THE LAST UNFINISHED cathedral in the Church of England was finally finished this year with the completion of the crossing tower of St. Edmundsbury Cathedral. The tower was not only designed in the Suffolk perpindicular style but also constructed using traditional techniques. The brick and masonry spire is held together by lime mortar, without an inch of steel or concrete.

The Cathedral is built on the grounds which still contain the ruins of the great abbey of Bury St Edmunds. The site of the current cathedral has held a church since 1065, completely rebuilt on three or four occasions. The current chancel dated from 1865, while the nave was begun centuries before in 1503. (more…)

LAST NIGHT WAS, shall we say, a doozy. It began about half past eight when I sauntered over to the flat of George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin in Southgait Hall. (Astute followers of the Cossack will recall that I lived in the same building last year). George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin wasn’t in, as he was busy instructing young’uns how to kill, but C. was in since he’s been up visiting for the past few days. We cracked open some beers and watched the second half of an episode of Law and Order before heading over to Wyvern (HQ A Sqd, TUOTC) for some Wednesday evening revelry in the Mess.

The Mess, as we all know, is an oasis of old-school fun in our ever-changing world. Eventually a poker game broke out in the anteroom; an entertaining little melée involving yours truly, the Infamous C., George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin, Phil Evans, Cockburn the Younger, Alex Findlay, and a chap named Will. Now, I am a rubbish poker player and so accordingly am I a rare poker player, even more so if money is involved. Nonetheless, the buy-in was cheap so I gave it a go, failed miserably but bought in again and twas then that Fortuna began to smile upon my adventures. C. is quite proud of his poker-playing abilities, but I managed to bluff him into betting everything he had then hit him with the nasty surprise of my triumvirate of aces. Kicked out of the game by Cusack – that’s got to be embarassing. The man looked as if he’d just been told his prize-winning horse had just been eaten by an erstwhile Chechen terrorist who mistook it for one of the King’s Troop. He went back into the Mess in hopes of elevating the chat there (a handfull of souls had wandered into the anteroom informing us of the poor state of chat next door). A little while afterwards I managed to goad George into a large stake and deprived him of it quite readily. There was nothing on the table but I had ace-9, he had ace-2. Bummer for him!

There I was, drunk as a lord and rich as a Russian oligarch (or would’ve been if the chips were oil company shares). The others slowly ran out of capital and it was finally down to George, Alex (or was it Phil?), and yours truly. I was in the lead and decided to play it safe, but Phil (I think it was Phil, Alex was out earlier) went all in against George and lost, putting Georgie boy in the lead. (No, actually it was Alex, not Phil). We agreed to end at a quarter to 12:00, and so did, splitting the meagre winnings proportionally betwixt the two of us. Cockburn the Younger was quite upset with my victory and kept grunting “bloody colonial!” much in the same vein as Cockburn the Elder would were he present. Fine game, fine game.

We crossed the hall to return to the last few minutes of Mess time and witnessed some forfeits in process and joined in some bawdy singing. Now at midnight the bell’s rung, the glasses are put down, the Sergeant Major yells and the fun’s over. And had that been the end of the evening it still would’ve been a splendid one… were it not for those two words: after party. Now, that after parties can be splendid things I will certainly concede. But in my old age I prefer to be in bed reading E. Digby Baltzell by 11:00 and here it was, past midnight, and I was still out. Nonetheless, being taken by the festive spirit and with C. being up I thought to myself “After party? What the hey! Why not…” And thus a procession of students varyingly attired in camoflouge uniforms, blue blazers, or tweed jackets snaked its way towards the flat in Wallace Street shared by OCDT Charlie Hazlerigg and WOCDT Jen Stewart.

We were greeted by a little white terrier named Helen I think, though I referred to it constantly as Mackintosh for reasons no longer contained within my knowledge. It was a good after-party with some good chat and I’m not quite sure what time it was when I left, but I think it may have been nearly two in the morning. Somewhere in this equation I ran into a gaggle of gowned debaters, Miss Jennings among them in her gown of office as Education Officer of the Students Association. I confiscated the gown, donned it myself, and apparently, flailing my arms about and running around, announced to all of South Street that I was the Education Officer until Henry Evans (sometime head of the Conservative and Unionist Association) re-requisitioned it and returned it to its rightful bearer. We also ran into some Australians who agreed with me that Boston is a very silly place. I’m told that was around 2:00am.

Curiously as I finally made my way back to Sallies, I ran into Dr. Jens Timmerman. He had only just left Edgecliffe (the home of the School of Philosophy) and was on his way home. Dr. Timmerman is absolutely brilliant. One half wonders what he was up to in his office, with his 1925 Triumph typewriter, Keble College straw boater, and deep crimson doctoral cap and gown from the University of Göttingen. Musing on Kant, no doubt. (Dr. Timmerman is an expert on and devotée of Kant). I’m sure I’ll see him at the Kens club dinner on Saturday.

And then, finally, home, sleep, and the comfort of one’s own bed. There are few things as priceless as that.

Dear friends, I have been absent from the “world wide web” of late owing to technological discrepancies. Rest assured by health and faith are still strong. No doubt you have felt a distinct lack during the past few days, which I hope to remedy by showing you a few photos of the locus in which my quotidian adventures take place.

Above is the view from the reading ledge by my window. A rather nifty thing, which obliges the requirements for some occasional fresh air along with an advantageous location from which to glance down upon the Principal’s Lawn (There’s a fine if he catches you treading on his little green patch).

Sunset from the Cusack chamber. (more…)

From the British Students Song Book:

Today is the first Sunday and term and so after breakfasting in hall (a modest meal of bacon, hash-brown, and apple juice) I donned the old three-piece and gown and hopped over to Chapel for the first service of term. Chapel was packed to the brim almost, a very good showing, and as the Principal entered the Chapel following the mace-bearing Bedellus he had a very self-satisfied chagrin on, and nodded to himself no doubt reflecting upon the ancient glories of our university.

We were sadly informed that a student had died over the summer, killed in a car crash in France. Strangely enough, the same thing happened the summer before last when a very popular student died in a crash in Provence.

Other than that sad news, the service was of the usual feel-good traditional mainline psuedo-Protestant ilk that they are at St Andrews, the most interesting interesting part of which was when the University Chaplain, the Rev. Dr. James Walker, announced that our new hymnals had yet to arrive owing to a strike at the plant in Finland where they’re printed. I ran into J.E.B. tweeded and gowned, as we were exiting the service and he inquired as to whether I was “seeking religious inspiration when I had my eyes closed during the sermon or whether I was just nodding off.” I will leave our readers to guess.

Afterwards, instead of the usual post-chapel sherry in the Hebdomadar’s Chamber, the Principal hosted a little reception in Lower College Hall (from which, photographs above and below). (more…)

The forecast for St Andrews. Gloom and dreariness with a 90% chance of gray.

My room faces the Garden Quad (there’s a fine for walking on the Principal’s Lawn), and there is a good view of the college tower from the window.

The view out the window towards the rest of the Hall. More later on, now I must rest!

As the reader may well be aware, the last remaining six of Scotland’s historic Army regiments, one of which is so old that it is knicknamed ‘Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard’, are to be merged into a new ‘super-regiment’ of six battallions, to be called the Royal Regiment of Scotland. Furthermore, the Royals Scots and the Kings Own Scottish Borderers are to be merged into a single battallion. In attempt to calm the fury which this announcement unleashed, government ministers promised that the six regiments would retain their historic identities and legacies as they transform into battallions of the new super-regiment by retaining their cap badges.

However, government ministers lie. A few weeks ago the new cap badge of the Royal Regiment of Scotland was unveiled, and all batallions will be required to wear it. It is simple and aesthetically pleasing, but none of these qualities really matter. It will be remembered not for its beauty but for the outrageous betrayal of tradition and common sense which will, I dare say, tar the Royal Regiment of Scotland for a very long time. There are, of course, last ditch efforts by politicians of all stripes and sizes to save the regiments, an important part of both Scotland’s history and present, but there is not much hope. What Downing Street says goes, irrespective of centuries of tradition, common sense, a public outcry, and the will of the people. Strange as it may seem, after these changes Canada will have more Scottish regiments than Scotland.

Meanwhile, Ian Hamilton ruefully mourns the lack of pomp at the recent opening of the Scottish parliament in the Sunday Times.

September 14 is the twenty-third anniversary of the assasination of the Catholic general and politician Bachir Gemayel by Syrian agents, only nine days before he was to be inaugurated as President of Lebanon. Gemayel was the son of Pierre Gemayel, the founder of the Lebanese Kataeb (Phalange) which Bachir eventually led himself, and was also instrumental in unifying the Christian militias of the country into the Lebanese Forces, which joined with the conventional Lebanese Armed Forces in their 100-day attempt to expel the Syrians from Lebanon in 1978.

A massive bomb exploded in the Kataeb headquarters on September 14, 1982, killing the President-elect and twenty-four other souls. The assasination only further escalated the violence of the Civil War, a conflict which was taken to regretable extremes by all the parties invovled. (more…)

Jean Hélion, Grande Journalerie
Oil on canvas, 51″ x 76″
Robert Miller Gallery, New York

(more…)

The man of letters, of course, needs a place in which to withdraw from his various dalliances in the social realm and to concentrate on the dominion of learning; a private place in which to enjoy a book, broadsheet or other periodical, or perhaps to brood in a comfortable chair with a dram of scotch and some sound music. The ladyfolk, needless to say, have no place in such a bailiwick, not even to clean, for the wise gentleman knows that a study which accumulates in dust likewise accumulates in a certain intangible value. After all, what man of letters does not relish in removing his 1928 Burns and Oates edition of Martyrs of the Upper Volta from the shelves, blowing the dust from the cover, and charging inwards to read of some blessed soul who met his end in a steamy cauldron?

What then could throw arcadian bliss into disarray quite as much as the sudden appearance of Kaiser Wilhelm? A Hapsburg? You may as well have invited! A Bourbon? Well, fair enough, they have been known to lose their heads. But a Hohenzollern? You’ve got your work cut out for you.

Once considered the seminal work on dealing with Spontaneous Hohenzollern Appearances (or ‘SHA’), Dr. Leo von Fulbreck’s Treatise on the Treatment of Hohenzollernitosicity (to use the old, politically-incorrect term for SHA), has since been discredited, perhaps unjustly due to the Sparticist leanings of the Thuringian professor. The 1919 U.S. War Department guide War Department Field Guide 24-R: Recommended Courses of Action in Event of Hohenzollern Situation (and its appendix 24-R(II) dealing with the Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen branch) perpetuated the essence of von Fulbreck’s theories shorn of their ideological slant. The Second-World-War-era Your Enemy: the Sudden Hun-henzollern released by the British Department of Information, however, is generally considered unreliable. Combing through all this mess, I have endeavoured to deliver as part of my contribution to learning the most well-researched, as well as concise, recommended course of action regarding the spontaneous appearence of Hohenzollerns in one’s study:

1. Give the man a stern, intense, but unprovocative stare (as exemplified in above illustration) and he will eventually be moved to tears, mourning the loss of Tanganyika.
2. Simultaneously ring the bell (or, if one’s home is electrically-equipped, press the buzzer) and ask one of your staff to contact the Doorn Home for the Dethroned and Bewildered to inform them that one of their patients is on the loose.
3. Offer a stiff drink and wait for the men from the Doorn Home to arrive.

With any luck that should suffice, and unfortunate mishaps will hopefully be avoided.

His Eminence George Cardinal Pell, the Archbishop of Sydney, happily donned the traditional (and these days rarely seen) cappa magna during his presence amongst the Juventutem pilgrims at the recent World Youth Day in Germany. His Eminence, known for his Australian candor, is seen above blessing young folks outside the Düsseldorf church designated for the use of the Juventutem traditional Catholic youth.

The Catholic Encyclopedia informs us that the “great cope” is not a liturgical vestment per se but rather a glorified version of the cappa choralis (choir cope), and is reserved for cardinals, bishops, and certain privileged prelates.

Photos from the FSSP.

The Daily Telegraph‘s recent remembrance of Maurice Cowling relays the following tale:

There’s nothing so spiteful as an academic rivalry! I remember meeting the late Lord Dacre in Oxford about two years before his death. He was by then an ancient man, and the organiser of the assembly tried to make us feel impressed and privileged that we were able to meet such a man. I’m afraid, however, we took advantage of the Baron’s poor hearing and kept on whispering to eachother “Don’t mention the Hitler diaries!” (in the manner of Basil Fawlty’s “Don’t mention the War!” on Fawlty Towers). What can I say, we were young. At any rate, I hope the Authenticators still exist.

The background story to Nôtre Dame de Bons Secours, from the Catholic Community Forum:

In 1727, French Ursuline nuns founded a monastery in New Orleans, Louisiana, and organized their area schools from it. In 1763 Louisiana became a Spanish possession, and Spanish sisters came to assist. In 1800 the territory reverted back to France, and the Spanish sisters fled in the face of France anti-Catholicsm. In 1803, short on teachers, Mother Saint Andre Madier requested reinforcements in the form of more sisters from France. The relative to whom she wrote, Mother Saint Michel, was running a Catholic boarding school for girls. Bishop Fournier, short-handed due to the repressions of the French Revolution, declined to send any sisters. Mother Saint Michel was given permission to appeal to the pope. The pope was a prisoner of Napoleon, and it seemed unlikely he would even receive her letter of petition. Mother Saint Michel prayed,

O most Holy Virgin Mary, if you obtain for me a prompt and favorable answer to this letter, I promise to have you honored at New Orleans under the title of Our Lady of Prompt Succor.

and sent her letter on 19 March 1809. Against all odds, she received a response on 29 April 1809. The pope granted her request, and Mother Saint Michel, commissioned a statue of Our Lady of Prompt Succor holding the Infant Jesus. Bishop Fournier blessed the statue and Mother’s work.

Mother Saint Michel and several postulants came to New Orleans on 31 December 1810. They brought the statue with them, and placed it in the monastery chapel. Since then, Our Lady of Prompt Succor has interceded for those who have sought her help.

A great fire threatened the Ursuline monastery in 1812. A lay sister brought the statue to the window and Mother Saint Michel prayed

Our Lady of Prompt Succor, we are lost if you do not come to our aid.

The wind changed direction, turned the fire away, and saved the monastery.

Our Lady interceded again at the Battle of New Orleans in 1815. Many faithful, including wives and daughters of American soldiers, gathered in the Ursuline chapel before the statue of Our Lady of Prompt Succor, and spent the night before the battle in prayer. They asked Our Lady for the victory of the American forces over the British, which would save the city from being sacked. General Andrew Jackson and two hundred men from around the South won a remarkable victory over a superior British force in a battle that lasted twenty-five minutes, and saw few American casualties.

It is still customary for the devout of New Orleans to pray before the statue of Our Lady of Prompt Succor whenever a hurricane threatens New Orleans.

Hat tip: Irish Elk. The image used below is of the National Shrine of Our Lady of Prompt Succor in New Orleans.

There’s a little portion of Rye on the Boston Post Road here in Westchester which is a veritable Gothic wonderland. From the south it begins on Rye High School’s beautiful campus with the track and playing field across a brook from the neo-Gothic middle and high school buildings, with sympathic additions covered in the same stone. Immediately to the north is the Victorian Gothic Rye Presbyterian Church, built in 1870 by architect Richard Upjohn, whose son and grandson designed two later additions, respectively. Just north of Rye Presbyterian is the Church of the Resurrection, and a little further north of that is Christ’s Church Rye, both of which are in the Gothic style.

The photo above shows the top of the crossing tower of the Church of the Resurrection, a 1930 structure built for Rye’s Catholic parish, viewed from Milton Road. I popped round to the area today and took a few photos, though I did not go inside Resurrection, as there was a wedding taking place. (more…)

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