Volume 22 — CHAPTER IX. (continued 4)

Giestfacher said it would be impracticable to make any private distribution among the destitute for some time. The guilds of coopers, tailors, shoemakers, armorers, fullers, tanners, masons, artificers, and others should be first supplied; and in addition to the Bible kept chained in the market-place for all who wished to read, he would have one placed at the town-pump and one at the town-house, so that the thirsty might also drink the waters of life, and those who were seeking justice at the court might ascertain the law of God before going in.

Blum said another collection would have to be raised to erect a shed over the Bibles that were proposed to be placed at the town-pump and at the town-house and to pay for suitable chains and clasps to secure them from the depredations of the pilfering.

Esch was of opinion that another subscription could not be successfully taken up until their work had produced manifest fruit for good. The people have much faith, but when they find salt mixed with their drink instead of honey, credulity is turned into disgust. A Bible chained to the town-pump will be a sad realization of their extravagant hopes. Every man who subscribed five dollars expects to get a book worth five hundred, an illuminated Bible fit for a cathedral church. He warned them that they were getting into a labyrinth, and that they would have to resort to prayer yet to carry them through in safety. Werner thought it would be wisest to pursue a quiescent policy for some time, and to forego the indulgence of their anxious desire for palpable results until they should be in a condition to make an impression. He advocated the wisdom of delay. They also serve, he said, who only stand and wait, and it might prove an unwise proceeding to come out with their public exhibition just then. In a few months, when thirty or forty Bibles would be on hand, a larger number than could be found in any library in the world, they might hope, by the show of so much labor, to create enthusiasm.

“But still,” urged Heuck, “you will have the difficulty to contend with—who is to get them?”

“There will,” remarked Blum, “be a greater difficulty to contend with about that time: the settlement of obligations for parchment and the pay of the scriveners who are employed in transcribing. Our means at present, even if we pay the scriveners but one-third their wages, will not suffice to bring out twenty volumes. So we are just in this difficulty: in order to do something, we must have means, and in order to get means, we must do something. It is a sort of vicious circle projected from logic into finance. It will take the keen-edged genius of Brother Giestfacher to cut this knot.”

“The work,” said Giestfacher, “in which we are engaged is of such merit that it will stand of itself. I have no fears of ultimate triumph. If you all fail, God and I will carry it on. Heaven is in it. I am in it. It must succeed. I am a little oldish, I confess, but there is twenty years of work in me still. I feel my foot sufficiently sure to tread the perilous path of this adventure to the goal.”

“Let us,” interposed Schwartz, “stop this profitless debate, and give a cheer to Brother Giestfacher. He is the blood and the bone of this movement. We are in with him. We are all in the same boat. If we have discovered a pusillanimous simpleton among us, it is not too late to cast him out. I feel my gorge and my strength rise together, and I swear to you by S. Remigius, brethren, that I am prepared to sink or swim, and whoever attempts to scuttle the ship shall himself perish first.”

Two or three other brethren, feeling the peculiar inspiration of the moment, rose up and, stamping their feet on the floor, proclaimed their adherence to the principles of the society, and vowed to see it through to the end.

This meeting then adjourned.

There is no minute of any subsequent meeting to be found among the manuscripts that I have consulted, but I discovered a statement made by Heuck, dated six months later, who, being called before the municipal authorities to testify what he knew about certain transactions of a number of men that had banded themselves together secretly for the purpose of creating a panic in the vellum market, and of disturbing the business of the scriveners, said he was one of fourteen citizens interested in the promulgation of the Gospel free to the poor. That, after five or six meetings, he left the society in company with two others; that two of the members became obnoxious, and were expelled—the one, Dusch, for embezzling money collected for Scripture-writing and Scripture-diffusing purposes, the other, Werner, for having retained one of their volumes, and disposed of it to the lord of Drachenfels for four hundred dollars; that they did not pursue and prosecute these delinquents for fear of bringing reproach on the project; and then he went on to state: “I left the society voluntarily and in disgust. We had fourteen Bibles on hand, but could not agree about their distribution. They were too valuable to give away for nothing, and it was discovered that they were all written in Latin, and not in the vernacular, and they would prove of as little value to the great mass of people for whom they were originally designed as if they had been written in Hebrew. In addition to this I found, for I understand the language perfectly, that no two of them were alike, and, in conjunction with scrivener Schwartz, I minutely examined one taken at random from the pile, and compared it with the volume at the Cathedral. We found fifteen hundred discrepancies. In some places whole sentences were left out. In others, words were made to express a different sense from the original. In others, letters were omitted or put in redundantly, in such a way as to change the meaning; and the grammatical structure was villanously bad. Seeing that the volumes were of no use as a representation of the word of God, and being conscientiously convinced that the books contained poison for the people instead of medicine, I made a motion in meeting to have them all burned. Schwartz opposed it on the ground that they were innoxious anyhow, there being none of the common people capable of understanding the language in which they were written, and, though they were a failure as Bibles, the vellum might be again used; and as the scriveners were not paid for their labor, they had a claim upon the volumes. The scriveners got the books, to which, in my opinion, they had no just claim, for the villanous, bad work they did on them deserved censure and not pay. I have heard since that some of those scriveners made wealth by selling the books to Englishmen for genuine and carefully prepared transcripts from authorized texts. The president and founder of the society, Giestfacher, is now in jail for debt, he having failed to meet his obligations for the vellum he purchased when he took it into his head to enlighten mankind—more especially that portion of it that dwells on the Rhine adjacent to the city of Bonn—by distributing corrupt copies of Latin Bibles to poor people who are not well able to read their own language. The ‘good work’ still occupies the brains and energies of three or four enthusiasts, who have already arrived at the conclusion that the apostles were in league with hell to keep the people ignorant, because they did not give every man a copy of the Bible. The founder sent me a letter two days ago, in which he complains of being deserted by his companions in his extremity. His creditors have seized on all his goods, and there is a considerable sum yet unpaid. He blames the Pope and the bishop in unmeasured terms for this; says it is a conspiracy to keep the Bible from the people. He sees no prospect of being released unless the members of the society come to his speedy relief. The principles, he says, for which he suffers will yet triumph. The time will come when Bibles will be multiplied by some cheap and easy process. Until then, the common run of humanity must be satisfied to be damned, drawing what little consolation they may from the expectation that their descendants a few centuries hence will enjoy the slim privilege of reading Bibles prepared with as little regard to accuracy as these were. I am sorry to see such a noble intellect as Giestfacher undoubtedly possesses show signs of aberration. The entire failure of his project was more than he could bear. He had centred his hopes upon it. He indulged dreams of fame and greatness arising out of the triumph of his idea. Esch has become an atheist. He says the Christian’s God would not have given a book to be the guide and dependence of man for salvation, and yet allow nature, an inferior creation, to interpose insuperable barriers to its promulgation. Every time a sheep-skin is destroyed, says Esch, a community is damned. The dearness and scarcity of parchment keep the world in ignorance. Braunn says the world cannot be saved except by a special revelation to every individual, for there is hardly a copy of the Bible without errors, so that whether every human creature got one or not, they would be still unsafe. One of the common herd must learn Latin and Greek and Hebrew well, and then spend a lifetime tracing up, through all its changes, transcriptions, and corruptions of idiom, one chapter, or at most one book, and die before he be fully assured of the soundness of one text, a paragraph, a line, a word. In fact, says Braunn, there can be no certainty about anything. Language may have had altogether a different meaning twelve hundred years ago to what it has now. Braunn and Schwartz and myself wanted to have a committee of five of our number appointed to revise and correct the text of each book that was produced by comparing it with such Greek and Hebrew copies as were represented of sound and correct authority; but Giestfacher laughed at us, saying we knew nothing of Greek or Hebrew; that we would have to hire some monks to do the job for us, which would be going back again to the very places and principles and practices against which we had revolted and protested. Moreover, continued Giestfacher, we cannot tell whether the oldest, most original copies that can be found are true in every particular. How can we know from any sort of mere human testimony that this copy or that is in accordance with what the prophets and apostles wrote. The whole Bible may be wrong as far as our knowledge, as such, is able to testify. We are reduced to faith in this connection and must rest on that alone.

“I thought, and so did Schwartz, that the faith of Giestfacher must be peculiar when it could accept copies as good enough and true enough after we had discovered hundreds of palpable and grievous errors in them. A book of romance would do a person of Giestfacher’s temper as well as the Bible—faith being capable of making up for all deficiencies. I saw that an extravagance of credulity, called faith, on the part of Giestfacher, led to monomania; and a predominance of irrational reason on the part of Esch had led to utter negation. I did not covet either condition, and I concluded to remain safe at anchor where I had been before, rather than longer follow those adventurers in a wild career after a fancied good—a mere phantom of their own creation. I lost twenty-five dollars by the temporary madness. That cannot be recalled. I rejoice that I lost no more, and I am grateful that the hallucination which lasted nearly a year has passed away without any permanent injury.”

The remainder of Heuck’s statement had partially faded from the parchment by time and dampness, and could not be accurately made out. Sufficient was left visible, however, to show that he expressed a desire to be held excusable for whatever injuries to souls might result from the grave errors that existed in the Bibles disseminated by the cupidity of the scriveners with the guilty knowledge of such errors.

I interested myself in rescuing from oblivion such parts of the record of those curious mediæval transactions as served to show to the people of later times what extraordinary mental and religious activity existed in those ages, when it was foolishly and stupidly thought there were but henchmen and slaves on the one side, and bloody mailed despots on the other. The arrogance of more favored epochs has characterized those days by the epithet of “dark.” Pride is apt to be blind. The characterization is unjust. All the lights of science could not come in one blaze. The people of those days looked back upon a period anterior to their own as “dark,” and those looked still further backward upon greater obscurity, as they thought. The universal boastfulness of man accounts for this increasing obscurity as we reach back into antiquity. Philosophers and poets and men of learning, thinking themselves, and wishing to have other people think them, above personal egotism, adopted the method of praising their age, and thus indirectly eulogizing, themselves; and as they could not compare their times with the future of which they knew nothing, they naturally fell into the unfilial crime of drawing disparaging comparisons with their fathers. There is an inclination, too, in the imperfection of human nature to belittle what is remote and magnify what is near at hand. Even now, men as enthusiastic and conscientious and religious as Heuck and Giestfacher and Schwartz find themselves surrounded by the same difficulties, and as deeply at a loss to advance a valid reason for their revolt and their protest.

EARLY PERSECUTIONS OF THE CHRISTIANS.

In one of his bold Apologies[9] the great African writer Tertullian said to the rulers of the Roman Empire that “it was one and the same thing for the truth [of Christianity] to be announced to the world, and for the world to hate and persecute it.” This persecution of the church began on the very spot that was her birth-place; for soon after the ascension of our Lord the wicked Jews tried by every means to crush her. “From the days of the apostles,” wrote Tertullian in the IIId century, “the synagogue has been a source of persecutions.” At first the church was attacked by words only; but these were soon replaced by weapons, when Stephen was stoned, the apostles were thrown into prison and scourged, and all the East had risen in commotion against the Christians. The Gentiles soon followed the example of the Jews, and those persecutions which bore an official character throughout the Roman Empire, and lasted for three centuries, are commonly called the Ten General Persecutions. Besides these, there were partial persecutions at all times in some part or other of the empire. Nero, whose name is synonymous with cruelty, was the first emperor to begin a general persecution of the Christians; and Tertullian made a strong point in his favor when he cried out to the people (Apol. v.), saying, “That our troubles began at such a source, we glory; for whoever has studied his nature knows well that nothing but what is good and great was ever condemned by Nero.” This persecution began in the year 64, and lasted four years. Its pretext was the burning of Rome, the work of the emperor himself, who ambitiously desired, when he would have rebuilt the city and made it still more grand, to call it by his own name; but the plan not succeeding, he tried to avert the odium of the deed from his own person, and accused the Christians. Their extermination was decreed. The pagan historian Tacitus has mentioned, in his Annals (xv. 44), some of the principal torments inflicted on the Christians. He says that they were covered with the skins of wild beasts and torn to pieces by savage hounds, were crucified, were burned alive, and that some, being coated with resinous substances, were put up in the imperial garden at night to serve as human torches. The Roman Martyrology makes a special commemoration, on the 24th of June, of these martyrs for having all been disciples of the apostles and the firstlings of the Christian flock which the church in Rome presented to the Lord. In this persecution S. Peter was crucified with his head downwards; S. Paul was beheaded; and among the other more illustrious victims we find S. Mark the Evangelist, S. Thecla, the first martyr of her sex, SS. Gervase and Protase at Milan, S. Vitalis at Ravenna, and S. Polycetus at Saragossa in Spain. The number of the slain, and the hitherto unheard-of cruelties practised upon them, moved to pity many of the heathen, and the sight of so much fortitude for a principle of religion was the means, through divine grace, of many conversions. After this, as after every succeeding persecution, the great truth spoken by Tertullian was exemplified: that the blood of the martyrs was the seed of Christians.

By a law of the empire, which was not revoked until nearly three hundred years afterwards, under Constantine, the profession of the Christian religion was made a capital offence. This law, it is true, was not enforced at all times, especially under benign or indifferent rulers; but it hung continually suspended over the heads of the Christians like a sword of Damocles.

The second persecution was that of Domitian, from 94 to 96. Tertullian calls him “a portion of Nero by his cruelty.” At first he only imposed heavy fines upon the wealthy Christians; but, thirsting for blood, he soon published more cruel edicts against them. Among his noblest victims were his cousin-german, Flavius Clemens, a man of consular dignity; John the Evangelist, who was thrown into a caldron of boiling oil (from which, however, he miraculously escaped unhurt); Andrew the Apostle, Dionysius the Areopagite, and Onesimus, S. Paul’s convert. Hegesippus, quoted by Eusebius in his Ecclesiastical History, has recorded a very interesting fact about the children of Jude, surnamed Thaddeus in the Gospel, telling us that, having confessed the faith under this reign, they were always honored in the church of Jerusalem, not alone as martyrs, but as relatives of Jesus Christ according to the flesh.

The third persecution was Trajan’s, from 97 to 116. In answer to a letter from his friend Pliny the Younger, who had command in Asia Minor, the emperor ordered that the Christians were not to be sought out, but that, if accused, and they remained obstinate in their faith, they were to be put to death. Under an appearance of mercy a large field was opened for the cruelty and exactions of Roman officials, which they were not slow to work. A single circumstance attests the severity of the persecution. This was that the Tiberian governor of Palestine wrote to the emperor complaining of the odious duty imposed upon him, since the Christians were forthcoming in greater numbers than he could, without tiring, have executed. The persecution was particularly severe in the East. Simeon, bishop of Jerusalem, Ignatius of Antioch, and the virgin Domitilla, who was related to three emperors, are among the more illustrious martyrs of the period.

Next came the persecution of Hadrian, lasting from 118 to about 129. We have the authority of S. Jerome for saying that it was very violent. This emperor was a coward and, perhaps as a consequence, intensely superstitious. One of his particular grievances against the Christians was that they professed a religion in which he had no share. Under him perished, with countless others, Pope Alexander I. and his priests, Eventius and Theodulus; Eustace, a celebrated general, with his wife and little children; Symphorosa and her seven sons; Zoe, with her husband and two children.

The fifth was the persecution of Marcus Aurelius. Although he was by nature well inclined, he was certainly the author of much innocent bloodshed, which may be in part ascribed to the powerful influence of the so-called philosophers whose company and tone he affected. The persecution raged most severely among the Gauls; and elsewhere we find the illustrious names of Justin the great Apologist, Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna, and Felicitas and her seven children.

Followed the persecution of Septimius Severus, which lasted from 200 to 211, and was so extremely violent that many Christians believed Antichrist had come. It reaped from the church such distinguished persons as Pope Victor at Rome; Leonidas, father of the great Origen, at Alexandria; Irenæus and companions at Lyons; Perpetua and Felicitas in Mauritania. Egypt was particularly rich in holy martyrs.

After this one came the persecution of Maximinus, from 235 to 237. It was in the beginning more especially directed against the sacred ministers of the church. Several popes were put to death; and among the inferior clergy we find the deacon Ambrose, who was the bosom friend of Origen and one of his principal assistants in his work on the Holy Scriptures.

The persecution of Decius lasted from 249 to 251. The Christians, in spite of all repressive measures, had steadily increased in numbers; but this emperor thought to do what his predecessors had failed in, and was hardly seated on the throne before he published most cruel edicts against them. Among the more celebrated names of this persecution are those of Popes Fabian and Cornelius; Saturninus, first bishop of Toulouse; Babylas, bishop of Antioch; the famous Christopher in Lycia, about whom there is a beautiful legend; and the noble virgin Agatha in Sicily. The great scholar Origen was put to the torture during this persecution, but escaped death. Like Maximinus, this emperor singled out the heads of the various local churches, the most active and learned ministers, the highest of both sexes in the social scale, aiming less at the death than the apostasy of Christians, hoping in this way to destroy the faith; whence S. Cyprian laments in one of his epistles that the Christians suffer atrocious torments without the final consolation of martyrdom. One effect of this persecution was of immense benefit to the church in the East; for S. Paul, surnamed First Hermit, took refuge from the storm in Upper Egypt, where he peopled by his example the region around Thebes with those holy anchorites since called the Fathers of the Desert.

The ninth persecution was that of Valerian, who, although at first favorable to the Christians, became one of their greatest opposers at the instigation of their sworn enemy, Marcian. At this date we find upon the list of martyrs the eminent names of Popes Stephen and Sixtus II., Lawrence the Roman deacon, and Cyprian, the great convert and bishop of Carthage.

The persecution of Diocletian was the last and the bloodiest of all. It raged from 303 to 310. Maximian, the emperor’s colleague, had already put to death many Christians, and among others, on the 22d of September, 286, Maurice and his Theban legion, before the persecution became general throughout the Roman Empire. It began in this form at Nicomedia on occasion of a fire that consumed a part of the imperial palace, and which was maliciously ascribed to the Christians; and it is remarkable that the two extreme persecutions of the early church should both have begun with a false charge of incendiarism. Diocletian used to sit upon his throne at Nicomedia, watching the death-pangs of his Christian subjects who were being burned, not singly, but in great crowds. Many officers and servants of his household perished, and, to distinguish them from the rest, they were dropped into the sea with large stones fastened about their necks. A special object of the persecutors was to destroy the churches and tombs of earlier martyrs, to seize the vessels used in the Holy Sacrifice, and to burn the liturgical books and the Holy Scriptures. The Roman Martyrology makes a particular mention on the 2d of January of those who suffered death rather than deliver up these books to the tyrant. Although innumerable copies of the Scriptures perished, not a few were saved, and new copies multiplied either by favor of the less stringent executors of the law, or because the privilege was bought by the faithful at a great price. Some years ago the German Biblical critic Tischendorf discovered on Mount Sinai a Greek codex of extraordinary antiquity and only two removes from an original of Origen. It is connected with one of the celebrated martyrs of this persecution, and bears upon what we have just said of the Sacred Scriptures. In this codex, at the end of the Book of Esther, there is a note attesting that the copy was collated with a very ancient manuscript that had itself been corrected by the hand of the blessed martyr Pamphilus, priest of Cæsarea in Palestine, while in prison, assisted by Antoninus, his fellow-prisoner, who read for him from a copy of the Hexapla of Origen, which had been revised by that author himself. The touching spectacle of these two men, both of whom gave their blood for the faith, occupied, in the midst of the inconveniences, pain, and weariness of captivity, in transcribing good copies of the Bible, is one of the many instances, discovered in every age, showing the care that the church has had to multiply and guard from error the holy written Word of God.

Among the petty sources of annoyance during this persecution, was the difficulty of procuring food, drink, or raiment that had not been offered to idols; for the pagan priests had set up statues of their divinities in all the market-places, hostelries, and shops, and at the private and public fountains. They used also to go around city and country sprinkling with superstitious lustral water the gardens, vineyards, orchards, and fields, so as to put the Christians to the greatest straits to obtain anything that had not been polluted in this manner. We learn from the Acts of S. Theodotus, a Christian tradesman of Ancyra, the obstacles he had to surmount at this time to procure pure bread and wine to be used by the priests in the Mass. We can appreciate the intense severity of this persecution in many ways; but one of the most singular proofs of it is that pagans in Spain inscribed upon a marble monument, erected in Diocletian’s honor, that he had abolished the very name of Christian. This emperor had also the rare but unenviable privilege of giving his name to a new chronological period, called by the pagans, in compliment to his bloody zeal for their rites, the Era of Diocletian; but the Christians called it the Era of the Martyrs. It began on the 29th of August, 284, and was long in use in Egypt and Abyssinia. Some of the more renowned victims of this persecution are Sebastian, an imperial officer; Agnes, a Roman virgin; Lucy, a virgin of Syracuse, and the Forty Martyrs of Sebaste.

It may be interesting to note briefly the chief causes of so much cruel bloodshed, even under princes of undoubted moderation in the general government of affairs, as were Trajan, Marcus Aurelius, Antoninus the Pious, and a few others.

The most continual, if not the deepest, source of persecution were the passions of the populace. Calumny of the subtlest and most popular kind, and pressed at all times with patient effort, had so inflamed the minds of the brutal lower classes that only a word or a sign was required to set them upon the Christians. These were called disloyal to the empire, unfriendly to the princes, of a foreign religion, people who refused to fall into the ways of the majority, and enemies of the human race. From the remains of ancient histories, from the Acts of martyrs, from pagan inscriptions, and from other sources, more than fifty-seven different opprobrious qualifications, applied to the Christians as a body, have been counted up. But when particular calumnies became any way stale, the Christians could always be accused as the cause of every calamity that befell the state; so that, in the words of Tertullian (Apol. xl.), “If the Tiber exceeded its limits, if the Nile did not rise to irrigate the fields, if the rain failed to fall, if the earth quaked, if famine or pestilence scourged the land, at once the cry was raised, Christians to the lions!”

The next most constant source of trouble was the pernicious influence of the Philosophers—a set of men who pretended to be seekers after wisdom, and distinguished themselves from the vulgar by a certain style of dress. Puffed up as they were with their own knowledge, nothing irritated their pride so much as that men of the despised Christian class should presume to dispute their doctrines and teach that profane philosophy was naught, since man could not be made perfect by human wisdom, but only by the testimony of Christ who was crucified. Among the Christians, too, a special order of men whom we call Apologists, and among whom we count Justin, Tertullian, Tatian, Arnobius, Minutius Felix, Origen, Aristides, Quadratus, Athenagoras, and Miltiades the chief, exposed in their eloquent writings the vanity, contradictions, and vices of their opponents, succeeding sometimes in silencing false accusations, and even in arresting the course of persecution. Their apologies and memorials form one of the most instructive branches of early Christian literature, and are a considerable compensation for the loss of so many Acts of martyrs and other venerable documents destroyed by the pagans or which have otherwise perished.

The third great cause of persecution was found (to use a comparatively modern word) in the Erastianism of the Roman Empire. The emperor was, by right of the purple, high-pontiff, and no religion was recognized that did not profess its existence and authority dependent upon the state. Naturally, a religion whose followers would reply to every iniquitous command, “We ought to obey God rather than men,” could expect no mercy, but only continual war.

Sometimes the Christians were put to death in the same manner as the common malefactors, such as by decapitation, crucifixion, or scourging; sometimes in the manner reserved for particular classes of criminals, as being hurled down a precipice, drowned, devoured by wild beasts, left to starve. But sometimes, also, the exquisite cruelty of the persecutors delighted to feed upon the sufferings of its victims, and make dying as long and painful as possible. Thus, there are innumerable examples of Christians being flayed alive, the skin being neatly cut off in long strips, and pepper or vinegar rubbed into the raw flesh; or slowly crushed between two large stones; or having molten lead poured down the throat. Some Christians were tied to stakes in the ground and gored to death by wild bulls, or thinly smeared with honey and exposed under a broiling sun to the insects which would be attracted; some were tied to the tails of vicious horses and dragged to pieces some were sewed up in sacks with vipers, scorpions, or other venomous things, and thrown into the water; some had their members violently torn from the trunk of the body; some were tortured by fire in ways almost unknown to the most savage Indians of America; some were slowly scourged to death with whips made of several bronze chainlets, at the extremity of each of which was a jagged bullet; while jerking out of the teeth in slow succession; cutting off the nose, ears, lips, and breasts; tearing of the flesh with hot pincers; sticking sharp sticks up under the finger-nails; being held suspended, head downward, over a smoking fire; stretching upon a rack, and breaking upon the wheel, were some only of the commonest tortures that preceded the final death-stroke by sword or lance. Many instruments used in tormenting the martyrs have been found at different times, and are now carefully preserved in collections of Christian antiquities; and from these, from early-written descriptions, and from the rude representations on the tombs of martyrs in the Catacombs, it is known positively that over one hundred different modes of torture were used upon the Christians.

From the earliest period particular pains were taken by the pastors of the church to have the remains of the martyrs collected and some account of their sufferings consigned to letters; and Pope S. Clement, a disciple of the Apostle Peter, instituted a college of notaries, one for each of the seven ecclesiastical districts into which he had divided Rome, with the special charge of collecting with diligence all the information possible about the martyrs. They were not to pass over even the minutest circumstances of their confession of faith and death. This attendance on the last moments of the martyrs was often accompanied by great personal risk, or at least a heavy expense in the way of buying the good-will of venal officers; but it was a thing of the utmost importance, in view of the church’s doctrine concerning the veneration and invocation of saints, that nothing should be left undone which prudence would suggest to leave it beyond a doubt that the martyrs had confessed the true faith, and had suffered death for the faith. The pagans soon discovered the value that was set upon such documents, and very many of them were seized and destroyed. The fact that the Act of the martyrs were objects of careful search is so well attested—as is also the other fact, that an immense number perished—that it is a wonder and a grace of divine Providence how any, however few comparatively, have come down to us. It has been calculated that at least five million Christians—men, women, and children—were put to death for the faith during the first three centuries of the church.

The French historian Ampère has very justly remarked that amidst the moral decay of the Roman Empire, when all else was lust and despotism, the Christians alone saved the dignity of human nature; and the Spaniard Balmes, when treating of the progress of individuality under the influence of Catholicity (European Civilization, ch. xxiii.), remarks that it was the martyrs who first gave the great example of proclaiming that “the individual should cease to acknowledge power when power exacts from him what he believes to be contrary to his conscience.” The patience of the martyrs rebuked the sensualism of the pagans; and their fearless assertions that matters of conscience are beyond the jurisdiction of any civil ruler proved them to be the best friends of human liberty; while their constancy and number during three hundred years of persecution, that only ceased with their triumph, is one of the solid arguments to prove that the Catholic Church has a divine origin, and a sustaining divinity within her.

THE UNREMEMBERED MOTHER.

DURATION.

Time and duration are usually considered synonymous, as no duration is perceived by us, except the duration of movement, or of such things as are subject to movement; and such duration is time. But, rigorously speaking, time and duration are not synonymous; for they are to one another in the same relation as place and space. As no place is possible without real absolute space, so no time is possible without real absolute duration; and as place consists of intervals in space, so time consists of intervals in duration. Yet there may be duration independently of time, just as there may be space independent of places; and for this reason the nature of duration must be determined apart from the nature of time. In treating of this subject we shall have to answer a series of questions altogether similar to those which we have answered in treating of space and place. Hence we shall follow the same order and method in our present treatise which we have followed in our articles on space, with this difference, however: that, to avoid useless repetitions, we will omit the development of some of those reasonings which the reader himself can easily transfer from space to duration.

Duration is commonly defined as “the permanence of a being in its actuality”—Permanentia rei in esse. The duration of a being which perseveres in existence without any intrinsic change is called “standing duration”—Duratio stans. The duration of a being which is actually subject to intrinsic mutations is called “flowing duration”—Duratio fluens.

Flowing duration evidently implies succession, and succession involves time; for succession is a relation between something which follows and something which precedes. On the other hand, time also involves succession; whence it would seem that neither time nor succession can be defined apart from one another, the definition of the latter presupposing that of the former, and that of the former presupposing the notion of the latter. Although we need not be anxious about this point (for time and succession really involve one another, and therefore may well be included under the same definition), we must observe that the notion of succession, though ordinarily applied to duration, extends to other things also whenever they follow one another in a certain order. Thus the crust of the earth is formed by a succession of strata, the Alps by a succession of mountains, the streets of the city by a succession of houses, etc. Hence the notion of succession is more general than the notion of time, and consequently there must be some means of defining it independently of the consideration of time.

Balmes explains succession, without mentioning time, in the following manner: “There are things which exclude one another from the same subject, and there are other things which do not exclude one another from the same subject. The existence of those things which exclude one another implies succession. Take a line ABC. A body placed in A cannot pass over to the place B without ceasing to be in A, because the situation B excludes the situation A, and in a similar manner the situation C excludes the situation B. If, then, notwithstanding this mutual exclusion, the three places are really occupied by the same body, there is succession. This shows that succession is really nothing else than the existence of such things as exclude one another. Hence succession implies the existence of the thing that excludes, and the non-existence of the things that are excluded. All variations involve some such exclusion; hence all variations involve succession.… To perceive the existence of things which exclude one another is to perceive succession and time; to measure it is to measure time.” Thus far Balmes.[10]

But, if the flowing duration can be easily conceived as the existence of such things as exclude one another, the case is very different with regard to standing duration. For, since we measure all duration by time or by successive intervals, we can scarcely conceive that there may be duration without succession. Even the word “permanence” which we employ in the definition of duration, and which seems to exclude all notion of change, is always associated in our thought with succession and time. The difficulty we experience in forming a concept of standing duration is as great at least as that which we find in conceiving absolute space without formal extension and parts. In fact, formal extension is to absolute space what formal succession is to absolute standing duration. To get over this difficulty we shall have to show that there is a duration altogether independent of contingent changes, as there is a space altogether independent of existing bodies, and that the succession which we observe in the duration of created things is not to be found in the fundamental reason of its existence, as our imagination suggests, but only in the changes themselves which we witness in created things.

The following questions are to be answered: Is there any standing duration? and if so, is it an objective reality, or a mere negation of movement? Is standing duration anything created? What sort of reality is it? Is it modified by the existence of creatures? What is a term of duration? What is relative duration? What is an interval of duration, and how is it measured? These questions are all parallel to those which we have answered in our first and second articles on space, and they admit of a similar solution.

First question.—“Is there any duration absolutely standing?” Certainly. For if there is a being whose entity remains always the same without any intrinsic change, its duration will be absolutely standing. But there is such a being. For there is, as we have proved, an infinite reality absolutely immovable and unchangeable—that is, absolute space. Its permanence is therefore altogether exempt from succession; and consequently its duration is absolutely standing.

Again: As there is no movement in space without immovable space, so there is no flowing in duration without standing duration. For as a thing cannot change its ubication in space unless there be a field for real ubications between the initial and the final term of the movement, so a thing cannot change its mode of being (the when) in duration, unless there be a field for real modes of being between the initial and the final term of its duration. Now, this real field, owing to the fact that it is, in both cases, prerequired for the possibility of the respective changes, is something necessarily anterior to, and independent of, any of such changes. Therefore, as the field of all local movements is anterior to all movements and excludes movement from itself, so also the field of all successive durations is anterior to all successivity and therefore excludes succession.

Although these two arguments suffice to establish our conclusion, what we have to say concerning the next question will furnish additional evidence in its support.

Second question.—“Is standing duration an objective reality or a mere abstract conception?” We answer that standing duration is an objective reality as much as absolute space. For, as movement cannot extend in space, if space is nothing real, so movement cannot extend in duration, if the field of its extension is nothing real. But we have just seen that the field through which the duration of movement extends is standing duration. Therefore standing duration is an objective reality.

Secondly, a mere nothing, or a mere fiction, cannot be the foundation of real relations. But standing duration is the foundation of all intervals of real succession, which are real relations. Therefore standing duration is not a fiction, but an objective reality. The major of this argument is well known. The minor is proved thus: In all real relations the terms must communicate with each other through one and the same reality; and therefore the foundation of a real relation must reach by one and the same reality the terms related. But the terms of successive duration are before and after. Therefore the foundation of their relation must reach both before and after with one and the same reality, and therefore it has neither before nor after in itself. Had it before and after in itself, its after would not be its before; and thus the reality by which it would reach the terms of succession would not be the same. It is therefore manifest that the foundation of all real intervals of succession is a reality whose duration ranges above succession.

This proof may be presented more concisely as follows: Succession is a relation between two terms, as past and present. Its foundation must therefore reach all the past as it reaches the present. But what reaches the past as well as the present, is always present; for if it were past, it would be no more, and thus it could not reach the past and the present. Therefore the foundation of succession has no past, but only an invariable present. Therefore there is a real standing duration, a real field, over which successive duration extends.

Thirdly, in all intervals of succession the before is connected with the after through real duration. But this real duration has in itself neither before nor after. For if it had before and after, it would fall under the very genus of relation of which it is the foundation; which is evidently impossible, because it would then be the foundation of its own entity. It is therefore plain that the real connection between the before and the after is made by a reality which transcends all before and all after, and which is nothing else than absolute standing duration.

Fourthly, if standing duration were not an objective reality, but a mere fiction or a mere negation of movement, there would be no real length of duration. For the terms of successive duration are indivisible, and consequently they cannot give rise to any continuous quantity of duration, unless something lies between them which affords a real ground for continuous extension. That the terms of successive duration are indivisible is evident, because the same term cannot be before itself nor after itself, but is wholly confined to an indivisible instant. Now, that according to which an interval of successive duration can be extended from one of these terms to another, is nothing but absolute and standing duration. For, if it were flowing, it would pass away with the passing terms, and thus it would not lie between them, as is necessary in order to supply a ground for the extension of the interval intercepted. In the same manner, therefore, as there cannot be distance between two ubicated points without real absolute space, there cannot be an interval between two terms in succession without real absolute duration.

A fifth proof of the same truth may be drawn from the reality of the past. Historical facts are real facts, although they are all past. There really was a man called Solomon, who really reigned in Jerusalem; there really was a philosopher called Plato, whose sublime doctrines deserved for him the surname of Divine; there really was a man called Attila, surnamed the Scourge of God. These men existed in different intervals of duration, and they are no more; but their past existence and their distinct duration constitute three distinct facts, which are real facts even to the present day, and such will remain for ever. Now, how can we admit that what has wholly ceased to exist in successive duration is still a real and indelible fact, unless we admit that there is an absolute duration which is, even now, as truly united with the past as it is with the present, and to which the past is not past, but perpetually present? If there is no such duration, then all the past must have been obliterated and buried in absolute nothingness; for if the succession of past things extended upon itself alone, without any distinct ground upon which its flowing could be registered, none of past things could have left behind a real mark of their existence.

Against this conclusion some will object that the relation between before and after may be explained by a mere negation of simultaneous existence. But the objection is futile. For the intervals of successive duration can be greater or less, whilst no negation can be greater or less; which shows that the negation of simultaneous existence must not be confounded with the intervals of succession.

The following objection is more plausible. The duration of movement suffices to fill up the whole interval of succession and to measure its extent; and therefore the reality which connects the before with the after is movement itself, not standing duration. To this we answer that the duration of movement is essentially successive and relative; and therefore it requires a real foundation in something standing and absolute. In fact, although every movement formally extends and measures its own duration, nevertheless it does not extend it upon itself, but upon a field extrinsic to itself; and this field is permanently the same. It is plain that the beginning and the end of movement cannot be connected in mutual relation through movement alone, because movement is always in fieri, and when it passes through one term of its duration it loses the actuality it had in the preceding term; so that, when it reaches its last term, it has nothing left of what it possessed in its initial term or in any other subsequent term. This suffices to show that, although the duration of the movement fills up the whole interval, yet, owing to its very successivity, it cannot be assumed as the ground of the relation intervening between its successive terms.

Third question.—“Is absolute and standing duration a created or an uncreated reality?” This question is easily answered; for, in the first place, standing duration is the duration of a being altogether unchangeable; and nothing unchangeable is created. Hence standing duration is an uncreated reality. On the other hand, all that is created is changeable and constantly subject to movement; hence all created (that is, contingent) duration implies succession. Therefore standing duration is not to be found among created realities. Lastly, standing duration, as involving in itself all conceivable past and all possible future, is infinite, and, as forming the ground of all contingent actualities, is nothing less than the formal possibility of infinite terms of real successive duration. But such a possibility can be found in God alone. Therefore the reality of standing duration is in God alone; and we need not add that it must be uncreated.

Fourth question.—“What reality, then, is absolute standing duration?” We answer that this duration is the infinite virtuality or extrinsic terminability of God’s eternity. For nowhere but in God’s eternity can we find the reason of the possibility of infinite terms and intervals of duration. Of course, God’s eternity, considered absolutely ad intra, is nothing else than the immobility of God’s existence; but its virtual comprehension of all possible terms of successive duration constitutes the absolute duration of God’s existence, inasmuch as the word “duration” expresses a virtual extent corresponding to all possible contingent duration; for God’s duration, though formally simultaneous, virtually extends beyond all imaginable terms and intervals of contingent duration. Hence standing duration is the duration of God’s eternity, the first and fundamental ground of flowing duration, the infinite range through which the duration of changeable things extend. In other words, the infinite virtuality of God’s eternity, as equivalent to an infinite length of time, is duration; and as excluding from itself all intrinsic change, is standing duration. This virtuality of God’s eternity is really nothing else than its extrinsic terminability; for eternity is conceived to correspond to all possible differences of time only inasmuch as it can be compared with the contingent terms by which it can be extrinsically terminated.

Secondly, if nothing had been created, there would have been no extrinsic terms capable of extending successive duration; but, since God would have remained in his eternity, there would have remained the reality in which all extrinsic terms of duration have their virtual being; and thus there would have remained, eminently and without formal succession, in God himself the duration of all the beings possible outside of God. For he would certainly not have ceased to exist in all the instants of duration in which creatures have existed; the only change would have been this: that those instants, owing to a total absence of creatures, would have lacked their formal denomination of instants, and their formal successivity. Hence, if nothing had been created, there would have remained infinite real duration without succession, simply because the virtuality of God’s eternity would have remained in all its perfection. It is therefore this virtuality that formally constitutes standing duration.

From this the reader will easily understand that in the concept of standing duration two notions are involved, viz.: that of eternity, as expressing the standing, and that of its virtuality, as connoting virtual extent. In fact, God’s eternity, absolutely considered, is simply the actuality of God’s substance, and, as such, does not connote duration; for God’s substance is not said to endure, but simply to be. The formal reason of duration is derived from the extrinsic terminability of God’s eternity; for the word “duration” conveys the idea of continuation, and continuation implies succession. Hence it is on account of its extrinsic terminability to successive terms of duration that God’s eternity is conceived as equivalent to infinite succession; for what virtually contains in itself all possible terms and intervals of succession virtually contains in itself all succession, and can co exist, without intrinsic change, with all the changes of contingent duration. Balmes, after defining succession as the existence of such things as exclude one another, very properly remarks: “If there were a being which neither excluded any other being nor were excluded by any of them, that being would co-exist with all beings. Now, one such being exists, viz.: God, and God alone. Hence theologians do but express a great and profound truth when they say (though not all, perhaps, fully understand what they say) that God is present to all times; that to him there is no succession, no before or after; that to him everything is present, is Now.”[11]

We conclude that standing duration is infinite, all-simultaneous, independent of all contingent things, indivisible, immovable, formally simple and unextended, but equivalent to infinite intervals of successive duration, and virtually extending through infinite lengths. This duration is absolute.

Fifth question.—“Does the creation of a contingent being in absolute duration cause any intrinsic change in standing duration?” The answer is not doubtful; for we have already seen that standing duration is incapable of intrinsic modifications. Nevertheless, it will not be superfluous to remark, for the better understanding of this answer, that the “when” (the quando) of a contingent being has the same relation to the virtuality of God’s eternity as has its “where” (the ubi) to the virtuality of God’s immensity. For, as the “where” of every possible creature is virtually precontained in absolute space, so is the “when” of all creatures virtually precontained in absolute duration. Hence the creation of any number of contingent beings in duration implies nothing but the extrinsic termination of absolute duration, which accordingly remains altogether unaffected by the existence in it of any number of extrinsic terms. The “when” of a contingent being, as contained in absolute duration, is virtual; it does not become formal except in the contingent being itself—that is, by extrinsic termination. Thus the subject of the contingent “when” is not the virtuality of God’s eternity any more than the subject of the contingent “where” is the virtuality of God’s immensity.

This shows that the formal “when” of a contingent being is a mere relativity, or a respectus. The formal reason, or the foundation, of this relativity is the reality through which the contingent being communicates with absolute standing duration, viz.: the real instant (quando) which is common to both, although not in the same manner; for it is virtual in standing duration, whilst it is formal in the extrinsic term. Hence a contingent being, inasmuch as it has existence in standing duration, is nothing but a term related by its “when” to divine eternity as existing in a more perfect manner in the same “when.” But, since the contingent “when” of the creature exclusively belongs to the creature itself, God’s standing duration receives nothing from it except a relative extrinsic denomination.

The relation resulting from the existence of a created term in standing duration consists in this: that the created term by its formal “when” really imitates the eminent mode of being of God himself in the same “when.” This relation is called simultaneousness.

Simultaneousness is often confounded with presence and with co-existence. But these three notions, rigorously speaking, differ from one another. Presence refers to terms in space; simultaneousness to terms in duration; co-existence to terms both present and simultaneous. Thus presence and simultaneousness are the constituents of co-existence. Presence is to be considered as the material constituent, because it depends on the “where,” which belongs to the thing on account of its matter or potency; simultaneousness must be considered as the formal constituent, because it depends on the “when,” which belongs to the thing on account of its act or of its resulting actuality.

Before we proceed further, we must yet remark that in the same manner as the infinite virtuality of divine immensity receives distinct extrinsic denominations from the contingent terms existing in space, and is thus said to imply distinct virtualities, so also the infinite virtuality of God’s eternity can be said to imply distinct virtualities, owing to the distinct denominations it receives from distinct terms of contingent duration. It is for this reason that we can speak of virtualities of eternity in the plural. Thus when we point out the first instant of any movement as distinct from any following instant, we consider the flowing of the contingent “when” from before to after as a passage from one to another virtuality of standing duration. These virtualities, however, are not distinct as to their absolute beings, but only as to their extrinsic termination and denomination; and therefore they are really but one infinite virtuality. As all that we have said of the virtualities of absolute space in one of our past articles equally applies to the virtualities of absolute duration, we need not dwell here any longer on this point.

Sixth question.—“In what does the ‘when’ of a contingent being precisely consist?” From the preceding considerations it is evident that the “when” of a contingent being may be understood in two manners, viz., either objectively or subjectively. Objectively considered, the “when” is nothing else than a simple and indivisible term in duration formally marked out in it by the actuality of the contingent being. We say a simple and indivisible term, because the actuality of the contingent being by which it is determined involves neither past nor future, neither before nor after, but only its present existence, which, as such, is confined to an indivisible Now. Hence we do not agree with those philosophers who confound the quando with the tempus—that is, the “when” with the extent of flowing duration. We admit with these philosophers that the “when” of contingent things extends through movement from before to after, and draws, so to say, a continuous line in duration; but we must remind them that the before and the after are distinct modes of being in duration, and that every term of duration designable between them is a distinct “when” independent of every other “when,” either preceding or following; which shows that the tempus implies an uninterrupted series of distinct “whens,” and therefore cannot be considered as synonymous with quando.

If the “when” is considered subjectively—that is, as an appurtenance of the subject of which it is predicated—it may be defined as the mode of being of a contingent thing in duration. This mode consists of a mere relativity; for it results from the extrinsic termination of absolute duration, as already explained. Hence the “when” is not received in the subject of which it is predicated, and does not inhere in it, but, like all other relativities and connotations, simply connects it with its correlative, and intervenes or lies between the one and the other.

But, although it consists of a mere relativity, the “when” still admits of being divided into absolute and relative, according as it is conceived absolutely as something real in nature, or compared with some other “when”; for, as we have already explained when treating of ubications, relative entities may be considered both as to what they are in themselves, and as to what they are to one another.

If the “when” is considered simply as a termination of standing duration, without regard for anything else, it is called absolute, and is defined as the mode of being of a thing in absolute duration. This absolute “when” is an essential mode of the contingent being no less than its dependence from the first cause, and is altogether immutable so long as the contingent being exists; for, on the one hand, the contingent being cannot exist but within the domain of divine eternity, and, on the other, it cannot have different modes of being with regard to it, as the standing duration of eternity is all uniform in its infinite virtual extension, and the contingent being, however much we may try to vary its place in duration, must always be in the very middle of eternity. Hence the absolute “when” is altogether unchangeable.

If the “when” of a contingent being is compared with that of another contingent being in order to ascertain their mutual relation, then the “when” is called relative, and, as such, it may be defined as the mode of terminating a relation in duration. This “when” is changeable, not in its intrinsic entity, but in its relative formality; and it is only under this formality that the “when” (quando) can be ranked among the predicamental accidents; for this changeable formality is the only thing in it which bears the stamp of an accidental entity.

The before and the after of the same contingent being are considered as two distinct relative terms, because the being to which they refer, when existing in the after, excludes the before; though the absolute “when” of one and the same being is one term only. But of this we shall treat more fully in the sequel.

Seventh question.—“What is relative duration?” Here we meet again the same difficulty which we have encountered in explaining relative space; for in the same manner as relations in space are usually confounded with space itself, so are the intervals in duration confounded with the duration which is the ground of their extension. But, as the reasonings by which we have established the precise notion of relative space can be easily brought to bear on the present subject by the reader himself, we think we must confine ourselves to a brief and clear statement of the conclusions drawn from those reasonings, as applied to duration.

Relative duration is the duration through which any movement extends; that is, the duration through which the “when” of anything in movement glides from before to after, and by which the before and the after are linked in mutual relation. Now, the duration through which movement extends is not exactly the duration of the movement itself, but the ground upon which the movement extends its own duration; because movement has nothing actual but a flowing instant, and therefore it has no duration within itself except by reference to an extrinsic ground through which it successively extends. This ground, as we have already shown, is standing duration. And therefore relative duration is nothing else than standing duration as extrinsically terminated by distinct terms, or, what amounts to the same terminated by one term which, owing to any kind of movement, acquires distinct and opposite formalities. This conclusion is based on the principle that the foundation of all relations between before and after must be something absolute, having in itself neither before nor after, and therefore absolutely standing. This principle is obviously true. The popular notion, on the contrary, that relative duration is the duration of movement, is based on the assumption that movement itself engenders duration—which assumption is false; for we cannot even conceive movement without presupposing the absolute duration upon which the movement has to trace the line of its flowing existence.

Thus relative duration is called relative, not because it is itself related, but because it is the ground through which the extrinsic terms are related. It is actively, not passively, relative; it is the ratio, not the rationatum, the foundation, not the result, of the relativities. In other terms, relative duration is absolute as to its entity, and relative as to the extrinsic denomination derived from the relations of which it is the formal reason. Duration, as absolute, may be styled “the region of all possible whens,” just as absolute space is styled “the region of all possible ubications”; and, as relative, it may be styled “the region of all possible succession,” just as relative space is styled “the region of all local movements.” Absolute standing duration and absolute space are the ground of the here and now as statical terms. Relative standing duration and relative space are the ground of the here and now as gliding—that is, as dynamically considered.

Eighth question.—“What is an interval of duration?” It is a relation existing between two opposite terms of succession—that is, between before and after. An interval of duration is commonly considered as a continuous extension; yet it is primarily a simple relation by which the extension of the flowing from before to after is formally determined. Nevertheless, since the “when” cannot acquire the opposite formalities, before and after, without continuous movement, all interval of duration implies movement, and therefore may be considered also as a continuous quantity. Under this last aspect, the interval of duration is nothing else than the duration of the movement from before to after.

We have already noticed that the duration of movement, or the interval of duration, is not to be confounded with the duration through which the movement extends. But as, in the popular language, the one as well as the other is termed “relative duration,” we would suggest that the duration through which the movement extends might be called fundamental relative duration, whilst the relation which constitutes an interval between before and after might be called resultant relative duration.

The philosophical necessity of this distinction is obvious, first, because the standing duration, through which movement extends, must not be confounded with the flowing duration of movement; secondly, because the relation and its foundation are not the same thing, and, as we have explained at length when treating of relative space, to confound the one with the other leads to Pantheism. Intervals of relation are not parts of absolute duration, though they are so conceived by many, but they are mere relations, as we have stated. Absolute duration is all standing, it has no parts, and it cannot be divided into parts. What is called an interval of duration should rather be called an interval in duration; for it is not a portion of standing duration, but an extrinsic result; it is not a length of absolute duration, but the length of the movement extending through that duration; it is not a divisible extension, but the ground on which movement acquires its divisible extension from before to after. In the smallest conceivable interval of duration there is God, with all his eternity. To affirm that intervals of duration are distinct durations would be to cut God’s eternity to pieces by giving it a distinct being in really distinct intervals. Hence it is necessary to concede that, whilst the intervals are distinct, the duration on which they have their foundation is one and the same. The only duration which can be safely confounded with those intervals is the flowing duration of the movement by which they are measured. This is the duration which can be considered as a continuous quantity divisible into parts; and this is the duration which we should style “resultant relative duration,” to avoid all danger of error or equivocation.

The objections which can be made against this manner of viewing things do not much differ from those which we have solved in our second article on space; and therefore we do not think it necessary to make a new answer to them. The reader himself will be able to see what the objections are, and how they can be solved, by simply substituting the words “eternity,” “duration,” etc., for the words “immensity,” “space,” etc., in the article referred to.

Yet a special objection can be made against the preceding doctrine about the duration of movement, independently of those which regard relations in space. It may be presented under this form. “The foundation of the relation between before and after is nothing else than movement itself. It is therefore unnecessary and unphilosophical to trace the duration of movement to the virtuality of God’s eternity as its extrinsic foundation.” The antecedent of this argument may be proved thus: “That thing is the foundation of the relation which gives to its terms their relative being—that is, in our case, their opposite formalities, before and after. But movement alone gives to the when these opposite formalities. Therefore movement alone is the foundation of successive duration.”

We answer that the antecedent of the first argument is absolutely false. As to the syllogism which comes next, we concede the major, but we deny the minor. For it is plain that movement cannot give to the absolute when the relative formalities before and after, except by flowing through absolute duration, without which it is impossible for the movement to have its successive duration. And surely, if the movement has no duration but that which it borrows from the absolute duration through which it extends, the foundation of its duration from before to after can be nothing else than the same absolute duration through which the movement acquires its before and after. Now, this absolute duration is the virtuality of God’s eternity, as we have proved. It is therefore both philosophical and necessary to trace the duration of movement to the virtuality of God’s eternity, as its extrinsic foundation. That movement is also necessary to constitute the relation between before and after, we fully admit; for there cannot be before and after without movement. But it does not follow from this that movement is the foundation of the relation; it merely follows that movement is a condition necessary to give to the absolute when two distinct actualities, according to which it may be compared with itself on the ground of standing duration. For, as every relation demands two opposite terms, the same absolute when must acquire two opposite formalities, that it may be related to itself.

The only other objection which may perhaps be made against our conclusions is the following: The foundation of a real relation is that reality through which the terms related communicate with one another. Now, evidently, the before and the after, which are the terms of the relation in question, communicate with one another through the same absolute when; for they are the same absolute when under two opposite formalities. Hence it follows that the foundation of the relation between before and after is nothing else than the absolute when of a moving being.

To this we answer that the foundation of the relation is not all reality through which the terms related communicate with one another, but only that reality by the common termination of which they become formally related to one another. Hence, since the before and the after do not receive their relative formalities from the absolute when, it is idle to pretend that the absolute when is the foundation of the interval of duration. The before and the after communicate with the same absolute when not as a formal, but as a material, cause of their existence—that is, inasmuch as the same when is the subject, not the reason, of both formalities. The only relation to which the absolute when can give a foundation is one of identity with itself in all the extent of its flowing duration. But such a relation presupposes, instead of constituting, an interval in duration. And therefore it is manifest that the absolute when is not the foundation of the relation between before and after.

Having thus answered the questions proposed, and given the solution of the few difficulties objected, we must now say a few words about the division and measurement of relative duration, whether fundamental or resultant.

Fundamental or standing duration is divided into real and imaginary. This division cannot regard the entity of standing duration, which is unquestionably real, as we have proved. It regards the reality or the unreality of the extrinsic terms conceived as having a relation in duration. The true notion of real, contrasted with imaginary, duration, is the following: Standing duration is called real when it is really relative, viz., when it is extrinsically terminated by real terms between which it founds a real relation; on the contrary, it is called imaginary when the extrinsic terms do not exist in nature, but only in our imagination; for, in such a case, standing duration is not really terminated and does not found real relations, but both the terminations and the relations are simply a figment of our imagination. Thus standing duration, as containing none but imaginary relations, may justly be called “imaginary,” though in an absolute sense it is intrinsically real. Accordingly, the indefinite duration which we imagine when we carry our thought beyond the creation of the world, and which is also called “imaginary,” is not absolute but relative duration, and is not imaginary in itself, but only as to its denomination of relative, because, in the absence of all real terms, there can be none but imaginary relations.

It is therefore unphilosophical to confound imaginary and indefinite duration with absolute and infinite duration. This latter is not an object of imagination, but of the intellect alone. Imagination cannot conceive duration, except in connection with some movement from before to after; hence absolute and infinite duration, which has no before and no after, is altogether beyond the reach of imagination. Indeed, our intellectual conception of infinite standing duration is always accompanied in our minds by a representation of indefinite time; but this depends, as we have stated in speaking of space, on the well-known connection of our imaginative and intellectual operations, inasmuch as our imagination strives to follow the intellect, and to represent after its own manner what the intellect conceives in a totally different manner. It was by confounding the objective notion of duration with our subjective manner of imagining it that Kant came to the conclusion that duration was nothing but a subjective form or a subjective condition, under which all intuitions are possible in us. This conclusion is evidently false; but its refutation, to be successful, must be based on the objectivity of absolute standing duration, without which, as we have shown, there can be no field for real and objective succession.

Resultant relative duration—that is, an interval of flowing duration—admits of the same division into real and imaginary. It is real when a real continuous flowing connects the before with the after; in all other suppositions it will be imaginary. It may be remarked that the “real continuous flowing” may be either intrinsic or extrinsic. Thus, if God had created nothing but a simple angel, there would have been no other flowing duration than a continuous succession of intellectual operations connecting the before with the after in the angel himself, and thus his duration would have been measured by a series of intrinsic changes. It is evident that in this case one absolute when suffices to extend the interval of duration; for by its gliding from before to after it acquires opposite formalities through which it can be relatively opposed to itself as the subject and the term of the relation. If, on the contrary, we consider the interval of duration between two distinct beings—say Cæsar and Napoleon—then the real continuous flowing by which such an interval is measured is extrinsic to the terms compared; for the when of Cæsar is distinct from, and does not reach, that of Napoleon; which shows that their respective whens have no intrinsic connection, and that the succession comprised between those whens must have consisted of a series of changes extrinsic to the terms compared. It may seem difficult to conceive how an interval of continuous succession can result between two terms of which the one does not attain to the other; for, as a line in space must be drawn by the movement of a single point, so it seems that a length in duration must be extended by the flowing of a single when from before to after. The truth is that the interval between the whens of two distinct beings is not obtained by comparing the when of the one with that of the other, but by resorting to the when of some other being which has extended its continuous succession from the one to the other. Thus, when Cæsar died, the earth was revolving on its axis, and it continued to revolve without interruption up to the existence of Napoleon, thus extending the duration of its movement from a when corresponding to Cæsar’s death to a when corresponding to Napoleon’s birth; and this duration, wholly extrinsic to Cæsar and Napoleon, measures the interval between them.

As all intervals of duration extend from before to after, there can be no interval between co-existent beings, as is evident. In the same manner as two beings whose ubications coincide cannot be distant in space, so two beings whose whens are simultaneous cannot form an interval of duration.

All real intervals of duration regard the past; for in the past alone can we find a real before and a real after. The present gives no interval, as we have just stated, but only simultaneousness. The future is real only potentially—that is, it will be real, but it is not yet. What has never been, and never will be, is merely imaginary. To this last class belong all the intervals of duration corresponding to those conditional events which did not happen, owing to the non-fulfilment of the conditions on which their reality depended.

As to the measurement of flowing duration a few words will suffice. The when considered absolutely is incapable of measuring an interval of duration, for the reason that the when is unextended, and therefore unproportionate to the mensuration of a continuous interval; for the measure must be of the same kind with the thing to be measured. Just as a continuous line cannot be made up of unextended points, so cannot a continuous interval be made up of indivisible instants; hence, as a line is divisible only into smaller and smaller lines, by which it can be measured, so also an interval of duration is divisible only into smaller and smaller intervals, and is measured by the same. These smaller intervals, being continuous, are themselves divisible and mensurable by other intervals of less duration, and these other intervals are again divisible and mensurable; so that, from the nature of the thing, it is impossible to reach an absolute measure of duration, and we must rest satisfied with a relative one, just as in the case of a line and of any other continuous quantity. The smallest unit or measure of duration commonly used is the second, or sixtieth part of a minute.

But, since continuous quantities are divisible in infinitum, it may be asked, what prevents us from considering a finite interval of duration as containing an infinite multitude of infinitesimal units of duration? If nothing prevents us, then in the infinitesimal unit we shall have the true and absolute measure of duration. We answer that nothing prevents such a conception; but the mensuration of a finite interval by infinitesimal units would never supply us the means of determining the relative lengths of two intervals of duration. For, if every interval is a sum of infinite terms, and is so represented, how can we decide which of those intervals is the greater, since we cannot count the infinite?

Mathematicians, in all dynamical questions, express the conditions of the movement in terms of infinitesimal quantities, and consider every actual instant which connects the before with the after as an infinitesimal interval of duration in the same manner as they consider every shifting ubication as an infinitesimal interval of space. But when they pass from infinitesimal to finite quantities by integration between determinate limits, they do not express the finite intervals in infinitesimal terms, but in terms of a finite unit, viz., a second of time; and this shows that, even in high mathematics, the infinitesimal is not taken as the measure of the finite.

Since infinitesimals are considered as evanescent quantities, the question may be asked whether they are still conceivable as quantities. We have no intention of discussing here the philosophical grounds of infinitesimal calculus, as we may have hereafter a better opportunity of examining such an interesting subject; but, so far as infinitesimals of duration are concerned, we answer that they are still quantities, though they bear no comparison with finite duration. What mathematicians call an infinitesimal of time is nothing else rigorously than the flowing of an actual “when” from before to after. The “when” as such is no quantity, but its flowing is. However narrow the compass within which it may be reduced, the flowing implies a relation between before and after; hence every instant of successive duration, inasmuch as it actually links its immediate before with its immediate after, partakes of the nature of successive duration, and therefore of continuous quantity. Nor does it matter that infinitesimals are called evanescent quantities. They indeed vanish, as compared with finite quantities; but the very fact of their vanishing proves that they are still something when they are in the act of vanishing. Sir Isaac Newton, after saying in his Principia that he intends to reduce the demonstration of a series of propositions to the first and last sums and ratios of nascent and evanescent quantities, propounds and solves this very difficulty as follows: “Perhaps it may be objected that there is no ultimate proportion of evanescent quantities; because the proportion, before the quantities have vanished, is not the ultimate, and, when they are vanished, is none. But by the same argument it may be alleged that a body arriving at a certain place, and there stopping, has no ultimate velocity; because the velocity, before the body comes to the place, is not its ultimate velocity; when it has arrived, is none. But the answer is easy; for by the ultimate velocity is meant that with which the body is moved, neither before it arrives at its last place and the motion ceases, nor after, but at the very instant it arrives; that is, the velocity with which the body arrives at its last place, and with which the motion ceases. And in like manner, by the ultimate ratio of evanescent quantities is to be understood the ratio of the quantities, not before they vanish, not afterwards, but with which they vanish. In like manner, the first ratio of nascent quantities is that with which they begin to be.” From this answer, which is so clear and so deep, it is manifest that infinitesimals are real quantities. Whence we infer that every instant of duration which actually flows from before to after marks out a real infinitesimal interval of duration that might serve as a unit of measure for the mensuration of all finite intervals of succession, were it not that we cannot reckon up to infinity. Nevertheless, it does not follow that an infinitesimal duration is an absolute unit of duration; for it is still continuous, even in its infinite smallness; and accordingly it is still divisible and mensurable by other units of a lower standard. Thus it is clear that the measurement of flowing duration, and indeed of all other continuous quantity, cannot be made except by some arbitrary and conventional unit.

THE STARS.

WILLIAM TELL AND ALTORF.

Brunnen, the “fort of Schwytz,” standing at that angle of the lake of Lucerne where it turns abruptly towards the very heart of the Alps, has always been a central halting-place for travellers; but since the erection of its large hotel the attraction has greatly increased. We found the Waldstätterhof full to overflowing, and rejoiced that, as usual, we had wisely ordered our rooms beforehand. Our surprise was great, as we threaded the mazes of the table-d’hôte room, to see Herr H—— come forward and greet us cordially. We expected, it is true, to meet him here, but not until the eve of the feast at Einsiedeln, whither he had promised to accompany us. An unforeseen event, however, had brought him up the lake sooner, and he therefore came on to Brunnen, in the hope of finding us. A few minutes sufficed to make him quit his place at the centre table and join us at a small one, where supper had been prepared for our party, and allow us to begin a description of our wanderings since we parted from him on the quay at Lucerne. Yes, “begin” is the proper word; for before long the harmony was marred by George, who, with his usual impetuosity, and in spite of Caroline’s warning frowns and Anna’s and my appealing looks, betrayed our disappointment at having missed the Hermitage at Ranft, and the reproaches we had heaped on Herr H——’s head for having mismanaged the programme in that particular. The cheery little man, whose eyes had just begun to glisten with delight, grew troubled.

“I am so sorry!” he exclaimed. “But the ladies were not so enthusiastic about Blessed Nicholas when I saw them. And as for you, Mr. George, I never could have dreamt you would have cared for the Hermit.”

“Oh! but he is a real historical character, you see, about whom there can be no doubt—very unlike your sun-god, your mythical hero, William Tell!” replied George.

“Take care! take care! young gentleman,” said Herr H——, laughing. “Remember you are now in Tell’s territory, and he may make you rue the consequences of deriding him! Don’t imagine, either, that your modern historical critics have left even Blessed Nicholas alone! Oh! dear, no.”

“But he is vouched for by documents,” retorted George.“No one can doubt them.”

“Your critics of this age would turn and twist and doubt anything,” said Herr H——. “They cannot deny his existence nor the main features of his life; yet some have gone so far as to pretend to doubt the most authentic fact in it—his presence at the Diet of Stanz—saying that probably he never went there, but only wrote a letter to the deputies. So much for their criticism and researches! After that specimen you need not wonder that I have no respect for them. But I am in an unusually patriotic mood to-day; for I have just come from a meeting at Beckenried, on the opposite shore, in Unterwalden. It was that which brought me here before my appointment with you. It was a meeting of one of our Catholic societies in these cantons, which assembled to protest against the revision of the constitution contemplated next spring. Before separating it was suggested that they should call a larger one at the Rütli, to evoke the memories of the past and conform themselves to the pattern of our forefathers.”

“Why do you so much object to a revision?” inquired Mr. C——. “Surely reform must sometimes be necessary.”

“Sometimes, of course, but not at present, my dear sir. ‘Revision’ nowadays simply means radicalism and the suppression of our religion and our religious rights and privileges. It is a word which, for that reason alone, is at all times distasteful to these cantons. Moreover, it savors too much of French ideas and doctrines, thoroughly antagonistic to all our principles and feelings. Everything French is loathed in these parts, especially in Unterwalden, in spite of—or I should perhaps rather say in consequence of—all they suffered from that nation in 1798.”

“I can understand that,” said Mr. C——, “with the memory of the massacre in the church at Stanz always in their minds.”

“Well, yes; but that was only one act in the tragedy. The desolation they caused in that part of the country was fearful. Above all, their total want of religion at that period can never be forgotten.”

“As for myself,” remarked Mr. C——, “though not a Catholic, I confess that I should much rather rely on the upright instincts of this pious population than on the crooked teachings of our modern philosophers. I have always noticed in every great political crisis that the instincts of the pure and simple-minded have something of an inspiration about them; they go straight to the true principles where a Macchiavelli is often at fault.” Herr H—— completely agreed with him, and the conversation soon became a deep and serious discussion on the tendencies of modern politics in general, so that it was late that evening before our party separated.

The first sound that fell upon my ear next morning was the splashing of a steamer hard by. It had been so dark upon our arrival the night before that we had not altogether realized the close proximity of the hotel to the lake, and it was an unexpected pleasure to find my balcony almost directly over the water, like the stern gallery of a ship of war. A small steamer certainly was approaching from the upper end of the lake, with a time-honored old diligence in the bows and a few travellers, tired-looking and dust-stained, scattered on the deck, very unlike the brilliant throngs that pass to and fro during the late hours of the day. But this early morning performance was one of real business, and the magical words “Post” and “St. Gothard,” which stood out in large letters on the yellow panels of the diligence, told at once of more than mere pleasure-seeking. What joy or grief, happiness or despair, might not this old-fashioned vehicle be at this moment conveying to unknown thousands! It was an abrupt transition, too, to be thus brought from pastoral Sarnen and Sachslen into immediate contact with the mighty Alps. Of their grandeur, however, nothing could be seen; for, without rain or wind, a thick cloud lay low upon the lake, more like a large flat ceiling than aught else. Yet, for us, it had its own peculiar interest, being nothing more nor less than the great, heavy, soft mass which we had noticed hanging over the lake every morning when looking down from Kaltbad, whilst we, revelling in sunshine and brightness above, were pitying the poor inhabitants along the shore beneath. There was a kind of superiority, therefore, in knowing what it meant, and in feeling confident that it would not last long. And, as we expected, it did clear away whilst we sat at our little breakfast-table in the window, revealing in all its magnificence the glorious view from this point up the Bay of Uri, which we have elsewhere described. Huge mountains seemed to rise vertically up out of the green waters; verdant patches were dotted here and there on their rugged sides; and, overtopping all, shone the glacier of the Urirothstock, more dazzlingly white and transparent than we had ever yet beheld it.

“Now, ladies!” exclaimed Herr H——, “I hope you have your Schiller ready; for the Rütli is yonder, though you will see it better by and by.”

“Why, I thought you disapproved of Schiller,” retorted the irrepressibly argumentative George.

“To a certain degree, no doubt,” replied Herr H——. “But nothing can be finer than his William Tell as a whole. My quarrel with it is that the real William Tell would have fared much better were it not for this play, and especially for the opera. They have both made the subject so common—so banale, as the French say—that the world has grown tired of it, and for this reason alone is predisposed to reject our hero. Besides, the real history of the Revolution is so fine that I prefer it in its simplicity. Schiller is certainly true to its spirit, but details are frequently different. For instance, the taking of the Castle of the Rossberg, which you passed on the lake of Alpnach: Schiller has converted that into a most sensational scene, whereas the true story is far more characteristic. That was the place where a young girl admitted her betrothed and his twelve Confederate friends by a rope-ladder at night, which enabled them to seize the castle and imprison the garrison “without shedding a drop of blood or injuring the property of the Habsburgs,” in exact conformity with their oath on the Rütli. You will often read of the loves of Jägeli and Ameli in Swiss poetry. They are great favorites, and, in my opinion, far more beautiful than the fictitious romance of Rudenz and Bertha. And so in many other cases. But every one does not object to Schiller as I do; for in 1859, when his centenary was celebrated in Germany, the Swiss held a festival here on the Rütli, and subsequently erected a tablet on that large natural pyramidal rock you see at the corner opposite. It is called the Wytenstein, and you can read the large gilt words with a glass. It is laconic enough, too; see: ‘To Frederick Schiller—The Singer of Tell—The Urcantone.’ The original cantons! Miss Caroline! let me congratulate you on being at last in the ‘Urschweiz’—the cradle of Switzerland,” continued Herr H——, as we sauntered out on the quay, pointing at the same time to some bad frescos of Swen and Suiter on a warehouse close by. Stauffacher, Fürst, and Van der Halden also figured on the walls—the presiding geniuses of this region. “Brunnen is in no way to be despised, I assure you, ladies; you are treading on venerated soil. This is the very spot that witnessed the foundation of the Confederacy, where the oath was taken by the representatives of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwalden the day after the battle of Morgarten. They swore ‘to die, each for all and all for each’—the oath which made Switzerland renowned, and gave the name of ‘Ridsgenossen,’ or ‘oath-participators,’ to its inhabitants. The document is still kept in the archives at Schwytz, with another dated August 1, 1291. Aloys von Reding raised his standard against the French here in 1798; and he was quite right in beginning his resistance to them at Brunnen. It is full of memories to us Swiss, and is a most central point, as you may see, between all these cantons. The increase in the hotels tells what a favorite region it also is with tourists.”