The foregoing conclusions, as every attentive reader must have noticed, have been drawn from nothing but known facts and received principles; we may therefore consider them as fully established. The more so as we have taken care to examine both sides of each question, and have given not only such direct proofs of each conclusion as would suffice to convince all unprejudiced minds, but also every objection that we have been able to find against our own views, and have thus found the opportunity of confirming, by our answers to the same, the truth of the doctrine propounded. There may be other objections which did not occur to our mind; yet it is likely that their solution will need no new considerations besides those already developed in the preceding pages. Should any other difficulty occur to the reader which cannot be answered by those considerations, we would earnestly entreat him to propound it to us, that we may try its strength. We are always glad to hear a new objection against what we hold to be true. For objections either can or cannot be solved. If they can, their solution will throw a new light on the doctrine we defend; and if they cannot, their insolubility will show us some weak point, or at least some impropriety of our language, and will thus cause us to correct our expressions or modify our opinions. Whatever helps us to regard things under some new point of view is calculated to enlarge our conceptions, to make our language clearer and more precise, and to strengthen our philosophical convictions. Those alone need to be afraid of objections who draw their conclusions from arbitrary hypotheses, instead of established truths.
We conclude the present article with a short answer to a question, which has often been raised by timorous people, concerning what may be styled the cardinal point of our doctrine on matter-viz., the simplicity of material elements. The question is the following: If we admit that the elements of matter are physically simple, is there not a serious danger of setting at naught the essential difference between the spiritual and the material substance, and are we not drifting thus into materialism?
We reply that no such danger needs to be apprehended. For it is not true that physical simplicity constitutes the essential difference between spirit and matter. Every primitive being is physically simple; and yet it does not follow that all primitive beings belong to the same species. On the other hand, spirit and matter, notwithstanding their physical simplicity, evidently belong to different species. The element of matter is inert—that is, though acting all around itself, it cannot exercise its activity within itself; whereas the spiritual substance exercises its activity within as well as without itself, and continually modifies its own interior state by its vital operations. Again, the element of matter is ubicated in space, and marks a local point, from which it directs its action in a sphere; whereas the spiritual substance neither marks a local point in space nor acts in a sphere, but determines both the direction [pg 679] and the intensity of its action as it pleases. Moreover, the element of matter has nothing but locomotive power; whereas the spiritual substance possesses not only the locomotive, but also, and principally, the thinking and the willing powers, by which it vastly transcends all material being. This suffices to show that spirit and matter, though physically simple, have an entirely different metaphysical constitution—that is, a different substantial act, a different substantial term, and a different substantial complement. Hence the simplicity of the material element does not set at naught the essential difference between matter and spirit.
Those whose metaphysical notions about material substance still hang upon the physics of the ancients will be loath to admit that our unextended element can be physically simple; for they have been taught to believe that wherever there is matter and form, there is physical composition. But such a notion is evidently wrong; for where in the element are the physical components, without which physical composition is impossible? Can we say that the matter and the substantial form are physical components? Certainly not; for the form without the matter cannot exist, nor can the matter exist without the form. Both are absolutely required for the constitution of the primitive physical being. How, then, can they be conceived as physical beings, if no physical being can be conceived before their meeting in one essence and in a common existence? A physical compound is a compound whose components have a distinct and independent existence in nature; for physical beings alone can be physical components, and nothing which has not a distinct and independent existence in nature can be called a physical being, except by an abuse of terms. The physical being is a complete being—that is, an act materially completed by its intrinsic term, and formally completed by its individual actuality. All beings that are incomplete, and whose existence depends on other cognate beings, are no more than metaphysical realities. Hence the substantial form of the element, which has no separate existence, is not a physical, but only a metaphysical, being; and in the same manner, the matter to which that form gives the first existence is not a physical, but only a metaphysical, reality. Whence it follows that the composition of matter and substantial form is not a physical, but only a metaphysical, composition; and, further, that the primitive element is indeed a metaphysical, but not a physical, compound.
On this subject we shall have more to say when explaining the peripatetic theory of substantial generations, which assumes that the substantial form can be changed without changing the matter. It is on this assumption that the physical distinction between matter and form has been maintained. We shall prove in the most irrefragable manner that the assumption is based on an equivocation about the meaning of the epithet “substantial” as applied to natural forms, and that no form which is truly and strictly substantial—that is, which gives the first being to its matter—can leave its matter and be subrogated by another substantial form.
To Be Continued.
Robespierre. Concluded.
We know how the son of S. Louis passed his last hours on earth; let us see how the men who sentenced him—against their consciences—prepared for that solemn passage. One, named Valazé, on hearing the sentence, stabbed himself, and fell dead in the court; he was dragged back with the others to prison. The remaining twenty-one passed their death-vigil in riotous singing and drinking and making merry; in improvising a comedy where Robespierre and the devil conversed in hell; the dead Valazé meanwhile lying in his blood in the same room. Vergniaud, who so hesitated to vote “death” for the king, is now bent on escaping the block by poisoning himself; but he has only poison enough for one, so he throws away the dose, too generous to desert his companions in their last journey. They will all go together; so, after a night of bacchanalian shouting and carousing, they all set forth in the fatal tumbrel; even dead Valazé is flung in to have his head cut off, that the guillotine may not be done out of its prey. They jolt on, singing the Marseillaise and crying Vive la République. One by one the heads fall, the chorus grows weaker, and at last ceases to be heard. The Girondists are gone. Robespierre is King of the Revolution now, and reigns supreme over its destinies. Now let him prove what truth there is in the plea put forth by his apologists that he was only cruel from necessity, from the pressure put upon him by his fellow-demagogues. His accession to undivided responsibility was, on the contrary, the signal for greater slaughter, and we see the number of victims swelling in proportion to the growth of his individual power. Look at the lists of the Moniteur. In July, 1793, there were thirteen persons condemned by the revolutionary tribunal of Paris, and in July of the following year the number sent by it to the guillotine was eight hundred and thirty-five!
But this system of legal assassination was beginning to recoil on the head of its inventor. The murder of the Girondists was an impolitic act that Robespierre soon repented of. He had made a precedent in attacking the representatives of the nation, hitherto inviolate; and now that the longing for vengeance was satisfied, he was clear-sighted enough to perceive what the cost was likely to be. He had sacrificed his rivals, but he had imperilled his own head. From this day forward he seemed haunted by the shadow of coming retribution. He had poured out the blood of those who stood beside him, and now he was slipping in it; his footing was no longer secure; the words “assassination,” “victim of the poignard of revenge,” etc., etc., were continually on his lips, and there is evidence that his life was poisoned by the constant dread of being murdered by some of the friends of his victims. Those who had hitherto aided and abetted his atrocities now began to look with suspicion and terror on him; even Danton [pg 681] tried to back out of the partnership, and to talk of “the joys of private life” in a way that suggested he had had enough of the glories of public life. He had just married a young and beautiful woman, whose influence was said to have already exercised a humanizing effect on his ferocious nature. She had brought him independence, too, so there was every inducement to him to quit the shambles, and leave Robespierre there alone in his glory. He withdrew from the Public Safety Committee, and ceased almost altogether to attend the meetings of the Convention. Robespierre understood this significant change. He saw his accomplices were deserting him, and he trembled. The Revolution, Saturn-like, was devouring her own children; why should not the hunters be devoured by their own dogs? Every one was falling away from the tyrant. Camille Desmoulins and Hébert, lately his devoted friends, were gathering up a rival faction dubbed Ultra-Revolutionists, and, aided by Hébert's abominable newspaper, Père Duchêsne, they and their followers set to work to hunt down the popular idol. Robespierre was known to harbor a sneaking prejudice in favor of some sort of religion, and once even openly declared his opinion that some such institution was necessary for governing with effect. The Ultras used this admission as a means of insulting him, and at the same time weakening his prestige. They got hold of an unfortunate, half-witted man named Gobel, an apostate priest, dressed him up as an archbishop, and, surrounded by a crowd of mock priests and prelates, they led him, riding on an ass, to the Convention; here he made a burlesque and blasphemous abjuration of his former state and belief, and solemnly pronounced the Credo of atheism, and the worship of the goddess Reason. The law-givers, thereupon, amidst the frantic enthusiasm of the crowd, decreed that “God and all superstition were abolished,” and the worship of Reason substituted in their place. A monstrous ceremony was at once organized to celebrate the new religion: an actress was carried to the cathedral of Notre Dame, dressed—or undressed—as the goddess of this adoption, enthroned on the consecrated altar of the living God, while the populace passed before her in adoration. The walls of the sacred temple re-echoed to the hymn of liberty, the Marseillaise, and were profaned with horrors that no Christian pen may retrace. Similar scenes were enacted in the other churches. Venerable old S. Eustache was turned into a fair; tables were spread with sausages, pork-puddings, herrings, and bottles; children were forced to sing songs and give toasts, and to drink to the half-naked goddess; and when the little ones—the precious little ones of Jesus—got drunk, there was huge merriment amongst the spectators.