“Thank God for beautiful Scottish girls in pretty summer dresses, for if we cannot give thanks for this we have become more hard-hearted than Pharoah.” – Ezra Pierce

Part the First: On St Andrews, Oxford, and Leisure

The past few days have been nice and relaxing, which, come to think of it, are what most St Andrews days are like. I think Josef Pieper would thoroughly prefer the University of St Andrews to the University of Oxford. We are an institution which makes leisure – the basis of culture – possible. Truthfully speaking, Oxford students are so laden with work that they actually do in one week what St Andrews do in an entire semester. As a result, they are stressed out of their minds and worked to an extreme. This situation ideally suits Ezra Pierce, formerly of St Andrews and now a first-year at Hertford College Oxford, who has been up here in town visiting for a few days, sleeping on the sofa in our living room.

For me, therein lies the attraction of the Universitas doctorum magistrorum et scholarum Sancti Andreae apud Scotos: free time in which you are allowed to develop yourself, or not to develop at all, or even to devolve. I may be taking classes titled ‘France Since 1940: Politics, Culture, and Society’ and ‘Art and Piety in Western Europe 1400-1700’ but I have ample time to delve into subjects more akin to my interests; Graf von Stauffenberg, the architectural works of Lorimer, the humour of P.J. O’Rourke, or the holiness of Pier Giorgio Frassati. I have always prefered self-learning to formal instruction, and I wish that it was not until my third year here before I realized I have more free time now than I ever will in my entire life.

So I do as I please. I go for leisurely strolls down the West Sands. I read random books about architecture or history or religion or whatnot in the University Library. I muse upon the architecture of St Salvator’s Chapel. I mourn the withered ruins of our once-great cathedral. I run something which can approximately be described as a newspaper. I have pints of John Smith’s in the Central or the Russell, or a Leffe in the Cellar Bar. I discuss. I go to balls. I read the paper. This and that. Were I at Oxford I would have to read and write and read and write and read and so on and so forth. What a terrible bore! Though I pine to return to the motherland, I much prefer the leafy, lacsidaisical approach to academia which I live out at St Andrews than all that work nonsense they make you do at Oxford.

That said, some part of me (say, my thumb, or perhaps my epiglottis) admires those who, both here and at Oxford, actually work very hard and get very good grades and all that jazz. David Taylor got a twenty on his dissertation. A twenty! Out of twenty! I mean, you’ve got to give a guy credit for that, especially when he’s an affable chap with a decent personality instead of some spoilsport who spends all his time in the library. I sometimes try to start arguments with him over various topics when my cook has him over for tea, but as much as I try to be approbrious to him for his ridiculous Guardian-influenced views we actually get along quite well.

Part the Second: On the merits of Miss Jennings

Speaking of my cook, there are two folks to whom I owe a lot to over the span of my university career, one of whom is my cook, Jocelyn, and the other is my secretary, Miss Jennings (or Personal Assitant to the Editor, as she is officially styled). Miss Jennings is simply amazing. Presented with any Cusackian crisis she faithfully answers the call of duty. Miss Jennings, I need a cell phone. Miss Jennings, I want to have lunch with Tom Leppard sometime next week. Miss Jennings, we need to give disapproving looks to local townsfolk. Miss Jennings, remind me I have a club dinner in the Golf Hotel on Friday. Miss Jennings, how do I get this or that, etc., etc., etc. Without her help, I would not have been able to organise my various responsibilities so that I still am able to spend half my time doing nothing in particular.

Eventually, I was convinced I needed to scale back some of said responsibilites and have done so accordingly. This freed up time for Miss Jennings to persue interests of her own (which are myriad). Nonetheless, we all need a little break sometime, and Miss Jennings has decided that she will not be finishing the semester, but will return in the fall. If anyone deserves a break it’s Miss Jennings!

In the spirit of appreciation and celebration, a good number of us gathered at the bar of the Byre Theatre last night to kick back a few in honour of this great young lady. I consumed an appreciable amount of Budvar myself, while White Russians seemed to be de rigeur for most of the ladyfolk. And best of all, since this coming Wednesday is my twenty-first, Miss Jennings conferred upon me a wonderful little gift: a coffee mug marked “His Lordship”.

Part the Third: The Evening Previous

Began with the Opus Dei talk at Canmore; a very plain-speaking guy named Jim McFie who lives in Glasgow. (Sr. Roseanne Reddy is coming back after the break, Stefano informs me). Then back home, where one of my flatmates was hosting a Chapel Choir party (pajama-themed). I changed garb to jacket and tie and headed over to the Officers Mess at Wyverne (cheapest pint in town) to enjoy a few Grolschs with Chris C., Matt Normington, and George Irwin, and to discuss affairs of varying importance. Midnight closing time we headed to George Irwin’s flat (No. 14 in my building), played some poker, lost £3, headed down to my flat around 1:00 after having a brief conversation in the hallway with George’s neighbour Tamsin who’s a friend of Piers Thompson.

I have, of late, also noticed the presence of a canine in our beloved Southgait Hall; a West Highland Terrier by the name of Molly. Has she been here the whole time and I’ve just never run into her? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I held the door open for her when she returned from an evening promenade this very evening and she growled at me! Ah well. They say you should never let the sun go down with an argument unresolved. I disagree. I find that by the time I wake up the next morning, I couldn’t give a steeplejack’s penknife for any disputes from the day before.

Last night was the St. Mary’s College Society ball, held at the St Andrews Golf Hotel on the Scores. A good time was had by all, and was augmented by the presence of our good friend Mr. Stephen Oliver up visiting from Stonyhurst where he teaches. (more…)

And a very poor likeness as well. A blind man could draw a wheelchair better than that one. (I think it was Miss Robinson’s work). Still, the medium of chalk is a difficult one for portraits, I am told.

Snow-covered peaks viewed from Edinburgh Castle.

The busy nature of the past week or so has been the reason for a distinct lack of posting. And the fact that I have an essay for Monday, a presentation for Tuesday, and another essay for Friday means there may not be all that much over the next week either.

We have been graced with two guests in the Auld Grey Toon recently, the first of which was Chris Moreland, a reactionary Catholic friend of Chris C., followed this past week by my cousin Mark Gannon visiting Europe for the first time. I’m pretty sure both enjoyed it thoroughly. It was fun acclimatizing Mark to the various idiosyncrasies of St Andrews; they are legion.

In the midst of all this, Jon and Abby had a dinner party for the feast of St Thomas Aquinas and it was quite a grand affair. We consumed two bottles of champagne, ten bottles of red wine, a bottle of port, and some cognac to boot, ending at nearly three in the morning. There was more wine left and I was ready to carry on til dawn, but I don’t think Jon’s flatmates would’ve appreciated it. No doubt the ‘Dumb Ox’ was proud of our prodigious endeavour in his honor. Unfortunately the conversation was of such a jovial nature that it would not bear repeating on the internet, for fear of the entire slate of participants being banned from positions in most realms on employment. A damn good time; many thanks to Jon and Abby.

Now I’ve got to get a bite to eat for lunch and head off to rosary. Pray for the conversion of India!

Before rosary today, Clare and I sat in the living room of Canmore listening to Rachmaninov’s piano concertos on the record player. She read abour Irenaeus, whereas I read the Telegraph. We decided that we were discontented with the state of the world, and that this would be partially remedied if girls wore skirts and men wore collared shirts and ties. (Said despite Claire being trousered and me being collar-and-tieless).

Today, after printing off the Review (which, by the way, is both erudite and informative, as well hilarious, especially “Ishmael”‘s contribution) and going to Rosary, I popped over to St. Salvator’s Hall (aka ‘Sallies’, seen above) where Kat and Jocie were watching a dvd of The Office. I sold Kat a copy of the MLR, and she played with a yoyo I found while I was home.

Now, there is a certain misconception going around which has reached almost mythical proportions in the Royal Burgh. It is thus: that I am an infrequent visitor to the Bibliotheca Sancti Andreae, more commonly known as the University Library (f. 1612 by one of the King Jameses). This misconception has spread to such an extent that once, chancing upon Rob and Maria in the stairwell of said insitution, Rob expectorated “Fancy seeing you here!” with the smug tone of a too-frequent visitor-of-libraries and the engaged ensemble burst into laughter.

Well, haw haw! I do visit the library, and have even gone so far as to wander the stacks on occasion, finding upon one such a misadventure, decades of bound Spectators for perusing. But to return to the story, following my visit to Sallies, I made my way towards the main library taking a route which took me through St. Salvator’s Quad, reflecting upon the comeliness of which, I decided to take a photograph.

It shows the entrance to College Hall, wherein many important events take place such as examinations, public meetings, champagne receptions, and the like. Moving along from the Quad into Butts Wynd (‘wynd’ is Scots for alley, ye uninformed), I nearly ran right into 2Lt. Robert Cockburn of the Queens Own Yeomanry, a magistrand (that’s a fourth year student, ye uninformed) who happens to be running for the presidency of our Students Union. I told 2Lt. Cockburn to strike a dashing pose, and he gave it his best.

The other candidates are unreconstructed socialist Marco Biagi, future Conservative MP Adrian Galey, and my cook Jocelyn. The real surprise is that Alex Yabroff, a Californian of liberal Episcopalian extraction and member of the Kate Kennedy Club, has decided not to run. Reasons unknown. UPDATE: Alex Yabroff is running.

Anyhow, I went to the top floor of the library and found myself a desk, from which I took the following photos.

The saltire flies from the top of the Town Hall, with the spire of Holy Trinity kirk to the right.

The sun hides behind clouds, with the rooftop and chimneys of the Crawford Centre.

Lizzie popped round to the library to purchase a copy of the Review off me, and I gave her my Spectator as well, since I was done with it. Very good article by some Oxford academic decrying attempts by that University to move away from the traditional tutorial system of education to put a greater emphasis on money-making research. Anyhow, at nearly half past five, I’d had enough of reading various books and egressed our hideous modern library, but just then took a photo of our beauteous College Tower, which I will leave you with.

The Telegraph today reports that James Mawdsley, the human rights activist thrice chucked into Burmese prisons for his pro-democracy campaigns, will be standing in the next general election as the Conservative candidate for Hyndburn.

Mawdlsey, a good Catholic and a friend of Jon Burke and Peter Cox, was only just married last month, spending his honeymoon in Rome where he and his wife Elizabeth were blessed by the Holy Father.

Best of luck to him, and I very much hope he wins. This moribnd parliament needs more ardent defenders of the right to life and civil liberties.

Well, last night was magnificent. Fraulein Hesser and I travelled down to Edinburgh for the Knights of Malta Ball at the Assembly Rooms in George Street. Our party was organised by Mr. Gerald Warner whose visceral lashings in print of all the senior hubrisarchs of our day are published in weekly in Scotland on Sunday. Alas, Mr. Warner was exposed to mumps recently, and thus could not come for fear of spreading the contagion, but he very kindly gifted us two tickets, for which we are extremely grateful. We toasted his health. (more…)

This afternoon Abby and I ran into Chicago’s unwanted child Jamie Branda and Alabama’s biggest liability Chris C. on South Street. They were having a “day of whimsy” and decided to purchase some fetching blue caps from Lord only knows where, and thus I felt compelled to record it for posterity.

De temps en temps j’ai une excuse pour écrire une entrée en mon pauvre français, et la visite d’Emelie à St Andrews est une excuse par excellence. La merveilleuse Claire Dempsey était assez aimable pour accueillir un petit événement la nuit passée dans le aumônierie (Canmore).

Nous avons discuté des matières fascinantes comme des pommes de terre (ou “spuds” comme Clare les appelle), dommages du rugby d’Emelie, le fait que des fonctionnaires (civil servants) français sont payés pour ne faire rien, et avec précision quoi appeler la couleur de la chemise de Stefano. (Il s’est étendu des saumons à la fraise écrasée).

Clare, Stefano, et Emelie dans la cuisine de Canmore.

Some have said that the students of the University of St Andrews are pampered layabouts with nothing much to do. Today, we proved them wrong. We packed a microwave with butane-filled baloons and metallic materials and blew it up in a potato patch. And had a barbecue. (more…)

I have taken somewhat ill, so I thought in order to keep the loyal readers entertained, I’d show some photos I took just the other day when we actually had some decent sun. Above is the turret of the Old Union Building on North Street. The building, across Butts Wynd from St. Salvator’s College, was constructed in the medieval period and housed the Admirable Crichton during his student years. It was, from the mid-19th century until the 1960’s, home to the Student’s Union, which was run as a male-only gentleman’s club with billiard room, library, cafe, and such, with the Women’s Union located in the adjacent Georgian townhouses and a dining hall attached in an 19th century addition to the rear. (The Gymnasium used as a drill hall by the OTC further to the rear along Butts Wynd is now the computer center). The two organisations merged in the 60’s and moved into the functional greivous brutalist concrete Student Union building that nobody likes on St. Mary’s Place.

This photograph shows the 18th hole of the Old Course. On the far left is the Royal and Ancient Golf Club, then the red-brick Hamilton Hall (currently a University dormitory but being sold off), and at the far right is the Rusacks Hotel (in my opinion, the best in town). For a closer look at the photo, click here.

And this photo is taken from the Scores, looking across the bay towards the West Sands and beyond. At the very center of the photo you can just make out the control tower of RAF Leuchars.

Now I will go back to bed, being miserable, and reading about the Popular Front government in 1930’s France. (Boo! Hiss!).

Well. We all had such a Shrove Tuesday that Ash Wednesday was made all the more penetential. The fast was made more endurable by the fact that I only finally rose from my bed about two hours past midday, and upon rising decided to shave off the previously mentioned beard which had seen fit to make its habitation upon my own grim visage.

On embarking upon the rail journey from Edinburgh’s Waverley Station, chance had it that my good friend Emma was in the same railway car, and the conversation made the trip pass much more quickly. Emma lives near Oxford, and had flown up to Edinburgh from Birmingham. Anyhow we discussed the troubles and travails of our measly student existences – finding places to live, grades, people, etc — and Nicholas Vincent was kind enough to pick us up from the barren surrounds of Leuchars rail station and transport us to the Royal Burgh of St Andrews itself.

Emma had to run but Nicholas and I then decided to avail ourselves of the very advantageously-priced Sunday luncheon on offer at the Oak Rooms. A decent lunch for a fiver, though the popularity of the offer meant we had to wait a short while for a table. Thus, a pint of Guinness accompanied our wait and we discussed Freddy St. Johnstone’s keeness on a United Nations career. This sparked me to go on one of my textbook tirades on U.N. corruption and fecklessness, though were I offered a U.N. job which involved freedom from parking violations, kids’ school fees paid, and the effective right to refuse to travel anywhere unless there is suitable accomodation of at least four stars, I wouldn’t refuse.

That evening I stopped into the Russell for a pint with Rob and Maria and was filled in on all the latest talk and chatter. They had, the evening previous, dined with a few friends of ours, Mr. Peter Blair (the convenor of the Debating Society) his belle, Miss Sarah Laurence Goodwin (previously mentioned in these pages), as well as California’s most eligible daughter, Fraulein Abigail Hesser, and Bristol City F.C.’s biggest fan north of the border, Mr. Jonathan Burke.

Monday morning played host to the first of my two courses, ‘France Since 1940: Politics, Culture, and Society’, with the ever capable Stephen Tyre (of last term’s ‘French Algeria 1830-1962’) at the helm. Without last term’s Fraser, I’m afraid that our discussions in pursuit of higher knowledge will no longer be steered towards banter regarding deep-seated Scottish football rivalries. I very much look forward to the rest of the course though. There are a few old faces amongst the other students in the course.

Tuesday, yesterday, was my other course for the term, ‘Art and Piety in Western Europe, 1400-1700’ lead by Dr. Bridget Heal, of whom “Ishmael” is an ardent admirer. Though a Modern History course, it leans somewhat towards Art History, which means that Matt Gorrie, one other fellow, and myself are the only chaps in a class of about fifteen. I look forward to hissing Calvinist iconoclasts and urging onwards Tridentine reformers. Margaret Breed, a Brearley girl who defeats the school’s stereotype by being interesting, engaging, and just plain generally endearing, is also in the course.

Mrs. Freeburn is introducing me to the fascinating world of Bollywood cinema. Cinema aside, the other day I was thinking what a glorious culture and civilization India has, and how magnificent it would be if it was conquered by the Faith. If orientalism in ecclesiastical architecture is to your taste, you might want to check out the Church of the Immaculate Conception in New Orleans, especially the beautiful altar.

Projected printing date of next Mitre: well, let’s hope Friday.

We had all heard talk and rumors of this crazy site from all our friends who are conventional enough to attend colleges and universities in the Motherland, but now thefacebook.com has arrived at St Andrews. This popular… well, what the heck does one call it? forum, I suppose, has ventured outside North America for the first time and made itself available to students at St A’s, Oxford, Cambridge, Trinity Dublin, and the American University of Paris.

I have to say, despite my inherent suspicion of all things new and technological, it’s quite a nifty thing. What you do is, you enter your official university e-mail address to verify you are a real student at a particular university and then you make a profile about yourself and your friends do the same and you add them as your official friends and before you know it you have a veritable network of confederates with photos, their birthdays, favorite books and movies, quotes, and everything. You can even poke people (and poking is one of our most formidable pasttimes).

One of my favorite bits is this nifty tally by which you keep account of your official friends at other institutions:

Heck, I just joined last night and I’ve already got twenty-nine of my friends officially friend-ed on Facebook. In terms of non-St-Andreans, NYU is currently in the lead with 3, the rest all have one, but once I get Will Moller added Kenyon will move to second place with 2. I’ve got seven or so St Andreans so far. Niftiness.

I AM BACK HOME in New York after having completed my Martinmas term examinations. This morning, my mother, sister, brother-in-law, and I went out for breakfast to celebrate my “triumphant return from another term at university.” (I suggested it might be wiser to wait until the casualty reports are released before we declare it a triumph).

Nonetheless, I now have three weeks of time almost entirely free from obligations to do whatever I please. It is perhaps how a man spends his free time that defines him, as free time is the foundation of civilization itself. Roger Kimball reflects on this in a recent Armavirumque posting, mentioning Josef Pieper and Leisure: The Basis of Culture, a book I was first introduced to by Robert O’Brien whilst still half-asleep at 7:30 in the morning waiting for a train at Leuchars station so we could attend the Tridentine mass in Edinburgh.

Leisure, by which we mean doing something merely for its own sake, is entirely different from mere pleasure. Unfortunately for the English language, we oft mistake the two for synonyms. It is leisure in that latter sense, of idleness and cheap pleasure, which our good friend Prof. Richard Demarco resoundly condemned in a lecture he gave at St Andrews. This kind of leisure, he stated, was leading to the destruction of Scotland, of Europe, and of civilization. Art today, according to Richard, is a collection of usually talentless kitsch which seeks merely to create an arrangement that is pleasing or clever. Art, in Richard Demarco’s world, should not aim to be pleasing, or to be clever, but should have as its essence the very highest that man can achieve: the sanctification of souls. In pursuit of pleasure rather than leisure, tourism is taking over entire countries; a false economy which can enslave the entire population of a given area.

It is certainly rampant in St Andrews. There are many good reasons to visit St Andrews. The third-oldest university in the English-speaking world, for example, or perhaps to see ruins of one of the greatest shrines in Christendom, bearing witness to the visceral damage wrought by the Protestant Revolution (we should refuse to dignify that revulsion with the name of ‘reformation’; it destroyed and replaced, not reformed). Most, however, come for the golf.

While niches once full remain empty from the holocausts of five centuries ago, the Scottish Parliament would prefer to spend its millions (which, you must never forget, are the people’s millions) on encouraging this pointless and ineffective idleness, Demarco pointed out. More recently, South Street, where I live, will soon be shorn of its beautiful trees, those which make it one of the most inviting and comely thoroughfares in the Royal Burgh. This must be done, we are told, to increase the number of parking spaces, the paucity of which might be driving away potential tourists. Perish the thought! Heaven forbid a town be run for the benefit of its inhabitants, for the benefit of itself (but surely by now they have already forbidden Heaven).

As Mr. Kimball points out, the opposite of the former leisure, the leisure which Pieper posits is the basis of culture, is busyness. Perhaps we can extend this to business, for it is the dollar, the pound, and the euro which enslave St Andrews to transient tourists. Without tourism, some say, St Andrews, or Oxford or Venice or wherever, would not survive. But at what price survival? And who defines this survival? That these places are still on the map and are inhabited is for sure. But in some sense have not these places, while encouraging tourism as a mode of survival, been so changed and transformed that in fact they have not survived. Decrepit and rundown, they may have been, but at least they had authenticity; at least they were themselves. Now most of the goods sold in St Andrews – saltires, fake kilts, tam o’shanters, and Scotland t-shirts – are in fact things that can be purchased in half the towns in Scotland, and now with the advent of the internet, you can purchase them while you remain at home. Their cheapness is only accompanied by the sentiment of being a souvenir in the original French sense of the word: to remember. But they are remembrances for short memories, and likely will be thrown out within a year, because we, and it all comes back to this, do not have the time for longer memories.

Thus one of the chief values of an education must be free time. St Andrews affords this, I am glad to say; especially if you are an arts student and are not aiming for a first. All too often friends of mine at universities in the States or at Oxbridge are busy. They are either busy with busywork, (assignments for school which must be done to stay in the university but have little graded value or academic merit) or else busy with social activity and other amusements which vary greatly as to whether one’s in a big city or not (most often the case with NYU students I find).

When I finally start my university, we must make sure that students have enough free time then, perhaps the greatest argument for not locating it in an overactive urban metropolis. Though of course a good part of education is that which transmits information and ideas and, more importantly, inculcates moral values, much must be left up to the student. There is an inherent value in reading not what is required but what is desired.

And so I will get on with my post-exam break, reading the Pickwick Papers, the Everlasting Man, and This Side of Paradise, hopefully with some time to browse through Haldane’s Faithful Reason: Essays Catholic and philosophical (which, on a typographical note, makes ample use of the Gill Sans font).

I’m back off to Caledonia this evening for my examinations. But I’m back to New York by the evening of next Sunday anyhow, so I’m not gone for long.

For a peek at what our exams are actually like, here are the questions from last year’s exam for “MO3322 French Algeria 1830-1962”. Three questions must be answered in the space of three hours.

Dr. Robert O’Hara (who runs one of my favorite website) recently took it upon himself to visit the University of Durham and provided a few snapshots. Of most interest to me is University College Durham, situated in ancient Durham Castle. I think perhaps when I start my university our very first college might be partly modelled on this. (more…)

The brouhaha over our university’s ironically-titled tabloid, the Saint, has made it to the respectable papers.

The Scotsman‘s Education Correspondent, Kevin Schofield, writes today under the headline of “University challenge to freedom of speech – and Welsh jokes“. Slightly misleading since in this instance the challenge is from the Students Union not the University administration, but it was given a mention on the front page of Scotland’s national newspaper. The Scotsman also published an opinion piece entitled “New puritanism we last witnessed in ’20s Germany” which seems slightly hyperbolic.

Andrew Murray-Watson reports in the Telegraph of “Student newspaper at St Andrews University closed after ‘making racist attack on the Welsh’“. The most amusing bit from this article is a quote from Saint editor Jo Kerr:

The terms “broadsheet quality” and “sophisticated manner” appearing in an article about the Saint are hilarious! This from a newspaper which feels free to lecture about Christians and Christianity while displaying a wholesale ignorance of the Faith (e.g. referring to St. Patrick as a “biblical superhero” and ridiculous statements about the Christian Union).

I stumbled upon this rather drole piece from 1902 about the prophesized New-Yorkification of London in Harmsworth’s Magazine. “If London Were Like New York: A Peak At The Metropolis After The American Invasion” is accompanied by some amusing illustrations of the anonymous authors vision of the future.

Trafalgar Square is rededicated to George Washington, and decorated to celebrate his birthday.

An el is built right through the heart of the City.

There’s even a precursor of our famous American fast food. Perhaps the most prophetic of the author’s predictions!

The Saint, paragon of social liberalism and this university’s other newspaper, has ironically been banned from using the Student Union’s facilities (in which their offices are located) for making offensive comments about “LGBT students, dyslexics and the Welsh.” How amusing to see infighting amongst the useless institutions of the University!

Oddly enough, despite frequent cause for complaint, there is no mention of numerous offensive comments and innacuracies about Christians. This is probably because most Christians are so used to assaults from the press we don’t bother complaining.

Well, you all read the Mitre anyhow.

Students Association President Simon Atkins’ letter.
Samizdata reports the ban.

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