A Remaining Christmas - Belloc

Since my Tolkien poem is a repeat, here's an original - an Hilaire Belloc essay from 1928.

 

A Remaining Christmas

The world is changing very fast, and neither exactly for the better or the worse, but for division.  Our civilization is splitting more and more into two camps, and what was common to the whole of it is becoming restricted to the Christian, and soon will be restricted to the Catholic half.

That is why I have called this article ‘A Remaining Christmas’.  People ask themselves how much remains of this observance and of the feast and its customs.  Now a concrete instance is more vivid and, in its own way, of more value than a general appreciation.  So I will set down here exactly what Christmas still is in a certain house in England, how it is observed, and all the domestic rites accompanying it in their detail and warmth.

This house stands low down upon clay near a little river.  It is quite cut off from the towns; no one has built near it.  Every cottage for a mile and more is old, with here and there a modern addition.  The church of the parish (which was lost of course three and a half centuries ago, under Elizabeth) is as old as the Crusades.  It is of the twelfth century.  The house of which I speak is in its oldest parts of the fourteenth century at least, and perhaps earlier, but there are modern additions.  One wing of it was built seventy years ago at the south end of the house, another at the north end, twenty years ago.  Yet the tradition is so strong that you would not tell from the outside, and hardly from the inside, which part is old and which part is new.  For, indeed, the old part itself grew up gradually, and the eleven gables of the house show up against the sky as though they were of one age, though in truth they are of every age down along all these 500 years and more.

The central upper room of the house is the chapel where Mass is said, and there one sees, uncovered by any wall of plaster or brick, the original structure of the house, which is of vast oaken beams, the main supports and transverses pieces half a yard across, morticed strongly into each other centuries, and smoothed roughly with the adze.  They are black with the years.  The roof soars up like a high-pitched tent, and is supported by a whole fan of lesser curved oaken beams.  There is but one window behind the altar.  Indeed, the whole house is thus in its structure of the local and native oak, and the brick walls of it are only curtains built in between the wooden framework of that most ancient habitation.

Beneath the chapel is the dining room, where there is a very large open hearth which can take huge logs and which is as old as anything in the place.  Here wood only is burnt, and that wood oak.

Down this room there runs a very long oaken table as dark with age almost as the beams above it, and this table has a history.  It came out of one of the Oxford colleges when the Puritans looted them 300 years ago.  It never got back to its original home.  It passed from one family to another until at last it was purchased (in his youth and upon his marriage) by the man who now owns this house.  Those who know about such things give its date as the beginning of the seventeenth century.  It was made, then, while Shakespeare was still living, and while the faith of England still hung in the balance; for one cannot say that England was certain to lose her Catholicism finally till the first quarter of that century was passed.  This table, roughly carved at the side, has been polished with wax since first it began to bear food for men, and now the surface shines like a slightly, very slightly, undulating sea in a calm.  At night the brass candlesticks (for this house is lit with candles, as the proper light for men’s eyes) are reflected in it as in still brown water; so are the vessels of glass and of silver and of pewter, and the flagons of wine.  No cloth is ever spread to hide this venerable splendour, nor, let us hope, ever will be.

At one end of the house, where the largest of its many outer doors (there are several such) swings massively upon huge forged iron hinges, there is a hall, not very wide; its length is as great as the width of the house and its height very great for its width.  Like the chapel, its roof soars up, steep and dark, so that from its floor (which is made of very great and heavy slabs of the local stone) one looks up to the roof-tree itself.  This hall has another great wide hearth in it for the burning of oak, and there is an oaken staircase, very wide and of an easy slope, with an oaken balustrade and leading up to an open gallery above, whence you look down upon the piece.  Above this gallery is a statue of Our Lady, carved in wood, uncoloured, and holding the Holy Child, and beneath her many shelves of books.  This room is panelled, as are so many of the rooms of the house, but it has older panels than any of the others, and the great door of it opens on to the high road.

Now the way Christmas is kept in this house is this:
On Christmas Eve a great quantity of holly and of laurel is brought in from the garden and from the farm (for this house has a farm of 100 acres attached to it and an oak wood of ten acres).  This greenery is put up all over the house in every room just before it becomes dark on that day.  Then there is brought into the hall a young pine tree, about twice the height of a man, to serve for a Christmas tree, and on this innumerable little candles are fixed, and presents for all the household and the guests and the children of the village.

It is at about five o’clock that these last come into the house, and at that hour in England, at that date, it has long been quite dark; so they come into a house all illuminated with the Christmas tree shining like a cluster of many stars seen through a glass.
The first thing done after the entry of these people from the village and their children (the children are in number about fifty—for this remote place keeps a good level through the generations and does not shrink or grow, but remains itself) is a common meal, where all eat and drink their fill in the offices.  Then the children come in to the Christmas tree.  They are each given a silver piece one by one, and one by one, their presents.  After that they dance in the hall and sing songs, which have been handed down to them for I do not know how long.  These songs are game-songs, and are sung to keep time with the various parts in each game, and the men and things and animals which you hear mentioned in these songs are all of that countryside.  Indeed, the tradition of Christmas here is what it should be everywhere, knit into the very stuff of the place; so that I fancy the little children, when they think of Bethlehem, see it in their minds as though it were in the winter depth of England, which is as it should be.

These games and songs continue for as long as they will, and then they file out past the great fire in the hearth to a small piece adjoining where a crib has been set up with images of Our Lady and St Joseph and the Holy Child, the Shepherds, and what I will call, by your leave, the Holy Animals.  And here, again, tradition is so strong in this house that these figures are never new-bought, but are as old as the oldest of the children of the family, now with children of their own.  On this account, the donkey has lost one of its plaster ears, and the old ox which used to be all brown is now piebald, and of the shepherds, one actually has no head.  But all that is lacking is imagined.  There hangs from the roof of the crib over the Holy Child a tinsel star grown rather obscure after all these years, and much too large for the place. Before this crib the children (some of them Catholic and some Protestant, for the village is mixed) sing their carols; the one they know best is the one which begins: ‘The First Good Joy that Mary had, it was the joy of One’.  There are a half a dozen or so of these carols which the children here sing; and mixed with their voices is the voice of the miller (for this house has  great windmill attached to it).  The miller is famous in these parts for his singing, having a very deep and loud voice which is his pride.  When these carols are over, all disperse, except those who are living in the house, but the older ones are not allowed to go without more good drink for their viaticum, a sustenance for Christian men.

Then the people of the house, when they have dined, and their guests, with the priest who is to say Mass for them, sit up till near midnight.  There is brought in a very large log of oak (you must be getting tired of oak by this time!  But everything here is oaken, for the house is of the Weald).  This log of oak is the Christmas or Yule log and the rule is that it must be too heavy for one man to lift; so two men come, bringing it in from outside, the master of the house and his servant.  They cast it down upon the fire in the great hearth of the dining-room, and the superstition is that, if it burns all night and is found still smouldering in the morning, the home will be prosperous for the coming year.

With that they all go up to the chapel and there the three night Masses are said, one after the other, and those of the household take their Communion.

Next morning they sleep late, and the great Christmas dinner is at midday.  It is a turkey; and plum pudding, with holly in it and everything conventional, and therefore satisfactory, is done.  Crackers are pulled, the brandy is lit and poured over the pudding till the holly crackles in the flame and the curtains are drawn a moment that the flames may be seen.  This Christmas feast, so great that it may be said almost to fill the day, they may reprove who will; but for my part I applaud.

Now, you must not think that Christmas being over, the season and its glories are at an end, for in this house there is kept up the full custom of the Twelve Days, so that ‘Twelfth Day’, the Epiphany, still has, to its inhabitants, its full and ancient meaning as it had when Shakespeare wrote. The green is kept in its place in every room, and not a leaf of it must be moved until Epiphany morning, but on the other hand not a leaf of it must remain in the house, nor the Christmas tree either, by Epiphany evening.  It is all taken out and burnt in a special little coppice reserved for these good trees which have done their Christmas duty; and now, after so many years, you might almost call it a little forest, for each tree has lived, bearing witness to the holy vitality of unbroken ritual and inherited things.

In the midst of this season between Christmas and Twelfth Day comes the ceremony of the New Year, and this is how it is observed:
On New Years’ Eve, at about a quarter to twelve o’clock at night, the master of the house and all that are with him go about from room to room opening every door and window, however cold the weather be, for thus, they say, the old year and its burdens can go out and leave everything new for hope and for the youth of the coming time. This also is a superstition, and of the best.  Those who observe it trust that it is as old as Europe, and with roots stretching back into forgotten times.

While this is going on the bells in the church hard by are ringing out the old year, and when all the windows and doors have thus been opened and left wide, all those in the house go outside, listening for the cessation of the chimes, which comes just before the turn of the year.  There is an odd silence of a few minutes, and watches are consulted to make certain of the time (for this house detests wireless and has not even a telephone), and the way they know the moment of midnight is by the boom of a gun, which is fired at a town far off, but can always be heard.

At that sound the bells of the church clash out suddenly in new chords, the master of the house goes back into it with a piece of stone or earth from outside, all doors are shut, and the household, all of them, rich and poor, drink a glass of wine together to salute the New Year.

This, which I have just described, is not in a novel or in a play.  It is real, and goes on as the ordinary habit of living men and women.  I fear that set down thus in our terribly changing time it must sound very strange and, perhaps in places, grotesque, but to those who practise it, it is not only sacred, but normal, having in the whole of the complicated affair a sacramental quality and an effect of benediction: not to be despised.

Indeed, modern men, who lack such things, lack sustenance, and our fathers who founded all those ritual observances were very wise.

*                             *                             *

Man has a body as well as a soul, and the whole of man, soul and body, is nourished sanely by a multiplicity of observed traditional things.  Moreover, there is this great quality in the unchanging practice of Holy Seasons, that it makes explicable, tolerable, and normal what is otherwise a shocking and intolerable and even in the fullest sense, abnormal thing.  I mean, the mortality of immortal men.

Not only death (which shakes and rends all that is human in us, creating a monstrous separation and threatening the soul with isolation which destroys), not only death, but that accompaniment of mortality which is a perpetual series of lesser deaths and is called change, are challenged, chained, and put in their place by unaltered and successive acts of seasonable regard for loss and dereliction and mutability.  The threats of despair, remorse, necessary expiation, weariness almost beyond bearing, dull repetition of things apparently fruitless, unnecessary and without meaning, estrangement, the misunderstanding of mind by mind, forgetfulness which is a false alarm, grief, and repentance, which are true ones, but of a sad company, young men perished in battle before their parents had lost vigour in age, the perils of sickness in the body and even in the mind, anxiety, honour harassed, all the bitterness of living—become part of a large business which may lead to Beatitude.  For they are all connected in the memory with holy day after holy day, year by year, binding the generations together; carrying on even in this world, as it were, the life of the dead and giving corporate substance, permanence and stability, without the symbol of which (at least) the vast increasing burden of life might at last conquer us and be no longer borne.

*                             *                             *

This house where such good things are done year by year has suffered all the things that every age has suffered.  It has known the sudden separation of wife and husband, the sudden fall of young men under arms who will never more come home, the scattering of the living and their precarious return, the increase and the loss of fortune, all those terrors and all those lessenings and haltings and failures of hope which make up the life of man.  But its Christmas binds it to its own past and promises its future; making the house an undying thing of which those subject to mortality within it are members, sharing in its continuous survival.

It is not wonderful that of such a house verse should be written.  Many verses have been so written commemorating and praising this house.  The last verse written of it I may quote by way of ending:

‘Stand thou for ever among human Houses,
House of the Resurrection, House of Birth;
House of the rooted hearts and long carouses,
Stand, and be famous over all the Earth.

"Noel" by Tolkien (again)

In 2013 a poem by J. R. R. Tolkien, "Noel", was rediscovered. It was apparently originally published in 1936 in The Annual of Our Lady's School. Tolkien, of course, had also written a series of Father Christmas Letters for his children, so he has a clear connection to Christmas.

I actually posted this poem here years ago, but it is worth repeating!

Noel
by J. R. R. Tolkien

Grim was the world and grey last night:
The moon and stars were fled,
The hall was dark without song or light,
The fires were fallen dead.
The wind in the trees was like to the sea,
And over the mountains’ teeth
It whistled bitter-cold and free,
As a sword leapt from its sheath.

The lord of snows upreared his head;
His mantle long and pale
Upon the bitter blast was spread
And hung o’er hill and dale.
The world was blind,
the boughs were bent,
All ways and paths were wild:
Then the veil of cloud apart was rent,
And here was born a Child.

The ancient dome of heaven sheer
Was pricked with distant light;
A star came shining white and clear
Alone above the night.
In the dale of dark in that hour of birth
One voice on a sudden sang:
Then all the bells in Heaven and Earth
Together at midnight rang.

Mary sang in this world below:
They heard her song arise
O’er mist and over mountain snow
To the walls of Paradise,
And the tongue of many bells was stirred
in Heaven’s towers to ring
When the voice of mortal maid was heard,
That was mother of Heaven’s King.

Glad is the world and fair this night
With stars about its head,
And the hall is filled with laughter and light,
And fires are burning red.
The bells of Paradise now ring
With bells of Christendom,
And Gloria, Gloria we will sing
That God on earth is come.

Santa Season

 

For the past 20 years, I have been a professional Santa. I used to be a mall Santa, but I left that and now just do a few appearances. My first ones this year are this weekend - a town celebration, and Breakfast with Santa at a parish.

Chesterton was a promoter of Christmas and Santa. In fact, one of his final articles was about Santa, "Santa Claus and Science" published in the December 20, 1935, issue of The Commonweal - just about six months before he died. Here is the text of it: 

***

I WISH the subject I discuss here in a short article could be discussed in a big book, or a long series of books. I rather fancy that, if it could really be reduced to its elements, we should find the elementary truth about Catholicism and Protestantism and the present problem of our civilization. It would perhaps explain why, in the coming Christmas, many millions of our mature fellow creatures, so far from hanging up their stockings to have them filled, will rather hang up their hearts and heads and find them empty; and why they will continue to enact a fable for children to believe in, and for children who do not believe in it. For the sake of brevity, let me sum up such a scientific monograph under the heads of three or four questions. 

First, who was Santa Claus or who was he supposed to be? Why do we actually describe this domestic and familiar figure by a name in a foreign language that few of us know? Why should a sort of uncle or grandfather so intimate that he is allowed to enter by the chimney, instead of the front-door, have on his wsmng-card the rather florid name of a distinguished foreigner? The answer is important. It is because in my country the saints really have crept back again like spies. Saint Nicholas of the Children may not come through the chimney like a burglar; but he was really admitted through the front door only as a foreigner. It is part of a paradox, that Protestant England satisfied its intense insularity mainly by the use of foreign words. For instance, men cannot do without the image of the Mother of God; the veritable Queen of Hearts, with every sort of lovers in every sort of land. But the Victorians got over her omnipresence in all art by calling her "a Madonna," whatever that may mean. As it was British to talk of Mary only in Italian, so it was British to talk of Saint Nicholas only in German. So we could tap all the traditional poetry of Christendom, without calling it Catholic or even Christian. It was a sort of smuggling; we could import Nicholas without paying the tax to Peter. 

Second, everybody could then dispose themselves in elegant attitudes of sad sympathy and patronizing pity; over a mere fairy-tale for children, which children themselves must soon abandon. Santa Claus has passed into a proverb of illusion and disillusion. A man wrote a poem about how he had ceased to believe in Santa Claus at the age of seven and in God at the age of seventeen; and explained how he really regretted God not much more than Santa Claus. The notion that the thing had ever had any relation to any religion, or that that religion had ever had any relation to any reason, or that it had been a part of a real philosophy with a fringe of popular fancies but a body of moral fact, never occurred to anybody. And I startled some honest Protestants lately by telling them that, though I am (unfortunately) no longer a child, I do most definitely believe in Santa Claus; though I prefer to talk about him in my own language. I believe that Saint Nicholas is in heaven, accessible to our prayers for anybody; if he was supposed to be specially accessible to prayers of children, as being their patron, I see no reason why he should not be concerned with human gifts to children. I do not suppose that he comes down the chimney; but I suppose he could if he liked. The point is that, for me, there is not that complete chasm or cutting o~ of all relations with the religion of childhood, which is now common in those who began by starting a new religion and have ended by having no religion. 

Third, do our contemporaries really know even the little that there is to know about the roots, or possible origins, of such romances of popular religion? I myself know very little; but a really complete monograph on Santa Claus might raise some very interesting questions. For instance, Saint Nicholas of Bari is represented in a well known Italian picture of the later Middle Ages, not only as performing the duty of a gift-bringer, but ,s actually doing it by the methods of a burglar. He is represented as climbing up the grille or lattice of a house, solely in order to drop little bags of gold among the members of a poor family, consisting of an aged man and three beautiful daughters who had no money for their wedding dowries. That is another question for our contemporaries: why were celibate saints so frightfully keen on getting other people married? But anyhow, I give this only as an example out of a hundred, which might well be followed up if only grown-up people could be induced to take Santa Claus seriously. It looks as if it might be the root of the legend. To see a saint climbing up the front of our house would seem to most of us as odd as seeing a saint climbing down our chimney. Very probably neither of the things happened; but it might be worth while even for scientific critics to find out what actually did happen. 

Fourth, what do our great modern educationists, our great modern psychologists, our great makers of a new world, mean to do about the 202 The Commonweal December 20, I933 breach between the imagination and the reason, if only in the passage from the infant to the man ? Is the child to live in a world that is entirely fanciful and then find suddenly that it is entirely false? Or is the child to be forbidden all forms of fancy; or in other words, forbidden to be a child ? Or is he, as we say, to have some harmless borderland of fancy in childhood, which is still a part of the land in which he will live; in terra viventium, in the land of living men? Cannot the child pass from a child's natural fancy to a man's normal faith in Holy Nicholas of the Children, without enduring that bitter break and abrupt disappointment which now marks the passage of a child from a land of make-believe to a world of no belief?  

Happy Thanksgiving 2025

We can be thankful for Chesterton's appreciation for thankfulness and gratitude! 

“The aim of life is appreciation; there is no sense in not appreciating things; and there is no sense in having more of them if you have less appreciation of them.”

“When it comes to life the critical thing is whether you take things for granted or take them with gratitude.”

"The worst moment for an atheist is when he feels a profound sense of gratitude and has no one to thank."

“You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink.”

“When we were children we were grateful to those who filled our stockings at Christmas time. Why are we not grateful to God for filling our stockings with legs?”

"The test of happiness is gratitude."

"The best kind of giving is thanksgiving."

A Few Clerihews (Waiting?)

 

I just got the most recent issue of Gilbert. I had submitted some clerihews back in October, but they may have gotten there too late for inclusion. So maybe they will show up in an issue next year.

 On the other hand, they may not have been up to snuff enough for inclusion. 

Here are the ones I submitted this time:

St. John Vianney 

did not attend the hootenanny.

He didn’t want to chance

spotting parishioners starting to dance.

H. G. Wells

crafted some literary hells.

When it comes to romance, too,

he created more than a few.

Henry VIII

was named "Defender of the Faith."

He kept the title, but cast the Faith aside

when he wanted to make mistress Anne a short-term bride.

The look on the face of Joseph Pearce

was positively fierce.

As he was about to send his latest out the door

he suddenly realized he'd written the same thing before.

We can probably assume Saint Blaise

is in Heaven these days.

Martyrdom likely led him to eternal glory

and not just some fish story.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

sat in her parlor frowning.

Robert had bought her something labeled "Serra da Estrela cheese,"

that clearly wasn't Portuguese.

 

o god of earth and altar

Chesterton's Prayer Life?

 

I was involved with a discussion with a Eastern Rite Catholic about some suggested Rosary mysteries. He said he was uneasy about taking such "liberties with our prayers." I pointed out that the Rosary had developed over centuries, and had been adapted and changed - most recently by Pope St. John Paul II adding the Luminous Mysteries.

The discussion was respectful, not contentious. 

But I then wondered if Chesterton said the Rosary, or if he observed other common spiritual practices.

I looked online, but found nothing about the Rosary or other devotional practices, or his prayer life. I skimmed through the indexes of several books about him that I own, and found nothing. I did find a commentary by him on The Way of the Cross, but that seemed more a commentary of the images used. 

Now we know he was deeply religious. After his conversion, he was a regular Mass goer. His writing is full of spiritual references and subjects, including his conversion and regard for the Catholic Church. In Knight of the Holy Ghost, Dale Ahlquist noted, "He reveals his prayer life the way it should be revealed: in his work."

One of his poems was even turned into a hymn.

O God of Earth and Altar
Bow down and hear our cry
Our earthly rulers falter
Our people drift and die
The walls of gold entomb us
The swords of scorn divide
Take not thy thunder from us
But take away our pride

From all that terror teaches
From lies of tongue and pen
From all the easy speeches
That comfort cruel men
From sale and profanation
Of honour and the sword
From sleep and from damnation
Deliver us, good lord

Tie in a living tether
The prince and priest and thrall
Bind all our lives together
Smite us and save us all
In ire and exultation
Aflame with faith and free
Lift up a living nation
A single sword to thee

Perhaps someone more knowledgeable of Chesterton life would be able to cite some specific practices. 

For now I'll just cite one quotation.

“You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink.”

Maybe we should say grace before enjoying Chesterton's writing!

 

About Politics and Government

 

I just finished reading John Adams by David McCullough. I see why he won the Pulitzer for this book.

In addition to being a good read and providing insights into the life of Adams, the book also explored the political conflicts he faced.

Given that we just had an election, and the current poisonous political climate in this nation, the timing was perfect.

Adams had a number of personality flaws, but he was a principled man who was the target of all sorts of often unfair and vicious political attacks. Those attacks included ones on his appearance and personality, as well as multiple innuendos and outright lies. Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton in particular did not emerge looking good given their words and actions.

I've been involved in politics in a variety of ways over the years, starting with campaigning for George McGovern back in 1972! (Well, the option that year was Nixon, so ....). I've been a party official, and a candidate myself. I also covered elections as a reporter.

Based on my experiences, I don't have a particularly high opinion of most politicians and the majority of voters.

Chesterton, of course, had plenty to say about politics, elections, and politicians. The line of his most often quoted is, "“It is terrible to contemplate how few politicians are hanged.” But he had more to say.

In his autobiography, he talks about campaigning for candidates. He was canvassing potential voters, and assumed that the purpose was to engage them in conversation. He discovered his assumption was an "extraordinary delusion."

"The object of canvassing is counting. The only real reason for people to be pestered in their houses by party agents is quite unconnected with the principles of the party (which is often a complete mystery to the agents): it is simply that the agents may discover from the words, manner, gesticulations, oaths, curses, kicks or blows of the householder, whether he is likely to vote for the party candidate, or not vote at all."

He also discovered through various elections that the candidate each time was often "the worst duffer on his own platform." Indeed, the speakers on the candidate's behalf such as Hilaire Belloc or John Simon were often more articulate about the platform or even as speakers that is the candidate. He realized "that what runs modern politics is money; and that the superiority of the fool in the frockcoat over Belloc and Simon simply consisted in the fact that he was richer than they were."

I recall as a reporter and newspaper town blogger interviewing many candidates who clearly did not understand what their platform really was about: They just kept repeating the taking points they had memorized. And often they were selected to run not because of their outstanding skills, knowledge, or intelligence, but because of their connections or because they did business with party officials or already elected individuals. I saw that the politicians who tended to get reelected or move on to other offices were often the ones who most towed the party line, not showing independent thought, or even any thought at all.

As for the voters, they are easily swayed by the contemporary version of "frockcoats." Slick ads, smooth-talking, good-looking candidates who know all the right talking points and lies/slurs to repeat. Too many voters do not take the time to really research the candidates or the issues. They just blindly vote by party, or for whoever captures their fancy.

Cynical? Perhaps. And I will admit that there are intelligent, informed, independent politicians, but we have too few of them. And those voters? Out in California the voters said they supported having an independent redistricting commission, then voted to overturn the districts created by that commission. Did they have any idea what they were voting for? Not likely. The party told them what to vote for - and added animus toward the President - and the voters dutifully did as they were told. 

As Chesterton notes, “Men are ruled, at this minute by the clock, by liars who refuse them news, and by fools who cannot govern.” Indeed, he also observes, “When a politician is in opposition he is an expert on the means to some end; and when he is in office he is an expert on the obstacles to it.”

But, in the end, we do need some sort of government. After all, as Chesterton admits, “All government is an ugly necessity.” 

Often ugly indeed.

A Limerick With a Lewis Twist

 

There once was a blogging progressive
who judged conservatives too aggressive.
He went on the attack
and they fired back -
isn't Screwtape's scheming impressive?

Saints

With All Saints and All Souls days this weekend, a look at what Chesterton and Lewis has to say about saints.

Chesterton

It is better to speak wisdom foolishly like the saints than to speak folly wisely like the deans.

The voice of the special rebels and prophets, recommending discontent, should, as I have said, sound now and then suddenly, like a trumpet. But the voices of the saints and sages, recommending contentment, should sound unceasingly, like the sea.

Each generation is converted by the saint who contradicts it most.

“The saint is a medicine because he is an antidote. Indeed that is why the saint is often a martyr; he is mistaken for a poison because he is an antidote. He will generally be found restoring the world to sanity by exaggerating whatever the world neglects, which is by no means always the same element in every age. Yet each generation seeks its saint by instinct; and he is not what the people want, but rather what the people need.

There are saints indeed in my religion: but a saint only means a man who knows he is a sinner.

Lewis

The stamp of the saint is that he can waive his own rights and obey the Lord Jesus.

How monotonously alike all the great tyrants and conquerors have been. How gloriously different are the saints.

Lewis, being a Protestant, will never be recognized officially by the Catholic Church as a saint, but if he is in Heaven, he is a saint anyway.

As for Chesterton, the cause for his sainthood has stalled. Perhaps it will restart - certainly many Chestertonians hope so - but even if it's never official, if he is Heave he, like Lewis, is already a saint. 

Wonder and Pope St. John Paul II

On September 17, 1978, just before he was elected Pope John Paul II, Cardinal Karol Wojtyla preached a homily at the shrine of Our Lady of Czestochowa. In it he declared:

"We must wonder! We must create a climate of wonder! This task is closest to the family…Wonder is needed so that beauty might enter into human life, society and the nation. We need to marvel at everything that is found in man." 

He noted, "There is wonder over the first smile of a baby, over the first words of a child."

And he went on to observe, "We need this wonder, so that the lives of man, of society, of the nation may be filled with beauty. That beauty with is the foundation of the wellspring of culture. Culture cannot be created by administrative means! Administrative means can only be used to destroy culture. this is very important, and this must be remembered in our times."

In his encyclical, Fides et Ratio, he wrote: 

[F]undamental elements of knowledge spring from the wonder awakened in them by the contemplation of creation: human beings are astonished to discover themselves as part of the world, in a relationship with others like them, all sharing a common destiny. Here begins, then, the journey which will lead them to discover ever new frontiers of knowledge. Without wonder, men and women would lapse into deadening routine and little by little would become incapable of a life which is genuinely personal."

I came across these passages in an article in Aleteia "St. John Paul II thought we needed a “climate of wonder," so I can't take credit for uncovering them. But when I read the article, I thought of Chesterton.

“The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.” (Tremendous Trifles) .

Chesterton had a child-like sense of wonder. He looked at things we tend to overlook, and saw in them beauty and magic. He explores this in "The Ethics of Elfland."

I suspect Chesterton would have understood and appreciated what Pope St. John Paul II was saying. 

And we know that the Pope St. John Paul II appreciated Chesterton, and often cited him in his own writings. In his General audience of January 26, 2000, for example, he said, "So, in beholding the glory of the Trinity in creation, man must contemplate, sing and rediscover wonder. In contemporary society people become indifferent 'not for lack of wonders, but for lack of wonder' (G. K. Chesterton)."

To be cited by a saint. That is a wonder!

Irish Eyes Were Crying

"The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad." - G. K. Chesterton

Back in 2014 I did a DNA test through Ancestry. As they have added more people to their data base, they have revised the results several times, refining them. The most recent results came yesterday.

All along Irish has been my dominant DNA ancestry, and that proved true once again. I have also had a bit of Scottish mixed in; after all, my mother was from Scotland, though she clearly had Irish roots. This time around the results were further broken down, and some new ones added in and organized under the general category "Celtic & Gaelic", which totaled 57% of my DNA..

Donegal, Ireland - 29%
Central Scotland & Northern Ireland - 23%
Northern Wales & North West England -3%
Munster, Ireland - 2%

Yep. Irish and Scottish. I like the Welsh added in - I've always been a fan of the Brother Cadfael mysteries.

There are also English/Dutch results through my father, but my focus today is on matters Irish.

Interestingly, I'm current reading a book about the Irish Potato Famine - Black Potatoes: The Story of the Great Irish Famine, 1845-50 by Susan Campbell Bartoletti - and I recently read Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt. 

I wondered if Chesterton had written anything about the Potato Famine, a tragedy that led to an estimated more one million deaths due to starvation and disease, and to more than two million Irish to emigrate. I knew he had written a book about Ireland - Irish Impressions - but I do not have a copy. I checked online about Chesterton and the Potato Famine, but found nothing. I glanced at Irish Impressions on Gutenberg, but didn't see anything mentioned (though it was a cursory glance). I then checked to see if our library had a copy of Irish Impressions. My local library does not; the central library has the only copy in the county library system, but it is restricted from circulation! I even checked Ignatius Press to see if they have a copy: Nope. I did finally find it in the Society of G. K. Chesterton store in Volume XX of the Collected Works. 

Phew, who know it would be so hard to find a book.

I'd like to read the book anyway at some point, but the focus here is on the Potato Famine. 

One of the factors that made the famine worse were the economic polices of the English and the landlords. In particular, the laissez-faire economic policies embraced by the English government led them to be reluctant and slow to offer aid. People died because of these policies, and various bad decisions by the London government. Compounding these policies were the greed of some landlords and landowners who in the name of capitalism put profits above people.

If G. K. Chesterton's distributism (localism) had been in effect the tragedy could have been averted. Local ownership, ownership by individuals and families, subsidiarity, policies that emphasize people would have saved lives.

Maybe the songs would have been less sad.

Lepanto

October 7 was the anniversary of the Battle of Lepanto, which halted expansion by the Ottoman Empire. Yes, It's been posted before, but Chesterton's great poem is worth reposting!

Lepanto
By G. K. Chesterton

White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross,
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young,
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,

Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain—hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri’s knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunset and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiple of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,—
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, “Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not ‘Kismet’; it is he that knows not Fate ;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth.”
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still—hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michael’s on his mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial, and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John’s hunting, and his hounds have bayed—
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man’s house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that swat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings’ horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign—
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate’s sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

St. Francis of Assisi (poem)

 

October 3 is the Feast of the Transitus of St. Francis - the day he actually made the transition from earthly to heavenly life. But as he did so in the evening, the Church made the following day, October 4, he feast day. 

Chesterton is justly famous for his biography of St. Francis, published in 1923. But long before he published that biography, or became a Catholic, indeed, at a time when he was struggling with faith, he wrote a poem about St. Francis in 1892 when he was just 18. 

St. Francis of Assisi
by G. K. Chesterton

In the ancient Christian ages, while a dreamy faith and wonder
Lingered, like the mystic glamour of the star of Bethlehem,
Dwelt a monk that loved the sea-birds as they wheeled about his chapel,
Loved the dog-rose and the heath-flower as they brushed his garment hem;

Did not claim a ruthless knowledge of the bounds of grace eternal,
Did not say, “Thus far, not further, God has set the hopes of life.”
Only knew that heaven had sent him weaker lives in earth's communion,
Bade him dwell and work amongst them, not in anger nor in strife.

Aye, though far and faint the story, his the tale of mercy's triumph,
Through the dimmest convent casements men have seen the stars above;
Dark the age and stern the dogma, yet the kind hearts are not cruel,
Still the true souls rise resistless to a larger world of love.

Is there not a question rises from his word of “brother, sister,”
Cometh from that lonely dreamer what today we shrink to find?
Shall the lives that moved our brethren leave us at the gates of darkness,
What were heaven if ought we cherished shall be wholly left behind?

Is it God's bright house we dwell in, or a vault of dark confusion,
Yonder sunlit April meadows, with the singing brooks at play,
With God's daisies clustering wide-eyed o'er the breezy fields of morning,
And God's skylarks whirring westward to the cloudless deeps of day?

Laugh aloud, O death and darkness, grin the skulls of crypt and charnel,
All God's glorious flowers of being flame and fade upon a tomb;
Mystic woods and aureoled blossoms, spirit-birds and goblin lizards,
All that faerie-world goes downward, sloping darkly into doom.

Is it so, one half of nature choked beneath the breath of ruin,
Does death tread at last a victor on the lives we loved so well?
Take us, too, devouring chaos, hide us from the vast injustice,
Dust to dust be ours for ever, with the world wherein we dwell.

While the flush of kindred feeling at the cursed wrong and violence,
Done amid our human brothers, on the helpless and infirm,
Throbs, though fainter, to our being, down the cycles of creation,
For the shrivelling of the night-moth and the writhing of the worm.

While from things of field and forest, eyes of tenderness and trusting
Look to ours and link them to us, as we journey side by side
Shall we lift a blind denial to the brotherhood of nature,
Shall we break the bonds of kinship in the madness of our pride?

Shall not rather hope be with us: noble, broadened, undefined,
Since all life is as a riddle, since all faith is but a guess:
Hope that every life that liveth has a nobler way before it,
Has a deathless purpose founded on the everlasting yes.

He that in his mighty gardens shakes the meanest seed of nature,
Soweth with the seed a promise whence no power can make him free,
He that on his lonely summits feeds the narrowest stream of being,
Dooms its way through fields and forests on its eternal sea.

Good Parenting Advice From O'Connor (and Lewis)

 

I came across an interesting article by Theresa Civantos Barber over on Aleteia,
"Flannery O’Connor’s perfect parenting advice."

The article begins:

When my kids don't want to do their chores or go on a family hike, you can count on me quoting Flannery O'Connor!

There’s a phrase of Flannery O’Connor’s that I quote so much I’ve started to take it as a motto for parenting. 

O’Connor wasn’t talking about parenting when she said it. She was actually talking about education. But are those really so different? The Catechism itself says that parents are called to be their children’s “primary educators.” 

Barber then quotes O'Connor:

"And if the student finds that this is not to his taste? Well, that is regrettable. Most regrettable. His taste should not be consulted; it is being formed." 

She also brings C. S. Lewis into the discussion:

"Aristotle says that the aim of education is to make the pupil like and dislike what he ought… The little human animal will not at first have the right responses. It must be trained to feel pleasure, liking, disgust, and hatred at those things which really are pleasant, likeable, disgusting and hateful."

Barber points out the importance of the parents forming the child's tastes through activities from chores to homework to hikes. And she finds joy in that.

"One of the best things about being a parent is sharing the things we love with our kids, so we can enjoy them together."

Check out the rest of what Barber also has to say.

Rochester Chesterton Society Season Begins

 

Tonight the Rochester Chesterton Society will meet to begin its 2025/26 season. The Society meets from September to May on the second Thursday of the month - except in January, taking a break due to the frequently snowy weather.

At the meetings, we read a book by Chesterton. The last two years it has been Heretics and The Ball and the Cross. Tonight we start The Man Who Was Thursday.

We read the books aloud, pausing to discuss. It's wonderful getting other people's insights and discovering things about the books that I did not know.

I have a fondness for Thursday. I read it a number of years ago, and I'm looking forward to rereading it. Moreover, when I began contributing to the blog I was assigned Thursday, so I was literally "The Man Who Is Thursday." 

Our Society used to sponsor an annual Chesterton Conference. Alas, the donation that was used ot pay for the conferences finally ran out. In addition, the order with which we used to work is no longer active in our diocese, and the college where they used to be assigned was no longer an easily available venue.

I wonder how many local Chesterton Societies there are. I wonder if they are as active as we are. I wonder if they follow the same format we do. 

To quote the great one: “The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.”

Final Notes on LOTR Books vs Movies

 

I finished reading The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien. What a great pleasure to read - or in my case, reread.

In a previous post I noted some differences between the books and the movies. I spotted some more, but I'm going to just touch on two of them.

In the movies, I noted that I actually hoped Aragorn would have ended up with Eowyn. The suggestions is made that she will end up with Faramir, but it seems kind of abrupt.

In the book, we learn more about the growth of the relationship between Eowyn and Faramir, and it makes far more sense. 

One thing left out of the movies entirely is the "scouring of the Shire." Our four hobbits return to the Shire to find it overrun with thugs and criminals, and Saruman behind it. Our heroes rouse their fellow hobbits and oust the servants of evil. This is entirely missing from the movies. I understand the reasons given the length of the movies already and their focus, but I think it was a loss. The scouring helps to show the growth of Pippin and Merry and their heroism along with that of Sam.

Overall, I enjoyed the rereading. I also enjoy the movies, and will view them again.     

The Lord of the Rings Book vs. Movies

 I am currently rereading The Lord of the Rings. I'm up to the third volume: The Return of the King.

This is my third rereading of the entire trilogy. 

I've also seen the movies multiple times, though it has been a while. When I watched the movies I saw some differences between them and the books. I understood that they are different genres, and so there ahead to be some changes, including some material in the book having to be left out. If they included everything, the movies would have been hours longer that their current running time of about 10 hours in the theaters (and more than 11 in the extended editions.) Adding in all the cut or reduced characters and scenes would have made them rediculously long.

As I read, I am paying attention to some of those changes.

The first big change I had noticed when I first saw the movies was that one of my favorite characters from the The Fellowship of the Ring, Tom Bombadil, was left out entirely. I actually based a character on him in the bedtime stories I told my daughters. While I missed him, from the standpoint of making a movie, I understood why he was left out. He does not play a significant direct role later, and the interlude with him would have added a lot to the movie - including the incident with the deadly willow and the barrow-wights.

On the other hand, leaving out the barrow-wights did leave something unexplained in The Return of the King. Merry acquired his sword in the lair of the barrow-wights, and it was that special sword that enabled him to wound the Black Rider (the Witch King), setting it up for Eowyn's stroke. 

The battle also has a significant change. In the book, the army of the dead helps Aragorn capture the ships. he then frees them, and fills the ships with men who sail with him to join the battle. In the movie they have the army of the dead sweep off the ships and attack the enemy army. Visually with was a great scene, but it was not in the book.

Back in The Felowship of the Ring, Frodo at the Ford of Bruinen is threatened by the evil Nazgul. In the book, he is saved by the elf Glorfindel. In the movie, Arwen saves him. Giving her more screen time, I guess. Personally, I found Liv Tyler's Arwen kind of a weak part of the movies. I actually found myself wishing Aragorn would end up with Eowyn! 

Faramir played a more prominent, heroic role in the books. And Gimli is a much more nuanced, stalwart character in the books; in the movies, he was almost a comic figure. 

I know there are more. When I finish The Return of the King I might have to watch the movies again!

Maybe Somebody Should Have Put Baby In A Corner

A Grace
by G. K. Chesterton

You say grace before meals.
All right.
But I say grace before the play and the opera,
And grace before the concert and pantomime,
And grace before I open a book,
And grace before sketching, painting,
Swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing;
And grace before I dip the pen in the ink.

Chesterton apparently had nothing against dancing per se, especially when it is part of celebrating. It is a natural human expression of joy and worship.

We see dancing in the context of worship and celebrating in the Bible as well. ("Let them praise His name with dancing; let them sing praises to Him with timbrel and lyre." - Psalm 49: 3 and "A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance." Ecclesiastes 3: 4 to cite two examples.)

And don't forget Snoopy's joyful dance!

But, of course, dancing has its limits, especially when it strays from celebration - such as David before the Ark - to sensuality - as with Salome before Herod.

Indeed, dance in Western civilizations too often strays into the realm of sensual and erotic. That is why the Catholic Church prohibits it in Masses (except when the Mass is for a cultural group that has dance as part of its worship):

" Here dancing is tied with love, with diversion, with profaneness, with unbridling of the senses. . . . For that reason it cannot be introduced into liturgical celebrations of any kind whatever: That would be to inject into the liturgy one of the most desacralized and desacralizing elements, and so it would be equivalent to creating an atmosphere of profaneness which would easily recall to those present and to the participants in the celebration worldly places and situations." - Congregation for the Sacraments and Divine Worship, Dance in the Liturgy (1975)

One Saint who clearly did not like dance was St. Jean Vianney, The Cure of Ars. In the collection of his sermons (The Sermons of the Cure of Ars, translated by Una Morrissy), he decried dancing again and again.

Is there any place, any time, any occasion wherein so many sins of impurity are committed at the dancehalls and their sequels? Is it not in these gatherings that people are most violently prompted against the holy virtue of purity? Where else but there are the senses so strongly urged towards pleasurable excitement? If we go a little more closely into this, should we not almost die of horror at the sight of so many crimes which are committed? Is it not at these gatherings that the Devil so furiously kindles the fire of impurity in the hearts of the young people in order to annihilate in them the grace of Baptism? Is it not there that Hell enslaves as many souls as it wishes? If, in spite of the absence of occasions and the aids of prayer, a Christian has so much difficulty in preserving purity of heart, how could he possibly preserve that virtue in the midst of so many sources which are capable of breaking it down?

Did the Holy Fathers of the Church say too much about it? St. Ephraim tells us that dancing is the perdition of girls and women, the blinding of men, the grief of angels, and the joy of the devils. Dear God, can anyone really have their eyes bewitched to such an extent that they will still want to believe that there is no harm in it, while all the time it is the rope by which the Devil pulls the most souls into Hell?

St. Augustine tells us that those who go to dances truly renounce Jesus Christ in order to give themselves to the Devil.

And he says even more. Yikes.

We do need to be aware of the context of his condemnation. When he was stationed in Ars, the parish had been without a priest for a while. The population had seriously lapsed when it came to church teachings and practices, and to morality. So he was trying to shock them to break them of bad - and sinful - habits. Dancing was in some ways an entry-level activity for some of those habits.

Now it is true that there are forms of dance that do indeed cross the line. And they may indeed lead into sin. (Why did they call that movie Dirty Dancing?)

Personally, I think, like Chesterton, that dancing can be a good thing in the right forms and the right circumstances. I like that in the poem he calls for saying grace before dancing.

On the other hand, he did advise us not to dismiss the wisdom of the saints: "It is better to speak wisdom foolishly like the saints than to speak folly wisely like the deans."

St. John did have a point. And we know how foolish deans can be.

Speaking of foolishness, reading his sermons did inspire a clerihew (of course).

St. Jean Vianney
went to the hootenanny
but left in horror when he happened to glance
some people starting to dance.