Here the author treats us to a luxury of contradictions. Force is “a mere inference from motion,” yet it causes motion; for it is active. Hence the causality is a mere inference of its effect. It is therefore the effect [pg 801] that gives existence to its cause, and the cause “has no other existence” than that which may be imbibed in the effect for which it is postulated. What, then, becomes of the “force, properly so-called”—that is, of the potential energy, or of the energy of position, which has no actual effect? Again, “the reality of force, is purely conceptual.” This means that the reality of force is unreal; which would just amount to saying that Mr. Stallo's intellect is unintelligent or that his writings are unwritten. Again, the “reality of force and of its action is the correspondence between the physical phenomena”; but, if the reality of force is merely conceptual, the correspondence between the physical phenomena must be merely conceptual; which would prove that the concept “force,” when properly interpreted in terms of experience, is not valid, though the author maintains the contrary. Moreover, what can the author mean by “the action of force”? Is this action real or unreal? If unreal, it is no action at all; and if real, it implies a real active power. We defy Mr. Stallo to conceive a real action of an unreal force. We are informed that “some thinkers” wish to abolish the term “force,” like the term “cause,” and we are told that this proves how plain and obvious it is that force has no independent reality. This, however, proves only that some so-called “thinkers” are either lunatics or knaves. After all, if force is purely conceptual, as the author pretends, its reality must be denied without any restriction. Why, then, does he deny merely that force has an “independent” reality? Has it any “dependent” reality if it is “purely conceptual”?
But we must come to an end. Mr. Stallo's conclusion is that “the very conception of force depends upon the relation between two terms at least,” and that therefore “a constant central force, as belonging to an individual atom in and by itself, is an impossibility” (p. 355). In this argument the term “force” is used equivocally. It stands for active power in the consequence, while it stands for action or for movement in the antecedent. Hence the conclusion is worthless. “I have shown,” says he, “that there are and can be no absolute constants of mass. And it is evident now that there are similarly no constant central forces belonging to, or inherent in, constants of mass as such” (p. 356). We say in our turn: No, Mr. Stallo, you have not shown what you imagine; and, if anything is evident, it is not that there are no constant central forces, but that philosophical questions cannot be solved without good logic and a clear knowledge of metaphysical principles.
The Blind Student.
When Ernest D'Arcy left the University of ——, all the glorious possibilities of life seemed to unfold themselves invitingly before him. He was young, he was clever, he was ambitious. Unlike too many American students, he had not wasted the golden hours of college life in idleness, dissipation, or even social enjoyment. He had been a hard, indeed, an enthusiastic, student; but on commencement day, when his brow was bound with victorious wreaths, he felt rewarded for having scorned the seductive pleasures of youth, and rejoiced that he had lived laborious days and nights.
But D'Arcy did not consider his education finished because he had passed through the university brilliantly. He well knew that the college was only the vestibule to the temple of learning. Through this vestibule he had passed; and now he wished to enter the noble temple itself. But on its very threshold he found himself suddenly stopped. A dangerous disease attacked his eyes. The most eminent oculists were consulted at once; absolute rest alone could save him from total blindness. He was forbidden to read or write a line. This was indeed a terrible blow to the ambitious young student. His golden hopes left him; his sweet dream of fame faded away; his bright career was blighted in the very bud. Unsustained by the holy influence of religion, a deep and dangerous despondency seized him; he abandoned himself to despair, and could not follow the advice of Burke, “Despair, but work even in despair,” for the affliction that caused his despair prevented him from working. So depressed was he at times that he contemplated suicide as a happy relief.
The D'Arcy family were of Norman origin. The grandfather of Ernest escaped from France in the early days of the Revolution, bringing with him to the United States the fortune that had descended to him through a long line of ancestors. Like so many French gentlemen of the last century, M. D'Arcy had imbibed the fashionable scepticism of the time of Voltaire and the Encyclopædists. After coming to America, he married a Catholic lady, and his scepticism gradually settled into a form of mild indifferentism. Ernest's father was a devoted Catholic, but he died while his children were in their infancy. His wife was a Protestant, a woman of fashion, whose highest ambition was to be a leader of society. Her children, Ernest and his sister Mary, were brought up from their infancy on the Chesterfieldian model: to shine in society. To this end everything else was sacrificed. From the nursery they went to the dancing-school, and had masters to teach them all those superficial accomplishments which make up a modern fashionable education. Ernest's clever and original mind saved him from the evil effects of such an education. But, unfortunately, he did not escape a worse danger. With no one to direct his studies, at the susceptible age of seventeen he began to read the infidel French literature of the XVIIIth [pg 803] century, which formed a large part of his grandfather's library. Fascinated by the diabolical wit of Voltaire, Ernest's young and undisciplined mind mistook sophistry for argument, ridicule for reason, wit for wisdom. The fashionable religion of his mother had never possessed any charm or interest for him, and now, rejecting all belief, he became a free-thinker.
Ernest entered the University of —— in his eighteenth year, eager for distinction and determined to succeed. Succeed he did; and when he graduated, four years later, he was the first student of the university and unanimously chosen the commencement orator. No student ever left the University of ——, which has been the Alma Mater of so many distinguished men, with a brighter future before him than Ernest D'Arcy. But it was a future for this world, and for this world alone. Fame was the god of his idolatry. His residence at the University of ——, which boasts the absence of all religious teaching, had strengthened his scepticism. But the scepticism of Ernest D'Arcy was a scepticism of the head, not of the heart. His natural love for the true, the beautiful, and the good had kept him pure, even at the most dangerous period of youth, when the blood is warm, the passions strong, and the will weak. While the heart is good and pure, however the head may err, there is always hope. The unbelief of Ernest D'Arcy was not the cold, heartless, satisfied unbelief of the hardened scoffer rejoicing in his infidelity. It was the natural result upon an eager and active intellect of an education without religion, a home without God.
The same year that Ernest left the university his sister “finished” at the Academy of the Visitation of ——. Mary D'Arcy was not a brilliant girl, but very sweet, gentle, and interesting. Three years at the convent school had removed all traces of her unfortunate home education. Mary's most intimate friend at the convent was Edith Northcote, a young Catholic girl from the South. When they parted on distribution day, it was with the understanding that Edith should pass the next winter with Mary, and the two young ladies enter society together.
One morning, towards the end of October, Ernest was sitting in the library, surrounded by the most enchanting literature of the world, and not allowed to read a single line. D'Arcy was no sentimental dreamer or aimless student.