Wednesday Good Reading: "The Fawn and His Mother " by Aesop (translated into English)

 

A young Fawn once said to his Mother, "You are larger than a dog, and swifter, and more used to running, and you have your horns as a defense; why, then, O Mother! do the hounds frighten you so?" She smiled, and said: "I know full well, my son, that all you say is true. I have the advantages you mention, but when I hear even the bark of a single dog I feel ready to faint, and fly away as fast as I can."

                           No arguments will give courage to the coward.

Tuesday's Serial: “Lavengro” by George Borrow (in English) - XXI

 

Chapter 41

decease of the review—homer himself—bread and cheese—finger and thumb—impossible to find—something grand—universal mixture—publisher

 

Time passed away, and with it the Review, which, contrary to the publisher's expectation, did not prove a successful speculation. About four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all Reviews must for which there is no demand. Authors had ceased to send their publications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have already hinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular class, who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality in its pages. The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate publication I can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was industriously circulated, namely, that the Review was low, and that to be reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low person, who could be reviewed nowhere else. So authors took fright; and no wonder, for it will never do for an author to be considered low. Homer himself has never yet entirely recovered from the injury he received by Lord Chesterfield's remark that the speeches of his heroes were frequently exceedingly low.

So the Review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer existed as such; they forthwith returned to their proper avocations—the editor to compose tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remaining copies of his Quintilian—the inferior members to working for the publisher, being to a man dependants of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another, to collecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, Newgate lives and trials. Owing to the bad success of the Review, the publisher became more furious than ever. My money was growing short, and I one day asked him to pay me for my labours in the deceased publication.

'Sir,' said the publisher, 'what do you want the money for?'

'Merely to live on,' I replied; 'it is very difficult to live in this town without money.'

'How much money did you bring with you to town?' demanded the publisher.

'Some twenty or thirty pounds,' I replied.

'And you have spent it already?'

'No,' said I, 'not entirely; but it is fast disappearing.'

'Sir,' said the publisher, 'I believe you to be extravagant; yes, sir, extravagant!'

'On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?'

'Sir,' said the publisher, 'you eat meat.'

'Yes,' said I, 'I eat meat sometimes; what should I eat?'

'Bread, sir,' said the publisher; 'bread and cheese.'

'So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; but I cannot often afford it—it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread and cheese dinner cost me fourteenpence. There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one must drink porter, sir.'

'Then, sir, eat bread—bread alone. As good men as yourself have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If with bread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps, drink water, sir.'

However, I got paid at last for my writings in the Review, not, it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteen months after date. It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any account; at last I found a person who, at a discount of only thirty per cent, consented to cash them; not, however, without sundry grimaces, and, what was still more galling, holding, more than once, the unfortunate papers high in air between his forefinger and thumb. So ill, indeed, did I like this last action, that I felt much inclined to snatch them away. I restrained myself, however, for I remembered that it was very difficult to live without money, and that, if the present person did not discount the bills, I should probably find no one else that would.

But if the treatment which I had experienced from the publisher, previous to making this demand upon him, was difficult to bear, that which I subsequently underwent was far more so: his great delight seemed to consist in causing me misery and mortification; if, on former occasions, he was continually sending me in quest of lives and trials difficult to find, he now was continually demanding lives and trials which it was impossible to find; the personages whom he mentioned never having lived, nor consequently been tried. Moreover, some of my best lives and trials which I had corrected and edited with particular care, and on which I prided myself no little, he caused to be cancelled after they had passed through the press. Amongst these was the life of 'Gentleman Harry.' 'They are drugs, sir,' said the publisher, 'drugs; that life of Harry Simms has long been the greatest drug in the calendar—has it not, Taggart?'

Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch of snuff. The reader, has, I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned whilst giving an account of my first morning's visit to the publisher. I beg Taggart's pardon for having been so long silent about him; but he was a very silent man—yet there was much in Taggart—and Taggart had always been civil and kind to me in his peculiar way.

'Well, young gentleman,' said Taggart to me one morning, when we chanced to be alone a few days after the affair of the cancelling, 'how do you like authorship?'

'I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in,' said I.

'What do you call authorship?' said Taggart.

'I scarcely know,' said I; 'that is, I can scarcely express what I think it.'

'Shall I help you out?' said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking at me.

'If you like,' said I.

'To write something grand,' said Taggart, taking snuff; 'to be stared at—lifted on people's shoulders—'

'Well,' said I, 'that is something like it.'

Taggart took snuff. 'Well,' said he, 'why don't you write something grand?'

'I have,' said I.

'What?' said Taggart.

'Why,' said I, 'there are those ballads.'

Taggart took snuff.

'And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym.'

Taggart took snuff again.

'You seem to be very fond of snuff,' said I, looking at him angrily.

Taggart tapped his box.

'Have you taken it long?'

'Three-and-twenty years.'

'What snuff do you take?'

'Universal mixture.'

'And you find it of use?'

Taggart tapped his box.

'In what respect?' said I.

'In many—there is nothing like it to get a man through; but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now.'

'Have you been long here?'

'Three-and-twenty years.'

'Dear me,' said I; 'and snuff brought you through? Give me a pinch—pah, I don't like it,' and I sneezed.

'Take another pinch,' said Taggart.

'No,' said I, 'I don't like snuff.'

'Then you will never do for authorship; at least for this kind.'

'So I begin to think—what shall I do?'

Taggart took snuff.

'You were talking of a great work—what shall it be?'

Taggart took snuff.

'Do you think I could write one?'

Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap, he did not, however.

'It would require time,' said I, with a half sigh.

Taggart tapped his box.

'A great deal of time; I really think that my ballads—'

Taggart took snuff.

'If published, would do me credit. I'll make an effort, and offer them to some other publisher.'

Taggart took a double quantity of snuff.

 

 

Chapter 42

francis ardry—that won't do, sir—observe my gestures—i think you improve—better than politics—delightful young frenchwoman—a burning shame—paunch—voltaire—lump of sugar

 

Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry. This young gentleman resided in handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a fashionable square, kept a livery servant, and, upon the whole, lived in very good style. Going to see him one day, between one and two, I was informed by the servant that his master was engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait a few minutes, I should find him at liberty. Having told the man that I had no objection, he conducted me into a small apartment which served as antechamber to a drawing-room; the door of this last being half open, I could see Francis Ardry at the farther end, speechifying and gesticulating in a very impressive manner. The servant, in some confusion, was hastening to close the door; but, ere he could effect his purpose, Francis Ardry, who had caught a glimpse of me, exclaimed, 'Come in—come in by all means'; and then proceeded, as before, speechifying and gesticulating. Filled with some surprise, I obeyed his summons.

On entering the room I perceived another individual, to whom Francis Ardry appeared to be addressing himself; this other was a short spare man of about sixty; his hair was of badger grey, and his face was covered with wrinkles—without vouchsafing me a look, he kept his eye, which was black and lustrous, fixed full on Francis Ardry, as if paying the deepest attention to his discourse. All of a sudden, however, he cried with a sharp, cracked voice, 'That won't do, sir; that won't do—more vehemence—your argument is at present particularly weak; therefore, more vehemence—you must confuse them, stun them, stultify them, sir'; and, at each of these injunctions, he struck the back of his right hand sharply against the palm of the left. 'Good, sir—good!' he occasionally uttered, in the same sharp, cracked tone, as the voice of Francis Ardry became more and more vehement. 'Infinitely good!' he exclaimed, as Francis Ardry raised his voice to the highest pitch; 'and now, sir, abate; let the tempest of vehemence decline—gradually, sir; not too fast. Good, sir—very good!' as the voice of Francis Ardry declined gradually in vehemence. 'And now a little pathos, sir—try them with a little pathos. That won't do, sir—that won't do,'—as Francis Ardry made an attempt to become pathetic,—'that will never pass for pathos—with tones and gesture of that description you will never redress the wrongs of your country. Now, sir, observe my gestures, and pay attention to the tone of my voice, sir.'

Thereupon, making use of nearly the same terms which Francis Ardry had employed, the individual in black uttered several sentences in tones and with gestures which were intended to express a considerable degree of pathos, though it is possible that some people would have thought both the one and the other highly ludicrous. After a pause, Francis Ardry recommenced imitating the tones and the gestures of his monitor in the most admirable manner. Before he had proceeded far, however, he burst into a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided it were ever my wont to laugh. 'Ha, ha!' said the other, good-humouredly, 'you are laughing at me. Well, well, I merely wished to give you a hint; but you saw very well what I meant; upon the whole I think you improve. But I must now go, having two other pupils to visit before four.'

Then taking from the table a kind of three-cornered hat, and a cane headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by the hand; and, after glancing at me for a moment, made me a half bow, attended with a strange grimace, and departed.

'Who is that gentleman?' said I to Francis Ardry, as soon as we were alone.

'Oh, that is ——' said Frank, smiling, 'the gentleman who gives me lessons in elocution.'

'And what need have you of elocution?'

'Oh, I merely obey the commands of my guardians,' said Francis, 'who insist that I should, with the assistance of ——, qualify myself for Parliament; for which they do me the honour to suppose that I have some natural talent. I dare not disobey them; for, at the present moment, I have particular reasons for wishing to keep on good terms with them.'

'But,' said I, 'you are a Roman Catholic; and I thought that persons of your religion were excluded from Parliament?'

'Why, upon that very thing the whole matter hinges; people of our religion are determined to be no longer excluded from Parliament, but to have a share in the government of the nation. Not that I care anything about the matter; I merely obey the will of my guardians; my thoughts are fixed on something better than politics.'

'I understand you,' said I; 'dog-fighting—well, I can easily conceive that to some minds dog-fighting—'

'I was not thinking of dog-fighting,' said Francis Ardry, interrupting me.

'Not thinking of dog-fighting!' I ejaculated.

'No,' said Francis Ardry, 'something higher and much more rational than dog-fighting at present occupies my thoughts.'

'Dear me,' said I, 'I thought I had heard you say that there was nothing like it!'

'Like what?' said Francis Ardry.

'Dog-fighting, to be sure,' said I.

'Pooh,' said Francis Ardry; 'who but the gross and unrefined care anything for dog-fighting? That which at present engages my waking and sleeping thoughts is love—divine love—there is nothing like that. Listen to me, I have a secret to confide to you.'

And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me his confidant. It appeared that he had had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the most delightful young Frenchwoman imaginable, Annette La Noire by name, who had just arrived from her native country with the intention of obtaining the situation of governess in some English family; a position which, on account of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified to fill. Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her intention for the present, on the ground that, until she had become acclimated in England, her health would probably suffer from the confinement inseparable from the occupation in which she was desirous of engaging; he had, moreover—for it appeared that she was the most frank and confiding creature in the world—succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire for her a very handsome first floor in his own neighbourhood, and to accept a few inconsiderable presents in money and jewellery. 'I am looking out for a handsome gig and horse,' said Francis Ardry, at the conclusion of his narration: 'it were a burning shame that so divine a creature should have to go about a place like London on foot, or in a paltry hackney coach.'

'But,' said I, 'will not the pursuit of politics prevent your devoting much time to this fair lady?'

'It will prevent me devoting all my time,' said Francis Ardry, 'as I gladly would; but what can I do? My guardians wish me to qualify myself for a political orator, and I dare not offend them by a refusal. If I offend my guardians, I should find it impossible—unless I have recourse to Jews and money-lenders—to support Annette; present her with articles of dress and jewellery, and purchase a horse and cabriolet worthy of conveying her angelic person through the streets of London.'

After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appeared lost in thought, his mind being probably occupied with the subject of Annette, I broke silence by observing, 'So your fellow-religionists are really going to make a serious attempt to procure their emancipation?'

'Yes,' said Francis Ardry, starting from his reverie; 'everything has been arranged; even a leader has been chosen, at least for us of Ireland, upon the whole the most suitable man in the world for the occasion—a barrister of considerable talent, mighty voice, and magnificent impudence. With emancipation, liberty, and redress for the wrongs of Ireland in his mouth, he is to force his way into the British House of Commons, dragging myself and others behind him—he will succeed, and when he is in he will cut a figure; I have heard —— himself, who has heard him speak, say that he will cut a figure.'

'And is —— competent to judge?' I demanded.

'Who but he?' said Francis Ardry; 'no one questions his judgment concerning what relates to elocution. His fame on that point is so well established, that the greatest orators do not disdain occasionally to consult him; C—— himself, as I have been told, when anxious to produce any particular effect in the House, is in the habit of calling in —— for a consultation.'

'As to matter, or manner?' said I.

'Chiefly the latter,' said Francis Ardry, 'though he is competent to give advice as to both, for he has been an orator in his day, and a leader of the people; though he confessed to me that he was not exactly qualified to play the latter part—"I want paunch," said he.'

'It is not always indispensable,' said I; 'there is an orator in my town, a hunchback and watchmaker, without it, who not only leads the people, but the mayor too; perhaps he has a succedaneum in his hunch: but, tell me, is the leader of your movement in possession of that which —— wants?'

'No more deficient in it than in brass,' said Francis Ardry.

'Well,' said I, 'whatever his qualifications may be, I wish him success in the cause which he has taken up—I love religious liberty.'

'We shall succeed,' said Francis Ardry; 'John Bull upon the whole is rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are sure to be backed by the Radical party, who, to gratify their political prejudices, would join with Satan himself.'

'There is one thing,' said I, 'connected with this matter which surprises me—your own lukewarmness. Yes, making every allowance for your natural predilection for dog-fighting, and your present enamoured state of mind, your apathy at the commencement of such a movement is to me unaccountable.'

'You would not have cause to complain of my indifference,' said Frank, 'provided I thought my country would be benefited by this movement; but I happen to know the origin of it. The priests are the originators, 'and what country was ever benefited by a movement which owed its origin to them?' so says Voltaire, a page of whom I occasionally read. By the present move they hope to increase their influence, and to further certain designs which they entertain both with regard to this country and Ireland. I do not speak rashly or unadvisedly. A strange fellow—a half-Italian, half-English priest,—who was recommended to me by my guardians, partly as a spiritual, partly as a temporal guide, has let me into a secret or two; he is fond of a glass of gin and water—and over a glass of gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, than was altogether prudent. Were I my own master, I would kick him, politics, and religious movements, to a considerable distance. And now, if you are going away, do so quickly; I have an appointment with Annette, and must make myself fit to appear before her.'

Monday's Illustrated Word: "The Joiner" by Paul S. Newman (in English)

art by Reed Crandall and George Evans - letterr by Ben Oda - Four Color #1288: The Twilight Zone - Dell, February-April 1962.

 

 

Saturday Good Reading: An Open Letter to Harrison Butker by Dr. Donald DeMarco (in English).

 

 On May 11, 2024, Harrison Butker, a kicker for the Kansas City Chiefs, gave a commencement address to the graduates of Benedictine College located in Atchison, Kansas. His presentation was thoroughly Catholic, but the backlash was extreme, some calling for his dismissal. While an editor might have modified some of his phrases and points of emphasis, his presentation did not warrant the unfair criticism it triggered. I have sided and sympathized with Mr. Butker as indicated below.

Bravo!! You have just kicked the equivalent of a 75-yard field goal!  Not too much to the left nor too much to the right, but right down the middle. Strength and accuracy, two highly esteemed qualities on display for the world to see, marvel, and appreciate. As Frank Leahy, former football coach of a champion Notre Dame squad used to say, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” As you are well aware, the Church is going through a tough time, a time that elicits a response from the best of its members.  And you answered the bell.

You are right on, when you say that feminists have lied to women. Consider this comment from arch-feminist Betty Friedan in her book The Feminine Mystique, a veritable instruction manual for housewives that sold over a million copies: “It is not an exaggeration to call the stagnating state of millions of American housewives a sickness. The problem—which is simply the fact that American women are kept from growing to their full human capacities—is taking a far greater toll on the physical and mental health of our country than any known disease.”

This statement is more than a lie.  It is Mendacity with a capital M! And it is not an exaggeration to say that it is diabolical.  And yet, it was well received and widely promoted. A lie, according to a Russian proverb, can get around the world before you can get your boots on. But, as you know only too well, it is the Truth that makes us free.

Another person of insight and vigor, Winston Churchill, said this about the family as a training ground for a better society: “There is no doubt that it is around the family and the home that all the greatest virtues, the most dominating virtues of human society, are created, strengthened, and maintained.” And that great lexicographer, Samuel Johnson stated that “To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to which every enterprise and labor tends, and of which every desire prompts the prosecution.” In the twilight of our lives, we will not look back and say, “I should have spent more time going to committee meetings or selling used cars, or cleaning other people’s homes, or working for the Democratic Party.” Robert Frost once said, somewhat facetiously, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” The family is permanent; success is fleeting. Worldly success is not self-generating as is the family that proceeds from marriage to children to grandchildren and down through the corridors of time.

If some of your misunderstood words have won you enemies, that is the inevitable sign that you stood up for something important. You are accustomed to opposition on the gridiron, an opposition that makes victory, when it comes, all the sweeter. Recall the words of St. Paul in 2 Timothy 4-7: “I have fought the good fight. I have refinished the race, and I have kept the faith.” With allies like St. Paul, you are in good company. Christ had His enemies and commanded us to love them. Our enemies can make us stronger.

The ironic factor in playing the game of life, to put the matter in football terms, is that even the referees are against us.  The media does not always play fair. But then, again, God is on our side.

Do not let the criticism from the nuns upset you, though I am sure it does not.  It is hard to understand how they seemed to have ignored the salient fact that Mary was a housewife. Christ returned to the Father at 33, but only 3 of those years were spent outside the household in public ministry. Mary, the Mother of God, raised the dignity of the housewife to an unparalleled level. As she stated in her Magnificat, “From this day all generations will call me blessed.”

God must love housewives as He loves the poor since He made so many of them.  Indeed, He loves everywhere but holds a special place for housewives, and housewives who become mothers and grandmothers. The succession of generations far outweighs in importance any series of promotions in the workplace. It is incontestable that worldly success is overrated, while the family, and especially the duties of the housewife are unjustly maligned.

Your commencement address was intended to reach a relatively small audience, but, as it turned out, you were delivering a message to the whole world, and one that it desperately needs to hear. God provided you with a high-powered amplifier. No other commencement address received nearly as much publicity. The repercussions will no doubt be more positive than negative.

May God continue to guide you, for you are on the right path. Prayers and peace to your wife and two daughters.  May they be imbued with your faith and your courage.

Friday's Sung Word: "Íntima Lágrima" by Cândido Das Neves (in Portuguese)

Ai! A fonte dos meus olhos
Entre mil espórios desta dor
Nenhuma lágrima derrama
Oh! Como sofre quem ama
Nenhuma gota d’água
Para exprimir minha mágoa

Sofro, sem prantear, embora
Mas não é só quem chora que padece
Os espinhos da paixão
A lágrima é mais pungente
Chorada interiormente
E derramada pelo coração!

Não há um lenitivo para só o que sinto
Eu tenho um labirinto de tristeza dentro d’alma!
E quando a dor se espalma dentro em mim
Se debruça, meu coração soluça
Quer saltar do peito em pranto se desfaz!

Ninguém entenderá meu ais
A causa porquê não choro mais
Vós que me vês, vosso amor a cantar
Prantos em lágrimas dispersos
Eu transformei em versos
Porque só nas rimas que eu sei chorar

Quanta gente que vive a sofrer
Cujo olhar pode olhar, não revela, não diz!
Outro vive banhado em pranto
E, no entanto, é feliz, bem feliz

Tendo a dor tão sublime é um pecado, é um crime
Com prazer uma lágrima confundir
Que é vertida em sinal de alegria
Não pode nossas dores fielmente exprimir!

 

You can listen "Íntima Lágrima" sung by Gilberto Alves here.