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should take the pleasures of a day of happiness in a wholesale
fashion； not 〃turning the hours to moments；〃 which joy can do to the
full as perfectly as pain。
The foot； with its articulations； is suppressed； and its language
confused。 When Lovelace likens the hand of Amarantha to a violin；
and her glove to the case； he has at any rate a glove to deal with；
not a boot。 Yet Amarantha's foot is as lovely as her hand。 It；
too； has a 〃tender inward〃； no wayfaring would ever make it look
anything but delicate； its arch seems too slight to carry her
through a night of dances； it does； in fact； but balance her。 It is
fit to cling to the ground； but rather for springing than for rest。
And； doubtless； for man； woman； and child the tender； irregular；
sensitive； living foot； which does not even stand with all its
little surface on the ground； and which makes no base to satisfy an
architectural eye； is； as it were； the unexpected thing。 It is a
part of vital design and has a history； and man does not go erect
but at a price of weariness and pain。 How weak it is may be seen
from a footprint： for nothing makes a more helpless and
unsymmetrical sign than does a naked foot。
Tender； too； is the silence of human feet。 You have but to pass a
season amongst the barefooted to find that man； who； shod； makes so
much ado； is naturally as silent as snow。 Woman； who not only makes
her armed heel heard； but also goes rustling like a shower； is
naturally silent as snow。 The vintager is not heard among the
vines； nor the harvester on his threshing…floor of stone。 There is
a kind of simple stealth in their coming and going； and they show
sudden smiles and dark eyes in and out of the rows of harvest when
you thought yourself alone。 The lack of noise in their movement
sets free the sound of their voices； and their laughter floats。
But we shall not praise the 〃simple； sweet〃 and 〃earth…confiding
feet〃 enough without thanks for the rule of verse and for the time
of song。 If Poetry was first divided by the march； and next varied
by the dance； then to the rule of the foot are to be ascribed the
thought； the instruction； and the dream that could not speak by
prose。 Out of that little physical law； then； grew a spiritual law
which is one of the greatest things we know； and from the test of
the foot came the ultimate test of the thinker： 〃Is it accepted of
Song？〃
The monastery； in like manner； holds its sons to little trivial
rules of time and exactitude； not to be broken； laws that are made
secure against the restlessness of the heart fretting for
insignificant libertiestrivial laws to restrain from a trivial
freedom。 And within the gate of these laws which seem so small；
lies the world of mystic virtue。 They enclose； they imply； they
lock； they answer for it。 Lesser virtues may flower in daily
liberty and may flourish in prose； but infinite virtues and
greatness are compelled to the measure of poetry； and obey the
constraint of an hourly convent bell。 It is no wonder that every
poet worthy the name has had a passion for metre； for the very
verse。 To him the difficult fetter is the condition of an interior
range immeasurable。
HAVE PATIENCE； LITTLE SAINT
Some considerable time must have gone by since any kind of courtesy
ceased； in England； to be held necessary in the course of
communication with a beggar。 Feeling may be humane； and the
interior act most gentle； there may be a tacit apology； and a
profound misgiving unexpressed； a reluctance not only to refuse but
to be arbiter； a dislike of the office； a regret； whether for the
unequal distribution of social luck or for a purse left at home；
equally sincere； howbeit custom exacts no word or sign； nothing
whatever of intercourse。 If a dog or a cat accosts you； or a calf
in a field comes close to you with a candid infant face and
breathing nostrils of investigation； or if any kind of animal comes
to you on some obscure impulse of friendly approach； you acknowledge
it。 But the beggar to whom you give nothing expects no answer to a
question； no recognition of his presence； not so much as the turn of
your eyelid in his direction； and never a word to excuse you。
Nor does this blank behaviour seem savage to those who are used to
nothing else。 Yet it is somewhat more inhuman to refuse an answer
to the beggar's remark than to leave a shop without 〃Good morning。〃
When complaint is made of the modern social mannerthat it has no
merit but what is negative； and that it is apt even to abstain from
courtesy with more lack of grace than the abstinence absolutely
requiresthe habit of manner towards beggars is probably not so
much as thought of。 To the simply human eye； however； the prevalent
manner towards beggars is a striking thing； it is significant of so
much。
Obviously it is not easy to reply to begging except by the
intelligible act of giving。 We have not the ingenuous simplicity
that marks the caste answering more or less to that of Vere de Vere；
in Italy； for example。 An elderly Italian lady on her slow way from
her own ancient ancestral palazzo to the village； and accustomed to
meet； empty…handed； a certain number of beggars； answers them by a
retort which would be； literally translated； 〃Excuse me； dear； I；
too； am a poor devil；〃 and the last word she naturally puts into the
feminine。
Moreover； the sentence is spoken in all the familiarity of the local
dialecta dialect that puts any two people at once upon equal terms
as nothing else can do it。 Would it were possible to present the
phrase to English readers in all its own helpless good…humour。 The
excellent woman who uses it is practising no eccentricity thereby；
and raises no smile。 It is only in another climate； and amid other
manners； that one cannot recall it without a smile。 To a mind
having a lively sense of contrast it is not a little pleasant to
imagine an elderly lady of corresponding station in England replying
so to importunities for alms； albeit we have nothing answering to
the good fellowship of a broad patois used currently by rich and
poor； and yet slightly grotesque in the case of all speakersa
dialect in which； for example； no sermon is ever preached； and in
which no book is ever printed； except for fun； a dialect 〃familiar；
but by no means vulgar。〃 Besides； even if our Englishwoman could by
any possibility bring herself to say to a mendicant； 〃Excuse me；
dear； I； too； am a poor devil；〃 she would still not have the
opportunity of putting the last word punctually into the feminine；
which does so complete the character of the sentence。
The phrase at the head of this paper is the far more graceful phrase
of excuse customary in the courteous manners of Portugal。 And
everywhere in the South； where an almost well…dressed old woman； who
suddenly begins to beg from you when you least expected it； calls
you 〃my daughter；〃 you can hardly reply without ki