Chapter XXXI: Part VI: They Sang (27)

“I will go to him now. It is what I have neglected only too long. God bless you, Miss Howard! But dare I now, after all that has passed, ask you to retain my trifling gift, that you may not forget to pray for me?”

“I shall prize it most highly,” said Assunta. “But I shall not need to be reminded to commend you very often to the Sacred Heart of our divine Lord, where you will find strength and consolation. I am sure the least I can do for you is to pray for you, having been the occasion of your suffering.”

“And of something more than that,” said Mr. Percival.

“And I shall still hope for the other greater gift,” said Assunta in pleading tones.

“Miss Howard,” replied Mr. Percival, almost with solemnity, “if I, unworthy as I am, should ever be permitted to offer the Holy Sacrifice, my first Mass shall be for you, God willing. But I dare not yet look forward with hope to such a possibility. Once more, God bless you! Pray for me.” And in a moment more he had left the house.

Assunta attended Mass daily at the cathedral. The next morning, as she was leaving the church, Mr. Percival joined her; but, without saying a word, he placed a note in her hand, and at the corner he turned, and took his way in the opposite direction. In her own room the young girl read these words:

“To‐day I start for Frederick, where I shall make a retreat with the good Jesuit fathers. In solitude and prayer I hope that God may make known to me his will. Pray, that I may have light to see and grace to follow the inspirations of the Holy Spirit. The words you spoke last night are known to the loving Heart of Jesus. He will reward you. I can say no more now. Your brother in Christ,

A. P.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Assunta.

After breakfast, Mary came to her, as she stood for a moment by the window, and, putting her arm about her affectionately, said:

“Darling, we need not make any more plans to entrap poor Augustine into a confession, for I do believe he is all right. He came here for a few minutes early this morning to say good‐by, as he was going to Frederick. Of course that must mean a retreat; and a retreat is, of course, the first step towards the seminary.”

“I am very, _very_ glad,” said Assunta, smiling. “Women are not always as bright as they think they are, you see.”

Three weeks from that day Augustine Percival sailed for Europe to enter upon his theological course in Rome. And two faithful hearts daily begged for him of Almighty God grace and fortitude with that happy confidence which seems almost a presage of answered prayer.

And five years passed away—long and often weary in the passing, but short and with abundant blessings in the retrospect—five uneventful years, and yet leaving a lasting impress upon the individual soul. Assunta’s home was still with her friend, Mary Lee—an arrangement to which she most gratefully consented, on condition that she might, from her ample income, contribute her share towards the ease and comfort of the family. It thus became a mutual benefit, as well as pleasure; for Capt. Lee’s pay as a naval officer was small and their only dependence. Assunta had won the hearts of all, even down to Mary’s two little ones, who came bringing plenty of love with them, as well as adding much to the care and solicitude of the young mother and her younger friend.

They saw but little of Mrs. Sinclair during those years. She had become a thorough woman of the world—a leader of fashion in her own circle. She had lost much of the simplicity and _naïveté_ of character and manner which had made her charming in the old Roman days. Her laugh had not the genuine ring which her own light heart used to give it. She was still beautiful—very beautiful as queen of the ball‐room. But Mary Lee always insisted that she had the unmistakable look of one who has an interior closet somewhere which might reveal a skeleton; and Assunta thought—but her thoughts she kept to herself—that it was not very difficult to divine what that skeleton might be. She understood her, and pitied her from her heart; and she loved her, too, with the old affection. But their life‐ paths, once seemingly parallel, had now diverged so widely that she felt she could not help her. The consolation Clara sought was very different from anything her brother’s ward could supply.

And that brother, Mr. Carlisle—did Assunta never think of him? Daily, before God, she remembered him; but it was not for her peace to allow him a place in her memory at other times. They were entire strangers now, and she had long since given up the hope of any return to the old friendship. He had dropped out of her life, and God alone could fill the place left vacant by the surrender of this human love. She prayed for him, however, still, but as one might pray for the dead. Her days glided quietly by, each one bearing a record of deeds of love and kindness; while the consciousness of duty fulfilled gave her a peace that it is not in the power of mere human happiness to bestow. The blessings of the poor followed her, and the blessing of God rested upon her soul.

Mary sometimes protested against this “waste of life,” as she called it.

“My darling,” she said one day, as she was rocking her baby to sleep in her arms, “you will be a nun yet.”

“I fear not,” replied Assunta. “I might have wished to enter religion, but it seems that God does not call me to that life.”

“Then, Assunta, why don’t you marry? It would break my heart to lose you, darling; but, truly, it grieves me to have you settle yourself down to our stupid life and ways, and you so young and rich and beautiful. It is contrary to nature and reason.”

“Be patient with me, dear,” said Assunta. “I do not believe that you want to be rid of me. Some time we shall know what it all means. I am sorry to disappoint my friends, but my life is just as I would have it.”

“Well, you are a saint,” said Mary with a sigh; “and as I am the gainer, I am the last one to complain. But I wish you had a dear little bother of your own like my Harry,” And the maternal kiss had in it such a strength of maternal love that the baby‐eyes opened wide again, and refused to shut.

Mary heard occasionally from her brother; and sometimes she heard _of_ him in a way that filled her heart with joy. Austere, yet with wonderful sweetness, full of talent and a hard student, yet with touching humility, Augustine Percival, by a life of mortification and prayer, which his studies never interrupted, was preparing himself to do great things for God. A few words, uttered simply by a true‐hearted Christian woman, had turned the scale for him; and God will receive so much the more glory. There will come a day which will reveal many such works, performed through the perhaps unconsciously‐exercised influence of some noble woman, whose mission is none the less real because it is accomplished silently and out of the world’s sight.

VII. Credo.

Five years had passed away, and their close found Mary Lee welcoming back to her home her long‐absent brother, now a priest. Augustine Percival returned, the same, and yet changed. There was the same tender, earnest nature; but upon that nature grace had built up a superstructure of such strength and virtue that, in most respects, he was a different man—purified by suffering, sanctified by penance, and now consecrated by the sacrament of Holy Orders.

It was a happy circle that gathered around the blazing wood‐fire on that cool October evening—so happy that they were almost subdued, and thought more than they talked. It was towards the end of the evening that Father Percival said quite incidentally:

“Mr. Carlisle returned in the steamer with me. I suppose he will soon pay his respects to the ladies.”

Assunta did not start. Why should she? Had the name of one long since dead been mentioned, it might have caused an emotion of tenderness; but that would have been all. Mr. Carlisle was dead to her, and every memory of him had long been buried. So, though her face became a shade paler, she went on with her work, and her hand did not tremble.

“Is he well?” asked Mary, continuing the conversation, “and is he as fine‐ looking as he used to be?”

“He is just recovering from a very severe illness,” replied her brother. “It has told upon him fearfully, so that you will find him much changed. Still, I hope his native air will restore him to health; and no doubt, Mary, his good looks will follow. He was already much better when I parted from him yesterday.” And then Father Percival questioned Mary about her absent husband and her children, and listened with interest to the young mother’s enthusiastic description of Harry’s brilliancy and the little Assunta’s sweetness.

The next evening, as Father Percival was giving the two ladies an account of his last days in Rome, Mr. Carlisle’s name was announced, and immediately he himself entered the pleasant drawing‐room. He was indeed much altered, for the traces of sickness and suffering were only too visible. There was another change, perceptible to one who had known him well. In his bearing there seemed to be less pride than of old, and more dignity; in his face the expression of bitterness had given place to one more contented, more peaceful. Suffering had evidently done a work in that proud spirit. But as Mr. Carlisle extended his hand to Assunta, who greeted him with the frank simplicity so peculiar to her, the same old smile lighted up his thin, pale face, and he truly seemed her guardian once more. Assunta was for the moment surprised to see the cordiality with which Mr. Carlisle took the hand of the young priest, and held it in both his, as if a brother’s affection were in the pressure, and which was returned as warmly. A comfortable arm‐chair was placed near the fire for the guest; and while he seated himself, as if fatigued, he said:

“Augustine, have you kept my secret?”

“Most faithfully. I did not even betray that I had one, as a woman might have done.” And Father Percival glanced at his sister, who pretended indignation, but said nothing.

“Then,” said Mr. Carlisle, “I must tell my own story. Assunta, come and sit by me.” And he pointed to the vacant chair beside him, while Assunta obeyed at once, the words and manner were so like those of the old days.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Carlisle went on, “if I call you to‐night by the familiar name. I could not say Miss Howard, and tell you what I have to tell. And, Mrs. Lee, if I seem to address myself too exclusively to your friend, I beg you will pardon me, and believe that, if my story interests you, I am more than glad that you should know all. Assunta, put your hand here.” And taking her hand in his, he laid it upon his brow. “In that Roman sickness it has often rested there, and has soothed and healed. Tell me, child, do you feel no difference now?”

Assunta looked at him wonderingly—still more so when she caught sight of a meaning smile on Father Percival’s face.

“Mr. Carlisle, you puzzle me,” she said.

Again that peculiar and beautiful smile, as he continued:

“The sign of the cross has been there; do you understand now, my child? No? Then, in one word, I will explain all. _Credo_—I believe! Not yet? Assunta, you have, I know, prayed for me. Your prayer has been answered. I am a Catholic, and, under God, I owe all to Augustine Percival.”

Assunta could not speak. For a moment she looked in his face with those earnest blue eyes, as if to read there the confirmation of his words, and then she bowed her head upon her hands in silence. Mr. Carlisle was the first to break it.

“And so you are not sorry, _petite_, to welcome so old a sinner into the fold?”

“Sorry!” exclaimed Assunta at last. “Life will not be long enough to thank God for this happiness.”

“You are so little changed, child, after all these years, that I must look at myself to realize how the time has gone. But shall I tell you how all this has come about? Three months ago I was as miserable an unbeliever as ever lived.”

“Please tell us all,” murmured Assunta.

“All the story of these five years would be long and wearisome. Life to me has been simply an endurance of existence, because I dared not end it. I have travelled a great deal. I have _stood_, not _kneeled_, in the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, and have wandered as a sight‐seer through the holy places in Jerusalem. I have been in almost every part of Europe. Need I tell you that I have found satisfaction nowhere? And all this time I was drawn, by a sort of fascination, to read much on Catholic subjects; so I sneered and cavilled and argued, and read on.

“At last, about four months since, the same uneasy spirit which has made a very Wandering Jew of me for the last five years possessed me with the idea of returning home, and I started for Paris. I engaged my passage in the next steamer for New York; and, though feeling far from well, left for Havre. I reached the hotel, registered my name, and went to my room for the night. The steamer was to sail the next morning. I knew nothing more for three weeks. Fortunately, I had fallen into good hands, or I should never have been here. They said it was brain‐fever, and my life was despaired of. Assunta, child, you need not look so pale. You see it is I myself who have lived to tell it.”

Father Percival here rose, and, excusing himself on the ground of having his Office to say, left the room. As soon as he was gone Mr. Carlisle exclaimed:

“There is the noblest man that ever lived. No words can tell what he has been to me. It seems that, when I was beginning to give some hope of recovery, Father Percival arrived at the same hotel on his way to America. The landlord happened to mention the fact of the illness of a fellow‐ countryman, and showed the name upon his books. Father Percival at once gave up his passage, and remained to perform an act of charity which can only be rewarded in heaven.”

“You remember, Assunta,” said Mrs. Lee, “Augustine wrote that he was detained a few weeks by the illness of a friend.”

“Yes,” said Assunta; “but how little we dreamed who the friend was!”

“And a most ungrateful friend he was, too, at first,” said Mr. Carlisle. “When he came to see me, and I learned his name, and that he had become a priest, it was nothing but weakness that prevented my driving him from the room. As it was, I swore a little, I believe. However, with the tenderness of a woman he nursed me day and night; and even when I was better, there was still no word about religion, until one day I introduced the subject myself. Even then he said but little. I was too weak to have much pride, or that little would not perhaps have made the impression that it did. My pride has always been the obstacle, and it is not all gone yet, _petite_,” he added, looking at Assunta, who smiled in answer.

“One night, from what cause I do not know, I had a relapse, and death seemed very near. Then Father Percival came to me as priest. I can hear now the solemn tones in which he said: ‘Mr. Carlisle, I will not deceive you. I hope that you will recover, but you may not. Are you willing to die as you are now, unbaptized?’ I answered, ‘No.’ ‘Do you, then,’ he said, ‘believe the Catholic Church to be the infallible teacher of truth, and will you submit to her teaching?’ Here I paused. The question was a difficult one; the word _submit_ was a hard word. But death was very near, and at last, with desperate energy, I said: ‘Yes; baptize me!’ He then knelt beside me, and made for me an act of contrition—for I seemed to be sinking fast—and in a moment more I was baptized, a Catholic. He then left me instantly, and went for the parish priest, who came and administered Extreme Unction to—as they supposed—a dying man. But the sacrament did its work for life, and not for death. From the moment of receiving it the scale turned. Of course much that I have told you I have learned since from Augustine. I was conscious only of the one act—the _submission_.

“And how mean a specimen of a man I have since felt myself to have been—resisting God year after year with all the strength of human pride and that most powerful auxiliary of the devil—pride of intellect; and then, when life was at its last gasp, and everything had slipped from under me but that one foothold—then to say, ‘Life is going; the world has already gone. I have lost everything else; now I, a sinner, will condescend to receive the portion of the saints—God and heaven!’ Do you think, Assunta, that the angels would have had much cause for rejoicing over such an addition to their bright company?”

“That is a genuine drop of your old bitterness, Mr. Carlisle,” replied Assunta, laughing, nevertheless, at his frankness.

“Oh! there is plenty of it left, _petite_. But to go on: when I found that I was to live, I was determined, before leaving for home, to make my profession of faith in the church, as a Christian should who is not ashamed of his colors. Augustine would do nothing official for me after the baptism, but he was ever the kindest friend, and I love him with a real David and Jonathan affection. Oh! child, how often have I thought of you and of how much you would have been amused to see me, Severn Carlisle, meekly receiving instruction in Catholic doctrine and practice from that simple French priest. Truly, I needed some one to identify me to myself. Well, to bring this long story to an end, the day before sailing I made my profession of faith and received Holy Communion in the quiet little parish church. And now I am here, the same proud, self‐sufficient man as of old, I fear, but with a peace of soul that I have never known before.”

“How good God is!” exclaimed Assunta.

“What does your sister say?” asked Mrs. Lee.

“My sister? I do not think she took in the idea. Her thoughts would have to travel miles before they would approach a religious sentiment. Poor Clara! I find her much changed. I spent two or three hours with her this afternoon. She was very gay, even brilliant—too much so, I thought, for real happiness. She did not imagine how transparent her mask was, and I would not destroy her illusion. I did not see Sinclair at all. But,” exclaimed he, looking at his watch, and rising hastily, “it is eleven o’clock. I ordered the carriage for ten, and no doubt it has been waiting a long time. I owe you ladies many apologies for my thoughtlessness and egotism.”

“Mr. Carlisle,” began Assunta, placing her hand in his, as she bade him good‐night; but the words would not come as readily as the tears.

Mrs. Lee had gone to summon her brother, so the two, so long parted, were left alone.

“My child,” said Mr. Carlisle in a low voice, “I know all that you would say, all the sweet sympathy of that tender, unchanged heart. I have much to say to you, Assunta, but not to‐night—not in the presence of others.”

Then turning to Father Percival, who entered the room, “Augustine,” he said, “I am going for a few days to my place in the country for rest, and also that I may see how much it has suffered from my long neglect. Come and see me there. It will do me good, heart and soul.”

“I will try to arrange my plans so as to give myself that pleasure,” replied the priest, as he assisted Mr. Carlisle into the carriage.

What strange contradictions there are in human nature! How little can we account for our varying moods and the motives which influence our actions! And how often we seem to get at cross‐purposes with life, and only see how far we have been wrong when a merciful Providence, overruling all, unknots the tangled thread and straightens the crooked purpose!

Excepting the visit of a few hours paid by Father Percival to his friend, two months passed by, and nothing was heard of Mr. Carlisle. Those two months were to Assunta longer, more wearisome, than the five years that had preceded them. We may talk of hopes that are dead, and may honestly believe them buried deep down in the grave which duty has prepared and time has covered. But hope is the hardest thing in this world to kill; and thank God that it is so! Let but a gleam of sunshine, a breath of the warm upper air, into that sepulchre, and the hopes that have lain buried there for years will revive and come forth with renewed vigor. It is much more difficult to lay them to rest a second time.

Assunta had borne her trial nobly; but, as she sat alone on Christmas Eve, and her thoughts naturally dwelt upon that happy return, and then the unaccountable disappearance of Mr. Carlisle, her courage almost failed her, and her brave heart sank within her, as she thought how dreary the future looked. She had excused herself from joining the others at a little family party, and for an hour she had sat idle before the fire—a most unwonted self‐indulgence for one so conscientious as Assunta Howard.

A ring at the door and a voice in the hall made her start and tremble a little, as she had not done on that first evening of Father Percival’s return. She had scarcely recovered herself when Mr. Carlisle entered the room.

“I have come to account for myself,” were his first words. “I hoped that I should find you alone to‐night.”

“Mrs. Lee has gone to her mother’s,” was the reply.

“Yes, I knew it. Assunta, what have you thought of me? Still more, what will you think of me now? I have suffered much in these two months; perhaps it is ungenerous in me to say this to you. Assunta, never for one moment have I been unfaithful to the love I told you of so many years ago; but I had given up the hope of ever possessing yours. Even when the obstacle you know of had been removed, I thought that I could bear to see you happy, as I believed you were, in a life in which I had no share. I felt that it would not be right even to ask you to marry one so much older than yourself, with broken health and darkened spirits. And your fresh beauty, still so girlish, so all‐unchanged, confirmed my purpose. Ah! child, time, that has silvered my hair, has not dimmed the golden aureola which crowns your dear head. But in the many lonely hours that I have passed since my return, my courage has grown faint. I have longed for your sweet presence in my home, until an answering voice has urged me to come to you. Assunta, once, beneath the shadow of the cross, in the moonlit Colosseum, I offered you my love, and you put God between us. Again I urged my suit, and again you erected the same impassable barrier. To‐night I am so selfish that, even as I have described myself to be, I come to you a third time with a love which years have but strengthened. My darling, God no longer comes between us; can I ever hope to win that true, brave heart?”

With a child‐like simplicity and a true womanliness Assunta put her hand in his, and said:

“Mr. Carlisle, it has long been yours. ‘Unless he can love you _in God_,’ my mother said. I believe that the condition is now fulfilled.”

“And may God bless the love he sanctions!” said Mr. Carlisle solemnly. After a silence—for where hearts understand each other there is no need of many words—Assunta said in her own sweet tones:

“Do you regret now the decision of that night in Rome? Was I a true prophetess?”

“But we have lost so many years,” said Mr. Carlisle.

“Yes, lost for time, but gained for eternity.”

When Mrs. Lee returned, she greeted the guest with surprise, as well as pleasure; but both those emotions were lost in a still greater joy when Mr. Carlisle, drawing Assunta towards him, said:

“Mrs. Lee, this is my Christmas gift—a precious treasure, is it not, to be entrusted to one so undeserving?”

“Indeed it is a precious treasure,” echoed Mary enthusiastically; “but, Mr. Carlisle, there is not a man in the world in whose possession I would like to see it so well as in yours.”

“Bless you, Mrs. Lee, for your kind words! _Petite_, perhaps your taste is not so much in fault after all.”

“And, Mary,” said Assunta archly, “he may yet recover his good looks, you know.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Carlisle, “love and happiness are said to be great beautifiers. I have no objection to trying the experiment.”

One bright morning, soon after Easter, there was a nuptial Mass at the cathedral, celebrated by Father Percival, and after the ceremony and a quiet breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle drove in their private carriage to the beautiful country residence which was to be their future home.

Just at sunset, as they entered the long avenue which with many windings led towards the house, Mr. Carlisle said:

“My darling, we are at home. I have waited, like Jacob, almost seven years for my Rachel. I cannot say, as he did, that the days have seemed _few_, though I believe my love has been no less.”

“And suppose,” replied Assunta, with the happy confidence of a loving wife—“suppose your Rachel should turn out a Lia after all?”

“In that case,” said her husband coolly, “I should insist that the description of that much‐injured lady had done her great injustice. And I should consider myself a lucky fellow to have been cheated into the mistake, and be ready to wager my Lia against all the Rachels in the world. And now, my precious wife, welcome home!”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Ten years later. It is not always a pleasure to look in upon loved friends after a lapse of ten years. Sickness, sorrow, death, or disgrace may each do a mighty work in even fewer years, and, at the best, time itself brings about marked changes. But a glance at Carlisle Hall, on this tenth anniversary of that happy wedding‐day, will only show that same happiness ripened into maturity. In a marriage like that of Severn and Assunta Carlisle, whatever life might bring of joy or sorrow would come to both alike, and nothing could divide them. Even death itself would but _seem_ to part them, for their union was _in God_. In Assunta the added dignity of wife‐hood and motherhood had taken nothing from the charm of earlier years; and, if the beauty of the young girl had faded somewhat, the ever‐ growing grace and purity of soul more than supplied its want, even in her husband’s eyes. And Mr. Carlisle? Noble by nature, and possessing the finest qualities of mind and heart, his soul was now developed to the full stature of its manhood. He was a proud man still, but with a pride which S. Paul might have commended. He was so proud that he was never ashamed to kneel beside the poorest villager in the little church. In his pride he gloried in Jesus Christ, and him crucified. The beautiful church itself had been erected as a thank‐offering, by Mr. Carlisle and his wife, in the factory village two miles from their home; and for some years Father Percival had been parish priest of the Church of the Assumption. And Carlisle Hall resounded with the merry voices of three children at the end of those ten years: Severn, the pride of his mother’s heart; Augustine, Father Percival’s godchild and special favorite, already destined for the priesthood by the wishes of the senior trio; and the baby, her father’s darling, to whom he would give the name of Mary, and no other, “to show,” he said, “how he had progressed in Mariolatry since his first lesson in Sienna.”

Father Percival had been the only guest at this anniversary‐dinner, except, indeed, the children, who must appear on this occasion, at no matter how great a risk of noise and accident. They had now returned to the nursery, but the others still lingered at the table.

“Father Augustine,” said Assunta—for she had learned to follow the little ones in their name for the priest they loved so well—“I received a letter yesterday from dear old Father Joseph. He is just as happy in our marriage to‐day as he was when he first heard of it, and he blesses it, and us, and the children so sweetly and kindly. How much I should like to see him again!”

“I suppose,” said Father Percival, “he looks upon the marriage as a striking illustration of the wonderful ways and goodness of God, as it surely is. S. Ignatius ought to send Father Dupont here, to see for himself the result of his direction, and, I must add, of your generosity and faithfulness, Mrs. Carlisle.”

“I am so sorry, Severn,” said Assunta after a pause in the conversation, “that Clara would not come to us to‐day. I think a glimpse of quiet country life might be a pleasant change for her.”

“I fear,” replied her husband sadly, “that poor Clara has much to suffer yet. It is my opinion that Sinclair has no intention of returning from Europe at all. But who could have made her believe, in those sunshiny days, that she would ever live to be a deserted wife? _Petite_, the subject is a very painful one. I am going to change it for one of which I am never weary. Augustine, it is not the custom, I believe, for a man to toast his wife on such an occasion, but I am going to be an exception to the rule to‐day. Lord Lytton has in that grand work of his, _My Novel_, two types of women—the one who exalts, and the one who consoles. He probably had never seen the combination of the two types in one person. I now propose—and, my darling, you must drink and not blush—‘Assunta Carlisle: blessed be the woman who both exalts and consoles!’ And let me add that a happy man was I—unworthy—when, ten years ago, that woman became my wife.”

Matter. V.

Although continuous matter cannot be proved to exist, yet its existence, as every one knows, is still very commonly believed, even by philosophers, on the ground that it was believed for centuries by all great men, and has never been conclusively refuted. From some hints which we have given in our previous article about the difficulties of this ancient doctrine, the intelligent reader may have already satisfied himself that material continuity is not merely “a philosophical mystery,” as Goudin confesses, but a metaphysical absurdity. As, however, this last conclusion, owing to its paramount importance in metaphysics and in natural philosophy, deserves a more explicit and complete demonstration than we have yet given, we propose to develop in the present article a series of arguments, drawn from different sources, to show _the absolute and intrinsic impossibility of continuous matter_. The prejudices of our infancy may at first resist the demonstration, but it is to be hoped that they will finally yield to reason.

_First argument._—We know, and it is conceded by the advocates of continuous matter, that a _finite_ being cannot involve in its composition an _infinite_ multitude of distinct terms; for evidently the infinite cannot be the constituent of the finite. Now, we have shown in our preceding article that, if there were a piece of continuous matter, it should involve in its continuous constitution an infinite multitude of distinct terms, every one of which should have its own distinct existence independently of the others. Therefore continuous matter cannot exist.

_Second argument._—A primitive substance cannot absolutely be made up of other substances. But if there were any continuous matter, a primitive substance would be made up of other substances. Therefore no continuous matter can exist. The major of this syllogism is quite evident; for a primitive substance, if made up of other substances, would be primitive and non‐primitive at the same time. The minor can be easily proved. For it is plain that continuous matter, if any such existed, would necessarily consist of continuous parts, substantially distinct from one another, and therefore having their own distinct matter and their own distinct substantial act, and ranking as distinct, complete, and separable substances, as we have shown in our last article. Now, assuming that either of these parts is a primitive substance, it is evident that the primitive substance would be made up of other substances; for such a part, being continuous, is itself made up of other parts, which are likewise distinct and complete substances, as we have just remarked. And since a continuum cannot be resolved into any but continuous parts, the conclusion cannot be avoided that the primitive material substance would always be made up of other substances. To elude this argument, the advocates of continuous matter are compelled to deny that there is any _primitive_ material substance mathematically continuous. But, even so, their position is not improved. For if there is no primitive material substance mathematically continuous, the combination of such primitive substances will never give rise to continuous matter, it being obvious that all the elementary constituents of continuum must be continuous, as all philosophers agree. Whence we again conclude that no continuous matter is possible.

_Third argument._—No continuum can be made up of unextended constituents, as we have just observed, and as our opponents not only concede, but also demonstrate most irrefragably in their own treatises. Now, continuous matter, if any such existed, would be made up of unextended constituents—that is, of mere mathematical points. Therefore continuous matter would be a formal contradiction. The minor of our syllogism is proved thus. All the points which can be designated within the dimensions of the continuum are _immediately_ united with one another, and therefore no room is to be found between any two consecutive points; which shows that in the constitution of the continuum we would have nothing but mere points. For let there be a continuous plane and a continuous sphere. The sphere, if perfect, cannot touch the plane, except in a single indivisible point, as is proved in geometry; nevertheless, the sphere may move along the plane, and, always touching the plane in a single point, may measure a linear extension of matter, which, accordingly, would contain nothing but mathematical points immediately following one another. In other terms, the extended matter would be made up of indivisible points; and since all admit that this is impossible, it follows that continuous matter is impossible. Against this argument the objection is made that it proves too much; as it would prove the impossibility of measuring space by continuous movement. But this objection has no good foundation, as we shall show after concluding the series of our arguments.

_Fourth argument._—All the points that can be designated in a material continuum would necessarily touch one another in such a manner as to form a continuous extension; hence their contact would necessarily be _extensive_. But an _extensive_ contact of indivisible points is intrinsically impossible. Therefore material continuity is intrinsically impossible. The major of this syllogism is a mere corollary from the definition of continuum; for, if there be no contact, the continuum will be broken, and if the contact be not extensive—that is, such as to allow each point to extend beyond its neighbor—no continuous extension will result. The minor of our syllogism can be proved as follows:

The contact of a point with a point is the contact of an indivisible with another indivisible; and, since the indivisible has no parts, such a contact cannot be partial, but must needs be total. Accordingly, the second point, by its contact with the first, will be _totally_ in the first; the third, by its contact with the second, will be _totally_ in the second, and consequently in the first; the fourth, by its contact with the third, will be _totally_ in the third, and consequently in the second and in the first, and so on. Therefore all the points which are in mathematical contact will necessarily correspond to the same point in space. Now, to be all in the same point, and to form a continuous extension, are contradictories. And thus it is manifest that material continuity is a mere contradiction.

Some will say that the contact is indeed made in the points, but that the parts, which touch one another in a common point, are quite distinct. But this appeal to the parts of the continuum, though much insisted upon by many ancient philosophers, is of no avail against our argument. For the existence of these parts cannot be assumed, without presupposing the continuity of matter. Such parts are, in fact, assumed to be continuous; and therefore, before we admit their existence, we must inquire whether and how they can have intrinsic extension and continuity. And dividing these parts into other parts, and these again into others without end, of all these parts of parts the same question must be asked—that is, whether and how they can have intrinsic extension and continuity. Hence one of two things will follow: either we shall never find the intrinsic reason of material continuity, or we shall find it only after having exhausted an infinite division—that is, after having reached, if possible, a term incapable of further division, viz., a mathematical point. But in the mathematical point it is impossible to find the intrinsic reason of material continuity, as we have just shown. And therefore the material continuity of the parts has no formal reason of its constitution, or, in other terms, the parts themselves are intrinsically impossible.

Moreover, the very distinction made by our opponents between the points of contact and the parts which touch one another in those points, is altogether irrational. For _a parte rei_—that is, considering the continuum as it is in itself—there is no foundation for the said distinction, it being evident that in a homogeneous continuum no place is to be found where we cannot mark out a point. Hence it is irrational to limit the designability of the points in order to make room for the parts. In other words, the parts themselves cannot be conceived as continuous without supposing that all the neighboring points which can be designated in them form by their contact a continuous extension, which we have proved to be inadmissible. The aforesaid distinction is therefore one of the subterfuges resorted to by the advocates of material continuity, to evade the unanswerable difficulties arising from their sentence; for it is true indeed, as Goudin remarks, that material continuity is “a philosophic mystery, against which reason objects more than it can answer,” though not because in this question “reason proves more than it can understand,” but because continuous matter is shown to be an absolute impossibility.

_Fifth argument._—It is a known metaphysical principle that “nothing can possibly become actual, except by the intervention of an act”—_Impossibile est aliquid fieri in actu nisi per aliquem actum_ (S. Thomas _passim_). But no act can be imagined by which matter would become actually continuous. Therefore no actually continuous matter can possibly exist. The minor of our syllogism is proved thus. Acts are either substantial or accidental; hence if any act could be conceived as giving actual continuity to matter, such an act would be either substantial or accidental—that is, it would give to its matter either its first being or a mere mode of being. Now, neither the substantial nor the accidental act can make matter actually continuous. For, first, no substantial act can give to its matter a being for which the matter has no disposition. But actuable matter has no disposition for actual continuity, for where there are no distinct terms requiring continuation, there is no disposition to actual continuity, as is evident; and it is not less evident that the matter which is to be actuated by a substantial act involves no distinct terms, and does not even connote them, but merely implies the privation of the act giving it its first being, which act is one, not many, and gives one being, not many, and consequently is incapable of constituting a number of actual terms actually distinct, as would be required for actual continuity. To say the contrary would be to deny one of the most fundamental and universal principles of metaphysics, viz., _Actus est qui distinguit_, which means that there cannot be distinct terms where there are no distinct acts.

Moreover, continuity presupposes quantity; hence, if the substantial act gives actual continuity to its matter, it must be conceded that a certain quantity exists potentially in the actuable matter, and is reduced to act by the first actuation of matter. This quantity would therefore rank among the essentials of the substance, and could not possibly be considered as an accident; for the immediate result of the first actuation of a term by its substantial act is not a mere accident, but the very actuality of the essence of which that act and that term are the principles. Whence it follows that so long as quantity remains an accident, it is impossible to make it arise from the substantial act; and, accordingly, no substantial act can make matter actually continuous.

That actual continuity cannot arise from any accidental act is no less evident. For the only accidental act which could be supposed to play a part in the constitution of a material continuum would be some actual composition. But as composition without components is impossible, and the components of continuous matter, before such a composition, are not continuous (since we must now consider continuity as a result of the composition), our continuous matter would be made up of components destitute of continuous extension—that is, of mere mathematical points. But, as this is avowedly impossible, it follows that it is as impossible to admit that matter becomes actually continuous by the reception of an accidental act.

_Sixth argument._—In a philosophico‐mathematical work published in England a few years ago,(108) from which we have already borrowed some plain arguments concerning other questions on matter, the impossibility of continuous matter is proved by the following argument: “A compound which has no first components is a sheer impossibility. Continuous matter, if admitted, would be a compound which has no first components. Therefore continuous matter is a sheer impossibility. In this argument the first proposition is self‐evident; for the components are the material constituents of the compound; and therefore a compound which has no first components is a thing which is constituted without its first constituents, or a pure contradiction. The second proposition also is undeniable. And, first, there can be no doubt that continuous matter would be a _compound_; for continuous matter would be extended, and would have, accordingly, parts distinct from parts; which is the exclusive property of compounds. Now, that this compound would be _without first components_, can be proved as follows: If continuous matter has any first components, these components will either be extended or unextended. If they are supposed to be _extended_, then they are by no means the _first_ components; since it is clear that in this case they have distinct parts, and therefore are themselves made up of other components. If they are supposed to be _unextended_, then they are by no means the _components_ of continuum; since all know and admit that no continuum can be made up of unextended points. And, indeed, unextended points have no parts, and therefore cannot touch one another partially; whence it follows that either they touch each other totally, or they do not touch at all. If they do not touch at all, they do not make a continuum, as is evident. If they touch totally, the one will occupy exactly the same place which is occupied by the other, and no material extension will arise. And for this reason geometrical writers consider that a mathematical line cannot be conceived as made up of points, but only as the track of a single point in motion. We see, then, that a material continuum is a compound, of which the first components cannot be extended, and cannot be unextended. And since it is impossible to think of a third sort of first components which would be neither extended nor unextended, we must needs conclude that continuous matter is a compound which has no first components. And therefore continuous matter is a mere absurdity” (p. 30).

This argument is, in our opinion, altogether unanswerable. Those philosophers, in fact, who still venture to fight in favor of continuous matter, have never been able to solve it. When we urge them to declare whether they hold the first components of continuous matter to be extended or unextended, they constantly ignore and elude the question. They simply answer that the components of material substance are “the matter” and “the form.” But if the matter which lies under the form has no distinct parts, it is evident that the substance cannot be continuous. The composition of matter and form does not, therefore, entail continuity, unless the matter which is under the form has its own material composition of parts; and it is with reference to the composition of these parts of matter, not to the composition of matter and form, that we inquire whether the first components of continuous matter be extended or unextended. To ignore the gist of the argument is, on the part of our opponents, an implicit confession of their inability to cope with it.

_Seventh argument._—Material substance, as consisting of act and potency, like everything else in creation, is both active and passive, its activity and passivity being essentially confined, as we have already explained,(109) to the production and the reception of local movement. Hence, so long as material substance preserves its essential constitution, it is impossible to admit that matter is incapable of receiving movement from natural causes. But continuous matter would be incapable of receiving movement from natural causes. Therefore it is impossible to admit continuous matter. To prove the minor of this syllogism, let there be two little globes of continuous matter, and let them act on one another. Since no finite velocity can be communicated by an immediate contact of matter with matter, as shown in a preceding article, it follows that the velocity must be communicated by virtual contact in accordance with the law of the inverse squared distances. Hence, since some points of the two globes are nearer to one another, and others are farther, different points must acquire different velocities. Now, one and the same piece of matter cannot move onward with different velocities, as is evident; it will therefore be unable to move so long as such different velocities are not reduced to a mean one, which shall be common to the whole mass. Such a reduction of unequal velocities to a mean one would meet with no difficulty, if the globes in question were made up of _free_ and _independent_ points of matter; for in such a case the globes would be compressed, and each point of matter would act and react according to known mechanical laws, and thus soon equalize their respective velocities. But in the case of material continuity the reduction of different velocities to a mean one is by no means possible. For “in a piece of continuous matter,” to quote again from the above‐mentioned work of molecular mechanics, “any point which can be designated is so _invariably_ united with the other points that no impact and no mutual reaction are conceivable; the obvious consequence of which is that no work can be done within the continuous particle in order to equalize the unequal velocities impressed from without. Moreover, in our case the reduction ought to be rigorously instantaneous; which is another impossibility. In fact, if distinct points of a continuous piece of matter were for any short duration of time animated by different velocities, the continuum would evidently undergo immediate and unavoidable resolution; which is against the hypothesis. Since, then, the said reduction cannot be made instantaneously, as we have proved above, nor, indeed, in any other way, and, on the other hand, our continuous particle cannot move onward before the different velocities are reduced to one of mean intensity, it is quite evident that the same continuous particle will never be capable of moving, whatever be the conditions of the impact. And since what is true of one particle on account of its supposed continuity is true also of each of the other particles equally continuous, we must conclude that bodies made up of particles materially continuous are totally incapable of receiving any communication of motion.”(110)

This argument, though seemingly proving only the non‐existence of continuous matter in nature, proves in fact, also, the impossibility of its existence. For, if a substance could be created possessing intrinsic extension and continuity, that substance would essentially differ from the existing matter, and would therefore be anything but matter. Hence not even in this supposition would continuous matter exist.

_Eighth argument._—The inertia of matter, and its property of acting in a sphere, might furnish us with a new argument against material continuity. But we prefer to conclude with a mathematical demonstration drawn from the weight of matter. The weight of a mass of matter depends on the number of material terms to which the action of gravity is applied, and it increases exactly in the same ratio as the number of the elementary terms contained in the mass. This being the case, let us assume that there is somewhere an atom of continuous matter. The action of gravity will find in it an infinite multitude of points of application; for it is of the nature of continuum to supply matter for an endless division. Hence if we call _g_ the action of gravity on the unit of mass in the unit of time, the action of the same gravity on any of those infinite points of application will be

_g_ ρ _dx dy dz_,

ρ being the density of the mass, and _dx_, _dy_, _dz_ the three dimensions of an infinitesimal portion of it.

Now, since we know that gravity in the unit of time imparts a finite velocity to every point of matter in the atom, we must admit that the action exerted on the infinitesimal mass ρ _dx dy dz_ has a finite value; and therefore, since the volume _dx dy dz_ is an infinitesimal of the third degree, the density ρ must be an infinite of the third order. But a continuous mass whose elements have an infinite density has itself an infinite density; hence, if its volume has finite dimensions, the mass itself (which is the product of the volume into the density) is necessarily infinite, and will have _an infinite weight_. Hence the assumption of continuous matter leads to an absurdity. The assumption is therefore to be rejected as evidently false.