Nothing ever happens in New York, or at least nothing when compared to Edinburgh, London, or Paris; this is my perpetual complaint. But when it rains, it pours, and so it was last night. Not only was it press day, the busiest day of the month-long cycle of creating each issue of The New Criterion, but then the evening beheld both “A Festive Evening Celebrating the Mission of the von Hildebrand Project” at the University Club and “The Reception and Dinner to Present the Medal for Heraldic Achievement” at the Racquet & Tennis Club. The simultaneous events were organized by the Dietrich von Hildebrand Legacy Project and the Committee on Heraldry of the New York Genealogical & Biographical Society, respectively.

A rarely-assembled fun crowd was promised at the von Hildebrand event, but nor was the presentation of the G&B’s medal a common occurrence (there have been only three awarded to date) so I simply resolved that I would do my best to attend both. (more…)

Robert Harrington recently insisted on interviewing me, taking many of his questions from a previous interview years ago which had been available at andrewcusack.com but which has since inexplicably disappeared into the ether. (Such are the mysterious ways of the internet). Mr. Harrington unconvincingly insists that the previous interview provided an interesting insight into the mind of Cusack, and no doubt he hoped to gain further useless insights with this period of interrogation. We will leave it to the reader to judge. What follows is an only barely edited version.

You’re known as an architecture fan. What’s your favourite city?

Edinburgh. Finest city in the British Empire.

Finer than London?

Oh, I’d say so. London has a great deal going for it — better clubs, for example — but it’s become incredibly vulgar. And foreign. Edinburgh is ten times as beautiful. What is more beautiful than an Edinburgh sunset, with the waning light reflecting off the stone buildings and the various spires and towers? The topography of the city is its saving grace, but can also be an incredible hassle. If you want to walk along George Street or Princes Street or the Royal Mile, you’re fine. But any perpindicular perambulation becomes a matter of climbing hills and stairs and such. Yet it makes the city all the more worthwhile somehow. It’s very striking.

Your favourite building though, the old Irish Parliament (now the Bank of Ireland) is in Dublin.

Dublin also has a great number of brilliant edifices, great buildings. Not just the Bank of Ireland but Trinity College, the Castle, the Four Courts, the Custom House, the King’s Inns and Henrietta Street and all those Georgian buildings. And two medieval cathedrals! But no, Edinburgh is still finer, and unsullied by republicanism.

But the ugly Scottish Parliament building is in Edinburgh.

True, true. A recent goiter upon an old friend though. Surgery can remove such things, if the patient is willing and a surgeon can be found.

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Fallen Sparrow, a denizen of the Queens neighborhood of “Côté du Bois“, gives the low-down on the blessing of Matt Alderman’s apartment and unveiling of a new graphic work last Saturday. I acted as acolyte, which pretty much consisted of holding the bowl of holy water.

Herr Sparrow also covered the Dominican Saints Party that Matt threw at his place a little while back, in which partygoers nearly came to blows over which was better: the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Montréal or the Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Québec.

Judging by the evidence (yours truly, left, in Connecticut late last fall*), I quite agree with the fellow who wrote in The Field this month:

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I am back already, which seems far too soon, and yet I had an immensely splendid time. It felt like more than just a week and I am sure that is due to the extraordinary generosity of my numerous hosts and friends in Scotland and England. I present to you two photographs I took during my recent trip: alas they are both in England, and indeed both in Kent, which is not terribly representative as I covered territory as far up as the choppy white waves of the North Sea and as far down as the White Cliffs of Dover. Above is an action shot of Dover Castle taken from the car, and below is the gatehouse to the cathedral close in Canterbury.

Why no Caledonian pix, you ask? I was simply too busy enjoying the place. Besides, it is a not-widely-known fact that photography does not actually function north of the Tweed. In a mandatory practice originating in a nineteenth-century labour dispute, all photographs smuggled out of Scotland are actually clever reproductions created by a secret guild of gremlins. This ensures both full employment amongst the gremlin population, and their complete separation from the ordinary human world (though a quick glance at the Scottish Labour party might cause one to doubt this is still enforced).

My Uncle Matt and I share a joke outside Fraunces Tavern while the 218th Annual Mess Dinner of the Veteran Corps of Artillery takes place inside.

And before anyone comments, yes I know I need a haircut! (Photo courtesy of Mike Leventhal)

NO DOUBT YOU have been wondering what we have been up to. In truth, I had been beset with a grievous illness of the gravest nature. Bedridden, I scratched and scrawled and made calculations for the expansion of this little corner of the web, which I then had Hogarth (seen above, bringing me some hot toddy in my poor condition) send on to the architect. I have now recovered and my scratchings and calculations have born fruit. The result, you see before you: a new, improved, rather wider andrewcusack.com. Many elements have been made a bit cleaner than previously, while one or two things here and there became a bit clumsier in the construction process. I am sure you will pardon the niggling infelicitous remnants when you chance upon them. At any rate, the general result is an expanded central column, in which we can exhibit to you even broader and bigger images to enlighten you, brighten your day, or raise your ire, whichever the case may be.

(P.S.: I very rarely give advance notice of things to come, but you can of course expect a proper appreciation of the late Rt. Hon. Ian Douglas Smith in the coming days, now that the scaffolding is down and our new edifice complete, as well as at least one more entry in my ‘Maces of America‘ series, and so on and so forth…)

I HAD HOPED to provide you with photos of my graduation shortly after it occurred, but that was over a year ago and I am only now getting to it. My write-up about the proceedings can be found here, so these photos are essentially an accompaniment to that previous post.

The graduation ceremony took place in the Younger Hall, the red-tiled classical building in the photos above and below. Also below, the University Chapel, with St. Salvator’s Quad adjacent to it. The curved building in the upper left is St. Salvator’s Hall, my home during my final year. In between the Chapel and the Younger Hall is College Gate, which houses the main administrative offices of the University.

THE TOLLBOOTH AT THE Bear Mountain Bridge is built in a whimsical style meant to harken back to the Dutch patriarchs of old who roamed and ruled (and fell asleep in) these lands. The Bear Mountain Bridge spans the Hudson River between Bear Mountain and Anthony’s Nose, and was the longest suspension bridge in the world upon its completion in 1924. (As of 2007, it is the 62nd longest suspension bridge). The South Gate of the Hudson Highlands is composed of Anthony’s Nose rising from the east bank and Dunderberg (lit. thunder mountain) on the west, while Wind Gate between Breakneck Ridge and Storm King Mountain marks the northern reach of the Highlands. (more…)

A HIKE UP into the Hudson Highlands, to see West Point trounce Temple University 37-21. (The last time I saw Temple play at Michie Stadium was in September 1994, when they beat Army 23-20). Army opened this game well by scoring a touchdown and field goal in the first minute, but gave the Temple Owls too much leeway, matching Army 21-21 by the half. Luckily, the Black Knights pulled through in the second half and finished the Owls off rather nicely. (more…)

SITTING PROUDLY ON the corner of 74th Street and Third Avenue, J.G. Melon is one of those splendid establishments that make living in New York tolerable. It has a distinct 1930’s feel to it, despite only dating from the 1970’s, which speaks to the taste of its founders. I remember a very jolly gathering there in the winter of our last year in high school; Will, Caro, Scott, Emma, her mother “Momma Kate”, as well as her aunt who still lives in a townhouse nearby (and, as is typical of New York, is currently entrenched in a legal battle with neighbors over an obtrusive wall). It was a splendid evening, boisterous, lively, and full of good conversation, and a window was even broken, though thankfully not by our merry band.

Then there was that one Saturday during the summer when a young lady and I went to the Metropolitan to see the Byzantium exhibit which had received much praise. We duly made our entrance donation, obtained our little ‘M’ tags, and then asked a guard, “Could you point us to the Byzantium exhibit?” “No can do, boss. Closed yesterday.” Brilliant. We had a trawl through the Greek and Roman galleries anyhow (the old Greek and Roman galleries, that is, not the new Greek and Roman galleries that everyone raves about), had a quick (overpriced) drink on the rooftop sculpture garden, and dropped in on the Astor Chinese Court in recompense for missing the glories of Byzantium. Anyhow, leaving the Metropolitan we immediately decided to escape the sun to J.G. Melon’s for a stiff drink and a late lunch and it was the most delicious and satisfying repast you could’ve dreamed of at that precise moment.

I could go on and on, but suffice to say that J.G. Melon’s is a place of happy memories, as is the Upper East Side in general. That neck of the woods was our particular stomping ground towards the end of high school and the first years of college during the breaks, until the gradual dissolution and dispersal of the East 86th Street Conspiracy. I don’t see much of the East Side anymore. Since I began working in the city I have generally avoided staying within its bounds any longer than necessary before skipping back to the lush green quietude of Westchester. Nonetheless, one has to be social from time to time, and its not as if the company of friends is a loathsome burden.

Still, when I suggested to a friend that, it having been over a year since our graduation, perhaps a drink was in order, and she agreed and asked where we should enjoy our cold beverage of choice, I thought “Why not J.G. Melon?” Miss Breed had never been, and so I had the added privilege of introducing someone to one of our favorite little institutions. As I said, I don’t see this neck of the woods as often as I probably should and, inadvertently arriving at Melon’s with time to spare, I decided to head over to Second Avenue to revisit some other old haunts.

During high school we spent hours and hours at Taja, a Moroccan lounge/bar, sipping cocktails, conversing, and getting to know the immigrant waiters from the Maghreb, who were all very happy to be in New York and not Fez or Marrakech, and learning about the utterly different world from which they sprang. There was also Sultan, the Turkish restaurant right next door to Taja, which was always pronounced SULL-tan, not sultin, probably because our circle was mostly composed of diplobrats, the sons and daughters of the New York diplomatic corps. “Mehmet” and “Omar” (names changed for security’s sake) were brothers and the sons of Egyptian diplomats. I remember them bringing a Californian friend to Sultan once, who instantly fell in love with one of the belly dancers who danced there three nights a week. So far as we know, nothing ever came of it. I also remember dining at Sultan with seven or eight of the Bronxville/Fordham Prep circle and for some reason we all decided to order apple martinis to accompany our food (which, by the way, was superb).

Having, as I said, time to spare, I strolled over to Second Avenue to revisit these haunts of my youth and turned at the corner where Baroanda (where they never let us drink) sits. Heading down, I expected to see Sultan and then Taja its happy neighbor, but no. Gone, all gone. Not just closed, but demolished, half the bloody block. These sites of happiness and drink, of conversation and argument were completely destroyed, without a trace of the joy they once provided us. In their place, an empty hole for now, but soon an ugly glass-plated skyscraper full of three-bedroom apartments (for vulgar financiers no doubt). I must take a note of when that shiny edifice will be topped out, so I can go and spit on its foundations.

I HAVE ALWAYS loved the rain, but even higher than rain ranks its offspring, the thunderstorm. From the gentle rolling in the distance to the quite-close strikes, there are few meteorological occurences more dramatic and enjoyable than the clash of thunder and the flash of lightning. This morning I was wakened by the clap and patter of the storm outside, and by the sudden presence of my dog. The poor beast has no appreciation for such weather, and was attempting to gain admittance to the underside of my bed. He was thwarted by the presence of the Encyclopedia of New York State, Tintin: The Complete Companion (by Michael Farr, leading Tintinologist of the English-speaking world), a coffee table book of a Dutch master, and a few discarded copies of the Irish Times with the crosswords half-completed. Sobbing and crying, he gave up and left to find shelter elsewhere.

It was quite a storm, however, and there was no rail service into Grand Central for much of the morning because of flooding along the line. When the MTA finally announced that service had been restored, I went down to the station in town and caught the 9:45 to the city. As one might expect, it was exceptionally crowded and I was forced to stand, leaning uncomfortably against the wall at the back of the train car while I tried to read Rodolfo Fogwill’s Malvinas Requiem (o en castellano, Los Pychyciegos, 1983).

It took forty-five minutes to reach Grand Central instead of the usual thirty-one and the relief upon entering that cool marble temple was dissipated (as it always is, but particularly this morning) by descending into the depths of the subway. I made my way, as per usual, towards the 4/5/6 but found the steps down blocked and an MTA employee standing in front. “No trains?” “No trains.” Blast. Well, I’ll just have to take the shuttle over to Times Square and then the N/R/Q/W down to Union Square. Then the harsh crackle of the station loudspeaker “There is no Times Square shuttle service. No shuttle to Times Square.” Very well, I’ll take the 7 to Times Square instead, and descended myriad other stairways to the platform of the No. 7 train. The 7 must be the deepest line in all Manhattan! It was like falling down into Wonderland to get to it. Anyhow, hopping off the 7 at Times Square, and heading towards the N/R/Q/W platforms, there was a sight of much disappoinment. It’s not the fact that the N/R/Q/W platform was crowded per se but that there was a crowd waiting to even get down to the N/R/Q/W platform. I quit! I decided to ascend to street level, summon a taxi, and get to work the easy way.

Ascending the escalator out of the Times Square subway station, I remembered a time six years previous. Elena Fichtel and I had gone to one of the giant multiplexes on 42nd Street to see “The Others”, a psychological suspense film. There was one very quiet and tense point in the movie where Nicole Kidman holds a glass lamp and look towards the staircase of the grand, dark country house her character inhabits in the film. She believes she has just heard the sound of running feet on the floorboards above when she knows no one could possibly be there. She just glances at the staircase and nothing happens. However there was a very quick change of perspective, and even though nothing happened in the film, the suddenness made Elena elicit an almighty shriek of horror. Her’s was the only one, and the entire jam-packed cinema erupted in laughter at her. It was a truly classic moment.

After the film we ran to the subway, hoping to get to Grand Central in time to catch an advantageous train back to Westchester and make it home for dinner, and it was the very entrance we entered then that I today egressed and made my way to Broadway. A whole mob of people had the same idea as me and were waiting at the side of the Great White Way, forlornly hoping that an empty cab. Weighing my chances, I figured I’d just walk down Broadway from 42nd Street to Herald Square on 34th and pick up the N/R/Q/W there. I should mention at this point that the morning storm had gone completely and had done nothing to lessen the extraordinary temperature, which was certainly in the 90s. Very uncivil of Mother Nature.

I walked down the shady side of Broadway. A Vietnamese woman rested on a crate at a street corner and fanned herself with a nonchalance indicative of her ancestry. A young boy strode determinedly up the boulevard, finger in one ear and cell phone to the other, disputating with (one presumes) a parental figure on the line. A Belgian-looking man bedecked in Venetian red trousers walked fastidiously in the same direction as I. Finally, through Herald Square (which, by the way, has been done up very nicely with those little Parisian chairs and tables akin to Bryant Park) and to the subway entrance. Flooded. Just a few inches, but I was wearing sandals. (Sandals? In the metrop.? It’s summer! And they are sandals of substance, I assure you.) A clever girl in wellies was undeterred. Luckily, another entrance around the corner provided the necessary access.

Then, of course, minutes waiting on a stiflingly hot subway platform. I processed up and down the platform very slowly, feeling that if I stood still I might not budge again. Office-types in suits held their jackets over their shoulders and wiped the sweat from their brows with hankies while a fat black woman sat silently on a bench, shaking her head with dismay at the temperature. After what seemed like eons, the Broadway Express rolled into the station and I was swept away to Union Square in a fine, cool, air-conditioned seat. Exiting the subway into the farmer’s market in the square, I passed the Belgian-looking man in red trousers. We had made it there in the same amount of time, but I had a comfortable air-conditioned seat much of the way. (Or so I rationalized).

By the time I arrived at my office it had been a full two hours since I had left the comfort of my home! Nonetheless, I enjoyed the morning’s storm as I lay comfortably under the covers in my room. The pitter-pat on glass, the sudden flash, and the anticipation finally quenched by the rolling boom. When we were children, we always counted the seconds between the flash and the boom and multiplied it by some magical number to discover how far away the lightning struck. When we were younger than that, we believed that thunderstorms were when the angels and demons were bowling. And whenever a storm cleared, I thought to myself “Oh good, the angels won again”.

In need of a little fresh air this morning, I went for a walk amidst the lush greenery of our fair county, and took a few snapshots to show you my explorations. Shall we? (more…)

WHERE DOES ONE begin? Scotland, I suppose. I’ve known Abby since Day One in St Andrews. I was among the number of poor souls who were foolish enough to participate in the ‘overseas orientation’ for non-UK/RoI students. Through pure chance, a group of us who sat down to dinner in Andrew Melville Hall that night decided to venture into town that evening and see what was what. We went to the Central, which became my regular for a very long time, until replaced by the Russell for my tertian and magistrand years. Jon I met just over a year later, during his first few weeks at St Andrews (as I entered my second year). It was at the Catholic Society and he told me he came from Bristol. I was fairly ignorant of Bristol other than that it is home to the British Empire and Commonwealth Museum. I asked Jon about the museum and his answer was such as to confirm that he and I were on the same page of the book, so to speak. He didn’t come much to Canmore at the start and so we were not instant friends, though I do recall running into him in the corridor of New Hall at 2 or 3 in the morning one night and striking up a brief conversation (most likely telling him he ought to be coming to Canmore, since like-minded folk are a dime a dozen there).

Anyhow, by some time or another we were all best of friends, and both Jon and Abby have been the source of (and butt of) so many of the great amusements we enjoyed at St Andrews. Good God, how many laughs! In Canmore, the Cellar Bar, the Central, the Russell, in flats, in Edinburgh, in Rome, in Dublin, in New York, and most recently in California, whenever one is with Jon and Abby there is always a good time to be had, and an appropriately inappropriate comment to relish. I have picked up the habit of simply saying “ledge” (that is, short for “legend”) every time I utter the name of Jon Burke. Abby once desired that I verbally express precisely what it was that makes Jon such a legend, but all I could say was that it was of the same nature as the Sacraments in Eastern theology: appreciated, nourishing, and clung-to, but ultimately a mystery.

It was California then, which was host to our latest adventure, namely the joining in matrimony of Miss Abigail Hesser and Mr. Jonathan Burke. I flew in on Wednesday and upon checking in at the hotel, the desk clerk handed me a written message from Jon: “We’re in the bar, free cocktails!” The wonderful rehearsal dinner was the next evening, and I was privileged to have the best seat in the house, with Fr. E and Mrs. Hesser on my left and Abigail and Jon on my right. But Friday… Friday was the wedding! (more…)

EARLY YESTERDAY EVENING I found myself on the West Side and with a bit of free time, so I sauntered down Broadway to Columbus Circle to finally investigate in the flesh this great public place after its complete rehabilitation some two years ago. I am happy to report that the Circle’s refurbishment is quite a successful one. My only reservations were minor details, but as these were all done in an extremely simple and smooth modern style, they are much less objectional, and perhaps serve to focus attention on the sculptor Gaetano Russo’s splendid monumental column from which Cristóbal Colón, Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of the New World presides over the grand plaza consecrated to his memory.

Colón’s name is rendered on the monument as ‘Cristoforo Colombo’, which seems appropriate since the monument was paid for by public subscription raised by Italian-Americans, and it is commonly assumed that Columbus was Italian. He may have been Genoese, Catalan, Portuguese, or Corsican, but he described himself as being from lands under the rule of Genoa, which lends significant credence to the Genoese and Corsican theories. In Spain, however, he is apparently Spanish, or so one daughter of Iberia, the wife of a frequent reader of this little corner of the web, informs us. The happy couple were strolling through Columbus Circle recently and the good lady was shocked to discover the purported Italian origin of the man who brought Christianity to the New World. After all, Spain’s national day — the Día de la Hispanidad — is October 12, the day in 1492 that Columbus first set foot in the New World. (In woebegone Venezuela, the vulgar socialist dictator has proclaimed October 12 as the Día de la Resistencia Indígena, or Day of Indigenous Resistance, and the Columbus Column in their capital city of Caracas was toppled on that day in 2004).

Anyhow, not only was the good lady was shocked at our monument’s proclamation of the Discoverer’s Italian-ness but the combination of that with the presence in Columbus Circle of the beautiful U.S.S. Maine Monument led the observer to conclude that the public plaza should be instead be named “Anti-Spain Square”. It was the disastrous sinking of the Maine, after all, which led to the Spanish-American War, the result of which was America’s most unfortunate and regretful act of taking Spain’s empire off her hands. (Contrary to Mr. Kipling’s idealistic urging of America to take up the imperial mantle in his poem ‘White Man’s Burden’, this turned out to be a fairly good deal for the Spaniards, and a very poor deal for the peoples of the United States).

Politics aside, I enjoyed the few minutes during which I ruminated in the square (or circle, if ye be pedants). I recall many years ago the debate surrounding how to improve Columbus Circle that there was a near-universal desire for there to be more trees but that the very shallow depth between the street surface and the subway below presented difficulties in this regard. The redesigners have solved this problem by encircling the center of the circle with a raised ridge, on which are planted a number of trees which, we trust, will be even more appreciated as they mature. The raised ridge, which features jets of flowing water around the inner circle, also serves to innoculate the center from the noise of the traffic which, the Circle being situated at the confluence of Broadway, Central Park West, Central Park South, and Eigth Avenue, is considerable.

And so, I judge the new Columbus Circle a success, and I am happy to the report that the American Society of Landscape Architects concur, having awarded it their General Design Award of Honor. Another random fact which surprisingly few people know is that Columbus Circle is the spot from which distances to New York are numerated, akin to Moscow’s Red Square and London’s Trafalgar Square (if I recall correctly).

LEAVING COLUMBUS CIRCLE, I sauntered back up Broadway to another of Manhattan’s engaging places, Lincoln Center. Critics accused the architects of the performing arts complex of cribbing off of Rome’s E.U.R., but one wishes the three halls facing Lincoln Center’s plaza had the same crispness of those modern Roman structures. The thirty years between the E.U.R. of 1930s Italy and the Lincoln Center of 1960s New York were years in which the quality of modernism declined just as greatly as its supremacy increased. Despite this, the plaza of Lincoln Center is one of the most successful public places in Manhattan. I have often lamented the absence from New York of the open piazza so common on the Continent. This plaza competes with Central Park’s Bethesda Terrace as the best example of the type in Manhattan.

The plaza is raised above the neighboring Lincoln Square (one of the many triangular squares created by Broadway’s healthy disregard for the grid) and is reached by a gentle rise of stairs. Viewed from the square it appropriately seems like a stage upon which all our great dramas are played. The dance of the New York City Ballet in the State Theatre on the left, the music of the New York Philharmonic in Avery Fisher Hall on the left, and in the center, the Metropolitan Opera in the Metropolitan Opera House; the greatest opera company in the Americas, not to mention one of the best in the entire world. And from the hour of seven or so on the evening of performances, the three arts mix and mingle in the plaza as attendées wait to meet their companions and enter whichever of the respective halls they are to spend the evening. Some jealously preserve a seat of honor on the rim of the central fountain, while others hide from the elements (the beating sun, the heaving rain) in the shelter of the arcades, while still more meander slowly to and fro around this piazza dell’arte.

It’s unfortunate, then, that the elders of Lincoln Center insist on erecting temporary stage structures in the middle of the plaza, partially obstructing the fountain, during the warmer months when, above all other times, it should be open for all to enjoy. The creators of Lincoln Center conceived of the obvious desire for outdoor performances during the summer, and so they built the bandshell in Damrosch Park in between the Opera House and Avery Fisher Hall, just diagonally adjacent to the plaza. Surely the plaza is meant to be an open space where all the events can mix, blend, interact, influence, before finally separating into their appropriate places. If there are to be outdoor performances, hold them where they were meant to be, and if that place suffers from some malfunction of design, then redesign that place rather than rudely interjecting a particular event into what was meant to be the public square for all.

THIS PARTICULAR EVENING it was into Avery Fisher Hall for a performance of the New York Philharmonic, now in its 165th year. The program was Rossini’s overture to Semiramide and Schubert’s Symphony No. 3 in D major (D.500), with Dvořák’s Symphony No. 5 in F major (Op. 76). Riccardo Muti wielded the conductor’s baton and the result was definitely less than was expected. I had only heard Muti’s conducting on the radio in passing and, while admittedly not devoting much thought to it, he seemed a fairly capable conductor. In person, however, he left much to be desired. Rossini’s overture was merely lackluster but Schubert’s symphony was actually surprisingly poor. Perhaps the worst thing was observing Muti in action, for the man looked like an utter fool. His conducting seemed unnatural, choreographed, even foppish. And those ridiculous jestures towards the first violins! I wanted to slap the man, and I shouldn’t be surprised if the violins wanted to themselves. Towards the middle of the Schubert symphony, I began to think of the man as a proper ass, the tails of his evening jacket acting the part of hind legs. My only solution to the St. Vitus’s dance on the conductor’s dais was to shut my eyes and imagine that I was there in the Austrian capital in that autumn of 1815, after the chancellors and ministers of the crowned heads of Europe had departed the Congress of Vienna when peace and order were plotted, in the home of Otto Hatwig where (scholars posit) the work was premiered.

The friend I accompanied that evening actually knows about the inner workings of music (I am actually an ignoramus on the subject, and simply like what sounds good to me) and agreed completely with me on the subject during the intermission. Luckily, the Dvořák fared better, but one had the niggling suspicion that this was the Philharmonic working its magic in spite of Mr. Muti, rather than at the command of his baton. My knowledge and appreciation of Dvořák has slowly grown, from that first passing fondness we all have for his Symphony No. 9 “From the New World”. My appreciation for the Philharmonic grows, when I see they have printed in the program that Mr. Dvořák was born in Mühlhausen, Bohemia, rather than the more modish style of “Nelahozeves, Czech Republic” that would find favor elsewhere.

Perhaps I am too hard on Mr. Muti. Perhaps he and the Philharmonic were simply not a good fit for eachother. At any rate, I shouldn’t complain as one doesn’t often get box seats to a sold-out performance with every seat in the hall occupied (though, to be honest, the sound is better down in the orchestra seats). But how I wish I could have seen von Karajan while he was alive!

After the baton had finally fallen for the night, my friend and I had the same stroke of genius at exactly the same moment and decided to head up to good old Café Lalo, but unfortunately everyone else had the same idea (Saturday night? Lalo’s? What did we expect?) so we comforted ourselves with a pint or two at the Parlour instead.

THE RECENT UTTERANCE of most grievous blasphemies against the Holy Spirit and the Blessed Virgin by a member of Senator John Edwards’ presidential campaign team sparked great scandal, much compounded by the Senator standing by the offending party after the affair erupted. While she has since resigned, one wonders in what jurisdiction her comments, posted electronically on the internet, were made. Blasphemy remains a common law offense in New York, while one suspects it is almost as rarely enforced as those as-yet-unrepealed Plantagenet-era laws requiring all free-born Englishmen to practice archery weekly.

The blasphemy case which obtained the greatest reknown in these parts took place in December of 1810. A man (we will not call him gentle) by the name of Timothy Ruggles was brought to court in Salem in Charlotte County, New York. (Or, more properly, Washington County, as that particular bailiwick, originally named after the patron of the arts and Queen Consort to King George the Last, had been rechristened after a George of more recent popularity). Ruggles, anyhow, had made grievously blasphemous utterances against Our Lord and the Blessed Virgin which do not bear repeating (but which the inquisitive and hard-stomached scholar can find in the appropriate academic sources).

Ruggles had reckoned himself a “free thinker” and the townsfolk made haste to ensure he would be, at the very least, an imprisoned one. Found guilty in the Court of Oyer and Terminer of Salem, he was jailed for three months and fined $500. The blasphemer appealed the conviction, his lawyer arguing that there was no specific statute against blasphemy in the State of New York. The great James Kent, Chief Justice (and later Chancellor) of New York whose Commentaries on American Law earned him the worthy cognomen of “America’s Blackstone”, however, upheld the blasphemy conviction, citing blasphemy as a threat to morality and public welfare and “offence against the public peace and safety”. Would that such was the case today!

IN THE MIDST of the frigid cold, I found myself (a fortnight ago) having a meander around the old Ward estate in New Rochelle. I was very glad that I had brought my walking stick along, as most of the old paths were covered in frozen snow. Without the aid of it, I most certainly would have slipped and cracked my head. A good few nooks and gullies had filled with frozen snow and water, to the extent that some small trees were eerily half-submerged in white. In a clearing amidst the barren trees, the old house sits, boarded-up and somewhat neglected. Despite being surrounded by sheets of ice, I circumnavigated it, and gave as good an inspection as I could before the cold bade me onwards, and back home.

Just as I reached the edge of the estate by the old forge, I came upon an old man with a giant of a beast that may very well have been the Hound of Cullen. My presence was acknowledge by a great loud bark, one of such ambiguity as to leave me guessing whether it was of welcome or suspicion. The old man promptly leashed the enormous beast. “No good out there today,” he said. “Expect it’s all frozen over”. “Yes, quite,” I tersely responded, my mind still arrested by the Hound of Cullen. (The reader will recall that only the week before, my right calf had been the object of a terrier’s affections). “Better in a few weeks,” the Old Man said in aspiration. “Hope so”. Realizing my own terseness, I expressed my wish that the Old Man and the Hound of Cullen enjoy the remainder of the afternoon, and, the wish having been returned in kind, I proceeded home to the warmth of my own abode.

RATHER APPROPRIATELY, the landlord of our pub has been appointed Grand Marshal of the town’s St. Patrick’s Parade, which will duly be held tommorrow. Monsignor Doyle even appeared before mass last Sunday to solemnly announce the honor to the assembled faithful, citing this public citizen’s good works (among them, sending food over from his rather capable kitchens when the rectory cook is away).

I recall, with fondness, Mr. Fogarty’s ardent protests (consisting primarily of a shaked fist and some strongly-pronounced verbiage) when the village police, in a fit of overzealousness, erected checkpoints at every neighboring intersection to the pub, stopping every single passing automobile and “breathalyzing” the driver thereof. Needless to say, many a car was left on the village streets that night, including that of yours truly. Irritatingly, it was already winter, and I had to make the uphill walk home in the cold. Also, while traversing the hockey field behind the school, I was forced to climb over a fence in order to evade a skunk. We were not impressed by the village police that night, and heartily concurred with Mr. Fogarty’s protests. No doubt he will do a good job of waving to the assembled Gaelry, compulsively bedecked in the Arran jumper and ceremonial sash which are typical of St. Patrick’s Day Parade Grand Marshals past and present.

Does this position confer, we wonder, a certain suzerainity over the town’s Irish-Americans?

THIS EVENING WAS SPENT, happily, in front of the fire, perusing the Encyclopedia of New York State given to me by Col. & Mrs. Cusack, my aunt and uncle next door. It is a worthy companion to the equally weighty Encyclopedia of New York City (an updated edition of which will appear next year). Between stoking the flames and letting the dog in and out of the house, I learnt about agriculture in Westchester (over 2,000 farms in 1850 but only 91 today), almshouses, art collecting, Austerlitz (pop. 1,453), aviation, bagel production, the Bahá’í faith (“white Protestants remain the principal source of converts”), and Ballston Spa.

PERHAPS I WILL go wander around the old Ward estate again when I return from the city tommorrow. The ice will surely have melted by now, but then tonight’s rains might turn it a bit muddy. On the other hand, I’ve only gotten as far as Ballston Spa in my latest perusal of the Encyclopedia. Very well, I intend to do both (and will likely end up doing neither).

THE MONTH OF FEBRUARY returns, and so too the Knights of Malta Ball with its requisite sojourn to Edinburgh. If I have a confession to make, it is that I am a creature of habit, and having gone the past three years, I didn’t see why the intervening distance of the Atlantic Ocean should make any particular difference this year. If I may make another confession, it is that I am incapable at organizing things competently, and of course left sorting out tickets to the last week. “Impossible,” quoth Zygmunt Sikorski-Mazur when I contacted him. “Too late I’m afraid, and there is even a waiting list of people who’ve paid up just in case tickets become available”. Well, I had accommodated myself to the concept of heading up to St Andrews and having a grand night out instead, but luckily C. came to the rescue. “Perchance,” saith the youthful Old Harrovian, “I have a spare ticket and you can have it if you wish”. Well, that settled it.

Carried off by taxicab to the Assembly Rooms in George Street from the similarly-monikered Assembly bar in Bristo Square, it was something of a disappointment to find the fine Georgian building veiled in scaffolding and lacking the usual looming Scottish standards of the Order (smaller version seen here) and the flanking flags hanging, floodlit, from the splendid façade. Nonetheless, the Assembly Rooms have been in need a fixing-up for some time now, so it’s a relief to know that the City of Edinburgh have finally coughed up the dough. Interior restorations are to follow in the coming years, but then where will the Ball during such a restoration? Ed Monckton suggested the Castle as an acceptable substitute, and I’m inclined to agree.

It was quite the enjoyable ball, as per usual. His Eminence the Cardinal Archbishop of St Andrews & Edinburgh was affable as ever. (Last year, a photo of His Eminence, Lt. Col. Bogle, Abigail, and myself at this very event made it onto the social page of Scottish Field. I hope that is as far as my life in the limelight goes!). I ran into Fra’ Freddie (Crichton-Stuart) and he exclaimed “What are you doing here!”, though he subsequently admitted that his “little spies” had, actually, informed him I would be popping over from New York. Ed Monckton shared an amusing tale of his late grandfather and the Duke of Wellington commandeering a tank to gain entry to a public house and disengaging street lamps by means of firearms. California’s own Chevalier Charles Coulombe, of course, talked to everyone, even the bouncers, who had a decidedly mafioso look to them this year. I, forgetfully, neglected to pick up a pack of Dunhills beforehand, but Gary Dench and I ran into Albert and he kindly offered his brand: an excellent, unfilitered variety of (naturally) German origin.

One of the unintended consequences of the Scottish smoking ban is an increase in socialization: a greater appreciation of the brotherly bonds of nicotine intake. Now that we of the smoking habit are forced to congregate outside entrances you have an instant bond of solidarity with complete strangers. I met an Austrian fellow named Camilo, an Edinburgh University student, and we agreed on the excellence of the Scottish system of higher education. (If one could dignify it with that term; perhaps ‘style’ is a better word than ‘system’). As it turned out, he had also spent some time in dear old Argentina, and so we swapped stories of the people and their particular ingenuity.

Later, Zygmunt introduced me to his son Nicholas, a very intelligent fellow who sounds terribly Scottish because he was educated in France rather than England with all the other Scots. (Alright, some Scots are educated in Scotland. There are Gordonstoun, Fettes, Glenalmond, and elsewhere needless to say). There were also two young Cypriot ladies, sisters if I recall correctly, who were very charming and whom we managed to drag onto the dance floor for a reel (and one of whom even managed to drag me onto the dance floor later in the evening). Typically, their names have been filed away in some deep but, alas, inaccessible fold of my brain. At any rate, we all agreed that the Turks ought to be given the boot. (Seems to be a recurring theme in European history, eh?).

Jamie Bogle was extremely late in arriving, and it turned out there was a story behind it. The trains from London were a typical shambles and there was every type of delay imaginable. Having used his mobile to make a phone call, the good Lieutenant Colonel was approached by another fellow asking if he could make a call. Jamie happened to overheard the fellow discussing “chambers” and so inquired if he (like Jamie) was a lawyer. The chap applied in the affirmative. Later in discussion, they discovered they were both actually heading to Edinburgh, and furthermore, as it turns out, to the Knights of Malta Ball! They realized they would both be terribly late, and so resigned themselves to the bar car, where they drank the train dry of champagne. The fellow’s name is Christopher Boyle, and he and his wife made for some excellent conversation, along with Amanda Crichton-Stuart, whom I singularly failed when sent to procure cigarettes for, as the few newsagents along George Street had shut by that time in the evening. I did, however, introduce her to Albert, who offered one of his cigarettes, and happily they seemed to get on well. Unhappily, the Sunday following, Albert’s Jack Russell terrier (who goes by the name of Cicio) took serious umbrage with my throwing a stick around with a female German shepherd Cicio clearly had eyes on. He ran up to me and bit me in the leg! Albert was very apologetic, and with a rolled-up newspaper and a “kommen zie here!” forced Cicio to likewise apologize. You know, as he lay prostrate before me with a teary look in his eye, I actually felt pity for the blighted creature which, only moments before, had planted its jaws on my right calf! Well, these things do happen.

On a more positive note, I actually won two prizes in the tombola raffle! A china mug bedecked with the insignia of the Sovereign Military and Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem of Rhodes and of Malta and a placemat with an unrecognizable coat of arms emblazoned upon it. I shall have to get my heraldic detectives to work investigating the bearer of the arms; needless to say I will be quite prepared should he come for dinner.

EVENTUALLY, THE BELLS tolled and the staff encouraged us to exeunt the Assembly Rooms and we duly complied. There was then some prolonged pondering about after-parties. Zygmunt, Nicholas, and myself made a foray into the hopping Opal Lounge across the street, but I found it not to my particular liking (too loud! too crowded!) and thus decided to retire to bed. All in all a much-enjoyed evening. I congratulated Henry Lorimer on the night for having pulled it all off. “You have no idea how glad I’ll be when tomorrow comes!” was his response. Well, all the organizers deserve our thanks and appreciation. I have been to the ball four years in a row now and each time it has been excellent, though, because of the variety of parties I’ve gone with, excellent in very different ways. I wonder if I will attend next year? I hope so, as the more excuses to go to Edinburgh I have, the happier I shall be.

Previously: The Knights of Malta Ball 2004 | 2005 | 2006

I was very saddened to hear this morning of the sudden death of our good and loyal friend, Walter Phelan of Brooklyn. Walter was a good man, with a heart of gold, and a brilliant mind. He taught himself the law, and passed the New York bar exams in the years before at least a year in law school was required (a development which Walter would’ve been the first to tell you was an outright racket). I have no doubt that Walter will be remembered for his numerous small kindnesses. Proud of his favorite Italian bakery, he would hand out loaves of bread from there every Sunday on the sidewalk outside St. Agnes after the 11:00 Tridentine mass. Having a gift for languages, he would often exchange a few kind words with the Polish waitress in her native tongue whenever we had lunch at Bloom’s on Lexington, and he made sure to tutor his young nephew in Latin when he discovered it wasn’t offered at school.

One of the things I liked most about Walter is that he was never afraid to have a good argument. More often than not, he and I found ourselves in agreement, but it was sometimes otherwise, such as with his firm contention that Shakespeare’s plays were actually written by the Earl of Oxford. Nonetheless, he was polite and gracious in dispute, even if outspoken. Still, he was a private man, and as a friend said of him tonight, it would probably take five of his friends who’d never known eachother to piece together the story of his life. Walter heard mass three times a day, and could often be found attending masses at St. Agnes on 43rd Street, at St. Vincent de Paul’s on 24th, and at St. George’s Ukrainian Catholic Church down on 7th Street. Earnest in his desire for the salvation of souls and their eternal repose, he never missed the monthly mass of the New York Purgatorial Society. His friends will miss him very much.

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Requiescat in pace. Amen.

I crossed the Harlem River into Manhattan today just as Patrick Leigh Fermor traversed the Danube in his brilliant book, A Time of Gifts, which has immediately become one of my favorite reads of all time. Settling into my seat on the train yesterday, I opened my knapsack to utter shock and surprise—I had left my reading at home. The Leigh Fermor and P.G.W.’s Cocktail Time were resting somewhere in my bedchamber while I stared into the compartment of my bag, bare but for a photocopied page from the Art Newspaper and two (already-read) issues of the Hungarian Quarterly. These are the times that try men’s souls. Getting out of the city late in the evening proved even harder, as the bridge carrying the railway over the river was actually up for once (“First time in my life, folks,” the conductor informed us), leaving a steady backlog of trains awaiting their northerly destinations.

But this morning there were no bridge-raising complications, and the sky was a delightful, clear blue (soon to change) as we entered Manhattan. Thankfully, I had my two books; a bit of Wodehouse while waiting in Bronxville station and then Paddy Leigh Fermor on the train. After crossing the river, the train stops at 125th Street (Harlem) before submerging at 96th, taking the passenger down to Grand Central, that well-kept remnant on 42nd Street, reminding us that we too were once civilized. There, after taking a stroll through the market (Nürnburger sausage! Kaiser ham! Norwegian salmon!) you switch to the subway and hop down just one express stop on the 5 train.

Just half a dozen steps after emerging from Union Square station I saw a speck of white fall from the sky, and then another, and another. So it began: the first snowfall of the year. And, I might add, a New York record for the latest snowfall. (January 10th? No, there was no white Christmas for us this year). Two children on the swings in the playground ecstatically proclaimed their approval at the opening of the heavens. Wandering through the farmer’s market in the square, I picked up an herb focaccia bread I thought might be particularly enjoyable, and it complimented the exceptionally tasty Tuscan vegetable soup I had for lunch. The snowflakes swirled above the square and fell down on all the market-goers and the folks walking on Broadway as I marched up to work. And yet, how fleeting! In the few steps from the front door to the elevator, the white snow had already melted and merged into the green of my loden coat. Very well, Mother Nature. Very well.

A splendid New Year’s Eve. We watched Mrs. Miniver before retiring to the living room, where I made a fire. We sat before the open flame for two hours, first with a generous helping of port then followed by a good old bottle of Veuve, with naught but a few candles, the lights of the Christmas tree, and the crackling fire to illuminate the room. It was all quite lovely.

We remembered a number of the things which had come to pass in the last year, and after we had opened the champagne (the dog grabbed the cork and was happily chewing on it beneath the dining room table) we made a few toasts. To the Queen, to the Duke of Edinburgh, to dear old Aunt Kay who passed away this year. Aunt Kay lived in numerous interesting places in the post-war period, from Nigeria where they had to deal with snakes on the verandah (or was it monkeys?) to Madrid in Spain to London where they lived in Princes Gate, right on Hyde Park. They were parishioners at the Oratory, which is why it is the first church in Britain in which I ever heard Mass (the summer after kindergarten). They had returned to the States a good number of years ago and she passed on just a few weeks ago at a ripe old age. To Gerald Ford, our late president. Then there were toasts to little Finn, my nephew, and to other friends and relations, kith and kin. I raised a glass myself to our own Tom Grant, whom we so sadly lost this year, and hoped and prayed his mother and father were baring up well. We remembered dear Cousin Marilyn, who was greatly missed at a family gathering on Saturday, God rest her soul. I will always remember the prognostications which she delivered with absolute authority. “Wallis Simpson? A man.” “You’re joking.” “A man. When she died, they only found men’s underwear.”

Eventually, we discovered that, like the proverbial thief in the night, the hour of twelve had come and the new year was upon us. A few final swigs of champagne and then a resting of eyes before the fire was extinguished and it was time to go to bed. May God in His mercy grant us all a happy, holy, and peaceful new year.

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