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74 He held out one arm to her. She hesitated, then she swiftly put her finger tips on the smooth brown muscle, and drew them along. Quickly she hid her hand into the folds of her skirt, blushing.

He laughed a low, quiet laugh, at once pleasant and startling to hear.

“I wish I could work here,” she said, looking away at the standing corn, and the dim blue woods. He followed her look, and laughed quietly, with indulgent resignation.

“I do!” she said emphatically.

“You feel so fine,” he said, pushing his hand through his open shirt front, and gently rubbing the muscles of his side. “It’s a pleasure to work or to stand still. It’s a pleasure to yourself—your own physique.”

She looked at him, full at his physical beauty, as if he were some great firm bud of life.

Leslie came up, wiping his brow.

“Jove,” said he, “I do perspire.”

George picked up his coat and helped him into it; saying:

“You may take a chill.”

“It’s a jolly nice form of exercise,” said he.

George, who had been feeling one finger tip, now took out his pen-knife and proceeded to dig a thorn from his hand.

“What a hide you must have,” said Leslie.

Lettie said nothing, but she recoiled slightly.

The father, glad of an excuse to straighten his back and to chat, came to us.

“You’d soon had enough,” he said, laughing to Leslie.


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Rh George startled us with a sudden, “Holloa.” We turned, and saw a rabbit, which had burst from the corn, go coursing through the hedge, dodging and bounding the sheaves. The standing corn was a patch along the hill-side some fifty paces in length, and ten or so in width.

“I didn’t think there’d have been any in,” said the father, picking up a short rake, and going to the low wall of the corn. We all followed.

“Watch!” said the father, “if you see the heads of the corn shake!”

We prowled round the patch of corn.

“Hold! Look out!” shouted the father excitedly, and immediately after a rabbit broke from the cover.

“Ay—Ay—Ay,” was the shout, “turn him—turn him!” We set off full pelt. The bewildered little brute, scared by Leslie’s wild running and crying, turned from its course, and dodged across the hill, threading its terrified course through the maze of lying sheaves, spurting on in a painful zigzag, now bounding over an untied bundle of corn, now swerving from the sound of a shout. The little wretch was hard pressed; George rushed upon it. It darted into some fallen corn, but he had seen it, and had fallen on it. In an instant he was up again, and the little creature was dangling from his hand.

We returned, panting, sweating, our eyes flashing, to the edge of the standing corn. I heard Lettie calling, and turning round saw Emily and the two children entering the field as they passed from school.

“There’s another!” shouted Leslie.

I saw the oat-tops quiver. “Here! Here!” I yelled. The animal leaped out, and made for the

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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76 hedge. George and Leslie, who were on that side, dashed off, turned him, and he coursed back our way. I headed him off to the father who swept in pursuit for a short distance, but who was too heavy for the work. The little beast made towards the gate, but this time Mollie, with her hat in her hand and her hair flying, whirled upon him, and she and the little fragile lad sent him back again. The rabbit was getting tired. It dodged the sheaves badly, running towards the top hedge. I went after it. If I could have let myself fall on it I could have caught it, but this was impossible to me, and I merely prevented its dashing through the hole into safety. It raced along the hedge bottom. George tore after it. As he was upon it, it darted into the hedge. He fell flat, and shot his hand into the gap. But it had escaped. He lay there, panting in great sobs, and looking at me with eyes in which excitement and exhaustion struggled like flickering light and darkness. When he could speak, he said, “Why didn’t you fall on top of it?”

“I couldn’t,” said I.

We returned again. The two children were peering into the thick corn also. We thought there was nothing more. George began to mow. As I walked round I caught sight of a rabbit skulking near the bottom comer of the patch. Its ears lay pressed against its back; I could see the palpitation of the heart under the brown fur, and I could see the shining dark eyes looking at me. I felt no pity for it, but still I could not actually hurt it. I beckoned to the father. He ran up, and aimed a blow with the rake. There was a sharp little cry which sent a hot


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Rh pain through me as if I had been cut. But the rabbit ran out, and instantly I forgot the cry, and gave pursuit, fairly feeling my fingers stiffen to choke it. It was all lame. Leslie was upon it in a moment, and he almost pulled its head off in his excitement to kill it.

I looked up. The girls were at the gate, just turning away.

“There are no more,” said the father.

At that instant Mary shouted.

“There’s one down this hole.”

The hole was too small for George to get his hand in, so we dug it out with the rake handle. The stick went savagely down the hole, and there came a squeak.

“Mice!” said George, and as he said it the mother slid out. Somebody knocked her on the back, and the hole was opened out. Little mice seemed to swarm everywhere. It was like killing insects. We counted nine little ones lying dead.

“Poor brute,” said George, looking at the mother, “What a job she must have had rearing that lot!” He picked her up, handled her curiously and with pity. Then he said, “Well, I may as well finish this to-night!”

His father took another scythe from off the hedge, and together they soon laid the proud, quivering heads low. Leslie and I tied up as they mowed, and soon all was finished.

The beautiful day was flushing to die. Over in the west the mist was gathering bluer. The intense stillness was broken by the rhythmic hum of the engines at the distant coal-mine, as they drew up the


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Parker, (Horatio) Gilbert

PARKER, (Horatio) Gilbert, Canadian novelist: b. Camden East, Addington, Ontario, 23 Nov. 1862. He was educated at Trinity College, Toronto, in 1886 became associate editor of the Sydney (Australia) Morning Herald, and during his stay in Australia began to write plays. He traveled widely among the South Sea Islands and in northern Canada, and published a book of travel entitled ‘Round the Compass in Australia’ (1892). His novels include ‘Pierre and His People: Tales of the Far North’ (1892): ‘Mrs. Falchion’ (1893); ‘The Trespasser’ (1893); ‘Translation of a Savage’ (1894); ‘The Trail of the Sword’ (1895); ‘When Valmond Came to Pontiac’ (1895); ‘An Adventurer of the North’ (1895); ‘The Seats of the Mighty’ (1896), a romance of the taking of Quebec; ‘The Stolen Bonds’ (1897); ‘The Pomp of the Lavilettes’ (1897); ‘The Battle of the Strong’ (1898); ‘The Lane that had no Turning’ (1900); ‘The Right of Way’ (1901); ‘Donovan Pasha’ (1902); ‘History of Old Quebec’ (1903); ‘A Ladder of Swords’ (1904); ‘The Weavers’ (1907); ‘Northern Lights’ (1909); ‘Cumner's Son’ (1910); ‘The Land of the People, and the State’ (1910); ‘The Judgment House’ (1913); ‘You Never Know Your Luck’ (1915); ‘The World in the Crucible’ (1915); ‘The Money Master’ (1915); ‘The World For Sale’ (1916); ‘Wild Youth and Another’ (1919). His works of wide popularity exhibited a finished method and much skill in characterization and description. In 1900 and 1906 he was elected to Parliament in the Conservative interest for Gravesend, in 1902 was knighted and in 1915 was created a baronet.


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78 last bantles of men. As we walked across the fields the tubes of stubble tinkled like dulcimers. The scent of the corn began to rise gently. The last cry of the pheasants came from the wood, and the little clouds of birds were gone.

I carried a scythe, and we walked, pleasantly weary, down the hill towards the farm. The children had gone home with the rabbits.

When we reached the mill, we found the girls just rising from the table. Emily began to carry away the used pots, and to set clean ones for us. She merely glanced at us and said her formal greeting. Lettie picked up a book that lay in the ingle seat, and went to the window. George dropped into a chair. He had flung off his coat, and had pushed back his hair. He rested his great brown arms on the table and was silent for a moment.

“Running like that,” he said to me, passing his hand over his eyes, “makes you more tired than a whole day’s work. I don’t think I shall do it again.”

“The sport’s exciting while it lasts,” said Leslie.

“It does you more harm than the rabbits do us good,” said Mrs. Saxton.

“Oh, I don’t know, mother,” drawled her son, “it’s a couple of shillings.”

“And a couple of days off your life.”

“What be that!” he replied, taking a piece of bread and butter, and biting a large piece from it.

“Pour us a drop of tea,” he said to Emily.

“I don’t know that I shall wait on such brutes,” she replied, relenting, and flourishing the teapot.

“Oh,” said he taking another piece of bread and


text: Chronological Table and Index of the Statutes/Chronological Table/Edw4


text: Chronological Table and Index of the Statutes/Chronological Table/Ric3


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Rh butter, “I’m not all alone in my savageness this time.”

“Men are all brutes,” said Lettie, hotly, without looking up from her book.

“You can tame us,” said Leslie, in mighty good humour.

She did not reply. George began, in that deliberate voice that so annoyed Emily:

“It does make you mad, though, to touch the fur, and not be able to grab him”—he laughed quietly.

Emily moved off in disgust. Lettie opened her mouth sharply to speak, but remained silent.

“I don’t know,” said Leslie. “When it comes to killing it goes against the stomach.”

“If you can run,” said George, “you should be able to run to death. When your blood’s up, you don’t hang half way.”

“I think a man is horrible,” said Lettie, “who can tear the head off a little mite of a thing like a rabbit, after running it in torture over a field.”

“When he is nothing but a barbarian to begin with——” said Emily.

“If you began to run yourself—you’d be the same,” said George.

“Why, women are cruel enough,” said Leslie, with a glance at Lettie. “Yes,” he continued, “they’re cruel enough in their way”—another look, and a comical little smile.

“Well,” said George, “what’s the good finicking! If you feel like doing a thing—you’d better do it.”

“Unless you haven’t courage,” said Emily, bitingly.


text: Chronological Table and Index of the Statutes/Chronological Table/Hen7


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80 He looked up at her with dark eyes, suddenly full of anger.

“But,” said Lettie—she could not hold herself from asking, “Don’t you think it’s brutal, now—now that you do think—isn’t it degrading and mean to run the poor little things down?”

“Perhaps it is,” he replied, “but it wasn’t an hour ago.”

“You have no feeling,” she said bitterly.

He laughed deprecatingly, but said nothing.

We finished tea in silence, Lettie reading, Emily moving about the house. George got up and went out at the end. A moment or two after we heard him across the yard with the milk-buckets, singing: “The Ash Grove.”

“He doesn’t care a scrap for anything,” said Emily with accumulated bitterness. Lettie looked out of the window across the yard, thinking. She looked very glum.

After a while we went out also, before the light faded altogether from the pond. Emily took us into the lower garden to get some ripe plums. The old garden was very low. The soil was black. The cornbind and goosegrass were clutching at the ancient gooseberry bushes, which sprawled by the paths. The garden was not very productive, save of weeds, and perhaps, tremendous lank artichokes or swollen marrows. But at the bottom, where the end of the farm buildings rose high and grey, there was a plum-tree which had been crucified to the wall, and which had broken away and leaned forward from bondage. Now under the boughs were hidden great mist-bloomed, crimson treasures, splendid globes. I shook


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Parker, Horatio William

PARKER, Horatio William, American musician and composer: b. Auburndale, Mass., 15 Sept. 1863. His education was for the most part European, and in 1885 he graduated from the Munich Royal Conservatory. After that time he was professor of music in the Cathedral School of Saint Paul, Garden City, L. I., and organist of Holy Trinity Church, New York, until 1893, when he became organist of Trinity Church, Boston. Since 1894 he has been professor of the theory of music at Yale University. His compositions rank high in American music; they include the oratorio ‘Hora Novissima’ (1893), the first American music given at an English musical festival; ‘A Wanderer's Psalm’ (1900), also given at one of the English festivals; the oratorio of ‘Saint Christopher’ (1896); the cantatas ‘King Trojan’ (1885); ‘The Kobolds’; and ‘Harold

Harfagar’ (1891); ‘The Dream King’ (1893); ‘A Star Song’ (1901); ‘The Leap of Roushan Bey’ (1914). With Brian Hooker as librettist, in 1911 he won the Metropolitan Opera House $10,000 prize with the opera ‘Mona,’ and in 1915 the Los Angeles $10,000 prize with the opera ‘Fairyland.’ In 1915 he wrote the oratorio ‘Morven and the Grail’ for the centenary celebration of the Handel and Haydn Society of Boston. Among other compositions are symphonies, overtures, chamber music, pianoforte and organ numbers and numerous songs. In 1902 he received the degree of Mus. Doc. from Cambridge University.


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Rh the old, ragged trunk, green, with even the fresh gum dulled over, and the treasures fell heavily, thudding down among the immense rhubarb leaves below. The girls laughed, and we divided the spoil, and turned back to the yard. We went down to the edge of the garden, which skirted the bottom pond, a pool chained in a heavy growth of weeds. It was moving with rats, the father had said. The rushes were thick below us; opposite, the great bank fronted us, with orchard trees climbing it like a hillside. The lower pond received the overflow from the upper by a tunnel from the deep black sluice.

Two rats ran into the black culvert at our approach. We sat on some piled, mossy stones, to watch. The rats came out again, ran a little way, stopped, ran again, listened, were reassured, and slid about freely, dragging their long naked tails. Soon six or seven grey beasts were playing round the mouth of the culvert, in the gloom. They sat and wiped their sharp faces, stroking their whiskers. Then one would give a little rush and a little squirm of excitement and would jump vertically into the air, alighting on four feet, running, sliding into the black shadow. One dropped with an ugly plop into the water, and swam toward us, the hoary imp, his sharp snout and his wicked little eyes moving at us. Lettie shuddered. I threw a stone into the dead pool, and frightened them all. But we had frightened ourselves more, so we hurried away, and stamped our feet in relief on the free pavement of the yard.

Leslie was looking for us. He had been inspecting the yard and the stock under Mr. Saxton’s supervision.


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82 “Were you running away from me?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “I have been to fetch you a plum. Look!” And she showed him two in a leaf.

“They are too pretty to eat!” said he.

“You have not tasted yet,” she laughed.

“Come,” he said, offering her his arm. “Let us go up to the water.” She took his arm.

It was a splendid evening, with the light all thick and yellow lying on the smooth pond. Lettie made him lift her on to a leaning bough of willow. He sat with his head resting against her skirts. Emily and I moved on. We heard him murmur something, and her voice reply, gently, caressingly:

“No—let us be still—it is all so still—I love it best of all now.”

Emily and I talked, sitting at the base of the alders, a little way on. After an excitement, and in the evening, especially in autumn, one is inclined to, be sad and sentimental. We had forgotten that the darkness was weaving. I heard in the little distance Leslie’s voice begin to murmur like a flying beetle that comes not too near. Then, away down in the yard George began singing the old song, “I sowed the seeds of love.”

This interrupted the flight of Leslie’s voice, and as the singing came nearer, the hum of low words ceased. We went forward to meet George. Leslie sat up, clasping his knees, and did not speak. George came near, saying:

“The moon is going to rise.”

“Let me get down,” said Lettie, lifting her hands to him to help her. He, mistaking her wish, put his


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Rh hands under her arms, and set her gently down, as one would a child. Leslie got up quickly, and seemed to hold himself separate, resenting the intrusion.

“I thought you were all four together,” said George quietly. Lettie turned quickly at the apology:

“So we were. So we are—five now. Is it there the moon will rise?”

“Yes—I like to see it come over the wood. It lifts slowly up to stare at you. I always think it wants to know something, and I always think I have something to answer, only I don’t know what it is,” said Emily.

Where the sky was pale in the east over the rim of wood came the forehead of the yellow moon. We stood and watched in silence. Then, as the great disc, nearly full, lifted and looked straight upon us, we were washed off our feet in a vague sea of moonlight. We stood with the light like water on our faces. Lettie was glad, a little bit exalted; Emily was passionately troubled; her lips were parted, almost beseeching; Leslie was frowning, oblivious, and George was thinking, and the terrible, immense moonbeams braided through his feeling. At length Leslie said softly, mistakenly:

“Come along, dear”—and he took her arm.

She let him lead her along the bank of the pond, and across the plank over the sluice.

“Do you know,” she said, as we were carefully descending the steep bank of the orchard, “I feel as if I wanted to laugh, or dance—something rather outrageous.”


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84 “Surely not like that now,” Leslie replied in a low voice, feeling really hurt.

“I do though! I will race you to the bottom.”

“No, no, dear!” He held her back. When he came to the wicket leading on to the front lawns, he said something to her softly, as he held the gate.

I think he wanted to utter his half finished proposal, and so bind her.

She broke free, and, observing the long lawn which lay in grey shadow between the eastern and western glows, she cried:

“Polka!—a polka—one can dance a polka when the grass is smooth and short—even if there are some fallen leaves. Yes, yes—how jolly!”

She held out her hand to Leslie, but it was too great a shock to his mood. So she called to me, and there was a shade of anxiety in her voice, lest after all she should be caught in the toils of the night’s sentiment.

“Pat—you’ll dance with me—Leslie hates a polka.” I danced with her. I do not know the time when I could not polka—it seems innate in one’s feet, to dance that dance. We went flying round, hissing through the dead leaves. The night, the low hung yellow moon, the pallor of the west, the blue cloud of evening overhead went round and through the fantastic branches of the old laburnum, spinning a little madness. You cannot tire Lettie; her feet are wings that beat the air. When at last I stayed her she laughed as fresh as ever, as she bound her hair.

“There!” she said to Leslie, in tones of extreme


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Parker, Hyde

PARKER, Hyde, English admiral: b. Devonshire, England, 1739; d. 16 March 1807. He entered the British navy, served in the war of the American Revolution, where in 1776 he commanded a small squadron, and for services in the North River was knighted in 1779. He was promoted rear-admiral in 1793, vice-admiral in 1794, and appointed commander-in-chief at Jamaica in 1796. He returned to England in 1800, was given command of the Baltic fleet and moved northward to check the measures of the armed neutrality formed by Russia, Sweden and Denmark. In the battle of Copenhagen he had no share, it being an independent move of Nelson's, who was second in command and more daring than his commander. Parker compelled Sweden to remain inactive by his appearance before Carlskrona, and was preparing to move upon Cronstadt when the death of Emperor William ended hostilities. He was shortly afterward succeeded by Nelson, and thenceforward until his death lived in retirement.


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Rh satisfaction, “that was lovely. Do you come and dance now.”

“Not a polka,” said he, sadly, feeling the poetry in his heart insulted by the jigging measure.

“But one cannot dance anything else on wet grass, and through shuffling dead leaves. You, George?”

“Emily says I jump,” he replied.

“Come on—come on”—and in a moment they were bounding across the grass. After a few steps she fell in with him, and they spun round the grass. It was true, he leaped, sprang with large strides, carrying her with him. It was a tremendous, irresistible dancing. Emily and I must join, making an inner ring, Now and again there was a sense of something white flying near, and wild rustle of draperies, and a swish of disturbed leaves as they whirled past us. Long after we were tired they danced on.

At the end, he looked big, erect, nerved with triumph, and she was exhilarated like a Bacchante.

“Have you finished?” Leslie asked.

She knew she was safe from his question that day.

“Yes,” she panted. “You should have danced. Give me my hat, please. Do I look very disgraceful?”

He took her hat and gave it to her.

“Disgraceful?” he repeated.

“Oh, you are solemn to-night! What is it?”

“Yes, what is it?” he repeated ironically.

“It must be the moon. Now, is my hat straight? Tell me now—you’re not looking. Then put it level. Now then! Why, your hands are quite cold, and mine so hot! I feel so impish,” and she laughed.

“There—now I’m ready. Do you notice those


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86 little chrysanthemums trying to smell sadly; when the old moon is laughing and winking through those boughs. What business have they with their sadness!” She took a handful of petals and flung them into the air: “There—if they sigh they ask for sorrow—I like things to wink and look wild.”


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70 nature of their employments, the associations they form, and the subjects which engage their attention, all tend to give to the minds of men in general, a clearness of understanding on certain points, and an acquaintance with important facts, beyond what is possessed by one woman in a thousand; though, at the same time, women have a vast advantage over them in this respect, that the liveliness and facility of their intellectual powers, enable them to invest with interest many of the inferior, and less important topics of conversation.

General knowledge, however, is not less important to them, than to men, in the effect it produces upon their own minds and feelings. A well-informed woman may generally be known, not so much by what she tells you, as by what she does not tell you; for she is the last to take pleasure in mere gossip, or to make vulgar allusions to the appearance, dress, or personal habits, of her friends and neighbours. Her thoughts are not in these things. The train of her reflections goes not along with the eating, drinking, visiting, or scandal, of the circle in which she moves. She has a world of interest beyond her local associations; and while others are wondering what is the price of her furniture, or where she bought her watch; she, perhaps, is mentally solving that important question, whether civilization ever was extinguished in a Christian country.

Nor is it merely to be able to say, when asked, in what year any particular sovereign reigned—that knowledge is worth acquiring. Its highest use is to be able to assist on all occasions in the establishment of truth, by a clear statement of facts; to say what experience has proved; and to overcome prejudice by just reasoning. It enables us also to take expansive views of every subject upon which our minds can be employed, so as never to argue against general principles, from opposite impressions produced merely upon our own minds.

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Rh As a farther illustration of this narrow kind of reasoning, we will suppose a case. A well-meaning, but ignorant man, derives a considerable income from a sugar plantation in the West Indies, by which he supports a number of poor relations. He argues thus—"If slavery be abolished, it will injure my profits; and I shall no longer be able to support my relations. It is good that I should exercise my benevolent feelings through this channel; consequently, the slave-trade must also be good. I will, therefore, neither vote for the abolition of slavery, nor give my countenance to those who do." A more truly enlightened man, though no more influenced by kindly feeling, would know, that it must always be right to uphold right principles, and that God may safely be trusted with the consequences to ourselves.

Nor is it from our own personal feelings alone, that we become liable to this perversion of judgment, with regard to things in general. Prejudice has ever been found more infectious than the plague, and scarcely less fatal. We hear our friends speak warmly on subjects we do not understand. They argue vehemently, and our minds, from want of knowledge, are open to receive as truth, the greatest possible absurdities, which, in our turn, we embrace and defend, until they become more dear to us than truth itself. The probable conclusion is, that in the course of time, we prefer to remain in error, rather than be convinced that we have all the while been wrong. Thus, it is often ignorance alone, which lays the foundation of many of those serious mistakes in opinion and conduct, for which we have to bear all the blame, and suffer all the consequences, of moral culpability.

Want of general knowledge is also a very sufficient reason why some persons, when they mix in good society, live in a state of perpetual fear lest their deficiencies should be

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72 found out. Their's is not that amiable modesty which arises from a sense of the superiority of others; for to admire our friends, or even our fellow-creatures, is always a pleasurable sensation; while a conviction of our own ignorance of such topics as are generally interesting in good society, carries with it a feeling of disgraceful humiliation, perfectly incompatible with enjoyment. Uneasiness, timidity, and shyness, with an awkward shrinking from every office of responsibility, or post of distinction, are the unavoidable accompaniments of this conviction; and from this cause, how many opportunities of extending our sphere of usefulness are lost! How many opportunities of rational and lawful enjoyment, too, especially if, from a consciousness of our own inferiority, we refuse to associate with persons of better information and more enlightened minds. Our sufferings are then of a twofold nature, arising from a sense of mortification at our loss, and from the fretfulness and irritation of temper which such privations naturally occasion.

It is well, too, if envy does not steal in, to poison the little comfort we might otherwise have left — well if we do not look with evil eye upon the higher attainments of our friends — well if, while we professedly admire, we do not throw out some hint that may tend to diminish their value in the estimation of others.

Thus, there is no end to that culpable want of knowledge, which must be the consequence of an idle or wasted youth. We may, and we necessarily must, learn much in after years by experience, observation, reading, and conversation. But we are then, perhaps, in middle age, only acquiring a bare knowledge of those facts, which ought in by-gone years to have been forming our judgment, fixing our principles, and supplying our minds with intellectual food.

If there is no calculation to be made of the evils arising

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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Parker, Joel (clergyman)

PARKER, Joel, American Presbyterian clergyman and educator: b. Bethel, Vt., 27 Aug. 1799; d. New York, 2 May 1873. He was graduated at Hamilton in 1824, and after studying at the Auburn Theological Seminary was ordained in the Presbyterian Church. He was pastor at Rochester in 1826-30; organized the Dey Street Church in New York and was its pastor until 1832, when he went to a pastorate in New Orleans; and in 1838-40 he was in charge of the Tabernacle Presbyterian diurch on Broadway, New York. Upon its being closed he became president of the Union Theological Seminary and occupied the chair of sacred rhetoric. He later held charges in Philadelphia in 1842-54, in New York at the Bleecker Street Presbyterian Church in 1854-63 and at Newark, N. J., in 1863-68. He was for a time associate editor of the Presbyterian Quarterly Review and was author of ‘Lectures on Unitarianism’ (1829); ‘Reasonings of a Pastor’ (1849); ‘Pastor's Initiatory Catechism’ (1855), etc.


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Translation:Shulchan Aruch/Orach Chaim/510

Some Things that Are Forbidden on a Holiday and Which Are Permitted with a Change

כמה דברים האסורים לעשות ביום טוב ואיזו מהם מתרים על ידי שינוי

Paragraph 1 - One may rub ears of corn together and remove legumes from their pods on a holiday. One may blow on them bit by bit and eat, even with a tray or a pot with compartments, but not using a sifter, a sieve, or a strainer.

סעיף א - מוללין מלילות ומפרכין קטניות כדרכן ביום טוב. ומנפח מעט מעט ואוכל, ואפלו בקנון ותמחוי, אבל לא בטלא ולא בנפה ולא בכברה.

Paragraph 2 - If one is sorting beans on a holiday, he may sort as usual, in his lap or in a dish (provided he wants to eat them that day) (the Magid chapter 3), but not in a sifter, a sieve, or a strainer. This is restricted to cases where the food is more plentiful than the waster, but if the waste is more plentiful than the food, he should select the food and leave the waste. If selecting the waste from the food is more difficult than selecting the food from the waste, even if the food is more plentiful, he should select the food and leave the waste. Rem"a: Regarding nuts that broke and remain in their shells, their shells are not considered waste because this is their normal state and the [nuts and shells] are still together (Tur).

סעיף ב - הבורר קטניות ביום טוב בורר כדרכו בחיקו ובתמחוי (אם רוצה לאכלו בו ביום) (המגיד פרק ג'), אבל לא בטבלא ולא בנפה ולא בכברה. במה דברים אמורים כשהאכל מרבה על הפסלת, אבל אם היתה הפסלת מרבה על האכל בורר את האכל ומניח את הפסלת. ואם היה טרח בברירת הפסלת מן האכל יותר מטרח ברירת האכל מן הפסלת, אף על פי שהאכל מרבה בורר את האכל ומניח את הפסלת. הגה: ולוזים ובטנים שנשתברו ועדין בקלפיהם, לא מקרי הקלפה פסלת כיון דאורחיהו בהכי ועדין מערבין (טור).

Paragraph 3 - We do not filter mustard in its filter and we do not sweeten it with a wooden coal, but a metal coal is permitted.

סעיף ג - אין מסננים החרדל במסננת שלו ואין ממתקין אותו בגחלת של עץ, אבל בשל מתכות מתר.

Paragraph 4 - We do not suspend a filter on a holiday to strain dregs. But if it is already up, it is permitted to strain dregs in it. We circumvent this rule by putting pomegranates in it and afterwards dregs. Rem"a: The rest of the rules of filtering on a holiday are the same as for Shabbat, as described in chapter 319 (Beit Yosef).

סעיף ד - אין תולין המשמרת ביום טוב לסנן בה שמרים, אבל אם היתה תלויה ועומדת מתר לתן בה שמרים לסננן. ומערים ותולה אותה לתן בה רמונים ואחר כך נותן בה שמרים. הגה: ושאר דיני סנון ביום טוב כמו בשבת כדאיתא סימן שי"ט (בית יוסף).

Paragraph 5 - We do not make cheese on a holiday (and we do not let milk stand [in rennet] on a holiday) (Hagahot Maimoni chapter 3 and Ra"n at the end of chapter 2 of Beitzah and Beit Yosef in the name of the Rokeach). It is also the case that we do not make butter from milk on a holiday (Rivas"h).

סעיף ה - אין עושין גבינה ביום טוב (ואין מעמידין חלב ביום טוב) (הגהות מיימוני פרק ג' ור"ן סוף פרק ב' דביצה ובית יוסף בשם הרוקח). והוא הדין דאין עושין חמאה מן החלב ביום טוב (ריב"ש סימן קכ"א).

Paragraph 6 - We do not cut vegetables with scissors because these are usually used to cut them from the ground.

סעיף ו - אין גוזזין את הירק במספרים שדרכן לחתכם בהן מן המחבר.

Paragraph 7 - We trim artichokes and cardoons. Rem"a: It is permitted to salt many pieces of radish on a holiday if one wants to eat them even though it is forbidden on Shabbat, but there are those who are stringent (Mahari"l).

סעיף ז - מתקנים את הקנדס והעכביות. הגה: ומתר למלח הרבה חתיכות צנון ביום טוב אם רוצה לאכלן אף על פי שאסור בשבת, ויש מחמירין (מהרי"ל).

Paragraph 8 - Even though moving things [through different legal domains] on a holiday is permitted, even when it is not necessary, one should not carry big loads the way that he usually does them during the week. Rather, he should do it differently. How so? Somebody transporting jugs of wine from place to place should not carry four or five jugs in a basket or a hamper but he should rather carry one or two on his shoulder or in front of him, such that it is clear that he is transporting them for a holiday-related need. Rem"a: This is only the case when he transports them from place to place, but from one corner of the room to another corner (Beit Yosef in the name of Rash"i) or from house to house within the same yard (Or Zarua), any way is permitted.

סעיף ח - אף על פי שהתרה הוצאה ביום טוב אפלו שלא לצרך, לא ישא משאות גדולות כדרך שהוא עושה בחל אלא צריך לשנות. כיצד, המביא כדי יין ממקום למקום לא יביאם בסל ובקפה לתת לתוכו ארבעה או חמשה כדים, אלא יביאם על כתפו או לפניו אחד או שנים, דמוכח שלצרך יום טוב הביאם. הגה: ודוקא כשמוליכן ממקום למקום, אבל מזוית לזוית (בית יוסף בשם רש"י) או מבית לבית באותו חצר (אור זרוע) שרי בכל ענין.

Paragraph 9 - One who carries straw should not let the heap hang down over his back. Rather, he should carry it by hand.

סעיף ט - המוליך את התבן לא יפשין את הקפה לאחוריו, אלא נוטלה בידו.

Paragraph 10 - Similarly, loads that are usually carried on a staff should be carried on one's back behind him. Loads that are normally carried on one's back should be carried on the shoulders. Loads that are carried on the shoulders should be carried in hand in front of him, or he can put a cloth on them or other changes that can made to the mode of carrying. If it is impossible, such as if he invited many guests and needs to rush to bring it before them, he can do it as he does normally. This only applies to when a man carries it, but carrying things on an animal cannot be done.

סעיף י - וכן משאות שדרכן לשא אותן במוט ישא אותן על גבו מאחריו, ושדרכן לשא אותן מאחוריו ישא אותן על כתפו, ושדרכן להנשא על הכתף ישא אותן בידו לפניו, או יפרש עליהן בגד וכל כיוצא בזה משנוי המשא. ואם אי אפשר, כגון שזמן הרבה אורחים וצריך למהר ולהביא לפניהם, עושה כדרכו. במה דברים אמורים בנושא על האדם אבל על גבי בהמה לא יביא כלל.

Paragraph 11 - We do not bring wood [tied up] by a rope or in a hamper or in a mat, but we may bring it [wrapped] in a cloth or in one's lap.

סעיף יא - אין מביאין עצים לא בחבל ולא בקפה ולא במחצלת, אבל מביא במטפחת ובחיקו.

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At the age of 20

From a coloured drawing by Walter L. Cotts

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In his old age

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is a misfortune, even if a flattering one, for an author's personality to overshadow his literary reputation. Such, long ago, was the fate of the patriarchal Dr. Johnson (about whom we have all read so much), and such, in a modern instance, would seem to be the case with Aubrey de Vere. His own Recollections, and the more exhaustive Memoir by his friend Wilfrid Ward, are on the shelves of many a library which boasts few volumes of his prose and none at all of his poetry. The gracious culture of his Irish home at Curragh Chase; the story of his travels and his friendships with the greatest men and women of the time; the Famine years which woke the dreamer into a man of heroic action; the spiritual pilgrimage which led him eventually into the Catholic communion—all this is familiar enough to need no repetition. It is Aubrey de Vere's poetic achievement to which adequate recognition is but seldom accorded. "I have lived among poets a great deal and have known greater poets than he is," wrote Sara Coleridge in a memorable passage, "but a more entire poet, and one more a poet in his whole mind and temperament, I never knew or met with."

Aubrey de Vere's half-century of poetic preoccupation was richly various in its fruitfulness. The Search after Proserpine appeared in 1843; ten years later, a volume of Miscellaneous and Sacred Poems; in 1857 came the first of the May Carols (completed in 1881); in 1861, Inisfail, The Sisters,

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Rh etc.; 1872, Legends of St. Patrick; 1874, Alexander the Great; 1876, St. Thomas of Canterbury; 1882, The Foray of Queene Maeve and Legends of Ireland's Heroic Age; 1887, Legends and Records of the Church and the Empire; 1893, Mediæval Records and Sonnets; and in 1897 (his eighty-third year), St. Peter's Chains, a series of sonnets on the Italian Revolution. While incomplete, this bibliography includes epic, lyric, and dramatic verse.

Elsewhere tracing Irish history back almost to the legendary days of the Sidhe, in the latter part of Inisfail, and in numerous minor poems, de Vere tells the tragic story of his country's recent years. The beautiful closing stanzas of "The Year of Sorrow" illustrate how much of pathos yet how little of bitterness de Vere infused into his elegy of 1849:

Fall, snow, and cease not! Flake by flake The decent winding-sheet compose. Thy task is just and pious; make An end of blasphemies and woes.

On quaking moor and mountain moss, With eyes upstaring at the sky, With arms extended like a cross, The long-expectant sufferers lie.

Bend o'er them, white-robed Acolyte! Put forth thine hand from cloud and mist, And minister the last sad Rite, Where altar there is none, nor priest.

Touch thou the gates of soul and sense; Touch darkening eyes and dying ears: Touch stiffening bands and feet, and thence Remove the trace of sin and tears.

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54

This night the Absolver issues forth This night the Eternal Victim bleeds O winds and woods—O heaven and earth! Be still this night. The Rite proceeds!

Back through the days of the Penal Laws and the Wars of Religion, through the three centuries of outlawry following the Norman Conquest, runs this "lyrical chronicle," Inisfail; its parts bound together by a continuity of tears and by the poet's insistence upon Ireland's spiritual vocation among the nations of the earth. "No other poem of mine," de Vere wrote some thirty-five years later, "was written more intensely, I may say painfully, from my heart, than Inisfail." And no other poem of his has surpassed it in sweetness or pathos or in a certain fiery, elemental vigour.

In the earlier record, St. Patrick, crozier in hand, passes before us, treading the hills and vales of Erin, preaching to the poor, baptising those sweet sister-princesses, the "Red Rose" and " Ethna the Fair," confounding the proud and winning them to humility:

to the very feet of Christ. It is a series of noble national poems, ending with the final "Striving of St. Patrick" on Mount Cruachan. De Vere's Legends of the Saxon Saints form a companion-work of hagiology. "The English differed much from the Irish," says the poet, "even in their primitive saints. There was less of the wild and strange about them . . . less of the missionary, but more of the Christian subject and citizen." Much of the material for this volume was taken from the Venerable Bede, with which there is

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Rh an interweaving of the Odin legends and prophecies.

His further interest in the old heroic and bardic literature was evident in his "Oiseen" poems; but it was not until 1880, when he became familiar with various MS. collections in the Royal Irish Academy of Dublin, that it took any notable form. Lady Gregory had not yet produced her epoch-making translations of the old Irish sagas; neither Yeats nor Fiona MacLeod nor any of the younger poets had brought the wild notes of Gaelic poetry to English hearing. Aubrey de Vere was the pioneer in re-creating that epoch of primitive and barbaric glory. His Legends of Ireland's Heroic Age told anew of the hapless Foray of Queen Maeve, of the mighty Cuchullain whose "starry head" was destined so soon to sleep in death, of the Children of Lir, and of Deirdre and the Sons of Usnach. When we recall that the poet drew his material from a few incomplete English translations of the great epics, it is amazing, not that he lacked the ingenuous and unforgettable charm of Lady Gregory's version, but that he reproduced so well the spirit of those "great-hearted and light-hearted" heroes.

Many of the greatest stories of Christendom are included in de Vere's two volumes of Records. The Middle Ages (however imperfectly understood) have been an unfailing source of literary inspiration; but the period preceding them—from about 50 A.D. to the reign of Charlemagne—has, to all but specialists, been a sort of "outer darkness." Aubrey de Vere, adding the poet's insight to the amateur's erudition, recognised it as covering several of the most significant eras of human history. His Legends of the Church and The Empire cover this whole wondrous period. They sing the death of outworn Paganism and

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56 the triumph of that young Church whose face shone as the dawn even when her robe was crimsoned by the sands of the arena; moans of an impotent and effete civilisation mingle with the battle-cries of Constantine or Theodoric; and mighty as some resistless sea is the onrushing sweep of those Northern hordes who triumph at last in the Fall of Rome. It seemed a second Deluge, even to men like St. Jerome. But succeeding legends show how the songs of a new Sion brought their message into the Stranger's Land; they tell of the peaceful conquests of Boniface and Germanus, of the sweet sanctity of St. Genevieve or Queen Clothilde—and at last of Charlemagne's coronation as first emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.

Mediæval Records and Sonnets continue the history, recounting with the same earnest felicity the Cid's conquests over Moslem power, the stories of Queen Bertha and Jeanne d'Arc and Robert Bruce, of Columbus the discoverer and Copernicus the astronomer. Occasional translations from St. Gertrude or the Fioretti, and a poem of notable beauty and elevation ("The Higher Purgatory") partially transcribed from St. Catherine of Genoa, are further evidence of de Vere's affectionate intimacy with mediæval life. "It was imaginative, not critical," writes the poet in his Preface: "with much of a childish instability and something of that strange and heedless cruelty sometimes to be found in children, it united a childlike simplicity. It loved to wonder and was not afraid of proving mistaken. Stormy passions swept over it, and great crimes alternated with heroic deeds; but it was comparatively free from a more insidious snare than the passions—that of self-love." Perhaps the heaviest charge to be brought against the dramatic reality of the poems is that they do

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Rh from a want of knowledge, as little can we estimate the amount of good, of which knowledge lays the foundation. Perhaps one of its greatest recommendations to a woman, is the tendency it has to diffuse a calm over the ruffled spirit, and to supply subjects of interesting reflection, under circumstances the least favourable to the acquisition of new ideas.

Such is the position in society which many estimable women are called to fill, that unless they have stored their minds with general knowledge during the season of youth, they never have the opportunity of doing so again. How valuable, then, is such a store, to draw upon for thought, when the hand throughout the day is busily employed, and sometimes when the head is also weary. It is then that knowledge not only sweetens labour, but often, when the task is ended, and a few social friends are met together, it comes forth unbidden, in those glimpses of illumination which a well-informed, intelligent woman, is able to strike out of the humblest material. It is then that, without the slightest attempt at display, her memory helps her to throw in those apt allusions, which clothe the most familiar objects in borrowed light, and make us feel, after having enjoyed her society, as if we had been introduced to a new, and more intellectual existence than we had enjoyed before.

It is impossible for an ignorant, and consequently a short-sighted, prejudiced woman, to exercise this influence over us. We soon perceive the bounds of the narrow circle within which she reasons, with self ever in the centre; we detect the opinions of others, in her own; and we feel the vulgarity with which her remarks may turn upon ourselves, the moment we are gone.

How different is the enjoyment, the repose we feel in the society of a well-informed woman, who has acquired in early youth the habit of looking beyond the little affairs of

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74 every-day existence—of looking from matter to mind—from action to principle—from time to eternity. The gossip of society—that many-toned organ of discord, seldom reaches her; even slander, which so often slays the innocent, she is in many cases able to disarm. Under all the little crosses and perplexities which necessarily belong to household care, she is able to look calmly at their comparative insignificance, and thus they never can disturb her peace; while in all the pleasures of intellectual and social intercourse, it is her privilege to give as bountifully as she receives.

It must not be supposed that the writer is one who would advocate, as essential to a woman, any very extraordinary degree of intellectual attainment, especially if confined to one particular branch of study. "I should like to excel in something," is a frequent, and, to some extent, a laudable expression; but in what does it originate, and to what does it tend? To be able to do a great many things tolerably well, is of infinitely more value to a woman, than to be able to excel in one. By the former, she may render herself generally useful; by the latter, she may dazzle for an hour. By being apt, and tolerably well skilled in everything, she may fall into any situation in life with dignity and ease—by devoting her time to excellence in one, she may remain incapable of every other.

So far as cleverness, learning, and knowledge are conducive to woman's moral excellence, they are therefore desirable, and no farther. All that would occupy her mind to the exclusion of better things, all that would involve her in the mazes of flattery and admiration, all that would tend to draw away her thoughts from others and fix them on herself, ought to be avoided as an evil to her, however brilliant or attractive it may be in itself.

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Rh obscure the full stress of these "stormy passions." De Vere kept his eyes upon the heights, forgetting, or not forgetting, that only the saints dwell thereon. All too little is there in his Records of that fierce conflict of soul and sense, that youthful, passionate ardour both in good and evil, to which the very penances of the ancient Church bear witness.

so declares one of de Vere's youthful knights, with a detachment and a spiritual grasp characteristic, indeed, of the modern poet—and in no age possible, one suspects, to the mass of men and women.

Quotations from narrative poems are seldom satisfying when the poet's virtue lies rather in sustained and comprehensive excellence than in "purple passages." But a number of these legends or records resolve themselves, through their strongly personal quality, into the form of dramatic monologues. The chosen spokesmen are all of exalted and philosophic tendencies, and they are depicted at moments when "life's fitful fever" is well-nigh spent. Yet there is no dull uniformity in the setting of the sun—still less in the passing of a soul. De Vere has made the contrast of temperament exceedingly forcible, for instance, in the final soliloquies of Constantine and St. Jerome. Each looks back upon a "life of wars"; upon aspiration and failure and much hunger of the spirit; but the difference is as of storm-cloud and starlight. Grimly the frustrated Emperor reviews his gigantic efforts to rebuild the Roman structure, and his cry is vanitas:

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58

But as the great silence draws upon Jerome, his voice rings out in challenge:

That is de Vere's high-water mark in the dramatic monologue; there are less felicitous instances. Browning's method in the soliloquy was, it will be remembered, to reproduce the broken sentences, the seemingly irrelevant thoughts, the passionate outbursts of a soul communing with itself; hence his dramatic truthfulness—hence, also, a measure of ambiguity. With de Vere the tendency was rather to be too clear, too

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AUBREY DE VERE ; and, as in the "Death of Copernicus," unconvincingly replete.

Stricter dramatic canons, however, are more fairly applied to de Vere's tragedies. They are but two in number (if one except the fragmentary Fall of Rora)—Alexander the Great, and St. Thomas of Canterbury—both of which are quite impossible theatrically. Yet these two "closet dramas" contain much of the noblest poetry de Vere ever produced. None but the greatest genius could vivify a theme so remote as that of Alexander; but de Vere presents a series of splendid and moving tableaux, glowing at times with descriptive passages of surpassing beauty. The character-drawing, while slight, is often impressive: the Persian princess Arsinoe—to whom are given many of the loveliest lines of the play—being one of those tender, meditative souls whom de Vere understood so well how to delineate. The Conqueror himself is scarcely more than a majestic lay figure, our clearest conception of his genius coming less from any revelation of his own than from Ptolemy's brief and telling estimate:

On the other hand, Aubrey de Vere's characterisation of Thomas à Becket is deeply convincing: probably the very best portrait of the great primate in English literature. With consummate art and uncompromising historic truth is traced that thorny path which led the amiable young

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60 diplomat up to heights of Christian sainthood. We hear of Thomas first when, as Chancellor of King Henry, he visits the French court in a pageant of mediæval splendour:

"Of his own household there were two hundred—clerics and knights—chanting hymns. Then followed his hounds—ten couples. Next came eight wagons with five horses each . . . then followed twelve sumpter horses. The esquires bore the shields and the falconers the hawks on their fists; after them came those that held the banners; and last, my lord on a milk-white horse. . . . Thomas gave gifts to all—to the princes, and the clergy, and the knights, and to the poor more than to the rich . . . when he feasted the beggars, he bade them take with them the gilded spoons and goblets."

Becket is raised to the see of Canterbury, and thenceforth, step by step, the poet pictures his struggle for the freedom of the English Church. Single-handed he fights the pride and treachery of his king, the weakness of his bishops, the guile of tireless enemies; until, on that black December night of 1170, the blow of martyrdom is struck. It is a scene noble even to sublimity. Vesper time draws near in the great Cathedral, and two priests are speaking brokenly of their Primate:

At yonder altar of Saint Benedict He said his mass; then in the chapter-house Conversed with two old monks of things divine: Next for his confessor he sent, and made Confession with his humble wont, but briefly; Last, sat with us an hour, and held discourse Full gladsomely. . . . An old monk cried, "Thank God, my lord, you make good cheer!" He answered, "Who goeth to his Master should be glad."

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His Master! Ay, his Master! Still as such He thought of God; he loved Him; in himself Saw nothing great or wise—simply a servant. Ere yet his earliest troubles had begun I heard him say, "A bishop should protect That holy thing, God's Church, to him committed, Not only from the world but from himself, Loving, not hers, but her, with reverent love, A servant's love that, gazing, fears to touch her."

Peace, peace! O God, we make our tale of him As men that praise the dead!

Becket enters in procession from the cloister, and, while in a near-by chapel the monks are chanting, those four traitor-knights steal in. There is a brief colloquy, a briefer prayer—and St. Thomas falls dead beneath their swords.

The lyrics scattered in Elizabethan manner through both dramas claim a mention as graceful and in entire sympathy with the action. Perhaps most charming of all is that little Trouvère serenade in St. Thomas, beginning

This is one of the instances in which de Vere's verse rings with the true lyric quality. His early lines "To Keats" flash back a gleam of that singer's own "white fire" of beauty; there is a delightful play of fancy throughout his Greek Idyls and through that gracious and delicate masque, "The Search after Proserpine." But in the marvellous felicity of epithet, in the winged

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62 lightness of thought and radiance of imagery; above all, in that consummate sense of the music of words which makes the lyrist's eternal heritage, Aubrey de Vere was—save in supreme moments—deficient. There were indeed these moments. Here, for instance, is a little song, Shakespearian in its sweet and naïve inevitability:

Yet in the main, this poet's message was too closely reasoned to be sung: a Gregorian chant would seem the only possible or appropriate vehicle. Weakness of form, Matthew Arnold contended, is nearly always accompanied by weakness of matter and thought. Nevertheless, there are poets whose habitual merit lies in the enchanting beauty of their verse-effects; and others there are whose highest excellence lies in the soul rather than the body of their verse. So it was with Aubrey de Vere. Blank verse, the ode, the sonnet, and various simpler forms he has used with excellent effect: but one feels that in avoiding more ornate and intricate verse-schemes he was wisely aware of the lyrical deficiencies already noted.

"The Martyrdom," and others of the earlier devotional poems, betray the influence of

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Rh well and Crashaw, to whose sweet memory they were dedicated; but de Vere's affinities were not with these choristers of the fiery heart and rapturous voice. His later and abiding model was Wordsworth, whose simple diction, his deep sincerity and Nature-brooding, mark de Vere's religious cycle, the May Carols. These are infallibly tender and reverent; they are lucid, even epigrammatic at moments; their subject-matter is sublimely spiritual. But the poems (save, perhaps, those exquisite little interspersed landscape reveries) are not carols at all. They are a prolonged meditation upon Christian truths centring round about the Incarnation. "Mater Christi," one of the least theological, will illustrate the tranquil beauty of the series:

It is the obtrusion of a sort of glorified catechetical instruction, and the subordination of the pure poetic quality, which mars many of these May Carols. The tendency is not towards the mystical but towards the metaphysical. Sadly enough, all this was merely de Vere's passionate love of truth, "strained from its fair use" with the usual

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a picture which presents to the eye of the beholder, those continuous masses of light and shade usually recognized under the characteristic of breadth; though it may be striking, and sometimes even sublime in its effect, yet, without the more delicate touches of art, must ever be defective in the pleasure it affords; so the female character, though invested with high intellectual endowments, must ever fail to charm, without at least a taste for music, painting, or poetry.

The first of these requires no recommendation in the present day. Indeed, the danger is, that the fair picture which woman's character ought to present, should be broken up into that confusion of petty lights and shades, which, in the phraseology of painting, is said to destroy its effect as a whole. May we not carry on the similitude still farther and compare the more important intellectual endowments of human character to the broad lights and massive shadows of a picture; music, to the richness and variety of its colouring; painting, to correctness and beauty of its outline; and poetry, to general harmony of the whole, consisting chiefly in the aerial or atmospheric tints which convey the idea of morning, noon, or evening, a storm, a calm, or any of the seasons of the year; with all the varied associations which belong to each.

I have said that music requires no recommendation in the present day, when to play like a professor ranks amongst the highest attainments of female education. Since, then,

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64 calamitous result. In this case the effect was a consistent restraint of the imaginative and emotional faculties, a philosophic aloofness from "life's beauteous nothings writ in dust"—in one word, preoccupation with the catechetical rather than the æsthetic aspect of life. That he contrived to put so much grace into sonnets on—let us say—"Church Discipline," "Evidences of Religion," the "Irish Constitution of 1872," that he so successfully linked temporary interests with the ultimate and universal in his "occasional" verses, is strongest evidence of his incorrigibly poetic nature. None the less, it is a relief to extricate from this mass of political and commemorative work that bearing the authentic hall-mark. Aubrey de Vere was a great artist; he was even a greater man. But alike by instinct and by conviction was he given to polemics. "I wish either to be considered as a teacher or as nothing," declared Wordsworth, his friend and most potential model; and one knows that every artist is a teacher according to the measure of truth within his soul. The danger lies in forgetting—or in ignoring—how much more he must also be.

But the poet does all things more graciously than other men, and de Vere's keen sense of beauty transfigured his didacticism even as the illuminator was wont to brighten with bird and flower the page of some old manuscript. One can forgive an occasional zeal in pointing morals to him whose message is summed up perfect, crystal-clear, in that memorably beautiful sonnet, "Sorrow":

Count each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou With courtesy receive him; rise and bow; And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave; Then lay before him all thou hast: allow

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Rh No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate The soul's marmoreal calmness: Grief should be, Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate, Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; Strong to consume small troubles; to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.

Great and grave thoughts, high and holy thoughts: such were the habitual companions of Aubrey de Vere. He weighed life by those spiritual values which were to him the only realities. And so the religious, the Catholic element permeates his work as sunlight radiates a summer noon. But religion transfigures without changing the character; it spiritualises without in any wise stereotyping the imagination. It may, as in Crashaw or Coventry Patmore, surcharge the emotions; or it may dominate the intellect in its most characteristic channel—with de Vere the channel of philosophic meditation. He looked not merely through the deeds of men, but equally through the pageant of external Nature. When, for example, one reads his finely poetical "Autumnal Ode," one meets very little of that mournful or exultant sensuousness with which poets have immemorially watched the death of summer. There are loving suggestions of the blackbird's last carol, of "dusk-bright cobwebs" and the glory of "sunset forests," but through this symbolic pageant of autumn the poet passes to thoughts of the saintly dead. Precisely this same passion for interpretation runs through his beautiful "Ascent of the Apennines." It is plaintive in that most characteristic "Ode to an Eolian Harp," and in very truth it penetrates his entire secular and religious verse.

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66

declares his dying Copernicus. And this poet's work is more than peaceful, it is joyous. The St. Thecla of his legend is not only "beauteous as a rose new-blown," she is the " blithesomest" of hermit-missionaries. His St. Dorothea (whom so great a dramatist as Massinger succeeded in portraying only as an heroic prig) speaks gaily, and has room in her consecrated heart for all "lovely things and fair." "Glad man was he, our Cid," cry the companions of the great mediæval warrior; and one learns with no surprise of Erin's apostle that

So has de Vere dwelt upon the blitheness of Christian character, upon the God-like stillness which may dwell even in the tempest's heart. It is all very tranquil and beautiful, this golden haze wrapping the world in peace. And if it be not quite like human life as most of us know it, why—so much the worse for us!

"I am doing what in me lies to keep alive poetry with a little conscience in it," he once said, adding with characteristic humility, "if I fail in that attempt I shall not fret about it; others will do it later—what I have aimed at doing—and will probably do it better." The nobility of this aim sweeps through his pages, pure and keen as the mountain's breath. We feel it in his own high seriousness and self-possession, in that

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Rh which is not passion, in the solid and sublime philosophy which underlies his utterance. But the Muse is imperious, and will not brook too close restraint. A little rigidity, a suspicion of coldness, a lack of that glorious spontaneity which brings the world down to a poet's feet—such is the penalty for reining in the bright spirit! May it not be, after all, that de Vere put too much conscience into his poetry; or that he put it too patently and insistently? For there is a wisdom of fools—and alas! a folly of the wise—not solely in the spiritual life.

It has frequently been proclaimed that the writing of even inferior verse is the best possible recipe for such a good prose style as may be acquired. We find in the poet's use of prose not only the habitual delicacy and picturesqueness we should have foreseen, but also a notable precision and sense of proportion—as though the use of wings had taught all the possible graces of walking. It was thus with Aubrey de Vere—in the many essays he contributed to the Reviews, in his memories of friends like Tennyson, in his voluminous correspondence, in his Reminiscences, and the other prose volumes that make prouder, as Landor said his verse did, "his proud name." We do not claim for him the distinction, and music, and vitality of unforgettable prose; but at least this—that his intellectual breadth and seriousness, his poetic sensibility and critical acumen, coupled with his good English and that gracious versatility which one thinks of as Irish (when one knows it is not French) render Aubrey de Vere worthy of a throne among the scribes of the island Israel.

During the same years of the nineteenth century, English-speaking Catholics possessed three vastly different apologists. They were all converts: John Henry Newman, Isaac Hecker and Aubrey de

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68 Vere. Newman's appeal was to the past, to Patristic evidences, to the unity (including, of course, the development) of primitive Christian faith. Father Hecker's appeal was to the present: to the natural laws upon which the supernatural rest, to that "heart's hunger and soul's thirst" which vital Catholic truth alone can satisfy. But Aubrey de Vere was conscious of no past or present in religious experience. In theology, as in all departments of thought, he was a psychological critic. His appeal was to the intuitive sense and "spiritual discernment" first of all and then, because Catholicity included these, to authority and to human nature. And in his prose, no less than in his verse, he regarded life and art from a standpoint equally soulful.

His own spiritual nature, and long habits of analytic thought, necessitated this. We find him making fine and delicate distinctions in words (which are always at the same time distinctions of thought), as between reasoning and reason, pleasure and enjoyment; we find him pointing out how "in Coleridge's poetry the reasoning faculty is chiefly that of contemplation and reflection, in Wordsworth's the meditative and discursive prevail"; again we find him weighing the Elizabethan drama by psychological standards, where Ruskin would have used ethical, and Matthew Arnold æsthetic values. And throughout his entire critical work the moral and artistic elements constantly interpenetrate. Man, however minutely studied, became a symbol of mankind, and all minor verities, whether of sense or intellect, resolved themselves into one immutable and comprehensive Truth. De Vere has observed that the Greek knew no landscape, although he delighted in detached objects of natural beauty. He himself saw all details as part of some harmonious whole;

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Rh nor could his view stop short of the distant horizon. In a measure, this comprehensiveness is part of all criticism, but with De Vere it was a distinct characteristic. It almost became the measure of his "personal equation"; and it goes far toward explaining why he could so thoroughly interpret Spenser or Wordsworth, while of Patmore's poetry he should be merely appreciative but not illuminating. De Vere was unusually quick to recognize traces of a solid, universal greatness; he was less sensitive to beauties of an exotic or esoteric character.

These words, loved by De Vere, and chosen as the text of his Essays Chiefly on Poetry, strike the keynote of his attitude toward letters and toward life. His criticism as a whole was overwhelmingly constructive; and while he abhorred "sensual" or "sensational" literature, materialistic and unsound philosophies, and whatever wars against the soul's life, he still—and to the end—"enjoyed praising as inferior men enjoy sneering."

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text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Morehead, William Ambrose


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Morell, Charles


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[ 21 ] broad, and it was in the King's demene. At preent Henry de Ferreres holds it.

3. The King holds Ambleberie, King Edward held it. It was never aeed nor hided. There are 40 ploughlands; 16 of which, with 55 ervants, and 1 coliberts, are in demene. Eighty-five villagers and 56 borderers occupy 23 ploughlands. Eight mills pay 4 pounds and 10 hillings. Here are 70 acres of meadow. The pature is 6 miles long and 4 miles and a half broad. The wood is 9 miles long and 6 broad. This manor and it's appendages provides one night's entertainment for the King, with all uual cutoms. The lands of three Thanes are reckoned in this manor, which they held T.R.E. Earl William gave them in Ambleberie in exchange for Bovecome. King Edward gave 2 hides, part of this manor, in the time of his icknes, to the Abbes of Wilton, which he never poefed before, but ince that time he has held Rh


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76 music is so universally regarded both by the wise and good, not only as lawful, but desirable, it remains to be considered under what circumstances the practice of it may be expedient or otherwise.

In the first place, 'Have you what is called an ear for music?' If you are not annoyed by discord, nor made to suffer pain by a false note, nor disturbed by errors in time, let no persuasion ever induce you to touch the keys of a piano, or the chords of a harp again.

Perhaps you reply, 'But I am so fond of music.' I question it not: for though difficult to be accounted for, many persons, who have no ear, are fond of music. Yet, why not, under such circumstances, be content to be a listener for the rest of your lives, and thankful that there are others differently constituted, who are able to play for your amusement, and who play with ease in a style superior to what you would have attained by any amount of labour? All have not the same natural gifts. You, in your turn, may excel in something else; but as well might an automaton be made to dance, as a woman destitute of taste for music, be taught to play with any hope of attaining excellence, or even of giving pleasure to her friends. It is possible that by an immense expenditure of time and money, a wooden figure might be so constructed, to dance so as to take the proper steps at the right time; but the grace, the ease, indeed all that gives beauty to the movements of the dancer, must certainly be wanting. It is thus with music. By a fruitless waste of time and application, the hand may acquire the habit of touching the right keys; but all which constitutes the soul of music must be wanting to that performance, where the ear is not naturally attuned to "the concord of sweet sound."

It is a good thing to, be a pleased and attentive listener, even in music. And far happier sometimes is the

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Rh girl, who sits apart silently listening to another's voice, than any one of the anxious group of candidates for promotion to the music-stool, whose countenances occasionally display the conflicting emotions of hope and fear, triumph and disappointment.

There are, however, amongst men, and women too, certain individuals whose souls may be said to be imbued with music as an instinct. It forms a part of their existence, and they only live entirely in an atmosphere of sound. To such it would be a cold philosophy to teach the expediency of giving up the cultivation of music altogether, because of the temptations it involves; and yet to such individuals, above all others, music is the most dangerous. To them it may be said, that, like charity, though in a widely different sense, it covers a multitude of sins; for such is its influence over them, that while carried away by its allurements, they scarcely see or feel like moral agents, so as to distinguish good from evil; and thus they mistake for an intellectual, nay, even sometimes for a spiritual enjoyment, the indulgence of that passion, which is but too earthly in its associations.

I will not say that music is a species of intoxication, but I do think that an inordinate love of it may be compared to intemperance, in the fact of its inciting the passions of the human mind so much more frequently to evil than to good. We are warranted by the language of Scripture to believe, that music is a powerfully pervading principle in the universe of God. The harmony of the spheres is figuratively set forth under the idea of the morning stars singing together, and the Apocalyptic vision abounds with allusions to celestial choirs. Indeed, so perfectly in unison is music with our ideas of intense and elevated enjoyment, that we can scarcely imagine heaven without the hymning of the praises of the Most High by the voices of angels and happy spirits.

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Laws of Kaddish

דיני קדיש

Paragraph 1 — We say kaddish but we do not say it with less than ten free grown men that have grown at least 2 pubic hairs and this is also the law for the kedusha and the barchu which we also do not say with less than ten.

סעיף א — אומרים קדיש ואין אומרים אותו בפחות מי' זכרים בני חורין גדולים שהביאו ב' שערות והוא הדין לקדושה וברכו שאין נאמרין בפחות מעשרה:

Paragraph 2 — If one began to say kaddish or the kedushah with ten men present and a few of them leave, they finish saying kaddish or the kedushah that they began and this is if the majority of them remain. Rem"a: And in any case it is a transgression to leave and about them we say it is ??? as if they abandoned God ??? (Talmud Yerushalmi). However, if ten [men] still remain, it is okay to leave (the Mordechai on the last Chapter of Tractate Megillah)

סעיף ב — אם התחיל לומר קדיש או קדושה בעשרה ויצאו מקצתן גומרים אותו הקדיש או אותה הקדושה שהתחיל והוא שנשתיירו רובן. הגה: ''ומכל מקום עבירה היא לצאת ועליהם נאמר ועוזבי ה' יכלו (ירושלמי). אבל אם נשארו י' מותר לצאת (מרדכי פרק בתרא דמגילה)'':

Paragraph 3 — If one has begun with the fathers (ברוך אתה ה' אלקנו ואלקי אבתנו) and some have left one finishes even the kedushah. Rem"a: ...

סעיף ג' — אם התחיל באבות ויצאו מקצתן גומר אפילו קדושה. הגה: ''ואם יצאו מקצתן לאחר שהתחילו להתפלל יוצר לא יתחיל השליח ציבור להתפלל התפלה בקול רם דכבר נשלם תפלת יוצר ואם יצאו לאחר שהתחיל בקול רם וקדושה יכולים להשלים כל סדר קדושה ולומר הקדיש שלם שלאחריה דשייך לתפלה שהרי אומר תתקבל צלותהון וכו' אבל אין קורין בתורה דזהו ענין אחר. ותפלת ערבית וקדיש שלאחריו לא שייך לקריאת שמע וברכותיה (ר"ן פרק הקורא את המגילה שבולי הלקט ותרומת הדשן סימן ט"ו)'':

Paragraph 4 — There are those who permit saying the words in kedusha with nine [adult males] and one young person over the age of six who is aware of whom they are praying to and it does not appear that these are the words of the most of the authoritative poseks and this is also the law regarding slaves and woman are not asked to join. Rem"a: ...

סעיף ד — יש מתירין לומר דבר שבקדושה בתשעה וצירוף קטן שהוא יותר מבן שש ויודע למי מתפללין ולא נראין דבריהם לגדולי הפוסקים והוא הדין דעבד ואשה אין מצטרפין. הגה: ואפילו על ידי חומש שבידו אין לצרפו מיהו יש נוהגין להקל בשעת הדחק (הרא"ש ומרדכי והגהות מיימוני פרק ט' מהלכות תפלה):

Paragraph 5 — If a person lacks at least two pubic hairs even if he is an adult in terms of age, the law is to him as to a minor until he has lived a majority of his years because then it is obvious that he is a eunuch, and if the signs of being a eunuch are seen earlier than this, the law treats him as an adult. Rem"a: And there are those who are not so meticulous about the two hairs and instead all who have reached the age of majority are treated as an adult and say (??? this is relevant without knowing if he has grown two pubic hairs?)

סעיף ה — אם לא הביא שתי שערות אפילו הוא גדול בשנים דינו כקטן עד שיצאו רוב שנותיו שאז יתברר שהוא סריס ואם נראו לו סימני סריס קודם לכן דינו כגדול. הגה: ומיהו אין מדקדקין בשערות אלא כל שהגיע לכלל שנותיו מחזקינן אותו כגדול ואומרים לענין זה מסתמא הביא שתי שערות (מהרי"ק שורש מ"ט):

Paragraph 6 — And if one of the ten has begun to pray alone and is unable to respond or is asleep (??? old ???), even in this case we consider them joined with them.

סעיף ו — ואם התחיל אחד מהעשרה להתפלל לבדו ואינו יכול לענות עמהם או שהוא ישן אפילו הכי מצטרף עמהם:

Paragraph 7 - If one is praying alone it is right for the others to wait to say kaddish until he has finished in order to grant him the ability to say kaddish as well.

סעיף ז — כשאחד מתפלל לבדו נכון שהאחרים ימתינו מלומר קדיש עד שיגמור כדי שיזכה גם הוא:

Paragraph 8 —

סעיף ח' — חרש המדבר ואינו שומע או שומע ואינו מדבר הן כפקחין ומצטרפים אבל מי שאינו שומע ואינו מדבר הרי הוא כשוטה וקטן:

Paragraph 9 —

סעיף ט — לעולם הוא קטן עד שיביא ב' שערות אחר שיהיה בן י"ג ויום אחד ושנת העיבור בת יג חדש:

Paragraph 10 —

סעיף י — אם נער אחד נולד בכ"ט לאדר ראשון משנה מעוברת ונער אחד נולד באדר שני באחד בו ושנת י"ג אינה מעוברת אותו שנולד בכ"ט לאדר הראשון צריך להמתין עד כ"ט לאדר בשנת י"ג להיות בן י"ג שנה ואותו שנולד אחריו באחד באדר השני יהיה בן י"ג שנה כיון שהגיע אחד באדר של שנת י"ג. הגה: ומי שנולד באדר ונעשה בר מצוה בשנת העיבור אינו נעשה בר מצוה עד אדר השני (תשובת מהר"י מינץ סימן ט"ו):

Paragraph 11 —

סעיף י"א — עבריין שעבר על גזירת הצבור או שעבר עבירה אם לא נידוהו נמנה למנין עשרה:

Paragraph 12 —

סעיף י"ב — מנודה אין מצרפין אותו לכל דבר שצריך עשרה אבל מותר להתפלל בבית הכנסת שהוא שם אלא אם כן פירשו להחמיר עליו בכך:

Paragraph 13 —

סעיף י"ג — צריך שיהיו כל העשרה במקום אחד ושליח צבור עמהם והעומד בתוך הפתח מן האגף ולחוץ דהיינו כשסוגר הדלת ממקום (שפה) פנימית של עובי הדלת ולחוץ כלחוץ:

Paragraph 14 —

סעיף י"ד — מי שעומד אחורי בית הכנסת וביניהם חלון אפילו גבוה כמה קומות אפילו אינו רחב ארבע ומראה להם פניו משם מצטרף עמהם לעשרה. הגה: גגין ועליות אינן בכלל בית והעומד עליהם אינו מצטרף (רי"ו נ"ג ח"ז):

Paragraph 15 —

סעיף ט"ו — אם מקצתן בפנים ומקצתן בחוץ ושליח צבור תוך הפתח הוא מצרפן:

Paragraph 16 —

סעיף ט"ז — חצר קטנה שנפרצה במילואה לגדולה דהיינו שנפרצה קטנה במקום חיבורה לגדולה ונפל כל אותו כותל שהיה מפסיק ביניהם ובגדולה נשארה משארית כותל זה שנפל פסים (פירוש מעט כותל ישר ושוה) מכאן ומכאן הגדולה כמופלגת מן הקטנה ואין הקטנה מופלגת מן הגדולה אלא הרי היא כקרן זוית שלה לפיכך אם תשעה בגדולה ואחד בקטנה מצטרפים שהקטנה נגררת אחר הגדולה והרי היא כאילו היא בתוך הגדולה כיון שהרוב בגדולה אבל אם היו תשעה בקטנה ואחד בגדולה או חמשה בזו וחמשה בזו אין מצטרפין:

Paragraph 17 —

סעיף י"ז — היה שליח צבור בקטנה וצבור בגדולה מוציאן ידי חובתן שהוא נגרר אחריהם אבל אם היה שליח ציבור בגדולה וצבור בקטנה אינו מוציאן ידי חובתן שאין הרוב נגרר אחר היחיד:

Paragraph 18 —

סעיף י"ח — אם קצת העשרה בבית הכנסת וקצתם בעזרה אינם מצטרפים:

Paragraph 19 —

סעיף י"ט — שליח ציבור בתיבה ותשעה בבית הכנסת מצטרפין אף על פי שהיא גבוה י' ורחבה ד' ויש לה מחיצות גבוהות י' מפני שהיא בטלה לגבי בית הכנסת ויש מי שכתב דהני מילי כשאין המחיצות מגיעות לתקרת הגג:

Paragraph 20 —

סעיף כ' — היו עשרה במקום אחד ואומרים קדיש וקדושה אפילו מי שאינו עמהם יכול לענות ויש אומרים שצריך שלא יהא מפסיק דבר שאינו נקי או עבודת כוכבים:

Paragraph 21 —

סעיף כ"א — עיר שאין בה אלא עשרה ואחד מהם רוצה לצאת בימים הנוראים מחייבין אותו לישאר או להשכיר אחר במקומו ואם הם י"א ורוצים לצאת שנים ישכירו שניהם אחד בשותפות במקומם ושניהם יפרעו בשוה ואם אחד עני ואחד עשיר פורעים חציו לפי ממון וחציו לפי נפשות ושכר החזן על היוצאים כעל הנשארים. הגה: ואין חילוק בין אם רוצה לילך זמן ארוך קודם יום טוב או לא כל שלא יחזור ביום טוב (מהרי"ל סימן תכ"ז):

Paragraph 22 —

סעיף כ"ב — לא היו כופין להשכיר להשלים מנין כי אם בימים הנוראים וכגון שאין חסרים כי אם אחד או שנים אלא אם כן מנהג קבוע ומפורסם בעיר לכוף להשכיר אפילו בחסרון ג' או ד' אם יש מנין מיושבי העיר כופין לשכור חזן.   הגה: וכן במקום שאין מנין תמיד בבית הכנסת כופין זה את זה בקנסות שיבאו תמיד מנין לבית הכנסת שלא יתבטל התמיד (תשובת ריב"ש סימן תקי"ח). ועיין לקמן ריש סימן ק"ן אם כופין זה את זה לבנות בית הכנסת:

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text: Chronological Table and Index of the Statutes/Chronological Table/Hen8


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iv. 34-

1. The bráhman [is] its head, the bṛhát its back, the vāmadevyá the belly of the rice-mess; the meters [are] the (two) sides (wings ?), truth its mouth; the viṣṭārín [is] a sacrifice born out of fervor (tápas).

2. Boneless, purified, cleansed with the purifier, bright (çúci), they go to a bright world; Jātavedas burns not away their virile member; in the heavenly (svargá) world much women-folk is theirs.

3. Whoso cook the viṣṭārín rice-mess, ruin (ávarti) fastens not on them at any time; [such a one] stays (as) with Yama, goes to the gods, revels with the soma-drinking (somyá) Gandharvas.

4. Whoso cook the viṣṭārín rice-mess, them Yama robs not of their seed; becoming chariot-owner, [such a one] goes about upon a chariot-road; becoming winged, he goes all across the skies.

5. This, extended, is of sacrifices the best carrier; having cooked the viṣṭārín, one has entered the sky; the bulb-bearing lotus spreads (sam-tam), the bísa, çālū́ka, çáphaka, mulālī́: let all these streams (dhā́rā)

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Rh than an assistant, for the clerks are apt to cuss him for all the manager's meanness, and the manager is likely to find fault with him for all the clerks' cussedness. But if he explains his orders to the clerks he loses his authority, and if he excuses himself to the manager he loses his usefulness. A manager needs an assistant to take trouble from him, not to bring it to him.

The one important thing for you to remember all the time is not to forget. It's easier for a boss to do a thing himself than to tell some one twice to do it. Petty details take up just as much room in a manager's head as big ideas; and the more of the first you store for him, the more warehouse room you leave him for the second. When a boss has to spend his days swearing at his assistant and the clerks have to sit up nights hating him, they haven't much time left to swear by the house. Satisfaction is the oil of the business machine.

Some fellows can only see those above


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Rh them, and others can only see those under them, but a good man is cross-eyed and can see both ends at once. An assistant who becomes his manager's right hand is going to find the left hand helping him; and it's not hard for a clerk to find good points in a boss who finds good ones in him. Pulling from above and boosting from below make climbing easy.

In handling men, your own feelings are the only ones that are of no importance. I don't mean by this that you want to sacrifice your self-respect, but you must keep in mind that the bigger the position the broader the man must be to fill it. And a diet of courtesy and consideration gives girth to a boss.

Of course, all this is going to take so much time and thought that you won't have a very wide margin left for golf—especially in the afternoons. I simply mention this in passing, because I see in the Chicago papers which have been sent me that you


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Rh were among the players on the links one afternoon a fortnight ago. Golf's a nice, foolish game, and there ain't any harm in it so far as I know except for the balls—the stiff balls at the beginning, the lost balls in the middle, and the highballs at the end of the game. But a young fellow who wants to be a boss butcher hasn't much daylight to waste on any kind of links except sausage links.

Of course, a man should have a certain amount of play, just as a boy is entitled to a piece of pie at the end of his dinner, but he don't want to make a meal of it. Any one who lets sinkers take the place of bread and meat gets bilious pretty young; and these fellows who haven't any job, except to blow the old man's dollars, are a good deal like the little niggers in the pie-eating contest at the County Fair—they've a-plenty of pastry and they're attracting a heap of attention, but they've got a stomach-ache coming to them by and by.


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Rh I want to caution you right here against getting the society bug in your head. I'd sooner you'd smoke these Turkish cigarettes which smell like a fire in the fertilizer factory. You're going to meet a good many stray fools in the course of business every day without going out to hunt up the main herd after dark.

Everybody over here in Europe thinks that we haven't any society in America, and a power of people in New York think that we haven't any society in Chicago. But so far as I can see there are just as many ninety-nine-cent men spending million-dollar incomes in one place as another; and the rules that govern the game seem to be the same in all three places—you've got to be a descendant to belong, and the farther you descend the harder you belong. The only difference is that, in Europe, the ancestor who made money enough so that his family could descend, has been dead so long that they have forgotten his shop; in New York


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Rh he's so recent that they can only pretend to have forgotten it; but in Chicago they can't lose it because the ancestor is hustling on the Board of Trade or out at the Stock Yards. I want to say right here that I don't propose to be an ancestor until after I'm dead. Then, if you want to have some fellow whose grandfather sold bad whiskey to the Indians sniff and smell pork when you come into the room, you can suit yourself.

Of course, I may be off in sizing this thing up, because it's a little out of my line. But it's been my experience that these people who think that they are all the choice cuts off the critter, and that the rest of us are only fit for sausage, are usually chuck steak when you get them under the knife. I've tried two or three of them, who had gone broke, in the office, but when you separate them from their money there's nothing left, not even their friends.

I never see a fellow trying to crawl or to buy his way into society that I don't think


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78 But let it be remembered, that all this is in connection with a purified state of being. It is where the serpent sin has never entered, or after he has been destroyed. So long as the evil heart is unsubdued—so long as there are desperate passions to awaken—so long as the hand of man is raised against his brother—so long as the cup of riotous indulgence continues to be filled—so long as temptation lurks beneath the rose-leaves of enjoyment, music will remain to be a dangerous instrument in the hands of those who are by nature and by constitution its willing and devoted slaves.

Even to such, however, I would fain believe, that when kept under proper restrictions, and regulated by right principles, music may have its use. There can be no need to advise such persons to cultivate, when young, their talent for music. The danger is, that they will cultivate no other.

Between these individuals, and the persons first described, there is a numerous class of human beings, of whom it may be said, that they possess by nature a little taste for music; and to these the cultivation of it may be desirable, or otherwise, according to their situation in life, and the views they entertain of the use of accomplishments in general. If the use of accomplishments be to make a show of them in society, then a little skill in music is certainly not worth its cost. But if the object of a daughter is to soothe the weary spirit of a father when he returns home from the office or the counting-house, where he has been toiling for her maintenance; to beguile a mother of her cares; or to charm a suffering sister into forgetfulness of her pain; then a very little skill in music may often be made to answer as noble a purpose as a great deal; and never does a daughter appear to more advantage, than when she cheerfully lays aside a fashionable air, and strums over, for more than the hundredth time, some old ditty which her father loves. To her ear it is possible it may be altogether

title: Page:The Daughters of England.djvu/89


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Rh of my old friend Hank Smith and his wife Kate—Kate Botts she was before he married her—and how they tried to butt their way through the upper crust.

Hank and I were boys together in Missouri, and he stayed along in the old town after I left. I heard of him on and off as tending store a little, and farming a little, and loafing a good deal. Then I forgot all about him, until one day a few years ago when he turned up in the papers as Captain Henry Smith, the Klondike Gold King, just back from Circle City, with a million in dust and anything you please in claims. There's never any limit to what a miner may be worth in those, except his imagination.

I was a little puzzled when, a week later, my office boy brought me a card reading; Colonel Henry Augustus Bottes-Smythe, but I supposed it was some distinguished foreigner who had come to size me up so that he could round out his roast on


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207 come unto thee, swelling honeyedly in the heavenly (svargá) world; let complete (sámanta) lotus-ponds approach thee.

6. Having pools of ghee, having slopes of honey, having strong drink (súrā) for water, filled with milk (kṣīrá), with water, with curds—let all these etc. etc.

7. Four vessels (kumbhá), four-fold, I give, filled with milk, with water, with curds—let all these etc. etc.

8. This rice-mess I deposit in the Brāhmans, the viṣṭārín, world-conquering, heaven-going (svargá); let it not be destroyed (kṣi) for me, swelling with svadhā́; be it a cow of all forms, milking my desire.

title: Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/377


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Rh in his new book, and I told the boy to show the General in.

Fve got a pretty good memory for faces, and I'd bought too much store plug of Hank in my time not to know him, even with a clean shave and a plug hat. Some men dry up with success, but it was just spouting out of Hank. Told me he'd made his pile and that he was tired of living on the slag heap; that he'd spent his whole life where money hardly whispered, let alone talked, and he was going now where it would shout. Wanted to know what was the use of being a nob if a fellow wasn't the nobbiest sort of a nob. Said he'd bought a house on Beacon Hill, in Boston, and that if I'd prick up my ears occasionally I'd hear something drop into the Back Bay. Handed me his new card four times and explained that it was the rawest sort of dog to carry a brace of names in your card holster; that it gave you the drop on the swells every time, and that


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Rh they just had to throw up both hands and pass you the pot when you showed down. Said that Bottes was old English for Botts, and that Smythe was new American for Smith; the Augustus was just a fancy touch, a sort of high-card kicker.

I didn't explain to Hank, because it was congratulations and not explanations that he wanted, and I make it a point to show a customer the line of goods that he's looking for. And I never heard the full particulars of his experiences in the East, though, from what I learned afterward, Hank struck Boston with a bang, all right.

He located his claim on Beacon Hill, between a Mayflower descendant and a Declaration Signer's great-grandson, breeds which believe that when the Lord made them He was through, and that the rest of us just happened. And he hadn't been in town two hours before he started in to make improvements. There was a high wrought-iron railing in front of his house, and he had that


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Rh gilded first thing, because, as he said, he wasn't running a receiving vault and he didn't want any mistakes. Then he bought a nice, open barouche, had the wheels painted red, hired a nigger coachman and started out in style to be sociable and get acquainted. Left his card all the way down one side of Beacon Street, and then drove back leaving it on the other. Everywhere he stopped he found that the whole family was out. Kept it up a week, on and off, but didn't seem to have any luck. Thought that the men must be hot sports and the women great gadders to keep on the jump so much. Allowed that they were the liveliest little lot of fleas that he had ever chased. Decided to quit trying to nail 'em one at a time, and planned out something that he reckoned would round up the whole bunch.

Hank sent out a thousand invitations to his grand opening, as he called it; left one at every house within a mile. Had a brass band on the front steps and fireworks on the


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Rh roof. Ordered forty kegs from the brewery and hired a fancy mixer to sling together mild snorts, as he called them, for the ladies. They tell me that, when the band got to going good on the steps and the fireworks on the roof, even Beacon Street looked out the windows to see what was doing. There must have been ten thousand people in the street and not a soul but Hank and his wife and the mixer in the house. Some one yelled speech, and then the whole crowd took it up, till Hank came out on the steps. He shut off the band with one hand and stopped the fireworks with the other. Said that speechmaking wasn't his strangle-hold; that he'd been living on snowballs in the Klondike for so long that his gas-pipe was frozen; but that this welcome started the ice and he thought about three fingers of the plumber's favorite prescription would cut out the frost. Would the crowd join him? He had invited a few friends in for


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Rh the evening, but there seemed to be some misunderstanding about the date, and he hated to have good stuff curdle on his hands.

While this was going on, the Mayflower descendant was telephoning for the police from one side and the Signer's great-grandson from the other, and just as the crowd yelled and broke for the house two patrol wagons full of policemen got there. But they had to turn in a riot call and bring out the reserves before they could break up Hank's little Boston tea-party.

After all, Hank did what he started out to do with his party—rounded up all his neighbors in a bunch, though not exactly according to schedule. For next morning there were so many descendants and great-grandsons in the police court to prefer charges that it looked like a reunion of the Pilgrim Fathers. The Judge fined Hank on sixteen counts and bound him over to keep the peace for a hundred years. That


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Rh afternoon he left for the West on a special, because the Limited didn't get there quick enough. But before going he tacked on the front door of his house a sign which read:

Hank dropped by my office for a minute on his way to 'Frisco. Said he liked things lively, but there was altogether too much rough-house on Beacon Hill for him. Judged that as the crowd which wasn't invited was so blamed sociable, the one which was invited would have stayed a week if it hadn't slipped up on the date. That might


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Rh be the Boston idea, but he wanted a little more refinement in his. Said he was a pretty free spender, and would hold his end up, but he hated a hog. Of course I told Hank that Boston wasn't all that it was cracked up to be in the school histories, and that Circle City wasn't so tough as it read in the newspapers, for there was no way of making him understand that he might have lived in Boston for a hundred years without being invited to a strawberry sociable. Because a fellow cuts ice on the Arctic Circle, it doesn't follow that he's going to be worth beans on the Back Bay.

I simply mention Hank in a general way. His case may be a little different, but it isn't any more extreme than lots of others all around you over there and me over here. Of course, I want you to enjoy good society, but any society is good society where congenial men and women meet together for wholesome amusement. But I want you to


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Rh keep away from people who choose play for a profession. A man's as good as he makes himself, but no man's any good because his grandfather was. Your affectionate father, 4em


text: Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son/Letter 16


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, October 24, 189— Dear Pierrepont: Well, I'm headed for home at last, checked high and as full of prance as a spotted circus horse. Those Dutchmen ain't so bad as their language, after all, for they've fixed up my rheumatism so that I can bear down on my right leg without thinking that it's going to break off.

I'm glad to learn from your letter that you're getting along so well in your new place, and I hope that when I get home your boss will back up all the good things which you say about yourself. For the future, however, you needn't bother to keep me posted along this line. It's the one subject on which most men are perfectly frank, and it's about the only one on which it isn't necessary to be. There's never any use trying to hide the fact that you're a jim-dandy—you're bound to be found out. Of course, you want to have your eyes open all the