12 KEV. JONES VERY, IN MEMORIAM ; 



natural. We are not allowed to grow old, to mature. 

 We sift into the continent and sag, and drift and settle 

 westward. We are shifty and Arab-like and not at- 

 tached much to place. The mind itself is just as little 

 at anchor. Too scattered are we to grow old or keep 

 each other in countenance. Fifty million is a thin plaster 

 of population for a continent, one Liverpool and Man- 

 chester extending to the Pacific. The wonder is we are 

 as intelligent, refined and civilized as we are. We are 

 digging and planting the continent and putting in the iron 

 nerves of railroads. That is our function. Common- 

 place in literature suffices, something easily read as you 

 run. We have time for nothing else. Newspapers are 

 our literature, thin pabulum, but better than nothing for 

 busy millions. 



Nature is the cathedral of the future and Wordsworth 

 and Very are its prophets. Byron got this note from 

 Wordsworth. Wordsworth is the John the Baptist to 

 some faith to be, which the world is building up. He 

 certainly build'ed better than he knew. This sentiment 

 for nature is our great refuge from all actuality and every 

 other lack we suffer from. It is the modern education of 

 mankind, and we have it here. It is a new sense which 

 can dispense with the picturesque and romantic. It is 

 forming literature, art, life and creed. 



Solitary rapture with nature such as Very felt, forti- 

 fies the soul against materialism in this dense commercial 

 air, and is the tonic of eve$y man's life. It is our com- 

 pensation for history and association. We are swept off 

 into a vortex of activity if we do not cultivate it. 



Who would be old here must strain after it. We must 

 be green and promising, and widespread and familiar 

 and superficial, for the benefit of the many. Everything 

 is an average as yet, and better it should be so than stately 



