Windy Hollow, Millbrook, Rombout, Smithtown — doubtless these words mean nothing to many but to the huntsmen (and -women) of New York they are immediately recognised as the names of some of the Empire State’s hunts.

These four hunts are just some of the survivors but there were once many more packs of hounds across the state. Long Island before the second war was excellent hunt country but thanks to rapid suburbanisation and cultural changes only the Smithtown Hunt survives there.

Still, hunting loomed large enough in the imagination that it featured on the front cover of The New Yorker with some regularity.

Indeed the very week of the Kennedy assassination, houses up and down Manhattan and the whole East Coast would have had their copy of the magazine with a hunting scene front and centre. (President Kennedy did ride, but of the two of them it was the First Lady who was keener on the hunt.)

Here are just a few of the covers I’ve found.

Roll over the covers for the date of the issue to appear.

Three sausages for breakfast, followed by reading from Gordon Brook Shepherd’s life of Empress Zita. Purchased my usual sugar doughring from Fisher and Donaldson and the latest Country Life from J&G Innes (all about London this week). The options for luncheon in hall were of asiatic origin so I boycotted and ate about half a loaf of buttered brown bread instead while reading Country Life in the Common Room of Canmore. There were a few people there; Adrian cataloguing the Catholic Truth Society pamphlets out of nothing better to do, Stefano sitting around waiting for his next tutorial, Liam lurking about, and “Ishmael” came in just to be social.

For a while we savaged Stefano because of his desire to show dirty films about Venetian courtesans in Canmore. Canmore, the Catholic Chaplaincy mind you, and Stefano is President of the Catholic Society. “Ishmael” and I slagged him off for being a dirty continental, which he just sort of brushed aside. We thought he was being a bit imperious, perhaps even episcopal, so we decided to turn the chair he was seated in into an impromptu sedia gestatoria. “Ishmael”, Adrian, Liam, and I each took one leg and raised His Foppishness aloft, processed him out of the Common Room, into the hallway, out the door, and into the street. We made as if we were going to give him the old heave-ho but eventually just put him down and ran back inside. Earlier he had taken off his shoes, and thus was stuck in the chair, in the street without any shoes on. By then we had gathered in the window to witness the poor man, yelling at us to carry him aloft “back into the palace”, gesticulating wildly, pointing out his lack of footgear. And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed. Eventually he got tired of our churlish manner and hopped back into the building, avoiding a puddle or two. “I hate you all,” he said, “and you didn’t carry me high enough,” then descending into ramblings about how at the next Catholic Society meeting the president should enter the room in a sedia. We resumed savaging him, and I had another slice of brown bread.

A little while later, I looked out towards the sea and the West Sands and felt them calling me forth. I had not gone for a walk along the beach yet this term, and it seemed as good a time as any. Though the sun was out I brought along my umbrella, just in case, and headed down past the Royal & Ancient Golf Club, past the putting green, and onto the Sands. Walks along the beach must be done at a very relaxed and leisurely rate. Every now and then I came across some driftwood or other such things that wash up on the beaches of Fife and gave them a little prod with my brolly and then, curiousity satisfied, carried along. I travelled about two thirds of the way down before seeking shelter from the breeze in one of the little dales within the dunes, took out some Marcus Aurelius that was hiding in my jacket pocket and had a little read. When I felt that my thirst for the wisdom of the ages was at least temporarily quenched, I decided to head back into town along the dune route. The beach is, as you would imagine, flat, whereas coming back along the dunes is a constant up and down through narrow sandy crevices with lots of reeds and tall grass on either side of you. If you ever visit St Andrews, you must go for a walk along the West Sands, and it’s advisable (if suitably agile) to walk at least partially along the dune paths.

Heading back into town, a Japanese couple asked me to take their photo in front of the R&A, and I duly obliged before slipping into the Quarto bookshop. The Quarto sells used books, and I had a good look around to see if there was anything new to peruse. I had a little read through a book on the history and traditions of the Channel Islands before heading back to hall, and here I am now, transcribing the day’s journey to you. Nothing left today but circuit training for the Boat Club, followed by a meeting of said august body. Hope it doesn’t last too long, else I’ll miss dinner. Some sort of pasta dish tonight; should be at least edible.

Previously: The West Sands

I’ve never heard of nor seen this house before. Unfortunately NYPL titles it merely as “A Westchester County Country House”. Not very helpful. I wonder if it’s still around. I rather like it. It has a nice simple, warm, cozy feel to it.

UPDATE: John Massengale informs us: “This is a house by Harrie T. Lindeberg. There’s a monograph of his work here. I haven’t looked at the book in a long time, but this might be the Stillman house in Pocantico Hills. Stillman was married to a Rockefeller, and the house is on the Rockefeller land there.”

As I was walking to Mass this morning, I enjoyed listening to the crunch and brush of leaves underfoot that so wonderfully heralds the autumnal season. Today is one of those beautiful fall days when the sun is shining, the air is crisp, the wind slight, and the temperature slightly chilled but nowhere near uncomfortable.

Yesterday evening I had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Michael Fryer, who is surely the funniest man in all of Fife (at least whenever he’s in Fife; he’s an Ulsterman after all). We were both lamenting the fact that, in spite of St Andrews advertising itself as the university at which one is most likely to find one’s spouse, both of us are in our fourth year and remain as yet without prospective permanent ladyfolk. Right then, Dr. Brian Lang (the Principal and Vice-Chancellor, the man who runs the University) happened to walk into the pub and I considered walking over and demanding a refund, but the conversation turned to subjects greater in mundanity.

Another great thing about this time of year is the wearing of the poppy. No one seems to be quite sure when Remembrancetide begins and when the poppy should first be worn. In the absence of any official protocol to my knowledge, I usually judge that as soon as the Scottish Poppy Appeal start collecting money and distributing poppies, then is the time for wearing them. When it comes to Remembrance Sunday itself, I never miss the Festival of Remembrance broadcast on the telly, and neither should you. It’s a disgrace that it’s not broadcast on the web for those throughout the world unable to see it on their televisions. Still, it’s great to see so many poppies worn about town by young and old alike.

Later on last evening I had the added bonus of a pint and smoke with another Irishman, Mr. Alexander O’Hara of Galway. Alec and I are both fans of the pipe, and we enjoyed a good pint and some conversation a little late into the evening. Alec’s company is enjoyable because, like me, he is anti-social, and there are few things more enjoyable than being anti-social with other anti-social people. He’s in the midst of his doctoral thesis on Norwegian saints, which means he has to nitpick through various Latin manuscripts, translating them himself. Poor man! Still, he’ll have something to show for it at the end.

Well, unfortunately there’s work to be done so I must be off. A very happy All Saints’ Day to you all!

BERTRAM GROSVENOR Goodhue considered the Church of the Intercession at 155th Street and Broadway in New York his masterpiece. Being one of the greatest American architects ever, Goodhue knew what he was talking about, and the Church is undoubtedly one of his best. He was one of the last great American creators, a modern architect working within the great tradition. (Art deco, the style in which Goodhue’s award-winning Nebraska state capitol was built, was perhaps the last style within the tradition until a few post-modernists took their stab at reconnecting with the past). (more…)

Here we observe the wastrel in his natural habitat: passed out on a sofa in a student flat at the University of St Andrews — the institution with the highest per capita number of wastrels in the British Commonwealth of Nations. In actual fact, Rob & Maria made an official visit up to Andreanopolis this weekend, and Abigail, Adrian, and Pamela graciously through a dinner party in their honour at Step Rock Cottage; Rob and Maria are exiled monarchs of the Catholic dinner party circuit.

The sad thing is this photo was taken before the party even started. I was exhausted from having woken up at 7:00am and spent the entire day rowing at Strathclyde Park that I just dragged myself over to the cottage on Gillespie Wynd at the appointed time in the evening and collapsed on the sofa in front of the crackling fire. It was sublime.

Below you can see Father Freddy, the resident chaplain at Step Rock Cottage, garbed in the appropriate chasuble for the liturgical season. He stands on the window sill blessing the herb garden all day long, or at least he usually does. At the moment he’s on his way to Downside for a retreat.

Ardolph Loges Kline, one of my grandfather’s predecessors as Commander of the Old Guard of the City of New York, on the 89th Anniversary of the Old Guard, April 22, 1915. Kline was the acting Mayor of New York who started the annual tradition of lighting the Christmas Tree in City Hall Park (or ‘holiday tree’ as it is now officially called). This ceremony has since been eclipsed in popularity by the Rockefeller Center tree lighting, but still takes place every year.

Here we have C.H. Heustis on his 85th birthday in 1922. Heustis served in General Burnside’s brigade during the Civil War, later becoming a broker on Wall Street. He never missed a single meeting or parade of the Old Guard once he joined.

From the Bettmann archive.

Previously: The Old Guard | Grandpa

by Rev. George W. Rutler (via CERC)

Of wealth and war, Chauncey Devereux Stillman (1907-1989) knew much and said little.

In his country home in Dutchess County, now a museum he endowed, is a youthful portrait that makes it easy to imagine Chauncey in Paris in the Roaring Twenties. In 1942, the future commodore of the New York Yacht Club donated his gorgeous flagship Westerly as a patrol boat on the lookout for German submarines.

Schools and charities flourished by his philanthropy, especially after his embrace of Catholicism. The Gentleman of His Holiness was an efficient cause of many of the Church’s most vigorous new academic and cultural institutions.

The last Mass he heard was in his Madison Avenue apartment, and his whispered request of me was that the sign of peace be omitted “because the butler finds it awkward.” … Continue in full

Has our former Gifford Research Fellow spent too much time considering jus in bello? Nay, rather John Lamont, aka Big John, sends these photos as proof of his efforts to combat the avian flu business that’s going round.

There’s the culprit! Duly nabbed by JL.

Looks tasty. Rather envious!

Despite the ban on students flying flags from their windows, I’m happy to say that four students hung Union Jacks out their windows in St Salvator’s Hall today to mark the Battle of Trafalgar. Two were on the front side of hall, two on the back. I took photos of the two on the front side. Mine is above, and the other one below (I don’t know to whom the room belongs).

Twas on this day two centuries ago that the Royal Navy under Lord Nelson gave the combined French and Spanish fleet a right good whalloping, thus ensuring that freedom and responsible constitutional government would flourish and spread for two centuries afterward.

So today we raise a glass to Lord Nelson, and spit on the name Bonaparte! (And Hitler, and Stalin, and Brussels, and any such nastiness the continent dare throw against the English-speaking peoples of the world!).

George, Cockburn the Younger, and yours truly were sitting in the pub this evening when George got a text message on his phone from none other than 2Lt. W. Calderhead, currently serving in Iraq. It read something like

Very non-chalant. Very Calderhead. Anyhow, a package of goodies shall be heading Bill’s way quite soon.

Tonight a very intelligent friend of mine informed me that she believes I am a wastrel and that I have squandered my university years. I found this very interesting (and a tad funny), considering that it is my firm belief that I have gotten more out of my years at St Andrews than I had ever expected I would. Are there regrets, should’ves, and why-didn’t-I’s? Of course. Hindsight, after all, is 20/20, but I do not regret my relative inattention to grades.

It all comes down to standards. By whose standards does one judge a quartet of university years? I believe that there are a number of ways to measure success, or the lack thereof, during one’s time at university. I myself have never found the pursuit of academic achievement particularly fulfilling. This is not to say I think it is a bad thing; by no means. I have the utmost respect for my friends who excel academically. I always found, for example, David Taylor’s record of achievement particularly worthy of respect and admiration, especially considering he was neither a recluse nor socially awkward. But I think excellence in academics should not be the only way to judge a university career. Whether this is self-serving because I have not excelled academically I leave up to the reader to decide.

In my St Andrews years, so far, I’ve founded, edited, and managed a successful newspaper which has earned high accolades, I’ve co-founded a literary review, I’ve donated my time to committees for multiple terms despite finding it particularly distasteful and unenjoyable, I’ve been president of a private club (which involves not only working with a committee but coördinating and directing it while also having to maintain continuity with the traditions of the group and not peeve the members), I’ve had some pretty good nights on the town, I’ve made friendships that I know will last a lifetime, I’ve (lately) taken up a sporting activity conscienciously, most importantly I’ve done my utmost to be a good Christian as well as to note when, where, and how I have fallen short of that ideal in order to prevent future failings, and on top of all these non-academic things, I have learnt a great deal of knowledge. I don’t have the grades to show for it because I never felt the need to justify what I have learnt and how I have learnt it to an external examiner, besides which much (if not most) of my learning of history, philosophy, and culture during my university years to date has been outside the framework of my courses.

In my view, what I have managed to do in my years is worthwhile and should not be discounted. In comparison to getting 17s, 18s, and 19s in every course, while being social and doing just a few extracurriculur things on the side, I prefer my track record instead. I nonetheless think that both are admirable and worthwhile approaches to university. Contrarily, the young lady in question believes that the academic must be the only important yardstick used to judge these years, and consequently she thinks I a wastrel and strongly disapproves.

(I hope, dear reader, that you will not regard this entry as an exercise in ‘navel-gazing’, as they say. I am not a very self-reflecting, overanalytical person. I am not highly critical of myself, nor do I let myself off easily. It did not particularly irritate, offend, or wound me that I am thought by at least one intelligent person to be a wastrel, but I found it a good opportunity for debate and discussion and so have put forth my view accordingly.)

The above photograph shows a 1963 service in the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, New York. Closest to the sanctuary are four members of the Veteran Corps of Artillery, State of New York, but behind them can be scene a member of the Old Guard of the City of New York. The VCA, of which my Uncle Matt (a frequent commenter upon this site) is a member, is older, being founded in 1790. The Old Guard dates from 1826, and Uncle Matt’s father (my grandpa) was Commadant of that august group. There’s a great photo of my father as a small child gazing up at his father in Old Guard uniform including the tall bearskin busby. Perhaps Pop will scan it sometime, else I will get around to it when I’m back in the States.

With all its traditional pomp and circumstance, the Old Guard of the City of New York turned out to observe the one hundred and fifth anniversary of its organization. There was the usual parade with major generals, colonels, majors, and captains marching as privates under the banners of this battalion and proud of their place in its rank and file. After the parade church services were held in the old chapel on Governors Island.
(A bad copy from The Sun, Fort Covington, NY, 1931)

I THINK IT WAS Cousin Jasper in Brideshead Revisited who told Charles Ryder to switch his ground-floor rooms for a more suitable arrangement. Charles, of course, failed to heed his elder cousin’s advice, and last night I couldn’t help but wonder if the inhabitants of a ground floor flat on Greyfriars Gardens wished they had been given a similar recommendation. An assemblage of young gentlemen, having moved from one pub to another and then making their way down Greyfriars stumbled upon an open window and, discovering that merriment was ongoing within, took it upon themselves to use that very portal as a mode of entrance. Quite succesfully, I might add, for it was a very wide window and not terribly high up. Upon gaining entrance, they proceeded to join in the merriment, which chiefly revolved around a triumvirate of good conversation, bad wine, and pretty young ladies. (I managed to inculcate one in the history of the Order of Malta). I ran into fellow oarsman Rory Mcdonald (who, despite his Scottish name, is from Norfolk) with his academic mother who dropped a coin in my beverage and told me I had to save the Queen from drowning by downing my glass right then and there. I took my time (God bless Her Majesty, but she’s only a Saxe-Coburg).

The evening had begun a few hours previous in the Chariots bar with yours truly, George, J.E.B., Ben, Tom Marshall, Rorie, Cockburn the Younger (worse for wear having been dealt a dirty pint in the Mess the night previous to celebrate his birthday), a rather confused ‘Dougal’ in black tie, Jon Burke (legend), Manuel, Cameron (President of Fin Fur & Feather), a chap named Will, and someone else I’m quite sure. Apparently J.E.B.’s going to reconquer India and I’ll be made Viceroy. This was decided as some sort of recompense for India going republican before Enoch Powell could be appointed to the viceregal throne. A brilliant linguist, it was his life’s ambition until ’47, and he was heartbroken when it became impossible. Ego sum linguiste très mal, but I don’t think I’d mind the job. Surely it just involves officially opening schools and hospitals and such, spending the rest of the time napping through cricket matches and sitting in a club sipping G&T’s and saying in a firm, authoritative voice “The sun never sets on the British Empire”. Comes with nice digs as well, designed by Lutyens. There are worse jobs, no doubt. Anyhow there was some bloody good chat, excellent banter.

Intelligence reports indicating that 1 Golf Place was overcrowded we decided not to make our way there to enjoy their two-pint steins, and so headed to the Tudor Inn (a rather townie pub) instead. There we ran into some Germans (Hamburgers, even) in town for the golf and spoke with them. Ed tried to speak to them in his broken German; somehow the term ‘Britischer Wehrmacht’ doesn’t seem quite the right translation. We tried to give them a bit of British culture by singing “I Vow To Thee, My Country” but it literally drove half the punters out of the pub, and the barman asked us to desist. It was then we sought out proposals for further enjoyment in alternative locations, and decided to move the forces southward accordingly. Twas then, of course, we discovered the open window in Greyfriars Gardens and good times ensued.

Got $50,000,000 to spare? Why not buy this Stanford White original on East 78th Street in Manhattan? Would be suitable for residence, offices, or club quarters. Even includes balcony from which fearless leader can make inspiring demagogic speeches. Who can resist? Contact Sotheby’s International Realty for details.

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