• The Daily Telegraph
• Le Figaro
• The New York Post
• L’Orient-Le Jour
• L'Osservatore Romano
• The Irish Times
• Conservative Home
• The Jewish Chronicle

• FAZ / Eng.
• NZZ / Eng.
• Magyar Nemzet
• ABC.es
• The Catholic Herald
• Il Foglio
• London Playbook
• Financial Times

France

Mitteleuropa

Knickerbockers

Argentina

The Levant

Africa

Cape of Good Hope

Netherlands

Scandinavia

Québec

India

Muscovy

Germany

Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever;
   Their business and religion is to play;
And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer,
   Unless he goes at least a round a day.
The city boasts an old and learned college,
   Where you’d think the leading industry was Greek;
Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge
   Are a driver and a putter and a cleek.

Golf, golf, golf – is all the story!
   In despair my overburdened spirit sinks,
Till I wish that every golfer was in glory,
   And I pray the sea may overflow the links.
One slender, straggling ray of consolation
   Sustains me, very feeble though it be:
There are two who still escape infatuation,
   My friend M’Foozle’s one, the other’s me.

As I write the words, M’Foozle enters blushing,
   With a brassy and an iron in his hand…
This blow, so unexpected and so crushing,
   Is more than I am able to withstand.
So now it but remains for me to die, sir.
   Stay! There is another course I may pursue–
And perhaps upon the whole it would be wiser–
   I will yield to fate and be a golfer too!

HDB/Cram and Ferguson has designed a Gothic abbey for an apparently schismatic Benedictine congregation in the mists of the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia. It looks as if it will be very beautiful when finished but, alas, will not be open to the public as these Benedictines seem to greatly value their privacy. See the article, ‘In Virginia, a monastery rises in the mountains‘ (Associated Press, 2004).

   

Part the First: In Which Cusack Takes to the Rails

The great St Andrean, Russell Kirk, despised the automobile, calling it ‘the mechanical Jacobin’. I am not altogether inclined to agree but the late Dr. Kirk and I are in accordance with one another over the pleasures of travelling by rail. It is seven hours direct from Leuchars Junction to London King’s Cross, but a pleasant journey nonetheless.

We departed Leuchars on time at 9:30am and stopped at Edinburgh Waverley at 10:32. From the north, the train crawls into the city beside the massive dark crag of Edinburgh Castle, after which the spires of the Mound come into view. By 11:30 we were in England, passing by Berwick-upon-Tweed, the municipality which has the strange situation of being a Scottish town but on the English side of the border. Just two minutes before midday, 300 miles north of London near a town called Acklington I discovered, upon looking outwards from my seat, that the horses of this region have taken to wearing cloaks. Remarkable.

From the route of the railway, the passenger has the advantage of being able to see both Durham Cathedral and York Minster (in southerly succession) and then finally Peterborough Cathedral, which I’ve always thought looks rather awkward. We finally trawled into King’s Cross a few minutes after 4:00pm, and I was slightly cross to see the London Underground ticket machines do not accept Scottish bank notes, forcing me to wait in line and deal with a real, live, terse, and unappreciative human.

Part the Second: In Which Cusack Visits the Travellers Club

Having settled in where I was staying, I scurried off to the Travellers Club on Pall Mall (stopping along the way only to get a prayer in at the Oratory) for the little affair which, in fact, was the reason for my journey down to London. It’s a beautiful club of a not-overwhelming size with a beautiful staircase, the kind of which one feels ought to be ascended slowly and with dignity. (The Drones it is not). The party was held to proclaim the U.K. launch of the New Criterion in the hopes of furthering the renown and appreciation of the greatest cultural review in the English-speaking world in the land which brought forth the very language. We had, I believe, nearly two hundred people in the library of the Travellers Club during the course of the evening, some familiar faces but more often very familiar names to which I can now assign faces. One of the first folks I met was the doctor and writer Anthony Daniels (also known as Theodore Dalrymple) who has just left England to live in France (in the Ardeche, was it?). There were also, among others, the Obituaries editor of the Daily Telegraph (who won’t smoke filtered cigarettes), the Rev. Peter Mullen, social commentator and Chaplain to the Stock Exchange, and the rather charming Paul Dean, Head of English at the Dragon School in Oxford, with whom I enjoyed conversing. Fellow St Andrean Merrie Cave of the Salisbury Review and I discussed how smoking has replaced sex as the ultimate taboo in the eyes of universities today. Roger Scruton couldn’t come, because he’s just moved to Virginia hunt country, of course.

Afterwards, James Panero having highed off to the Athenaeum, Dawn Steeves coralled a number of us into cabs destined for the Windsor Castle pub in Notting Hill where we continued to debate, agree, disagree, digress and whatnot on into the night. Eventually I decided I had consumed enough red wine and dark ale and called it a night myself.

Part the Third: In Which Cusack Enjoys the Company of Old Friends

On the morning of the next day I met Chris C. (St Andrews ’05) for coffee on High Street Kensington. C. and I disserted all the latest news, and I enjoyed hearing about his latest (mis?)adventure before we headed to Nilene Hennessy’s flat to enjoy a pork roast with potatoes. Nilene was out, but after our luncheon we met her and her younger sister Donalyn for more coffee. Donalyn is currently studying veterinary pharmacology.

AC: “So are there any major differences between veterinary pharmacology and human pharmacology?”
DH: “Well, it’s for animals.”

We all tarried a while, but eventually I headed towards my next appointment, amply relayed to yourself in…

Part the Fourth: In Which Cusack Goes A-Churching

A little after 4 o’clock, I met up with Ed Henley, another fairly recent St Andrews graduate, in the narthex of Westminster Cathedral, where he currently lives and works. Shamefully, I had never before visited the Mother Church of Catholic Britain in all its glory. After taking tea in a sort of lounge within the Cathedral complex, he took me on a grand tour of the place. Around the nave, the side chapels, down into the crypt, and even up into the rafters. Interestingly, Ed tells me that there was originally supposed to be a Benedictine congregation at the Cathedral, and strangely enough the monks’ cells were built atop and overlooking the nave. You can see little balconies for each cell hanging off the sides of the nave. Of course, it was a terribly impractical idea, owing to the many, many circular stairs the inhabitant would need to climb to reach his cell, and at any rate such a foundation was never actually started.

The sacristy is massive, and Ed was eager to show off Westminster’s cappe magne. “Even got the winter one,” quoth Ed, “with all the fluff.” Nice dalmatics as well.

The mosaics, at least those which have been completed, are amazing. The Chapel of St Andrew even has a mosaic depiction of the town of St Andrews above the arms of the Marquess of Bute. (A poor view of it can be found here). The majority of the mosaic work is unfinished, and would presumably take years and years, not to mention millions and millions of pounds to complete, however some plans are being drawn up and considered. “We’re rather hoping the Americans will pay for it,” Ed explained. “There’s a tendency for Americans to just sort of pop in one day, fall in love with the place, and donate a few million.” (The American Friends of Westminster Cathedral is a nonprofit 501(c)(3) organization, and thus contributions are tax-deductible for those interested. See here).

I attended the choral vespers in the beautiful Lady Chapel, and stayed for the following Mass in the main sanctuary, which was offered in a resplendently reverent and sacred manner. Westminster Cathedral is a beautiful place, physically ablaze with Christianity, and, like the Church, as yet unfinished. I rather fell for the place and feel obliged to visit it again.

Part the Fifth: In Which the Churching Continues

My last event in London was meeting up with Tori Truett (yes, another St Andrean, but one of the most delightful) that evening for the inaugural meeting of the Brompton Oratory’s youth group (ages 18-35, I think). Frs. Rupert, Julian, and Michael gave brief chats about their hopes for the group and the general shape of future events and then food and drink were enjoyed by all. Met some interesting folks including an Oxford friend of John Lamont, a Canadian from Vancouver, and a chap named Vandenberg (can’t recall his first name) who’s sister just graduated from St Andrews and has ten siblings! Now that’s what I call the Catholic response to the Culture of Death! Someone’s got to outbreed the heathen.

Finale

Back up to Scotland today, though I met with no cloaked members of the equine species on the return journey. A giant rainbow, however, arched across the sky just a bit past Ladybank a few minutes before reaching Leuchars and taking a cab back to St Andrews. A very pleasant journey, and hopefully one that can be made again soon.

Tonight at dinner we frightened the bejants and bejantines (first years) with our knowledge of random facts and history and the Ik tribe of Africa and even managed to engage one of the more comely new maidens in a plot to kidnap the Principal in order to reverse the creation of the new ‘Film Studies’ department and to get a smoking room for Sallies (St. Salvator’s, our hall). After dinner wound to a close we exited our splendid stained-glass-laden wood-panelled dining hall and headed to Jason Dunn’s room for some sherry. He has a very nice decanter and set he picked up dirt cheap from a charity shop. I’ll have to give them a browse sometime soon.

I also got a chance to catch up with Nicholas Vincent at his new abode on Greyfriars Gardens. It’s a beautiful and spacious place, “Victorian design but Georgian proportions” as Nicholas said, and I’ve actually been there before. Under the previous residents it twice acted as a sort of final locus for continued drinking after all the pubs and such had closed. I remember one night I ended up there with a small crowd including one of the wardens here at Sallies who I told I would buy two pints if he got me a place in hall (it worked), while Yaa’ra Barnoon was strumming a tune on the guitar, that most inferior of instruments, the exact opposite of the organ.

Tonight, after catching up via telephone with Rob who’s now teaching at Downside, the indomitable George Irwin, the most endearingly unpleasant person in all of St Andrews, had a little drinks party at which there were a number of usual faces; Phil Evans, Tom Kerr (PMC of the OTC), and Manuel Garces (Greco-Spaniard president of the Boxing Club), now shorn of his iconic sable locks, who spent his long vac cruising the Greek isles and lounging about (not bad). George begrudgingly allowed us access to a desirable bottle of whiskey which was left over from his sister’s recent wedding. (Apparently they were left with over 400 containers of orange juice, for the bucks fizz, and about 100 extra bottles of champagne, amongst other extras). I got a call from Jon Burke inquiring as to whether I was up for more fun and games, but alas the train for London tommorrow morning has encouraged me to call it an early night. Hoping to see a few old faces while I’m down in London, so it should be fun.

Last night I stumbled down into the city for the last time before I fly back to Britain tomorrow evening. I had the immense pleasure of taking a coffee with Adam Brenner and Dr. Nathaniel Kernell at Edgar’s Café on West 84th Street. Dr. Kernell, known varyingly as “the Good Doctor”, “Newbury”, “Mistah Lassitah”, and “the Genius of the Carpathians”, is the inimitable man who, in schooldays since past, had the task of teaching me Latin. (Our man Brenner is not a Thorntonian, but rather a Riverdale grad who had Dr. Kernell as a Greek and Latin tutor). His knowledge of subjects as varying as etymology, architecture, crime, and Jai alai is both profound and illuminating. Furthermore, he is gifted with a manner that is warm and inviting, if perhaps tempered by a tendency to ramble. The wandering tangents of Dr. Kernell, however, are not ad infinitum irritations but rather intriguing paths along which one picks up much more information, learning, and amusement than one would ever imagine. School would not have been the same without him, nor the quotations he bestowed upon our ears like priceless pearls. I foolishly only recorded a few in a little notebook I can’t find, but I believe Clara de Soto preserved more for posterity. I will have to get her to send me a few of the jewels.

Nonetheless dear readers, I’m back off to Caledonia tommorrow evening and thus of course it may be a few days before I settle in and get things organised enough to post again. I am, to boot, heading down to London pretty soon for the U.K. launch of the New Criterion as well. Fun shall be had by all!

Of course no talk on ecclesiastical heraldry would be complete without mentioning the late Bruno Heim, the expert on church heraldry as well as Grand Prior of the Constantinian Order and the first full papal nuncio to the Court of St. James since the Reformation. Heim’s book Heraldry in the Catholic Church (available in the St Andrews University Library) is the essential work on the subject. Fr. Selvester interestingly pointed out that Blessed Pope John XXIII intended to found a heraldic authority for the Church. He was dissuaded from this task by none other than Archbishop Heim, who believed the Church covered too far broad a swathe to effectively and appropriately constitute its own heraldic authority mindful of the vernacular traditions. (more…)

My ownly major aesthetic gripe against the Sun is the layout of the front page of their Friday second section, currently titled ‘Arts+’. (The ‘plus’ presumably refers to the inclusion of the Sports pages towards the end). Below at left is Section II as it appeared in the September 2-4 edition. The sans-serif font is just a tad too Gannett for a publication as esteemed as the Sun. To the right and below it I have placed two proposals for a reform of the Section II front page, both of which, I believe, are much more in keeping with the general aesthetic and demeanor of the rest of the New York Sun.

Meanwhile:

Alas.

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