I.

What I am going to relate to you is a true story in every respect,

seeing that I had it from my late father--in his lifetime the

harness-maker of our hamlet of Val-Saint, and who was never known to

tell a falsehood: may God have mercy on his soul!

In the village of Ordonniers, which was the next one to us, and in our

commune, where flows _la Range_, lived a farmer named Louis Ragaud. The

maiden name of his wife was Pierrette Aubry; but after her marriage,

according to our custom, she was called by every one La Ragaude.

They were rich, and no one was jealous of them, as it was known that

they had commenced with nothing, having been simply servants in the

employ of M. le Marquis de Val-Saint. Little by little they had risen,

without having injured any one, always kind to the poor, never miserly

or boasting; so that, when at the end of twenty years they found they

had saved enough to buy the beautiful farm of Muiceron, which they had

previously rented, all the neighbors said: "Behold the true justice of

the good God!"

They had been married a long time, and had no children. Now, wealth

is a great deal, but not enough for perfect contentment of heart. The

good man Ragaud had fields and meadows that yielded rich crops, strong

oxen, and even vines that bore well--though it must be acknowledged

that the wines of our province were not very renowned. As for the farm

buildings, except those of the château, there were scarcely any in a

circle of six leagues which were as well kept; and nevertheless, Ragaud

sighed when looking around him--no child, alas! and no family, with the

exception of a cousin, who left for the army more than thirty years

before, and had never been heard of since; so that, very naturally, he

could not be counted upon.

La Ragaude sighed still more. She was good and very devout, but unable

to bear sorrow; and this was so severe, so constant, it had ended by

destroying all her happiness. Often, when looking at the neighbors'

children playing before the doors, she felt her heart throb with pain,

and would hasten to seek refuge in her own house, where she could give

free vent to her tears. As this happened more than once, and as she

always reappeared with red eyes, it had been much remarked, and sundry

comments made. Not that there is much time to be lost in the fields,

but a reflection here and there scarcely retards work. There are even

those who say that the tongue assists the arm, and that gossipping

helps push the plough. It is woman's tattle, I believe; but a good

number of men here and elsewhere have the habit of repeating it, and I

do likewise, without inquiring further.

The gossips of the neighborhood--above all, those who had larger

families than incomes--were determined to find out the true cause of

Pierrette Ragaud's tears; and, as often happens, preferred seeking for

wicked reasons rather than stop their babbling.

"It is a thing I cannot understand," said one, "why the mistress of

Muiceron is so unhappy that she weeps constantly--a woman who is so

well off. We must believe that things at the farm are not so well as

they appear. Perhaps it is her husband who makes all the trouble!"

"Her husband! Magdaleine Piédau?" replied another; "you must be well

put to that you imagine such a thing. Master Ragaud is the first

workman in the country; and, as for his using bad words, that he has

never done, any more to his wife than to others."

"Bah! what you say is true," replied Magdaleine Piédau; "but all the

same, neighbor, Ragaud can fly into a rage as well as any other man.

I saw and heard him, day before yesterday, beside himself with anger

against one of his yoke of oxen. You know Capitaine, the big black

one? Ah! my dear, I pitied the poor beast--he beat him well! without

counting that he swore so that you would not have known him. Bah! don't

talk to me!"

"Ah! that may be, but I speak of people. Now, an ox is not a person!"

"There you are right, thank God! Men are often rough to beasts, and

very polite to Christians; but, in my opinion, we must be gentle and

patient to both. A beast that works well deserves to be well treated,

and Ragaud had no right to beat his ox. I don't say he would treat his

wife so; but, at least, we must allow that Pierrette Ragaud does not

always look as if her life were a holiday. Ah! she has trouble, that is

very sure, poor creature!"

"And the reason?"

"The reason! Go and ask her, Magdaleine, if you are so curious."

"I wouldn't dare; for, after all, it don't concern me very much. What I

have said was only in the way of friendly gossip."

"In that case, we can speak of other things; for I don't know any more

about it than you. We will leave it for God to clear up. Go and catch

your boy, who will fall into the pond, Magdaleine Piédau, and lend me

your sickle, that I may cut some grass for my cows.... But to think

that Ragaud ill-treats his wife--no, no; that is out of the question.

After that, where may we hope to find a good man? One don't know...."

"No, neighbor, one never knows how it is with them. You speak like a

priest, my good woman. The deceased Piédau, my man, that every one

believed so good, ..."

"Good-evening, Magdaleine."

"Was a drunkard and big eater. I concealed it for ten years, and wept

alone like the mistress of Muiceron."

"Good-evening, neighbor."

II.

One summer day, when La Ragaude was washing her earthen pans in the

sun, she saw the _curé_ of Ordonniers advancing through the path in the

woods. He was a worthy priest, beloved by all, and well deserving of

it on account of his great charity. I have heard it said that, in the

years when bread was so dear, he gave away his last measure of wheat,

and then, having no more for himself, was obliged to go to the miller,

Pierre Cotentin, and ask for some flour on credit.

"It is not my custom," said he gaily, "and you are not bound to oblige

me; but the times are hard, and you must never refuse to give alms,

even to your _curé_."

The miller filled the bag willingly; and as for the money, although he

was very fond of it, he would never hear the word mentioned.

Said he, "M. le Curé has an empty purse. We must not ask him where the

last cent went, poor dear man! Pierre Cotentin can well feed him--it is

justice! Who will have the heart to be jealous?"

And in fact, the _curé_ was so respected that not a boy, no matter how

bad he was, ever failed to take off his cap when passing him.

When La Ragaude saw the black cassock coming towards Muiceron, she

quickly arranged her pans, and threw aside her working-apron; for she

was a careful woman and thorough housekeeper.

"Good-morning, M. le Curé; how are you?" she asked joyfully.

"Very warm, very warm," replied the _curé_; "otherwise, well."

"My dear monsieur, why did you not wait until the cool of the evening

to do us the honor of visiting us? It is roasting in the road. I

thought just now I would send a servant to replace my husband in the

fields. A storm is rising, the flies bite, Ragaud is not as strong as

he was at twenty, and I am afraid of the beasts--they are difficult to

control when they become impatient."

"Ah! your husband is absent?"

"Have you something to say to him, monsieur?"

"To him and to you also, my good woman."

"Come in and refresh yourself," said she.

M. le Curé entered, and took a seat near the table. He appeared

preoccupied, and answered like a man who did not hear what was said

to him. He even placed his cane against the bread-box, and his hat on

top--something which he had never done before, as the slightest motion

might have sent them to the floor. When he put his hand in his pocket

for his breviary, he found he had forgotten it, which embarrassed him

not a little; as, it must be said, no man was more exact and particular

than he in words as well as in actions.

La Ragaude, not being a fool by nature, quietly replaced the cane and

hat in a safe place, but was, in her turn, very much astonished to see

the _curé_ so absent, as it was the first time it had ever happened;

and from that concluded he must have something in his head of great

importance. What could it be?

While busying herself around the room, without showing it, Pierrette

Ragaud had distractions also. She drew new wine for cider, and washed

a glass which had not been used. But that I do not believe she would

have perceived then or afterwards; for she was so accustomed to scrub

everything you could have used the side walls of the stable for a

mirror.

M. le Curé tasted the wine through civility, but, as he said nothing,

she began to feel rather impatient. Women are curious. My deceased

father was accustomed to say, from that came all the evil from the

commencement of the world. It is true the dear man was rather in his

dotage towards the end; but it is also true that I have heard others

say the same thing.

Pierrette at last commenced to question the _curé_ very respectfully

and gently; for, in truth, she could no longer restrain herself.

"Although the master is out, M. le Curé," said she, "will you not

tell me what I can do to serve you?--without pressing to know, you

understand, monsieur."

M. le Curé raised his eyes, and replied as gravely as though he were

preaching a sermon:

"I have come to know, in the name of the good God, Mme. Ragaud, if you

are disposed to act charitably."

"Oh! if it is to aid those who are suffering and in need, my husband

and I will be most happy to assist you," frankly cried La Ragaude, who

spoke with her whole heart and soul. "Thank God! there is yet money in

the drawer. Tell me how much you want, monsieur."

The good _curé_ shook his head, laughing, and repeated two or three

times, "Good, good," which was a sign that he was pleased.

"You are always ready to give money to the poor, I know," said he; "but

to-day that is not the question. I have come to ask you for something

of greater importance."

"More so than money! Heaven of our Lord!" said Pierrette, slightly

amazed. "I do not know, M. le Curé, how, then, I can oblige you."

She said that, although she had a generous heart; but money with us is

always the great affair. In the fields, as in the city, the poor man

who eats his bread while working knows that the francs are not picked

up under the horses' feet.

"Money," replied M. le Curé, "when the soul is wanting in charity,

is given, and there it ends; but what I have come to ask of you is a

good work which will not end for a long while, and which will need

good-will, and great patience especially, on your part."

"I can guess what it is," said Pierrette.

"Indeed!" replied the _curé_. "Well, that spares me the difficulty of

explaining myself. Let us hear, Mme. Ragaud, what you have guessed."

"I have heard it said you were very much worried about your surplices

and altar-linens, since Catharine Luguet left the country so

shamefully, like a good-for-nothing girl, to seek her fortune in

Paris," said La Ragaude, blushing--for this Catharine was a distant

cousin--"and doubtless, M. le Curé, you wish me to replace her, and

take charge of the sacristy."

"And if it were so, would you refuse me?"

"Certainly not, monsieur. I would willingly do my best to please you.

Not that I have as light a hand as Catharine for plaiting and folding;

but for washing and ironing, I can say, without boasting, I am the

equal of any one."

"Thank you," said the _curé_. "I accept an offer made so willingly. But

to speak truly, I have not come for that."

"Then," replied Pierrette, in astonishment, "I cannot imagine what you

want me to do."

"This is it," said the _curé_, taking a serious tone: "This morning,

Pierrette, a bundle was left at my house...."

"I bet," cried La Ragaude, "it was the beautiful monstrance promised by

M. le Marquis for Corpus Christi!"

"No, it was a new-born infant, a beautiful boy, Mme. Ragaud; and,

since the good God has allowed you to remain childless, and that this

privation has greatly afflicted you, I immediately thought he destined

this child for you."

"Monsieur," replied Pierrette, with emotion, "it is true that it is

very hard for me to be alone in the house, and to think that I will

die and leave no one after me to inherit Muiceron; but I prefer it to

working all my life for a child sprung, perhaps, from a wicked race."

"I know where it comes from," said the _curé_; "but still I can

tell you nothing, as it is a secret of the confessional. But have

confidence in me; as for the race, it is not bad."

"It is the same thing. I don't believe in these foundlings."

"Say nothing further about it," replied the _curé_ rather sadly; "I

will send it to the hospital."

And then, without appearing to feel either pique or bitterness, M.

le Curé commenced to converse on other subjects, speaking of the

next harvest, the price of the new wine, and of the last fair, with

even voice and kind looks, that showed plainly he did not wish his

parishioner to think he was pained by her rather prompt refusal.

This kindness of a heart truly charitable had more effect on good

Pierrette than reproaches or scolding. She did her best to reply to the

_curé_, but her eyes were wet against her will, and soon she became

so absent-minded the _curé_ with difficulty repressed his mirth,

seeing that he had gained ground by the ell, without seeming to do it

intentionally.

"You see," said he, "by often hearing the bells ring, one becomes a

bell-ringer; and as I love all my parishioners, like a true pastor, I

go everywhere, inquiring and advising, so that I may be useful in case

of need. In that way, Mme. Ragaud, without ever having driven a plough

or taken care of cattle, God has given me the grace of being able to

advise on all rural subjects, as well as the first master-farmer in the

neighborhood. Thus, I will say to you: 'When there are more pears than

apples, keep your wine, good man.' This is a country proverb hundreds

of years old. Now, as this year there are more pears than they know

what to do with, believe me, keep your vintage, and you will have news

to tell me of it by next Easter."

"I do not know how Ragaud will decide," replied Pierrette; "he is

always afraid when the cellar is full...."

"The proverb never fails, my good woman; and that is easily understood

when one reflects how and why proverbs have obtained credit."

"But, M. le Curé," interrupted La Ragaude, "if you knew where this poor

abandoned child came from, it seems to me...."

"What child?" said the _curé_, taking a pinch of snuff, so as to appear

indifferent. "Oh! yes, the little one of this morning. What, do you

still think of it? Bah! let it pass; after all, the hospital is not a

place where one dies from want of care."

"I know it; but it is sad, monsieur, very sad, for one of those little

innocents to say afterwards, 'I was in a hospital'; that always gives a

bad idea."

"What can be done, Mme. Ragaud? One becomes accustomed to everything.

Come, come, don't make yourself uneasy. We were saying, then, ... what

were we saying? Ah! I remember now. I was telling you that proverbs

must be believed, and for the reason that these little village-sayings

are only repeated after they have been verified by the great and long

experience of our fathers. Thus, you will see that the last part of

the one I just quoted is equally curious: 'When there are more apples

than pears, then, good man, you can drink.' Well, wasn't it a fact last

year? There were so many apples that a jug of cider was only worth two

farthings; there was enough for everybody, and the wine was so abundant

that--you are not listening to me, Pierrette Ragaud?"

"Excuse me, M. le Curé, I am listening attentively; but I was thinking

perhaps my husband would not return; and, nevertheless, he should have

a little talk with you."

"About the vintage? We have time enough until then for that," replied

the _curé_ with a spice of malice.

"About the little innocent, dear monsieur. The truth is, I feel my

heart ache when I think he will go to the hospital through my fault."

"And as for me, my good woman, I am sorry that I spoke to you about

it; yes, sorry," he repeated earnestly, "for I have worried you, and I

had no such intention when I came to visit you. I see now that you are

inclined on the side of the good work; but I don't wish to force you

to take it in hand. Here, now, if the hospital frightens you, I have

thought of another arrangement, which might work well. My old Germaine,

notwithstanding her thirty years of service, is still active, and the

work in my house don't kill her. We will buy a good milking-goat at the

August fair; until then, you will lend us one, and, God willing, the

little one will remain where his good angel deposited him."

"May the Lord bless you!" cried La Ragaude, the tears streaming from

her eyes. "But what a shame for us to let you burden yourself with such

a heavy load, when you already give more than you can afford! No, no,

holy and good Virgin Mary! For my part, I would not sleep easy after

such an act."

The good _curé_ clasped his hands, and in his heart rendered thanks to

all the saints in paradise. He was very much touched, and as he was

about to thank Pierrette as she deserved, Ragaud returned from the

fields.

They cordially saluted each other; and, very naturally, as the good

man saw his wife wiping her eyes, and the _curé_ almost ready to

do likewise, he asked what had excited them. Thereupon M. le Curé

commenced a long discourse, so gentle and so touching--he spoke of

charity, of the rewards of heaven, the happiness of generous hearts,

with words so beautifully turned that never in the parish church, on

the greatest festivals, had he preached better. Pierrette, as she

afterwards said, thought she was listening to the holy patron saint of

Ordonniers, who in his lifetime, it is related, spoke so well that the

birds stopped singing to listen to him. Ragaud remained silent, but he

shook his head, and turned his cap around in his hands--signs of great

emotion with him.

Meanwhile, he said neither yes nor no, but asked time for reflection,

promising to give his answer the next day before twelve o'clock. He was

perfectly right, and M. le Curé, who felt in the bottom of his heart

that the cause was gained, wished even to wait until Sunday; but Ragaud

did not like to take back his word.

"I said to-morrow, M. le Curé, and it will be to-morrow," said he, when

conducting his pastor to the threshold of the door.

"Dear, holy soul of the good God!" cried Pierrette, looking after the

_curé_ as he leisurely walked down the road, repeating his rosary as he

went along. "Good dear priest, that he is! We need many more like him,

Ragaud!"

"Good, holy man, in truth," replied the farmer; "but what he proposes

to us is an affair of importance. You are young and healthy yet, wife,

but in ten years your arms will not be as strong as now. You must think

of that, even if God keeps you in good health. A child is a comfort in

a house, but all the burden falls on the mother. Suppose this little

one should become refractory and vagabond, like Cotentin's son."

"That is true," said La Ragaude.

"Suppose he should get bad ideas in his head, and send religion and

honesty to the devil."

"That would be a great misfortune," again said La Ragaude, but this

time sighing.

"I know you," continued the good man--"you become attached to every

one. Didn't you weep like a little girl because I beat Capitaine, who

is only an ox, and who deserved it? And haven't I seen you half crazy

because Brunette had the gripes?--and she was only a cow.... Can it be

hoped that you would be more reasonable about a child who would become

ours?--for we must do the thing well or not at all; isn't it so?"

"It is just as you say," replied Pierrette, sighing still louder; "but

what, then, shall we do?"

"My opinion is that we must consider it well," answered Ragaud.

"You only consider the bad side," said La Ragaude gently; "but suppose

the little one should preserve the blessing of his baptism, and let

himself be well governed--later, we would be very happy and well

rewarded."

"That is true," said the farmer.

"If," continued La Ragaude, "I am easily worried about animals, I know

well it would not be the same thing with a Christian. You see, husband,

the poor beasts suffer without being able to complain or explain

themselves; and, therefore, I am always afraid of their being treated

unjustly. But a boy has his tongue, and can defend himself. We can talk

sense to him, and if he won't listen, why, we will put him to school."

"Bah! you will spoil him so that he will be master of the house before

he is in breeches."

"Don't fear," cried Pierrette; "that will never be, or I should think

myself wanting in gratitude to the good God."

"If I could be sure of that, my wife, I would attempt it. But, come;

let the night pass before deciding."

They did not mention it again until the next day; but Pierrette took

care, before retiring, to light a taper at her bedside, beneath a

beautiful picture of Our Lady of Liesse.

Early the next morning, she went, as usual, to feed her turkeys and

drive her cows to the meadow. On her return, she saw Ragaud dressing

himself in his Sunday clothes.

"I think, wife," said he, "we had better, at least, see this little one

before deciding."

Pierrette hastened to throw aside her apron; and then it appeared she

had expected such a decision, as at dawn she had dressed herself in

her new gown of gray serge, with her bright-flowered neckerchief from

Rouen, which had only been worn at the last feast of the good S. Anne,

in July.

It was thus the worthy couple proceeded on their way to the priest's

house. As it was Thursday, and neither festival, nor fair, nor

market-day in the village, the neighbors stared as they saw them pass,

and, unable to imagine the cause, chattered nonsense, half from malice,

half from spite; and Simonne Durand, well known for her viper tongue,

said aloud: "We must believe the Ragauds are going to obtain the

priest's blessing on their fiftieth anniversary, as they are so finely

dressed on a week-day."

This wicked jealousy went a little too far, and profited nothing to the

spiteful thing, as every one knew the Ragauds had only been married

twenty years at the furthest; but, when the mind is full of malice,

there is little time for reflection.

When the good friends arrived at the pastoral residence, M. le Curé

had just entered after saying his Mass; and we need not ask if he had

prayed well. Germaine, his old servant, held the baby in her lap, and

was feeding him with boiled goat's milk. Pierrette could not restrain

her delight on seeing what a beautiful child it was, and that it was at

least six or seven months old. She snatched it from Germaine's arms,

and commenced kissing it, not caring that she had interrupted his

little repast. This showed that the child was good-natured; for instead

of crying, as a sickly, cross baby would have done similarly situated,

he crowed with joy, and put out his little hands, dazzled with the

fine, flowered neckerchief of his new mamma.

"How pretty and healthy he is!" cried La Ragaude. "My dear M. le Curé,

you told me it was a new-born child."

"Did I say so, Pierrette? It was because I did not know much about it."

"So it seems," replied the good woman, gaily. "The little darling is at

least seven or eight months old; don't you think so, Germaine?"

"I know one a year old not so large as he," answered the old servant.

"But that is not all, Mme. Ragaud; you see him in the day-time, but it

is at night that he is good and amusing. He sleeps without stirring,

like a little corpse. For my part, I would not be afraid to bring him

up."

Ragaud had not yet said a word, and still upon him all depended.

"Come and talk a little while with M. le Curé," said he, pulling his

wife by the skirt.

Pierrette quickly rose to obey him, according to her good habit, but

she did not give up the young one; so that Ragaud gently reproved her

for again showing herself as ready to become attached to men as to

beasts.

We need not be sorcerers to divine what happened. In less than

a quarter of an hour, the contract of adoption was passed

satisfactorily, without notary or scribbling. It was signed with a

friendly shake of the hands; and to say which one of these good hearts

was the best satisfied would not be very easy.

III.

Now, without further delay, I am going to show you, as they say,

the under-card in relation to the little one. True, it was a secret

of the confessional, at least for the time being; but later, it was

everybody's secret. The story is simple, and will not be long. You

remember that our _curé_, in conversation with Pierrette, led her

to mention a certain Catharine Luguet, against whom the good woman

appeared very much incensed. This Catharine was an orphan, whose

parents, dying, left her when quite young without any means of support.

Germaine watched over her like a daughter, and M. le Curé, to keep her

near him, paid her apprenticeship to a seamstress; after which, having

grown up, and being very skilful with her needle, he placed her in a

little room near the church, and gave her charge of the sacristy. But,

unfortunately, the poor child was as pretty as a picture, and loved

compliments, dress, and dancing, which is a great danger for a young

girl, especially in a village. Catharine commenced by degrees to make

people talk about her, and not without cause. The Ragauds, who were

distantly related to her on the mother's side, at first reprimanded

her, and finally would not see her. The girl was quick-tempered,

resented the treatment, and one fine day went off, saying that she

could easily find in Paris people who would be happy to receive her.

Two years passed without news of her. Her name was no longer mentioned

in the village, and from that M. le Curé surmised some misfortune had

happened. He prayed for the poor girl, and unceasingly begged the good

God to mercifully receive her through his grace, if not during her

life, at least at the hour of death. His prayer was heard at a moment

when he scarcely expected it. One morning, when Germaine had left the

village at day-dawn to make some purchases in the city, she took it

into her head to pay a visit to one of her good friends, who was a Gray

Sister in a large hospital. They talked about the patients; and the

sister, very much affected, spoke of a young woman she had received the

week before, and who appeared very near her end.

"I have put her by herself," said she, "and I will confide to you,

Germaine, that this poor afflicted creature has a child; and, between

ourselves, I very much believe she is dying as much of shame as of

want."

Germaine wished to see her; but, at the first look, the sick woman

uttered a loud cry, and hid her head under the counterpane.

"What is the matter?" said Germaine. "I frighten her."

"We have awakened her," replied the good sister, "and she is nervous. I

should have entered alone."

But the poor girl sobbed without showing her face. At last the sister

calmed her. Germaine, on her side, spoke kindly, and finally she drew

down the covering. You can imagine the rest.

It was Catharine Luguet, but how changed! She, formerly so pretty, so

bright, and so laughing--and now her mother herself would scarcely have

recognized her. The innocent little being that slept in a cradle by her

side told all her story. What she had found in Paris, what had brought

her back to the country, there to die, were dishonor, misery, and an

orphan without a name--but also sincere and true repentance; and the

good God, who has certainly received her in paradise, struck the blow,

that she might be saved.

Who was astonished, and at heart happy, in spite of his sorrow, which

can be well understood? It was our _curé_. Holy man that he was, he

was happier to have his lost sheep brought back to him, even although

half dead, than not to have found her at all. The next day, he hastened

to Issoudun, and remained the greater part of the afternoon with poor

Catharine.

Issoudun was the nearest large city to our village, and, if I have

forgotten to tell you so, I beg you will excuse me.

Although my father gave me some slight details of the unfortunate

girl's story, I will not relate them; for many long years she has

reposed in consecrated ground, and, as the dear, good man wisely said,

"The sins which have received the pardon of God should be hidden by

man;" and this is true charity.

It is only necessary to say that this first visit of our _curé_ was

followed by many others. Catharine declined visibly, and her little

one, from whom she would not be separated, was a great worry to her.

The sisters took care of him, and fed him to the best of their ability

during the day, but they could not attend to him at night. He was

beautiful and healthy, and grew like a weed--which was a miracle,

considering the state of the mother--but his first teeth commenced to

appear, and rendered him restless and troublesome. One morning, when

M. le Curé and Germaine went together to the hospital, they found poor

Catharine so ill they feared she would not pass the day.

"My daughter," said Germaine to her, "be reasonable; let me have your

child. I will take great care of him."

"As you please," replied Catharine.

He was instantly carried away; and, that no one should penetrate the

secret, a confidential woman, employed in the hospital, came in the

night-time, and left him at the priest's house in the village. That

same night, poor Catharine became speechless, but was conscious until

the moment of her death, which soon happened, and never was there seen

a more peaceful and touching agony. The sisters saw with admiration

that after death she regained her beauty, and her face its youthful

look of twenty years.

"She is smiling with the angels," said the pious souls, and it was not

to be doubted; for the angels receive with as great joy the repentant

as the innocent.

The little one was baptized and registered under the name of his poor

mother. Our _curé_ easily procured all the necessary acts; but for the

family name, the dear innocent had none to bear, at least for a long

time. He was called Jean-Louis; about the rest, there was silence. As

to the secret of his birth, although confided in confession, Catharine,

before dying, said to the _curé_:

"You will tell all, my father, if it is necessary, later, for the

future of my child."

And you will see in the end that it was a wise speech.

Between ourselves, this holy, good man of a _curé_, who was gentle and

merciful, as much from a sense of duty as by inclination of heart,

had always blamed the Ragauds for their rigorous severity against the

poor departed. Says the proverb, "In trying to do too much, one often

fails to do well." Perhaps it would have been better to have patiently

borne with the poor inexperienced girl than to have driven her from

the protection of her only relatives on account of malicious gossip.

But Ragaud did not understand jesting; he was, as the saying runs,

as stiff as a poker, and, as soon as the wicked tongues commenced to

wag about her, he said, "There is no smoke without fire," and closed

his mind to all explanations, and his door to the girl. Thus had they

acted towards Catharine, without thinking that then she was only giddy

and coquettish--faults which might have been cured as long as the soul

was not spoiled. The treatment was too harsh; it caused the flight to

Paris, which took place in a moment of anger and spite, and all the

misfortunes that followed. In strict justice, the Ragauds should in a

measure make reparation for an action done with good intentions, but

which had ended so badly. Our _curé_ foresaw that sooner or later they

would be sorry for it; therefore, in burdening them with the child,

he acted shrewdly, but also with great fairness. I certainly will not

blame him, nor you either, I think.

IV.

From the day that poor Catharine's child was installed in the house

of her relatives, there was a change in Muiceron. Pierrette no longer

wept, and, far from being grieved, as formerly, at the sight of other

children, she willingly drew them around her. On Saturdays, when

she baked her bread for the week, she never failed to make a large

crumpet of wheaten flour, beaten up with eggs, and a bowl of curds and

fresh cream, for the sole purpose of regaling the young ones of the

neighborhood. We need not inquire if, on these evenings, the house

was full. The children were well satisfied, and their mammas also; for

Saturday's supper remained whole for Sunday, and, in the meantime, the

little rascals went to bed gayer than usual, thanks to a glass of white

wine that watered the crumpet and filled the measure of joy in all

those little heads.

It was also remarked that Ragaud's jests were more frequent at the

meetings of the church wardens of the parish on the appointed days

after Vespers. Sometimes he even went off in the morning to his work

singing the airs of the country-dances, which was a sure proof that his

heart was at peace; for, by nature, he was a man more serious than gay,

and as for singing, that was something quite out of his usual habit.

These good people thus already received a holy reward for their

generous conduct. According to the old adage, "Contentment is better

than wealth"; and now they, who had so long possessed riches without

contentment, had the happiness of enjoying both. Quite contrary to many

Christians, who imagine that the good God owes them everything, the

Ragauds every evening thanked Heaven for this increase of wealth. Now,

if gratitude is pleasing to men, it is easy to believe that it draws

down blessings from on high; and from day to day this could be clearly

seen at Muiceron.

Little Jean-Louis grew wonderfully, and gave good Pierrette neither

trouble nor care. At his age, children only cry from hunger, and as he,

well fed and well cared for, had nothing to complain of, it followed

that he grew up scarcely ever shedding a tear.

When he was one year old, it seemed that the good boiled goat's milk

was no longer to his taste, as he put on a discontented look when he

saw the smoking bowl. Ragaud, one evening, for a joke, put his glass to

the boy's lips, and, far from turning his head, he came forward boldly,

and drank the cider like a man. This highly delighted Master Ragaud,

who wished to try if a piece of dry pork, in the shape of a rattle,

would please him as well; but to that Pierrette objected, maintaining

that a root of marsh-mallow was a hundred times better, particularly as

the little fellow was getting his double teeth.

"You wish to bring him up like a woman," said Ragaud, shrugging his

shoulders; but, nevertheless, he let the mistress have her own way.

There were no other disputes about him until he had attained his

third year, for then his excellent health, which had caused so much

happiness, was nothing in comparison with the good instincts which

commenced to develop. He was lively and gentle, chattered away

delightfully, and was always so obedient and tender, that to pay him

for his good behavior, the Ragauds nearly killed him with kindness. In

regard to his appearance, I will tell you that in height he surpassed

most children of his age, his hair was black and curly, his eyes dark

also and very bright. With all this, he was not very handsome, as,

growing so fast, he had kept very thin; but Pierrette said wisely, he

would have time to grow fat, and since he ate, drank, and slept when he

was tired, there was nothing to fear.

One thing will astonish you, that neither of the Ragauds perceived

for an instant that the child was the living image of poor Catharine

Luguet; and still the likeness was so striking, M. le Curé spoke of it

incessantly to Germaine, and expected on every visit to Muiceron to

be embarrassed by some remark on the subject. But whether the good

people had really forgotten their relative, or did not wish by even

pronouncing her name to recall a sorrowful remembrance, certain it is

that nothing in their words or actions, which were perfectly frank and

simple, betrayed in the slightest degree that they ever thought of it.

About that time, Pierrette commenced to be more uneasy, as Master

Jean-Louis often escaped on the side of the stables, and delighted in

racing up and down the bank, bordered with tall grass, of the stream

that ran behind the bleaching-ground of Muiceron. With such a bold boy,

who would not listen to any warning, an accident very often happens;

therefore, the good woman placed around his neck a medal of S. Sylvain,

in addition to that of the Blessed Virgin Mary, which he had worn ever

since his arrival at the farm.

S. Sylvain is a patron saint venerated in our province, who won

heaven in leading the life of a peasant like us. Pierrette had a

great devotion for him, and said that the saints above remember with

tenderness those of their own former condition on earth; consequently,

no one in the good God's heaven could better protect a child daily

exposed to the accidents of rural life. One day especially, when he

wished to be very active in helping his mother Pierrette by putting

little pieces of dry wood in the fire, while she was soaking the

clothes in lye, a plank of the big tub gave way all at once, and the

boiling water floated around the room, and only stopped within half a

foot of the child, who might have been drowned and scalded, in less

time than it takes to say it. Pierrette for two entire days was so

overcome she could speak of nothing else.

In the same manner, once, when Ragaud carried the little fellow with

him to the fields, he amused him by placing him on one of the oxen; but

the animal, tormented by the flies, shook his head so roughly that his

rider, about as high as your boot, was thrown on the ground; but before

any one could run to assist him he was already standing, red, not with

fear, but with anger, and quickly revenged himself on the beast by

striking him with a willow-wand that he used for a whip, and which he

had not let go in his fall. Ragaud was terribly frightened at the time,

but afterwards proudly related the adventure, and said to his neighbors

that his son, Jean Louis, would be as brave a man as General Hoche, the

hero of the war of La Vendée, and who, according to the old men of the

neighborhood, never in his lifetime feared either man or beast.

As for the resemblance to General Hoche, Pierrette cared precious

little, not being the least warlike by nature. Truth to say, I

scarcely believe she knew precisely who was this very great personage,

notwithstanding his immense renown in the province; therefore, she

simply contented herself with having a Mass of thanksgiving said in S.

Sylvain's Chapel, thinking that his protection was worth more than all

the vanities of this world.

The great love of this good household for the little orphan increased

day by day. Pierrette and her husband accustomed themselves to call him

"My son" so often and so sincerely that I do believe they really ended

by fancying it was so. The neighbors could do no less than they; so

that every where and by every one he was called the Ragauds' son--so

true it is that custom often takes away reflection.

From that grew the idea that this little mite would one day be the big

man of the neighborhood; and those who thought they were making a wise

discovery, in supposing it would be thus, fell into the intentions

of the Ragauds, as surely as the brook flows into the river; for at

this same time, one autumn evening, when the fire burnt brightly on

the hearth, Ragaud, seated at table opposite his good wife, commenced

all at once to compliment her talent for housekeeping, praising

everything around him, from the walls and window-panes, glistening with

cleanliness, to the chests and benches, newly waxed once a month. He

took pleasure in recalling his great happiness during the past twenty

years, attributing all his blessings, after God, to the account of

Pierrette's virtues; and as, like the thread in a needle, Jean Louis

was sitting between them, eating his soup, he seized him in his arms,

and tossed him up three times nearly to the rafters.

"You see, my son," said he, re-seating himself, and still keeping the

boy on his knees, "you drew a good number in the lottery; for although

you came to us like the down off the thistle, you have, nevertheless,

a mother such as cannot be found in a hundred leagues; and as for your

father, my brave fellow, he will leave you enough crowns to make you as

respected in life as though you were a prefect."

"Happily," replied the wise Pierrette, "the little one is not old

enough to understand what you are talking about; for this, my dear

husband, is a very improper speech for the child's ears. We would fill

him with vanity, and not only does pride offend the good God, but it

renders a man very disagreeable to those around him."

"You are always right," replied Ragaud, without taking offence; "but a

good fire, a good wife, money honestly earned, and new cider--nothing

like these for untying the tongue and making it a little too long.

Come, go to bed, my Jeannet, kiss your parents, and say your prayers

well; to-morrow we will go to gather the thatch in the fields near

Ordonniers, and if you only bring me as much as will fill your apron,

you shall have two cents on Sunday to buy a gingerbread."

"Very well," said Pierrette, laughing, "that will be a fortune which

will not make him too vain."

A little while afterwards, when they were alone, the conversation

was recommenced, but they proceeded regularly about the business,

and, finally, debated the question as to how the will should be

drawn, according to law, so as to leave Muiceron to the child. The

difficulty was that Ragaud knew very little about writing in any

shape, and Pierrette nothing at all. They talked away, without making

any progress, far into the night, and at last acknowledged they would

have to finish where they should have begun, namely, by going next day

to consult Master Perdreau, the notary of Val-Saint, on the subject.

Thereupon, they went off well pleased to sleep in their big bed,

with the canopy of yellow serge; and as the next morning the work of

the thatching pressed, on account of the rains which were about to

commence, Ragaud postponed his trip to another day.

Now, the good God, who has his own designs, permitted that it should

be entirely otherwise from what these good people had intended, and in

a manner so astonishing that no one, no matter how wise, could have

foreseen it; for La Ragaude, who had nearly completed her forty-second

year, became the following year the mother of a beautiful little girl,

who was most fondly welcomed by the delighted parents.

TO BE CONTINUED.

PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY.[67]

II.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE CATHOLIC WORLD:

In the letter which I ventured to address to you a short time ago

concerning the general conditions required in a good English work of

philosophy, I made some observations on the importance and difficulty

of wielding the popular language in a strictly philosophical manner.

As I apprehend that the title of "Philosophical Terminology," under

which that letter was made to appear, is scarcely justified by its

very limited contents, I beg leave to add a few other considerations

on the same subject, that your intelligent readers may find in these

additional remarks a confirmation and a further development of what I

said about our need of a more copious philosophical language.

There are two words which cannot easily be dispensed with in the

metaphysical analysis of created beings; these two words are, in Latin,

_actus_ and _potentia_. Metaphysicians, in fact, conclusively prove

that in every created substance there are two essential principles:

a principle of activity, which is known under the name of _actus_,

and a principle of passivity, which is styled _potentia_. These two

terms, which are so necessary in metaphysics, and so familiar to all

the scholastic philosophers, might be fairly represented in English

by "act" and "potency"; though as yet neither "act" nor "potency" is

popularly used in this philosophical sense.

The word "act" with us primarily signifies that which is produced

by action; for all action is the production, or the position, or

the making of an act. But all action implies an agent--that is, a

being which is already "in act," with its actual power prepared for

action. On the other hand, nothing is formally "in act," but through

an intrinsic "act," which is the formal principle of its actuality.

Accordingly, the word "act," though primarily known to us as expressing

the product of action, must, by metaphysical necessity, be applied also

to that from which every agent and every being has its actuality.

Hence, philosophers found it necessary to admit two kinds of

"acts"--the _essential_ and the _accidental_. The essential is that

which gives the first actuality, or existence, to a being--_dat esse

simpliciter_. The accidental is that which is received in a subject

already existing, and which only gives it an accidental actuality or a

mode of being--_dat esse secundum quid_.

But the essential act (which is also called _substantial_, though it

has a more extensive meaning, as we shall see hereafter) is, moreover,

to be distinguished from actual existence. Metaphysicians, indeed, very

often speak of existence as an act; and hence, to avoid confusion and

equivocation, they are obliged to distinguish the _actus essentiæ_ from

the _actus existentiæ_. Yet, to speak properly, existence is not simply

an act; it is the actuality of the being;[68] and, consequently, the

distinction which must be admitted between the essential act and the

existence of a being is not strictly a distinction between two acts,

but between the _act_ which actuates the essential term of the being,

and the _actual state_ which results from such an actuation. I will say

more on this point when I have explained the use of the word "potency."

The English word "potency" is the equivalent of the Latin _potentia_.

This Latin word, although used most frequently in the sense of "passive

principle," is not, however, necessarily connected with passivity

more than with activity; and accordingly it has been used as well

to designate "active power." Hence, it is obvious that this term,

_potentia_, when employed absolutely without the epithet _activa_ or

_passiva_, is liable to two interpretations, and becomes a source

of mischievous equivocations. I do not see what prevented our old

Latin philosophers from designating the two kinds of _potentia_ by

two different words. Had they constantly used _virtus_ or _vis_ for

the _potentia activa_, and reserved _potentia_ exclusively for the

_potentia passiva_, they would not have mistaken the one for the other,

as they sometimes did. Let me quote a few examples of this for our

common instruction.

Sanseverino, a very learned man, and one of the best modern

scholastics, while arguing against the Scotists, who deny all real

distinction between the soul and its faculties, says that if the soul

and its faculties are really the same thing, then, "as the soul is

always in act, the faculties also must be always in act and never in

potency." Whence he infers that "the soul would have no potentiality,

and would therefore be a _purus actus_ like God"; which is, of course,

a pantheistic absurdity.[69] But evidently this inference has no

other foundation than the confusion of the _potentia activa_ with the

_potentia passiva_. The author, in fact, knows perfectly well that

no being in which there is _potentia passiva_ can be styled _purus

actus_: when, therefore, he draws the conclusion that the soul, in the

Scotistic theory, would be _purus actus_, he must be understood to mean

or imply that all _potentia passiva_ would be excluded from the soul.

Yet his premises are concerned with the _potentia activa_ only; and it

is quite evident, that from such premises he could not have passed to

such a conclusion had he not confounded the two kinds of _potentia_

with one another.

I would remark, also, that in his argument the expression, "The

faculties must be always in act," cannot mean that the faculties must

be always _acting_, but only that they are always _actual_, as the

soul itself; and, therefore, the author cannot reasonably conclude

that the faculties "would never be in potency" respecting their

proper acts. The _potentia activa_ is already an "act," as it is

known, since it is called _actus primus agendi_; and is not called

_potentia_, except as contrasted with its accidental operations.

Moreover, a faculty does not cease to be _potentia activa_, even when

it actually performs its operations. When I actually make a syllogism,

my faculty of reasoning is "in act," and yet it retains its _potentia

activa_ with regard to any number of other syllogisms. It is not true,

therefore, that a faculty which is in actual operation ceases to be

_in potentia activa_. Lastly, the soul itself, which, as Sanseverino

remarks, is always in act, is nevertheless always in potency also; for

the actuality of all contingent being is always potential--that is,

liable to modifications of different kinds. Hence, we not only deny

the conclusion of the learned author as illegitimate, but affirm that

the premises themselves, on which he relies, are untenable. It is the

indiscriminate use of the word _potentia_ that vitiates the author's

argumentation.

Another great Thomist, Goudin, wishing to prove that in all creatures

the power of acting is an accident, argues that _potentia et actus sunt

idem, quamvis diversimode_, and that _actus est semper nobilior quam

potentia ad eum essentialiter ordinata_; whence he concludes that, if

a given act is an accident, the active power, whence it proceeds, must

needs be an accident too. Here, also, the equivocation is evident. The

act is _nobilior quam potentia_ when we compare it with the _potentia

passiva_ which is destined to receive it--that is, to be actuated by

it--but when an act is compared with the active power from which it

proceeds--that is, with the _potentia activa_--we cannot say that it

is _nobilior quam potentia ad eum essentialiter ordinata_: it is the

contrary that is true. Had the author used the word _virtus agendi_

instead of the equivocal word _potentia_, he would soon have discovered

the fallacy of his argument.

I am sorry to say that even S. Thomas sometimes forgets to observe the

distinction between _potentia activa_ and _potentia passiva_; as in the

first part of his _Summa_, where he compares the _potentia essendi_ and

the _potentia operandi_ with their respective acts, and establishes a

kind of proportion between the two potencies and the two acts.[70] No

such proportion can be admitted, unless the _potentia operandi_ and

the _potentia essendi_ are both similarly connected with their acts.

Yet whilst the _potentia operandi_ is active, the _potentia essendi_,

according to S. Thomas, is passive.[71] They cannot, therefore, be

related to their acts in a similar manner. Hence, the terms are not

homologous, and the proportion cannot subsist. In another place, the

holy doctor argues that, if an act is accidental, the _potentia_ from

which it proceeds must be accidental also; because _potentia et actus

dividunt ens, et quodlibet genus entis_, and, therefore, _oportet quod

ad idem genus referatur potentia et actus_.[72] But the _potentia_

which, with the _actus_, constitutes the being and every class of

beings is the _potentia passiva_; whilst the _potentia_ from which

any act proceeds is the _potentia activa_. The argument, therefore,

contains four terms, and proves one thing only, namely, that it is

extremely difficult, even for the greatest men, to avoid equivocations

when things that are different and opposite are designated by the same

term.

In English, the word _potentia_ is commonly represented by "power,"

to which the epithets of "active" and "passive" have been attached by

some writers, in the same manner as was done with the Latin _potentia_.

"Power," says Locke,[73] "may be considered twofold, namely, as able to

make or able to receive any change." But "in strictness," says Webster,

"passive power is an absurdity in terms. To say that gold has a power

to be melted is improper language; yet for want of a more appropriate

word, _power_ is often used in a passive sense."

It is not true, however, that "the want of a more appropriate word"

really compels us to use the word _power_ in a passive sense. Have

we not the word _potency_? This word exactly answers our purpose.

It is not only the exact equivalent of the Latin _potentia_, but is

also the immediate relation of the terms _potential_, _potentially_,

_potentiality_, which are already admitted in common philosophical

language as expressing capability, passiveness, and liability. These

latter words are only subordinate members of a family, of which

_potency_ is the head. Therefore, to convey the notion of _potentia

passiva_, we have a more appropriate word than "power," and nothing

compels us to employ the absurd expression of "passive power." On

the other hand, the remarks above made, on the consequences of the

promiscuous use of the word _potentia_ in the active and the passive

sense, would suffice to show that the word "power," even if it could be

used without absurdity in the passive sense, should, in philosophy, be

restricted to the active; as it is most desirable that things which are

so thoroughly opposite be expressed by different words. Thus, the word

"power" retaining its active meaning, the _potentia passiva_ may very

appropriately be styled "potency."

Some will ask, Why should we use the word "potency" in this new sense,

while we have already the term "potentiality," which seems to express

very exactly the same notion? I answer that the principle of passivity,

which we call "potency," is an essential constituent of created

beings; whilst "potentiality" is not an essential constituent, but an

attribute flowing from the essential constitution of being, on account

of the potency which the latter involves. Accordingly, "potentiality"

cannot stand for "potency," any more than rationality can stand for

reason, or materiality for matter.

From the foregoing considerations, it appears that the words "act"

and "potency" cannot be easily dispensed with in metaphysics, and,

therefore, should be freely admitted and acknowledged as philosophical

terms. As to their definitions, however, we shall have to rely on

philosophical treatises rather than on common English dictionaries.

The word "act" is indeed to be found in all dictionaries; but,

unfortunately, its meaning is restricted to the expression of mere

accidents, while substantial acts are ignored altogether. In Fleming's

_Vocabulary of Philosophy_ we find: "Act in metaphysics and in logic is

opposed to power. Power is simply a faculty or property of anything, as

gravity of bodies. _Act_ is the exercise or manifestation of a power

or property, the realization of a fact, as the falling of a heavy

body." On these words I would incidentally remark that "power" cannot

be defined a "faculty"; because, though all faculties are powers, yet

there are powers which are not faculties. Again, "power" cannot be

defined a "property" without adding some restriction; as there are

properties which are not powers. Moreover, the "gravity of bodies"

is not a power, as some unphilosophical scientists imagine, but is a

simple tendency to fall, owing to the fact that the active power of

the earth is actually applied to the passive potency of the body. Nor

is it true that in metaphysics or in logic the _act_ is the "exercise

or manifestation of a power." Such an exercise and manifestation is

_action_--that is, the position or the production of the act. As to

"the falling of a heavy body," it is true that we usually call it _an

act_, but we evidently mean _actuality_; for, if the falling were an

act strictly, then the tendency to fall would be an active power; which

it is not. Lastly, the most important metaphysical meaning of the word

"act," and of its correlative, "potency," is not given; which, however,

is not owing to any oversight of the author, as we have already

said that these two words were not used by English writers in this

philosophical sense.

In Worcester's and Webster's dictionaries, the word _act_ is said

to mean action, exertion of power, and real existence as opposed to

possibility. From the preceding remarks, it may be seen that, in

metaphysics, none of these three meanings can be considered rigorously

accurate.

_Act_, in the scholastic language, is that which gives existence

by formal actuation. _Potency_ is that which, by formal actuation,

receives existence. _Actuality_ is the result of the actuation--that

is, the very existence of the act in its potency. Actuality, as we have

already remarked, was also called _actus existentiæ_; hence, existence

itself was considered as an act received in the essence, and causing it

to be. But this view is now generally abandoned, because it has been

shown that it is not the existence that entails the reality of the act

and the potency, but the real position of the act in its potency that

entails the existence of the being. Accordingly, existence is not an

act received in the essence, but the result of the position of the

essence; and cannot be called _an act_, except in a logical sense,

inasmuch as it gives to the being _denominationem existentis_.

An act is called _essential_ when it gives the first existence to any

essence, be it simple or compound; _substantial_, when it gives the

first existence to a pure potency; _accidental_, when it gives a mode

of being. The distinction between essential and substantial acts will

be explained here below, where we examine the different kinds of forms.

Every being acts inasmuch as it is in act, and is acted on inasmuch

as it is in potency. Hence, the substantial act is a principle of

activity, and the potency a principle of passivity.

The active power of any being, if taken in the concrete, is nothing

but its substantial act _as ready for exertion_, and is called active

power, because its exertion is the position or the production of an

act. The active power thus considered is, therefore, in reality one of

the constituent principles of natural beings; whilst the abstract term

_activity_ does not stand for a principle, but for an attribute of the

being--that is, for its _readiness to act_.

The passive potency of any being, if taken in the concrete, is nothing

but the term of the substantial act _as liable to be acted on_, and is

called passive or receptive, because it is actuated by the reception

of an act. The passive potency, thus considered, is therefore in

reality one of the constituent principles of natural beings, whilst the

abstract term _passivity_ does not stand for a principle, but for an

attribute of the being--that is, for its _liability to be acted on_.

Every one who is acquainted with metaphysical matters will acknowledge

that it is of extreme importance that these terms and others of a

like nature, which are continually employed in metaphysical analysis,

be clearly understood by all students of philosophy. So long as our

language has no definite words by which to designate the essential

constituents of things, no hope can be entertained of advancing the

interests of metaphysics by means of vernacular books.

_Act_ and _potency_, in material things, are called _form_ and

_matter_ respectively; hence, material substance is said to consist

essentially of matter and form. The forms of natural things are usually

divided into _substantial_ and _accidental_. The substantial form

is commonly defined as that which gives the first existence to its

matter--_quæ dat materiæ primum esse_, or _simpliciter esse_. It is

sometimes defined, also, as that which gives the first existence to a

thing--_quæ dat primum esse rei_. But this second definition is open

to misconstruction; because, when the thing in question is a physical

compound having a number of material parts, the form that gives to

it--that is, to the compound essence--its first existence is its

physical composition, which is not a substantial, but an essential,

form, as we shall see presently.

The accidental form is defined as that which gives an accidental mode

of being--_quæ dat esse secundum quid_. This definition is universally

admitted; but it is a remarkable fact that the examples of accidental

forms given by most philosophers do not support it. Thus, the form of

a statue and the form of a column are not forms giving to the marble

any accidental mode of being, but are _the very modes of being_, which

have resulted in the marble from the reception of suitable accidental

acts. Therefore, what is called _the form_ of a statue is not a form

_giving a mode of being_, but the mode itself, on account of which _we

give_ to the marble _the name_ of a statue. Suarez and others have

indeed pointed out the necessity of distinguishing the forms _dantes

esse_ from the forms _dantes denominationem_; yet, even to this day, in

our philosophical treatises, the definition of the former is almost

exclusively illustrated by examples of the latter. True forms are

_acts_, whilst modes of being are _actualities_; and therefore modes

of being should not be called forms, but formalities. As, however, the

word _form_ is in general use in this last sense also, the best thing

we can do is to retain the term, and add to it a suitable epithet.

I would call them _resultant forms_, or _consequential forms_; and

in the same manner, when actuality is styled _act_, I would call

it _consequential act_, or _complementary act_, that it may not be

confounded with _act_ proper.

It is also necessary to make a well-marked distinction between

_substantial_ and _essential_ forms. The necessity of this distinction

is sufficiently shown by the very existence of the two scholastic

definitions of form. In fact, two definitions imply two concepts. The

first definition, _Forma est id quod dat primum esse materiæ_, strictly

belongs to the substantial form, as every one knows; but the second,

_Forma est id quod dat primum esse rei_, is more general, and extends

to all essential forms, be they substantial or not. Thus, we can say

that velocity is the essential form of movement, though, of course, it

is not a substantial form, as movement is not a substance.

The same distinction is to be admitted with regard to natural

compounds, at least in the opinion of those philosophers who oppose the

Aristotelic theory of substantial generations, or teach that bodies

are made up of primitive, unextended elements. Indeed, if chemical

combination does not destroy the essence of the combining substances,

it is obvious that the compound substance which arises out of the

combination will have no _special_ form, except the combination itself;

and such a form, however essential to the compound substance, cannot

be a substantial form in the sense of the Peripatetics; because it

gives existence to the compound nature only, and not to its matter.

Again, if the molecule of a primitive body, as hydrogen, is nothing

more than a system of material points or elements connected with one

another by dynamical ties, and subject to a law of vibratory movement,

which allows the molecule to contract and dilate, then it is evident

that the essential form of such a molecule will be its specific

composition; for the composition is the immediate constituent of all

material compound. Accordingly, since the scientific views which

lead to these conclusions are widely received, and very well founded

on chemical and other data, and can be philosophically established

by the very principles of ancient metaphysics, the said distinction

between substantial and essential forms is to be acknowledged as a

very important one in questions connected with modern science. Lastly,

essential forms are to be admitted, not only in natural, but also

in artificial and in moral, compounds. A clock has its essential

form, without which it would cease to be a clock; a family has its

essential form, without which it would cease to be a family; and yet

it would be ridiculous to talk of a clock or a family as having a

substantial form. It is, therefore, necessary to divide all true forms

into _substantial_, _essential_, and _accidental_, and to place in a

separate class all the so-called _resultant_ forms above mentioned.

Thus, the _substantial_ form is that which gives the first being to

matter. This definition comes from Aristotle himself, and has been

universally received by all metaphysicians.

The _essential_ form is that which gives to a thing its specific

nature. This definition coincides with that of the substantial

form whenever the specific nature of which we treat is physically

simple--that is, without composition of material parts--for, in fact,

such a simple nature receives its species from the same form that

gives the first being to its matter. Hence, the essential form and

the substantial form are one and the same thing so long as there is

question of simple or primitive beings. But the definition of the

essential form is no longer equivalent to that of the substantial form

when the specific nature constituted by it is physically compounded of

material parts; because such a compound nature receives its species

from its specific composition, which is not a substantial form, though

it is essential to the specific compound.

The _accidental_ form is that which gives to its subject an accidental

mode of being, or an _esse secundum quid_, according to the language of

the schools.

The so-called _resultant_ form is the actuality resulting from the

position of any true form. As, therefore, true forms are either

substantial, essential, or accidental, so, also, are all the resultant

forms. From the substantial form results the actuality of the primitive

being, which, as primitive, is always free from material composition;

from the essential form results the actuality of every specific nature,

which involves composition of material parts; and from the accidental

form results the actual modification of the subject in which it is

received.

I have dwelt purposely on these considerations, because the word

_form_, and its derivatives, _formal_, _formally_, _formality_, etc.,

are variously employed, and sometimes loosely, in philosophy, and

because, without a clear and distinct notion of the different kinds

of forms, many fundamental questions of metaphysics cannot be rightly

understood. I might say nearly as much respecting the word _matter_,

which is the metaphysical correlative of form; but it will suffice to

remark that _matter_, in philosophy, always means a receptive potency

which is actuated by a form; so that, if the form is accidental, the

word _matter_ stands for material substance itself as receptive,

because it is the substance that receives accidental forms; if the form

is essential in the sense above explained, then the word _matter_ means

the totality of the material parts required for the constitution of any

given specific compound, including their actual disposition to receive

the form in question; and if the form is substantial, then the word

_matter_ expresses only one of the constituent principles of primitive

material substance--that is, the potential term of substance; which is

first actuated by such a form.

The word _matter_ is used analogically in many other senses, which are

given by our lexicographers, who, however, omit to mention matter as

that potency which receives its first existence through the substantial

form. Webster says: "Matter is usually divided by philosophical writers

into three kinds or classes: solid, liquid, and aeriform." This

statement is not correct. Philosophical writers admit that _bodies_

are either solid, liquid, or aeriform; but they do not admit that

the matter of which bodies and their molecules are made up is either

solid, or liquid, or aeriform. Ice is solid, water is liquid, and

vapor is aeriform; and yet the matter in all of them is identically

the same. It is impossible, therefore, for philosophical writers to

divide _matter_ into liquid, solid, and aeriform. The philosophical

division of matter has always been into _materia informis_, or _prima_,

or _actuabilis_--that is, matter conceived as void of all substantial

form; and _materia formata_, or _secunda_, or _actuata_--that is,

matter actuated by, and existing under, a substantial form.

As I am not now writing a treatise on matter, I will dismiss this

subject with only two observations. The first is, that the words

_first matter_ and _second matter_ are indispensable in metaphysics,

and, therefore, must be adopted in our English philosophical language,

unless, indeed, we prefer to make use of the original Latin words. The

other is, that in reading the metaphysical works of the scholastics,

when we find the word _materia_ with the epithet _prima_, we should

carefully ascertain that the epithet is not misapplied. For, it has

been observed with reason that most of the abstruseness and uncertainty

inherent in the old explanation of physical questions arises from

the fact that the matter, which was supposed to be actually under

its form, and therefore in act, was very frequently called _materia

prima_, though it is known that "nothing that is in act can be called

by such a name."[74] This observation is of the greatest importance,

since it is evident that nothing but perpetual confusion can arise from

contradictory definitions.

To express the relation existing between act and potency, or between

form and matter, the philosophical Latin possesses many good phrases,

such as the following: _Forma dat esse materiæ, actuat materiam,

informat materiam, terminatur ad materiam_; and, reciprocally, _materia

accipit esse a forma, actuatur a forma, informatur a forma, terminat

formam_. In English, I presume, we are allowed to say that the form

_informs_ its matter, that the form _gives existence_ to the matter,

and that the form _actuates_ the matter. But can we say that the form

_is terminated to_ its matter, and that the matter _terminates_, that

is, completes its form? This manner of speaking may be considered

awkward, nevertheless its mode of expressing the relation of the

form to its matter is so remarkable for its philosophical precision,

clearness, and universality, that I would not hesitate to adopt it in

philosophy. To say that the form is terminated to its matter, is to

say that the matter is the potential _term_ actuated by the form. The

philosophical notion of _term_ (_terminus_), which is susceptible of

a general application to all conceivable beings, is a very important

one in philosophy as well as in theology; and since it can be made

quite intelligible even to the dullest of students, I think that in

metaphysical speculation the use of the words _term_, _termination_,

_to terminate_, _terminability_, _terminativity_, etc., cannot but

greatly help both teachers and students in their efforts to explain

correctly a number of ontological relations which it would be difficult

to express as simply and as correctly by other words.

The word _term_ in the popular use means the extremity of anything, or

that where anything ends. The spot of ground where a stone is allowed

to fall is the term of the falling; the drop of rain acted on by

gravity is the term of the action by which it is attracted; the tree at

which I am looking is the term of my vision; the concept which I form

of anything is the term of my thought. But all these terms correspond

to accidental acts, whereas the term which we ultimately reach in the

analysis of substance, is always substantial, as being intrinsic to the

substantial act of which it is the term. Hence, when we say that the

matter is the term of the form, or in general that the potency is the

term of its act, we mean not only that the act, or the form, reaches

the potency or the matter, but that the potency or the matter acquires

its first reality and actuality by the very position of the act or

form which it terminates; in the same manner as the centre of a sphere

acquires its first actuality through the simple position of a spherical

form. Accordingly, the words _act_ and _term_ are correlative; the act

_actuates_, the term _is actuated_, and the formal reason of their

correlation is _actuation_. This actuation is not efficient, but

formal; that is, the act, not by its action, but by itself, entails

the immediate existence of its intrinsic term, just as the spherical

form by itself, and not by any action, entails the immediate existence

of a centre. As a sphere without a centre, so an act without a term

is an utter impossibility. Hence the termination of the act to its

term is nothing less than the very constitution of any essence that

has a proper and complete existence. For this reason, I am of opinion

that the phrase "the form is terminated to the matter, and the act to

its potency," is the best we can adopt in speaking of created things,

however new it may be to English ears.

With regard to the peculiar construction of this verb with the

preposition _to_ instead of the prepositions _by_, _at_, or _in_, which

are in general use, I will only remark that these latter prepositions

are not suitable to express what we need. The _termination at_ connotes

a limit of time or space, as every one knows. The _termination in_

connotes a change or successive transformation of that which is

terminated into that in which it ends, as when a quarrel terminates

in murder. The _termination by_ connotes either an obstacle to further

advance, or at least a positive entity existing independently of

the termination itself: it cannot therefore express the fact that a

substantial term receives its very first actuality by the termination

of the act. On the other hand, this fact is perfectly expressed by

saying that the act is terminated _to_ its term; and since no other

English phrase has yet been found, so far as I know, which can express

the fact equally well, I think that we need have no scruple in

enriching our philosophical language with this old scholastic phrase.

"The resources of our noble language in philosophy," says a well-known

American writer, "are surpassed by no ancient or modern tongue, unless

the Greek be an exception. It is capable in philosophy of receiving

and assimilating all the riches of the Greek, Latin, Italian, and

French languages, while it has in its Teutonic roots the wealth of the

German."[75] This is a great encouragement to English philosophical

writers. Indeed, to say that among the resources of the English

language for philosophy we may reckon its capability of receiving and

assimilating all the riches of other learned languages, is to tell us

that our resources are still in a _potential_ state, and therefore that

no one can reasonably blame us for freely adopting from other languages

as many terms and phrases as we need to express our thoughts with

philosophical rigor. Yet the task, for obvious reasons, is extremely

difficult, as it requires a degree of judgment which unfortunately is

common only to the few. "The English language," adds the same writer,

"only needs Catholic restoration and culture to be the richest and

noblest language ever written or spoken. But it deteriorates, as does

everything else, in the hands of Protestants and unbelieving Englishmen

and Americans." At least two things are certain; first, that if the

English language ever becomes a perfect instrument of philosophical

education, it will be due to Catholic writers, for they alone will

be able to utilize for its healthy development all the treasures of

the scholastic terminology; second, that only in proportion as such a

development will be carried on, shall we acquire the means of training

our youthful generation in a vernacular course of philosophy. This

thought should rouse our dormant energies into action. It was with

this object that I undertook to say a few words on philosophical

terminology. Our language may be capable of receiving and assimilating

all the riches of other languages; but so long as such an assimilation

is in abeyance, the language remains poor and imperfect, nay, it

continues to "deteriorate, as does everything else, in the hands of

Protestants and unbelieving Englishmen and Americans." We still need

many philosophical words. I have given a few examples of such a need in

the preceding pages.

That we also need a number of new phrases is undeniable; but I will

not enter into the discussion of so difficult a subject. I prefer

simply to mention a few Latin phrases, which are much used by Catholic

philosophers or theologians, and will allow the reader himself to

attempt their translation without altering their philosophical meaning,

and without infringing upon English usages. Translate:

_Actus et potentia conspirant in unitatem essentiæ._

_Actio motiva terminatur materialiter ad mobile, et formaliter ad

motum._

_Sicut se habet actus substantialis ad esse simpliciter, ita se habet

actus accidentalis ad esse secundum quid._

_Facultas ordinatur ad operationem ut actus primus ad secundum._

_Quidquid sistit in suis essentialibus, nullo superaddito, est unum per

se._

_Intellectus attingit objectum sub ratione veri, voluntas autem sub

ratione boni._

_Actus et potentia principiant ens principiatione metaphysica._

_Relatio est id cuius totum esse est ad aliud se habere._

_Motus est actus existentis in potentia ut in potentia._

These and such like phrases will afford matter for a great exercise

of patience to him who will undertake to translate them faithfully.

_To conspire into unity, to be terminated to a movable object, to

be ordered to the operation_, _etc._, are scarcely good English

expressions: yet it is not easy to see what other phrases would be

calculated to express the same thoughts in an unobjectionable manner.

I will conclude by giving the opinion of a competent authority on this

very point. The Rev. F. Hill, in the preface to his substantial work

lately published under the title of _Elements of Philosophy_, says:

"The Latin of the schools, besides being brief, is also peculiarly

capable of expressing precisely, clearly, and comprehensively matters

which it is difficult to utter through the less accurate vernacular

in terms that are neither obscure nor ambiguous." And speaking of the

Latin philosophical axioms and sentences, which he inserted in his

treatise with their English translation, he remarks: "It was not,

however, an easy task, in some instances, to reproduce them with

fidelity in the English phraseology, as the classic scholar will

readily see from the result." Certainly, the task was not an easy

one. Yet the author has most creditably carried out his object. May

his example encourage others to cultivate the same field, and thus

contribute towards developing "the resources of our noble language,"

and making it a fit channel for sound philosophical education.

A FRIEND OF PHILOSOPHY.

FOOTNOTES:

[67] For the preceding article on the subject, see the July No. of _The

Catholic World_.

[68] _Esse est perfectissimum omnium; comparatur enim ad omnia ut

actus. Nihil enim habet actualitatem nisi in quantum est; unde ipsum

esse est actualitas omnium rerum, et etiam ipsarum formarum._--S.

Thomas, _Summa Th._, p. 1 q. 4 a. 1.

[69] Sanseverino, _Dynamilogia_, c. i. a. 1.

[70] _Summa Th._, p. 1 q. 54 a. 3.

[71] For he says that _esse non comparatur ad alia sicut recipiens ad

receptum, sed magis ut receptum ad recipiens_ (p. 1 q. 4 a. 1); whence

it is clear that the _potentia essendi_ is considered by him as the

_recipient_ of actual existence. The same he teaches _Contra Gent._

lib. ii. c. 53, and in other places.

[72] _Summa Th._, p. 1 q. 77 a. 1.

[73] _Essay on the Human Understanding_, b. 2. c. 21.

[74] _Materia ... per se nunquam potest esse; quia, quum in ratione sua

non habeat aliquam formam, non potest esse in actu (quum esse in actu

non sit nisi a forma), sed solum in potentia. Et ideo quidquid est in

actu non potest dici materia prima._--S. Thomas Opusc. _De Principiis

Naturæ_.

[75] _Brownson's Quarterly Review_, July, 1873, p. 416.

SELF-LOVE.

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

Light-winged Loves! they come; they flee:

If we were dead, they'd never miss us:

Self-Love! with thee is constancy--

Thine eyes could see but one, Narcissus.

MADAME AGNES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.

CONCLUDED.