedy in the Tower drew to its end unheard and unheeded. The King of La Vendée ate his dinner of “bouilli and dry vegetables, generally beans”; the same at eight o’clock for supper, when he was locked up for the night, and left unmolested till nine next morning. One day there came a rough, blustering man to the prison, who flung open the doors with much noise, and talked like thunder. His name was Delboy. He chanced to arrive at the dinner-time. “Why this wretched food?” cried the noisy visitor. “If they were still at the Tuileries, I would help to starve them out; but here they are our prisoners, and it is unworthy of the nation to starve them. Why these blinds? Under the reign of equality the sun should shine for all. Why is he separated from his sister? Under the reign of fraternity why should they not see each other?” Then addressing the child in a gentler tone, he said, “Should you not like, my boy, to play with your sister? If you forget your origin, I don’t see why the nation should remember it.” He reminded the guardians that it was not the little Capet’s fault that he was his father’s son—it was his misfortune; he was now only “an unfortunate child,” and the “nation should be his mother.” The only advantage the unfortunate child derived from this strange visit was that the lamp of his dungeon was lighted henceforth at dark. Gomin asked this favor on the spot, and it was granted. The commissioners were continually changed—a circumstance which proved a frequent cause of suffering and annoyance to the captive, who was the victim of their respective tempers, often fierce and cruel as those of his jailers of the earlier days. These accumulated miseries were finally wearing out his little remnant of strength. The malady which for some time past gave serious alarm to his two kind-hearted friends, Laurent and Gomin, increased with sudden rapidity, and in the month of February, 1795, assumed a threatening character. He could hardly move from extreme weakness, and had lost all desire to do so. When he went for his airing, Laurent or Gomin had to carry him in their arms. He let them do so reluctantly; but he was now too apathetic to resist anything. The surgeon of the prison was called in, and certified that “the little Capet had tumors on all his joints, especially his knees; that it was impossible to extract a word from him; that he never would rise from his chair or his bed, and refused to take any kind of exercise.” This report brought a deputation of members of the Sûreté Générale, who were so horrified at the state of things they found that they drew up the following appeal to their colleagues: “For the honor of the nation, who knew nothing of these horrors; for that of the Convention, which was, in truth, also ignorant of them; and even for that of the guilty municipality of Paris itself, who knew all and was the cause of all these cruelties, we should make no public report, but only state the result in a secret meeting of the committee.” This confession is revolting enough; but it might find some shadow of excuse, if, after hiding the cruelties for the sake of shielding the wretches who had sanctioned them, these deputies had taken steps to repair the wrong-doing, and to alleviate the position of the victim; but, as far as the evidence goes, nothing of the sort was done.
The tomb-like solitude to which the young prince had so long been subjected, added to the chronic terror in which he had lived from the time of his coming under Simon’s tutelage, had induced him to maintain an obstinate, unbroken silence. He could not be persuaded to answer a question, to utter a word. Yet it was evident enough that this did not proceed from stupidity or insensibility, but that his faculties still retained much of their native vivacity and sensitiveness. Gomin was so timid by nature that, in spite of his affection for his little charge, he seldom ventured on any outward expression of sympathy, afraid he should be detected and made, like so many others, to pay the penalty of it. One day, however, that he chanced to be left quite alone with him, he felt safe to let his heart speak, and showed great tenderness to the child; the boy fixed a long, wistful look on his face, and then rose and advanced timidly to the door, his eyes still fastened on Gomin with an expression of entreaty too significant to be misunderstood. “No, no,” said Gomin, shaking his head reluctantly; “you know that cannot be.” “Oh! I must see her,” cried the poor child. “Oh! pray, pray let me see her just once before I die!” Gomin made no answer but by his look of pity and regret, and, going up to the child, led him gently from the door. The young prince threw himself on the bed with a gesture of despair, and remained there, senseless and motionless, so long that his guardian at one moment, as he confessed afterwards, feared he was dead. Poor child! The longing to see his mother had of late taken the shape of a hope, and he had been busy in his mind as to how it could possibly be realized; this had been an opportunity, he thought, and the disappointment overwhelmed him. Gomin said that, for his part, the sight of the boy’s grief nearly broke his heart. The incident, he believed, hastened the crisis, that was now steadily advancing. A few days after this occurrence a new commissary came to inspect the prisoner, and, after eyeing him curiously, as if he had been a strange variety of animal, he said out loud to Laurent and Gomin, who were standing by, “That child has not six weeks to live!” Fearing the shock these words might cause the subject of them, the guardians ventured to say something to modify their meaning; the commissary turned on them, and with a savage oath repeated, “I tell you, citizens, in six weeks he will be an idiot, if he is not dead!” When he left the room, the young prince gazed after him with a mournful smile. The sentence, brutally delivered as it was, had no fears for him; presently a few teardrops stole down his cheeks, and he murmured, as if speaking to himself, “And yet I never did any harm to anybody.”
A new affliction now awaited him. The kind and faithful Laurent left him. His post in the Tower, repulsive from the first, had become utterly insupportable to him of late, and on the death of his mother he applied to be liberated from it. When he came to bid farewell to the unhappy child, whose lot he had endeavored to soften as far as his power admitted, the prince squeezed his hand affectionately, looked his regret at him, but uttered no word.
Laurent was replaced by a man named Lasne, formerly a soldier in the old Gardes Françaises, now a house-painter. For the first few weeks after his arrival the young prince was mute to him, as he had been to his predecessor, until the latter’s persevering kindness had disarmed timidity and mistrust. A trifle at last broke the ice. Lasne was in the habit of talking to his little charge, making kindly remarks, or telling stories that he thought might amuse him, never waiting for any sign of response. One day he happened to tell him of something that occurred when he, Lasne, had been in the old guard, and, being on guard at the Tuileries, had seen the Dauphin reviewing a regiment of children which had been formed for his amusement, and of which he was colonel. The boy’s countenance beamed with a sudden ray of surprise and pleasure, and he exclaimed in a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard, “And didst thou see me with my sword?” Lasne answered that he had, and from this forth they were fast friends. Bolder, though scarcely more sympathizing, than either Laurent or Gomin, Lasne determined to apply at headquarters for some decisive change in the prince’s treatment. He induced his colleague to join him in signing a report to the effect that “the little Capet was indisposed.” This was inscribed on the Temple register; but no notice was taken, and in a few days they both again protested in stronger terms: “The little Capet is seriously indisposed.” No notice being taken of this, the brave men wrote a third time: “The life of little Capet is in danger!” This finally brought a response. M. Desault, one of the first physicians in Paris, was sent to visit the young prince. He had come too late, however; the malady which had carried off the elder Dauphin had taken too deep a hold on the child’s life to be now arrested or overcome. Nothing could induce the prince to answer a question or speak a word to the doctor or in his presence; and it was only after great difficulty, and at the earnest entreaties of his two guardians, that he consented to swallow the medicines prescribed. By degrees, however, as it always happened, the persistent kindness and sympathizing looks and words of M. Desault conquered his suspicions or timidity; and though he never plucked up courage to speak to him, the municipals being always present, he would take hold of the doctor’s coat, and thus express a desire for him to prolong his visit. This lasted three weeks.
Among the commissaries there was a M. Bellenger, an artist, who was deeply touched by the pitiable condition of the child, and one day, thinking to give him a moment’s diversion, he brought a portfolio of drawings, and showed them to him while waiting in his room for M. Desault to come. The novel amusement seemed to interest him very little. He looked on listlessly, as M. Bellenger turned over the sketches for his inspection; then, as the doctor did not appear, the artist said, “Sir, there is another sketch that I should have much pleasure in carrying away with me, if it were not disagreeable to you.” The deferential manner, coupled with the title “monsieur,” so long a foreign sound to the captive’s ear, startled and moved him. “What sketch?” he said, for the first time breaking silence. “Your features, if it were not disagreeable to you, it would give me great pleasure.” “Would it?” said the child and he smilingly acquiesced. M. Bellenger completed his sketch, and still no doctor appeared; he took leave of the prince, saying he would come at the same hour the following day. He did so; but M. Desault was again unpunctual. The time for his visit elapsed, and he neither came nor sent a message. The commissary suggested that some one should be despatched to inquire the reason of his absence; but even so simple a step as this Lasne and Gomin dared not venture on without direct orders. They were discussing what had best be done, when a new commissary arrived and satisfied all inquiries: “There is no need to send after M. Desault; he died yesterday.” This sudden death was the signal for the wildest conjectures. It was rumored that the physician had been bribed to poison the prince, and then in remorse had poisoned himself. In times like those such a report was eagerly accepted, fed as it was by the mystery which surrounded the inmate of the Tower, and the vague stories afloat concerning the character of the ill-omened dungeon and the people who now ruled there.
But there was no foundation for the story in actual facts. M. Desault was a man of unimpeachable integrity, whose entire life gave the lie to so odious a suspicion. “The only poison which shortened my brother’s life,” says Mme. Royale, “was filth, made more fatal by cruelty.” The death of the kind and clever physician, from whatever cause it arose, was a serious loss to the forsaken sufferer in the Temple. He remained for several days without medical care of any sort, until, on the 5th of June, M. Pelletan, surgeon of one of the large hospitals, was named to attend him. It would seem as if the race of tigers was dying out, except in the ranks of the patriot municipals; for all who by accident approached the poor child in these last days were filled at once with melting pity, and found courage to give utterance to this feeling aloud. M. Pelletan remonstrated with the utmost indignation on the darkness and closeness of the room where his patient was lodged, and on the amount of bolting and barring that went on every time the door was opened or shut, the violent crash being injuriously agitating to the child. The guardians were willing enough to do away with the whole thing, but the municipals observed that there was no authority for removing the bars or otherwise altering the arrangements complained of. “If you can’t open the window and remove these irons, you cannot at least object to remove him to another room,” said the doctor, speaking in a loud and vehement tone, as he surveyed the horrible precincts. The prince started, and, beckoning to this bold, unknown friend, forgot his self-imposed dumbness, and whispered, drawing M. Pelletan down to him: “Hush! If you speak so loud, they will hear you; and I don’t want them to know I am so ill; they would be frightened.” He was alluding to the queen and Mme. Elizabeth, whom he believed still living in the story above. Every one present was moved by the tender thoughtfulness the words betrayed, and the commissary, carried away by sympathy for the unconscious little orphan, exclaimed: “I take it upon myself to authorize the removal, in compliance with Citizen Pelletan’s instruction.” Gomin, nothing loath, immediately lifted the patient in his arms, and carried him off to a bright room in the little tower, which had been formerly the drawing-room of the keeper of the archives, and was now hurriedly prepared for the accommodation of this new inmate. His eyes had been so long accustomed to the gloom that they were painfully dazzled by the sudden change into the full sunshine. He hid his face on Gomin’s shoulder for a while, but by degrees he became able to bear the light, and drew long breaths, opening out his little hands as if to embrace the blessed sunshine, and then turned a look of ineffable happiness and thanks on Gomin, who still held him in his arms at the open window. When eight o’clock came, he was once more locked up alone.
Next day M. Pelletan came early to see him; he found him lying on his bed, and basking placidly in the sunny freshness of the June air that was streaming in upon him. “Do you like your new room?” inquired the doctor. The child drew a long breath. “Oh! yes,” he said, with a smile that went to every heart. But even at this happy crisis the sting of the old serpent woke up, as if to remind the victim that it was not dead. At dinner-time a new commissary, a brute of the name of Hébert, and full worthy of that abominable name, burst into the room, and began to talk in the coarse, boisterous tones once so familiar to the captive. “How now! Who gave permission for this? Since when have carabins governed the republic? This must be altered! You must have the orders of the Commune for moving the wolf-cub.” The child dropped a cherry that he was putting to his lips, fell back on his pillow, and neither spoke nor moved till evening, when he was locked up for the night, and left to brood alone over the terrible prospect which Hébert’s threats had conjured up.
M. Pelletan found him so much worse next day that he wrote to the Sûreté Générale for another medical opinion; and M. Dumangier was ordered to attend. Before they arrived the prince had a fainting fit, which lasted so long that it terrified his guardians. He had, however, quite recovered from it when the physicians came. They held a consultation; but it was a mere form. Death was written on every lineament of the wasted body. All that science could do was to alleviate the last days of the fast-flitting life. The two medical men expressed surprise and anger at the solitude to which the dying child was still subjected at night, and insisted on a nurse being immediately provided. It was not worth the “nation’s” while to refuse anything now. The order for procuring the nurse was at once given; but that night the old rule prevailed, and the patient was again locked up alone. He felt it acutely; the merciful change that had been effected in so many ways had revived his hopes—the one hope to which his young heart had been clinging in silence, fondly and perseveringly.
When Gomin said good-night to him, he murmured, while the big tears ran down his face, “Still alone, and my mother in the other tower!” He was not to be kept apart from her much longer. When Lasne came next morning, he thought him rather better. The doctors, however, were of a different opinion; they found him sinking rapidly, and despatched a bulletin to the Commune to this effect.
At 11 in the forenoon Gomin came to relieve Lasne by the bedside of the captive. They remained a long time silent; there was something solemn in the stillness which Gomin did not like to break, and the child never was the first to speak. At last Gomin, bending tenderly towards him, expressed his sorrow at seeing him so weak and exhausted. “Oh! be comforted,” replied the prince in a whisper; “I shall not suffer long now.” Gomin could not control his emotion, but dropt on his knees by the bedside, and wept silently; the child took his hand and pressed it to his lips, while Gomin prayed. This was the only ministry the son of S. Louis was to have on his deathbed—the tears of a turnkey, the prayers of a poor, ignorant son of toil; but angels were there to supplement the unconsecrated priesthood of charity, weeping in gentle pity for the sufferings that were soon to cease. Bright spirits were hovering round the prisoner’s couch, tuning their harps for his ears alone.
Gomin raising his head from its bowed attitude, beheld the prince so still and motionless that he was alarmed lest another fainting fit had come on. “Are you in pain?” he asked timidly. “Oh! yes, still in pain, but less; the music is so beautiful!” Gomin thought he must be dreaming. There was no music anywhere; not a sound was audible in the room. “Where do you hear the music?” he asked. “Up there,” with a glance at the ceiling. “Since when?” “Since you went on your knees. Don’t you hear it? Listen!” And he lifted his hand, and his large eyes opened wide, as if he were in an ecstasy. Gomin remained silent, in a kind of awe. Suddenly the child started up with a convulsive cry of joy, and exclaimed, “I hear my mother’s voice amongst them!” He was looking towards the window, his lips parted, his whole face alight with a wild joy and curiosity. Gomin called to him, twice, three times, asking him to say what he saw. He did not hear him; he made no answer, but fell back slowly on his pillow, and remained motionless. He did not speak again until Lasne came to relieve Gomin. Then, after a long interval of silence, he made a sign as if he wanted something. Lasne asked him what it was.
“Do you think my sister could hear the music?” he said. “How she would like it!” He turned his head with a start towards the window again, his eyes opening with the same expression of joyous surprise, and uttered a half-inarticulate exclamation; then looking at Lasne, he whispered: “Listen! I have something to tell you!” Lasne took his hand, and bent down to hear. But no words came—would never more come from the child’s still parted lips. He was dead.
So ended the tragedy of the Temple. There is nothing more to tell. Why should we follow the ghastly story of the stolen heart, deposited in the “vase with seventeen stars,” then surreptitiously abstracted by the physician’s pupil, until all faith in the authenticity of the alleged relic evaporates?
Neither is it profitable to discuss the controversy which arose over the resting-place of the martyred child; for even in his grave he was pursued by malignant disputations. Enough for us to hear and to believe that the son of the kings of France was accompanied to the grave by a few humane municipals and by his faithful friend Lasne; and that his dust still reposes in an obscure spot of the Cemetery of S. Margaret, in the Faubourg St. Antoine, undisturbed and undistinguished under its grassy mound beneath the shadow of the church close by.
SUBSTANTIAL GENERATIONS.
II.
It is customary with most of the peripatetic writers to assume that the Aristotelic hypothesis of substantial generations, as understood by S. Thomas and by his school, cannot be rejected without upsetting the whole scholastic philosophy. Nothing is more false. Suarez, than whom no modern writer has labored more successfully in defending and developing the scholastic philosophy, rejects the fundamental principle of the Aristotelic theory, and maintains that no generation of new compound substances is possible, unless the matter which is destined to receive a new form possess an entity of its own, and be intrinsically constituted of act and potency, contrary to the universal opinion of the peripatetic school. “The first matter,” says he, “has of itself, and not through its form, its actual entity of essence, though it has it not without an intrinsic leaning towards the form.”[58] And again: “The first matter has also of itself and by itself its actual entity of existence distinct from the existence of the form, though it has it not independently of the form.”[59] That these two propositions clash with the Aristotelic and Thomistic doctrine we need not prove, as we have already shown that neither S. Thomas nor Aristotle admitted in their first matter anything but the mere potency of being; and although Aristotle sometimes calls the first matter “a substance” and “a subject,” he expressly warns us that such a substance is in potency, and such a subject is destitute of all intrinsic act.[60] Hence it is plain that the first matter of Suarez is not the first matter of the peripatetics; whence it follows that the form which is received in such a matter is not a strictly substantial form, since it cannot give the first being to a matter having a first initial being of its own. Hence the Suarezian theory, though full of peripatetic spirit, and formulated in the common language of the peripatetic school, is radically opposed to the rigid peripatetic doctrine, and destroys its foundation. “If the first matter,” says S. Thomas, “had any form of its own, it would be something in act; and consequently such a matter would not, at the supervening of any other form, acquire its first being, but it would only become such or such a being; and thus there would be no true substantial generation, but mere alteration. Hence all those who assumed that the first subject of generation is some kind of body, as air or water, taught that generation is nothing but alteration.”[61] This remark of the holy doctor may be well applied to the Suarezian theory; for in such a theory the first matter is “something in act” and has “a form of its own.” And, therefore, whoever adopts the Suarezian theory must give up all idea of truly substantial generations. Yet no one who has a grain of judgment will pretend that Suarez, by framing his new theory, upset the scholastic philosophy.
The truth is that, as there are two definitions of the substantial form (quæ dat primum esse materiæ: quæ dat primum esse rei), so also there are two manners of understanding the so-called “substantial” generation; and, whilst Aristotle and his followers assumed without any good proof[62] that the specific form of a generated compound gives the first being to the matter of the compound, and is, therefore, a strictly substantial form, the modern school demonstrates from the principles of the scholastic philosophy, no less than from positive science, that the specific form of a physical compound does not give the first being to the matter of the compound, but only to the compound nature itself; and, therefore, is to be called an essential rather than a truly and strictly substantial form.[63]
The primitive material substance, which is constituted of matter and substantial form, cannot but be physically simple—that is, free from all composition of parts—though it is metaphysically compounded, or (as we would prefer to say) constituted of act and potency. This being the case, it evidently follows that all substance physically compounded must involve in its essential constitution something else besides the matter and the substantial form; for it must contain in itself both that which gives the first being to the physical components, and that which gives the first being to the resulting physical compound.
Hence in all substance which is physically compounded of material parts there are always two kinds of formal constituents. The first kind belongs to the components, the second to the compound. The first consists of the substantial forms by which the components are constituted in their substantial being; which forms must actually remain in the compound; for the substantial being of the components is the material cause of the physical compound, and is the sole reason why the physical compound receives the name of substance. The second is the principle by which the first components, or elements, are formed into a compound specific nature. In other terms, the specific compound is “a substance,” because it is made up of substances, or primitive elements, constituted of matter and substantial form; whilst the same specific compound is “a compound” and is “of such a specific nature,” owing to the composition, and to such a composition, of the primitive elements. This composition is the essential form of the material compound.
We may here remark that the substantial forms of the component elements, taken together, constitute what may be called the remote formal principle of the compound essence (principium formale quod, seu remotum), whilst the specific composition constitutes the proximate formal principle of the same compound essence (principium formale quo, seu proximum). For, as each primitive element is immediately constituted by its substantial form, so is the physically compound essence immediately constituted by its specific composition.
It is hardly necessary to add that the matter which is the subject of the specific composition is not the first matter of Aristotle, but a number of primitive substances, and that these substances are endowed with real activity no less than with real passivity, and therefore contain in themselves such powers as are calculated to bind together the parts of the compound system, in this or in that manner, according to the geometric disposition and the respective distances of the same. For, as the power of matter is limited to local action, it is the local disposition and co-ordination of the primitive elements that determines the mode of exertion of the elementary powers, inasmuch as it determines the special conditions under which the Newtonian law has to be carried into execution. On such a determination the specific composition and the specific properties of the compound nature proximately depend.
The composition of matter with matter is confessedly an accidental entity, and arises from accidental action. It would, however, be a manifest error to pretend that such a composition is an accidental form of the compound nature. For nothing is accidental to a subject but what supervenes to it; whereas the composition does not supervene to the compound, but enters into its very constitution. On the other hand, the composition does not deserve the name of substantial form in the strict sense of the word, since it does not give the first being to the matter it compounds. We might, indeed, call it a substantial form in a wider sense; for in the same manner as a compound of many substances is called “a substance,” so can the form of the substantial compound be called “substantial.” But to avoid the danger of equivocation, we shall not use this epithet; and we prefer to say that the specific composition is the natural or the essential form of the material compound, so far at least as there is question of compounds purely material. This essential or natural form may be properly defined as the act by which a number of physical parts or terms are formed into one compound essence, or, more concisely, the act which gives the first being to the specific compound; which latter definition is admitted by the schoolmen, though, as interpreted by them, it leads to no satisfactory results, as we shall see presently.
The first physical compound which possesses a permanent specific constitution is called “a molecule.” Those physicists who assume matter to be intrinsically extended and continuous, by the name of molecule understand a little mass filling the space occupied by its volume, hard, indivisible, and unchangeable, to which they also give the name of “atom.” But this opinion, which is a relic of the ancient physical theories, is fast losing ground among the men of science, owing to the fact that molecules are subject to internal movements, and therefore composed of discrete parts. Such discrete parts must be simple and unextended elements, as we have demonstrated. Hence a molecule is nothing but a number of simple elements (some attractive and some repulsive) permanently connected by mutual action in one dynamical system. We say permanently connected; because no system of elements which lacks stability can constitute permanent substances, such as we meet everywhere in nature. Yet the stability of the molecular system is not an absolute, but only a relative, unchangeableness; for, although the bond which unites the parts of the molecular system must (at least in the case of primitive molecules) remain always the same in kind, it can (even in the case of primitive molecules) become different in degree within the limits of its own kind. And thus any molecule can be altered by heat, by cold, by pressure, etc., without its specific constitution being impaired. A molecule of hydrogen is specifically the same at two different temperatures, because the change of temperature merely modifies the bond of the constituent elements, without destroying it or making it specifically different; and the same is true of all other natural substances.
The material constituent of a molecular system is, as we have said, a number of primitive elements. These elements may be more or less numerous, and possess greater or less power, either attractive or repulsive; on condition, however, that attraction shall prevail in the system; for without the prevalence of attraction no permanent composition is possible.
The formal constituent of a molecular system, or that which causes the said primitive elements to be a molecule, is the determination by which the elements are bound with one another in a definite manner, and subjected to a definite law of motion with respect to one another. Such a determination is in each of the component elements the resultant of the actions of all the others.
The matter of the molecular system is disposed to receive such a determination, or natural form, by the relative disposition of the elements involved in the system. Such a disposition is local; for the resultant of the actions by which the elements are bound with one another depends on their relative distances as a condition.
The efficient cause of the molecular system are the elements themselves; for it is by the exertion of their respective powers that they unite in one permanent system when placed under suitable mechanical conditions. The original conditions under which the molecules of the primitive compound substances were formed must be traced to the sole will of the Creator, who from the beginning disposed all things in accordance with the ends to be obtained through them in the course of all centuries.
Molecules may differ from one another, both as to their matter and as to their form. They differ in matter when they consist of a different number of primitive elements, or of elements possessing different degrees of active power or of a different proportion of attractive and repulsive elements. They differ as to their form, when their constitution subjects them to different mechanical laws; for as the law of movement and of mutual action which prevails within a molecule is a formal result of its molecular constitution, we can always ascertain the difference of the constitution by the difference of the law.
It is well known that the law according to which a system of material points acts and moves can be expressed or represented by a certain number of mathematical formulas. The equations by which the mutual dynamical relations of the elements in a molecular system should be represented are of three classes. Some should represent the mutual actions to which such elements are subjected at any given moment of time; and these equations would contain differentials of the second order. Other equations should represent the velocities with which such elements move at any instant of time; and these equations would contain differentials of the first order. Other equations, in fine, should determine the place occupied by each of such elements at any given moment, and consequently the figure of the molecular system; and these last equations would be free from differential terms. The equations exhibiting the mutual actions must be obtained from the consideration of positive data, like all other equations expressing the conditions of a given problem. The equations exhibiting the velocities of the vibrating elements can be obtained by the integration of the preceding ones. The equations determining the relative position of the elements at any moment of time will arise from the integration of those which express the velocities of the vibrating points. Had we sufficient data concerning the internal actions of a molecule, and sufficient mathematical skill to carry out all the operations required, we would be able to determine with mathematical accuracy the whole constitution of such a molecule, and all the properties flowing from such a constitution. This, unfortunately, we cannot do as yet with regard to the molecule of any natural substance in particular; and, therefore, we must content ourselves with the general principle that those molecular systems are of the same kind whose constitution can be exhibited by mathematical formulas of the same form, and those molecules are of a different kind whose constitution is represented by mathematical formulas of a different form. This principle is self-evident; for the formulas by which the mechanical relations of the elements are determined cannot be of the same form, unless the conditions which they express are of the same nature; whereas it is no less evident that two molecular systems cannot be of the same kind when their mechanical constitution implies conditions of a different nature.
Two molecules of the same kind may differ accidentally—that is, as to their mode of being—without any essential change in their specific constitution. Thus, two molecules of hydrogen may be under different pressure, or at a different temperature, without any specific change. In this case, the mechanical relations between the elements of the molecule undergo an accidental change, and the equations by which such relations are expressed are also accidentally modified, inasmuch as some of the quantities involved in them acquire a different value; but the form of the equations, which is the exponent of the specific nature of the substance, remains unchanged.
From these remarks four conclusions can be drawn. The first is that molecules consisting of a different number of constituent elements always differ in kind. For it is impossible for such molecules to be represented by equations of the same form.
The second is that a molecule is one owing to the oneness of the common tie between its constituent elements, and to their common and stable dependence on one mechanical law. Hence a molecule is not one substance, but one compound nature involving a number of substances conspiring to form a permanent principle of actions and passions of a certain kind. In other terms, a molecule is not unum substantiale, but unum essentiale or unum naturale.
The third is that the specific form of a molecule admits of different degrees within the limits of its species. This conclusion was quite unknown to the followers of Aristotle; and S. Thomas reprehends Averroës for having said that the forms of the elements (fire, water, air, and earth) could pass through different degrees of perfection, whilst Aristotle teaches that they are in indivisibili, and that every change in the form changes the specific essence.[64] Yet it is evident that as there can be circles, ellipses, and other curves having a different degree of curvature, while preserving the same specific form, so also can molecules admit of a different degree of closeness in their constitution without trespassing on the limits of their species. So long as the changes made in a molecule do not interfere with the conditions on which the form of its equations depends, so long the specific constitution of the molecule remains unimpaired. Mathematical formulas are only artificial abridgments of metaphysical expressions; and their accidental changes express but the accidental changes of the thing which they represent. On the other hand, it is well known that the equations by which the specific constitution of a compound system is determined can preserve the same form, while some of the quantities they contain receive an increase or a decrease connected with a change of merely accidental conditions.
The fourth conclusion is that a number of primitive molecules of different kinds may combine together in such a manner as to impair more or less their own individuality by fixing themselves in a new molecular system of greater complexity. Likewise, a molecular system of greater complexity is susceptible of resolution into less complex systems. These combinations and resolutions are the proper object of chemistry, which is the science of the laws, principles, and conditions of the specific changes of natural substances, and to which metaphysicians must humbly refer when treating of substantial generation, if they wish to reason on the solid ground of facts.
We have thus briefly stated what we hold to be the true scientific and philosophic view of the constitution of natural substances; and as we have carefully avoided all gratuitous assumptions, we feel confident that our readers need no further arguments to be convinced of its value as compared with the hypothetical views of the old physicists. As, however, the conclusions of the peripatetic school concerning the constitution and generation of natural substances have still some ardent supporters, who think that the strictly substantial generations and corruptions are demonstrated by unanswerable arguments, we have yet to show that such pretended arguments consist of mere assumption and equivocation.
The first argument in favor of the old theory may be presented under the following form: “Every natural substance is unum per se—that is, substantially one. Therefore no natural substance implies more than one substantial form.” The antecedent is assumed as evident, and the consequent is proved by the principle that “from two beings in act it is impossible to obtain a being substantially one.” Hence it is concluded that all natural substances, as water, flesh, iron, etc., have a substantial form which gives to the first matter the being of water, of flesh, of iron, etc.
This argument, instead of proving the truth of the theory, proves its weakness; for it consists of a petitio principii. What right has the peripatetic school to assume that every natural substance is unum per se substantially? A substance physically simple is, of course, unum per se substantially; but water, flesh, iron, and the other natural substances are not physically simple, since they imply quantity of mass and quantity of volume, which presuppose a number of material terms actually distinct, and therefore possessing their distinct substantial forms. No compound substance can be unum per se as a substance; it can be unum per se only as a compound essence; and for this reason every natural substance contains as many substantial forms as it contains primitive elements, whereas it has only one essential form, which gives the first being to its compound nature. This one essential form is, as we have explained, the specific composition of its constituent elements.
The principle “From two beings in act it is impossible to obtain a being substantially one” is perfectly true; but it will be false if, instead of “substantially,” we put “essentially”; for all essences physically compounded result from the union of a certain number of actual beings, and yet every compound essence is unum per se essentially, though not substantially. For, as unum per accidens is that which has something superadded to its essential principles, so unum per se is that which includes nothing in itself but its essential principles; and consequently every essence, as such, is unum per se, whether it be physically simple or not—that is, whether it be one substance or a number of substances conspiring into a specific compound. Hence flesh, water, iron, and every other natural substance may be, and are, unum per se, notwithstanding the fact that they consist of a number of primitive elements and contain as many substantial forms as components.
It is therefore manifest that this first argument has no strength. No ancient or modern philosopher has ever proved that any natural substance is substantially one. To prove such an assertion it would be necessary to show that the physical compound is physically simple; which, we trust, no one will attempt to show. Even Liberatore, whose efforts to revive among us the peripatetic theory have been so remarkable, seems to have felt the utter impossibility of substantiating such an arbitrary supposition by anything like a proof, as he lays it down without even pretending to investigate its value. “True bodies,” says he—“that is, bodies which are substances, and not mere aggregates of substances—are essentially constituted of matter and substantial form.”[65] Indeed, if a body is not an aggregate of substances, it must be evident to every one that the essence of that body is exclusively constituted of matter and substantial form. But where is a body to be found which is not an aggregate of substances—that is, of primitive elements? The learned author omits to examine this essential point, clearly because there are neither facts in science nor arguments in philosophy by which it can be settled favorably to the peripatetic view. Thus the whole theory of substantial generations, understood in the peripatetic sense, rests on a mere assumption contradicted, as we know, by natural science no less than by metaphysical reasoning.
The second argument of the peripatetic school is as follows: When the matter has its first being, all form supervening to it is accidental; for the matter which has its first being cannot receive but a being secundum quid—that is, a mode of being which is an accident. But the natural substance cannot be constituted by an accidental form. Therefore the form of the natural substance does not supervene to any matter having its first being, but itself gives the first being to its matter, and therefore is a strictly substantial form.
Our answer is very plain. We admit that, when the matter has its first being, all supervening form is accidental to it; and we admit, also, that the composition of matter with matter is an accidental entity, and gives to the matter an accidental mode of being. This, however, does not mean that the specific composition is an accidental form of the compound nature. Composition, as compared with substance, is an accident; but, as compared with the essence of the compound, is an essential constituent, as we have already remarked; for it is of the essence of all physical compounds to have a number of substances as their matter, and a specific composition as their form. In other terms, the essence of a physical compound involves substance and accident alike; but what is an accident of the component substances is not an accident of the compound essence. Hence the proposition, “The natural substance cannot be constituted by an accidental form,” must be distinguished. If “natural substance” stands for the primitive substances that constitute the matter of the compound nature, the proposition is true; for all such substances have their strictly substantial forms, as is obvious. If “natural substance” stands for the compound nature itself, inasmuch as it is a compound of a certain species, then the proposition must be subdistinguished. For, if by “accidental form” we understand an accident of the component substances, the proposition will be false; for, evidently, the compound nature is constituted by composition, and composition is an accident of the components. Whilst, if the words “accidental form” are meant to express an accident of the compound nature, then the proposition is true again; for the composition is not an accidental, but an essential, constituent of the compound, as every one must concede. Yet “essential” is not to be confounded with “substantial”; and therefore, though all natural substances must have their essential form, it does not follow that such a form gives the first being to the matter, but only that it gives the first being to the specific compound inasmuch as it is such a compound. Had the peripatetics kept in view, when treating of natural substances, the necessary distinction between the essential and the strictly substantial forms, they would possibly have concluded, with the learned Card. Tolomei, that their theory was “a groundless assumption,” and their arguments a “begging the question.” But, unfortunately, Aristotle’s authority, before the discoveries of modern science, had such a weight with our forefathers that they scarcely dared to question what they believed to be the cardinal point of his philosophy. But let us go on.
A third argument in favor of the old theory is drawn from the constitution of man. In man the soul is a substantial form, the root of all his properties, and the constituent of the human substance. Hence all other natural substances, it is argued, must have in a similar manner some substantial principle containing the formal reason of their constitution, of their natural properties, and of their operations. “The fact that man is composed of matter and of substantial form shows,” says Suarez, “that in natural things there is a substantial subject naturally susceptible of being informed by a substantial act. Such a subject (the matter) is therefore an imperfect and incomplete substance, and requires to be constantly under some substantial act.”[66] Whence it follows that all natural substance consists of matter actuated by a substantial form.
This argument, according to Scotus and his celebrated school, is based on a false assumption. Man is not one substance, but one nature resulting from the union of two distinct substances, the spiritual and the material; and to speak of a human substance as one is nothing less than to beg the whole question. Every one must admit that the human soul is the natural form of the animated body, and that, inasmuch as it is a substance and not an accident, the same soul may be called a “substantial” form; but, according to the Scotistic school, to which we cannot but adhere on this point, it is impossible to admit the Thomistic notion that the soul gives the first being to the matter of the body, so as to constitute one substance with it; and accordingly it is impossible to admit that the soul is a strictly “substantial” form in the rigid peripatetic sense of the word; and thus the above argument, which is based entirely on the unity of human substance, comes to naught.
This is not the place to develop the reasons adduced by the Scotists and by others against the Thomistic school, or to refute the arguments by which the latter have supported their opinion. We will merely remark that, according to a principle universally received, by the Thomists no less than by their opponents (Actus est qui distinguit), there can be no distinct substantial terms without distinct substantial acts; and consequently our body cannot have distinct substantial parts, unless it has as many distinct substantial acts. And as there is no doubt that there are in our body a great number of distinct substantial parts (as many, in fact, as there are primitive elements of matter), there is no doubt that there are also a great number of distinct substantial acts. It is not true, therefore, that the human body (or any other body) is constituted by one “substantial” form. The soul is not defined as the first act of matter, but it is defined as the first act of a physical organic body; which means that the body must possess its own physical being and its bodily and organic form before it can be informed by a soul. And surely such a body needs not receive from the soul what it already possesses as a condition of its information; it must therefore receive that alone in regard to which it is still potential; and this is, not the first act of being, but the first act of life. But if the soul were a strictly “substantial” form according to the Thomistic opinion, it should be the first act of matter as such, and it would have no need of a previously-formed physical organic body; for the position of such a form would, of itself, entail the existence of its substantial term. We must therefore conclude that the human soul is called a “substantial” form, simply because it is a substance and not an accident,[67] and because, in the language of the schools, all the “essential” forms have been called “substantial,” as we have noticed at the beginning of this article. We believe that it is owing to this double meaning of the epithet “substantial” that both S. Thomas and his followers were led to confound the natural and essential with the strictly substantial forms. They reasoned thus: “What is not accidental must be substantial”; and they did not reflect that “what is not accidental may be essential,” without being substantial in the meaning attached by them to the term.
But since we cannot here discuss the question concerning the human soul as its importance deserves, let us admit, for the sake of the argument, that the human soul gives the first being to its body, and is thus a strictly substantial form in the sense intended by our opponents. It still strikes us that no logical mind can from such a particular premise draw such a general conclusion as is drawn in the objected argument. Is it lawful to apply to inanimate bodies in the conclusion what in the premises is asserted only of animated beings? Or is there any parity between the form of the human nature and that of a piece of chalk? The above-mentioned Card. Tolomei well remarks that “such a pretended parity is full of disparities, and that from the human soul, rational, spiritual, subsistent, and immortal, we cannot infer the nature of those incomplete, corruptible, and corporeal entities which enter into the constitution of purely material things.”[68]
That “all natural substances must have some substantial principle” we fully admit. For we have shown that in every natural compound there are just as many substantial forms as there are primitive elements in it, and therefore there is no doubt that each point of matter receives its first being through a strictly substantial form. But these substantial forms are the forms of the components; they are not the specific form of the compound. Nor do we deny that the properties of the compound must be ultimately traced to some substantial principle; for we admit the common axiom that “the first principle of the being is the first principle of its operations”; and thus we attribute the activity of the compound nature to the substantial forms of its components. But we maintain that the same components may constitute different specific compounds having different properties and different operations, according as they are disposed in different manners and subjected to a different composition. This being evident, we must be allowed to conclude that the proximate and specific constituent form of a compound inanimate nature is nothing else than its specific composition.
Our opponents cannot evade this conclusion, which annihilates the whole peripatetic theory, unless they show either that there may be a compound without composition, or that in natural things there is no material composition of substantial parts. The first they cannot prove, as a compound without composition is a mere contradiction. Nor can they prove the second; for they admit that natural substances are extended, and it is evident that there can be no material extension without parts outside of parts, and therefore without material composition.
As to the passage of Suarez objected in the argument, two simple remarks will suffice. The first is that “the fact that man is composed of matter and substantial form does not show that in other natural things there is a substantial subject naturally susceptible of being informed by a substantial act”; unless, indeed, the epithet “substantial” be taken in the sense of “essential,” as we have above explained. But, even in this case, there will always be an immense difference between such essential forms, because the form of a human body must be a substance, whilst the form of the purely material compounds can be nothing else than composition. The second remark is that, as the first matter, according to Suarez, has its own entity of essence and its own entity of existence, “the substantial subject naturally susceptible of being informed” has neither need nor capability of receiving its first being; whence it follows that such a substantial subject is never susceptible of being informed by a truly and strictly substantial form. We know that Suarez rejects this inference on the ground that the entity of matter, according to him, is incomplete, and requires to be perfected by a substantial form. But the truth is that no strictly substantial form can be conceived to inform a matter which has already an actual entity of its own; for the substantial form is not simply that which perfects the matter (for every form perfects the matter), but it is that which gives to it the first being, as all philosophers agree. On the other hand, it might be proved that the matter which is a subject of natural generations is not an incomplete substantial entity, and that the intrinsic act by which it is constituted, is not, as Suarez pretends, an act secundum quid, but an act simpliciter; it being evident that nothing can be in act secundum quid unless it be already in act simpliciter; whence it is manifest that the first act of matter cannot be an act secundum quid.
It would take too long to discuss here the whole Suarezian theory. Its fundamental points are two: The first, that the matter which is the subject of natural generations “has an entity of its own”; the second, that “such an entity is substantially incomplete.” The first of these two points he establishes against the peripatetics with very good reasons, drawn from the nature of generation; but the second he does not succeed in demonstrating, as he does not, and cannot, demonstrate that an act secundum quia precedes the act simpliciter. For this reason we ventured to say in our previous article that the first matter of Suarez corresponds to our primitive elements, which, though unknown to him, are, in fact, the first physical matter of which the natural substances are composed. What we mean is that, though Suarez intended to prove something else, he has only succeeded in proving that the matter of which natural substances are composed is as true and as complete a substance as any primitive substance can be. And we even entertain some suspicion that this great writer would have held a language much more conformable to our modern views, had he not been afraid of striking too heavy a blow at the peripatetic school, then so formidable and respected. For why should he call “substantial” the forms of compound bodies, when he knew that the matter of those bodies had already an actual entity of its own? He certainly saw that such forms were by no means the substantial forms of S. Thomas and of Aristotle; but was it prudent to state the fact openly, and to draw from it such other conclusions as would have proved exceedingly distasteful to the greatest number of his contemporaries? However this may be, it cannot be denied that the Suarezian theory, granting to the matter of the bodies an entity of its own, leads to the rejection of the truly substantial generations, and to the final adoption of the doctrine which we are maintaining in accordance with the received principles of modern natural science. But let us proceed.
The fourth argument in favor of the old theory is the following: If the components remain actually in the compound, and do not lose their substantial forms by the accession of a new substantial form, it follows that no new substance is ever generated; and thus what we call “new substances” will be only “new accidental aggregates of substances,” and there will be no substantial difference between them. But this cannot be admitted; for who will admit that bread and flesh are substantially identical? And yet who can deny that from bread flesh can be generated?
We concede most explicitly that no new “substance” is, or can be, ever generated by natural processes. God alone can produce a substance, and he produces it by creation. To say that natural causes can destroy the substantial forms by which the matter is actuated, and produce new substantial forms giving a new first being to the matter, is to endow the natural causes with a power infinitely superior to their nature. The action of a natural cause is the production of an accidental act; and so long as “accidental” does not mean “substantial,” we contend that no substantial form can originate from any natural agent or concurrence of natural agents. It is therefore evident for us that no “substance” can ever arise by natural generation.
But, though this is true, it is evident also that from pre-existing substances “a new compound nature” can be generated by the action of natural causes. These new compound natures are, indeed, called “new substances,” but they are the old substances under a new specific composition; that is, they are not new as substances, though they form a new specific compound. To say that such a compound is “a merely accidental aggregate of substances” is no objection. Were we to maintain that one single substance is an accidental aggregate of substances, the objection would be very natural; but to say, as we do, that one compound essence is an aggregate of substances united by accidental actions, is to say what is evidently true and unobjectionable. Yet we must add that the composition of such substances, accidental though it be to them individually, is essential to the compound nature; for this compound nature is a special essence, endowed with special properties dependent proximately on the special composition, and only remotely on the substantial forms of the component substances.
That there may be “no substantial difference” between two natural compounds is quite admissible; but it does not follow from the argument. It is admissible; because a different specific composition suffices to cause a different specific compound; as is the case with gum-arabic and cane-sugar, which consist of a different combination of the same components. Yet it does not follow from the argument; because the specific composition of different compounds may require, and usually does require, a different set of components—that is, of substances; which shows that there is also a substantial difference between natural compounds, although their essential form be not the substantial form of the peripatetics.
Lastly, we willingly concede that bread and flesh are not substantially identical; but we must deny that their substantial difference arises from their having a different substantial form. Bread and flesh are different specific compounds; they differ essentially and substantially, or formally and materially, because they involve different substances under a different specific composition. To say that bread and flesh are the same matter under two different substantial forms would be to give the lie to scientific evidence. This we cannot do, however much we may admire the great men who, from want of positive knowledge, thought it the safest course to accept from Aristotle what seemed to them a sufficient explanation of things. On the other hand, is it not strange that our opponents, who admit of no other substantial form in man, except the soul, should now mention a substantial form of flesh? To be consistent, they should equally admit a substantial form of blood, a substantial form of bone, etc. Perhaps this would help them to understand that the epithet “substantial,” when applied to characterize the forms of material compounds, has been a source of innumerable equivocations, and that the schoolmen would have saved themselves much trouble, and avoided inextricable difficulties, if they had made the necessary distinction between substantial and essential forms.
The arguments to which we have replied are the main support of the peripatetic doctrine; we, at least, have not succeeded in finding any other argument on the subject which calls for a special refutation. We beg, therefore, to conclude that the theory of strictly substantial generations, as well as that of the constitution of bodies, as held by the peripatetic school, rest on no better ground than “assumption,” or petitio principii, as Card. Tolomei reluctantly avows. There would yet remain, as he observes, the argument from authority; but when it is known that the great men whose authority is appealed to were absolutely ignorant of the most important facts and laws of molecular science, and when it is proved that such facts and laws exclude the very possibility of the old theory,[69] we are free to dismiss the argument. “Were S. Thomas to come back on earth,” says Father Tongiorgi, “he would be a peripatetic no more.” No doubt of it. S. Thomas would teach his friends a lesson, by letting them know that his true followers are not those who shut their eyes to the evidence of facts, that they may not be disturbed in their peripateticism, but those who imitate him by endeavoring to utilize, in the interest of sound philosophy, the positive knowledge of their own time, as he did the scanty positive knowledge of his.
But we have yet an important point to notice. The ancient theory is wholly grounded on the possibility of the eduction of new substantial forms out of the potency of matter; hence, if no truly substantial form can be so educed, the theory falls to the ground. We have already shown that true substantial forms giving the first being to the matter cannot naturally be educed out of the potency of matter.[70] This would suffice to justify us in rejecting the peripatetic theory. But to satisfy our peripatetic friends that we did not come too hastily to such a conclusion, and to give them an opportunity of examining their own philosophical conscience, we beg leave to submit to their appreciation the following additional reasons.
First, all philosophers agree that the matter cannot be actuated by a new form, unless it be actually disposed to receive it. But actual disposition is itself an accidental form; and all matter that has an accidental form has also a fortiori a substantial form. Therefore no matter is actually disposed to receive a new form, but that which has actually a substantial form. But the matter which has actually a substantial form is not susceptible of a new substantial form; for the matter which has its first being is not potential with regard to it, but only with regard to some mode of being. Therefore no new form truly and strictly substantial can be bestowed upon existing matter.
Secondly, if existing matter is to receive a new substantial form, its old substantial form must give way and disappear, as our opponents themselves teach, by natural corruption. But the form which gives the first being to the matter is not corruptible. Therefore no truly substantial form can give way to a new substantial form. The minor of this syllogism is easily proved. For all natural substances consist of simple elements, of which every one has its first being by a form altogether simple and incorruptible. Moreover, the substantial form of primitive elements is a product of creation, not of generation; the term of divine, not of natural, action; it cannot, therefore, perish, except by annihilation. The only form which is liable to corruption is that which links together the elements of the specific compound; but this is a natural and essential, not a strictly substantial, form.
Thirdly, the form which gives the first being to the matter is altogether incorruptible, if the same is not subject to alteration; for alteration is the way to corruption. But no form giving the first being to the matter is subject to alteration. For, according to the universal doctrine, it is the matter, not the form, that is in potency to receive the action of natural agents. The form is an active, not a passive, principle; and therefore it is ready to act, not to be acted on; which proves that substantial forms are inalterable and incorruptible. We are at a loss to understand how it has been possible for so many illustrious philosophers of the Aristotelic school not to see the open contradiction between the corruption of strictly substantial forms and their own fundamental axiom: “Every being acts inasmuch as it is in act, and suffers inasmuch as it is in potency.” If the substantial form is subject to corruption, surely the substance suffers not only inasmuch as it is in potency, but also, and even more, inasmuch as it is in act. We say “even more,” because the substance would, inasmuch as it is in act, suffer the destruction of its very essence; whereas, as it is in potency, it would not suffer more than an accidental change. It is therefore manifest that the corruption of substantial forms cannot be admitted without denying one of the most certain and universal principles of metaphysics.
Fourthly, if the natural agents concerned in the generation of a new being cannot produce anything but accidental determinations, nor destroy anything but other accidental determinations, then, evidently, the form which is destroyed in the generation of a new thing is an accidental entity, as also the new form introduced. But the efficient causes of natural generations cannot produce anything but accidental determinations, and cannot destroy anything but other accidental determinations. Therefore in the generation of a new being both the form which is destroyed and the form which replaces it are accidental entities. In this syllogism the major is evident; and the minor is certain, both physically and metaphysically. For it is well known that the natural agents concerned in the generation of a new substance have no other power than that of producing local motion; also, that the matter acted on has no other passive potency than that of receiving local motion. Hence no action of matter upon matter can be admitted but that which tends to give an accidental determination to local movement; and if any cause be known to exert actions not tending to impart local movement, we must immediately conclude that such a cause is not a material substance. On the other hand, all act produced belongs to an order of reality infinitely inferior to that of its efficient principle; so that, as God cannot efficiently produce another God, so also a contingent substance cannot efficiently produce another contingent substance; and a substantial form cannot efficiently produce another substantial form; but as all that God efficiently produces is infinitely inferior to him in the order of reality, so all act produced by a created substance is infinitely inferior to the act which is the principle of its production.[71] It is therefore impossible to admit that the act produced, and the act which is the principle of its production, belong to the same order of reality; in other terms, they cannot be both “substantial”; but while the act by which the agent acts is substantial, the act produced is always accidental. And thus it is plain that no natural agent or combination of natural agents can ever produce a truly substantial form.
A great deal more might be said on this subject; but we think that our philosophical readers need no further reasonings of ours to be fully convinced of the inadmissibility of the Aristotelic hypothesis concerning the constitution and the generation of natural substances. Would that the great men who adopted it in past ages had had a knowledge of the workings of nature as extensive as we now possess; their love of truth would have prompted them to frame a philosophical theory as superior to that of the Greek philosopher as fact is to assumption. As it is, we must strive to do within the compass of our means what they would have done much better, and would do if they were among the living, with their gigantic powers. We cannot hold in metaphysics what we have to reject in physics. To say that what is true in physics may be false in metaphysics is no less an absurdity than Luther’s proposition, that “something may be true in philosophy which is false in theology.”
THE MODERN LITERATURE OF RUSSIA.[72]
The history of Russia, during the course of the last twenty years, has entered upon a new era. It also has had its 19th of February,[73] its day of emancipation; and from the hour when it was permitted to treat of the times anterior to the reign of the Emperor Nicholas, although still maintaining a certain reserve, it has lost no time in profiting by the benefit of which advantage has been eagerly taken. A multitude of writings, more or less important, which have since then been published, prove that, in order to become fruitful, it only needed to be freed from the ligatures of the ancient censure; and it is wonderful to note the large number of publications with which the history of the last century finds itself enriched in so short a space of time, besides the documents of every description that were never previously allowed to see the light of day, but from which the interdict has been removed that for so long had condemned them to the dust and oblivion of locked-up archives.
Nor has this been all. The riches of this new mine were sufficiently plentiful to supply matter for entire collections. Societies were formed for the purpose of arranging and publishing them without delay, in order to satisfy the legitimate desire of so many to know the past of their country, not only from official digests, but from the original sources of information. It will suffice to name the principal collections created under the inspiration of this idea, such as the Russian Archives, and also the XVIIIth and XIXth Centuries, of M. Bartenev, guardian of the Library of Tcherkov; the Old Russian Times (Russkaïa Starina), of M. Semevski; the Historical Society of the Annalist Nestor, formed at Kiev, under the presidency of M. Antonovitch; the Collection of the Historical Society of St. Petersburg, under the exalted patronage of the czarovitch; without enumerating the periodical publications issued by societies which were already existing, as at Moscow and elsewhere.
To arrange in some degree of order the rapid notice which is all we must permit ourselves, and laying aside for the present any consideration of periodical literature, we will mention, in the first place, the works upon Russian history in general, ecclesiastical and secular; then the various memoirs and biographies; concluding with bibliography, or the history of literature.
I. General History of Russia.—Amongst the works which treat of this subject, that of M. Soloviev indisputably occupies the first place. His History of Russia from the Earliest Times (Istoria Rossiis drevneichikh vremen) advances with slow but steady pace, and has at this time reached its twenty-third volume, embracing the second septennate of the Empress Elizabeth, which concludes with the year 1755—a year memorable in the annals of Russian literature, as witnessing the establishment of the first Russian university, namely, that of Moscow. It is not surprising that this subject has inspired the author, who is a professor of the same university, to write pages full of interest. With regard to what he relates respecting the exceedingly low level of civilization to which the Russian clergy had at that time sunk, other authors have made it the subject of special treatises, and with an amplitude of development which could not have found place in a general history. M. Soloviev’s method is well known—i.e., to turn to the advantage of science the original documents, for the most part inedited, and frequently difficult of access to the generality of writers. But does he always make an impartial use of them? This is a question. The manner in which he has recounted the law-suit of the Patriarch Nicon—to cite this only as an example—does not speak altogether favorably for the historian; besides, his history is too voluminous to be accessible to the generality of readers; and when it will be finished, who can divine?
For this reason a complete history, in accordance with recent discoveries, and reduced to two or three volumes, would meet with a warm welcome. That of Oustrialov is already out of date; the little abridgment of M. Soloviev is too short; and the work of M. Bestoujev-Rumine remains at its first volume, the two which are to follow, and which have been long promised, not having yet appeared.
M. Kostomarov, who has just celebrated the 25th year of his literary career, is also publishing a History of Russia, Considered in the Lives of its Principal Representatives,[74] of which the interest increases as the period of which it treats approaches our own. Two sections have already appeared. The first, which is devoted to the history of the house of S. Vladimir, embraces four centuries; the second, as considerable as its predecessor in amount of matter, comprises no more than the interval of about a century—that is to say, the reigns of Ivan the Terrible, his father, and his grandfather (1462-1583). Faithful to the plan he has adopted, the author relates the life and deeds of the most remarkable men, whether in the political or social order: thus, in the second section, after the historical figures of Ivan III., Basil, and Ivan IV., we have the Archbishop Gennadius, the monk Nilus Sorski, whom the Russian Church reckons among her saints: the Prince Patrikeïev, the celebrated Maximus, a monk of Mt. Athos, and, lastly, the heretic Bachkine with his sectaries. The first volume will be terminated by the third section, which will conclude the history of the house of Vladimir.
This history meets with a violent opponent and an implacable judge in the person of M. Pogodine, the veteran of Russian historians. The antagonism of these two writers, M. Pogodine and M. Kostomarov, is of long standing. But never have polemics taken a more aggressive tone than on the present occasion; and the aggression is on the part of M. Pogodine, who accuses his adversary of nothing more nor less than mystifying the public and corrupting the rising generation; of having arbitrarily omitted the origin and commencement of the nation; of throwing, by preference, into strong relief all the dark pages of the history; and, lastly, declares him to be guilty of venality. To these charges M. Kostomarov replies that his censor is playing the part of a policeman rather than of a critic; that his arguments, like his anger, inspire him with pity; and that the most elementary rules of propriety forbid him to imitate his language. Coming to historical facts, he explains the reasons for his silence on the pagan period of Russian history; for treating the call of Rurik as a fable, together with a multitude of other stories of the ancient chronicles; for seeing in the Varangian[75] princes nothing but barbarians, and the pagans of this period the same. He also brings proofs to show that Vladimir Monomachus was really the first to seek allies among the tribes of the Polovtsis; that Vassilko caused the whole population of Minsk to be exterminated; and that Andrew Bogolubski was not by any means beloved by the people, as had been stated by M. Pogodine—these three subjects being among the principal points of dispute.
But we have no desire to pursue any further details which cannot in themselves have any interest for the public, although, taken in connection with the histories of the antagonistic authors, they may be suggestive. For instance, it is not easy to forget what the ardent professor of Moscow relates of himself with reference to certain of his fellow-countrywomen who had embraced the Catholic faith. Being at Rome, he tells us (and his words depict in a lively manner the character of his zeal) that he felt himself strongly tempted to seize by the hair two Russian ladies[76] whom he saw crossing the Piazza di Spagna to enter a Catholic church. He is said to be at this time preparing a Campaign against Adverse Powers, in which he combats “historic heresies.”
But the services rendered by M. Pogodine to the national history are undoubtedly great. We may notice a new one in his Ancient History of Russia before the Mongolian Yoke,[77] in which, after grouping the Russian principalities around that of Kiev as their political centre anterior to the invasion of the Mongols, he also gives the separate history of each. In the second volume the church, literature, the state, manners, and customs, are treated upon in turn, and form a series of pictures traced by a skilful hand, closing with a terribly-vivid description of the Tartar invasion.
II. Particular or Individual History.—It is about two years since historical science in Russia sustained a loss in the death of M. Pékarski, who had scarcely reached his forty-fifth year. This laborious and learned writer, who, in so short a space of time, produced an unusual number of important works,[78] died after having just completed his History of the Academy of Sciences. This work contains about eighteen hundred pages. After a solid introduction there follow the biographies of the first fifty members of the Academy, all of whom were foreigners, to which succeed those of Trediakovski and Lomonosov. In glancing over these biographies one is struck with the preponderance of the German element, the Academy, at its commencement, being almost exclusively composed of learned men of that nation. With the reign of Elizabeth the Russian party began to take the lead, and it was Lomonosov, the son of a fisherman of Archangelsk, who was the life and soul of it, as a learned man, an historian, and a poet. Pékarski mentions some curious details respecting the correspondence between Peter I. and the Sorbonne, touching the reunion of the Russian Church with Rome. It is to be wished that the documents treating of this matter, and which are preserved in the archives of the academy, might be published.
III. Ecclesiastical History.—After the History of the Russian Church, by Mgr. Macarius, the present Metropolitan of Lithuania, which has just reached its seventh volume, the first place is due to that by M. Znamenski, entitled The Parochial Clergy in Russia, subsequent to the Reform of Peter I.[79] In presence of the Protestant reforms which are in course of introduction into the official church by the Russian government, M. Znamenski’s book offers an eminently practical interest, and it is greatly to be wished that those in power would profit by its serious teaching. The author advances nothing without producing his proofs, drawn from official documents, which he has taken great pains to search for and consult wherever they were to be found.
His work is divided into five chapters, the first of which treats of the “Nomination of the Parochial Clergy.” Down to the middle of the XVIIIth century its members were chosen on the elective system; it is the ancient mode of nomination, which existed also in the Catholic Church. But from the middle of the XVIIIth century this gave place, in Russia, to the hereditary system, which has become one of the distinctive features of the Russian communion,[80] and in which may be found the cause of the separation and the spirit of caste which from that time began to isolate the clergy from the rest of society, and made them in all respects a body apart.
This spirit of caste still subsists, though not in so perceptible a degree as formerly. One inevitable consequence of this Levitism was the difficulty of quitting the caste when once a person belonged to it, as the author develops in his second chapter (pp. 176-354). In the third, he treats of the “Civil Rights of the Clergy,” and there depicts the revolting abuses in which the secular authorities allowed themselves with regard to the unfortunate clergy. The arbitrary injustice to which they were subjected during the whole of the XVIIIth century, and of which the still vivid traces remained in the time of the Emperor Alexander I., appears almost incredible. For instance, a poor parochial incumbent, having had the misfortune to pass before the house of the principal proprietor of the place without having taken off his hat to that personage, who was on the balcony with company, was immediately seized, thrust into a barrel, and thus rolled from the top of the hill on which the seignorial dwelling was situated, into the river which flowed at its base. His death was almost instantaneous. Justice, as represented in that quarter, being informed of this new species of murder, found itself unequal to touch the little potentate, and hushed up the affair. Similar horrors were by no means rare in the XVIIIth century. In the fourth chapter (pp. 507-617) the author speaks of the “Relations of the Clergy with the Ecclesiastical Authorities”; and although the picture he draws is somewhat less sombre than the preceding, still it is melancholy enough. Venality the most systematic, and rigor that can hardly be said to fall short of cruelty, were, for more than half a century, the most prominent features of the ecclesiastical government. No post, however small or humble, could be obtained without the imposition of a purely arbitrary tax; and these taxes formed in the end a very considerable amount. As for the spirit of the government, its fundamental maxim was to hold down the lower clergy in humility (smirenié)—a formula which was imprinted on the very bodies of the unfortunate victims. The slightest fault or error on their part was punished by corporal chastisements so severe that the sufferer sometimes expired under the blows. Priests were treated by their chief pastors as beings on a level with the meanest of slaves. One of these vladykas (which is the name by which the Russian bishops are designated) condemned his subordinates to dig fish-ponds on his estate, which ponds were to be so shaped as to form on a gigantic scale the initials (E. B.) of his lordship’s name.[81]
The failure of resources, so materially diminished by the cupidity of their superiors, forced the parochial clergy to contrive for themselves an income by means more or less lawful. Besides the legal charges, they invented various small taxes on their own behalf; or, when all else failed, they begged their bread from their own parishioners, who were apt to be more liberal of reproaches than of alms. The well-being of the secular clergy being one of the questions under consideration by the present government, the author has devoted to it much of his last chapter.
Such is the general plan of this book, which must be read through to give an idea of the humiliating degradation to which the hapless clergy were for more than a century condemned, thanks to the anomaly of institutions still more than to the abuses practised by individuals. When the source is corrupt, can the stream be pure?
But all this relates to the “Orthodox” of the empire. That which is more directly interesting to the Catholic reader will be found in works respecting the Ruthenian[82] Church, which is at this time attracting the attention of the West.
The History of the Reunion of the Ancient Uniates of the West,[83] by M. Koïalovitch, Professor of the Ecclesiastical (Orthodox) Academy of the capital, repeats the faults of all the numerous writings, whether books, pamphlets, or articles, which have issued from his pen in the course of the last ten years, and which are painfully remarkable for their spirit of partiality, their preconceived ideas, their self-contradictions, and their hatred of the Catholic faith. An organ of the press of St. Petersburg has expressed a desire that the documents upon which this author professedly rests three-fourths of his last book, while purposely neglecting all extraneous sources whatever, whether political or diplomatic, should be given to the public, which would then be enabled to judge for itself how far the statements based upon them are to be trusted. Nor can any obstacle exist in the way of such publication, as was shown by the work of Moroehkine on the reunion of the Uniates in 1839, equally compiled from official documents of unquestionable importance, which were then edited for the first time.
It is impossible not to be struck with the strange coincidence of so many publications upon union with the painful events which are taking place at the present time in the Diocese of Khelm, and which had evidently been preparing long beforehand. Books have their raison d’être—a reason for their appearance at particular periods. It is said, even, that M. Koïalovitch is at the head of a school of opinion, and that his disciples can be pointed out without difficulty. Thus, Rustchinski is the author of a study on the Religious Condition of the Russian People according to Foreign Authors of the XVIth and XVIIth Centuries; Nicolaïevski has written on Preaching in the XVIth Century; Demaïanovitch, on The Jesuits in Western Russia, from 1569 to 1772, at which latter year the thread of their history is taken up and continued by Moroehkine; Kratchkovski, on the Interior State of the Uniate Church (1872); and Stcherbinski has given the history of the Order of S. Basil. But we must not prolong the catalogue, which, however, is by no means complete. Never has so much literary activity been known in the “Orthodox” communion as now, if, perhaps, we except the first times of the union.
But before passing on to another head we must not fail to mention, as one of the principal representatives of the literary movement of the XVIth century, the celebrated namesake and predecessor of the present Metropolitan of Mesopotamia, i.e., Archbishop Macarius, to whom we are indebted for the monumental work known as the Great Menology, and which is a species of religious encyclopædia, containing, besides the lives of the saints for every day in the year, the entire works of the early fathers, as well as ascetic, canonical, and literary treatises. The Archæographic Commission of St. Petersburg has undertaken the republication, in its integrity, of this colossal work, of which only three quarto volumes in double columns have at present appeared.
IV. Biographies.—As we have already remarked, it is interesting to observe the eagerness with which the Russian people welcome everything that tends to throw light upon their past. For instance, what is usually drier than a catalogue? And yet the one compiled by M. Méjov has already reached four thousand copies. It is true that his Systematic Catalogue (of original documents) combines various qualities that are somewhat rare in publications of this description. It is not, however, desirable that a taste for the mere reproduction of inedited manuscripts should be carried too far; the interests of science demanding rather that they should be made use of in the production of works aspiring to greater completeness, and suited to meet the requirements of modern criticism.
A certain number of works have already been written in accordance with this idea. That of M. Tchistovitch, entitled Theophanes Procopovitch and his Times, may be given as a model, as may also the excellent study of M. Ikonnikov on Count Nicholas Mordinhov, one of the remarkable men who flourished in the reign of the Emperor Alexander I. and Nicholas. Various memoirs of this personage had previously appeared in different collections, but no one before the young professor of Kiev had taken the trouble to study the original sources upon which alone an authentic life could be written, to reduce them to system, and give them a living form. It is not only the opinions and theories of the count which are given, but those also of contemporary society and the persons by whom he was surrounded, those of the latter being occasionally too lengthily developed. M. Ikonnikov was also, some years ago, the author of an interesting work, entitled The Influence of Byzantine Civilization on Russian History (Kiev: 1870). And this leads us to mention a book recently published by M. Philimonov, vice-director of the Museum of Arms, on Simon Ouchakov and the Iconography of his Time.
The name of this artist has scarcely been heard in the West. Born in 1626, he early evinced a talent for painting, and at the age of twenty-two was admitted into the number of iconographists appointed by the czar; his specialty consisting in making designs, more particularly for the gold-work appropriated to religious uses. Of his paintings, the earliest bears the date of 1657. M. Philimonov passes in review all his later productions, accompanying each with a short but careful notice, and dwelling chiefly upon the two which he considers the masterpieces of Russian iconography at that period, namely, the painting of the Annunciation and that of Our Lady of Vladimir. Besides these two principal paintings, Ouchakov left a quantity of others, most of which bear his name, with the date of their completion, although these indications are not needed, his pictures being easily recognizable. He may, in fact, be considered as at the head of a new school of painting, taking the middle line between the conventional Muscovite iconography and the paintings of the West; between the inanimate and rigid formalism of the one and the living variety of the other; and thus inaugurating the new era in religious art which manifested itself in Russia with the opening of the XVIIth century, and permitting the introduction of a realism which the ancient iconographers were wholly ignorant of, and would have considered it detrimental to Oriental orthodoxy to countenance. Ouchakov was ennobled, in honor of his talents, and died in 1656, at the age of sixty, in the full enjoyment of public esteem.
In connection with the subject of art, we may add that M. Philimonov has just issued an elegant edition of the Guide to Russian Iconography, which teaches the correct manner in which to represent the saints. The text of this work, which is for the first time published in Russian, has been furnished by three of the most ancient manuscripts known to exist, one of which formerly belonged to the Church of S. Sophia of Novogorod. Fully to comprehend the text, however, it is necessary to have together with it, for constant reference, some pictorial guide, as, for instance, the one published by M. Boutovski. The two works explain and complete each other, as both alike refer to about the same period; but, also, both should be consulted in subordinate reference to the Greek Guide, if the reader is to be enabled to separate the Byzantine element from that which is specially characteristic of Russian iconography.
In connection with general literature mention must be made of the fabulist, Khemnitzer, whose complete works and correspondence have been edited by Grote, together with a biography, composed from previously-unpublished sources. After the vast labor of editing the works of Derjavine, those of Khemnitzer would be in comparison a mere amusement to the learned and indefatigable academician.
V. Journals and Memoirs.—The Journal of Khrapovski (1782-1793), published by M. Barsoukov, who has enriched it with a biographical notice and explanatory notes, appears for the first time in its integrity, and accompanied by a catalogue raisonné of all the personages who find themselves mentioned in the text. This journal derives its special interest and value from the position of the author, who for ten years was attached to the personal service of the Empress Catherine II. (Chargé des Affaires Personnelles), and who, being thus admitted into the interior and home-life of the court, noted down day by day, and sometimes hour by hour, all that he there saw or heard. This is certainly not history; but an intelligent historian will sometimes find there, in a sentence spoken apparently at random, the germ of great political events which were accomplished later.
The Journal of Lady Rondeau, wife of the English resident-minister at the court of the Empress Anne, is the first volume of foreign writers on the Russia of the XVIIIth century, edited with notes by M. Choubinski. The idea of publishing the accounts of foreigners on the Russian Empire merits encouragement, and, if well carried out, will shed new light on numberless points which an indigenous author would leave unnoticed, but which have a real interest in the eyes of a stranger. If it should be objected that foreigners judge superficially and partially, it is none the less true that the worth of their impressions arises precisely from the diversity of country and point of view. Besides, all strangers could not, without injustice, be alike charged with lightness and inexactitude. The memoirs of Masson on the court of Catherine II. and of Paul I. are quoted by the Russians themselves as a striking proof to the contrary; no single fact which he mentions having been disproved by history. The merit of Lady Rondeau’s book is increased by the notice, in form of an appendix, which is added by her husband, on the character of each of the principal personages of the court.
We conclude this rapid and imperfect summary by mentioning the Catalogue of the Section of Russica, or writings upon Russia in foreign languages—a work of which the initiation is due to the administrators of the Public Library of St. Petersburg, and forming two enormous volumes. To give some idea of the riches accumulated in the section of Russica, perhaps unique in the world, and of which the formation commenced in 1849, it will suffice to say that the number of works enumerated in the catalogue reaches the figures 28,456, without reckoning those composed in Lithuanian, Esthonian, Servian, Bulgarian, Greek, and other Oriental languages, which will together form a supplementary volume. Besides original works, the catalogue indicates all the translations of Russian books, and enumerates all the periodicals which have appeared in Russia in foreign languages.
The works are arranged in alphabetical order; but at the end of the second volume we find an analytical table, commencing with history, the historical portion being the most considerable one in the section of Russica. Thus the literary treasures possessed by the principal library of the empire are henceforward made known with regard to each branch of the sciences in relation to Russia. If to this we add the Systematic Catalogue of M. Méjov, mentioned above, we possess the historic literature of Russia in its completeness.