Chapter I: A Few Pages From Clide De Winton’s Note‐Book (5)

To Be Concluded Next Month.

A Summer In Rome.

By The Author Of “The House Of Yorke.”

Of course all our friends exclaimed, when we intimated the possibility of our remaining in Rome for the summer:

We would suffocate with heat.

We would be poisoned with malaria.

We would have chills, and consequently fevers.

The fruit would make us sick, the wine would turn sour while we were pouring it out, and we would be kept awake all night by people in the street.

We would have no one to speak to, for everybody would be gone out of town.

Besides, and above all, it was not the proper thing to do.

I do not believe that either of us was serious in first making the proposal, unless Bianca cherished such a wish under her pensive silence; but so much opposition led us to look at the project, and we did not find it so bad as might have been expected. Besides, no one with a particle of spirit likes to be scouted and talked down; and all of us had spirit enough to feel a little vexed at the storm of opposition we had brought about our ears—all except Mr. Varney. He was too indolent to resent anything.

“I do not believe that there is the least necessity for having a fever in Rome,” said Isabel. (It was nearly always Isabel who spoke.) “One has but to select a cool apartment and use a little prudence. If we were to do as I have seen people do here—go from the oven to the refrigerator—we should know what to expect. To walk in a sunny street till you are in a perspiration, then sit on a shady stone to cool off, is not only inviting a fever, but sending a _gendarme_ to fetch it. As for heat, New York is ten times hotter; and I once passed a whole summer in New York, and was quite comfortable; wasn’t I, papa? Then, how any one can say that we shall have no one to speak to I cannot imagine. Here are four of us; and I take perfect delight in talking to myself. The most interesting conversations I ever had in my life were with Miss Isabel Varney.”

“Besides,” said a clear voice from the window, “what we came to Rome to see doesn’t go away in the summer.”

We all looked at Bianca, who had turned her head toward us to speak, and was gazing out the window again, the lace curtain wrapped about her like a bridal veil, and the _persienne_ half closed to shield her from the many eyes in the piazza.

“May I ask what you came to see?” inquired a visitor, who always tried to make this silent one talk.

She only half turned to answer.

“The Holy Father; the shrines and homes of the saints; all the holy, and all the beautiful, and all the famous places here; and the skies that are above them. And, again, the Holy Father. He is the Christian Prometheus, bound to the Vatican as to a rock, and we are a little chorus of American Oceanides who are come to bewail him, and who have no mind to go away for pleasure.”

“Brava!” said papa.

“And as for the ‘proper thing,’ ” said another member of the family, “we have bored ourselves to death all winter trying to do that.”

“Besides,” struck in Isabel, with a bright thought, “we want to learn the language; and that we never could do going about from place to place. Here we can sit down quietly, and study the four or five hundred irregular verbs at our leisure, and settle the genders of things, and learn to pronounce properly all their undulating and circuitous strings of vowels and the little curly tails to their ridiculous words.”

“Don’t include me in your class, if you please,” Mr. Varney said. “I would as soon shave off my hair and wear a wig as drop my own language and speak another. I shall speak English when I say anything; and if people do not understand me, it will not be my fault. We can always find interpreters; and I do not approve of—of—er—of deserting your own tongue for another,” he concluded rather weakly, not having measured his strength before commencing this speech.

The truth was that he never did approve of anything which cost him the least effort; but we listened as gravely as if we believed him to be actuated by the most heroic patriotism.

“You are quite right, papa,” Isabel said emphatically. “Still, since interpreters may not always be honest, you know, it is better that some of us should understand and be able to protect the family.”

“You will not find the verbs so difficult as you may imagine,” remarked an Italian. “The irregularities are chiefly in the preterite. Preterites are always ragged. They are never a part of the original language, I think, but were interpolated when it was discovered that a nicer expression of thought was needed; and then the grammarians had to accommodate themselves to circumstances, and use what was left. You will take pleasure in learning so musical a language, Miss Isabel.”

“Oh! I think English quite as musical as Italian,” replied the young woman with composure.

“When you speak it, _signorina_,” said the Italian, after a momentary pause of astonishment.

“I find the phrases and words I learned in music very useful,” she continued. “The other day I said ‘_allegro, ma non troppo_,’ to the coachman, and he drove perfectly. That is on millions of pieces of music, you know, papa. It quite pleased me to talk to a coachman as if he were a fugue. And when I said ‘_andante_,’ he actually put down the brake.”

“But you know we were going down‐hill then, Bella,” remarked her sister.

“I can make the servants understand perfectly well,” continued Isabel. “But in churches and galleries, and catacombs, and such places, the people are very stupid.”

This is the way in which Miss Isabel Varney made the servants understand perfectly:

“Angelina,” she would say to the _donna_, in English, “I want you to black my thick walking‐boots. The dust has made them look dingy. But first bring me another pitcher of water. It is strange that in a city that would be a lake if all its aqueducts were to burst at once one cannot get more than a quart of water at a time. Make haste, now, for I wish to go out immediately.”

Angelina stood immovable, a picture of distressful doubt. The time had gone past when she would have ventured to remind her mistress that English had not been included in her education.

“Oh! to be sure,” says Isabel. “What a bother it is when one is in a hurry! What is the Italian for water, Bianca? _Acqua?_ Well, Angelina, bring me some _acqua_.”

The _donna_ began to lift her apron toward her eyes.

“_Apportez moi_ some _acqua!_” said her mistress distinctly and authoritatively.

The _donna_ shrank back. “Signorina mia,” she began pitifully.

“Don’t talk!” cried the young lady. “What is the use of your talking to me when I cannot understand a word you say? It is too absurd. Besides, it is the servant’s place to obey without speaking. Bianca, do look in the dictionary for the Italian for wish or will, the strongest word you can get; then in the grammar for the first person, singular, indicative of it—or, no, the imperative. And be quick, or I never shall get out. _Voglio?_ Angelina, I _voglio_ a pitcher of _acqua_—what is the word for quickly? _Vitement?_ No. That isn’t Italian. It must be _vita_. That is an Italian word, I know, and it sounds as if it meant quickly. Angelina, I _voglio acqua vita_.”

“_Si, si, signorina!_” exclaimed the poor little _donna_, and ran off, glad to get out of the room.

“And, after all, she hasn’t taken the pitcher,” said Isabel. “But may be she will bring a pailful. She knew quite well that I was finding fault because we have so little. They understand what we say, I’m sure they do. Their ignorance is all a pretence.”

Five minutes passed, and ten minutes; and when the young lady had exhausted herself in impatient exclamations, Angelina entered the chamber, all out of breath, but smiling in confident triumph, and placed in her hand a bottle on which was an apothecary’s label with _acquavite_ neatly inscribed on it.

There was a _bersagliere_ passing the house at that moment; and I have always thought I would like to know if he ever suspected that the hand of a _papalina_ flung that bottle which alighted safely on the great tuft of flying feathers in his hat. I am sure that if the bottle had contained anything but _acquavite_, the military would have been called out.

This feat accomplished, Miss Isabel seized the empty water‐pitcher, and thrust it into the hands of the frightened girl with one word, “_Acqua!_” uttered in a tone which proved her to have tragical abilities.

Angelina returned in a trice with the water, and found her mistress standing in the middle of the room, with a stern countenance, and a dictionary in her hand.

“Now, _nero_ my _guadagno_.”

The girl lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

“_Profitto_, I mean,” was the hasty correction.

Tears rolled down Angelina’s cheeks.

“It couldn’t be that boot is _stivale!_” said the young woman in a low tone to a third person in the room. “That sounds as if it meant something three‐cornered.”

“You might try,” was the suggestion.

“_Stivale?_” demanded the young woman of the _donna_.

“_Si, signorina_,” said the girl eagerly, glancing at the articles in question.

“Well, _nero_ my _stivale_,” ordered the mistress haughtily.

“_O Dio mio!_” sobbed Angelina.

Isabel lost all patience and dignity. She flew at the boots and caught them in one hand, flew at the toilet‐table and snatched her tooth‐brush in the other, then, rushing at the terrified _donna_, performed before her face a furious pantomime of polishing her boots with the tooth‐brush.

“_Capisco!_” cried Angelina joyfully.

“It is worse than Robinson Crusoe with his man Friday,” sighed Isabel, sinking, exhausted, into a chair. “These scenes are positively ruining my disposition. You know, Bianca, I used to have a very good temper, and the servants at home were always fond of me. But here I am becoming a scold and a fury. We must get settled in another apartment, and have a teacher right away.”

A cool summer apartment was found near the Esquiline, a teacher engaged, and our parting friends went their several ways, taking doleful leave of us.

And here it may not be amiss to make the reader better acquainted with the family who desire the pleasure of his acquaintance and company for a time.

Mr. Varney, the son of a Boston merchant, had, when he was young and venturesome, made a voyage to Spain in one of his father’s ships. The ship came back without him; but, after six months’ absence, he returned, bringing with him a young Spanish wife, whom he had wooed and won during that brief visit. She lived only ten years, pining ever for the sunny land of her birth, and dropped away finally before they had begun to fear that she was dying, leaving two daughters, Bianca and Isabel.

Her death quite uprooted her husband from his accustomed life, and gave him a shock from which he never recovered. He had always promised, and had meant, to take her back to Spain; but, between the calls of business and a habit of procrastination, had put off the visit from year to year till it was too late. Then the New England which had killed her became distasteful to him, and, after lingering a few years to settle up his business, he went abroad for an indefinite time, taking his daughters with him. He seemed to fancy that by this tardy journey he was proving to his wife his regret and the sincerity of his promises.

They avoided Spain, however, unwilling to hasten at once to that land which she had longed in vain to see. There was even an idea of self‐exile and punishment in going so near without touching its beautiful shores. They visited England and France, then came directly to Rome.

“I do not believe that we shall ever go away from Italy for any length of time,” Bianca said. “It is the true land of the lotos, and we have eaten of the charmed plant.”

“Would you like to live here always?” her father asked, looking earnestly at her.

There was a certain pensive melancholy in her face and attitude which constantly drew his anxious regards.

“Yes!” she answered slowly.

“I think Bianca is changed from what she used to be,” he said afterward to one of the family. “It seems to me that I remember her gay and bright, like Isabel; but she has grown quiet and gentle, little by little, and so gradually that I do not know when the change began.”

The person whom he addressed tried to give him the comfort and reassurance which his anxiety evidently pleaded for. She pointed out that one had but to look at the two girls to see at once the difference in their temperaments; that Isabel’s shorter and more compact form proved a stronger and more aggressive vitality than her sister’s willowy slenderness was capable of; that the very shape of their faces—a delicate oval in the one and a full oval in the other—was another proof of difference; and that, moreover, Bianca, being the elder, had been of an age to be impressed by her mother’s death, while Isabel was still too young.

“And I find yet another reason,” the comforter continued, turning mentor. “Your frequently‐expressed regret for your wife, and the habit you have of referring to her love for Spain and her home‐sickness, cannot fail to sadden so sensitive a heart as Bianca’s, while Isabel thinks that it is merely a ‘way you have got into,’ as she would express it.”

It was, perhaps, rather a severe speech; but when a person contracts a habit of making a mournful luxury of his troubles, and of perpetually setting up his mourning standard beside the red, white, and blue of those who at least try to be cheerful, it does no harm to let him know that the effect is not enlivening.

Well, we were settled in our summer quarters, and had just finished our first dinner there, when the historian of the party made a prudent suggestion.

“Since we are beginning a new life with new people, I think that we should have a clear understanding about everything, so as to save trouble at the end,” she said.

Her ears were still ringing with the din of battle which had accompanied their exit from their former home—the loud voice of the _padrona_ demanding payment for broken chairs and tables that had dropped in pieces the first time they were touched; the vociferous porter, who insisted on having money because he had snatched Isabel’s reticule from her hand, in spite of her, and carried it a dozen steps; the small but very shrill boy, whom they had no recollection of ever having seen before, and who wanted to be paid for they knew not what; the hysterical _donna_, who expected that her heart, lacerated because her services had not been re‐engaged, would be soothed by the gift of a few extra _lire_; and a half‐dozen beggars crying for “_qualche cosa_.”

And so “it might be as well to have everything arranged at the beginning,” remarked this prudent person.

“I settled about the furniture before you came in to dinner,” Isabel said. “I had the whole family up, and before their eyes, with papa as witness, I shook and leaned on every table and cabinet, and sat down in every chair as hard as I could. Two chairs dropped, and are taken out for repair, which will cost us nothing. And I have ordered out all the paper bouquets with tall glass cases over them, and all the ornamental cups and saucers. But I think we may as well tell them that if they send begging people up to us, we will deduct what we give from the rent. Papa says he has made a careful reckoning, and finds that if we give a _soldo_ to each ragged beggar in the street, and half a _lira_ to each well‐dressed beggar who comes up, we shall be ourselves reduced to beggary in six months.”

Bianca turned round on the piano‐stool, her face full of expostulation. “Oh! but those dear Capuchins!” she exclaimed.

“It isn’t likely that I meant to refuse a Capuchin,” answered Isabel indignantly. “They are an exception; and so are all religious. No one can say that religion costs them much in Italy. I am ashamed to give so little and receive so much.”

“Having an understanding at the beginning will make no sort of difference at the end,” Mr. Varney said. “Every stranger here expects to have a fight with the family he is leaving. It is a part of the play which cannot be left out by particular request, like the Prince of Denmark out of _Hamlet_. Let us put off explanations till they are forced on us. I would like, though, to say a word or two to Giuseppe about the table.”

Giuseppe was a new servant, whom we considered ourselves very fortunate in engaging, as he not only spoke English, but had lived in England several months, and might therefore be supposed to know something of Anglo‐Saxon ways. He came in immediately.

“There are two or three directions which I wish to give once for all, Giuseppe,” Mr. Varney said in his slow, languid way. “I hope you will remember them, for I do not like to repeat orders.”

“Yes, sir!” said Giuseppe, with a stiffness of bow and attitude oddly in contrast with his sparkling Italian face.

“In the first place,” resumed his master, “when I say that I want breakfast, or dinner, or the carriage at a certain hour, I mean that time precisely, and not an hour or a half‐hour later, nor even five minutes later.”

A second bow and “Yes, sir!” worthy of May Fair.

Mr. Varney went on argumentatively, bringing his fingers into play: “Secondly, I want my wine brought in with the seals unbroken. If I find a single bottle of the wine I have put up opened, I will”—he paused for a suitable threat.

“Break the bottle over your head,” struck in Isabel. “Remember, papa, all the watered wine we have paid for, and don’t be too mild. Remember the horrible stuff for which we paid three times the market price all last winter. Don’t be too mild. You may depend upon it, Giuseppe, we shall not permit of any tampering with wine, or fruit, or candles, or anything. We have had too much of that.”

“Yes, miss!” says Giuseppe.

“I hate to be called ‘miss,’ ” remarked the young lady. “Call me _signorina_. Of all titles I think miss the most disagreeable. And Mrs. and Mr. are not much better. The Italian language has that one advantage, I will own.”

“Be careful about the fruit you give us,” Mr. Varney went on. “We want ripe fruit. The figs to‐day were not quite perfect. Figs,” said Mr. Varney with solemn deliberation—“figs should be just right, or they are good for nothing. When they are just right, there is nothing better, and you can give them to us three times a day. They must be ripe, but not too ripe; fine‐grained, but not salvy; cool, crisp, intensely sweet, and on the point of bursting open, but not quite broken.”

Giuseppe forgot his English training long enough to inquire, “Hadn’t you better speak to the trees about it, sir?”

“That will do,” Mr. Varney concluded with dignity. “I have no more to say now. You can go.”

The setting sun, shining on the new walls opposite, was reflected into our drawing‐room, lighting it beautifully, touching Mr. Varney’s gray hair and pleasant face, as he sat in a huge, yellow arm‐chair by the window and diving into Isabel’s bright eyes, as she leaned on his shoulder, and looked over with him the _Diario Romano_, trying to make out the holy‐ days.

“Here is the anniversary of the coronation of Pius IX.,” she said. “I wonder if we shall be arrested if we wear yellow roses in our hats, Bianca?”

Mr. Varney pored awhile over the book in his hand, and presently asked, with a general inquiring glance about the room, “Does anybody know what time of day or night twenty‐three o’clock is? Here is a function announced to begin at twenty‐three o’clock. Do people go to church at that hour? I should think it would be very late at night.”

“It might be some time the next day,” suggested a member of the family.

The gentleman arranged his glasses, and looked puzzled. “Then, when a function is announced for twenty‐three o’clock on Wednesday, it takes place at some hour on Thursday,” he said.

No one ventured either to acquiesce or to dissent, and it was concluded to put this difficulty on the list of questions we were making out for our Italian teacher to answer the next morning.

“He will be such a convenience to us!” Isabel said. “People assure me that he knows everything, and is never at loss for an answer.”

Mr. Varney took a pinch of snuff. He had always shown an inclination toward that indulgence, but had not dared to yield to it in America. Now, however, with such eminent examples constantly before his eyes, he could carry his snuff‐box, not only with impunity, but with a kind of pride.

“Have you reflected, my daughter,” he asked, “that your Italian teacher knows not a word of English, and that, since you cannot very well fly at him, as you could at Angelina, and extract his meaning at the sword’s point, his explanations, however excellent they may be, are not likely to profit you much for some time to come?”

“Oh! we will make out some way,” she replied carelessly. “One can always understand a clever person. Besides, if worse comes to worse, I don’t know why I shouldn’t fly at him, if necessary. He will be paid for his time; and one can always scold a person whom one pays.”

The last sun‐ray faded away, and the golden globe of the new moon shone out over Santa Maria Maggiore, shining so low and full in the transparent sky that one almost feared it might strike the tower or domes of that dearest of churches in passing, and break itself like a bubble.

We were silent a little while, then Mr. Varney said, “Sing us that song you are humming, my darling.”

When he said “my darling,” he always meant Bianca.

She made a motion to put away the music‐sheet before her, and take another, but replaced it; and presently we heard her low voice, which half sang, half spoke, the words:

“Friend, the way is steep and lonely,
Thickly grows the rue;
All around are shadows only:
May I walk with you?

“Not too near; for, oh! your going
Is upon the heights,
Where the airs of heaven are blowing
Through the morning lights.

“Dare I brush the dews that glisten
All about your feet?
Can I listen where you listen?
Meet the sights you meet?

“Not too far—I faint at missing
You from out my way.
Vain is then the glory kissing
All the peaks of day;

“Vain are all the laughing showers
Leading in the spring;
All the summer green and flowers,
All the birds that sing.

“At your side my way is clearest:
Tell me I may stay!
Not too near—and yet, my dearest,
Not too far away!”

“What does it mean?” asked Mr. Varney. “It seems to me very obscure.”

“Oh! a song isn’t expected to mean anything but melody,” somebody answered rather hastily. “All that is required of the lines is that they should be of the proper length. Sing the other, Bianca—the one I looked over to‐ day.”

The speaker knew that nothing suited Mr. Varney so well as a genuine love‐ song.

Bianca sang

“O roses dewy, roses red and sweet!
Tinting with your hues the summer air,
Give my cheeks your blushes, give my mouth your breathing,
Add such rounded beauty as is meet,
Wrap me in the graces all your tendrils wreathing;
For he loves me, and I would be fair.

“O sunshine, playing with the swinging vine,
Sift your gold through all my dusky hair,
Gild each braid and ringlet with a softened glimmer,
Hint the crown his love has rendered mine.
Than the brightest eyes, oh! let not mine be dimmer;
For he loves me, and I would be fair.

“O lilies! in a drift of scented snow,
Willing all your sweetness to immure
In a leafy cloister, waves alone caressing,
Give my soul your whiteness ere ye go,
That its stainless beauty be to him a blessing;
For he loves me, and I would be pure.

“O faithful stars! I pray ye, touch me so
With the virtue given unto you
That I fail him never, living, nor yet dying,
Howsoe’er the days may come and go,
With a steadfast tenderness his life supplying;
For he loves me, and I would be true.”

The first stroke of the _Ave Maria_ broke off the last chord of the song, and there was silence in the room till the bells had sung their evening chorus.

Matter. VI.

_Constitution of bodies._—We have hitherto explained and vindicated those facts and principles which experience and reason point out to us as the true foundations of a sound philosophical theory of matter. We are now prepared to examine the much‐vexed question of the constitution of bodies; nor are we deterred from our undertaking by the very common belief that the essence of matter is, and will ever be, an impenetrable mystery; for although the different schools of philosophy have long disputed about the subject without being able to agree in their conclusions, we are confident that these very conclusions, every one of which contains a portion of truth, will afford us the means of reaching the true and complete solution of the question.

The opinions at present entertained by philosophers about the constitution of matter may be reduced to the three following:

Some affirm that the first constituents of natural bodies are the _first matter_ and the _substantial form_, as explained by Aristotle and by his followers. This view, which reigned supreme for centuries, we shall call the _scholastic_ solution of the question.

Others affirm, on the contrary, that the first constituents of bodies are _simple elements_, or points of matter, acting on each other from a certain distance, and thus forming dynamical systems of different natures according to their number, powers, and geometrical arrangement. This second view, which, after Boscovich, found a great number of advocates, we shall call the _dynamic_ solution of the question.

Finally, others affirm that the first constituents of bodies are _molecules_, or _chemical atoms_. This view, based entirely on chemical considerations, originated with Dalton, of Manchester, early in the present century, and it was very favorably received by all men of science as the true interpretation of chemical facts. This third view we shall call the _atomic_ solution of the question.

The investigation of the grounds on which these three solutions are supported will soon convince us that none of them can be entirely rejected, as each of them has some foundation in truth. To begin with the scholastic solution, all true philosophers know that God alone is a _pure act_; whence it follows that all creatures essentially consist of _act_ and _potency_. This act and this potency, when there is question of material things, are called _the substantial form_ and _the matter_. It is therefore an evident truth that material substance is essentially constituted of matter and substantial form. Against this doctrine nothing can be objected by the advocates of the dynamic or of the atomic solution.

On the other hand, the doctrine which teaches that bodies are made up of chemical atoms, or molecules, which have a definite nature and combine in definite numbers, is very satisfactorily established by experimental science; and nothing can be objected against it by speculative philosophers. But, to prevent misconceptions, we must observe that this theory does not consider the chemical atoms as absolutely indivisible, or as absolutely primitive, or as so many pieces of continuous matter. The word “atom” in chemistry signifies the least possible quantity of any natural substance known to us. Atoms are chemical equivalents. Their chemical indivisibility, on account of which they are called “atoms,” is a fact of experience; but they are absolutely divisible, owing to their physical composition; for we know by the balance that atoms of different substances contain different quantities of matter; and their vibrations, change of size, and variations of chemical activity with the variation of circumstances, unmistakably show that their mass is a sum of units substantially independent of one another, though naturally connected together by mutual actions in one dynamical system. Their matter is therefore discrete, not continuous.

As to the doctrine of simple and unextended elements, we have no need of saying anything in particular in this place, as such a doctrine is a simple corollary of the thesis concerning the impossibility of continuous matter, which we have fully developed in our last article.

From these remarks it will be seen that to the question, _What are the primitive constituents of bodies?_ three answers may be given, and each of them true, if properly interpreted, as we shall presently explain. Thus it is true, in a strictly metaphysical sense, that the primitive constituents of bodies are the matter and the substantial form; it is true again, in a certain other sense, that the primitive constituents of bodies are chemical atoms; and it is true also, in a still different sense, that the primitive constituents of bodies are simple and unextended elements. Hence the scholastic solution does not necessarily clash with the atomic, nor does this latter exclude the dynamic, but all three may stand together in perfect harmony, or rather they are required by the very nature of the question, in the same manner as three solutions are required by the nature of a problem whose conditions give rise to an equation of the third degree. The duty, therefore, of a philosopher, when he has to handle this subject, is not to resort to one of the three solutions in order to attack the others, as it is the fashion to do, but to investigate how the three can be reconciled, and how truth in its fulness can be attained to by their conjunction.

This may appear difficult to those whose philosophical bias in favor of a long‐cherished opinion prevents them from looking at things in more than one manner; but those whose mind is free from prejudice and exclusiveness will readily acknowledge that whilst the atomists determine the constituents of bodies by _chemical_ analysis, the dynamists, on the contrary, determine those constituents by _mechanical_ analysis, and the scholastics by _metaphysical_ analysis. Now, these analyses do not exclude one another; they rather prepare the way to one another. Hence their results cannot exclude one another, but rather lead to one another, and give by their union a fuller expression of truth.

If we ask of an atomist, “What are the primitive constituents of a mass of gold?” he will answer that they are _the atoms_, or the molecules, _of gold_, as chemistry teaches him. This answer is very good, as it points out the first _specific_ principles of the compound body; for we cannot go further and resolve the molecule without destroying the specific nature of gold. For this reason the atomist, when he has reached the atoms of gold, stops there, and declares that the _analysis cannot go further_. He evidently refers to the _chemical_ analysis.

If now we ask a dynamist, “What are the primitive constituents of a mass of gold?” he will answer that they are _the simple elements_ of which the molecules of gold are made up. This answer, too, is very good, as it points out the first _physical_ principles of the compound body; for we cannot go further and resolve the simple element without destroying the physical being. For this reason the dynamist, when he has reached the simple elements, stops there, and declares that _the analysis can go no further_. Of course he means the _physical_ analysis.

Let us now ask of a schoolman, “What are the primitive constituents of a mass of gold.” He will answer that they are the _substantial form_ and _the matter_, as the last terms obtained by the metaphysical analysis of substance. This last answer also is very good, as it points out the first _metaphysical_ principles of substance. It should, however, be borne in mind that this answer does not apply to the mass of the body as such, nor to its molecules, but only to each primitive element contained in the mass and in the molecules of the body, as we shall fully explain in another place. When he has reached the substantial form and the matter, the schoolman stops there, and declares that _the analysis can go no further_. He means the _metaphysical_ analysis, which resolves the physical being into metaphysical realities incapable of further resolution.

It is manifest that these three answers, however different, do not clash with one another. Accordingly, the atomist, the dynamist, and the schoolman may all agree in teaching truth, while they give different answers. The fact is, they do not look at the question from the same point of view, and, rigorously speaking, they solve different questions.

The first answers the question, What are the first _specific_ principles of gold or the first golden particles; and he affirms that they are the _molecules_ or _atoms_ of gold.

The second answers the question, What are the first _physical_ principles of such golden particles? and he affirms that they are _unextended elements_ or _primitive substances_.

The third answers the question, What are the first _metaphysical_ principles of those primitive substances? and he affirms that they are _the matter_ and _the substantial form_.

This being the case, it may be asked how it came to pass that the atomic, the dynamic, and the scholastic solutions have hitherto been considered as irreconcilable. We reply that the three solutions would never have been held irreconcilable, if their advocates had kept within reasonable limits in the expression of their views. But as philosophers, like other people, are often exclusive, narrow‐minded, and ready to oppose whatever comes from a school which is not their own, it frequently happens that they are too easily satisfied with a partial possession of truth, and disdain the views of others who regard truth under a different aspect. By such a course, instead of promoting, they hinder, the advance of philosophical knowledge; and while fighting under the banner of a special school, which they mistake for the banner of truth, they allow themselves to be carried away by a spirit of contention, the unyielding character of which is the greatest impediment in the way of philosophical progress. The constitution of bodies is one of the subjects which, unfortunately, have been and are still handled by different schools with remarkable unfairness to one another. The atomist fights against the dynamist, and both despise the follower of the schoolman; whilst the schoolman from the stronghold of his metaphysical castle looks superciliously on both, confident that he will eventually drive them out of the field of philosophy. This attitude of one school towards another is not worthy of men who profess to love truth. If the atomistic philosopher cannot go beyond the chemical analysis, we will allow him to stop there, on condition, however, that he shall not claim a right to prevent others, who may know better, from proceeding to further investigations beyond the boundaries of chemistry. In like manner, if the dynamist cannot rise to the consideration of the metaphysical principles of substance, let him be satisfied with the consideration of the primitive elements of matter, and dispense with further inquiries; but let him not interfere with the work of the metaphysician, whose method and principles he does not understand. As to the metaphysician himself, we would warn him that, however deeply conversant he may be with the _general truths_ concerning the essential constituents of things, he is nevertheless in danger of erring in their application to particular cases, unless he tests his conclusions by the principles of chemical, mechanical, and physical science; for it is from these sciences that we learn the true nature of the facts and laws of the material world; and all metaphysical investigation about the constitution of bodies must prove a failure, if it lacks the foundation of real facts and their correct interpretation.

It is obvious, after all, that truth cannot fight against truth; and since we have shown that each of the three solutions above given contains a portion of truth, we cannot reject any of them absolutely, but we must discard that only which troubles their harmony, and retain that through which they complete and confirm one another.

We therefore admit the substantial points of the three systems on the constitution of bodies, and recognize the general principles on which they are established. The analysis of bodies carried on through all its degrees leads to the following results:

First, by analyzing _the body_ chemically, we find the _atoms_, or molecules, endowed with a determinate mass and with specific powers, corresponding to the specific nature of the body. Such atoms are not absolutely indivisible, though chemistry, as yet, cannot decompose them: hence atoms are further analyzable.

Secondly, by analyzing _the atom_, or the molecule, we discover its components, or primitive parts, called _primitive elements_, and primitive substances, which are physically simple and unextended, and concur in definite numbers to the constitution of definite molecular masses.

Finally, by analyzing _the simple element_ or the primitive substance, which can no longer be resolved into physical parts, we find that such an element consists of _act_ and _potency_, or, as we more frequently express ourselves, of _form_ and _matter_, neither of which can exist separately, as the first physical being which exists in nature is the substance arising from their conspiration. Accordingly the form and the matter of which the simple element consists are not physical, but only metaphysical, principles, and they constitute a metaphysical, not a physical, compound.

These three conclusions are scientifically and philosophically certain; and while they afford a sound basis to our reasonings on material objects, they reconcile modern physics with the principles of old metaphysics. We say _with the principles_, not _with the conclusions_; for we must own that the old metaphysicians, owing to their insufficient knowledge of the laws of nature, not unfrequently failed in the application of their principles to the interpretation of natural facts. Thus the chemical, the dynamical, and the scholastic views of the constitution of bodies cease to be antagonistic, and each of the three schools is awarded all it can claim consistently with the rights of truth.

As we intend to speak hereafter more in detail of the constitution of bodies, we shall content ourselves at present with these general remarks on the subject. It is manifest from what precedes that bodies and molecules arise from simple elements, and are substances, not on account of their bodily or molecular composition, but merely because their primitive physical components, the elements, are substances. Hence the question concerning the constitution of material substance, as such, does not necessarily require any further research after the constitution of bodies, but may be directly settled by the consideration of the elements themselves.

We have already seen that the primitive elements of matter are rigorously unextended; that each of them is endowed with _activity_, _passivity_, and _inertia_, and is thus fitted to produce, receive, and conserve local movement; and that the elementary activity, whether attractive or repulsive, is exercised in a sphere according to a permanent law. And since the essential constitution of things must be gathered from their essential properties, it is of the utmost importance for us to ascertain whether the principles of the material element may be fully determined by its known properties, or whether the element may possess occult properties which, if known, would modify our notion of its principles; for it is only after an adequate knowledge of its principle of activity, of its principle of passivity, and of the relation of the one to the other, that we can safely pronounce a judgment about the essence of a primitive being.

We may ask, therefore, in the first place: _Does a simple element possess any occult power besides its known power of attracting or repelling?_

This question must be answered in the negative. Occult powers and occult qualities have been admitted by the ancient philosophers, and are admitted even now, in _compound_ substances, not because any unknown power resides in the first elements of which they are made up, but because the manner of their composition, and consequently the manner of determining the resultant of their elementary actions, transcends our conception and baffles our calculations. Thus the phenomena of chemical affinity, cohesion, capillarity, electricity, and magnetism depend on actions which science cannot trace to their _primitive_ causes—viz., to the simple elements—but only to their proximate causes, which are complex, and, as such, follow different laws of causation corresponding to the different modes of their constitution. Before we are able to trace such phenomena to their simple and primitive causes, it would be necessary to find out the intrinsic constitution of every molecule; the number, quality, and arrangement of its constituent elements; the arrangement and distance of the molecules in the body; and the mathematical formulas by which every movement of each particle could be determined for every instant of time. As this has not been done, and will never be done, the determination of the causality of molecular phenomena remains, and will ever remain, an insoluble problem, and the complex power from which any such phenomenon proceeds remains, and will ever remain, unknown so far as it is the result of an unknown composition, though we know, at least in general, the nature of the primitive powers from which it results. In other terms, there are no occult powers in matter, but only unknown resultants of known primitive powers.

To prove this, we observe that an occult power is to be admitted, then, only when a phenomenon occurs which cannot proceed from powers already known. This is evident; for, when phenomena can be accounted for by known powers, there is no ground for any inquiry about occult causes. In other words, to look for occult causes without data or indications on which to ground the induction, is to propose to one’s self a problem without conditions; which no man in his senses would do. Now, no phenomenon has been observed anywhere in material things which cannot proceed from the known powers of attraction and repulsion; nay, it is positively certain that all phenomena proceed from the same powers. For each material point, when acted on, receives a determination to local movement, and nothing else; and therefore the effect of the action of matter upon matter is nothing but local movement, one element approaching to or retiring from the other. Now, this is precisely what attractive and repulsive powers are competent to do. Hence it is that in all the works of science and natural philosophy the causality of phenomena of every kind is uniformly traced to mere attractions and repulsions.

Again, if any occult power, besides that of attracting or repelling, be assumed to reside in a primitive element of matter, such a power will remain idle for ever, inasmuch as it will never be applicable to the production of natural phenomena. On the other hand, it is obvious that a power destined to remain idle for ever is an absurdity. It is therefore absurd to assume that there is in the elements of matter any occult power besides that of attracting or repelling. In this argument the minor proposition is evident, because all active power is naturally destined to act; whilst the major proposition is evidently inferred from the fact that matter has no passivity, except with regard to local motion, as is acknowledged by all philosophers, and as we shall presently show from intrinsic reasons. Whence it follows that, if there were in matter any hidden power not destined, as the attractive and the repulsive are, to produce local movement, such a power would be absolutely useless, as absolutely inapplicable to any other matter, and would remain in this absurd condition for ever. We need not, therefore, trouble ourselves with the absurd hypothesis of occult powers; and we conclude, accordingly, that the principle of activity of a primitive element is merely attractive or repulsive, as explained in one of our past articles.

It may be asked, in the second place: _Is the centre of a simple element to be identified with the principle of passivity of the element?_

This question must be answered in the affirmative. For the principle of passivity is that to which the action is terminated; but the action of any one element of matter is terminated to the centre of any other element; therefore the centre of any element is its principle of passivity. The minor proposition of this syllogism might be proved by metaphysical considerations(156); but we may prove it more clearly in the following manner: Locomotive action implies direction, and no direction can be really taken in space except from a real point to another real point. Now, that by which any two elements, _A_ and _B_, mark out two distinct points in space, is the centre of their sphere of action. The direction of the action is therefore from the centre of _A_ to the centre of _B_, and _vice versa_—that is, the action of the one is terminated to the centre of the other. And thus it is evident that each single element receives the action of every other element in its central point, which is, accordingly, the passive principle of the element. This conclusion may be expressed in this other manner: In a material element the matter (passive principle) is a point from which the action of the element is directed towards other points in space, and to which the actions of other material points in space are directed.

We may remark, also, that material elements, whilst they are always ready to receive movement from extrinsic agents, cannot apply their own power to themselves, because they are inert. This being the case, it obviously follows that the action of an extrinsic agent on an element is terminated there where the action of the element itself cannot be terminated. Now, a little reflection will show that the centre of the element is just the point where the action of the element itself cannot be terminated. For as locomotive action implies direction, and as no direction can be had from the centre of activity to itself, but only from a point to a distinct point, the action of the element upon its own centre is a metaphysical impossibility. Whence we conclude that the principle of passivity, or that in which the primitive element is liable to receive a determination to local movement, is nothing else than the intrinsic term of its essence, the centre from which it directs its action in a sphere, or, in other terms, the matter itself as contradistinguished from the substantial form.

In the third place, it may be asked: _Can it be proved that a material element is susceptible of nothing but local movement?_

We answer: Yes. For we have shown that the passivity of the material element resides in a mere mathematical point, which, having no bulk, cannot be liable to _intrinsic_ changes, and therefore is susceptible of such determinations only as will bring about a change of _extrinsic_ relations. It is hardly necessary to explain that such a change of extrinsic relations is always brought about by local movement; for such relations either are distances or depend on distances; and distances cannot be modified except by local movement. It is thus manifest that material elements are susceptible of nothing but local movement. Hence the passivity of matter is confined to the reception of local movement alone.

From this well‐known truth we may again confirm our preceding solution of the question concerning occult powers. For the activity and the passivity of a simple element essentially respond to one another in the same manner and with as strict a necessity as _giving_ and _receiving_, and since they spring from the principles of one and the same primitive essence, they must belong to one and the same kind. If, then, there were in the material elements any occult power besides that which produces local movement, there would be also a correspondent passivity not destined to receive local movement; for without this new passivity the occult power could not be exercised. And since the passivity of matter is limited to the sole reception of local movement, none but locomotive power can be admitted to reside in matter.

_Essence of material substance._—We are now ready to answer with all desirable precision and clearness the question, “What is the essence of material substance?”—a question not at all formidable, when the active and the passive principle of matter have been properly defined and elucidated. Our answer is as follows:

The essence, or quiddity, of a thing is really nothing else than its nature; hence if we know the principles which constitute the nature of the material element, we know in fact the essence of material substance. Now, the principles which constitute any given created nature are _an act of a certain kind_—that is, a certain principle of activity; and _a corresponding potency_—that is, a corresponding principle of passivity. Whence we conclude that the principles of a material nature are _the act by which such a nature is determined to act in a sphere and to cause local movement_, and _the potency on account of which the same nature is liable to receive local movement_. And since the said act is called “the substantial form,” and the said potency “the matter,” we conclude that the essence of material substance _consists of matter and substantial form_.

This conclusion is by no means new; it expresses, on the contrary, the universal doctrine of the ancient philosophers on the essence of material substance. But it must be observed that we limit this doctrine to the essence of primitive elements, which alone can be rigorously styled “first substances,” whilst the ancients, owing to their imperfect notions of natural things, applied the same doctrine to compound substances, which they believed to arise by substantial generation instead of material composition. Thus our conclusion is more guarded and less comprehensive than that of the old metaphysicians. Moreover, the ancient philosophers, who did not know the primitive elements, but assumed the continuity of matter, could not picture to themselves the intellectual notions of matter and substantial form in a sensible manner, and certainly were unable to find any _true_ sensible image of them; and for this reason their speculations about the essence of material substance remained imperfect and their explanations obscure and unsatisfactory. We, on the contrary, thanks to the investigations and discoveries made in the last centuries, have the advantage of knowing that all matter is subject to gravitation, and acts in a sphere according to a constant and very simple law, which presides over the molecular and chemical no less than the astronomical phenomena; and we are thus enabled to form a true and genuine conception of the matter and form of the primitive element, founded on ascertained facts, and free from false or incongruous imaginations. Hence the words “matter” and “form,” as employed by us, have such a clear and precise sense that no room is left for their misinterpretation.

We therefore know, and _clearly_ too, the essence of primitive material substance, whatever may be said to the contrary by some admirers of the old philosophy, who spurn the discoveries of modern physics, or by some modern thinkers, who revile all metaphysical analysis as mere rubbish.