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Baji Shaik and Dinesh Kumar Chemuduru
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively
licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is
concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of
illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in
any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or
dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.
The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the
advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate
at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the
editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the
material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional
claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.
This Apress imprint is published by the registered company APress
Media, LLC, part of Springer Nature.
The registered company address is: 1 New York Plaza, New York, NY
10004, U.S.A.
I extend this dedication to Afrah Razzak, my exceptional wife. Her
enduring support and remarkable patience during the extended writing
sessions have been invaluable to me.
—Baji Shaik
I lovingly extend this dedication to my dear friend, Baji Shaik. Your
unwavering support and encouragement have been my guiding light,
especially in the most challenging moments. Your belief in me has been a
constant source of inspiration, and I am grateful for your presence in my
journey. This book is as much a tribute to our friendship as it is a
testament to the power of steadfast camaraderie. Thank you for always
being there.
—Dinesh Kumar Chemuduru
Introduction
The PostgreSQL engine comes with its own dedicated procedural
language, similar to procedural languages found in other commercial
database engines. This language, known as PL/pgSQL, offers a range of
powerful features that developers have long desired. For instance,
PL/pgSQL includes certain object-oriented programming capabilities
like the ability to define custom operators and types, as well as custom
aggregates.
In contrast to other programming languages supported by
PostgreSQL, PL/pgSQL is intricately linked with the PostgreSQL
database engine interface. This tight integration ensures optimal
performance and a seamless fit for constructing business logic on the
database side. In this book, we not only introduce the fundamentals of
PL/pgSQL, but we also dive deep into specific use cases that we’ve
implemented for particular scenarios. Our aim is to comprehensively
cover the various features, functionalities, and application scenarios of
PL/pgSQL, offering assistance in crafting effective server-side objects
with ease.
Through the content of this book, you will gain an understanding of
PL/pgSQL’s design and dive deep into its transaction model, including
how commit and rollback operations function. You’ll discover strategies
for optimizing PL/pgSQL functions and procedures and explore the
mechanics of inline or anonymous server-side code, along with its
limitations. Furthermore, you’ll acquire insights into debugging and
profiling PL/pgSQL code and learn techniques for conducting statistical
analyses on the PL/pgSQL code you create.
Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the
author in this book is available to readers on GitHub
(https://github.com/Apress). For more detailed information, please
visit https://www.apress.com/gp/services/source-code.
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my gratitude to several individuals who have
played a crucial role in making this book a reality. A heartfelt thank-you
to Apress Media for providing me with this valuable opportunity. I am
especially grateful to my coauthor and mentor, Dinesh Kumar
Chemuduru, for his exceptional collaboration. I want to express my
gratitude to Divya Modi and Nirmal Selvaraj for being understanding of
our hectic schedules and providing us with continuous support
throughout the entire process. Special thanks to Deepak Mahto for his
thorough review of the book. Lastly, I am profoundly thankful to my
parents, Lalu Saheb Shaik and Nasar Bee, whose unwavering support
has shaped me into the person I am today.
—Baji Shaik
“Peaceful stand
The sentinel poplars in their gold-green plumes
Beside the Enzo bridge. Where late the hoofs
Of flying squadrons scared th’affrighted land
The soft cloud-shadows chase each other now
O’er violet gardens.”
As with many another poet, the ease with which Mrs. Chambers-
Ketchum writes is at times a snare, leading her to accept too readily
a hackneyed term or word, surrendering after too slight a struggle
to the tyranny of rhyme. In her verse, also, there is sometimes a
lack of smoothness that would set despair in the heart of the
faithful scanner.
Was it because our ears were sick with a certain slang of
“culture” that, when we stumbled over Krishna in the “Christian
Legend,” we felt a strong desire to banish these Indian immortals to
that Hades where languished the gods of Greece until Schiller called
them forth to run riot in the field of religion as well as of art? And is
not the term “legend” a strange misnomer, for the New Testament
narrative of the raising of Lazarus? For Mrs. Chambers-Ketchum’s
verse is essentially Christian and womanly, and even so short a
notice of it would scarcely be complete without a mention of
“Benny,” who, with his kitten and his “baby’s sense of right,” is
already dear and familiar to the mothers and children of our whole
country, whose kindly hearts will surely give to Benny’s mother their
sympathy in his loss.
Surly Tim, and Other Stories. By Francis Hodgson Burnett. New York:
Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1877.
Unfortunately for our first impression of the merit of the little
volume of which “Surly Tim” is the initial story, we began our
reading with “Lodusky,” attracted to it by the locality of the tale, its
hill people and dialect being a loadstone to us, but lately returned
from similar surroundings. But as even in our mountain Edens we
find the trail of the serpent, so in “Lodusky” we seemed to be
treading the familiar path of moral irresponsibility and the tyranny
of personal magnetism, and we craved the flaming sword of the
archangel to put the evil to flight.
Nor did our impression grow fairer on turning to “Le Monsieur de
la Petite Dame.” But in “One Day at Arle” and in “Seth” we
welcomed truly the author’s strong and exquisite pathos. In these
pictures of the sorrow of the laboring classes the author draws with
a pencil full of feeling, working under a sky whose hue is the leaden
monotone of modern French landscape painting; a break of
sunshine here and there, but the light seems to fall, after all, on
earthly stubble and the dumb, almost soulless faces of patient
cattle that know nothing beyond their daily furrow and the mute,
faithful service they bear a kindly hand at the plough.
We are reminded of the pathos of Robert Buchanan’s North-Coast
verse, and we close the little volume sadly, almost as if all human
sorrow wherein is no Christian joy stood at our threshold, asking
from us an alms we had no power to give.
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXVI., No. 155.—FEBRUARY, 1878.
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
The Venerable Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation contains
nothing more touching than its record of Ceadmon, the earliest English poet,
whose gift came to him in a manner so extraordinary. It occurs in the 24th
chapter: “By his verses the minds of many were often excited to despise the
world, and to aspire to heaven. Others after him attempted in the English nation
to compose religious poems, but none could ever compare with him; for he did
not learn the art of poetry from man, but from God, for which reason he never
would compose any vain or trivial poem.” ... “Being sometimes at entertainments,
when it was agreed, for the sake of mirth, that all present should sing in their
turns, when he saw the instrument come towards him he rose from the table and
retired home. Having done so on a certain occasion, ... a Person appeared to him
in his sleep, and, saluting him by his name, said, ‘Ceadmon, sing some song for
me.’ He answered, ‘I cannot sing.’” Ceadmon’s song is next described: “How he,
being the Eternal God, became the author of all miracles, Who first, as Almighty
Preserver of the human race, created heaven for the sons of men, as the roof of
the house, and next the earth.” ... “He sang the Creation of the world, the origin
of man, and all the history of Genesis, ... the Incarnation, Passion, Resurrection
of our Lord, and His Ascension.”[158] Ceadmon’s poetry is referred to also in
Sharon Turner’s History of the Anglo-Saxons; and Sir Francis Palgrave points out
the singular resemblance of passages in Paradise Lost to corresponding passages
in its surviving fragments. To the history of Ceadmon Montalembert has devoted
some of the most eloquent paragraphs in his admirable work, Les Moines
d’Occident—see chapter ii., vol. iv., page 68.
Sole stood upon the pleasant bank of Esk
Ceadmon the Cow-herd, while the sinking sun
Reddened the bay, and fired the river-bank
With pomp beside of golden Iris lit,
And flamed upon the ruddy herds that strayed
Along the marge, clear-imaged. None was nigh:—
For that cause spake the Cow-herd, “Praise to God!
He made the worlds; and now, by Hilda’s hand
He plants a fair crown upon Whitby’s height:
Daily her convent towers more high aspire;
Daily ascend her Vespers. Hark that strain!”
He stood and listened. Soon the flame-touched herds
Sent forth their lowings, and the cliffs replied,
And Ceadmon thus resumed: “The music note
Rings through their lowings dull, though heard by few!
Poor kine, ye do your best! Ye know not God,
Yet man, his likeness, unto you is God,
And him ye worship with obedience sage,
A grateful, sober, much-enduring race
That o’er the vernal clover sigh for joy,
With winter snows contend not. Patient kine,
What thought is yours, deep-musing? Haply this—
‘God’s help! how narrow are our thoughts, and few!
Not so the thoughts of that slight human child
Who daily drives us with her blossomed rod
From lowland valleys to the pails long-ranged!’
Take comfort, kine! God also made your race!
If praise from man surceased, from your broad chests
That God would perfect praise, and, when ye died,
Resound it from yon rocks that gird the bay:
God knoweth all things. Let that thought suffice!”
Round the bay Meantime with deepening eve full many a fire Up-
sprung, and horns were heard. Around the steep With bannered
pomp and many a dancing plume Ere long a cavalcade made way.
Whence came it? Oswy, Northumbria’s king, the foremost rode,
Oswy triumphant o’er the Mercian host, To sue for blessing on his
sceptre new; With him an Anglian prince, student long time In
Bangor of the Irish, and a monk Of Gallic race far wandering from
the Marne: They came to look on Hilda, hear her words Of far-
famed wisdom on the Interior Life: For Hilda thus discoursed: “True
life of man Is life within: inward immeasurably The being winds of
all who walk the earth; But he whom sense hath blinded nothing
knows Of that wide greatness: like a boy is he That clambers round
some castle’s wall extern In search of nests—the outward wall of
seven— Yet nothing knows of those great courts within, The hall
where princes banquet, or the bower Where royal maidens touch
the lyre and lute, Much less its central church, and sacred shrine
Wherein God dwells alone.”[159] Thus Hilda spake; And they that
gazed upon her widening eyes Low whispered, each to each, “She
speaks of things Which she hath seen and known.”
On Whitby’s crest The royal feast was holden: far below, A noisier
revel dinned the shore; therein The humbler guests partook. Full
many a tent Glimmered upon the white sands, ripple-kissed; Full
many a savory dish sent up its steam; The farmer from the field
had driven his calf; The fisher brought the harvest of the sea; And
Jock, the woodsman, from his oaken glades The tall stag, arrow-
pierced. In gay attire Now green, now crimson, matron sat and
maid: Each had her due: the elder, reverence most, The lovelier
that and love. Beside the board The beggar lacked not place.
When hunger’s rage, Sharpened by fresh sea-air, was quelled, the
jest Succeeded, and the tale of foreign lands; But, boast who might
of distant chief renowned, His battle-axe, or fist that felled an ox,
The Anglian’s answer was “our Hilda” still: “Is not her prayer
puissant as sworded hosts? Her insight more than wisdom of the
seers? What birth like hers illustrious? Edwin’s self, Dëira’s exile,
next Northumbria’s king, Her kinsman was. Together bowed they
not When he of holy hand, missioned from Rome, Paulinus, poured
o’er both the absolving wave And knit to Christ? Kingliest was she,
that maid Who spurned earth-crowns!” The night advanced, he rose
That ruled the feast, the miller old, yet blithe, And cried, “A song!”
So song succeeded song, For each man knew that time to chant his
stave, But no man yet sang nobly. Last the harp Made way to
Ceadmon, lowest at the board: He pushed it back, answering, “I
cannot sing:” Around him many gathered clamoring, “Sing!” And
one among them, voluble and small, Shot out a splenetic speech:
“This lord of kine, Our herdsman, grows to ox! Behold, his eyes
Move slow, like eyes of oxen!”
Sudden rose
Ceadmon, and spake: “I note full oft young men
Quick-eyed, but small-eyed, darting glances round
Now here, now there, like glance of some poor bird,
That light on all things and can rest on none:
As ready are they with their tongues as eyes;
But all their songs are chirpings backward blown
On winds that sing God’s song, by them unheard:
My oxen wait my service: I depart.”
Then strode he to his cow-house in the mead,
Displeased though meek, and muttered, “Slow of eye!
My kine are slow: if I were swift my hand
Might tend them worse.” Hearing his steps the kine
Turned round their hornèd foreheads: angry thoughts
Went from him as a vapor. Straw he brought,
And strewed their beds; and they, contented well,
Down laid ere long their great bulks, breathing deep
Amid the glimmering moonlight. He, with head
Propped on the white flank of a heifer mild,
Rested, his deer-skin o’er him drawn. Hard days
Bring slumber soon. His latest thought was this:
“Though witless things we are, my kine and I,
Yet God it was who made us.”
As he slept,
Beside him stood a Man Divine and spake;
“Ceadmon, arise, and sing.” Ceadmon replied,
“My Lord, I cannot sing, and for that cause
Forth from the revel came I. Once, in youth,
I willed to sing the bright face of a maid,
And failed, and once a gold-faced harvest-field,
And failed, and once the flame-eyed face of war,
And failed once more.” To him the Man Divine,
“Those themes were earthly. Sing!” And Ceadmon said,
“What shall I sing, my Lord?” Then answer came,
“Ceadmon, stand up, and sing thy song of God.”
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