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.)

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.

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…)

The New Criterion‘s Stefan Beck (black iced coffee, no sugar) has an excellent little ditty in National Review on a little brouhaha up in Hanover, New Hampshire. It makes me somewhat glad that I go to a university where religion is generally met with the rolling of the eyes or a quick nap rather than modernist ire and indignation.

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 view from Nilene’s kitchen.

C. (seen with Telegraph report on latest Zimbabwe tyranny) got the shirt in Alabama. Folks in the States keep asking him if he’s from Rhode Island.

Unfortunately these are basically the only photos I managed to take whilst I was in London.

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

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.

The summer pretty much began in Caroline Gill’s garden, and thus it appropriately played host to a little gathering last night as the season of leisure winds down. The Gills held a splendid little dinner al fresco including Mr. and Mrs. Gill, Caro, Michelle Carroll, yours truly, Mr. and Mrs. Kellogg and their son Doug, who I believe was Caro’s escort when she debuted. (I was unavailable since I was in Scotland at the time, which has been the cause of perennial complaints by Caro). Young Lizzie was absent for the meal but showed up later on in the evening.

Making fun of Caroline is an honored pasttime of mine, and one in which I revel. The Gill household is one in which friendly banter thrives. Last night I also got a chance to inform Mr. Gill that there are innumerable young men in Westchester who consider him something of an icon, and seek to imitate his leisurely lifestyle. Caro complains that I talk to her dad more than to her, which is only half true of course.

Speaking of dads, the aforementioned Michelle Carroll’s pop took her, Helen Clarke, and I out to dinner the night before ‘Hell’s Bells’ (as we sometimes call Helen) fled back to college in Ohio. He took us to a little gem of a place on the New York side of the Byram river in Portchester. Between dinner and dessert, Helen and I walked over the bridge to Connecticut just so I could say as we went back in “sorry we took so long, we went to Connecticut to have a cigarette.”

Doug eyes Lizzie’s match-fiddling with suspicion.

Smiling young Elizabeth about to set her hair alight.

Caroline Gill, brought to you by Poland Spring (“what it means to be from Maine”).

My fellow St Andrean Andrew Bisset reports in from auld Caledonia, recently incapacitated by a banana:

Deserved indeed!

WHA-PSH! WHA-PSH! Behold! The sound of the whip cracking as slavedriver James Panero, associate editor of the New Criterion corrals the newly-minted intern towards his desk. Not even a cubicle! Yes, dear reader, today we started our month-long internship at the venerable institution which the Times Literary Supplement says is “more consistently worth reading than any other magazine in English”.

“File these press clippings!” the seersuckered Mr. Panero commands. “Update the website! Polish the bust of Hilton Kramer! You will KNEEL when Roger Kimball speaks to you!” “Actually, he prefers grovelling,” Dawn Steeves chimes in, ever helpful.

No, no, dear reader, I jest. It is a good office with kindly folk. Roger Kimball even remembered that Russell Kirk went to St Andrews. The building was designed by Stanford White, no less, and is on the same block as the Theodore Roosevelt Birthplace Museum. The office features nice wooden floors, a Persian carpet, and a window specifically designated for Judge Bork to smoke out of when he visits, not to mention a dazzling array of books and periodicals to tempt the studious intern from his internical duties. James Panero and Stefan Beck are apparently working on an anthology of the Dartmouth Review‘s best (TDR is sort of the Neo-Hantonian version of the Mitre, or perhaps vice versa). But we mustn’t turn this into the “weblog” that squeels on the daily habits of todos los Nueva Criterionistas.

The only down side is that I had to pull out of the Leviathan Club trip to Maine. It would be rather nice to spend the days drinking champagne on a rowboat in the middle of a lake pretending to fish, but come on folks, we’ve got high culture to think about here. I hope the other Leviathanonians are enjoying themselves, and spreading the spirit of Gumpus to more northerly climes.

And to think, I used to believe that internships were for suckers. What? Work and not get paid? AH-HAhahaha! Go right ahead, while I take leisurely sips of my gin-and-tonic as I rest salubriously upon the hammock in my garden dabbling in F. Scott Fitzgerald and some Italian detective novels! Well, needless to say, I now realize that internships are not for just suckers. Nay, they are also for charitably-minded individuals who would like to devote some of their free time towards the advancement of Western civilization. Happily, the latter description aptly suits yours truly. I look forward to another day as the lowest rating aboard the S.S. New Criterion. Criterion Nova floreat!

I caught this glimpse of an apartment building on 44th St today, and rather enjoyed the uniform appearance of the glassed-in terraces, later additions I imagine.

A view of yours truly last night at the Leviathan Club taking a stab at the crossword in the New York Observer. It was a vicious crossword which I found impossible to complete. Vicious, wretched crossword.

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