The rain is falling heavily, to-night. It has a dull, desolate, lonely sound, as if it were bent upon reminding me of another night more desolate, dull, and lonely even than the present. What right have I, who have so much happiness about me now, to be searching the dark annals of past sorrow, or to unearth a hidden misery, that will come like a blighting shadow between me and all the pleasures that might be mine? Yet that rainy, dismal nightdoescome back to me with a force and terror I would rather not remember.
I would rather not remember it, because my son, just budding into manhood, has left me to-night, for the first time, and gone to take his place in an old firm in a neighboring city. The world and its allurements are temptingly laid out before him. He is a noble, handsome boy, so bright and promising. They tell me he will always have friends, plenty of friends; that he has all the elements of popularity, and is destined to become a general favorite. Dangerous attractions these; they have made wiser heads than yours, my darling, very giddy and very light; hearts, too, have been brought to mourning, while the admiring friends of yesterday could cast only a look of pity on their lost friends as they passed by.
My own brother was all this; gifted in an eminent degree with energy and manly courage to sustain him in any generous undertaking. We had everything to hope from him; he had everything to hope from himself. With prospects fair and bright, an old banker, a friend of my father's, gave him an eligible situation. It was an office of trust; he was proud of the confidence placed in him, and left home with the full resolve of filling it with honor to himself and credit to the good man who had placed him there. His letters were pleasant and joyous, full of the new pleasures he had never dreamed of in our quiet life at home. His graceful manners and natural gentleness soon established him as a favorite in society; his social pleasures were daily increasing, and his attention to business was both active and energetic.
My mother had a slight misgiving. It was only the shadow of a thought, she said—that Arthur, in the new pleasures that surrounded him, might become weaned from us or might learn to be happy without us. In her deep love for her gifted boy she had never thought such an event possible, and instantly reproached herself for the thought.
In going from home, my brother had left a great waste, an empty place behind him, and his letters were our only comfort.
What light and pleasure they brought to our quiet fireside, that would have been so dreary without them. There were only three of us, and while his letters were so fresh and vigorous, they almost kept up the delusion that we were not separated; but there came a change.
We may have been slow in discovering it, but we did discover it, and then to miss him as we missed him through the long winter nights seemed like losing a star that had led us, that we had followed, until it passed under a cloud and left us, still waiting, still watching, for it to come again.He paid us a flying visit now and then, and my mother, unconscious of the cause of his disquietude—for he was both anxious and disturbed—would redouble her exertions to bring back his waning love, making every allowance for the indifference, the coldness, and the neglect that were so glaringly apparent to other eyes, yet so delicately obscured from her motherly vision. Not that my brother made any effort to conceal his restless desire to leave us, or that his interests and pleasures were centred elsewhere. I was very young, yet old enough to see that there was a mercy inthis, my mother's blindness.
Her beautiful boy seemed to carry the sunshine of her life with him; she thought him caressed and petted, the favorite of society, and the embodiment of all that was noble. He has seen so much of the luxury and elegance of life in the great city, how can we expect him to be contented with our home, where everything is so different? Thus she would reason with me, and thus, I sometimes thought, she would reluctantly reason with herself.
One day, a letter came to us from the banking-house, where my brother had gradually risen to an honored position. It was from the banker himself, our dear old friend; he told, in the tenderest manner, that Arthur had acquired habits which rendered him unfit for an office of trust. He deeply regretted the necessity of making this known to her; he ended by suggesting that the gentle influence of home might do much toward bringing him to a sense of his condition.
My mother read the letter, folded it carefully, reopened it, and read it again. She then handed it to me without speaking a word. When I had finished reading it, I looked at her; she was still immovable, helpless as a child in this her great despair. Her apathy was the more distressing to me as I was entirely alone. I dare not consult any one, dare not ask the advice of our kind neighbors. She had roused herself just enough to tell me it must be kept as secret as death. I was only sixteen, I had never acted for myself—there had been no occasion in our quiet life for a display of individual courage or independence. I had grown up under my mother's guidance, had never been five miles away from home, where every day was like all the yesterdays that had gone before it. And now this great journey lay before me. There was no one else to go;Imust take it alone.
We were both ignorant of the nature of my brother's disgrace. Mr. Lester had made no mention of it further than to say that he could keep him no longer in the bank. I could only conjecture in my own mind what it might be. Of course I thought of dishonesty; what else could have driven him from a situation where he was so honored and trusted?
The railroad was some miles distant from our little village; despatch was necessary; I must meet the evening train. My brother was ill; I was going to him; this would quiet our neighbors and put an end to curious speculations. Surely I was not far from the truth—he must have been ill indeed when his proud head was brought down so low.
Again and again reassuring my mother that I would bring him back, telling her in all sincerity that I knew he would be able to clear himself in her eyes so that not a spot or blemish would be left on his fair name, (Heaven knows how easy this might be.Let him lay his head on her faithful breast, and twine an arm about her neck, and lovingly whisper, "Mother, I aminnocent, all is right;" theworldmight sit in judgment and cry "Guilty," she would heed it not,) I became so preoccupied, so entirely absorbed with theobjectof my journey, that the journey itself had no novelty for me, though everything was new and startling. Now I was hurrying to the great city that I had so often thought and dreamed about. It was only in a confused way that I could settle it in my mind that I was really going there. That I was strange, and new, and unused to the busy scenes that lay before me seemed no part of my business. My brother—would he come home with me? He might be angry that I had come. Could I ask him to tell me the truth? No, I could not see him so humiliated; I would rather hear the story of his shame from other lips than his.
It was near midnight when I reached his lodgings.
"Is Arthur Graham at home?" I, trembling, asked of a kindly looking woman who opened the door.
"He is, miss, and sorely in need of some one to look after him."
Had it come to this? Was my brother an object of pity, even to her? I asked to see him, not wishing to prolong this painful interview. She desired me to enter, and we approached his room. I opened the door cautiously. The woman's manner was so mysterious, I trembled and began to be afraid; she had told me he was not sick. Of course I thought he was a prisoner and perhaps chained in his own room. The light was very dim, and, as I advanced, I stumbled and was near falling over—what?—over the prostrate form of my own brother, lost, degraded, fallen.
As I bent down to see why he did not speak to me, I discovered the truth. He, the pride and hope of our lives, had sunk into a drunkard. I uttered no cry; I was no longer terrified; I thought only of my mother.
I was all that was left her now, and, as I bent over him, wondered if that face was his, so changed, so sickening; neglect and ruin had already settled there. I tried to smooth the heavy hair, that lay in thick, dank masses about his reeking forehead. How old, how terribly old, he had grown in so short a time! I dare not cherish a feeling of loathing; he was my brother, and needed my love as he had never needed it before. For him—for in him I was protecting my mother—I must set aside all youth and girlhood. A woman was needed now, a woman calm, firm, and resolute. Of myself I was weak, but Heaven would help me. A conviction settled upon me, as I sat there, with my travelling wrappings still unremoved, that his case was hopeless. I could see a lonely, dishonored grave, far away from us in a strange land. I know not why this sight should rise before me, my brother was young, and others as debased as he had risen to a good and noble life. Thus I reasoned with myself, and yet that lonely mound of earth would come before me, and I felt powerless.
But I had no time for misery. I had come to protect and assist. My girlhood was passing away with the shadows of the night, for to-morrow's sun must find me a woman, prepared to meet the stern duties that were now mine.
The night was far advanced, and I was trying to gather up my newfound energies, when I felt a kindly hand removing my bonnet. It was the good woman who had met me at the door; she was waiting to show me my room and to offer me some refreshment.
"You can do no good here," she continued, as she assisted me to arise, "until morning."
She shook her head doubtfully as she whispered, "You are very young, yes, quite too young to undertake it even then. But if you are afraid he will give you the slip before you are up, (he often does that,) just lock the door."
She did so and put the key in her own pocket.
The little room assigned me was cleanly; it had an air of comfort about it greatly in contrast with the slovenly chamber I had just left. The gentle creature made nothing of undressing me, lamenting the while as if I had been a stricken child that had unexpectedly fallen into her motherly hands.
I had made no allusion to my brother as yet. I could not speak of him, and only ventured to ask the woman as she was leaving me how long he had been in this condition. "I might ask you the same question, miss, for surely it is not a day nor a month that has brought him tothis."
Tothis!What a world of misery there was in that one simple word! It seemed to carry with it the low wailing of a lost soul.
We were to have paid my brother a visit soon, my mother and I. It was to have been a surprise, and I had gone so far as to arrange the dress I should wear, for I was anxious to appear at my best before Arthur's friends. And here I was spending my first night in New York. No kin of mine had bid me welcome. No brother had folded me in his loved embrace, and held me out to see how pretty I had grown, proudly kissing me again and again, and telling me how happy my coming had made him.
In my peaceful days I had thought of all this; and oh! how easily it might have been!
I arose early; but, early as it was, the woman had apprised Arthur of my arrival. I found him morose and sullen. He demanded my reasons for coming so abruptly upon him. He had not asked after my mother, nor given me one word of kindly greeting; and when, in a harsh tone, he asked why I thus intruded myself, my great reserve of womanly strength fled from me, and I cried long and bitterly.
He was naturally kind and gentle. He came to me, wiped the tears from my cheek, and told me he did not intend to be cruel. His hand trembled violently, as he laid it on my head, and his whole frame shook and quivered, though I could see he made a desperate effort to control himself. When he had recovered his composure, he seemed to know why I had come, and implored me not to say one word to him; he was miserable enough already.
"Come home with me, Arthur dear," I whispered. "You can soon change your life, and be your own self again."
I ventured to tell him that mother had been taken very ill, when, with a look, he begged me to say no more. He could not bear even an allusion to his condition, and I had no wish to harass him. What a slave he had become to the one ruling passion of his life!
Regardless of my presence, he drank again and again from a bottle near him. Once when I laid my hand upon the glass, he told me that he needed it to steady his nerves, and he would be all right soon. It was in vain that I urged him to accompany me home. He told me he had another situation in view, not anything like the one he had just left, but very good in its way. I could tell my mother this; it might comfort her.'Twas all the hope I had to carry home.
As years went by our sorrows were softened. We had become accustomed to Arthur's manner of life. At times he seemed changing for the better, and again he would go back to his old habits.
It was in early summer time, when everything on our little farm was at its best. The solitary womanly habits that had come so early upon me were still very strong with me. I was not yet old, only twenty-two; and on this lovely summer night I was planning our quiet future, when a carriage stopped before the door, and Arthur came in, leading, or rather carrying, a delicate young girl.
'Mother," said he, "this is my wife! Grace, this is my mother and sister."
"Your wife!" we repeated.
"Oh! yes," he replied. "We have been married nearly a year, and I hoped to better my circumstances before I should make the fact known to you." We saw that the poor child, for such she seemed, was sadly in want of woman's kindly care. So pale, so sorrow-stricken, so young, yet so bowed down and disappointed! I knew nothing of her story, but she was my brother's wife, and I gave her a sister's love. That night I watched by her bed; and, as the pale moonlight fell upon her rippling hair, I wondered what art, what witchery or power my brother had used to bring this delicate creature to be a sharer of his misery and shame. She waked with a sudden start, and called in a wild, frightened way for help. She was really ill, now, and before morning the doctor laid a feeble baby in my mother's arms.
My new-found sister and her wailing infant had all our tenderest care. We were glad that she had come to us that we might, in the love we gave her, make up in some degree for the sorry life the poor unfortunate child had taken upon herself. She staid with us; our home was hers. Arthur returned to New York.
Her history was soon told. She was an orphan, entirely dependent upon the bounty of an aunt who had daughters of her own to be settled in life. She met Arthur. The fascination of his manners and the interest he took in her friendless condition won her heart. The misfortune of his life was well known to her, but she trusted toherlove, feeling sure that a life's devotion must redeem him. A dangerous experiment, this; too often tried, and too often found a hopeless failure. For her sake, hedidtry to be firm and strong, and manfully combated his besetting sin; but an hour of weakness came; old associates returned, and old habits with them. In a moment of hilarity and pleasure all his firmness gave way; his delicate young wife was forgotten, and she awakened all too soon to the knowledge that her husband's love for liquor was greater than his love for her. The dear, sweet girl and her pretty infant had lived with us nearly a year, when, one cold, drizzly night like this, Arthur came home. He had grown so reckless of late, that we were not surprised when he came reeling into our presence. He began by demanding a small amount of money which Grace had been husbanding with care. She made no reply to any of his angry threats, nor did she give him the money. Dead to all sense of manhood, he rose to strike her. Her infant was sleeping on her breast. She leaped to flee from him, but before we could save her, he struck her. She fell heavily; the sleeping babe was thrown against the iron fender. It uttered one feeble cry, and closed its eyesfor ever.
The mother rose, and with a desperate effort snatched her dead child from my arms, pressed it to her breast, rocked it to and fro, and tried to give it nourishment. My mother and I spent that terrible night with a dead infant, a frenzied mother, and a father lost in hopeless despair. Every rustle in the trees, every sound in the air, brought the horror of death upon us, for each murmur seemed fraught with vengeance. Was my brother a murderer? His own tender infant had fallen dead at his feet. The act must pass without a name, for in our woe we had none to give it.
He sat there through the weary hours of the night, a haggard, desperate fear settling upon him. He dare not approach his wife; the sight of him increased her frenzy, and she prayed that she might never see his face again.
Misery had made my mother strong and she could help me. Calm, cool, and deliberate action was necessary now.
Arthur must leave us before morning. No one had known of his coming. The child's sudden death must be in some way accounted for, in what way I knew not. My mother whispered God would help us.
Arthur slunk away in his guilt and misery. He took no leave of us, but silently crept out in the darkness. There was darkness on every side, it was bearing down upon him with the weight of an avenging fury. I watched him, bowed and desolate, stealing away from us, away from all that was dear to him, from all that had loved him, and could not, even now, cast him off. I lingered until the last sound of his footsteps died away. I knew then as I know now, that we should never see him again. The rain fell upon him as he passed out. It fell upon me as I stood there, and I thought it was falling far away where I had seen a lonely grave.
I washed our martyred babe and dressed it for the burial. There was a mark upon its little neck that the solemn wrappings of the grave must cover. It might be bared before the judgment-seat to plead for an erring father.
My mother died soon after of a broken heart. She never recovered the shock of that terrible night. The curse that settled upon her poor, misguided son made him none the less her child; and she would try, with all the tenderness of her wounded spirit, to think of him as he was, innocent, true, and noble, when first he left her. When we learned that he had died on foreign shores, and was buried on a lonely island, she thanked God that he was no longer a homeless wanderer.
My sister Grace is with me still, loving and cherishing my young children, leading them and me to better life by the chastened beauty of her own Christian character.
In the pantheistic theory, the finite has no real existence of its own. It is a modification, a limit of the infinite. The sum of all the determinations which the primitive and germinal activity assumes, in the progress of its development, constitutes what is called cosmos. The interior and necessary movement of the infinite, which terminates in all these forms and determinations, is creation. The successive appearance of all these forms in this necessary development is the genesis of creation. The finite, therefore, in the pantheistic system, does not exist as something substantially distinct from the infinite, but is one form or other which it assumes in its spontaneous evolutions.
As the reader may observe, this theory rests entirely upon the leading principle of the system that the infinite is something undefined, impersonal, indeterminate, and becomes concrete and personal by a necessary, interior movement; a principle which, viewed in reference to the finite, gives rise to two others, first, that the finite is a modification of the infinite; second, that the finite is necessary to the infinite, as the term of its spontaneous development. Now, in the preceding articles, we have demonstrated, first, that the infinite is actuality itself; that is, absolute and complete perfection; second, that in order to be personal, he is not impelled to originate any modification or limit. Hence, two other principles concerning the finite, quite antagonistic to those of pantheism. First, the finite cannot be a modification of the infinite, because perfection, absolutely complete, cannot admit of ulterior progress. Second, the finite is not necessary to the infinite, because the interior and necessary action of the infinite does not terminate outside of, but within himself, and gives rise to the mystery of the Trinity, explained and vindicated in the last two articles. Consequently, his necessary interior action being exercised within himself, he is not forced to originate the finite to satisfy that spontaneous movement, as Cousin and other pantheists contend. The finite, therefore, can neither be a modification nor a necessary development of the infinite. And this consequence sweeps away all systems of emanatism, of whatever form, that may be imagined. Whether we suppose the finite to be a growth or extension of the infinite, as the materialistic pantheists of old seemed to imagine; or mere phenomenon of infinite substance, with Spinoza; or ideological exercise of the infinite, as modern Germans seem to think—according to the principle laid down, the finite is impossible in any emanatistic sense whatever. To any one who has followed us closely in the preceding articles, it will appear evident that these few remarks absolutely dispose of the pantheistic theory concerning the finite, and close the negative part of our task respecting this question.
As to the positive part, to give a full explanation of the whole doctrine of Catholicity concerning the finite, we must discuss the following questions:
In what sense is creation to be understood?
Is creation of finite substances possible?
What is the end of the exterior action of God?
What is the whole plan of the exterior action of God?
Before we enter upon the discussion of the first question, we must lay down a few preliminary remarks necessary to the intelligence of all that shall follow.
God's action is identical with his essence, and this being absolutely simple and undivided, his action also is absolutely one and simple. But it is infinite also, like his essence, and in this respect it gives rise, not only to the eternal and immanent originations within himself, but also may cause a numberless variety of effects really existing, and distinct from him, as we shall demonstrate. Now, if we regard the action of God, in itself originating bothad intraandad extra, that is, acting within and without himself, it cannot possibly admit of distinction. But our mind, being finite, and hence incapable of perceiving at once the infinite action of God, and of grasping at one glance that one simple action originating numberless effects, is forced to take partial views of it, and mentally to divide it, to facilitate the intelligence of its different effects. These partial views and distinctions of our mind, of the same identical action of God, producing the divine persons within himself, and causing different effects outside himself, we shall call moments of the action of God.
There are, therefore, two supreme moments of the action of God, the interior and the exterior. Whenever we shall speak of the action of God producing an effect distinct from and outside of him, we shall call it exterior action, to distinguish it from the interior, which originates the divine personalities. Moreover, we shall call exterior action of God, all the moments of it which produce different effects. We shall call creation that particular moment of his external action which, as we shall see, causes the existence of finite substances, together with their essential properties and attributes.
Now, as to the first question, in what sense can creation be understood; or, otherwise, what are the conditions according to which creation may be possible? On the following: First, the terms laid down by the action of God must be in nature distinct from him. Second, they must be produced by an act which does not cause any mutation in the agent. Third, therefore, they must be finite substances. For, suppose the absence of the first condition, creation would be an emanation of the divine essence; since, if the terms created were not different from the nature of God, they would be identical with it, and consequently creation would be an emanation or development of the substance of God. The absence of the second condition would not only render it an emanation of the substance of God—because, if creation implied a mutation in him, it would be his own modification—but it would render it altogether impossible, since no agent can modify itself but by the aid of another. If, therefore, creation cannot be either an emanation or a modification of God, it must be distinct from his substance. Now, something distinct from the substance of God, and really existing, and not a modification, cannot be anything but finite substance. Finite, because, the substance of God being infinite, nothing can be distinct from it but the finite; substance, because something really existing, and which is not a modification, gives the idea of substance.Creation, therefore, cannot be understood in any other sense except as implying the causation of finite substances. But is creation of finite substances possible? In answer to this question, let it be remarked that the essence of a thing may have two distinct states: one, intelligible and objective; the other, subjective and in existence. In other words, all things have a mode of intelligible existence, distinct from the being by which they exist, in themselves; the one may be called objective and intelligible; the other, subjective. To give an instance, a building has two kinds of states: one, intelligible, in the mind of the architect; the other, subjective, when it exists in itself.
Now, the possibility of a thing to have a subjective existence in itself, depends upon the intelligible and objective state of the same thing. Because that only is possible which does not involve any contradiction. But that which does not involve any repugnance, is intelligible. Therefore the possibility of a thing implies its intelligibility, and its subjective existence depends upon its objective and intelligible state. This is so true, that the transcendental truth of beings, in their subjective state of existence, consists in their conformity with their intelligible and objective state. As the truth of a building consists in it conformity with the plan in the mind of the architect.
From these principles it follows that, in order to establish the possibility of the creation of finite substances, we must prove three different things: First, that they have an intelligible state; in other words, that their idea does not involve any repugnance. Second, that there exists a supreme act of intelligence, in which the intelligible state of all possible finite substances resides. Third, that there exists a supreme activity, which may cause finite substances to exist in a subjective state conformable to their objective and intelligible state. When we have proven these three propositions, the possibility of creation will be put beyond all doubt. Now, as to the first proposition, pantheists have denied the possibility of finite substances. Admitting the general possibility of substance, they deny the intrinsic possibility of a finite one; and, as everything which is finite is necessarilycaused, the whole question turns upon this—whether, in the idea of substance, there is any element which excludes causation and is repugnant to it. Every one acquainted with the history of philosophy knows that Spinoza coined a definition purposely to fit his system. He defined substance to be that which exists in itself, and cannot be conceived but by itself. [Footnote 54]
[Footnote 54: Eth. 1, Def. 1.]
This definition is purposely insidious. That which exists in itself may have a twofold meaning; it may express a thing, the cause of whose existence lies in itself, a self-existing being; or it may imply a thing which can exist without inhering in or leaning on any other. Again, that which cannot be conceived but by itself may be taken in a double sense—a thing which has no cause, and is self-existent, and consequently contains in itself the reason of its intelligibility; or it may signify a thing which may be conceived by itself, inasmuch as it does not lean upon any other to be able to exist. Spinoza, taking both terms of the definition in the first sense, had the way paved for pantheism; for if substance be that which is intelligible by itself because self-existent, it is evident that there cannot be more than one substance, and the cosmos cannot be anything but phenomenon of this substance.Hence the question we have proposed: Is there, in the true idea of substance, any element which necessarily implies self-existence, and excludes causation? Catholic philosophy insists that there is none. For the idea of substance is made up of two elements: one positive, the other negative. The positive element is the permanence or consistence of an act or being—that is, theexistingreally. The second element is the exclusion or absence of all inherence in another being in order to exist.
Now, every one can easily perceive, that to exist really does not necessarily imply self-existence, or contradiction to the notion of having been caused by another. Because the notion of real existence or permanence of a being does not necessarily imply eternity of permanence, or, in other words, does not include infinity of being. If the permanence or real existence of a being included eternity of permanence, then it could not have a cause, and should necessarily be self-existent. But we can conceive a being really existing, which did not exist always, but had a beginning. The better to illustrate this conception, let it be remembered that duration or permanence is one and the same thing with being; and that, ontologically, being and duration differ in nothing. The permanence and duration of a being is, therefore, in proportion to the intensity of a being. If the being be infinite, the highest intensity of reality, the being is infinitely permanent; that is, eternal, without beginning, end, or succession. If the being be finite and created, the permanence or duration is finite also; that is, has beginning, and may, absolutely speaking, have an end. Everything, therefore, really existing without inhering in another, whether it be infinite or finite reality—that is, whether it have a cause or be self-existent—is a substance. If it be self-existent, it is infinite substance; if it be caused, it is finite substance. This is so evident that none, slightly accustomed to reflect, can fail to perceive the difference between being self-existent and existing really. The two things can go separately without the one at all including the other. A thing may exist as really after being caused, as the substance which is self-existent and eternal, so far as existing really is concerned.
To show that the idea of substance, however, is such as we have been describing, it is sufficient to cast a glance at our own soul. It is evident from the testimony of consciousness, that there is a numberless variety of thoughts, volitions, sensations; all taking place in theme, all following and succeeding each other without interruption, like the waves of the ocean rolling one upon the other, and keeping the sea always in agitation. We are conscious to ourselves of this continual influx of thoughts, volitions and sensations; but, at the same time that we are conscious of this, we are conscious also of the identity and permanence of themeamid the fluctuations of those modifications. We are conscious that theme, which yesterday was affected with the passions of love and desire, is the same identicalmewhich is to-day under the passion of hate. This permanence or reality of theme, amid the passing and transitory affections, gives the idea of substance or real existence; whilst the numberless variety of thoughts and feelings which affect it, and which come and go while themeremains, gives the idea of modification, or a thing which inheres in another in order to exist.
The above remarks must put the possibility of finite substance beyond doubt. But before we pass to the second question, we remark that any one sooner than a pantheist could call in question the possibility of finite substance; because if, as we have demonstrated in the second article, the infinite of the pantheists be not an absolute nonentity, a pure abstraction, it is nothing but the idea of finite being or substance. Hence, to prove the possibility of finite substance to the pantheist, we might make use of the argumentad hominem. That which is intelligible is possible, by the principle of contradiction. But the idea of finite substance is intelligible to the pantheists, being the foundation of their system; therefore, finite substances are possible.
Second question: Is there a supreme act of intelligence, in which reside all possible finite substances in their objective and intelligible state?
The demonstration of the second proposition follows from that of the first.
For the idea of finite substance does not involve any repugnance, by the principle of contradiction. Therefore it is necessarily possible, as we have demonstrated. But that which is necessarily possible, is necessarily intelligible; because everything that is possible may be conceived. Therefore the idea of finite substance is necessarily intelligible, and may be conceived by an intelligence able to grasp the whole series of possible finite substances. But God is infinite intelligence, and as such is capable of apprehending all possible finite substances. Therefore in God's intelligence resides the whole series of possible finite substances, in their intelligible and objective state.
To render this argument more convincing, let us look into the ontological foundation of the possibility of finite substances. Finite substances are nothing but finite beings; consequently they are not possible, except inasmuch as they agree with the essence of God, which is the infinite,the being, and as such is the type of all things which come under the denomination and category of being. God, therefore, who fully comprehends his essence, comprehends, at the same time, whatever may agree with it; or, in other words, comprehends all possible imitations, so to speak, of his essence; and consequently, all the possible imitations of his essence residing in his intelligence, there dwells at the same time the intelligible and objective state of all possible finite substances. St. Thomas proves the same truth with a somewhat similar argument. "Whoever," he says, "comprehends a certain universal nature, comprehends, at the same time, the manner according to which it may be imitated. But God, comprehending himself, comprehends the universal nature of being; consequently he comprehends also the manner according to which it may be imitated." Now, the possibility of finite substance is a similitude of the universal being. Hence, in God's intelligence resides the whole series of possible finite substances.
Third proposition: There exists a supreme activity which may cause finite substances to exist in a subjective state. For St. Thomas argues that the more perfect is a principle of action, the more its action can extend to a greater number and more distant things. As for instance, if a fire be weak, it can heat only things which are near it; if strong, it can reach distant things. Now, a pure act, which is in God, is more perfect than an act mixed of potentiality, as it is in us.If therefore by the act which is in us we can not only produce immanent acts, as for instance, to think and to will, but also exterior acts by which we effect something; with much greater reason can God, by the fact of his being actuality itself, not only exercise intelligence and will, but also produce effects outside himself and thus be the cause of being. [Footnote 55] The great philosopher Gerdil, appropriating this reason of St. Thomas, develops it thus: "In ourselves, and in particular beings, we find a certain activity; therefore activity is a reality which belongs to thebeingor theinfinite. The effect of activity when the agent applies it to the patient, consists in causing a mutation of state. The intensity of acts, depending on intelligence, has a force to introduce a mutation of state in the corporal movements. This may be seen in the real though hidden connection of which we are conscious to ourselves, between the intensity of our desires and the effect of the movements which are excited in the body; and better still, in certain phenomena which sometimes occur, though rarely, when the imagination, apprehending something vividly and forcibly, produces a mutation of state in the body which corresponds somewhat with the apprehension of the imagination. [Footnote 56]
[Footnote 55: C. G. lib. ii. ch. 6.][Footnote 56: An imminent danger of being burned to death, vividly apprehended, has sometimes entirely cured persons altogether paralyzed and unable to move.]
Now this change in the body, corresponding to what takes place in the fancy, that is, in the objective and intelligible state, shows that there exists a certain, though hidden, force and energy by which, from what exists in an intelligible state, may be introduced a mutation in the corresponding state of subjective existence. Therefore the efficacy of the supreme intelligence, being the greatest and the highest, in force of the supreme intensity of being which resides in it, may not only effect a change conformable to a relative, intelligible state in things already existing, but also cause them to pass altogether from the intelligible state into the state of existence. And, assuredly, if the finite intensity of desire and of imagination may produce an effort of corporal movement, the supreme intensity of the Infinite Being may, certainly, produce a substantial, existing being; since the supreme intensity of the Being bears infinitely greater proportion to the existence of a thing, than the intensity of desire does in relation to a corporal movement. The term, therefore, of the supreme activity, is to effect, outside of itself, the existence of things which had only an intelligible and objective being in itself." [Footnote 57]
[Footnote 57: Gerdil,Del Senso Morale.]
It is well to remark here, that the supreme activity is not by any means determined necessarily to create; for the activity may be determined to a necessary operation, in that case only when the agent is actually applied to the subject capable of receiving a change of state. But creation is not the result of the application of the supreme activity to a subject coexisting with itself; because nothing coexists originally with the supreme activity. Therefore creation cannot be an action determined by any necessity, but must depend only upon the energy or will of the supreme intelligence in which the highest activity dwells. Hence it follows, that creation, as to its term, is not necessary, either because there is any principle in God impelling him necessarily to create, as we have seen, or because there is any principle outside of God forcing him to create; because outside of the supreme activity nothing exists.What is necessary about the creation of finite substances, is their intelligible and objective state, or their intrinsic possibility. For everything which does not imply any repugnance by the principle of contradiction, is intrinsically possible and intelligible. That which is intrinsically possible is essentially, necessarily, and eternally so. Consequently, the objective state of finite substances is necessarily so.
Pantheists, confounding the objective and intelligible state of the cosmos with its state of subjective existence; in other words, identifying the ideal with the real, the ideological with the ontological, have been led to admit the necessity of creation. This is particularly remarked in the systems of Schelling and Hegel; the one admitting, as first principle, the absolute identity of all things; the other identifying theideawithbeing. Both confounded the objective and intelligible state of the cosmos with its state of subjective existence; and once the two are identified, it follows that, as the one, which is the intelligible, is necessary, eternal, and absolute, the other, the subjective, becomes also necessary and eternal; and hence the necessity of creation. Catholicity, on the contrary, carefully distinguishing between the ideal and the real, the objective and the subjective, and admitting the necessity and eternity of the first, because everything intelligible necessarily and eternally resides in the supreme intelligence, denies the necessity of the second, because of that very intelligible state which it admits to be necessarily and eternally so.
For a finite substance is not, and cannot be conceived as possible or intelligible, except it is supposed to be contingent or indifferent in itself to be or not to be, not having in itself the reason of its existence. This is the only condition according to which finite substances can be possible. Were it otherwise, were a finite substance supposed to be necessary, it would be self-existent, and have in itself the reason of its existence; and in that case it would no longer be finite, but infinite. To suppose, therefore, a finite substance not contingent is to suppose it necessary, is to suppose a self-existing finite substance, or, in other words, an infinite finite substance, which is absurd, and, therefore, unintelligible and impossible.
The intelligibility, therefore, or objective state of finite substances, which is necessary, eternal, and absolute itself, requires the contingency of their existence in a subjective state; and, consequently, their contingency is necessary because their intelligibility is necessary; and their creation is free, because whatever is indifferent in itself to be or not to be, absolutely depends, as to its existence, upon the will of the supreme intelligence.
An objection is here raised by pantheists impugning the possibility of the creative act. It is as follows: Given the full cause, the effect exists. Now, the creative act, the full cause of creation, is eternal; therefore, its effect must exist eternally. But, an eternal effect is a contradiction in terms; because it means a thing created and uncreated at the same time. Therefore, creation is impossible in the Catholic sense, and can be nothing more than the eternal development and unfolding of the divine substance. Given the cause, the effect exists. Such an effect, and in such a manner as the cause is naturally calculated to produce, it is granted; such an effect and in such a manner as the cause naturally is not intended to produce, it is denied.Now, what is the cause of creation but the will of God? And how does the will naturally act, except by a free determination, and in the manner according to which it determines itself? Consequently, creation being an effect of the will of God, it will follow just when and how the will of God has determined it shall. Hence the will of God being eternal, it does not follow that the effect should be eternal also. In other words, given the full cause, the effect exists when the cause is impelled to act by a necessary intrinsic movement. But when the cause is free, and perfectly master of its own action and energy, the cause given is not a sufficient element for the existence of the effect, but, two elements are required, the cause and its determination, and the free conditions which the cause has attached to its determination. Nor does this imply any change in the action of God when creation actually takes place. For that same act which determines itself from eternity to create, and to cause substances and time, the measure of their duration, continues immutable until the creation actually takes place; and the creation is not an effect of a new act, but of that same immutable and eternal determination of God.
We conclude, finite substances are intrinsically possible; they have an intelligible and objective state in the infinite intelligence of God. God's infinite activity may cause them to exist in a subjective state conformable to their intelligible mode of existence. Therefore, creation in the Catholic sense is possible.
Before we pass to the next question, we must draw some corollaries.
First. God can act outside himself, since he can create finite substances with all the properties and faculties which are necessary elements of their essence, and naturally and necessarily spring from it.
Second. The creative act implies two secondary moments; one, called preservation, and the other, concurrence. Hence, if God does create, he must necessarily preserve his effects, and concur in the development of their activity. Preservation implies the immanence of the creative act, or the continuation of the creative act of God, maintaining finite substances in their existence. The necessity of this movement is proved by the following reason:
Every finite being is, in force of its nature, indifferent to be or not to be; that is, every finite being contains no intrinsic reason necessarily requiring its existence. Hence, the reason of its existence lies in an exterior agent or cause. But the finite being once existing, does not change its nature, but intrinsically continues to be contingent, that is, indifferent to be or not to be. Therefore, the reason of the continuation of its existence cannot be found in its intrinsic nature, but in an exterior agent; that is, in the action of the Creator. So long, therefore, as the action of God continues to determine the intrinsic indifference of contingent being to be or not to be, so long does the finite exist. In the supposition of the act ceasing, the finite would simultaneously cease to be.
Nor does this argument impugn thesubstanceof finite beings. For, as we have seen, substance is that which exists really, though the reason of its existence lie in the creative act; whereas, what we deny here in the argument is the continuation of existence by an intrinsic reason, which would change the essence of the finite, and, from contingent, render it necessary.