Gambler, No. 22 [The Zoo]

“Modesty is too fierce and elemental a thing for the modern pedants to understand; I had almost said too savage a thing. It has in it the joy of escape and the ancient shyness of freedom.” – G.K. Chesterton


I thought the song fitting, as I grimaced and groaned, lifting the weight over my head to isolate my triceps. The UNLV recreational center will, once or twice a month, play Weezer’s “Island in the Sun,” and as I lifted my old bones groaned and my grimace turned to smirk. My afternoon bike ride to the gym flashed before my brain, my mile ride in the one-hundred and fourteen degree heat, the breeze offering only insult to injury. As if when a man opens an oven and feels the rush of heat, so felt the breeze that afternoon while I rode with head down, wishing it would all just end. I had just begun lifting when Weezer’s song came on, so I was still affected by my ride in. I completed the rep, caught a glimpse of my swoll triceps in the mirror, and after a quick rep of shoulder-lifts, heaving a mighty stone from waist to neck, I took a break and listened to Cuomo’s familiar vocals.

“On an island in the sun,
We’ll be playing and having fun,
And it makes me feel so fine
I can’t control my brain.”*

I live in the island in the sun, I thought. But an actual island in the sun is more like heavy metal. Even the bike rides are torture, and a man feels light-headed and queasy after a few revolutions. I smiled, though, at their choice of music on such a day and looked around for a friendly eye to catch, another human who heard the same joke. As with many experiences of this nature, I was disappointed. For as I looked for a friendly face, I only then remembered the sad truth that every modern man is an island. For each human lifted and listened in his own little world, ears perpetually attached to headphones. So I smiled all the more. I had the gym all to myself.

Despite generally being tuned out, the inhabitants of Vegas are, I think, aware that they exist in the Inferno. I, for one, am beginning to see myself as a pilgrim of sorts – a mixture between Odysseus and Dante, a man longing to get back home, a man longing to reach purgatory, at least. But, I do hope that final layer is a lake of ice. In any case, as I wheel myself in circles around this town and the flames of judgment rise, I can only think that those flames of purgatory look awful cool. But recently I realized, once again, that I’m living in the layer of hypocrites.


“I’m feeling like some White Castle,” he said, finishing his beer, a blonde-hued Hefeweizen.

“White Castle, eh? I’ve never been. We don’t have one in K.C.” I said this and thought only of my wallet, and then he spoke. He may as well have punched me in the gut. The only White Castle in Vegas is on the Strip. My stomach churned. I felt like vomiting. Horrid flashes of Decadence in her naked shame flashed before me. But I am trying to be a better neighbor; I am trying to be a better friend; I am trying, in short, to be a better human. And if that means doing things I loathe, such as entering the belly of the beast, well, “I suppose…” I assented. I finished my Belgian-Wit, and we left the Gordon-Biersch brew-pub, jumped in the Toyota, flew past the most gaudy and ridiculous Ferris Wheel this side the Inferno, rolled into the Harrah’s parking garage, climbed to the very top, and spinning in circles, descended back to the bottom, for there was no room at this inn.

We had better luck at Planet Hollywood. Had I known this was the casino we were parking at, I may have put my foot down – first on the break, then switching back and forth with the gas, put it down firmly again on the gas and parked at a casino that didn’t shout nonsense quite so loudly. We headed to the elevators and observed a poster of Jennifer Lopez. “What is she forty-five?” I said more as a statement, judgmentally, disgusted. We were impatient and took the escalators. Winding down in circles once again, we plummeted to the depths of the Strip. Finally, we entered the Planet Hollywood shopping mall. Since there is absolutely nothing interesting or unique about a shopping mall – as dull and diverse as parking garages, I will not disdain to describe the place. But, if you keep the Inferno in mind…


In our crumbling American society there exists a group of humans who can only be labeled as hypocrites. They make Pecksniff and Uriah Heep look charming. These hypocrites, attempting to elect their Chief this November, are, if I may be so blunt, a living, breathing, all-too-healthy plague upon society. That is, their moral mindset, founded on hypocrisy, is a plague; the humans carrying this plague are often innocent victims. Innocent, because they blindly follow the blind and don’t know exactly why they think what they do. This race of creatures among us is, indeed, the feminist. That creature who preaches killing off the race in the name of Choice. That creature who walks the streets with a club, just looking for an opportunity to wail on any man who objectifies a woman. Such a man needs a good clubbing, no doubt. But such a man shouldn’t then go clubbing, lest he wants to see hundreds of hypocritical feminists asking him to objectify them only to be then clubbed to death. Any man with any sort of Christian morals should beware that the Strip is, in many ways, the great contradiction that is feminism. Here you have droves of young women, droves of young, wide-eyed, angry, pestering, nagging, bragging, strutting, self-righteous, pharisaical, fuming, and fiery feminists. Here you have the future of femininity “freely” expressing itself, living its independence. These independent women, these independent females, these independent feminists walk and gawk and talk as if nothing in life could be better than walking the Strip half-naked and half-witted.

As we made our way to the White Castle, I said to my comrade,

“You know, a Gentlemen’s Club is really just a zoo.”

He didn’t seem so sure what to say, and I explained the metaphor. But I may as well have said that the Strip is really just a zoo. Trucks drive by with independent feminists plastered on the side, asking you to simply look; more independent feminists dance in cages near card tables, asking you to simply look; other independent feminists call themselves show-girls and flap their feathers like brainless birds, asking you to simply look; other independent feminists are card-sized, with numbers, handed to you and scattered all over the sidewalks, asking for you to simply look. And all of this goes on while more independent feminists walk around and mimic the showgirls, displaying their hypocrisy for all to see, begging everyone to simply look.

We finally arrived at White Castle. I hadn’t much of an appetite, and we sat at the end of a long table. Eventually, a family sat next to us, a dad across the way with his young daughter, seven or eight years old. We talked about something as my comrade ate, but I could only think of that young girl and what she was witnessing. Here she was, just out of her innocence, thankfully not yet in her independence, strolling down the only Vegas zoo – the zoo that captures unsuspecting – yet independent – feminists, deceiving them into their captivity. This zoo that strips them of their soul, down to nothing but flesh; this zoo in which evolution works backwards; this zoo in which the people act like animals; this zoo in which not one feminist is seen preaching on a street corner, denouncing the madness, asking for the animals to be released back into the wild of a cultured and moral society. For a true feminist would. A true feminist would not put up with it. A true feminist would be enraged at the caging of her fellow female. And as I thought about this, it only made me sick to my stomach. I was, I guess, not alone in my thoughts. At least one other person that evening thought as I did, and she too was sick to her stomach. For as I looked back over at the little girl, she was not dancing. No. She was vomiting all over the table.

Broom Snow
The Jolly Mariner – Rochelle Avenue
Las Vegas, Nevada
June 21, 2016

Painting: "Where's My Good Little Girl?"
by Thomas Faed,
Oil on canvas, 1882


*I’ve a good notion what this song is about and am more than aware it is not islands in the sun.

Gambler, No. 21 [The Sun]

Dr. Johnson recommended to me, as he had often done, to drink water only: “For (said he,) you are then sure not to get drunk; whereas if you drink wine you are never sure.” I said drinking wine was a pleasure which I was unwilling to give up. “Why, Sir, (said he,) there is no doubt that not to drink wine is a great deduction from life; but it may be necessary.” – Boswell

Malleyn, Gerrit, 1753-1816; A Hawking Party


We’ve been warned. For eight straight months, we have been warned. Like some one-eyed prophet streaking across the sky, our coming destruction has been proclaimed. “I am still here,” it has said, even when the cool wind tears through town and the men look down. “I am still here,” it repeats when winter clouds cloud our judgment, and forty-degrees feels cold. “I am still here,” it shouts through showers of rain, when men, such foolish men, sneer and snicker at its absence. It is like a jilted lover, seeking its revenge on men who exalt in their escape. There is nothing worse than a lover like Cleopatra; there is nothing worse than a town full of Antony’s. No matter how hard they try to leave, they return. But there exists in Vegas a race of men who race from their god. Indeed, the pagans called it a god, and a jealous god it is. A tyrannical god, even. For this god forces, coerces, strangles the love out of its subjects. Though the men curse it, they recognize their need for it. This god I speak of is the sun.

In April we experienced the first rains since December. We probably had about ten days of some type of rainfall. The valley was perfect. Flowers bloomed, blossomed. Nights out on the Plank of the Jolly Mariner were pleasant; a sweatshirt was at times needed in the early morning hours. May was warmer, but anything but hot. The flowers blossomed still. The birds sang. The foolish men still shook their fists in derision of the sun. Then, it finally happened. As if someone flipped a switch, June welcomed us with triple-digit weather. The sun bore down upon us. It left its throne in the heavens to be near us; it began its yearly incarnation. That is, its reverse incarnation. If successful, it will not become a son but propagate more suns, as men melt into gassy blobs.


The Blue Ox is a fine establishment near the airport that I recommend to any visitor to Las Vegas with a few disclaimers. While for some reason there is no beer menu there is good beer (order the "Downtown Brown"), and while they do not allow pipe-smoking, they still have gender-segregated bathrooms. Aptly named, it is Minnesota-themed. Pictures of geese on a lake line the walls, or men ice-fishing. Unfortunately, there are televisions and music, but there are no crowds. This past Saturday I sat in a booth with a colleague, enjoying a brown ale with few others present. We discussed politics, religion, and English studies, and while we agree less about the God of the Jews than fine brews, we at least agree upon something. We are both, moreover, experiencing the desert heat for the first time. As we walked outside into the ninety-degree night, the air felt cool and pleasant. My colleague then turned to me and said something along the lines of

“Yeah, so I left my house late this morning and the mid-ninety degree weather actually felt cool.”

I concurred with this assessment of the day’s weather and left for my car.

Just last week I ran into this same colleague on my bike. We chatted by a palm tree near the UNLV Student Union and about halfway into the conversation, we observed the necessity to avoid the sun. He stood sheltered in the skinny strip of shade, as I was baking in the rays. As we observed this, I subconsciously nudged my bike into the safe-zone, pushing him closer to the tree but not into the dead-zone. Immediately, my body thanked my good sense. Shade is important in any climate. I remember seeking shade beneath the Cyprus trees of City Park in Manhattan last summer, as I cut the grass. But in Kansas, heat is democratic. It shoots from the sun but the air soaks it up and spreads it around. Kansas heat stifles, suppresses, strangles, suffocates its subjects because it operates more like an airy and soppy spirit hovering about. A man may swim to work on two feet in Kansas and feel all the hotter for doing so. He cannot escape the heat because it surrounds him.


The typical response I receive from people outside of Vegas when I tell them of its heat goes something like this:

“Ah, yes,” they say with a look of grave confidence, “but it is a dry heat, no doubt.”

No doubt any man walking a mile in the desert, chanting to himself “ah, yes, but it is a dry heat, no doubt,” will soon learn to unlearn this folly. Of course, anyone who has swam through a Kansas summer begs for a dray towel. But the desert dryness works as both a blessing and a curse. It is, as it were, friend and foe. Ninety-five degrees in Vegas does feel cooler. But a man thinking he can simply walk the Vegas streets in July without a five-gallon jug of water strapped to his back deceives himself. Or, he is a local. Somehow the locals bike, and run, and walk, and smoke without any water. I can’t hardly make it a block without seeing many mirages of wells. A man moving to Vegas from the Midwest must be judicious. He must stock up on lip-balm and apply it hourly. He must realize that his morning cup of Joe ought to be pre-gamed with a glass of water and followed with a taller. If he has any notion of drinking a beer that evening, he must drink nothing but water throughout the day and drink it continuously until the moment of imbibing his beer. This must also be followed by three or four glasses of water. And if this poor soul has the noble and natural notion to smoke a pipe, he must either wash down each puff with a hearty gallon, or concede to have cottonmouth for three days. He must be a brave man to have a pipe and a pint.

By modern American standards, the tap water is pretty bad in Vegas. To help with this trial, I recently bought two five-gallon jugs which I fill with clean water from one a many fill-up stations around town. If there was some way to siphon the water into my body, that would be ideal. Anyhow, this is only the most obvious effect of dry heat. You cannot walk in it unless you’re a camel. But I’ve lately hypothesized a theory regarding the sun. For the Vegas sun is very intimate with its sons. It feels as if it’s on your shoulder at times. I’ve wondered at this because I’ve never been tempted to hate the sun before, no matter how hot. It’s always been my favorite star. But it’s not just me. June witnessed its own bloom. Umbrellas of all sorts blossomed this month, as men sought to avoid the sun; I purchased a straw, cream-colored fedora which has bloomed atop the stem of my body, a sort of defiant gesture both to my hatless generation and the sun. Indeed, my theory of the Vegas sun, lacking all science, is that the thin air offers even less resistance to the tyranny of its rays. The dry air that causes less humidity removes the one barrier we have from Apollo, and men, soon to burst like small supernova’s, walk like living shades, crawling from sliver of shade to sliver of shade. But as this gloomy Gambler is written during the brief relief of a ninety-degree cold-front, I can reflect on last week's heat and look forward to next week's, and indeed to the next three months of unrelenting, dry Vegas heat. I can only hope that in the coming months my life does not reflect the sun but rather the Son.

Broom Snow
The Jolly Mariner – Rochelle Avenue
Las Vegas, Nevada
June 12–16, 2016

Painting: "A Hawking Party"
By Gerrit Malleyn,
Oil on canvas, c. 1779

Trifler No. 14 [On Entering a Gym and a Game of Ball or Two True Myths]

“If America’s pastime could continue / past time, after the reign of noise and the city, / when most have retreated / to the hidden places of the world, tucked back / into the thicket of themselves. This game / would be a mirror to that future—the crack / of ash against ball, the smack of fist and leather / ghosting through a phantom crowd, / no collective stretch of arms to soften a home / run’s flight, no thousand cheers or shouts / like the quickening rush of water.”  -- Bryn Homuth

I struck the board and cried, "No more! I will join a proper gym." I had spent the last eight months working out in the Christ’s College gym, which requires one to descend two flights of stairs—the first into a white-tiled, water-fountained, utilitarian basement reminiscent of Got Milk posters, the second into a narrow-halled windowless dungeon with two doors, one leading into a squash court, the other into a low-ceilinged, carpeted gym. Inside this gym one finds a few cardio machines, a few weight machines, a pull-up bar too near the ceiling for a full pull-up, and one or two silent, cramped exercisers fighting not only gravity but the desire to rush from this pale-lit, hopeless place. You will find no free weights. You will find no escape from another man’s humidity. You will find no joy.

Just off of Parker’s piece sits a palatial, YMCA-esque building with tall windows, a pool, and happy people going in and out. As I cycled by this building on Mill Road one day, I noticed a billboard-sized poster that read, “Students, get fit and don’t break the bank” or some such slogan. The light at Mill Road and East Road turned. I stopped, looked back at the poster, and considered. I had gained much from my move to Cambridge—Gothic spires, neo-classical pillars, a college chapel (complete with prayer book services), Jesus Green, The Cam, Alexandra Gardens, sartorial ritual, among other things. But I had lost my gym, my airy, window-walled, free-weighted, Gym filled with all the mythical gym characters: Chicken Legs, Shoulders, Sweat-Pants, Triceps, Tattoo, Checklist, Lady Mary, Grunt, Hair-Gel, Big Headphones, Flirter, Knee-Brace, Station-Stealer, Super-Mom, Cell Phone, The Friend, Starer, ‘Spot me, Bro?’, Spindle-Arms, Man in the Mirror, New Year’s Resolution, Injury, "Just here to talk," No-Neck, Leg-Day, Hawaiian Cut-off, Atlas, Sweat-Suit, Man-Lady, Ladies-Man, Old Yeller. The place was a kind of Olympian pantheon of undying gods and goddesses moving in higher time, separate from their everyday selves. If one doubts whether legends come true, one need only travel the western world and step into large gyms. All doubt will flee. My move to Cambridge removed me from this world to which I had grown accustomed and in which, I suppose, I had my own role.

So, a week later, I stepped through the large sliding-glass door of the Parkside Pools and Gym, determined to re-enter that mythical world. After the necessary preliminaries, I took the stairs to the weight room. I pushed through the door and there before me stood Old Yeller, his face twisted in pain, making a noise like someone had stabbed him in the foot. Across the room, Cell Phone sat on some machine bench taking a selfie. And there was Hair Gel by the dumbbells—and Chicken Legs, as far away from the squat racks as he could get. Checklist scratched a number on her notepad by the suspension station. And Atlas, their chief, moved among them all spurring them on just by his presence. I breathed a deep breath and re-joined their company.

I left the place a little unsteadily. Free-weights are to machine-weights what drip coffee is to instant decaf, and after a time of abstinence, they leave one a bit shaky. I eased onto my bike with no little trouble, crossed East Road and began the pedal across Parker’s Piece. Just then I heard a metallic ting impossible to mistake coming from my left. I looked over, and there, on the lawn, was a group of people playing baseball. It is difficult to describe my thoughts at that moment. Having just stepped into a kind of fairyland of mythical gym types, here I was watching baseball, the American pastime, in its primal form, exiled here; and its primal form is perhaps its most beautiful form. The batters swung wildly, watching everything but the ball. The pitcher threaded the needle perhaps once every five tosses. Outfielders missed every fly ball popped to them. School bags served as bases. The diamond was askew. And yet, it was a lovely sight. It was a sight, almost, to bring one to tears. In a way, I was watching the game as it was played in Brooklyn parks by boys and off-duty dock hands, making rules as situations required. I was watching it sans technique, sans uniform, sans stadium, sans ump and in the grandest of baseball parks—a city park.

I pulled my brakes, stepped gingerly off my bike and watched. PE softball was the nearest I ever came to competitive baseball—first baseman with a pitcher’s glove and a pair of running shoes for cleats. Still, we gathered around the TV when the Red Sox ‘broke the curse’ in 2004 and set up the wiffle ball diamond when my mother’s side came around. Baseball was in the background—a slow sport I only understood in mellow moods. But as I stood there, my bike forgotten, and my eyes fixed on the spectacle before me, I understood the sport far better than I ever had. It is a game of order, a game of tools-at-hand; a game of open space; a game for the common man; a game of community; a game of watching; a game of waiting; a game of sudden action; a game of rest.

It is a game of primal motion too. I recall when friends and I used to stride across the prairies of Kansas surrounding Manhattan; as we walked, we found it natural and satisfying to throw rocks into rivers, at trees, down hills, over precipices, into open space. About the only things at which we did not throw rocks were each other, though that is another ancient institution. Baseball offers a round rock with grip that will sail as far or as fast as you can heave it. It offers you a club to swing at a rock (the only thing as satisfying as throwing one). It offers you limitations, which, in turn, offer you freedom to play and, if you make solid contact, break out of them.

The moment was not a revolution in my stance towards baseball, but it was a rethinking—a refamiliarization with the game and a re-appreciation. It made the game new by showing me it was old—old as the human desire to pitch and catch and run and slide. And, somehow, Cambridge seemed like the appropriate place for a renewal of the game. I was conscious then and later as I considered it that European Football, as we know it today, was devised and played first on Parker’s Piece. And this painfully amateur game of baseball was a kind of return to the early, heady days of sport by uprooted Americans in a cradle of world sport. It was a picture of baseball as it had been and as it will be if some disaster befalls the west. It will return to yards and parks and streets and sand lots. It will become again what it began as—a diamond in the rough.

R. Eric Tippin
Corner House, Cambridge
12 June 2016

"Americans in Hyde Park"
Oil on Canvas - 


A Word from the Trifler


In Trifler No. 7, if you recall, I wrote these words: "If you happen to be walking along Carlyle Rd. and step into Alexandra Gardens, you may just find, tucked away in some appropriate corner, this essay."

This is just to say that yesterday I made good on my promise. Trifler No. 7 is in a nondescript wooden box secreted somewhere in the gardens.

R. Eric Tippin
Corner House, Cambridge
June 10, 2016

Trifler No. 13 [On The Continent]

“It is seriously quite possible to love Europe. I know men who do it.” –G.K. Chesterton

“They who made England, Italy, or Greece venerable in the imagination did so by sticking fast where they were, like an axis of the earth. In manly hours we feel that duty is our place.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson

The traveller is not the trifler and the trifler is not the traveller. To travel is to grapple with cosmic insignificance, masses of souled humanity, wild foods, modern roaring and screaming machines on tracks, Babel-buildings stretching toward heaven, airplanes flying in the same direction, sleeplessness, unpredictable odours, and, worst of all, one’s self in relation to all these things. The trifler is the man living quietly in his city, growing to love it and loving its growths and its dyings. The trifler does not go to China to become a new man; he goes to the barber shop to become a new man.  The trifler does not set off to find himself in Rome; he determines to find all the treasures of Rome at a weekly Sunday service. The trifler does not long to break out of old routines but to settle further into them so as to make them new again.

He can travel. He does travel. He finds great joy in it, but he finds it difficult to write about a trip to some foreign land, for such a trip is a series of excarnated images that pass before him at dizzying speed outside of his routines and rituals and rests. While travelling, he spends his day gazing at men he will, most likely, never see again before the day of judgement. He walks streets layered with history he does not know and cannot know. And these images and these men and histories pile upon one another and overwhelm him until he feels he has everything in the world to write and nothing in the world to write. No, the trifler is no travel writer. He may benefit from a trip to the continent, but he has less to say about it than a trip across his street.


I found myself with the wife of my youth, staring up at Duomo Cathedral, Milan—a dazzling wall of cut, angled, and statued white staring down at some equestrian figure on a pedestal opposite, making it look like a toy horse ridden by a toy emperor. Swarms of sightseers swirled around us as we stared up at the gothic statues and gargoyles on the façade, many looking more alive than those of us staring up at them. “Beautiful,” I said. “Beautiful,” she echoed. “They don’t make’em like they used to,” I said. “No they don’t,” she said. “Let’s go in,” she said. “Yes,” I said.

We presented our tickets, submitted our bodies to wanding, picked up audio guides, and shuffled around the gothic interior all wide-eyed with low-church wonder, our guides held to our ears and our gazes fixed, always up. “I could spend three lifetimes studying this cathedral and still not know it all,” my wife said as we stared at the mummified body of a cardinal. I nodded in agreement. It was then that we felt most acutely the truth that the great value of the Cathedral is that it is impossible to calculate its value. It is something too large, too varied, too beautiful, too ugly with too many symbols and too many statues and too many frescoes and too many warrenous passages and too many spires and too many organ pipes, and too many pillars, and too many panes of stained glass too high to see and impossible to reach. A Cathedral tells a story, but one of the great morals of its story is that no one person knows or understands its whole story. It is far too long and in too many languages. A truly humble man could learn this from gazing at a dandelion or a new-born piglet, but the vast majority of us need gothic monstrosities to remind us that the church is something beyond our weak-kneed, dim-eyed set of personal preferences we pass off as systematic beliefs. When gazing at a cathedral—especially a gothic cathedral—one has a sense of play and solemnity, of cosmic beauty and grotesque pagan frivolity all at once, none diminishing or balancing or diluting the others. 

Another great value of the cathedral is that it preserves the ancient and healthy practice of saint-study, which is merely the natural companion discipline to criminology.* Moderns study and parse and preserve the memory  of serial killers, tyrants, infamous decadents, the wildly selfish, the criminally violent, and the perverted in novels and biography and books of psychology and documentaries, but the cathedral makes it its business to study the truly humble, the wildly chaste, the bravely temperate, the extravagantly generous. In short, the cathedral preserves the memory of the most fierce and fearless men in history, for they resisted temptation—something far more difficult than giving into it. 

We pottered around for a while longer. We saw Saint Bartholomew, holding his own filleted skin. We saw Saint Roch, his thigh swelled with plague. We saw St. Sebastian, bristling with arrows. We saw Saint Ambrose, his face covered in bees. And we saw the living people gazing up at these men, some of them no doubt thinking patronising thoughts of poor, ignorant, superstitious pre-moderns who didn't know about science and who didn't have smart phones in their pockets and who weren't free to express themselves according to their self-ascribed identity. I looked up at the martyred saints and back down at the staring, picture-snapping people, and it was not difficult to see which were the more wise, and which the more deluded—which were the more joyful and which the merely happy.

We descended into an archaeological dig beneath the nave and saw the pool where Augustine was baptised. I thought about his words on time in the Confessions. We ascended to the marble roof and saw the Alps and Apennines, cloud-shaded on the horizon.  At last, we returned to street-level where we dodged swinging Prada shopping bags and pushy selfie-stick salesmen.

If cathedral were an adjective, it would be the opposite of hermetic. It is open and full of free and thriving life, but only because its buttresses are so sturdy and its arches so weight-bearing. It is full of gargoyle frivolity because its pillars are so straight and so strong; its statues dance because its foundation will not move.

R. Eric Tippin
Written in and in between Cambridge, London, and Milan
Transcribed at Corner House, Cambridge
June 2-6, 2016

"Interior of Duomo, Milan"
Oil on Canvas - 1857
David Roberts

*None of my thoughts are original, but this thought is particularly unoriginal. See every other G.K. Chesterton discussion of saints.