Chapter XII: Front Matter (12)

Here the journal ended!... Oh! what a torrent of recollections rushed across my mind at the sight of this unfinished page! This little book falling from her hand, ... her slumbers, ... her terrible awakening, ... her incoherent words, her last embrace, my despair! All this I recalled with poignant grief as I pressed my lips to the lines written by her dying hand. I shed a torrent of tears, but this time they were salutary tears. I had already severely expiated my error, for it was only my deep sorrow for having embittered the last hours of my mother’s life, and perhaps, O fearful thought! of hastening her end, that had given so dark a shade to my grief, and filled me with a despair akin to madness. I was now stronger, calmer, and wiser, and felt I could yet repair my fault by fulfilling my mother’s wishes, and this thought brought the first ray of comfort that penetrated my heart. I made many new resolutions in my mind, and felt I had firmness enough to keep them.

To Be Continued.

The Principles Of Real Being. V. Intrinsic Principles Of Complex Beings.

The primitive beings of which we have treated in a preceding article imply nothing in their constitution but what is strictly necessary in order to exist in nature; and therefore they are physically simple—that is, not made up of other physical beings, though they are metaphysically compounded, because their intrinsic principles are so many metaphysical components. Those beings, on the contrary, the entity of which is not strictly one, besides the three principles common to all primitive beings, involve in their constitution other components, either physical or metaphysical. Such _complex_ beings are either _substantial_ or _accidental_ compounds. We propose to investigate in the present article the general constitution of substantial compounds, then of accidental compounds; and lastly we shall inquire into the principles of the attributes and properties of complex, as well as primitive, beings.

Principles of substantial compounds.

By substantial compound we mean a compound _of which the components are distinct substances uniting in one essence or nature_. Such a compound is a physical one, inasmuch as it is made up of physical components; for substances are complete beings, and each of them has its own distinct and individual existence in the physical order of things.

This definition of substantial compound is very different from that which the scholastics drew from their theory of substantial generations. But since chemistry has shown, and philosophical reasoning based on facts confirms, that what in such a theory is called the “generated substance” is only a compound of substances, it must be evident that our substantial compound, as above defined, does not, in fact, differ from theirs, but is the same thing viewed under a different light. Perhaps, if the schoolmen had thought that bodies were possibly but the result of the composition of many permanent substances, they would not have called them _substantial_, but only _natural_, compounds; yet, since the epithet “substantial” has been originally adopted, and is still commonly applied to compounds which we know actually to contain many distinct substances, we cannot keep the word “substantial” without giving it such a meaning as will answer to the real nature of the things it qualifies. Nevertheless, should the reader prefer to apply the epithet “substantial” to that compound only which consists of matter and substantial form interpreted in accordance with the Peripatetic system, then the compounds of which we treat might be called _natural_, or _essential_, compounds, or _compound natures_. So long, however, as such compounds are called “substances,” we think we have the right to apply to them the epithet “substantial.”

The immediate principles of substantial compound are three, as in the primitive being: to wit, _act_, _term_, and _complement_; but they are of a different nature, as we are going to explain. Two cases are to be examined. For the physical parts, which unite to make one compound nature, sometimes rank all alike as material constituents of the compound, as in water, iron, silver, and other natural bodies; but at other times one of the constituent substances stands forth in the character of a form, as the human soul in the body, all the parts of the body remaining under it, and making up the complete material constituent of the compound nature.

In the first case, the physical components taken together constitute the adequate _potential term_ or the compound nature; because, as they are all alike material constituents, they are all alike potential respecting their composition; and thus they are all equally liable to be tied together by physical action. The specific composition will be the _act_ of the compound essence; for it is such a composition that formally binds together those physical components into one specific compound. Finally, the actual bond of the components, brought about by their composition, will be the actuality of the compound nature—that is, its formal _complement_.

That these three constituents differ very materially from those of a primitive being is evident: for, in a primitive being, _the term_ is a pure potency that receives its first actuation; whilst in the compound nature it consists of a number of actual beings which are no longer potential respecting their first actuation, but only with regard to their composition, which gives them a second and relative actuation in the compound. Again, _the act_, in the primitive being, is a product of creation, calculated to give the first existence to its term; whilst in the compound nature it is the product of actions interchanged between the components, and gives them, not to exist, but to be united so as to form a new specific essence. Lastly, _the complement_, in a primitive being, is the existence of a thing absolutely _one_, whilst in the compound nature it is the existence of a thing whose oneness is altogether relative.

In all compounds of this kind—viz., whose form is their composition—the components are, of course, physical beings, as we have stated; but their composition is only a metaphysical entity. Indeed, we are wont to call it “physical composition”; but we do not mean that it is a physical being; we only mean that it is the composition “of physical beings.” We know that formal composition is that by which the components are formally bound with one another; and we know also that the components are thus bound in consequence of their mutual actions, and that such actions cannot be conceived to be complete in nature, except inasmuch as they are received in their proper subjects—viz., in the components themselves. And therefore the composition which is styled “physical” is, of its own nature, only an incomplete and metaphysical entity; and, in a like manner, the actuality of the physical compound is not a physical being, as it cannot be found outside of that of which it is the result.

But a compound of the kind just mentioned is sometimes intended for an end which cannot be attained without the concurrence of a higher principle. Then, by the introduction of this new principle, a second kind of substantial compound arises, in which one of the components (the higher principle) ranks as the formal, and the others as the material, constituent of the compound nature. Such is the case with our own bodies; which, to fulfil the ends for which they are organized by nature, besides their bodily constitution and organism, require the infusion of a distinct principle of life. Hence the _formal_ constituent of man, and of all animals too, is the principle of life, or the soul; whilst his _material_ constituent is the body, with its organic constitution.

That the body is a physical being and a substance there is no doubt; and that the soul also is a physical being and a substance distinct from the body is conclusively shown in all good treatises of anthropology. The soul and the body are therefore two physical components, and make up a physical compound. The animal life, however, which is the result of the animation of the body by the soul—and is, therefore, the _complement_ of the compound—is not a third physical component, but a metaphysical entity; and thus of the three principles which constitute the animal, the first and the second only are to be reckoned as physical parts.

And now, since we have stated that the constituents of compound natures may have either a physical or only a metaphysical entity, we must further inform our readers that a great number of authors are wont to consider all the real constituents of physical beings as so many _physical_ entities. But we would say that in this they are mistaken; for although it is evidently true that the constituent principles of a physical being have a physical existence in the being to which they belong, it cannot be inferred that therefore all such principles must be called _physical_ beings; as some of them can neither have an independent existence nor be even conceived without referring to their correlative principles. Thus the act and the term of a primitive being are both entitatively less than physical beings; for the first being we find in the physical order is that which arises out of them. It is not, therefore, the same thing to say that a being is physically real, and to say that it is made up of physical realities. The first assertion may be true, and the second false; because a thing which is _one_ has only _one_ existence, and nevertheless implies three principles; whence it appears that it is impossible to conceive each of the three principles as having a _distinct_ existence. And since that which has no distinct existence in nature is not a physical being, accordingly the principles of primitive physical beings are not physical, but only metaphysical, realities.

We have further to remark that the act and the term, even when they are complete physical entities, in their manner of principiating the compound nature always behave towards one another as incomplete entities, inasmuch as their principiation is always of a metaphysical, and never of a physical, character. To speak first of those compound essences whose form is _composition_, we observe that the physical components of such essences are indeed _in act_, absolutely speaking, but, with regard to the composition, they are simply _in potency_: and since it is in this last capacity that they enter into the constitution of the compound nature, it is evident that they contribute to its constitution only inasmuch as they have a claim to further actuation. For to be potential respecting any kind of composition means not only that the parts _might_ be duly disposed to undergo such a composition, but moreover that they are already disposed and related to each other in that manner which _imperatively calls_ for such a composition. Consequently, the components, when thus disposed, constitute a potency which needs actuation, and stands, with respect to the form of composition, in the same relation in which any term stands with respect to its essential act. It is, therefore, manifest that the said components, though they are physical entities, behave as metaphysical principles in their material principiation of a compound essence. As for the composition itself, we have already seen that it is always a metaphysical constituent.

In the same manner, the soul and the body are indeed physical beings, absolutely speaking, and, therefore, independent of one another so far as their existence is concerned; but the body is informed and vivified, not inasmuch as it exists in its absolute actuality, but inasmuch as it is potential respecting animal life—that is, inasmuch as its organic composition imperatively claims a soul. And similarly the soul is a vivifying form, not inasmuch as it is something absolute in nature, but inasmuch as it naturally requires completion in the body for which it is created and to which it is actually terminated. It therefore appears that the soul and the body, in their principiation of the animal, behave towards one another as metaphysical principles.

Hence all composition of act and potency is, properly speaking, a _metaphysical_ composition; though, when the compound is resolvable into physical parts, the same composition may also, from the physical nature of the components, be rightly styled _physical_. The difference between a metaphysical and a physical compound does not, therefore, consist in the character of the composition itself, which is always metaphysical, but in this: that the latter can be resolved into physical parts which may and will exist after their separation, whereas the former can be resolved only into metaphysical constituents which are utterly incapable of separate existence.

What precedes refers to the immediate constituents of compound essences. It is evident that every immediate principle, which is a complete being, involves other principles. Hence all compound essences imply some principles which are _proximate_, and others which are _remote_. The remote are those by which every primitive component is itself constituted in its individual reality, and from which the components derive their real aptitude to become the material, the formal, or the efficient principle of the compound essence.

Principles of accidental compounds.

We have hitherto shown that all physical beings, whether physically simple or physically complex, involve in their constitution an act, a term, and a formal complement. Nothing more is required to conclude that no physical being can be conceived of as an act without its term, or a term without its act, or a formal actuality not resulting from the concurrence of an act and its suitable term. From this it immediately appears that accidents and accidental modes are not physical beings, and that their existence is necessarily dependent on the existence of some other thing of which they are the appurtenances.

An accident, properly so called, is _an act having no term of its own_, and, therefore, having no metaphysical essence and no possibility of a separate existence. Accordingly, the term of which it is in need must be supplied by a distinct being already existing in nature; and this is called _the subject_ of the accidental act. Hence no accidental act can be conceived to be without a subject.

And here we must reflect that, as the _first_ actuation of an essential term by its essential act has for its result the actual _existence_ of the individual being, so also any _second_, or accidental, actuation of the term by an accidental act has for its result an actual _mode of existing_ of the same individual being. From this plain truth we infer that a distinction is to be made between _accidental acts_, which are properly accidents, and _accidental modes_, which are only accidentalities. An accident, properly speaking, is that which causes the subject to acquire an accidental actuality, and is always an act; whilst the accidental mode is not an act, but an accidental actuality which results in the subject from the reception of the accidental act.

These general notions being admitted, let us inquire into the principles of accidental compounds. An accidental compound is either a compound of substance and accident or a compound of real essence with something superadded. In the first case, “accidental” means the opposite of “substantial”; in the second case, “accidental” means the opposite of “essential.” Thus _a falling body_ is an accidental compound of substance and its momentum, the momentum being a real accident; whereas _a man clothed_ is an accidental compound of individual human nature and dress; the dress being considered as something accidental as compared with the essence of man, though it is a real substance. And in the same manner a mass of gold is an accidental compound of golden molecules, because each molecule fully possesses the essence of gold independently of any other molecule; whence it follows that the addition of other molecules is accidental as compared with the essence of gold, and only increases the quantity without altering the specific nature of gold. Of course, these other molecules are substances, and it is only their concurrence into one mass that is accidental.

It is plain that the constituent principles of an accidental compound are three—viz., _the accidental act_ which entails a modification of the subject; _the subject_ which receives the modifying act; and _the accidental mode_ of being, or the modification, which results from the reception of the act in the subject.

The subject is always a complete physical being, and, therefore, has its own essential act, term, and complement, independently of all things accidental. It becomes the subject of an accidental act by actually receiving it.

The accidental act which is received in the subject must proceed immediately from the action of some natural or supernatural agent. This is evident; for real receptivity is real passivity, and therefore reception is passion. Now, no passion can be admitted without a corresponding action. Hence all accidental act that is properly and truly _received_ in a subject is the immediate product of action, and its production exactly coincides and coextends with its reception.

Lastly, the mode of being which results from the accidental actuation of the subject is only an accidentality, or an accidental actuality, as we have already remarked, and is predicated of the subject, not as something _received_ in it, but as something following from the actual reception of the accidental act. Hence the substance, or the nature, which is the subject of such accidental modes lies under them, not on account of its receptivity, but on account of the resulting potentiality, which is a proper appurtenance, not of the material term, but of the formal complement of the substance. And, in fact, the complement of all created essence always arises from the actuation of a potential term, and therefore is itself necessarily potential—that is, liable to such accidental changes as may result from any new actuation of the essential term. This resulting potentiality is commonly styled _mobility_, _changeableness_, or _affectibility_, and may be called _modal_ potentiality in opposition to the _passive_ potentiality which is the characteristic of the essential term.

Hence a subject is said to _receive_ the accidental act, but not the accidental mode; and, on the contrary, is said to _be affected_ by the accidental mode, but not by the accidental act. We may say, however, that a subject _is modified_ as well by the act as by the mode, because this expression applies equally to the making of the change (_mutatio in fieri_) and to the state that follows (_mutatio in facto esse_).

A subject has, therefore, two distinct manners of _underlying_: the one on account of its receptivity, the other on account of its affectibility; the one by reason of the _passive_ potentiality of its term, the other by reason of the _modal_ potentiality of its complement. Thus a body, according to its passive potentiality, underlies the _act_ produced in it by a motive power, because it passively receives the motive determination, and, according to its modal potentiality, it underlies _local movement_, this movement being the immediate result of the determination received. And in a similar manner our soul, inasmuch as it is receptive or passive, underlies the act produced or the impression made in it by a cognizable object; and inasmuch as it is affectible, it underlies the feeling or affective movement, which immediately results from the cognition of the object.

We have said that every accident which is received in a subject and inheres in it must be produced by the action of some agent; and this being the case, it follows that the quantity of the mass of a body, and the quantity of its volume, which are not the product of action, cannot be ranked among the accidents received and inhering in the body; and generally all the accidental modes which arise in the subject, in consequence of the reception of accidental acts, are intrinsic modes indeed, but are not received, and do not properly _inhere_ in their subject; they only _result_ in the subject. Moreover, as all such intrinsic modes immediately arise from the intrinsic reception of accidental acts, it follows that those accidental modes which do not arise in this manner must be _extrinsic_; and therefore such modes, though they are predicated of their subject, do not inhere in the subject, but only in a certain manner _adhere_ to it. All accidental connotations and relativities belong to this last class.

Hence we gather that predicamental accidents are of different species, and accordingly demand distinct definitions. The accidental act, or accident strictly, is an act received in the subject and inhering in it; the intrinsic mode is an accidental actuality or modification resulting in the subject; the extrinsic mode is a simple connotation or respect arising between the subject and some correlative term. Accordingly, accidental being in general cannot be defined as “that which inheres in a subject”—_quod inhæret alteri tamquam subjecto_—for this definition does not embrace all accidentalities, but should be defined as “that which clings to a subject”—_quod innititur alteri tamquam subjecto_, the phrase “to cling to” being understood in a most general sense. This last definition covers all the ground of predicamental accidentalities; for it is, in fact, applicable to all accidental acts, intrinsic modes of being, and extrinsic connotations.

For the same reason, the subject is not to be defined as “that which receives within itself an accidental entity,” but as “that to which an accidental entity belongs,” and, taking the word “subject” in its most general sense, we may also define it, as Aristotle did, to be “that of which anything is predicated.” It is only by this last definition that we can explain the general practice of predicating of everything, not only its accidentalities, but also its attributes and essential properties. Such predications would be impossible, if the notion of subject were restricted to that which receives on itself accidental entities; for attributes are not accidents, and are not received in their subject, but spring forth from its very essence, as we are going presently to show.

When the thing predicated of any subject is an accidental act, then its subject is _a subject of inhesion_. When the thing predicated is an intrinsic mode, no matter whether essential, substantial, or accidental, then its subject is _a subject of attribution_. And when the thing predicated is only a connotation or a respect (_modus se habendi ad aliud_), then its subject is _a subject of mere predication_.

As we have stated that natural accidents cannot exist without a subject, the reader may desire to know how we can account for the accidents which, in the Holy Eucharist, exist without their substances. As a lengthy discussion of this philosophico‐theological question would be here quite out of place, we will content ourselves with remarking that the Eucharistic species of bread, as described by S. Thomas and by the ancient scholastics, is not a natural and predicamental accident; and that, therefore, many things may be possible with the Eucharistic species which are not possible with natural accidents. It is not true, in fact, what some have maintained, that in the Holy Eucharist _each_ of the accidents of bread exists without any subject. Theologians acknowledge that the quantity of the bread fulfils the duty of subject with regard to all the other accidents, and consequently that all the other accidents, after the consecration as before, cling to quantity. There is no need, therefore, of assuming color without a subject, or figure without a subject, or weight without a subject. This would simply mean color of nothing, figure of nothing, weight of nothing; which is not a miracle, but an absurdity. To account for the sacramental species, theologians need only to show that the _quantity_ of the bread can exist miraculously without the substance of the bread. This is the only accident which remains without any subject whatever; for the Sacred Body, which _ad modum substantiæ_—that is, substantively, replaces the substance of the bread—is indeed under that quantity, but it is not affected nor modified by it, and therefore cannot be called its _subject_ in the ordinary sense of the word, though some writers have called it a _sacramental subject_.

To show that quantity without the substance of which it is the quantity is not an impossibility, we must leave aside the idea that such a quantity is _a form inherent_ in the substance. For the quantity of the mass which alone is destined to become the first subject of all the other accidents is made up of a number of material parts, and therefore is not a form, but a certain amount of actual matter, and _fulfils the office of matter_, as S. Thomas recognizes, and not that of form, as Suarez and others after him have erroneously assumed. Now, it is evident that as no number can be conceived without units, so neither can a quantity of mass be conceived without its parts; and that, if such parts or units are substances, the quantity of the mass will be nothing less than a number of substances. So long, then, as such a quantity remains, it cannot cease to be a number of substances, unless, indeed, each of the units of which it is made up, _and which must always remain_, be supernaturally deprived of that which places them formally in the rank of substances. This is, therefore, what must be done, and what is really done by transubstantiation. When, in fact, the words of the consecration are pronounced, and the Sacred Body of our Lord is constituted under the sensible symbol _ad modum substantiæ_ (that is, not only substantially, but substantively), then the substantiality of every particle of the bread is superseded, and, so to say, supplanted by the new substance which lies under each of them, but which leaves intact the constituents of concrete quantity; for “the act and the power of substance,” and “whatever belongs to matter,” remains in each of them, as S. Thomas teaches, in accordance with the common doctrine of the ancient scholastics and of the fathers of the church.

Thus the quantity of the bread remains the same as before, and _retains its formal and material constitution_, notwithstanding the substantial conversion of the bread into the Sacred Body of our Lord. Had the modern scholastics paid more attention to this last point, they would have seen that the species of bread is none of those natural accidents, whether forms or formalities, which found a place in Aristotle’s categories, but is a supernatural accident as perfectly constituted, in its own way, as substance itself, and therefore capable of being kept in existence by God without the help of a natural subject. The reader may infer from these remarks that the philosophical questions about _natural_ or predicamental accidents are altogether distinct from, and independent of, those concerning the sacramental species; and that therefore nothing that philosophers may say about _natural_ accidents can have any direct bearing on the explanation of the Eucharistic mystery.

One thing remains to be said regarding the distinction between accidental and substantial compounds. We have defined the first to be a compound “of substance and accident,” or a compound “of essence and something accidentally superadded to it.” The second we defined to be a compound “of substances uniting in one essence or nature.” But, as we noticed, the authors pledged to the theory of substantial generations admitted of no “substantial” compound but that which was believed to consist of matter and substantial form; and accordingly all compounds the form of which was an accidental entity, say _composition_, were considered by them as accidental. We observe that composition, though an accidental entity, is nevertheless the “essential” form of the compound, and gives it its “first” actuality. If, then, the compound is a distinct essence, and has a distinct name, and is called a distinct “substance,” as water, iron, gold, etc., its form, though an accident, is an essential constituent of the specific substance.

We cannot at present discuss the question of substantial generations; we only remark that, to avoid all useless disputes about words, a physical compound, when it contains nothing but what is needed for the constitution of its specific nature, may be called _Unum per se naturale_—_i.e._, a being essentially one; and when it has something accidentally superadded, it may be called _Unum per accidens_—_i.e._, a being accidentally one. This distinction of names, which is familiar to all philosophers, expresses the distinction of the things without having recourse to the terms of “substantial compound” and “accidental compound,” taken in the Peripatetic sense of the words. Thus, whilst the Peripatetics based their distinction between these compounds on a presumed difference between their forms, we draw our own from the presence or absence of anything not belonging to the specific nature of the compound. This we do in accordance with the true spirit of scholastic philosophy, not to say compelled by a philosophical necessity; for we know that the constituent form of a purely material compound, though essential with respect to the compound itself, is only an accident received in the substance of the components, as we may hereafter have an occasion to show. And now let us come to the attributes of complete beings.

Principles of attributes and properties.

All complete beings possess attributes and properties called _essential_—that is, invariably following the essence to which they belong. It is therefore necessary for us to inquire whether, to account for them, any special principles must be admitted. We can easily show that no new real principle is required besides the principles of the essence, as all the essential attributes and properties(68) of a complete being are fully contained in the real essence of the same as in their fountain‐head, inasmuch as they are nothing else than _the actuality_ of the essence considered under different aspects or connotations. It is known, in fact, that the essential attributes of things are said by all philosophers _to emanate_ from the essence, _to flow_ from the essence, _to follow_ from the essence, without any other thing being ever mentioned as their principle; which shows the universality of the doctrine that the essence alone is the adequate _source_ of all its attributes.

And here let us observe that the words _principle_ and _source_ are not synonymous; for a principle is not sufficient, of itself, to principiate anything without the concurrence of other principles, as it does not perfectly contain in itself the whole reality of which it is a principle. The source, on the contrary, contains totally and adequately within itself whatever emanates from it; so that any such emanation, taken separately, is only an imperfect exhibition of the reality from which it emanates, as it presents it only under one out of the many different points of view under which it may be regarded. To say, then, that the essence of a thing is the source of all its attributes is to say that the essence itself alone sufficiently accounts for their origin, their necessity, and their distinction.

That such is the case we shall easily understand by reflecting that all the essential attributes and properties of a thing express the _being_ or actuality of the thing under some special aspect; as _to be_ active, _to be_ passive, _to be_ one, _to be_ simple, etc. Now, _to be_, or actuality, immediately results from the principles of the essence alone, as we have proved in our last article. Consequently, the essential attributes and properties of anything immediately result from the essential principles of the thing—that is, from its real essence. Thus a being is active inasmuch as the act by which it is can be further terminated; and therefore _to be active_ is nothing more than to have in itself an act further terminable; and activity, or active power in the abstract, is nothing more than the further terminability of the same act. In like manner, a being is passive inasmuch as its intrinsic term is still capable of further actuation; and therefore _to be passive_ is nothing more than to have in itself a term which can be further actuated; and passivity, or passive potentiality in the abstract, is nothing more than the further actuability of the same term. The like may be said of every other attribute. Meanwhile, if we inquire what does _terminability_, or _actuability_, add to the thing, we shall soon see that it adds nothing real, but only exhibits the reality of the thing under a special formality as connoting something either intrinsic or extrinsic to it. Thus the terminability of the act simply connotes some term capable of actuation, and the actuability of the term simply connotes an act by which it can be actuated.

From this it follows that the essential attributes of being are nothing but distinct _abstract ratios_ having their foundation in the principles of the complete being, and presenting its actuality under different aspects. In fact, it is because such a being contains the foundation of all those ratios that our intellect, by looking upon it, is enabled to discover them, and to trace them distinctly to their distinct principles. It thus appears that the true reason why no new real principles are needed to account for the essential attributes of things consists in this, that the whole reality of the attributes already pre‐exists in the thing, and that nothing further is necessary, that they may be distinctly conceived, but intellectual consideration.

What we have said of the attributes that have their foundation in the essential principles of being applies equally to qualities which are the immediate result of accidental actuation. Thus, if a material point be acted on, the result of the determination it receives will be _velocity_. Of course, velocity is an accidental attribute, since it follows from the termination of an accidental act; yet it results as perfectly from that termination as the essential attributes result from the termination of the essential act.

In general, all the objective ratios which immediately follow the constitution of a concrete being need no additional principles, because they are already contained in the entity of the concrete being, in which the intellect finds its ground for their distinct conception. And here let us add two remarks. The first is that all such intelligible ratios identify themselves really, though inadequately, with the concrete entity of which they are predicated; so that between the attribute and its concrete subject there can be but the slightest of metaphysical distinctions. The second is that the essential attributes of a _simple_ being are never _really_ distinct from one another. The reason of this is evident; for such attributes are the simple actuality of a simple being, which does not cease to be identical with itself when it is viewed from different points of view. They admit, however, of a distinction of reason; for when the same thing is considered under different aspects, the distinct concepts that are then formed by the mind evidently exhibit distinct objective ratios, every one of which corresponds to one of those aspects without formally implying the others.

Though we have hitherto spoken of the essential attributes and properties of _primitive_ beings, the doctrine we have expounded is also applicable to those of all substantial compounds. Thus the attributes and properties of a molecule of hydrogen, oxygen, or any other specific compound have the reason of their being in the essential principles of their respective compound, and nothing else is required to account for them, as is evident from the preceding explanations. It is to be observed, however, that in such compounds as owe their being to material composition only, as it is the case with all the molecules of natural bodies, the composition which is the essential form of the compound is not a substantial, but an accidental, determination of the components; and hence it is that each such molecule involves in its essential constitution _both substance and accident_, and therefore is not exactly a substance, but a natural compound essence. The consequence is that its essential attributes, too, owe their being not only to the component substances, but also to such accidents as are essentially implied in the constitution of the compound. Thus, _porosity_, _compressibility_, _bulk_, etc., which are essential attributes of each molecule as such, have the reason of their being partly in the elements of which they are made up, and partly in the specific form of their composition. Now, this specific form may undergo accidental changes _without trespassing the bounds of its species_; and those essential attributes which depend on the specific composition may consequently undergo a change in their degree; and since none of those changeable degrees are determinately required by the essence of the molecular compound, it follows that the essential attributes and properties of each molecule, in so far as their actual degree is concerned, are accidental; and accordingly such attributes and properties by their degree belong to the predicament of accidental _quality_. Such is the case with the attributes of every single molecule of a natural substance.

As for bodies made up of a number of molecules of the same kind, it is evident that all such bodies are accidental compounds, and none of them can have any other essential attributes besides those which are common to their molecules. For the union of equal molecules is the union of _integrant_ parts, and gives rise to no new species, but only to accidental relations, quantity of mass, and quantity of volume; and consequently all the attributes and properties originating in the agglomeration of such integrant parts are simply accidental qualities. Thus _liquidity_ is an accidental quality of water, because it exhibits only the mutual behavior of distinct molecules which, of themselves, and apart from one another, are not liquid, though they have all that is needed to unite in the liquid state. And indeed, if each molecule contains the true essence of water, and yet is not actually liquid, actual liquidity has nothing to do with the essence of water, and therefore is not an essential attribute of water, but an accidental mode resulting from mutual accidental action between neighboring molecules.

There are two cases, however, in which new essential attributes may be found in a body without being found in the component molecules. The first is when the component molecules undergo chemical combination; for in this case such molecules are not merely integrant but _constituent_, and by their combination a new essence is formed. Now, a new essence gives rise to new essential attributes. Thus sulphuric acid, for instance, has attributes which do not belong to its components.

The second case is when the whole body is only a part of the compound essence—that is, when the specific form of that essence is a distinct substance, as in man and all animals, whose bodies are informed by a soul. In this case, the whole body and all that belongs to its organic constitution is involved in the essence of the perfect compound of which it is a part; and therefore some among the essential attributes of the compound must depend on the very constitution of the body. Thus _stature_ follows from the essential constitution of man, which includes a body having dimensions. But here, again, we must observe that, although to have some stature is an essential attribute of man, to have _this_ stature rather than that is an accidental quality; it being evident that human nature can exist without _this_ determinate stature.

By the preceding remarks we are led to conclude, 1st, that all essential attributes originate in the essential constituents of the nature of which they are the attributes; 2d, that all the accidental attributes or qualities originate in the accidental determinations of the nature of which they are the accidental qualities; 3d, that, in material compounds, those essential attributes which depend on the composition admit of different accidental degrees.

We have only to add that the abstract ratios, through which the attributes and properties of things are conceived, are very frequently styled _formalities_. Formalities are, generally speaking, either _real_ or _logical_. A real formality is that which has its being in the reality of things; a logical formality, on the contrary, is that which has no being in real things, but only in our conception.

Real formalities are also called _metaphysical degrees_. Thus, in Socrates, animality, rationality, individuality, personality, etc., are so many metaphysical degrees. All such degrees express the _being_ of the thing under some particular aspect; as to be animated, to be rational, to be an individual, etc., as we have above remarked.

Real formalities are either _absolute_ or _respective_. The absolute are those which belong to the thing considered in itself absolutely; as substantiality, oneness, singularity. The respective are those which imply a connotation of something else; as terminability, passivity, cognoscibility. The absolute formalities correspond to the absolute attributes of beings; the respective correspond to the relative attributes—that is, to the properties and qualities of beings.

Real formalities are either _positive_, _negative_, or _privative_. The positive are directly founded on the _act_, _term_, and _complement_ of the being; as activity, passivity, and inertia. The negative are real negations affecting the thing; as the mode of substance, which is a negation of sustentation. The privative are real privations, as blindness in man.

We may observe, by the way, that the logical formalities are likewise either positive, negative, or privative. The positive exhibit the thing as a positive element of logical thought; as when _man_ is said to be _the subject_ of a proposition. The negative exhibit the thing as affected by a negation which is not in the thing, but only in our conception of it; as when we say that God’s immensity and eternity are distinct; for distinction is a negation of identity, but the distinction in this case is only mental, because those two attributes are the same thing in reality. The privative exhibit the thing as mentally stripped of that which is due to it; as when we consider color, figure, velocity, etc., as formally universal, and therefore as deprived of a subject; for they cannot be deprived of a subject except in our conception.

This is what we had to say about attributes and properties. As we have here and there mentioned inadequate identity, metaphysical distinction, distinction of reason, etc., we will take care to have the meaning of these words accurately explained in our next article, in which we hope to end this our cursory survey of the principles of real being.

To Be Continued.

The Butterfly.

From The French Of Marie Jenna.

Why silently draw near
And menace my joyous flight?
What is there in my gay career
That can offend your sight?

I am only a vivid beam,
Flitting now here, now there,
A wingéd gem, a fairy dream,
A flower that the breeze may bear.

The brother of the rose,
In her breast I shun the storm;
On her soft bosom I repose,
And drink her perfume warm.

My life is a transient thing,
Why mar its glad estate?
Answer me, O creation’s king!
Art envious of my fate?

Nay, hear me while I pray:
Elsewhere thy footsteps bend;
Let me live at least one happy day,
Thou that shalt never end!

The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil.

From the Revue Du Monde Catholique.

XX.

That day was February 25, 1848. If you remember, there had never been seen, at that season, such mild weather and such brilliant sunshine. But that the trees were without leaves, it seemed like May; and in the orchards exposed to the south, the almond‐trees were even covered with big buds ready to flower.

This beautiful, early spring rejoiced all on the earth, both men and beasts; the peasants were heard singing in the fields, the horses neighing at the plough, the hens clucking, the sparrows chirping, the lambs bleating; and down to the babbling brooks, that flowed and leaped over the stones with more than ordinary rapidity, each creature, in its own way, appeared happy and glad.

The _curé_ walked along slowly, a little fatigued by the heat, to which he was not yet accustomed. He closed his Breviary, and thought of the dear family he was about to rejoice with his good news, and doubtless, also, of the exile, who only waited for one word to return to his beloved home.

When he reached the right of the barns at Muiceron, he paused a moment behind the cottage to take breath and wipe his forehead. From that spot he could see into the courtyard without being seen; and what he saw, although very simple, moved him to the bottom of his soul.

Jeanne Ragaud was drawing water from the well; but, instead of carrying off the buckets already filled, she deposited them on the ground, and, resting her elbows on the curbstone of the well, covered her face with her hands in the attitude of a person completely overcome.

He knew she was weeping, and certainly her poor heart must have been full of sorrow that she should give way to such silent grief. The good _curé_ could no longer restrain himself; he advanced gently behind her, and, when quite near, touched her on the shoulder, just as he had done in former days, when he wished to surprise her in some school‐girl’s trick.

Jeanne turned around, and he saw her pretty face bathed in tears.

“Oh! oh!” said the kind pastor, smiling, “what are you doing, my daughter? I wager you are the only one who is not rejoicing to‐day in the bright sunshine that the good God gives us.”

“Father,” said the little thing, who always thus addressed our _curé_ when they were alone, “it is perhaps very wrong, but it is precisely all this joy I see around me that breaks my heart. When I reached the well, I thought how often Jean‐Louis had come to this very place to draw water for us, and how displeased he was when my mother wished to do it herself. Poor Jeannet! he was so gentle and kind! Oh! I am sure he is unhappy away from home.”

“That is not doubtful,” replied the _curé_; “but perhaps one day we will see him again.”

“I begin to despair of it,” said she. “He left heart‐broken, and perhaps now he detests me.”

“Perhaps? Perhaps, my daughter, can mean yes as well as no; why should it not be no?”

“Ah! if I only knew!” said she.

“Well, what would you do?”

“I would write to him that I love him,” she cried, clasping her hands; “and I would beg him to come and tell me that he pardons me, and take his place again at home; for the house will always be his, whether I live or die; and although I have done very wrong, he would listen to me, don’t you think so, father?”

“Yes,” said the _curé_, much touched; “he is a person who never cherished rancor against any one. Write to him, my child, and tell him all you wish; your letter will reach him.”

“Ah! you know where he is? I thought so,” said she joyfully.

“Yes, indeed! I know where he is, and I will now tell you, my dear daughter. He is in Paris, where he wants for nothing; and if you are good, if you will stop crying, I will read you some of his letters, which will make you happy.”

“Oh! I promise you that I will be good. I will not cry any more—never again,” cried the poor little creature, who instantly began to sob, by way of keeping her promise.

But they were tears of joy this time, and the _curé_ let them flow without reproof. They entered Muiceron together, and Jeannette, without any preambulation, threw herself on her mother’s breast, crying out that Jeannet was coming back. Pierrette, who desired it as ardently as she, asked to be excused for one moment, that she might run off and tell Ragaud, who was sowing clover near the house. It was right that they should be all together to hear such welcome news; but scarcely had the good woman reached the door, than she knocked against Jacques Michou, who had just crossed the threshold.

“Jean‐Louis! Jean‐Louis is coming back!” said Pierrette, as she passed him. “Come in, Jacques Michou; I will be back in a second.”

Michou entered in his usual tranquil manner. He saluted the _curé_ and Jeanne without showing the least excitement.

“Who says that Jeannet is coming back?” he asked.

“We don’t say he is coming back,” replied the _curé_, “but that he will return home.”

“All very well,” answered Michou; “but, for the present, that is not to be thought of.”

“My God!” cried Jeanne, “what has happened?”

“The revolution in Paris,” said Michou; “and this time it is real. Here is a letter from M. le Marquis, who tells me that in three days from now all will be fire and blood. He orders me to join him—Jeannet is with him—and I will take guns for everybody.”

Jeannette fell fainting in a chair. M. le Curé conversed with Michou; and, meanwhile, Ragaud and Pierrette entered, and learned, in their turn, the event, which was very true, as we all know. I leave you to think if there were ahs! and ohs! and exclamations of all kinds. For a full hour there were so many contradictory statements you would have thought the revolution at Paris transported to Muiceron. Several peasants, returning from the city, stopped at the farm, and reported there was agitation everywhere; that a great number of workmen in the factories had decamped; and, as under similar circumstances all sorts of stories are told and believed, it was added that half the capital was already burnt, and that smoke was seen in all the other parts of the city. At that, Michou shrugged his shoulders; but he was anxious about his master, whom he knew to be the man to do a thousand imprudent things, so he took a hasty farewell of his friends, and that very evening passed Muiceron in full rig, armed and equipped, ready for his post.

So once again everybody at Muiceron became gloomy and miserable, as each day brought its fresh contingent of sad news. For if, in the city and among learned men, where there is every chance of correct information, every one appears half crazy in time of public calamity, and in a fever to talk all kinds of nonsense, you can imagine what it is in a village, where one is obliged to listen to the neighbors and gossips, who always improve on the most absurd reports. It is true, also, that they never see a paper, and it is lucky if they preserve a few gleams of good sense; but what each one draws from his own private source amply suffices to bewilder everybody.

I, who speak to you, and who was very young at the time of this revolution, remember well to have heard it positively affirmed that the king, Louis Philippe, and his family had been crucified in front of their château, then cut in little pieces, boiled, and eaten by the people! And when, in addition, it was said that the waters of the Seine had formed a magnificent cascade from the heaped‐up corpses, and were red with blood as far as the bridge at Rouen, I did not think the thing incredible, and, with great simplicity, I always awaited still more extraordinary news.

I remember, also, that a band of our most respectable young men took turns every night in mounting guard around the château of Val‐Saint, because it was known, from a trustworthy source, that the cellars contained more than a hundred barrels of powder, ready to blow up at the shortest notice. Now, to ask how so many barrels, the least of which weighed as much as a tun of wine, could have been placed there without being seen, is what no person thought of; and the reflection, what man, sufficiently desirous of putting an end to his days by bringing that enormous building down upon him (a thing which could profit no one), would be capable of setting fire to the powder, still less entered their heads; and yet terror was at its height at the mere thought of an explosion so tremendous that it would have broken all windows for two leagues round. And thus it is that good people, without wishing it, lend their hands to the revolution.

It was not that all this was believed at Muiceron as readily as I swallowed it, but, in reality, they were very anxious, and ardently desirous of hearing news. A long week passed. M. Michou wrote a short letter, in which he said everybody was well, that M. le Marquis and Jean‐ Louis were always together, and cried out, “Long live the king!” in the streets while carrying a white flag, which made the boys of the street laugh, but at which no one took any exception. He added that King Louis Philippe was driven out, and that for the present the republic was much spoken of. Thereupon Ragaud declared that all was lost; for he, like all those of his age, only understood the republic as accompanied by scaffolds, drownings, and robberies, as in that of 1793, which he well remembered.