1st Sermon for Corpus Christi by St. Vincent Ferrer O.P. (translated into English)

1 Cor 11:23-27 Douay translation.

“23 For I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered unto you, that the Lord Jesus, the same night in which he was betrayed, took bread. 24 And giving thanks, broke, and said: Take ye, and eat: this is my body, which shall be delivered for you: this do for the commemoration of me. 25 In like manner also the chalice, after he had supped, saying: This chalice is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as often as you shall drink, for the commemoration of me. 26 For as often as you shall eat this bread, and drink the chalice, you shall shew the death of the Lord, until he come. 27 Therefore whosoever shall eat this bread, or drink the chalice of the Lord unworthily, shall be guilty of the body and of the blood of the Lord.”

 

 “For I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered unto you,” (1 Cor 11:23)

This word we have verbatim from 1 Cor 11 and it has just been recited in today’s epistle. Since the whole feast today is about this holy and glorious sacrament of the altar, so also shall be our sermon. And we shall have many good ideas for the enlightenment of the mind and the consolation of the soul and some moral advice for the correction of life. But first the Virgin Mary is hailed.

For the declaration of this passage and the introduction of the material to be preached it must be known that the entire belief of the heart which we have of this holy sacrament and the verbal expression which we make of the same ought all to be founded on holy scriptures. So that our heart ought not extend itself more for believing nor the mouth for speaking unless to the extent that we have it from holy scriptures. The reason is because of the height and transcendental sublimity of this sacrament, which exceeds all natural understanding and philosophical science and all the powers of nature. So whoever wishes to believe of this holy sacrament, or speak according to natural understanding, or philosophical knowledge, or the powers of nature would err and fail in many ways. Just as someone who would wish to count according to understanding how many palms or cubits [measures of length] there are from here to heaven, or how many steps from the east to the west, or how many grains of sand and drops of water there are, that person would err and fall short. And so scripture says, Eccl 3, “Seek not the things that are too high for you,” i.e. for the natural intellect, “and search not into things above your ability,” namely philosophical knowledge, “but the things that God has commanded thee,” (Sir 3:22), which is his mouth having two lips, namely the two testaments. Above is the New Testament, below the Old Testament. Therefore the Lord says, “If you will separate the precious from the vile, you shall be as my mouth,” (Jer 15:19). “Think on them always,” (Jer 15:19).

So now, dismissing natural and philosophical reasons, I shall accept proofs [auctoritates] only from sacred scripture, because I do not want to say anything but what the Lord says in sacred scripture. And then I shall be able to speak the theme: “For I have received of the Lord,” not from a philosopher, nor from Virgil nor by natural genius, but by the Lord, namely from sacred scripture, “that which also I delivered unto you,” (1 Cor 11:23). The theme is clear. Among other wonders and secrets of this sacrament there are five principal ones, which I shall now speak about to you according to sacred scriptures.

 

First, is the substantial change [mutatio substantialis],

Second, is the work of the priest [operatio sacerdotalis],

Third, the sacramental indwelling [habitatio sacramentalis],

Fourth, the sense perception [perceptio sensualis],

Fifth, the usual reception. [receptio usualis].

 

In this are the heights and difficulties of this sacrament. If it is said, “Whence do you have this brother.” The theme replies: “For I have received of the Lord,” and now I shall give it to you.

 

SUBSTANTIAL CHANGE

The first wonder and sublime secret of this holy sacrifice is the change of substance. There is a double change, one is accidental, the other substantial. Accidental change is when the accident or quality changes in a creature, the substance remaining the same, as is the change from whiteness into blackness, or from health to illness, or from hot into cold, or from smallness into largeness like a child changes, but the substance remains the same. Such changes are said to be “accidental.” Substantial change is when not only the accidents but also the substance changes, as if mud is changed into gold, or lead into silver. Not only accidents are changed but also the substance. In this sacrament however only substantial change happens and not accidental, because the substance of bread and wine do not remain once the conversion is done, but their accidents remain.

In this sacrament two rules of philosophy fail. First that which says that whenever substantial change happens accidental change also happens. Reason, because accidents don’t migrate, that is, pass from subject into subject, because if mud is changed into gold, even its quality is changed. But in this sacrament it is the opposite. Because the substance of bread by the power of words is changed into the body of Christ, however the accidents are not, because the same whiteness and quantity and roundness, smell and flavor remain as before. Now in this sacrament by governing yourselves by the rules of philosophy, it is necessary to err and fall short. When the change is accomplished, we adore, but we do not adore that which we see, neither the whiteness nor the roundness, but Christ true God and man contained within, as truly and really, as he was in the womb of the Virgin or as he is in heaven. On this see St. Thomas III, q. 75, a. 1. For just as soldiers adore the king behind the curtains, when he hears mass, although they do not see him, so we adore Christ under those accidents as if existing beneath the curtains.

A second rule of philosophy fails also in this sacrament, which says that no substantial change is total, because there always remains prime matter, which the Philosopher calls “hyle”.   Because if mud is changed into gold, the prime matter which is the term from which [terminus a quo, the mud], is the same with that which is the term to which [terminus ad quem, the gold], because the matter of all generable and corruptible things is the same. In this holy sacrament these rules fail, because nothing remains of the matter, nor of the substantial form of bread, because it entirely is changed into the body of Christ. On this see St. Thomas III, q. 75, a. 5 & 6. So therefore it is necessary that man not rule himself here with philosophical rules which are lacking, but according to holy scriptures, in the Psalter, which says, “This is the change,” namely the substantial, “of the right hand of the most High,” (Ps 76:11) Natural changes are from the left, but this [is], “of the right of the most High.” And it follows,” You are the God that does wonders,” (Ps 76:15), namely the aforesaid. It is the same for the change of wine in the chalice into the blood of Christ.

Morally [using now the moral sense of scripture], you have here the teaching that you ought to adore Christ in the consecrated host without doubt and without condition. Some persons, presumptuous and shameless, fall into error saying when they adore, “I adore you, if you are Christ. [This deserves] Neither thanks nor gratitude [Nec grates, nec gratias] because even a stick or stone or dog can adore in this way, with conditions. So you should adore without condition. Reason, because condition includes doubt, and God wishes to be adored firmly with a whole heart, spirit, will and devotion. So David: “Bring up sacrifices, and come into his courts: adore the Lord in his holy court,” (Ps 95:8-9). Note, “bring up sacrifices,” here he speaks to the priests. “And come into his courts,” here he speaks to the people. “Adore the Lord,” namely both priests and people. “In his holy court,” i.e. in the heart, without doubt and without condition.

Should someone say, “If the priest did not say the words, or if he had not been ordained he did not consecrate, therefore,” etc. I reply that the priest alone shall be damned, and it is not a danger to you. Thus you should adore without doubt, although you habitually have in your heart this, that if you would know the opposite that you would not adore, and this suffices. Nevertheless this ought not to be expressed in words, but you ought simply to adore. See the first wonderful secret, which is, “For I have received of the Lord,” in scripture, and “…I delivered unto you,” (1 Cor 11:23)

 

PRIESTLY WORK

The second wonder of this sacrament is the priestly operation [operatio sacerdotalis]. The priest living here on earth has the power to open the heavens and make the Son of the Virgin Mary descend onto the altar into his hands. A great wonder is attributed to Moses, who made manna come down from the air, as we read in Ex 16:13. And of Elijah who made fire come down from the sphere of fire to burn the two squads of fifty soldiers, as we read in 4 Kgs 1, (Cf vv. 9-12). This wonder is greater, because the priest makes Christ descend not from the air, nor from the sphere of fire, nor from the heaven of the moon, nor from the heaven of Mercury, nor from the heaven of Venus, nor from the heaven of the sun, nor from the heaven of Mars, nor from the heaven of Jupiter, nor from the heaven of Saturn, nor from the heaven of the stars or firmament, nor from the crystalline heaven, but from the empyreal heaven. Behold, the priestly operation.

You know that when the Virgin Mary, greeted by the angel Gabriel, consenting, said, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord,” etc., (Lk 1:38), at the last word, the heaven was open and the Son of God descended into her womb, and the angel and the Virgin adored him in the womb. Just as the voice [literally, the mouth] of the Virgin opened up heaven, so also does the voice of the priest, and more excellently. It shall not displease the Virgin Mary if I speak the truth, because the Virgin in opening heaven had to say eight words. [Ecce ancílla Domini : fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum.] First, “Behold,” second “the handmaid,” etc. until she said the whole, and then the heaven was open and she conceived. The priest says only five words [Hoc est enim corpus meum], and when he says the last word, namely “meum” then heaven is opened and Christ is in the host. Also the Virgin Mary opened heaven only once, but the priest, every day, and at every mass.   Also in the womb of the Virgin it was a baby that descended, not as large as an ant, and vulnerable and mortal. In the host he descends as large as he is in heaven, as he was on the cross, neither vulnerable nor mortal but glorious and invulnerable. Gregory: “Who of the faithful can have a doubt, in that hour of sacrifice, at the voice of the priest the heavens are opened, in that mystery of Jesus Christ the chorus of angels are present, the highest associate with the least, earthly things are joined to heavenly, and the same happens from visibles as well as invisibles,” (Gregory the Great, Dialogues IV, c. 58), and it is found in [Gratian] De Consecratione, dist. II, canon. 73: “What be the blood,” vers.: “Who of the faithful.” Note how ‘the heavens are opened’ is understood like the telling of a secret. It is said. “He has opened his heart to me,” not that it is wounded or divided, but because a secret is revealed. So Delilah says of Sampson to the Philistines, “Now he hath opened his heart to me,” (Judges 16:18). So of the Son of God who is hidden in the empyreal heaven, when he descends into the consecrated host, that descent is said to be the opening of the heavens. “This is the bread that came down from heaven.” If anyone eats of this bread, “he shall live for ever,” (Jn 6:59).

If someone says that Christ descends from heaven into the host, and so he departs from heaven, I reply that he does not leave heaven. For this note two comparisons [similitudines]. First, with a house having a hundred windows or even a thousand windows, in which the rays of the sun enter, and nevertheless they do not depart from the heaven. So Christ, the ray of God the Father, descends into each host, and nevertheless does not leave heaven. Second, with my voice, which is in each of your ears. You see already how many ears there are here. Now I believe that each of you has two, etc. and in each of them is my voice, and nevertheless it doesn’t depart from me. If a corruptible and transitory word can be in that way, how much more the eternal Word about which John wrote: “In the beginning was the Word,” (Jn 1:1). Thus David says, “The Lord is in his holy temple,” and at the same time, “the Lord’s throne is in heaven,” (Ps 10:5). If the pregnant Virgin was the temple of God, so also the consecrated host is pregnant. The temple of God can be said where there are angels, as Gregory says, because a king does not travel alone, if we would not have eyes half-blind nor ears plugged up we would see and perceive them singing. Just as some saints, like St. Thomas Aquinas of the Order of Preachers, who composed today’s [Divine] Office, in which we sing:

 

Panis angelicus

fit panis hominum;

Dat panis coelicus

figuris terminum:

O res mirabilis!

Manducat Dominum

Pauper, servus et humilis

 

The Bread of Angels

becomes the bread of men;

The Bread of heaven

ends all prefigurations:

What wonder!

Consumes him, the Lord,

a poor and humble servant.

 

Morally [the moral sense of the passage], it is clear how pure the priest ought to be, who has a judge and is surrounded by angels, and his hand and fingers are filled with angels. If he is good, the angels say, “O blessed one, you have a greater grace than we,” etc. If he be evil, lustful, have a mistress [concubinarius], a gambler [lusor], the angels say to Christ, “Lord do you want us to kill this traitor?” Christ responds, “I do not wish the death of the sinner, but that he be converted and live,” (Cf Ez 18:23).

The next question which you already have strong in your hearts is this: If the priest be a man of evil life, lustful etc, does such a priest have that power of consecrating? For we all agree the good priest does. I respond that both the good and the bad priests, by saying the words, truly consecrate. For this, note the similarity between two pipes, gold and wood, through which water from the same spring flows into the garden to water the cabbages. Which cabbages will do better? Is it not just as beneficial from the one [pipe] as from the other, from which comes the same water? For the goodness of the cabbages is not from the virtue of the pipes, but from the virtue of the water. So it is in our situation:

The spring from which the water of the whole world and knowledge flows is Christ. “The word of God on high is the fountain of wisdom,” (Sir 1:5). The pipes through which the water of consecration passes are the priests. The hosts are the vegetables or cabbages from the land, [made] of wheat, not from any other material. The gold pipe is the good and devout priest, the wooden is the priest of bad life, who has a mistress, simoniacal, raunchy [ribaldus], and yet each truly consecrates, not by the power of the priest, but of Christ. Christ then, in the end, becomes the lord of the garden, who after he has used the pipes, puts the gold pipe in a box in the treasury of heaven. “If any man minister to me, let him follow me; and where I am, there also shall my minister be,” (Jn 12:26). A pipe of rotten wood is thrown into the fire to be burned in hell. So the Apostle [Paul]: “But let a man prove himself: and so let him eat of that bread, and drink of the chalice. For he who eats and drinks unworthily, eats and drinks judgment to himself, not discerning the body of the Lord,” (1 Cor 11:28). Where the Gloss says quoting Ambrose: “He is so punished as if he had killed Christ with his own hands.” See this priestly operation, and from where do you know this, brother? “For I have received of the Lord,” etc., (1 Cor 11:23).

 

SACRAMENTAL INDWELLING

The third secret wonder of this sacrament is the sacramental indwelling. O wonderful it is that the whole Christ dwells in such a small quantity. You ask how is this possible? Again how is it possible that when the host is broken, the whole Christ is not broken, moreover the whole remains integral, even in each broken particle. Here all rules of philosophy fail. Nevertheless for your consolation I will show you a comparison to the eye, from your image howsoever large you may be, which is received whole in a mirror. If there were a hundred thousand or even more mirrors in front of you, your image would be in all of them. And if you break a mirror, nevertheless the image is not broken, but in each of its fragments it remains integral. Shall not God the Father be able to do the same with his image, who is Christ? Christ is the image of the invisible God. (Cf 2 Cor 4:4, and Col 1:15). The host is a mirror, someone said. Is it not like an image in a mirror, which is not corporeal, and of Christ in the host, which has a real body? I say that always, because the glorified body is more subtle than an image which is prevented from entering the mirror by a little handkerchief [panno]. Nothing can impede a glorified body; [it is] more subtle than light, than a voice, than even an image. Therefore, once the words are pronounced, immediately the whole body is in the host, like the image in the mirror.

Therefore of this consecrated host it can be said “For she is the brightness of eternal light, and the unspotted mirror of God’s majesty, and the image of his goodness,” (Wis 7:26). ” For she is the brightness of eternal light,” with respect to the divinity which is there. For which it must be known that by the power of the word alone it is there, namely under the appearance of bread, the body of Christ, but from real concomitance the soul is also there, because the body of Christ is there as a living body, which is not without a soul, nor without blood.

If in the triduum [triduo, thee day duration of Christ’s entombment] the Apostles had consecrated, only the dead body of Christ would have been there, which was [its state] at that time. But now it is alive, together with the soul and blood and divinity. By the power of the words only the body is there, but concomitantly the soul is there with its excellences and the divinity with all its perfections. Just as if some lord had invited a certain great lord or prelate to dinner, and he had arrived with his shield-bearers, by virtue of the words of invitation., only the lord himself or the prelate was invited, but from concomitance or association the shield-bearers were also there. Thus the priest by consecrating with the power of the words, consecrates precisely only the body of Christ, but the soul, blood and divinity follow him. Therefore think what you eat, when you receive communion, because there is something greater there than all things corporeal, namely the body of Christ, something there more excellent than spiritual creatures, namely the soul of Christ, and divinity is also there, which is above everything which God made or will make or can make.

And so the authority says, “For she is the brightness of eternal light,” (Wis 7:26), namely with respect to divinity. Therefore the host is round, which signifies the eternity of God. And “the unspotted mirror,” (Wis 7:26), with respect to the soul. Therefore the host ought to be most pure and white. “and the image of his goodness,” (Wis 7:26). with respect to the body through which he accomplished his goodness in the work of redemption.

Morally, we have here a teaching which if we wish to receive communion in a dignified way, we have three, namely, the brightness of eternal light through true belief without error and false opinion. Secondly, the mirror unspotted through chastity. Third that we have the image of his goodness through firm friendship, because just as Christ did not wish to take revenge on his enemies, neither, out of your love of him, should you. Therefore Christ, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God,” (Mt 5:9). Note “peacemakers” from its etymology, i.e. making peace, and cursed is he who impedes peace about which it can be said, “Damned are the warmongers, because they shall be called children of the devil.”

 

SENSE PERCEPTION

The fourth secret wonder is sense perception, because the bodily senses seem to be deceived about the Eucharist, because one thing is perceived, which is believed, because the eye does not see Christ, but whiteness, nor is Christ heard, nor smelled. Why this? Christ well could have made it that just as the image is seen in the mirror, also he would be seen in the host, just as by many saints he has been seen there. But he did not want this for two reasons. First out of necessity. Second out of usefulness.

Of necessity, because it is necessary to receive communion, because just as all our evil comes to us from the eating of fruit, about which it is said of the Virgin Mary, “Blessed is the fruit of your womb Jesus Christ.” And it would be disgusting to visibly eat human flesh and drink blood. But just as a doctor covers up the pills offered or the host, lest it be distasteful to fastidious people, so Christ our physician, whose flesh is the pill of our salvation, because otherwise we cannot be saved, unless through communion, he hides [his flesh] lest it be seen, nor is the flavor of flesh perceived, etc. See the necessity. About which the prophet Isaiah said, “And they shall worship you,” in the consecrated host, “and shall make supplication to you: only in you is God, and there is no God besides you. Verily you are a hidden God, the God of Israel the savior.” (Isa 45:14). Note ” only in you is God,” just this saying is exclusive, it excludes other sacraments, in which God is not, unless figuratively. Only in this sacrament really and personally. About this see St. Thomas III, q. 75, a. 1.   He does not say “similarly” but “verily”. “For my flesh is meat indeed: and my blood is drink indeed,” (Jn 6:56), is so construed. That meat is truly my flesh and that drink truly is my blood.

The second reason is from usefulness, for our merit. The article about this sacrament is of especially great merit, because of the difficulty of the senses, which judge the opposite from this which we believe. If indeed you believe that the host be white, you have no credit [grates] because your eyes can see it. But it is of merit to believe that Christ is there whom you do not see. Gregory. Faith is without merit where human reason provides experience. But it is of merit to believe because he says that really. He is not able to lie nor deceive. Therefore we offer him great honor by simply believing, saying: Lord although my intellect cannot grasp this mystery, nevertheless I believe from what you day. He says: “Blessed are they who have not seen and have believed,” (Jn 20:29). Many saints have seen Christ in this sacrament.

 

REGULAR RECEPTION

The fifth secret wonder is regular reception., because he permits and wishes not only to be adored by us, but to be received according to the use and custom of the church. Priests, well prepared, should celebrate every day. Devout people, with good advice, every month. Others once a year, namely by mandate during Easter, otherwise they will never be received into heaven. The angels say:

 

O res mirabilis!

Manducat Dominum

Pauper, servus et humilis

 

What wonder!

a poor and humble servant

consumes him, the Lord.

 

O what a great wonder is this. Why it was instituted, what usefulness does it have? I say that he instituted this for two reasons. First, for his honor. Second for our progress. It is an honor to the victorious king to be received faithfully in the castle which he acquired by conquest [quae bellando acquisivit]. And on the contrary it is a disgrace when they are not permitted to enter it. About which John said, “He came unto his own, and his own received him not,” (Jn 1:11). But indeed they let cattle, chickens, and hens enter. The second reason is for our furtherance. If a king or a Pope show great gratitude when well received, how much more will Christ the king and Pope do likewise, from whose worthy reception Christians inestimably grow?   David: “He has made a remembrance of his wonderful works, being a merciful and gracious Lord: he has given food to them that fear him ” (Ps. 110:4-5).

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

 

Chapter 35

francis ardry—certain sharpers—brave and eloquent—opposites—flinging the bones—strange places—a batch of dogs—redoubled application

 

One evening I was visited by the tall young gentleman, Francis Ardry, whose acquaintance I had formed at the coffee-house. As it is necessary that the reader should know something more about this young man, who will frequently appear in the course of these pages, I will state in a few words who and what he was. He was born of an ancient Roman Catholic family in Ireland; his parents, whose only child he was, had long been dead. His father, who had survived his mother several years, had been a spendthrift, and at his death had left the family property considerably embarrassed. Happily, however, the son and the estate fell into the hands of careful guardians, near relations of the family, by whom the property was managed to the best advantage, and every means taken to educate the young man in a manner suitable to his expectations. At the age of sixteen he was taken from a celebrated school in England at which he had been placed, and sent to a small French university, in order that he might form an intimate and accurate acquaintance with the grand language of the continent. There he continued three years, at the end of which he went under the care of a French abbé to Germany and Italy. It was in this latter country that he first began to cause his guardians serious uneasiness. He was in the heyday of youth when he visited Italy, and he entered wildly into the various delights of that fascinating region, and, what was worse, falling into the hands of certain sharpers, not Italian, but English, he was fleeced of considerable sums of money. The abbé, who, it seems, was an excellent individual of the old French school, remonstrated with his pupil on his dissipation and extravagance; but, finding his remonstrances vain, very properly informed the guardians of the manner of life of his charge. They were not slow in commanding Francis Ardry home; and, as he was entirely in their power, he was forced to comply. He had been about three months in London when I met him in the coffee-room, and the two elderly gentlemen in his company were his guardians. At this time they were very solicitous that he should choose for himself a profession, offering to his choice either the army or law—he was calculated to shine in either of these professions—for, like many others of his countrymen, he was brave and eloquent; but he did not wish to shackle himself with a profession. As, however, his minority did not terminate till he was three-and-twenty, of which age he wanted nearly two years during which he would be entirely dependent on his guardians, he deemed it expedient to conceal, to a certain degree, his sentiments, temporising with the old gentlemen, with whom, notwithstanding his many irregularities, he was a great favourite, and at whose death he expected to come into a yet greater property than that which he inherited from his parents.

Such is a brief account of Francis Ardry—of my friend Francis Ardry; for the acquaintance, commenced in the singular manner with which the reader is acquainted, speedily ripened into a friendship which endured through many long years of separation, and which still endures certainly on my part, and on his—if he lives; but it is many years since I have heard from Francis Ardry.

And yet many people would have thought it impossible for our friendship to have lasted a week—for in many respects no two people could be more dissimilar. He was an Irishman—I, an Englishman;—he, fiery, enthusiastic, and open-hearted; I, neither fiery, enthusiastic, nor open-hearted;—he, fond of pleasure and dissipation; I, of study and reflection. Yet it is of such dissimilar elements that the most lasting friendships are formed: we do not like counterparts of ourselves. 'Two great talkers will not travel far together,' is a Spanish saying; I will add, 'Nor two silent people'; we naturally love our opposites.

So Francis Ardry came to see me, and right glad I was to see him, for I had just flung my books and papers aside, and was wishing for a little social converse; and when we had conversed for some little time together, Francis Ardry proposed that we should go to the play to see Kean; so we went to the play, and saw—not Kean, who at that time was ashamed to show himself, but—a man who was not ashamed to show himself, and who people said was a much better man than Kean—as I have no doubt he was—though whether he was a better actor I cannot say, for I never saw Kean.

Two or three evenings after Francis Ardry came to see me again, and again we went out together, and Francis Ardry took me to—shall I say?—why not?—a gaming-house, where I saw people playing, and where I saw Francis Ardry play and lose five guineas, and where I lost nothing, because I did not play, though I felt somewhat inclined; for a man with a white hat and a sparkling eye held up a box which contained something which rattled, and asked me to fling the bones. 'There is nothing like flinging the bones!' said he, and then I thought I should like to know what kind of thing flinging the bones was; I, however, restrained myself. 'There is nothing like flinging the bones!' shouted the man, as my friend and myself left the room.

Long life and prosperity to Francis Ardry! but for him I should not have obtained knowledge which I did of the strange and eccentric places of London. Some of the places to which he took me were very strange places indeed; but, however strange the places were, I observed that the inhabitants thought there were no places like their several places, and no occupations like their several occupations; and among other strange places to which Francis Ardry conducted me was a place not far from the abbey church of Westminster.

Before we entered this place our ears were greeted by a confused hubbub of human voices, squealing of rats, barking of dogs, and the cries of various other animals. Here we beheld a kind of cock-pit, around which a great many people, seeming of all ranks, but chiefly of the lower, were gathered, and in it we saw a dog destroy a great many rats in a very small period; and when the dog had destroyed the rats, we saw a fight between a dog and a bear, then a fight between two dogs, then . . .

After the diversions of the day were over, my friend introduced me to the genius of the place, a small man of about five feet high, with a very sharp countenance, and dressed in a brown jockey coat and top-boots. 'Joey,' said he, 'this is a friend of mine.' Joey nodded to me with a patronising air. 'Glad to see you, sir!—want a dog?'

'No,' said I.

'You have got one, then—want to match him?'

'We have a dog at home,' said I, 'in the country; but I can't say I should like to match him. Indeed, I do not like dog-fighting.'

'Not like dog-fighting!' said the man, staring.

'The truth is, Joe, that he is just come to town.'

'So I should think; he looks rather green—not like dog-fighting!'

'Nothing like it, is there, Joey?'

'I should think not; what is like it? A time will come, and that speedily, when folks will give up everything else, and follow dog-fighting.'

'Do you think so?' said I.

'Think so? Let me ask what there is that a man wouldn't give up for it?'

'Why,' said I modestly, 'there's religion.'

'Religion! How you talk. Why, there's myself, bred and born an Independent, and intended to be a preacher, didn't I give up religion for dog-fighting? Religion, indeed! If it were not for the rascally law, my pit would fill better on Sundays than any other time. Who would go to church when they could come to my pit? Religion! why, the parsons themselves come to my pit; and I have now a letter in my pocket from one of them, asking me to send him a dog.'

'Well, then, politics,' said I.

'Politics! Why, the gemmen in the House would leave Pitt himself, if he were alive, to come to my pit. There were three of the best of them here to-night, all great horators.—Get on with you, what comes next?'

'Why, there's learning and letters.'

'Pretty things, truly, to keep people from dog-fighting. Why, there's the young gentlemen from the Abbey School comes here in shoals, leaving books, and letters, and masters too. To tell you the truth, I rather wish they would mind their letters, for a more precious set of young blackguards I never seed. It was only the other day I was thinking of calling in a constable for my own protection, for I thought my pit would have been torn down by them.'

Scarcely knowing what to say, I made an observation at random. 'You show, by your own conduct,' said I, 'that there are other things worth following besides dog-fighting. You practise rat-catching and badger-baiting as well.'

The dog-fancier eyed me with supreme contempt.

'Your friend here,' said he, 'might well call you a new one. When I talks of dog-fighting, I of course means rat-catching, and badger-baiting, ay, and bull-baiting too, just as when I speaks religiously, when I says one I means not one but three. And talking of religion puts me in mind that I have something else to do besides chaffing here, having a batch of dogs to send off by this night's packet to the Pope of Rome.'

But at last I had seen enough of what London had to show, whether strange or commonplace, so at least I thought, and I ceased to accompany my friend in his rambles about town, and to partake of his adventures. Our friendship, however, still continued unabated, though I saw, in consequence, less of him. I reflected that time was passing on—that the little money I had brought to town was fast consuming, and that I had nothing to depend upon but my own exertions for a fresh supply; and I returned with redoubled application to my pursuits.

 

 

Chapter 36

occupations—traduttore traditore—ode to the mist—apple and pear—reviewing—current literature—oxford-like manner—a plain story—ill-regulated mind—unsnuffed candle—dreams

 

I compiled the Chronicles of Newgate; I reviewed books for the Review established on an entirely new principle; and I occasionally tried my best to translate into German portions of the publisher's philosophy. In this last task I experienced more than one difficulty. I was a tolerable German scholar, it is true, and I had long been able to translate from German into English with considerable facility; but to translate from a foreign language into your own is a widely different thing from translating from your own into a foreign language; and, in my first attempt to render the publisher into German, I was conscious of making miserable failures, from pure ignorance of German grammar; however, by the assistance of grammars and dictionaries, and by extreme perseverance, I at length overcame all the difficulties connected with the German language. But, alas! another difficulty remained, far greater than any connected with German—a difficulty connected with the language of the publisher—the language which the great man employed in his writings was very hard to understand; I say in his writings—for his colloquial English was plain enough. Though not professing to be a scholar, he was much addicted, when writing, to the use of Greek and Latin terms, not as other people used them, but in a manner of his own, which set the authority of dictionaries at defiance; the consequence was that I was sometimes utterly at a loss to understand the meaning of the publisher. Many a quarter of an hour did I pass at this period, staring at periods of the publisher, and wondering what he could mean, but in vain, till at last, with a shake of the head, I would snatch up the pen, and render the publisher literally into German. Sometimes I was almost tempted to substitute something of my own for what the publisher had written, but my conscience interposed; the awful words, Traduttore traditore, commenced ringing in my ears, and I asked myself whether I should be acting honourably towards the publisher, who had committed to me the delicate task of translating him into German; should I be acting honourably towards him, in making him speak in German in a manner different from that in which he expressed himself in English? No, I could not reconcile such conduct with any principle of honour; by substituting something of my own in lieu of these mysterious passages of the publisher, I might be giving a fatal blow to his whole system of philosophy. Besides, when translating into English, had I treated foreign authors in this manner? Had I treated the minstrels of the Kæmpe Viser in this manner?—No. Had I treated Ab Gwilym in this manner? Even when translating his Ode to the Mist, in which he is misty enough, had I attempted to make Ab Gwilym less misty? No; on referring to my translation, I found that Ab Gwilym in my hands was quite as misty as in his own. Then, seeing that I had not ventured to take liberties with people who had never put themselves into my hands for the purpose of being rendered, how could I venture to substitute my own thoughts and ideas for the publisher's, who had put himself into my hands for that purpose? Forbid it every proper feeling—so I told the Germans, in the publisher's own way, the publisher's tale of an apple and a pear.

I at first felt much inclined to be of the publisher's opinion with respect to the theory of the pear. After all, why should the earth be shaped like an apple, and not like a pear?—it would certainly gain in appearance by being shaped like a pear. A pear being a handsomer fruit than an apple, the publisher is probably right, thought I, and I will say that he is right on this point in the notice which I am about to write of his publication for the Review. And yet I don't know—said I, after a long fit of musing—I don't know but what there is more to be said for the Oxford theory. The world may be shaped like a pear, but I don't know that it is; but one thing I know, which is, that it does not taste like a pear; I have always liked pears, but I don't like the world. The world to me tastes much more like an apple, and I have never liked apples. I will uphold the Oxford theory—besides, I am writing in an Oxford Review, and am in duty bound to uphold the Oxford theory. So in my notice I asserted that the world was round; I quoted Scripture, and endeavoured to prove that the world was typified by the apple in Scripture, both as to shape and properties. 'An apple is round,' said I, 'and the world is round—the apple is a sour, disagreeable fruit; and who has tasted much of the world without having his teeth set on edge?' I, however, treated the publisher, upon the whole, in the most urbane and Oxford-like manner; complimenting him upon his style, acknowledging the general soundness of his views, and only differing with him in the affair of the apple and pear.

I did not like reviewing at all—it was not to my taste; it was not in my way; I liked it far less than translating the publisher's philosophy, for that was something in the line of one whom a competent judge had surnamed Lavengro. I never could understand why reviews were instituted; works of merit do not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they require no killing. The Review to which I was attached was, as has been already intimated, established on an entirely new plan; it professed to review all new publications, which certainly no Review had ever professed to do before, other Reviews never pretending to review more than one-tenth of the current literature of the day. When I say it professed to review all new publications, I should add, which should be sent to it; for, of course, the Review would not acknowledge the existence of publications, the authors of which did not acknowledge the existence of the Review. I don't think, however, that the Review had much cause to complain of being neglected; I have reason to believe that at least nine-tenths of the publications of the day were sent to the Review, and in due time reviewed. I had good opportunity of judging—I was connected with several departments of the Review, though more particularly with the poetical and philosophic ones. An English translation of Kant's philosophy made its appearance on my table the day before its publication. In my notice of this work I said that the English shortly hoped to give the Germans a quid pro quo. I believe at that time authors were much in the habit of publishing at their own expense. All the poetry which I reviewed appeared to be published at the expense of the authors. If I am asked how I comported myself, under all circumstances, as a reviewer—I answer,—I did not forget that I was connected with a Review established on Oxford principles, the editor of which had translated Quintilian. All the publications which fell under my notice I treated in a gentlemanly and Oxford-like manner, no personalities—no vituperation—no shabby insinuations; decorum, decorum was the order of the day. Occasionally a word of admonition, but gently expressed, as an Oxford undergraduate might have expressed it, or master of arts. How the authors whose publications were consigned to my colleagues were treated by them I know not; I suppose they were treated in an urbane and Oxford-like manner, but I cannot say; I did not read the reviewals of my colleagues, I did not read my own after they were printed. I did not like reviewing.

Of all my occupations at this period I am free to confess I liked that of compiling the Newgate Lives and Trials the best; that is, after I had surmounted a kind of prejudice which I originally entertained. The trials were entertaining enough; but the lives—how full were they of wild and racy adventures, and in what racy, genuine language were they told! What struck me most with respect to these lives was the art which the writers, whoever they were, possessed of telling a plain story. It is no easy thing to tell a story plainly and distinctly by mouth; but to tell one on paper is difficult indeed, so many snares lie in the way. People are afraid to put down what is common on paper, they seek to embellish their narratives, as they think, by philosophic speculations and reflections; they are anxious to shine, and people who are anxious to shine can never tell a plain story. 'So I went with them to a music booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin, and began to talk their flash language, which I did not understand,' says, or is made to say, Henry Simms, executed at Tyburn some seventy years before the time of which I am speaking. I have always looked upon this sentence as a masterpiece of the narrative style, it is so concise and yet so very clear. As I gazed on passages like this, and there were many nearly as good in the Newgate lives, I often sighed that it was not my fortune to have to render these lives into German rather than the publisher's philosophy—his tale of an apple and pear.

Mine was an ill-regulated mind at this period. As I read over the lives of these robbers and pickpockets, strange doubts began to arise in my mind about virtue and crime. Years before, when quite a boy, as in one of the early chapters I have hinted, I had been a necessitarian; I had even written an essay on crime (I have it now before me, penned in a round boyish hand), in which I attempted to prove that there is no such thing as crime or virtue, all our actions being the result of circumstances or necessity. These doubts were now again reviving in my mind; I could not, for the life of me, imagine how, taking all circumstances into consideration, these highwaymen, these pickpockets, should have been anything else than highwaymen and pickpockets; any more than how, taking all circumstances into consideration, Bishop Latimer (the reader is aware that I had read Foxe's Book of Martyrs) should have been anything else than Bishop Latimer. I had a very ill-regulated mind at that period.

My own peculiar ideas with respect to everything being a lying dream began also to revive. Sometimes at midnight, after having toiled for hours at my occupations, I would fling myself back on my chair, look about the poor apartment, dimly lighted by an unsnuffed candle, or upon the heaps of books and papers before me, and exclaim,—'Do I exist? Do these things, which I think I see about me, exist, or do they not? Is not everything a dream—a deceitful dream? Is not this apartment a dream—the furniture a dream? The publisher a dream—his philosophy a dream? Am I not myself a dream—dreaming about translating a dream? I can't see why all should not be a dream; what's the use of the reality?' And then I would pinch myself, and snuff the burdened smoky light. 'I can't see, for the life of me, the use of all this; therefore why should I think that it exists? If there was a chance, a probability, of all this tending to anything, I might believe; but—' and then I would stare and think, and after some time shake my head and return again to my occupations for an hour or two; and then I would perhaps shake, and shiver, and yawn, and look wistfully in the direction of my sleeping apartment; and then, but not wistfully, at the papers and books before me; and sometimes I would return to my papers and books; but oftener I would arise, and, after another yawn and shiver, take my light, and proceed to my sleeping chamber.

They say that light fare begets light dreams; my fare at that time was light enough; but I had anything but light dreams, for at that period I had all kind of strange and extravagant dreams, and amongst other things I dreamt that the whole world had taken to dog-fighting; and that I, myself, had taken to dog-fighting, and that in a vast circus I backed an English bulldog against the bloodhound of the Pope of Rome.

Monday's Illustrated Word: untitled story by unknown writer (in English)

art by Frank Frazetta - Happy Comics #33 - Pines, September 1949.