Chapter IX: The Verdict (4)

"My God, my God!" she moaned, "that I should come to this, with my father's home, so peaceful-like, and me not daring to go back. Well, the last I heard of that man were when, at twelve o'clock last night, a neighbor rushed in and says to me, says she, 'Mrs. Eldridge, your old man's been and done it!' And as I looked at her, stupid-like, she says, 'He's killed that preaching gentleman as used to try and get all our men to leave off spirits.' And I fell back on the bed, and knowed nothing for hours."

Grace had listened throughout the pitiful story with calm, patient interest; she now said soothingly:

"Come, Mrs. Eldridge, it is a fearful blow, but God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, does he not? Tell me, you have not tasted anything since yesterday; is it not so? You must be faint, and, if we would bear up against sorrow, we must not lose our health. I have brought you money, but I think it is better I should send for some things for you, as you will hardly care to go out and be seen just now."

"Indeed and indeed it's true," sobbed the poor creature; "but you are a world too good, miss."

"I will read to you while you are waiting; it will soothe you," said Grace, as she went to the door, and called a girl from one of the multitudinous cavities of this warren-like house. She gave her money and instructions, and turned back into the room. The child in the cradle awoke. Grace took it up. The mother shuddered, saying: "Better it should die, lady, than live to be like its father."

The girl looked curiously down at the infant's poor, pinched face, and then answered:

"Let God settle that; it is not for you or I to question his doings towards children. I remember my little brother when he was like this."

"Ah! miss, no doubt he had a different father."

Grace turned pale, and did not answer. The woman was silent, but seemed merged in her own grief again. Then, with the child on her lap, the young girl began to read out of a Catholic Bible she had in her pocket. She thought Mrs. Eldridge would never know the difference, and she preferred her father's gift to herself to all the Bibles she had had during his pastorship. The poor woman seemed entranced. When Grace paused, she said:

"Them visiting ladies never does that, but they brings tracts and groceries. But how peaceful-like that do sound jest like our parson's daughter as used to read to mother at home."

"How old are you, Mrs. Eldridge?" asked Grace.

"Going twenty-four, miss. But, ah! I was a different woman when I got married. If you had a-seen me then, lady, you would not believe it was me."

And, in truth, the poor, wasted face looked old, and hungry, and thin, as if the spirit had aged so that it grew jealous of the once comely mask without, and withered it remorselessly with watching, and weepings, and sharp care. The little messenger came back to the door, bearing with her creature comforts, whose taste had long been unknown to the drunkard's wife. Then Grace rose to leave her, saying, "You shall not want, my poor friend; and whenever you wish to see your husband, I will try and manage it for you. If there is any possibility of saving him, it shall be done. While there is life, there is hope--of the soul as well as of the body. He might repent and be a help and an example to you. And then, no doubt, his wicked companions tempted him much, and the sin was perhaps not all his own. So look to God, and try and bear up, and I will come again."

She left the house with a pure joy at her heart, praying to God that he would keep her for ever in the path on which she had entered, and feeling that, in her weak measure, she had been permitted to bring herself a little nearer to the ideal of her dead father's life. She had laid upon his tomb a garland worthy of him, she had said words his spirit would have approved, and done a deed such as he himself would have bidden her do.

Back again to the dark, silent chamber of the dead she went, and found her watchful lover there; but she did not tell him that she had sought out the murderer's wife. That day came various torturing details, but she allowed Oakhurst to spare her much of their sorrow, and throughout the legal proceedings she never had to appear. The murder caused some stir, as the victim was an American citizen and the father of the young heir of the Howards. George Charteris visited his cousin, and offered her his services in every way, professional or friendly, that she might choose. She was touched by his ready sympathy, but wisely refused his _professional_ assistance.

"You see, George," she said, "it would seem ungenerous to have one so nearly related to him to plead against his murderer; besides, I would rather save the unhappy man from his due punishment, if it can be done."

"What, Cousin Grace!" he echoed, unable to understand her.

"It seems strange to you, I know; but I have not lived with my father all my life without knowing well how full of Christian charity he always was when any personal injury was done to him, and I am following his will, no less than the Christian precepts, when I say I would spare his unhappy murderer as much as lays in my power."

"My dear child, this is perfect quixotism. A fellow who should have been hung long ago!"

"I know you think differently; it is natural you should. You judge things by another standard, and from another point of view. Looked at in the light of the Gospel, things are very different, dear cousin. Do not let us speak about it. If it is romance to you; it is life and truth to me."

"For George's sake! Think what it will be when he learns it by-and-by!"

"You will not tell him now?" she asked in sudden alarm, clasping her hands. "Oh! do not, do not! My mother gave me that boy to watch over and guard from sin with my very life, but God has willed that his angel should be alone to watch him; yet I must ask you, if you have any influence, do not breed thoughts of wicked revenge in his mind--oh! do not, for, if you do, not only he will suffer, but it will fall back upon you all as a curse. God has made this to happen in his childhood, as if on purpose to hide it from him; do not, for pity's sake, run counter to the evident decrees of Providence."

Reluctantly George Charteris promised his cousin he would exert his influence to keep the father's murder a secret from the child. And so passed the terrible weeks of waiting, Grace ministering almost daily help to the wretched murderer's wife, and Edmund seeking to soothe her whom he loved so tenderly and so reverently. A priest was found to give a quiet blessing to the unconscious form they both had loved so well, and then the dark earth hid the body away, and sowed one more seed for the mystic coming harvest, which shall clothe the valley of judgment with such marvellous blossoming beauty.

When the final conviction of the prisoner and his sentence of capital punishment were made known, Grace was the first to break the news to the wretched wife, and the only one to soothe these dire tidings with suggestions of hope and mercy. The poor woman still refused to visit her husband, and it was more the shame of his crime, and the ignominy of his approaching death, than any spark of feeling left within her bosom for the man who had wooed and won her, that tortured her heart and bowed her head. Grace tried repeatedly to soften her, to melt the terrible callousness which was alive only to the earthly aspect of her grief; but for many weeks she tried in vain. The wild, horror-struck eyes of the unfortunate creature would fasten themselves upon her as she spoke--burning orbs, with unspeakable defiance in them, as if, from this day forth, the felon's wife felt herself to be a hunted creature, with the brand of her husband's sin undeservedly scathing her future life and that of her unconscious child.

When Grace hinted of a possible pardon, the poor thing stared with a frightened expression that only seemed to say: "And I must be his slave again," as if the thought of her own bondage were the only thing on earth that could move her. But at last, being appealed to in the name of her own self-respect, she seemed to have a dawning sense that her present course was hardly the one to elevate her once again into the sphere of tranquil content whence her husband's degradation had, three short years ago, so fatally withdrawn her. The dikes of her soul burst suddenly, and the flood of sweet memories of past days, and of the happy hours spent in the old farm-house, of the flood of womanliness and pity, of the sensibility of the mother, of the forbearance of the Christian, broke over her in saving waves, each teaching the same lesson in their infinite variety of tenderest human voices. She rose, took her child in her arms, and followed her young protectress nearly as far as the prison. Grace would go no further, but agreed to wait till the interview with the condemned man was over. The woman came out weeping and softened. Her husband was at least not obdurate, and expressed sincere regret for what he had been led to do. He bade his wife implore of the unknown lady who had so generously befriended them to accept the blessing he was not worthy to give, but which nevertheless was the last and only tribute a dying man could offer. Grace shuddered as this message was conveyed to her through tears and sobs, but her companion was too greatly busied with her own griefs to notice it.

One evening, as Edmund Oakhurst sat, with his promised wife, in the room the presence of the dead had hallowed to their simple, trusting hearts, he was astonished at her unusual agitation, and at the remark she quietly made as the expression of it.

"Edmund, I am going to get a reprieve for Eldridge, and that may lead to a commutation of sentence. He is very penitent, I hear, and, for his wife's sake, I should wish it."

"But, Grace," replied her lover, with characteristic common sense, "if he is penitent and well-prepared, it would be safer even for his own soul's sake that he should suffer the full penalty of the law."

"We are no judges of that, Edmund," she answered, her bright eyes turning, with suppressed enthusiasm, towards the open window, all bathed in wintry sunlight. "God, I think, must mean otherwise for him, or else he would never have put this idea in my mind. I have thought of it ever since he lay there" (pointing to the centre of the room, where the dear dead had rested), "and his spirit seemed to whisper it constantly to my heart, as if it were some message of God's mercy, of which he vouchsafed to make us the bearers to the rulers of earth."

"Grace, I thought your training would have led you a different way. I thought you would be the first to see God's hand in the established law. Darling, this is sentimentalism. You can forgive the wretched man, and pray for him, and help the forsaken ones he leaves behind, without hindering the law in its operations. You will have fulfilled the Christian duty of forgiveness, without interfering with another sphere of equally binding duty on the community."

"I think you might be right in an ordinary case, Edmund, but God seems to put this beyond common rules, to me."

"Is that not pride, Grace?"

"I trust not," she replied, gently but firmly; "it is a call, a command from God, just as my father's conversion, and my still more unexpected one, were calls from on high--direct calls that took our hearts by storm."

"Grace, dear, I cannot help thinking it presumptuous in you to dream of these things; you make them miracles almost!"

"Surely not, Edmund. Supposing a king were to send for his servant, and give him some important order to transmit, which, in the ordinary course of things, should have been conveyed through his prime minister; do you think the servant would be justified in feeling proud, or the person who received the order in feeling hurt, at the unusual way in which the king had been pleased to act?"

"Grace!" exclaimed Edmund, "you talk just as your father used! He always made me feel that he was right. I will not attempt to influence you any longer; I will leave the matter in the hands of God, and pray that you may be guided by him. If I were you, I would speak with a priest, though!"

"I have, dearest," answered Grace, looking less rapt, and perhaps mingling with her high thoughts a little unconscious human spice of innocent triumph.

"Oh!" said her lover, and, smiling, he relapsed into silence. After incredible efforts and unflagging energy had been spent upon the task, Grace succeeded in getting her father's murderer first reprieved, then re-sentenced to transportation for life. The shock of this news, the utter stupor of gratitude into which he was thrown, even though the name of his benefactress still remained a mystery to him, wrought a miracle in his nature, and sobered him for life. Faith came to the help of solemn thankfulness, and the husband and wife secretly became Catholics before leaving England. Grace, for some inexplicable reason, positively refused to see Eldridge, even at his wife's most earnest request. The fact was that she had once been face to face with him, in days when neither dreamed of the strange relations they were fated to bear to each other, and she feared, in her humility, lest he recognize her now. But Edmund, fully aware as he was of how matters stood, resolved that, without wounding his betrothed's sweet lowliness, he would yet reveal to the recipients of her charity the inestimable sacrifice she had made of her natural feelings for the sake of the "new commandment" of love and forgiveness taught by Christ's Gospel. So while the four stood in a group just before the departure of the convict-ship--Grace far apart with the mother, and her back turned to the convict--he slipped into the hand of the murderer a folded paper, saying something under his breath of its being of some little pecuniary use to them in their new home, and adding with a half-smile:

"_She_ knows nothing of it, but her name is written inside. Do not open it till you are on board."

Grace, meanwhile, was comforting the mother, whose little boy was in her arms for the last time, as Grace had wished to have it brought up under her own care.

"I have a little brother, you know," she said, "and, while I cannot fulfil my mother's trust with regard to him, I will lavish all my care on your child, and, please God, in a few years, when your husband earns his freedom, you shall see the boy again in my country, where nothing but good will ever be known of any of you."

So the ship sailed, and the convict's hand clasped the paper nervously. The mother was holding out her arms to her little boy, who struggled and cried in Grace's embrace. The man, standing on the deck, touched his wife's shoulder, and passed the paper to her. Had any one been close enough, he might have seen the swarthy cheek pale to a sickly hue, then flush as suddenly again. Those on shore only saw his face swiftly hidden in his hands, and his whole frame rock violently. Simultaneously the woman dropped on the deck, and Grace thought she must have fainted with the grief of leaving her child behind. Indeed, she was too much occupied with the little one to notice the ship minutely. The poor babe wailed and then struggled by turns, and it was no easy work to keep it quiet till the small party could find a coach to take them home. Edmund took care to look unconcerned and innocent, and, thanks to his betrothed's sweet unsuspiciousness of disposition, as also to the circumstances we have mentioned, his secret was kept until a passionately grateful letter from the poor convict reached her in her own home across the ocean. Edmund was her husband by that time, and she could not find it in her heart not to forgive him!

But we are slightly anticipating.

A few days after the departure of the convict-ship, George Charteris called on his cousin, to report to her about certain arrangements which he had volunteered to take on his own hands. He had now completed them, and had found a responsible and aged companion for Grace on her homeward voyage. The old lady was going out to some relations settled in Virginia, and was delighted to find a young girl of refinement and of good family to bear her company on her somewhat tedious journey.

Edmund had begged Grace Seymour to consent to be married before they left England; but the girl had some unaccountable longing for her own land, which, though he smiled at as childish, he nevertheless was too chivalrous to combat. He was to follow speedily, with George Charteris as groomsman, and an older friend, a priest bound for some of the Indian missions.

So the ocean was crossed once more, and in her own home, the beautiful marriage-gift she brought her husband, Grace Seymour was married. Mr. Ashmead, whom, with characteristic courtesy, she would not exclude from her quiet, unattended wedding, told her solemnly, as he walked by her side to her mother's grave under the thick-shaded elms, that he had had a secret once, which he wished to tell her now.

In grave wonderment she turned her eyes upon him. "My child," he said sadly, but with no shame flushing his clear cheek, "I once dreamt to have you for my own, and I waited from the moment I saw you first, standing here, bending down to look into the unfilled grave, till I saw your mind unfolding and blossoming, as in a cloistered garden, all alone; but when I knew that your faith was disturbed, my heart bled for you and for myself, for I saw that I had no spell wherewith to give you back what you had lost. And since the day your father left us, the dream faded as a thing that God had ordained not to be. So now, though our faiths are widely different, and though the memory of those times is very dear to me still, I can take your hand in all a father's freedom, and give you and your husband a father's blessing. Let us be friends for ever, Grace, will you?"

She had listened to him with a bright blush and attentive expression; she now took his hand, and said earnestly: "Yes, Mr. Ashmead; God bless you!"

The years sped on. Edmund Oakhurst soon owned estates that would have thrice bought the old homestead of his wife's early days; his fields were the fullest, his experiments the most successful, his men the best cared for, his profits the largest, his prosperity the most steady, in the whole country around. People left off calling him the "Britisher," and spoke respectfully of him as the "Squire"; even his religion was favorably regarded in consideration of his position and his well-known generosity. Children like himself rose up around him, and the convict's child seemed only like the elder brother of the rest. Things gradually changed, and Catholic schools and colleges made their appearance in the land. Oakhurst thought it more prudent to send his sons and his so-called nephew to American centres of Catholic education, rather than to the more advanced universities of France; but he reserved for home-teaching the nameless refinement he wished to stamp on his children. His wife was the worthy successor of her mother, whose sweet presence had once been so dear to the villagers of Walcot; only _her_ silent influence was now directed to that end which, after death, had become that of her mother too.

When, fifteen years later, the man who had left England a convict landed in America an emigrant, he found his oldest boy studying for the priesthood, and fast and enthusiastically outstripping his companion and rival in theological learning, Oakhurst's own second son. Again another change and another joy had been added to Grace's life, when her brother, on attaining his majority, came over with his uncle, George Charteris, now a tolerably well-behaved married man, and paid her a long visit within the walls of the old home, untouched and unchanged from what he recollected, save by accumulation of mosses, and a denser growth of creepers round the gables and the porch.

They have all gone to their rest now, these friends with whom we have been treading the past--all, save the sons of Grace and Edmund, and their only daughter, who afterwards married George Howard's son and heir. The old name that had been alternately the watchword of Catholicism and Low-Churchism in Gloucestershire veered round again in their persons to its first allegiance, and contributed unwavering steadfastness to the sum of heroic courage shown forth by that army whose chiefs in England are called Newman, and Manning, and that modern S. Bernardine of Sienna, Frederick Faber.

Walcot, too, though of Puritan breeding, knows the sound of Catholic bells now, and the priest's house is the unchanged old Seymour cottage, while the pastor himself is the English convict's child.

Edmund Seymour's sacrifice had sown the first grain of which Grace Oakhurst's children reaped a hundred-fold.

FOOTNOTES:

[275] Isaias xxxviii. 10, 13.

THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING.

III.

INTRINSIC PRINCIPLES OF PRIMITIVE BEINGS.

We have shown in a preceding article[276] that every primitive being proceeds from three extrinsic principles--the _final_, the _efficient_, and, if we may so call it, the _eductional_ or _pro-material_ principle; that is, the term out of which the being is educed, which term, as we there remarked, holds the place of the material principle still wanting.

We are now ready to prove that every primitive being has also _three intrinsic principles_, not more, and not fewer--a truth the knowledge of which is of the utmost importance in philosophy, as it enables the student to point out without hesitation everything that may enter into the constitution of primitive beings, with the gratifying certainty that, when he has once reached the said three principles, his analysis is perfect, and can go no further. But as our proposition is altogether universal, its demonstration will need the employment of arguments drawn from the most abstract of all philosophical notions; and our readers must bear with us if we fill a portion of the following pages with dry, though not abstruse, reasonings. The determination of the first constituents of things needs precision, not ornament, as it is nothing more than the drawing of the outlines by which the whole building of metaphysics is to be encompassed.

Our first proof is based on the following consideration. Of every existing being two things are cognizable: the first, _that it is_, the second, _what it is_. In other terms, all complete being is knowable both as to its _existence_ and as to its nature or _essence_. But while the existence of any given being is simply _affirmed_ as a fact, the essence is _understood_ as an object. Now, nothing can be understood which does not present itself to the intellect under the form of an intelligible ratio; for to understand is to see a relation of things, as _intelligere_ is nothing but _inter-legere_,[277] "to read between"--a phrase which clearly implies two definite terms, between which a definite relation is apprehended. Accordingly, nothing is intelligible, except inasmuch as it implies two correlatives; and, therefore, since every essence is intelligible, every essence implies two principles conspiring through mutual relativity into an intelligible ratio. These two principles of a primitive essence are themselves intelligible only as correlated; for the constituents of a _primitive_ essence are not other essences, as is evident; and therefore cannot have a separate and independent intelligibility. They are therefore absolutely simple and unanalyzable, and of such a relative character that they cannot exist, or even be conceived, separated from one another. The same is true of existence also, which has no separate intelligibility, as it is utterly simple and unanalyzable, and cannot be conceived or affirmed, except with reference to the essence to which it may belong. It follows, then, that every primitive being can be resolved into three simple principles, of which two constitute its real essence, whilst the third--viz., existence--completes the same essence into real being. Such is our first proof.

A little reflection will now suffice to determine the general nature of the two essential principles just mentioned, and to obtain at the same time a second proof of our proposition. Existence is the actuality of essence. Now, actuality can spring only from actuation; and actuation necessarily implies an _act_, which actuates, and a _term_, which is actuated. Therefore the two constituents of any primitive essence must be a real act whose intrinsic character is to actuate its term, and a real term whose intrinsic character is to be actuated by its act; whilst the actuality of the essence follows as a simple result from the mutual conspiration of these essential principles. Accordingly, every primitive being involves in its constitution three principles--viz., an _act_, its _term_, and the _actuality_ of the one in the other. This last is called the _complement_ of the essence.

Readers accustomed to intellectual speculations will need no additional evidence to be satisfied of the cogency of the two preceding proofs. But those who are less familiar with philosophy may yet want some tangible illustration of our reasonings before they fully realize the nature of the three principles and of their relations. We hope the following will do. Physicists show that if a material point moves for a time, _t_, with a uniform velocity, _v_, through a space, _s_, the relation of the three quantities will be expressed by the equation--

_s_ / _v_ = _t_

It is plain that the three quantities, _s_, _v_, _t_, are the three intrinsic principles of movement. In fact, the velocity, _v_, is the _act_, or the form, of movement; whence the epithet of _uniform_ applied to all movement of constant velocity; the amount, _s_, of space measured is the _term_ actuated by the said velocity; the time, _t_, is the duration of the movement, that is, its _actuality_; for as movement is essentially successive, its actuality also is successive, and constitutes a length of time. Here, then, we have most distinctly the three principles of movement. Let us remark that the first member of the equation is the _ratio_ of the term to its act, and therefore represents the essence of movement; whilst the second member exhibits the duration of its existence. The sign of equality between the two members does not mean that the essence of movement is the same thing as the existence of movement, but only that both have the same _quantitative value_. For it should be remarked that, although a ratio is usually defined as "the quotient of a quantity divided by another of the same kind," nevertheless the quotient is not exactly the ratio, but its result or value; and is not the equivalent of the ratio in quality, but in quantity only. In pure mathematics, which are exclusively concerned with quantities, the distinction between the ratio and its value may not be important; but when a ratio is viewed in its metaphysical aspect, the distinction is of great consequence. For a metaphysical ratio is not looked upon as the ratio of two quantities, of which the one is the measure of the other, but as the ratio of two realities, of which the one actuates the other, and which, though belonging to the same kind of being, are, however, of a relatively opposite character, as is evident from the very example we are considering. The space, _s_, and the velocity, _v_, are, in fact, conceived as quantities of the same kind, only because velocity is mathematically expressed in terms of the space measured through it in a unit of time; yet velocity is certainly not space, but is that by which matter is compelled to move through space; so that while the extent of the space measured in a unit of time corresponds to the velocity with which it is measured, velocity itself has no extension, but intensity only. Hence the ratio of space to velocity, metaphysically considered, is a ratio of extension to intensity, or of potency to act, as we shall presently explain.

The third proof of our proposition is very simple. The intrinsic principles of being must correspond to its extrinsic principles, each to each respectively. For were any of the extrinsic principles not represented in the principiated being by something real proceeding from it, and corresponding to it, such an extrinsic principle evidently would principiate nothing, and would be no principle at all. Now, we have seen that the extrinsic principles of primitive being are three. It is evident, therefore, that its intrinsic principles likewise must be three. The extrinsic principles, as before stated, are God's volition of bringing something into existence, the term of its eduction, and the creative power exerted in its production. Hence it follows that every thing created must contain within itself an _act_ as the product of the Creator's action, a _term_ as an expression of the term of its eduction, and an _actuality_ as the accomplishment and fulfilment of the volition of bringing it into existence.

We may here remark that the _act_ of the created being is produced _by_ God as its efficient _cause_, proceeds _from_ God's omnipotence as its efficient _principle_, and is produced _through_ action as the proximate _reason_ of its causation and principiation.

The _term_ of the created being, on the contrary, comes _out of_ mere nothingness, acquires its reality _through_ the mere position of an act, is not made, but actuated, and therefore has no efficient cause, but only a formal principle, the reality of which is the sole reason why the term is called real, and the disappearance of which would leave nothing behind. As a spherical form, by the necessity of its own nature, gives existence to a geometric centre, without need of an efficient cause, so does the essential act to its essential term. Let the spherical form be annihilated, and the centre will be gone; let the essential act vanish, and the essential term will have vanished together with it.

Finally, the _actuality_ of the created being proceeds from the act and the term as making up its formal source, or the _principium formale quod_; while the formal reason, or the _principium formale quo_, of its proceeding is the actuation of the latter by the former, and the completion of the former in the latter; for to actuate a term is to give it actuality, and to be actuated is to become actual; and therefore the result of such an actuation is the actuality of the act in its term, and of the term in its act, or the complete actuality of the created essence and of the created being.

Thus the whole being, by its act, its term, and its complement, points out adequately and with the utmost distinction the three extrinsic principles whence it proceeds.[278]

The fourth proof is as follows: Every created being possesses an intrinsic natural activity and an intrinsic natural passivity. It possesses activity; for every creature must have an intrinsic natural aptitude to reveal, in one way or another, the perfections of its Creator, as such is the end of all creation; but to reveal is to act; and, therefore, every creature possesses its intrinsic aptitude and determination to act--that is, _activity_. It also possesses passivity; for all contingent beings are changeable, and therefore capable of receiving new intrinsic determinations; and such an intrinsic capability is what we call _passivity_, or _potentiality_. The consequence is, that every creature possesses something by reason of which it is active, and something on account of which it is passive; which amounts to saying that every creature possesses its intrinsic principle of activity, or, as it is styled, its _act_, and its intrinsic principle of passivity, or, as we call it, its _potency_ or its _potential term_. Hence the well-known fundamental axioms of metaphysics: "Every agent acts by reason of its act," and "Every patient suffers on account of its potency."[279] Now, since the same being that can act can also be acted on, it is evident that that by reason of which it can act, and that on account of which it can be acted on, are the principles of one and the same actual essence, and therefore conspire into one formal actuality, which completes the essence into being. Accordingly, in all creatures, or primitive complete beings, we must admit _act_ and _potency_ as the constituents, and _actuality_ as the formal complement, of their essence.

These four proofs more than suffice to show that all primitive complete beings consist of _act_, _term_, and _complement_ as their intrinsic principles. But, as I am satisfied that on the right understanding of such principles the soundness of all our metaphysical reasonings finally depends, I think it necessary, before we proceed further, to make a few considerations on their exact notion, character, and attributions.

The _term_ of a primitive being owes its reality to its act. Before its first actuation, it had no being at all; it was only capable of acquiring it, and therefore was, according to the language of the schools, a reality _in mere potency_; since everything that has no being, but can be actuated into being, has received the name of _pure potency_.[280] Now, pure potency, though it is nothing real, is infinite and inexhaustible; not that nothingness can have any such _intrinsic_ attribute, but simply because no limit can be assigned to the possible eduction of beings out of nothing through the exercise of God's infinite and inexhaustible power. And it must be added that such a potency is thus infinite not only with regard to the substances that can be created out of nothing, but also with regard to the accidents which can be produced in those substances, and with regard to the modes resulting from the reception of such accidents. This being admitted, it is evident that, when the term of a created being acquires its first reality, a pure potency is actuated by an act; but is not actuated to the full amount of its actuality, which is infinite and inexhaustible. Indeed, no act gives to its potency the plenitude of all being; but every act gives that being only which corresponds to its own specific nature. And therefore the term of a primitive being, though actuated in its first actuation as much as is needed to make it the real term of a determinate essence, remains always capable of further and further actuation; in other words, such a term is still, and always will be, entirely _potential_ in regard to all other acts compatible with the nature of the first by which it is actuated.

Hence we come to the conclusion that every created being, for the very reason of its having been educed out of nothing, retains potency, as the stamp of its origin, in its essential constitution. _All creatures_, then, _are essentially potential_, and therefore imperfect; as potency means perfectibility. _God alone is free from potency_, as he is the only being that did not come out of nothing.

A second conclusion is that the essential term of a created being may be considered under two aspects--viz., as to the _reality_ it borrows from its act, and as to the _potentiality_ it inherits from its previous nothingness. Hence such a term must be called a _real potency_; the word _real_ expressing the fact of its actuation, and the word _potency_ expressing its ulterior actuability. Reality and potentiality constitute _passivity_.

It is not unusual to confound substance with the term actuated by a substantial act. Of course, the term cannot be thus actuated without the substance becoming actual; but, though this is true as a matter of fact, it does not follow that substance can be confounded with its intrinsic term. Sphericity actuates a centre; and yet the centre thus actuated is not a sphere, but only the intrinsic term of sphericity. In like manner the act actuates its potency; but this potency is not the substance itself; it is only one of its constituents.

The potential term, such as it is found in material substance, is called _the matter_. Hence all that plays the part of potency in any being whatever is called its _material_ constituent, although such a being may not contain matter properly so called. Thus we say, for instance, that the genus is the _material_ part of an essential definition, because the genus is potential respecting some specific difference, by which it may be further determined. In such cases the word _material_ stands for "that which receives any determination," whether it receives it in fact or in thought only. In English, the words _material_ and _immaterial_ are sometimes used in the sense of important and unimportant. This meaning may be perfectly justifiable, but is not adopted in philosophy.

With regard to the _act_ by which the essential term of a being is first actuated, it is necessary fully to realize the fact that this act is neither God's creative power nor God's creative action, but something quite different. It is true that all actions are measured or valued by their effects, that is, by the acts in which they end; thus we measure the amount of motive action by the quantity of movement[281] produced. Nevertheless, it is quite evident that the production of a thing, and the thing produced, cannot be confounded with one another. And, since action is nothing but the production of an act, the action and the act produced cannot be confounded with one another, even though they are represented by one and the same word. Thus the action of a painter is not the painting (substantive), although such an action is also called "painting" (participle). Again, the momentum of a falling drop of rain is not the action of the earth, although it is directly from it. And in the same manner the act produced by the Creator is not his creative action, though it is directly from it. Still less can we confound the act produced with the power by which it is produced; for though every effect is virtually contained in its efficient power, we know that it is not contained formally; otherwise the painting should pre-exist within the painter, and the momentum of the falling drop within the earth. As, then, the momentum of the falling drop has no formal existence in the earth, but only in the drop itself while it is falling, so also the act which proceeds from God has no formal existence in God, but only in the term actuated. To say that a created act is God's creative action or creative power, is no less a blunder than to say that a circle described on a blackboard is the power or the action of describing it.

The act which actuates its essential term, in the case of material substance, is called _the form_. Hence all that plays the part of an act in any being whatever is called its _formal_ constituent. Thus we say that the specific difference is the _formal_ part of the essential definition, because the difference is conceived as actuating the genus into species. In such cases the word _formal_ stands for "that which gives any determination," whether it gives it in fact or in thought only.

Finally, the _actuality_ of the created being corresponds, as we have already explained in the preceding article, to the finality of creation, inasmuch as it perfects the essence into being. This actuality has received different names, according to the different light in which it can be viewed and the different connotations of which it affords the ground. It is called the _complement_ of the essence, its _formal existence_, its _formal unity_, its _individuality_. It is called "complement" of the essence, inasmuch as it satisfies all its requirements, and completes it into actual being; its "formal existence," inasmuch as it is the formal result of active and passive actuation; its "formal unity," inasmuch as it arises from two principles conspiring into unity of essence, and therefore of existence also; its "individuality," inasmuch as it is the unity of a _concrete_ being; for individuality is nothing but "that on account of which a thing is formally _one_ in its concrete being."

Some philosophers of the Scotistic school hold that "individuality" and "formal unity" are different things. They say that formal unity is not individual, but universal; because it does not include in its conception the individuative notes. They accordingly teach that the universal is to be found to exist _formally_ in the individual; whence they have been surnamed _Formalists_, or _Ultra-realists_.[282] But it is not true that the formal unity does not include in itself the individuative notes. In fact, all existing essence contains in its own principles the adequate reason of its individuation, and therefore it cannot, by the real conspiration of its principles, be formally _one_ without being _individual_ also. Accordingly, formal unity, though universal in our conception, is individual in the thing itself.

It is evident that the actuality resulting from the act _giving_, and the term _receiving_, existence, exhibits itself as existence _given_ and _received_--that is, as _complete_ real existence. On the other hand, all real result has a real opposition to the formal principles of its resultation; for all that really proceeds has a real relative opposition to that from which it proceeds. A real relative opposition is therefore to be admitted between the real essence and its formal existence; and consequently essence and existence must be considered as really distinct. Not that the essence of a real being does not imply its existence; but because in the essential act and the essential term existence is contained only radically or virtually, not formally, in the same manner as the conclusion is virtually contained in the premises from which it follows, or as equality is contained in the quantities from whose adequation it results. Hence, as in the logical order the formal conclusion is distinct from the premises in which it is virtually implied, so also in the real order is the formal existence of any being to be distinguished from the real principles of the essence in which it is virtually implied. As, however, the act and the term, notwithstanding their real relative opposition and distinction, identify themselves really, though inadequately, with the _essence_ of the actual being, so also the actuality of the being, though having a real relative opposition to the act and the term from which it results, identifies itself really, yet inadequately, with the complete _being_ of which it is the actuality.[283] Whence we conclude that every primitive being, though strictly one in its physical entity, consists of three metaphysical constituents _really_ distinct from one another on account of their real relative opposition.

We must here notice that the last of these three constituents--actuality--is scarcely ever mentioned by the scholastic philosophers. They, in fact, consider all natural beings as constituted of _act_ and _potency_ only. It may have appeared to them that by simply stating the fact of the concurrence of act and potency into one actual essence, the fact of the unity and actuality of that essence would be sufficiently pointed out. They may have had another reason also for omitting the mention of our third principle; for in speculative questions it is the essence of things, and not their existence, that comes under consideration; and essence, as such, involves two principles only--viz., the _act_ and the _term_, as we have stated above. It is obvious, then, that in their analysis of the "quiddity" of beings, they had no need of mentioning our third principle. A third reason may have been that the act and the potency, or the form and the matter, in the opinion of those philosophers, were two things separable, as the Aristotelic theory of substantial generations implied; whereas the actuality of the being was not considered as a third thing separable from either the form or the matter, and therefore was not thought worthy of a separate mention.

But, the reality of this third principle being universally admitted, there can be no doubt about the convenience, and even the necessity, of giving it a distinct and prominent place in the constitution of any complete being. This has been already shown in the preceding pages; but, for the benefit of those who have never paid special attention to the subject, we will give a summary of the principal reasons why in metaphysical treatises the actuality of being should be methodically granted as distinct a place among the intrinsic principles of things as is allotted to the essential act and its term.

First, then, all being that has existence in nature is something complete, not only _materially_--that is, by having its term--but also _formally_, by having its own complete constitution or actuality. The difference between material and formal completion will be easily understood by an example. The sculptor carves the marble and makes a statue. The marble is the _material_ term, and the figure resulting in the marble is the _formal_ term, of his work. Hence the work of carving is _materially_ complete in the marble and _formally_ complete in the figure,[284] which is the actuality of the statue as such. And it is evident that, in speaking of a statue, such a figure is as worth mentioning as the marble and the carving. And therefore, as in the analysis of being we give a prominent place to the term which completes the act, we should do the same with regard to the actuality, which completes the essence. A writer in the _Dublin Review_, who has cleverly treated this subject, makes the following remark: "The constituents _actus_ and _terminus_, or _forma_ and _materia_, are recognized in the schools. The third constituent is not expressly mentioned there. But you hear of _essentia_ and _esse_; and _esse_ is the _complementum_. I have a fancy that the much-canvassed distinction between the ἐνέργεια and the ἐντελέχεια of Aristotle is really this, that ἐνέργεια is the _actus_, and ἐντελέχεια the _complementum_."[285] This remark is very judicious; for it is as certain that the complete being consists of essence and existence as it is certain that the essence consists of act and term; and, moreover, there is no less a distinction between the essence and its existence than between the act and its term. Hence the same reasons that led metaphysicians to give a conspicuous place to the act and its term in the analysis of the essence, show that a similar place should also be given to essence and its actuality in the analysis of the being.

In the second place, the formal complement of being is the only ground on which many different and opposite things can be predicated of one and the same being; as, for instance, activity and passivity, action and passion, to be, to be one, to be good, etc. It is, therefore, important not to leave in the shade that principle, without which no unity of being can be conceived.

Thirdly, an explicit knowledge and mention of such a complement is indispensable, in a great number of cases, when we have to explain how accidental modes _not received_ in a substance can _intrinsically_ belong to that substance--a thing which will never be radically explained without an explicit reference to the formal complement of the being in which those modes are to be found.

Fourthly, in the intellectual as well as in the sensitive nature the appetitive faculty cannot be accounted for, nor distinguished from the cognoscitive, unless we have recourse to this same formal complement, which constitutes the _affectibility_ of the same natures--a truth which we must here simply state, as its demonstration belongs to special metaphysics.

Fifthly, it is unwise to expose the reader to the danger of confounding things having a metaphysical opposition to one another; for instance, the uniting with the union accomplished, the constituting with the complete constitution, the actuation with the actuality. But if the actuality is kept out of view when we give the principles of beings, such confusion will be almost unavoidable. I believe that it is owing to the omission of this third principle that even great philosophers have not unfrequently mistaken attitudes for acts, and actualities for forms.

Sixthly, after we have analyzed a primitive complete being, and found it to consist of three intrinsic principles, it is nothing but reasonable to keep them all equally in sight, and to make them all serve in their turn for the simplification of metaphysical investigations; especially as the distinct recollection of the act, of its term, and of the actuality of both will also draw the student's attention to the corresponding extrinsic principles--viz., to the creative power from which that act proceeds, to the nothingness out of which that term was educed, and to the last end for which that actuality obtained a place in the real order of things.

Lastly, by the consideration that these _three_ intrinsic and relatively opposite principles constitute _one_ primitive complete being, it becomes possible to account philosophically for the known fact that every creature bears in itself, _in vestigio_ at least, as S. Thomas puts it, a more or less imperfect image of God's unity and trinity--a topic on which much might be said, were this the place for discussing the analogy between beings of different orders.

_A few corollaries._ From the resolution of complete beings into their intrinsic principles, and from the different character of these principles and of their principiation, a number of useful corollaries can be drawn, among which the following deserve a special attention:

1. It is a great mistake, and one which leads straight to pantheism, to assert, as Gioberti did, that creatures are not _beings_, but only _existences_. For if creatures have their own actual essence, they are not _mere_ existences, but complete beings; and, if they have no essence, they cannot exist; as all existence is the actuality of some essence. Hence to assert that creatures are not beings, but only existences, amounts to saying that creatures have no essence, and that their existence is the existence of nothing--that is, _non-existence_. Moreover, mere existence is a simple actuality, and does not exhibit an intelligible ratio; hence, if creatures were mere existences, they would be intrinsically unintelligible, not only to us, as Gioberti pretends, but to God himself, who certainly does not understand what is intrinsically unintelligible. There is no need of insisting on such an unavoidable conclusion.

That the same assertion leads straight to pantheism is likewise evident. In fact, the absurdity of admitting existences which would be existences of nothing could not be escaped but by trying to pin them on the substance of God himself, and by saying, with the pantheist, that all such existences are nothing but divers actualities, or attitudes, or forms assumed by the divine substance. Thus, to escape one absurdity, we would fall into another.

2. Inasmuch as the actuality of a given essence makes a given thing formally complete, one, and perfect according to its entitative degree, it is to such an actuality that everything owes that it is formally good, and that it answers to the finality of its creation. Such a goodness implies two things: the first, that every creature is good in its _absolute_ being, for it is in such a being that God's design is fulfilled of communicating his goodness outside of himself; the other, that every creature is good in its _relative_ being also--that is, in its intrinsic aptitude and determination to manifest God's perfections in a manner and degree proportionate to the kind and degree of its entity. Accordingly, every created being is good not only as it is a _thing_, but also as it is _a principle of action_. In the first capacity it fulfils the immediate end of its creation, and in the second it fulfils by its action the ultimate end for the sake of which it has been made to exist.