This morning after the 9:00am Mass we learned that Fr. Patrick Burke has been summoned to the Eternal City for a job at the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith. Fr. Burke, who was Convener of the University of St Andrews Union Debating Society (f. 1794) and President of the Catholic Society during his undergraduate days, is just about the best (diocesan) priest in Scotland.

Oft-described as a Rhodesian-born English priest of a Scottish diocese who’s spent more time in Italy than anywhere else and speaks German to boot, Fr. Burke has a massive following at his alma mater. He is currently a parish priest in Stirling and Bannockburn as well as editor of Faith magazine. We were all elated to hear of his appointment, though the precise details of it are unknown at the moment, though we are saddened that it means he will likely be unavailable for his popular, informative, and hilarious talks at Canmore anymore.

A brilliant academic with excellent pastoral skills as well; not a common combination. We wish him all the best.

This afternoon, Miss Breed and I were sitting in the Common Room at Canmore attempting to study for our Art and Piety exam on Tuesday and would you know, the young lady has never even heard of Sutton Place nor Beekman Place? Sometimes I think if she hadn’t gone to Brearley and then St Andrews she’d never’ve left Soho. And that would be a tragedy. What is this world coming to?

Meanwhile Mr. Brenner inquires as to why I stated my preference for Murray Hill among the neighborhoods of Manhattan. It is somewhat on the quieter side of things, it has one of the best parishes in the Archdiocese (the Church of Our Saviour) and is within walking distance of another (my beloved St. Agnes), is home to the Union League Club, the English-Speaking Union, and other institutions, and the general tendency of the architecture is fairly attractive. Why not?

Alright, there are plenty of desirable districts in Manhattan. Sutton Place/Beekman Place, Carnegie Hill, Yorkville, Riverside Drive, some parts of Greenwich Village, and up top Hudson Heights and the Fort Tryon Park area aren’t bad. Depending on the accomodation, I’d be happy to live in any of those areas; especially one of those wonderful nostalgic neo-Dutch buildings on the West Side, or something neo-Georgian on the East Side.

Anyhow, for the edification of Miss Breed, here are the B&TC on Sutton Place, and the City Review as well.

Today a few volunteers outside the library succesfully raised a fair amount of money for Glock Aid 2005. “What’s Glock Aid 2005?” you ask. Essentially, Chris C. (Alabama’s unwanted son) wants to buy a handgun (a Glock, to be precise) and to raise money for this endeavour he spent all morning cooking and then from midday until 4:00pm selling his baked goods outside the Main Library.

D. P., having made a donation, helps himself to some baked goods.

All sorts of people turned up and inquired about the cause. Some bought out of hunger, some bought out of desire for scrumptious brownies, and some gave from their hearts out of their desire to see Chris C. well-armed.

(more…)

Last night was spent in the Mess at Wyvern (HQ, A Sqd, TUOTC), which is one of the most delightful places in St Andrews. They have the cheapest pint in town, and even still it somehow seems you only need to drink half as much as usual to alter your consciousness.

If you are not a member of the Officer Training Corps, and I am not, then you have to be signed in by a member (2LT. Chris C. obliged) and introduced to the PMC, Tom Kerr, who lives a few floors above me and is an admirable man despite having gone to school with Dave Watt. Wyvern’s a beautiful house though, and adequately looked after by A Squadron of the Tayforth Universities Officer Training Corps.

Speaking of Mr. Watt, Dave had gone to Wine and Cheese that evening and showed up in the Mess pretty late, grievously attired in a black shirt with red stripes, accompanying tie, a white jumper, and with the obligatory blazer on top. He had hassled along some other OCDT (officer cadet) who had been at Wine and Cheese that evening to come along to the Mess. Now this chap was decked up in the more usual tweed jacket (and riding boots, without explanation) but was lacking in necktie. As one might expect, jacket and tie are de rigeur for the Mess, and once the said tie-less fellow showed up the lack of tie was noted and brought to the attention of the PMC.

Disgrace! What was to be done? A Mess Court would be convened, Tom Kerr presiding. The shameless and inebriated David Watt would provide the defense, the shameless and inebriated Chris C. the prosecution, and George Irwin, Euan Gorford, and I were appointed as jury.

Now, the poor lad in the dock, whom we shall call Oliver George Wilson, since, when asked to state his name for the court, he replied “Oll… Oll… Oliver George Wilson”. Well, the poor Oliver George Wilson could barely compose a coherent sentence, most likely due to the imbibing of wine at “Chine and Weese”, and seemed to posess very few of his own faculties and certainly even fewer of anyone else’s. Nonetheless the Prosecution opened the case charging Oliver George Wilson with entering the mess without a tie by effortlessly pointing to Oliver George Wilson sitting in the makeshift dock (actually a barstool) suffering from a complete lack of any form of neck attire bar
the collar of his shirt.

I began to have my suspicions as to the integrity of the court when I, a member of the jury, was called to testify on behalf of the prosecution. Now, the questions interrogated of me and the responses freely, and I dare say deftly, given are not for stating in the public realm. Nonetheless they were of a such a nature as to make the padre blush (or so Gorford told me when I left the stand and returned to the jury), and the denizens of the Mess were rollicking, so in my humble opinion it’s all for the better.

The defense was then given the opportunity to state their case, which was lacking. [Note to self: if in trouble, never call on Dave Watt to act as my defense]. Mr. Watt threw out some rambling, barely grammatical sentences in a highly dramatic style which he no doubt hoped would distract the jury from the matter at hand. It was to no effect, as the jury of three — and a fine jury it was, mind you, one of the best juries in the land — as I was saying, the jury of George, Euan, and I were pretty much convinced by the defense’s argument and my own stand in the witness box and thus Oll… Oll… Oliver George Wilson was convicted on all charges. Lord Chief Justice Kerr sentenced the delinquent to an “H.M.S. Wyvern” which involves drinking lots of gin and being turned around incessentantly, this processes being repeated four times in some vaguely nautical fashion while singing, not their own A Squadron ditty, but instead the B Squadron (Dundee University) song, to the tune ‘Cwm Rhondda’ aka Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer:

Dundee, frightful. Oliver George Wilson didn’t even chunder (at least not in the faux German helmet in the Mess designated for such a purpose), and thus a good time was had by all.

Today I:

1. Practically wrote an entire essay in one day and handed it in and I think it was pretty good. I know, that’s nothing special, but I’ve never done it before, and it took up the preponderance of the day.
2. Went to a celebratory birthday brunch for Maria.
3. Participated in the Second Annual Bumblebee Hunt held under the auspices of the St Andrews branch of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. The winning bumblebee was a big one, which was christened Algernon Deathbee. He will be tied to a string which will be tacked to a table at the Officer Training Corps Ball tonight. (I am not attending).
4. Managed to fit in a walk on the beach with Lizzy and Nicholas.

Next on the agenda… get a bit of research done for the next essay, then out for dinner and drinks at the Jigger for Maria’s birthday, then hopefully get started on the speech I have to give at a dinner tommorrow night.

The Charity Polo is tommorrow, and it looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day, but I’m not sure if I’ll go. Vichy France looms on the horizon, and I’ve got the hush-hush dinner in the evening to boot.

Oh fiddlesticks, I’ve forgotten to return these short loan books. Got to run.

Deo gratias! The white smoke came billowing forth from the Sistine Chapel, the bells rung out the election of a new pope, and a number of us made our way to Canmore to watch our new pontiff be announced to Rome and the world. The tension, the excitement, the hope! Would it be Ratzinger? Surely not! We should be so lucky. Oh please, let it be Ratzinger! The waiting. The BBC commentators who are completely alien to the church blabbing on. Let us see him! Who will it be? There’s no way it could be Ratzinger: that would be too good to be true! Wait, here comes the announcement. All of us jumped out of our seats and grabbed hold of one another. The cardinal begins his announcement…

“Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger.”

A wave of jubliation swept over us. We were dreaming? Could it possibly be true? We cheered, we cried, we laughed, we hugged eachother, kissed, shook hands. Deo gratias! Our prayers have been answered. All of us are full of immense hope for the years to come. This is what John Paul II spent his pontificate preparing for. And some amongst us will be going to World Youth Day. A German pope in a German city for World Youth Day! Imagine that! It’s still somewhat hard to believe. I’ve been coughing and sniffling like mad since I’ve got a cold, but no worries. We will always remember this day. And there shall be much rejoicing and imbibing tonight.

Now begins the arduous task of rebuilding the Church. We have had a prophet to inspire us, now we will have a king to lead us. In the world, not of it. Eternity, not modernity! Onwards and upwards. With the grace of God.

Long live Benedict XVI!

Once again it is Procession Day here in St Andrews, when we have the annual Kate Kennedy Procession to harken the return of springtime. Unfortunately, like last year, it was on the cold side and rather grey, despite some truly beautiful days previously.

For those of you who don’t know it, the Kate Kennedy procession is a medieval rite of spring which was resurrected in the past century. Kate Kennedy, according to lore, was the niece of Bishop James Kennedy, the founder of St. Salvator’s College. Owing to her beauty, a procession was held in spring in her honor, according to lore. Eventually, these became pretty rowdy, and as such were banned in the 19th century. In the 1920’s, Donald Kennedy, an indirect descendant of Bishop Kennedy himself, decided the resurrect the procession and founded the Kate Kennedy Club for this distinct purpose.

The Club admits nine new members each year from the bejant (first year) class. One of these is selected to portray the comely Kate Kennedy in the Procession, and is joined by the eight other bejants as sheild-bearers, and other students, members, and friends of the University who dress up as important figures from the history of town and gown. (more…)

No one quite knows how often the Gifford Lectures are. Some people say they’re every three years. I thought they were every year, and they are spread amongst the four ancients of Scotland (St Andrews, Aberdeen, Glasgow, Edinburgh). But we hosted them in my first year and already have them again. And our own Professor John Haldane (alledgedly the only theist in the School of Philosophy) is concurrently giving the Gifford Lectures at Aberdeen, supposedly. Go figure.

Anyhow, on Tuesday commenced the ambigu-annual (ambiguennale, I am told, is the word the Italians use) Gifford Lectures here at St Andrews, by none other than the most-eminent Professor Alvin Plantinga of the University of Notre Dame. Unfortunately, I had to miss this one, as I had work to do. The title was ‘Evolution and Design’ and it basically demonstrated that there is no conflict between evolution (even Darwinian concepts of evolution) and the idea of design by the Creator as advocated by Christians.

Wednesday, I attended a lecture by Irving Lavin of Princeton University entitled ‘The Story of O from Giotto to Einstein’. It tracked the fascinating tale of Giotto’s ‘O’ from the perhaps aprocryphal tale all the way to an etching of Einstein, via calligraphy, Rembrandt, Jasper Johns, and others. Difficult to quite explain it, but most enlightening. Also, it was about an hour and a half but felt more like forty-five minutes.

Yesterday, I did attend, and Platinga demonstrated in his second Gifford Lecture that there is a conflict between the naturalist/materialist idea that the universe is a closed system because there is no demonstratable evidence of such, nor is it even observable. Thus science cannot really have anything to do with the idea of the closed universe, and it is left to metaphysics. So all the silly liberal posturing about the ridiculousness of miracles is, in effect, ridiculous itself, and most unscientific.

Thankfully, Professor Plantinga is a very good lecture, balancing clarity, thoroughness, joviality, and asides quite adroitly. The next is on Tuesday: ‘Evolutionary Psychology and Scripture Scholarship: more alike than you think’.

Tonight, I’m off to the theatre to see the late Arthur Miller’s ‘The Creation of the World and Other Business’. Apparently some sort of retelling of the Genesis narrative. A fellow son of the Empire State, second-year John MacDonald, is among the cast of this production. We look forward to it.

ORDER OF SERVICE

Entrance (silence)

(The officiant then organises the various sections of newspaper into the order in which they shall be read. Frivolities, such as ‘Gardening’, ‘Motoring’, and ‘Money & Business’, are discarded.)

First Reading: The Daily Telegraph, first section

Second Reading: The Financial Times, first section

First Glance: The Daily Telegraph, Weekend section (Rarely anything worth reading inside, but tradition requires at least a glance)

Third Reading: The Daily Telegraph, Property section

Nourishment: A sugar doughring from Fisher & Donaldson’s (Members of all newspaper-reading denominations are invited to partake, but are encouraged to abide by the rules of their respective communities)

Fourth Reading: The Financial Times, Weekend section (The best weekend section there is. Short and varied.)

Second Glance: The Daily Telegraph, Travel section (Ditto notes on Telegraph Weekend section)

Fifth Reading: FT Magazine

Final flip through the pages: (ruffle, ruffle, ruffle)

Exit. (The assembled then disperse and carry on with their day).

Easter is my favorite day of the year, as it is always infused with a spirit of joy and thanksgiving. Despite cloudy skies, this Easter was still a most enjoyable one.

Ezra, myself, Jon, Abby, Rob, Maria, and Stefano went down to Edinburgh and heard a Tridentine mass at St. Andrew’s Church in Ravelston. Why is it that going to old rite masses always reminds me of home, wherever I hear them offered? It was a wonderful affair, as was the five-course six-hour lunch we had afterwards with some of our good friends in Edinburgh.

Yesterday I took a morning off, finally rising about midday to most undesirable weather. Cloudy, rainy, cold, most uncharming. The majority of the day was spent reading (Modern Times, by Paul Johnson, the best history book I’ve read so far) in Canmore.

Equally dismal weather, but I still roused myself to get to the coffee place on Bell Street to have breakfast with Chris C.. I paid off a poker debt by buying him breakfast. Nonetheless, dismal weather is a good excuse to get some reading done, so off I go.

Resurrexit sicut dixit, Alleluia!

“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…)

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.

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…)

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…)

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.

An altogether successful foray was made last night into the neighboring sovereign state of Connecticut, wherein resides a middle-aged (or perhaps even old, by our national standards) university which is named Yale, after the institution’s early benefactor. Said place of higher learning is also home to the burgeoning second chapter of the greatest society ever to have graced the University and Royal Burgh of St Andrews. It was in such a capacity that I was invited along to a moderately informal and very cheerful evening. (more…)

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