Happy the Man

Contrary to common opinion, I am not a Luddite. I am only concerned when technology is sought out as a substitute for thinking, instead of merely as an aid to thinking. 

As a case in point, I was pleased to stumble across all the usage data on my music app, which showed me that what I was actually listening to, from day to day, was not necessarily what I thought I was listening to, or what I had been telling other people I preferred the most. How enlightening, and how frustrating, to have the facts get in the way of the assumptions! The technology had done its job. 

For example, is Marillion really my "favorite" band, as I usually advertise? Apparently not, if I bother to consult my habits over the last few years. Much to my surprise, two albums by Happy the Man are at the top of my playlists, and that's also by quite a large margin. 

In hindsight, I suppose it is fitting, because the real credit should belong to the art that soothes the soul during the daily grind, not necessarily to the grand productions that serve me well at moments of extreme elation or dejection, but do little for me while I am making my tea, or going for a country drive, or scribbling down my unexceptional musings. 

Happy the Man were a quirky expression of the late 1970's, broadly falling into the "progressive" rock category, though I always come back to simply describing them as eclectic. They produced two albums for Arista Records, at a time when their peculiar style was already markedly out of fashion, and they would now probably be entirely forgotten, if not for a small but dedicated group of followers. 

Their music is not for everyone, but for me it strikes a perfect balance of intellect and passion, complexity and simplicity, simultaneously a comfort and a challenge. I can either pay very close attention, or just have it on in the background, and I oddly feel much the same as when I am listening to Bach or Coltrane. 

Fans will speak of their similarity to early Yes, Genesis, or Gentle Giant, and while I do see the connections, I also get a jazzy, Canterbury vibe here, much like the wonderful mood that strikes me with Hatfield and the North, Caravan, or Soft Machine. It is also no accident that Kit Watkins later went on to play with Camel. 

I still remember the craze for the lists of Desert Island Discs in the late 1980's and early 1990's, and I am just now realizing how both of these collections have crept up on me to become my faithful companions. 

Happy the Man, s/t (1977) 

Happy the Man, Crafty Hands (1978) 

Holst, The Planets

This was the first LP record my father bought for me, and I am not entirely sure why he chose this particular work, but I immediately adored it, playing it over and over, to the point where I have now basically memorized every movement in my head. 

While many albums have become a part of the soundtrack to my life, this one surely receives the place of honor. Though I have my new wave, progressive rock, Irish folk, bluegrass, acid jazz, and a recurring fixation with baroque music, this is my first love. 

I am also bound to this particular recording, having never found another that fills me with so much joy. Though it is now considered an "outdated" version by some, I was pleased to later find it on CD, as the vinyl, however meticulously cared for, can only take so many more plays. 

Holst led me to a further appreciation of Elgar, Vaughan Williams, Delius, Parry, and Britten, the sort of music classical snobs look down upon, since they assume the English can neither cook nor compose. They are sorely mistaken on both counts. 

Gustav Holst, The Planets, Sir Adrian Boult/London Philharmonic (1979) 

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgTPaaiUsFv_ZRMLOeHtWXyhr2cQsUiBY

 

Heimat

Graz, Austria, by BERND THALLER

The Mob

Walter Chandoha, The Mob (1961) 

A masterpiece of photography, revealing the true nature of cats,  precisely as I have always understood them . . . 

The Way of Things . . .

Who I wanted to be . . . 

. . . and who I became. 

A Proper Warning

The many will be deeply offended, and a very few will understand. 

It is exactly at it should be . . . 

It Comes to This . . .

After so many decades of seeking out the edgiest new wave, punk, ska, alternative rock, progressive rock, Celtic folk, bluegrass, heavy metal, acid jazz, jazz fusion, and any possible variation of musical fusions, it finally comes down to this: 

When I sit down to read, or to write, or to simply stare off into space while smoking my trusty Peterson pipe, filled with a pinch of glorious Erinmore Mixture, I now instinctively turn to my old CD's by the Electric Light Orchestra. 

Is it that I'm too old? Have I lost my mojo? Will I soon be scanning the obituary columns? 

I honestly no longer care what it says about me. I know what I like. I have also learned to be happy to let you like whatever it is that you happen to like. 

Is this what they call growing up? It's not half bad. Too bad it took so long. 

—4/2017 

Crack the Sky, "Go"

One of the most unappreciated bands in the history of progressive rock. 

I know I will be playing this very song in my head when, as Epictetus says, there is too much smoke in the room ;-) 

Crack the Sky, "Go" from Ghost (2001)

Level 42, "Man"

As a fellow who has a long history with the Black Dog, and as a lifelong lover of music, I have a mixed relationship with songs about melancholy. Sometimes I find strength from experiencing another’s struggle, but more often I just end up feeling sorry for myself. 

I must tread carefully, for the fickle feeling of the moment can quickly sweep me away. Art has a creeping way of magnifying who we already are, for better or for worse. 

Much of the new wave or progressive rock I so adore can dwell too much on the loss and the sadness. Yes, it is necessary to mourn, but then it is even more necessary to heal. 

Why have I found myself in this state? How might I work my way out of it? To cast blame on others is never a solution, and to merely bemoan my fate is an act of surrender. 

Many years ago, I picked up the newest album by Level 42, expecting more of the same funky pop I so enjoyed. Instead, I was surprised to find the band in a state of transition, with two new members, guitarist Alan Murphy and drummer Gary Husband, along with a number of tunes that displayed a far more refined sound. 

I was especially taken with a longer track, simply titled “Man”, which almost seemed to be composed of two separate movements, each with its own mood. I had always known that Boon Gould could write introspective lyrics, but these struck me with their remarkable depth and sincerity. 

It was only much later that I learned about Boon’s own battle with depression—now it all made more sense. 

There isn’t just brooding in these words. There is also an attempt at coming to terms with the causes, and at finding a means to escape from the cycle. 

There is then that painful moment when I recognize how I have, however unwittingly, brought this upon myself, and that my vanity has fixed me in my stubborn ways. 

Let me stop making excuses and demanding attention. I can choose to be my own man. 

—1/2016 

Level 42, “Man” from Staring at the Sun (1988) 

Hey man where you been? 
You can't run away
From the life you made your own
Now that it's gone and left you down and out
You're not so complete
Now what do you say? 
All the answers you propose
Nobody chose to hear this time around 

Hey man you're so vain
You rise up again
To perform to pressure now
No way to treat that precious heart at all
Calm down you're too proud
Now what do you know? 
You present some facts to face
But nobody chose to look this time around 

Head in the clouds
No silver lining
What could be wrong? 

Hey man why so blue? 
What's come over you? 
Sentimental apathy
Ain't gonna buy no sympathy today
Wide world wearing thin
Wild words deafening
Shout about integrity
And then you go and throw your dignity away 

We're all the same
We're all to blame
What could be wrong, yeah? 

Hey man you got carried away
Carrying on the games that you play
Playing is not the way to win
’cause winning can be a way that you lose
And losing is not the way you would choose
Given the choice you're trying to change
Changing again you're carried away 

Do you remember the day? 
So long ago so far behind 
That history wrought in the fire
That filled your mind with mad desire
Chasing the centuries down
Long roads you cut through flesh and field
Pulling the past as you run
And it's dragged you to your knees
It's time to pray 

It's getting harder to pay
Too many people
For the rent 

Given a number of ways
Is there no way that you can change? 

Fire, the heart of history 

Time marching on . . . 
Face the future 
Fall and fade away 

Hey man sing the blues 

Buckaroo Banzai

I have an entire essay, written some years ago, about how Buckaroo Banzai, one of the weirdest of cult films, has remained a steady anchor in my life. 

I fear the reflection insists upon itself too much, as they say, so I will not ask you to suffer through it. 

Instead, I simply offer you the scene from the end credits, where my favorite characters, all of them complete genius freaks, go for a little walk. 

These are the sorts of friends I always wanted to have. . . . 

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm . . .

Last night, someone jokingly observed how if all the people who said they were our "friends", busily "hoping and praying" for us, simply subscribed to the Liam Milburn Substack page, for $5 a month, our family's money problems would immediately disappear. 

At first, everyone laughed out loud. 

Then, there was an awkward silence. 

It was funny on one level, and deeply sad on another. 

And after the initial impressions, it is always best to be at peace with the way things are, instead of worrying and scheming about how we imagine they should be . . . 

Does anyone still remember C+C Music Factory? ;-) 

The Hand and the Fist

I do my best not to inflict my love of epistemology, the philosophy of knowledge, on unsuspecting victims, so I will keep this brief. 

For all of the theoretical complexities, the problems really boil down to what we can truly know, and how we might come to knowing it. 

The Stoics stood apart from the Skeptics, whether Academic or Pyrrhonian, and also, to a lesser degree, from the Epicureans, by insisting that the mind possessed the power to understand the identity of things, and thereby to learn about its own place within the order of the whole. 

Such knowledge was, however, not instantaneous, and it demanded long commitment and rigorous discipline. 

The process of coming to awareness moves gradually through stages, from receiving an impression, to granting or withholding assent through belief, to comprehending how and why something is true, and to finally acquiring the certainty and conviction of wisdom. 

Given the dominant skepticism, relativism, and subjectivism of contemporary philosophical fashion, we see yet another way in which Stoicism goes against the grain. I am regularly told how we can never really know anything at all, and that hasty assumption becomes a convenient excuse for avoiding any genuine responsibility. 

A task may well be difficult, but that hardly makes it impossible. Indeed, the difficulty may itself be a mark of its merit. 

In his Academica, Cicero offers a wonderful account of how Zeno of Citium would illustrate the progress of knowledge. I find myself turning to this image, time and time again, to ground myself whenever I feel overwhelmed by confusion. One step at a time: 

Zeno would display his hand in front of one with the fingers stretched out and say "A visual appearance is like this." 

Next he closed his fingers a little and said, "An act of assent is like this." 

Then he pressed his fingers closely together and made a fist, and said that this was comprehension (and from this illustration he gave to that process the actual name of katalepsis, "grasping", which it had not had before).  

But then he used to apply his left hand to his right fist and squeeze it tightly and forcibly, and then say that such was knowledge, which was within the power of nobody save the wise man. 

IMAGE: Theo van Doesburg, Study of a Fist (c. 1906) 

The Cave

I have come across many fine images of the Allegory of the Cave from Plato's Republic, but this one is surely my favorite. 

I am struck by the packed crowd of those who can see only the shadows, and I can almost feel their misery. Most depictions of the Cave are rather neutral, yet here we can vividly sense the despair that comes with ignorance, 

I feel the urgency of the two men who are trying to convince the crowd to escape from their dark corner, though their arguments are met only with disbelief. 

The eye is naturally drawn to the circle of "wise men", who are surely discussing the true nature of reality. And yet, we must remember from the text, they perceive only the physical world, their backs still turned to the exit. 

And standing outside, barely noticeable, are three figures who gaze upon the reality of the Universal Forms, illuminated by the Sun of the True, the Good, and the Beautiful. 

I don't have many framed prints, mainly because it is such an expensive hobby, so over the years I have only collected copies of Raphael's The School of Athens, Delacroix's The Last Words of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, and Gerome's Diogenes. This fine work by Saenredam, apparently copied from a lost painting by van Haarlem, is now the only one I would ever consider adding to the others. 

—12/2014 

Jan Saenredam, The Allegory of the Cave (1604) 

Why the Stoics?

When people bother to learn anything about me, they are often confused about why I have such a strong commitment to the Stoics, in contrast to the many other schools of philosophy I so deeply admire. 

“Wait, you taught me all about St. Thomas Aquinas, and now you’re telling me that you don’t really follow Aquinas?” 

“I spent a whole year reading Plato with you, and it seemed like you were consumed by anything and everything Plato had to say. What gives with your constant private quotes from Marcus Aurelius? Were you lying to us?” 

“Did we just waste a whole semester studying Aristotle, only to learn that he was wrong?” 

No, no, and no. 

I love you enough not to force you into a corner, and I love myself enough not to bow down to any mortal tribe. The slavery to any “-ism” is your greatest enemy. 

For your sake, I ask you to think for yourself. For my sake, I demand an openness to Truth, in all of its forms, and I sadly know that I am at my worst when I narrow my vision. 

But why that annoying love for the Stoic tradition? 

On the level of theory, I have never read a philosopher who hasn’t taught me something of great value, either positively or negatively, so I continue to broaden the horizon. 

On the level of practice, however, the only thing that has saved me from total despair, and from a completely pointless death, has been the Stoic principle that nothing is good or bad for me except for my own moral judgments. 

Aquinas will nudge you that way through his complete search for the Divine, and Plato will remind you to follow the Good above all else, and Aristotle will insist that happiness depends upon the habit of virtue. 

All three, however, are still enamored of supposedly ideal circumstances, by the best lay of the land, so to speak, and yet only the Stoic will take it all the way, with absolutely no footnotes, limitations, or conditions. 

I am as good a man, and thereby as happy a man, as I choose to be. In this, I serve God, I serve the Good, and I serve virtue. In making something of myself, I have found myself as a part within the harmony of the Whole. 

Only the Stoic has the balls, pardon my French, to completely transcend the conditions, and thereby to express happiness in its purest form. The Stoic makes no apologies for being poor, or sick, or ugly, or unpopular—he knows exactly where he’s at, and so he doesn’t waver. 

Why should he need to, when he sees his own nature in its naked purity, as but one instance of Nature itself, a sliver of Providence given to him, as his own power to make his own mark? However small, it is always significant. No piece is ever disposable. 

Stoicism speaks to me with such force because it cuts through the nonsense, the excuses, the mediocrity. I have already cursed once, but I will also add that Stoicism tolerates no bullshit. 

I need no longer listen to the arrogant priest who commands me to blindly obey, only so that he might be gratified in this world. 

I need no longer suck at the teat of the fat politician, who requires my vote for his supposed favors. 

I need no longer be terrified of the mighty boss, because he really has nothing to offer me, and, most importantly, he really has nothing he can take away from me. 

Stoicism is a “high octane” philosophy, and, in the Western tradition, it stands as a pinnacle of wisdom, in its most down-to-earth form. I also see something of that same strain in Mystic Catholicism, or in Vedanta Hinduism, or in Vajrayana Buddhism, or in Sufi Islam, but that is a discussion for another time. 

The Stoics, quite literally, saved my life. That says far more than any academic degree, or business promotion, or pious posturing. 

—4/2016 

Missing

When one of Britain's most haunting songs is covered by one of Britain's funkiest pop bands. A moment of musical brilliance for the day . . .

Level 42 performs "Missing" by Everything but the Girl, live on BBC Radio 2 in 2019.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uEaCJ5vV71o

"Be Pleased to Inform Her Majesty . . ."

At the tender age of twelve, being both outcast and precocious, I latched onto any meaning and purpose, wherever I could possibly find it. 

I had long taken an interest in history, as it helped me to see the bigger picture; I was especially fond of dusty old maps and forgotten narratives about daring adventures. I had also become absorbed in military technology, collecting dozens of books about planes, tanks, and warships. 

Please don't laugh at my geekiness, for there are far worse ways for a young man to occupy his time!  

In April of 1982, Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands, a dependency of Great Britain. I perked up immediately, because my love of the glory from the past had led to a deep affection for all things British. 

Yes, I had become an odd sort of Anglophile, complete with my grand imaginings about an elaborate alternate history where the Stuarts retained the Crown, and the Colonies were never lost. That was all about the Irish Catholic in me. 

Ah, the joys of daydreaming! 

Long before the time of the Blessed Internet, I had to read the daily newspapers, and watch the nightly news, to get updates on this epic battle. They said Thatcher could never do it, that Britain had no chance of recovering those distant islands. We were told it was insignificant in any event: why would it matter if a few thousand shepherds were under a different flag? 

But it did matter. If nothing else, it mattered to me, because I was forming my sense of conscience. Though the politicians turned it into a matter of national pride, I saw it as a matter of personal freedom. If those fine folks in the Falklands wished to be British, I would gladly give my very life to defend their rights. 

The Royal Navy obviously didn't want a sickly American teenager to help with the task, but I was at least there in spirit. 

It felt like years passed as I kept up with the news, even as it was a mere two months. I followed every detail, and I kept my own humble diary of the gains and losses, which I still have in my little bag of precious mementos. 

When the Belgrano went down, one side cheered. When the Sheffield was sunk, the other side cheered. This wasn't a game—it was a real war, where both sides had staked most everything. The very identities of Argentina and Britain hung in the balance. 

In the end, Thatcher's gambit paid off, and Great Britain was once again great, if but for a moment. Galtieri, on the other hand, didn't have such a good time of it. 

Ah, the fickleness of Lady Fortune! 

And yet, observe also the glory of integrity, the triumph of individual virtue. The specific flag is far less important than the content of character. To this day, I vividly remember the first message from the Royal Marines after the recovery of South Georgia: 

Be pleased to inform Her Majesty that the White Ensign flies alongside the Union Jack in South Georgia. God Save the Queen.

I read those lines after sneaking out of class to check the Boston Globe at the front desk of my school. 

And I suddenly began to cry. They were uncontrollable tears, a whole expulsion of my emotions. The school secretary asked if she needed to call my parents, as there was surely something wrong with me. In the midst of my blubbering, I assured her I would mange. I got away with a tardy slip for my crimes. 

What did all of that mean? In hindsight, it meant that my passions were being guided by my convictions. That is a good thing, actually the best of things. 

Most of my so-called friends were so macho that they would never admit to crying, and I was being steadily led along the way of becoming a tool for whoever wanted to use me for his convenience. But this was finally a moment of free thought. 

I cried because I had already developed a set of judgments about good and evil, however primitive, and so my feelings followed in their wake. It was an instance where I knew why how I felt was a consequence of how I thought. 

While no one else in my class cared one bit about the Falklands, I cried because it meant something to me, and it meant something to me because I had made a conscious choice about what makes a human life worthy. Virtue, without any adornments, is what makes us worthy. 

Decades later, I look to that event as profoundly formative. Laughter or tears will proceed from our opinions about the true and the false, the right and the wrong. We laugh for what we choose to care about, and we cry for what we choose to care about. 

I wish I still had the front page from that newspaper, but it is of no matter. I still know, in my mind and in my heart, where I need to go. 

—2/1994 

Another Stoic Rabbit

Old Wisdom from The Call

The other day, I ran into a fine fellow at the VFW who still listens to The Call,  a band from the 1980's who are now sadly overlooked. Meeting folks who share my eccentricities in music is one of my greatest joys. 

Don't worry, I won't write one of my essays. I just think it my duty to occasionally point out such gems, so that others might perhaps share in the joy and keep the fire burning. . . . 

Now you can take both of these songs as being about romantic love if you wish, or you can, as I eventually did, take them to be about something so much more. 

—2/2012

The Call, "Everywhere I Go" from Reconciled (1986) 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zAtW0ijmgM

Raise me up
Keep that promise that you made
Wake me up
Keep that promise that you made

I think of you
(Everywhere I go)
I think of you
(Everywhere I go)
I look for you
(Everywhere I go)
I need you
(Everywhere I, everywhere I go)

Straight paths curve
Smiles, eyes, powers to confound me
I lose my nerve
Your voice, it echoes all around me

I think of you
(Everywhere I go)
I think of you
(Everywhere I go)
I look for you everywhere
(Everywhere I go)
I must have you
(Everywhere I, everywhere I, everywhere I go)

Ease me down
Keep that promise that you made to me
Take my hand
My mind reels, all my senses rise

I think of you
(Everywhere I go)
Lord, I think of you
(Everywhere I go)
I look for you
(Everywhere I go)
I need you
(Everywhere I go)
Lord, I need you everywhere I go
(Everywhere I go)
I look for you everywhere
(Everywhere I go)
I need you
(Everywhere I go)
I must have you
(Everywhere I, everywhere I, everywhere I, everywhere I)
Everywhere I go, go

The Call, "I Still Believe (Great Design)" from Reconciled (1986) 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zWhDbkTmJHA 

Bring it up as we go along . . . 

I've been in a cave for forty days
Only a spark to light my way
I wanna give out, I wanna give in
This is our crime
This is our sin
But I still believe, I still believe
Through the pain and through the grief
Through the lives, through the storms
Through the cries and through the wars

Oh, I still believe

I'm flat on my back out at sea
Hoping these waves don't cover me
I'm turned and tossed upon the waves
When the darkness comes, I feel the grave
But I still believe, I still believe
Through the cold and through the heat
Through the rain and through the tears
Through the crowds and through the cheers

Oh, I still believe 

I'll march this road, I'll climb this hill
Upon my knees if I have to
I'll take my place up on this stage
I'll wait till the end of time for you like everybody else

I'm out on my own walking the streets
Look at the faces that I meet
I feel like I, like I want to go home
What do I feel?
What do I know?
But I still believe, I still believe
Through the shame and through the grief
Through the heartache, through the tears
Through the waiting, through the years
For people like us in places like this
We need all the hope that we can get

Oh, I still believe 

Old Man Jack

In honor of Jack (2005-2023), as fine a companion as any hound, and a far better one than most men . . . 

You not only did good, sir, you were the best of your kind. You are relieved of duty. 

"Jeoffry", from Jubilate Agno (1763) 

Christopher Smart 

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.

For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.

For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.

For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.

For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.

For he rolls upon prank to work it in.

For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.

For this he performs in ten degrees.

For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.

For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.

For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.

For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.

For fifthly he washes himself.

For sixthly he rolls upon wash.

For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.

For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.

For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.

For tenthly he goes in quest of food.

For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.

For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.

For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.

For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.

For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.

For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.

For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.

For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.

For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.

For he is of the tribe of Tiger.

For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.

For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.

For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.

For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.

For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.

For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.

For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.

For every family had one cat at least in the bag.

For the English Cats are the best in Europe.

For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.

For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.

For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.

For he is tenacious of his point.

For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.

For he knows that God is his Saviour.

For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.

For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.

For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually—Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.

For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.

For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.

For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.

For he is docile and can learn certain things.

For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.

For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.

For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.

For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.

For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.

For he can catch the cork and toss it again.

For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.

For the former is afraid of detection.

For the latter refuses the charge.

For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.

For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.

For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.

For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.

For his ears are so acute that they sting again.

For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.

For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.

For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.

For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.

For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.

For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.

For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.

For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.

For he can swim for life.

For he can creep.