A Christmas Carol

At the beginning of the festive season, I had the idea of posting a new carol for each day of Christmas with shout outs of the various feast days throughout the season. But alas I was in the hinterlands of NJ where a glacially slow dial up connection allowed for the thorough wrapping of presents during the lag time, but didn't inspire much posting.

So halfway though the season I present all the catch up section most of which will have to go without explanation except for the 25th.

December 24th, also know as Adam and Eve's Day. It can't be helped. The carol is the impossible to sing, but deeply meaningful, "Adam Lay Ybounden", which neatly lays out what Milton called "the Paradox of the Happy Fall"

Adam Lay Ybounden

Adam lay ybounden, bounden in a bond,
Four thousand winter thoughte he not too long;
And al was for an apple, and apple that he took,
As clerkes finden writen, writen in hire book.
Ne hadde the apple taken been, the apple taken been,
Ne hadde nevere Oure Lady ybeen hevene Queen.
Blessed be the time that apple taken was:
Therfore we mown singen Deo Gratias.


December 25th, Christmas Day. A carol, which really should go on the 24th as well, "Tomorrow Shall Be my Dancing Day". This carol was first published in 1833 but is far older than that. Scholars believe it dates back to the medieval Cornish mystery plays presented during the Christmas season. The tune is lovely but it's the imagery of man as the true and eternally wooed love of Christ that makes this carol.


TOMORROW SHALL BE MY DANCING DAY


Tomorrow shall be my dancing day;
I would my true love did so chance
To see the legend of my play,
To call my true love to my dance;

Chorus
Sing, oh! my love, oh! my love, my love, my love,
This have I done for my true love

Then was I born of a virgin pure,
Of her I took fleshly substance
Thus was I knit to man's nature
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

In a manger laid, and wrapped I was
So very poor, this was my chance
Betwixt an ox and a silly poor ass
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

Then afterwards baptized I was;
The Holy Ghost on me did glance,
My Father’s voice heard from above,
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

Into the desert I was led,
Where I fasted without substance;
The Devil bade me make stones my bread,
To have me break my true love's dance. Chorus

The Jews on me they made great suit,
And with me made great variance,
Because they loved darkness rather than light,
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

For thirty pence Judas me sold,
His covetousness for to advance:
Mark whom I kiss, the same do hold!
The same is he shall lead the dance. Chorus

Before Pilate the Jews me brought,
Where Barabbas had deliverance;
They scourged me and set me at nought,
Judged me to die to lead the dance. Chorus

Then on the cross hanged I was,
Where a spear my heart did glance;
There issued forth both water and blood,
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

Then down to hell I took my way
For my true love's deliverance,
And rose again on the third day,
Up to my true love and the dance. Chorus

Then up to heaven I did ascend,
Where now I dwell in sure substance
On the right hand of God, that man
May come unto the general dance. Chorus

December 26th, the Feast of St. Stephen, Deacon and Martyr. You would think the first martyr would have some songs to himself, and so he does in the eponymous named "St Stephen." Two carols however do mention his day peripherally, the well known "Good King Wenceslas" and the lesser known "The Wren Song". In Poland however, Stephen is properly honored with a pastry, Podkovy, which are baked in the shape of horseshoes, because for some reason Stephen has long been viewed as the Patron of horses. (I have to say in all honesty that when I made Podkovy they were a bit disappointing, but I attribute that to the flaws of the baker rather than the recipe. Those interested in the recipe should consult the internet or the Bible of the liturgical baker, Evelyn Birge Vitz's A Continual Feast .

December 27th, the Feast of St. John. To honor the author of the hauntingly beautiful Gospel of Incarnation not a carol for him, but one about his Beloved "Of the Father's Love Begotten" . Many classify this an Advent hymn, but The Lutheran Hymnal places it as a Christmas hymn and who am I to argue with the TLH? Perhaps as you sing this you could accompany it with some St. John's wine. Good for loosening the pipes.

December 28th, The Feast of the Holy Innocents. A reminder that the perfect Christ was born into a fallen world, "Coventry Carol" .

December 29th, the 5th Day of Christmas. As Mary comes to grips with motherhood, the sprightly German carol, "Josef Lieber, Josef Mein." Sing it in English by all means, I do, but it really does sound better auf Deutsch.

December 30th, the 6th Day of Christmas. The delightful “Wexford Carol”, which sounds particularly good when rendered by a bass, but then I am partial to basses.

December 31st, the 7th day of Christmas, St. Sylvester’s Day, and the secular New Year's Eve. Oh what the heck, break out the Welshies, with their impossible language and great musical tradition, and the secular "Nos Galan." We know "Nos Galan" as "Deck the Halls," ("inexplicably still popular” sneers the Oxford Book of Carols), but for the Brythonic Celts among you here are the actual words and a closer translation for the English speakers. (By the way, the fa la la la la bits were supposed to have been played by the harpists answering back to the singers, but as harpists are in short supply these days beyond the "daft and happy hills" of Wales, the nonsense syllables were added to approximate the sound.)

Oer yw'r gwr sy'n methu caru,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Hen fynyddoedd annwyl Cymru,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Iddo ef a'u câr gynhesaf
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Gwyia llawen flwyddyn nesaf,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

I'r helbulus oer yw'r biliau,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Sydd yn dyfod yn y gwyliau,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Gwrando bregeth mewn un pennill,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Byth na waria fwy na'th ennill,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Oer yw'r eira ar Eryri,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Er fod gwrthban gwlanen arni,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Oer yw'r bobol na ofalan',
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Gwrdd â'i gilydd ar Nos Galan,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Soon the hoar old year must leave us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
But the parting must not grieve us
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
When the new year comes tomorrow
Fa la la la la, la la la la
Let him find no trace of sorrow
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

He our pleasures may redouble,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
He may bring us store of trouble,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Hope the best and gaily meet him,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
With a jovial chorus greet him,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

At his birth, he brings us gladness,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Ponder not on future sadness,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Anxious care is now but folly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Fill the mead-cup, hand the holly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
A Happy and Healthy 2005 to you all!

Two articles/essays to make you squirm with anger, but perhaps something constructive will come from them:

Screwing up a New Hampshire Christmas

Screwing up a whole host of Christmas' around America

And we are bracing for our first "lake effect snows" today. We'll be under 10-16 inches of the white stuff by tomorrow, they say. The fair Quaker of Amesbury will get us into the spirit of the thing:

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
...
At last the great logs, crumbling low,
Sent out a dull and duller glow,
The bull's-eye watch that hung in view,
Ticking its weary circuit through,
Pointed with mutely warning sign
Its black hand to the hour of nine.
That sign the pleasant circle. broke:
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,
Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray
And laid it tenderly away;
Then roused himself to safely cover
The dull red brands with ashes over,
And while, with care, our mother laid
The work aside, her steps she stayed
One moment, seeking to express
Her grateful sense of happiness
For food and shelter, warmth and health,
And love's contentment more than wealth,
With simple wishes (not the weak,
Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek,
But such as warm the generous heart,
O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part)
That none might lack, that bitter night,
For bread and clothing, warmth and light.

Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tossed,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall.
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till in the summer-land of dreams
They softened to the sound of streams,
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,
And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
Next morn we wakened with the shout
Of merry voices high and clear;
And saw the teamsters drawing near
To break the drifted highways out.

So, first Prince Charles speaks out condemning faddish educational theories ascendent in Britain, causing a flash of anger from Labourites. Now Labour announces they will be investigating the Prince's finances in Cornwall "to see whether the public is getting value for money and that this isn't some sort of tax fiddle for the Royals."

And shame on your for thinking there is any intimidation, or any connection between the two.

Creeping Misanthropy

Sometimes I find it terribly hard not to be a complete misanthrope. That is not to say, as a curmudgeon, I am not perturbed at the direction of many things and with the ideas stapled in many people’s heads. Lord knows, I am. But in the living of everyday life, you encounter a steady stream, day-in and day-out with no break for lunch or holiday, of utterly dumb, inconsiderate, blindly selfish, arrogantly self-centered individuals. They are everywhere and are, I think, breeding at a rapid rate.

Lately this has come home to me in two areas: driving and dogs. Let me explain. First, no matter what they say about East Coast drivers being jerks, it has not changed much on my sojourn out to the Midwest. They drive extraordinarily fast out here and tailgate with the best of them. Tailgating represents vehicular arrogance and seems to be based on several important points (and I flatter it by making it seem a rational choice – it is always unthinking): (1.) you are going too slow for the driver behind you, or (2.) the driver behind you does not like people in front of him, (3.) by driving very close the driver behind you either hopes (a.) you’ll speed up, or (b.) pull over, and finally (4.) the driver behind you thinks you do not notice him, so he pulls over toward the left (toward the yellow line) so that one half of his car and one headlight is clearly visible in your side mirror.

Referring to my list above, tailgaters are dumb people because they assume that by their unsafe actions they can affect another’s driving behavior. Tailgaters are inconsiderate because they are intent on making a public statement (via their car) that you are too slow for them, and it is terribly annoying to have someone inches off your bumper. Tailgaters are blindly selfish and arrogantly self-centered because they are only considering their own situations and do not care about anyone but themselves. “Whatever I think gets me to my bowling match on time, that’s what I’ll do. So get outta my way.” It is sort of like driving and getting to my destination by any means necessary.

Second, I would estimate fully half or maybe more of dog owners should not own a dog. Every day we walk our dogs around the block and every day we encounter utterly dumb, inconsiderate, selfish, and arrogant fellow dog owners. They often refuse to keep their dogs on leashes and let them run free around the neighborhood, where they can pester other dogs, do their doos in other people’s yards, and harass other people walking their dogs on a leash. When their dogs get run over by a semi-truck at rush hour, do you think they will realize the error of their ways? I doubt it.

Those dog owners who do walk their dogs on leashes (God bless them all) often do not pick up their dogs doo, which means the rest of us have to walk through a cesspool. I am often tempted to monitor who is not cleaning up after their canine charges, collect their deposits, and return them to their owner’s front porch. “I’m sorry, you must have dropped this.” These people must think they are the only ones in the world, that their dog doo will evaporate, that no one else will ever notice or care. Notice: the world is not your oyster. Lift up your head and see that other people have to live with you and your dog.

Finally, too many dog owners do not train their dogs, and when you encounter them on walks (again, assuming they are on leashes) they bark deliriously and sometimes viciously, and pull on the leash so violently they leave the ground and their owners are often dragged with them. And the owner’s response? Rarely a “sorry” or “I apologize,” but usually a smile or no recognition at all (“Maybe if I ignore them, they won’t notice.”)

Hence, with some reservation but based on experience, misanthropy is rapidly become my creed. Is thinking outside yourself that difficult? Is the notion that the world is larger than yourself too hard to fathom? Apparently so, for far too many.

Pride of Place

One of the things I have noticed since being in Indiana is that many people here have very little of what I call "pride of place," of being proud of their native state or region and thinking it (at least in some particulars) superior to other places. So often, when I ask students about Indiana, they roll their eyes and sarcastically ask, "Well, how do you like it?" They take no joy in their native soil and seem rather sheepishly embarrassed by it.

Where does this come from? I wonder if lack of pride comes from simple lack of knowledge. In order to have "pride of place," you must have a "sense of place," of knowing, at least in part, the historical and cultural particulars of a region. What makes Indiana different, unique, indeed superior than other places? Have they ever read Booth Tarkington? Or James Witcomb Riley? Or discovered the Battle of Tippecanoe? Or visited the Benjamin Harrison home? Or heard of the immortal Charles Warren Fairbanks?

Once fortified with some cultural knowledge, a sense of the state's uniqueness amidst the flat expanse of the Middle West (we are not Illinois or Ohio, we are Indiana, and here is why), pride of place should follow.

Back after a Thanksgiving respite "back East."

I've been reading Wyndham Lewis lately, a tough but interesting read. Has Mr. Soames spoken much about PWL? I can't remember. Some bits:

But whatever the special circumstances, with Rymer on board the ship would have ceased to be at peace. Such pacific bliss as I have dwelt upon would have been out of the question; politics, religion, and the itch-to-teach would have combined, a trinity of irritants, to sow disquiet in the ship from one end to the other ...

I hope the man of parts I write of is not disappearing beneath such elaboration: not this poor clergyman who forgets he has no money, who yearns for honor -- who certainly has dreamt of fame, but who dreams incessantly now of social justice and a new, bright, bossy, fraternal world -- a new Jerusalem. He comes from a part of England that has bred rebels like rabbits. His verse is of a wizard elegance, the song of a rather mechanically cheerful bird, on the highest and frostiest bough in a frost like the last frost of all, celebrating the winter of our discontent as though it were the morning of the world ...

Well quite

Comments by Robin Lane Fox historian advisor on the movie Alexander about the nature of battle rage (lyssa in Greek):

"I know what it means now," Fox says. "Even with a rubber spear, I know what it means, and you don't come near a chap, even with bare legs, if he is possessed by lyssa, especially if he is a historian."

Bare legged berserker hordes of historians. Oh my.

Having explained the mysteries of Delaware Chancery, I wish to read the Style Editor venting upon this here article from the NYT.

It does not begin well:

SEATED to my right was a former college fraternity president. To my left was a Condé Nast editor. The low roar of conversation — about personal trainers, one-night stands and the unlikely pleasures of calf roping — was interrupted by a spate of impromptu dancing, squeals of laughter and a brief wrestling bout. The tuna-noodle casserole was going over well, as were the Nutella and Skippy sandwiches.

The Postal Service, an indie-rock band, played in the background. A case of inexpensive wine was flowing, augmented by Grey Goose martinis and red plastic cups of Johnnie Walker Black, neat.

Dorothy Draper's advice was working.

Believe me, I could use some advice. I am a 22-year-old with a subpar income. I live with three roommates in a walk-up railroad apartment on the Upper East Side.

Until recently I had no clue what an aperitif was, and my idea of a proper dinner involved grating real cheese into a Kraft Dinner. Now, on the eve of the holidays, it was time to grow up and face that post-college rite of passage: giving my first dinner party.

Oh, gag me with a bottle of Grey Goose. Madam, Dorothy Draper would tar you and feather you and beat you bloody.

And when these are the opening paragraphs in a New York Times article on your new presidential library, don't you think that you would get even more nervous as you ponder your Legacy?


Like the 42nd presidency itself, the new Clinton library here sprawls across eight years of big ambitions and small details and does not omit, but hardly dwells upon, the sex scandal that led to Bill Clinton's impeachment trial.

The William J. Clinton Presidential Center, to be dedicated on Thursday, is a futuristic glass-paneled rectangle cantilevered over the banks of the Arkansas River, evoking Mr. Clinton's metaphoric "Bridge to the 21st Century." It is a reflection of a man who famously crammed just about everything into his speeches and his presidency and has now crammed them or their facsimiles into this shrine he hopes will shape his legacy.


I think it's time to announce that when I retire from the Presidency, or from the Ombudsmanship, I will not build one of these silly monuments to myself, nor ask the taxpayers to maintain it.

I'm sure the Doc saw this on the BBC, I just wanted to beat him to the obligatory foxhunting post. The House of Lords having voted to retain foxhunting, albeit with a new licensing system, it looks like the House of Commons will summon up the powers of the Parliament Act to override the Lords.

It's enough to make me want to take up the sport.

So I was listening to NPR this morning, soaking in all the amusing testimony by Michael Eisner, when it suddenly struck me: what in the heck is the CEO of Disney doing sitting in a courtroom in Georgetown, Delaware? That is about as far as you can get from anywhere on the Northeast Corridor.

Since the Style Editor has a legal background, and knows about things like Chancery Courts, maybe she can enlighten me.

Joan Baez performs anti-Bush minstrel show in Virginia. Don't quite know what to say about this. I think perhaps this deserves limited comment: Seek professional help, Joan.

Herbst

Die Blätter fallen, fallen wie von weit,
als welkten in dem Himmel ferne Gärten;
sie fallen mit verneinender Gebärde.

Und in den Nächten fällt die schwere Erde
aus allen Sternen in die Einsamkeit.

Wir alle fallen.
Diese Hand da fällt.
Und sieh dir andre an:
es ist in allen.

Und doch ist Einer, welcher dieses Fallen
unendlich sanft in seinen Händen hält.

Rainer  Maria  Rilke


AUTUMN


The leaves are falling down the world's abyss
as if in heaven distant gardens wither.
They fall in silence, meekly without mirth.
And through eternal night this heavy earth
falls from all stars to utter loneliness.
We all are falling, this hand falls.
Just look around you - it's in everything.
Yet there is One, who holds this fall most gently in his hands.

You must go and read the profile given our dear friend in blogville Enoch Soames -- you'll find it over at normblog. Some of the choice bits:

If you could effect one major policy change in the governing of your country, what would it be? > I would return the rebellious North American colonies to the Queen.

What do you consider to be the main threat to the future peace and security of the world? > Do you mean besides people?

Do you have any prejudices you're willing to acknowledge? > I am not prejudiced; I hate everyone and everything equally.

What is your favourite proverb? > Every improvement in communication makes the bore more terrible.

Instead of approaching the lack of conservatives in academia as an issue of fair play or ideological balance, Mark Bauerlein in the latest Chronicle discusses it via sociology and makes a remarkably good case.

But we can't open the university to conservative ideas and persons by outside command. That would poison the atmosphere and jeopardize the ideals of free inquiry. Leftist bias evolved within the protocols of academic practice (though not without intimidation), and conservative challenges should evolve in the same way. There are no administrative or professional reasons to bring conservatism into academe, to be sure, but there are good intellectual and social reasons for doing so.

Those reasons are, in brief: One, a wider spectrum of opinion accords with the claims of diversity. Two, facing real antagonists strengthens one's own position. Three, to earn a public role in American society, professors must engage the full range of public opinion.

Finally, to create a livelier climate on the campus, professors must end the routine setups that pass for dialogue. Panels on issues like Iraq, racism, imperialism, and terrorism that stack the dais provide lots of passion, but little excitement. Syllabi that include the same roster of voices make learning ever more desultory. Add a few rightists, and the debate picks up. Perhaps that is the most persuasive internal case for infusing conservatism into academic discourse and activities. Without genuine dissent in the classroom and the committee room, academic life is simply boring.

I couldn't agree more.

Royal Mail Contest: Write like an illiterate and win a prize

In an attempt to drum up business, the British Royal Mail is sponsoring a letter-writing competition for school kids. Sound innocent enough? Well, the catch is that children can use (and are, in fact, encouraged to use) modern slang in their compositions, and the winner will be chosen by a thus far unnamed "urban music star." Sayeth the BBC:

The contest, for five to 11 year olds, is designed to "bring letter writing in line with the communication trends of children today".

The results should "express the sender's personality".

Oh yes, in Anglo-American society and culture today there is far too little self-expression -- we really need to liberate letter-writing from inhibition and spread the plague of expressing one's personality to yet more areas. Ugh.

Common turns of phrase like "chav", "as if", "minging" and the perennial "cool" might be expected to feature heavily.

The terms "innit", immortalised by spoof rapper Ali G, and "yeah but, no but", favoured by Vicky Pollard of BBC TV's Little Britain, are also among modern youth catchphrases.

However, even in the age of e-mails and text messages, certain competition rules apply.

Carrie Holder, Royal Mail's social policy manager, said: "If a child's hero is Eminem we would expect the language used to be very different to a formal letter to Tony Blair, for example."

"It is important that children recognise the value of letter writing, whether it's to inform, advise or respond effectively or to convey feelings and emotions."

Far be it from me to suggest the Royal Mail's "social policy manager" is dead wrong (and who even knew the RM had a "social policy manager?" Does the RM have a social policy?) but shouldn't they be exercising a modicum of leadership and suggest that school children not talk and write like Eminem and more like Tony Blair? Certainly if literacy is a social good (and I would think the RM "social policy manager" would know this), why encourage the young to write like ill-mannered, uncultured, illiterate boobs?

British businesses have warned that they are uninterested in employing those with limited vocabularies. Schools are trying to correct it a bit, albeit not with enough conviction and verve. British kids cannot spell very well, and (big surprise here) neither can prospective teachers.

But in the search for more mail revenue (which seems to be behind this), the RM seems more interested in dumbing Brits down. Who cares what they say, as long as they pay for the stamps. Good social policy there.

Gary Wills Loses It

I don't believe, much, in the internet practice of "fisking", christened after the brutal beating given to the uber-lefty correspondent of the Independent, Robert Fisk. It seems pretty sophmoric to me, most of the time I see it done. But Gary Will's rant in the Houston Chronicle deserves a good working over. Here, then, a few highlights.

He begins:

This election confirms the brilliance of Karl Rove as a political strategist.

Of course it does. Karl Rove, evil genius, drinking the blood of bats in order to see into the future, controlling his Bushpuppet with twiddles of his overweight pinkies. This is called squaring the circle, comrades. Since Bush is, of course, mindless, each of his victories shows the mega-IQ of Karl Rove. By 2008, I predict, Karl Rove will be the Smartest Man Ever.

We continue:

He calculated that the religious conservatives, if they could be turned out, would be the deciding factor. The success of the plan was registered not only in the presidential results but also in all 11 of the state votes to ban same-sex marriage. Rove understands what surveys have shown, that many more Americans believe in the Virgin Birth than in Darwin's theory of evolution.

This might be called Bryan's revenge for the Scopes trial of 1925, in which William Jennings Bryan's fundamentalist assault on the concept of evolution was discredited. Disillusionment with that decision led many evangelicals to withdraw from direct engagement in politics. But they came roaring back into the arena out of anger at other court decisions -- on prayer in school, abortion, protection of the flag and, now, gay marriage. Rove felt that the appeal to this large bloc was worth getting President Bush to endorse a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage (though he had opposed it earlier).

Behold the new rationale, as discussed by Professor Brooks! It was those damn God-Lovers, comrades! Them Jesus lovin' freaks up in the hollers of the Applachians, getting dipped in Goose Crick, blubbering hymns, marrying their sisters, chewing tobaccy...and not one of them has read Gary Wills! True story!

Oh, and those Born-Agains are full of anger, too. Unlike Gary Wills, I suppose, who continues his irenic discourse thus:

Which raises the question: Can a people that believes more fervently in the Virgin Birth than in evolution still be called an Enlightened nation?

America, the first real democracy in history, was a product of Enlightenment values — critical intelligence, tolerance, respect for evidence, a regard for the secular sciences. Though the founders differed on many things, they shared these values of what was then modernity.

Gary Wills has written books on the intellectual history of the Revolution and the Early Republic, but you would never know it from these sentences. Or, perhaps more accurately, you know what to expect when you read them.

Are we to gather that at the time of the Revolution most Americans did not believe in the Virgin Birth? Or that most of the "founders" did not believe in the Virgin Birth? That people who regarded themselves as "Enlightened" did not believe in the Virgin Birth? That theological commitments, in their minds, inevitably clashed with "a regard for the secular sciences" to the detriment of the theological commitments?

Well, that all depends on what kind of Enlightenment existed here in America, doesn't it? Perhaps the Enlightenment in America was not quite like the God-free French Enlightenment. Perhaps the American Enlightenment was considerably influenced by the Scottish Enlightenment in ways that allowed Americans to maintain a fervent Protestant faith.

Hmmmm. I seem to remember a book that touched on some of these themes. Wasn't the author named...Gary Wills?

[And what's with this Virgin Birth thing? How about feeding the five thousand, or walking on water? What about the Resurrection? You aren't sex-obsessed, are you, Gary? Or is this part of the whole disaffected Catholic thing you've got going on?]

Then comes this:

Where else do we find fundamentalist zeal, a rage at secularity, religious intolerance, fear of and hatred for modernity? Not in France or Britain or Germany or Italy or Spain. We find it in the Muslim world, in al-Qaida, in Saddam Hussein's Sunni loyalists. Americans wonder that world thinks us so dangerous, so single-minded, so impervious to international appeals. They fear jihad, no matter whose zeal is being expressed.

Right. OK. Well. Actually you do find a lot of fundamentalist rage in Europe, often concentrated in the Moslem communities there, to be sure. And do you think it might be exacerbated, just a little bit, by such Enlightened stances as banning headscarves?

But let's get back to the narrative. Europeans hate us because we believe things. Thus...what, exactly? Are we worthy of destruction? That would seem to be the logical conclusion from this farrago of illogic.

We press on:

Bush promised in 2000 that he be a uniter not a divider, that he would make conservatism compassionate. He did not need to make such false promises this time. He was re-elected precisely by pitting the reddest aspects of the red states against the blue. In this, he is very far from Ronald Reagan, who was amiably and ecumenically pious. He could address more secular audiences with real respect.

Newsflash! Gary Wills, author of Reagan's America, card-carrying member of Reagan Haters of Amerika, finds something to love about Dutch.

After such a miracle, Brother Gary, how can you deny the possibility of the Virgin Birth?

To sum up. Here is a classic example of bile and vituperation dressed up with hack scholarship, in this case allusions to historical happenings to give the air of ponderous punditry to the essay. What makes is so bad is that he knows better, but doesn't give a damn. This is precisely the sort of thing that David Brooks was warning the liberals against doing.

They just can't help themselves.

Final thought: if this is the best deep-thinker they can rely on, if this is the oracle of the (intake of breath) New York Review of Books, they really are up the creek

Tired of politics? Sure you are.

Well, now for something completely different. David Warren has a delightful column up on the joys of the cuisine of Friuli (that's the bit of Italy between Trieste and Venice). He even includes a recipe...

Great David Brooks column in the NYT today. Take a peek:

But the same insularity that caused many liberals to lose touch with the rest of the country now causes them to simplify, misunderstand and condescend to the people who voted for Bush. If you want to understand why Democrats keep losing elections, just listen to some coastal and university town liberals talk about how conformist and intolerant people in Red America are. It makes you wonder: why is it that people who are completely closed-minded talk endlessly about how open-minded they are?

And Newsweek has some fantastic behind-the-scenes looks at the campaign, some distinctly unflattering to Kerry. Again, take a peek.

This article in the Globe was amusing, on how uber-liberals in Cambridge, Mass. are dealing with a Kerry defeat. Some of the choice remarks:

"It just blows my mind," said Susan Corcoran, 60, who bundled herself against the wind near Central Square. "I really can't believe there are that many people across the county who are going to wrap themselves around morals as a reason to vote for Bush."

NASCAR dads. Security moms. Karl Rove. Corcoran spit them all out like poisonous seeds. "It infuriates me," she said. "Like I don't have any morals because I voted for a guy who at least has some common sense?"

"I wouldn't want to live in Kansas, Missouri, Wisconsin, where they're so concerned about how much you go to church and how moral you are," Corcoran said. "At least I live here. I wouldn't want to live anyplace else."

And you wonder why the Democrats get smoked in Red America, such arrogance. Trust me, people in Kansas, Missouri, and Wisconsin (which went Kerry, if I'm not mistaken) are tickled pink you plan to stay away. I watched (or endured, perhaps) the "Daily Show" last night, and Senator Chuck Schumer was a guest, another man who does not seem to "get it." He started ripping Wyoming as a place where people drive too fast (this from a New Yorker?) and saying "maybe we need more reruns of 'Bonanza.'" Keep it up.

The language of war and terrorism, which Bush used to question Kerry's leadership, rang hollow for Theresa O'Neill, 35, a real estate broker sipping a coffee with her brother, John, at the 1369 Coffee Shop.

"The whole war on terrorism -- what is the war on terrorism?" O'Neill asked, her voice thickening with irony. "It's like a bogeyman, and you can't fight the bogeyman."

Just click your heels together, and say, "There is no terrorism, there is no terrorism." Dream on, buddy.

Near Central Square at Broadway Bicycle School, Liz Coffey, 30, tinkered with the guts of a bike. A Green Party supporter, she was less surprised by the turnout.

"I don't have a lot of faith in my fellow Americans to do the right thing," Coffey said. "I'm always a pessimist when it comes to elections, probably because I grew up under Reagan."

I guess "do the right thing" means vote Green and agree with me, which is pretty hysterical right there. "Growing up under Reagan" for her (30 years old) would mean she was ages 6-14. Yeah, I'm sure those bitter memories are still fresh.

Bunny Diehl agrees.

Fascinating find in Britain: a Roman cosmetic tin from the Second Century AD, and it still had finger marks inside.

And here's a good one: a University of New Hampshire freshman was kicked out of his dorm and had to live in his car, until the University dropped its charges this week. His crime? He put up a flier in the dorm saying that freshmen girls were overweight and should take the stairs. UNH charged him with "harassment, disorderly conduct, violating affirmative action policies and lying," and also "imposed sanctions against [him], including probation through May 30, 2006, a mandatory ethics meeting with a judicial office official by Nov. 15, counseling, and writing a 3,000-word reflection essay." The word "draconian" comes to mind. Eventually the Foundation for Individual Rights in Education was called in and the matter was settled in the student's favor.

We were also up bright and early today, first to Mass at 7am (it is All Souls Day), second to the polling place to vote. We are not in a battleground state either, so there was no line. I'll be staying up pretty late tonight too. And I am nervous.

I'm not in a battleground state, but I voted. Break out the breakfast whisky! It's going to be a long day.

Report From a Big, Fat Battleground State

Dr. Potomac is currently in a big, fat battleground state...I won't be more specific than that. On the authority of almost 24 hours here, I will make the following prediction. BUSH WINS. In almost 20 years of doing this stuff (for both parties, mind you) I have never seen a machine like this. It is kind of like Iraq War II: yes, there's technically an "Iraqi army" but it is up
against the Marine Expeditionary Force, the First Infantry Division and 2000 high-performance jet fighters. The Democratic 527s here are the fedayeen -- irregular forces engaged in guerilla activity. Lawsuits (RPGs), attacks on GOP headquarters, roadside assaults on campaign signs, etc. Harassing actions to slow but not stop.

I don't think they will show much on election day.

And where is President Bush? Minnesota, Michigan, New Jersey. Turns out Kerry's in those places, too. Don't listen to what they say. Watch what they do.

"What is good in life, Conan?"

"To crush your enemies, see them driven before you and hear the
lamantations of the women."

All Roads Lead to Glastonbury

Are you as compulsively fascinated by the Episcopalian Druid story as I? Then you must go check out the Midwest Conservative Journal, which is doing a stellar job with this story. It turns out that the rector who posted the woman's ritual is married to a "druid" that happens to also be an...Episcopal priest. Moreover, the husband appears to have been using his church's pastor's discretionary fund as a stopping place for collecting fund to buy a property in Glastonbury, England.

Ah Glastonbury, of course it's involved. I am surprised that the husband is an alum of my college, but I am not at all surprised by the Glastonbury angle.

I am alive and so is Scooter the corgi. When the Red Sox won last night, I let out a yell while looking skyward (a red lunar eclipse seemed appropriate), and the wine started flowing. Well, we had a little champagne first, but it was awful -- got it at a wedding we went to a few years ago, and while still fizzy, tasted nasty. Three glasses of wine until bed at 1.

Called my 99 year old grandmother (turns 100 in December), a long-time Red Sox fan, this morning and chatted about the game. She stayed up past midnight to see it happen, and said she doesn't feel tired today at all. I hope I inherited some of her genes. She was 14 the last time the Red Sox won, but she doesn't remember it. Wearing my Sox hat today and it will remain on my head all day, even while I teach. Life is good.

Read some of these posts from Royal Rooters of Red Sox Nation, about what people did when Boston won:

*Celebrating with friends at their house. A buddy made a poor attempt at hugging me and nearly broke my nose, it still hurts this morning as the alcohol wears off. We went outside howled at the eclipse, and popped the champagne.

*My whole family and I were in the air, jumping and screaming incoherantly. I fell to my knees and couldn't stop grinning and laughing. My Dad was speechless, my grandfather called to make sure we were still alive.

*Screaming with 9 or 10 of my buddies, spraying each other down with Miller Lite because the bottles of champagne we bought were screw top and not corked. At first we were pissed that we didn't think to ask for the cheapest corked champagne in the store, but we got past that and drank that Andre Brut like it was Cristal.

*I jumped up and down screaming like a girl, did alot of screaming, little crying.....its all a blur. Then i poped some champaign, drank some sprayed myself with some, got some in my eyes, which made me cry some more, sprayed my dog. Hugged my dog,...i dunno its so crazy, Were the World CHampions

*I strapped on my sneakers to start the bottom of the ninth, and as soon as the last out was recorded, I bolted out of my place and went screaming down my street. It was amazing. More so because I wasn't wearing pants.

And Tom Boswell has a nice piece in the Washington Post today as well:

This week, many stuffy voices have already said that Red Sox Nation, with a World Series crown on its collective head, will suddenly be disoriented and suffer an identity crisis.

What will fans of the Red Sox do if they cannot recite, chapter and verse, the catechism of woe that has been befallen them and their forbearers? How boring for Red Sox fans to be just another franchise with no uniqueness, no aura of mythology.

These skeptics are, no doubt, the same clods that wonder how Washingtonians will cope with getting the Expos after 33 years without a major league team. What will we do without our angst-ridden identity as baseball lovers who're denied a team?

The answer, of course, is the same for both groups of the longtime baseball disenfranchised. After a certain necessary period of numbness and disbelief subsides, both will gradually become very, very happy and have a parade. Coping will be blissfully simple after that brief adjustment. And, every spring, Boston fans will be delighted not to answer questions about 1918, just as Washington fans will be pleased not to hear, "Will you ever get a team?"

This evening, there was a lunar eclipse that began about an hour before the game, a rarity that would have produced a blood-red moon during the game if only the sky had been clear instead of cloudy. Perhaps the overcast was better. Lunar eclipses are so mundane, if you think about it. Why, another one is due in 2007 -- barely a blink in baseball time.

The victory that arrived on this evening for the Red Sox and their true believers was far too rare and precious, too long overdue and spectacular in its consummation, to be upstaged by something so commonplace as the earth, moon and stars.

Here, here. Redemption at last.

Shaking the Sistrum

The Office of Women's Ministries has gotten its act together and issued a strong rebuttal to Christianity Today's assertion that the Episcopal Church support idol worship:

Office of Women's Ministries Official Response to Christianity Today's "Weblog: Episcopal Church Officially Promotes Idol Worship"


We have been astounded and grateful for the number of people who have taken an interest in The Office of Women's Ministries of the Episcopal Church through Christianity Today's recent weblog, "Episcopal Church Officially Promotes Idol Worship," as posted by Ted Olsen on October 26, 2004.

The material questioned in Olsen's article, "A Women's Eucharist: A Celebration of the Divine Feminine" was sent to us in good faith in response to our recent call for resources. We regret we did not realize that the material was copyright protected. Proper notifications were not included by mistake and so the page has been withdrawn from our website.

We profoundly regret that Christianity Today did not contact us before making claims such as, "?leaders of the Episcopal Church USA are promoting pagan rites to pagan deities." The resources listed on our website are not approved liturgics of the Episcopal Church. These liturgics are intended to spark dialogue, study, conversation and pondering around women and our liturgical tradition. There is quite a difference in presenting resources for people?s interest and enlightenment and promoting resources as official claims of the Episcopal Church. Only General Convention has this authority.

The current liturgy project ? A Call for Resources: The Women's Liturgy Project ? and the Women's Worship Resources section on our website is a grassroots, organic, interactive process. It is an offering to open the awareness of the many voices and needs that exist among people in the church as we all strive to find expressions of our life, love and faith in God.


I'm so relieved. I was terribly worried about the copyright violation issue, weren't you? (If you were worried about the copyright , you'll be relieved to hear that there isn't one. Apparently the "druidess" who wrote the piece is also the Episcopal Priest who submitted it. Let us rejoice that her seminary training was not in vain: she does have the pagan rites described in the Old Testament down to a "T." )

How incredibly sad that the Office of Women's Ministry cares more for legalism and copyrights than for Christ! Clearly, they depise and reject He whom their souls should love.

The Doc will probably declare today a holiday in his classroom in honor of his beloved Red Soxs' victory. But pleased though I am for the Doc, I'm happiest for the long suffering Scooter, no matter what the poet Burns says.

I won't accept any congratulations just yet, but I must say I am dazed, confused, and somewhat frightened about the World Series thus far. I figured the games would be close, probably a 6 or 7 game slugfest.

But 3-0 Red Sox? This has been almost too easy. And I have never witnessed, in my 20 odd years as a Red Sox fan, a time when every bounce goes their way, every gaffe they commit is harmless, and every gaffe the Cards commit is fatal.

Everything is going their way. They bumble into 4 errors game 1, and win. They repeat another 4 errors in game 2, and win again. They put a weak defensive first baseman (Ortiz) in the game to keep his bat in the lineup, and he plays flawlessly. The Cardinals' pitcher, who has batted all year in the NL, commits an mind-bendingly bad baserunning blunder off third (I don't remember ever seeing a player hesitate and then get thrown out after the opposing team was conceding the run -- never) in game 3, killing any chance of a rally. Things never happen this way for Boston. Never, ever, ever.

But now they are.

I am frankly not used to this. And the idea of winning, well, I am just not prepared for this. I have some champagne in the house, so that may come out.

All thrilling and terribly, terribly scary. I want it to happen, desperately so, but what's on the other side?

Well, congrats to the Doc...commiserations to Herr Soames, in re last night's game. I am sure that the Doc can just about taste the end to decades of degradation and humiliation and futility.

Of course, speaking as a pessimist, by which I mean a Philadelphia fan, the Red Sox can still lose this Series.

Given the Doc's somewhat obsessive interest (for a Pape!) [You mean that affectionately, right?-- Ed. Hey, of course! And no questions! I'm the Ombudsman!] in the current goings-on in the Worldwide Anglican Communion, I wanted to be the first to announce the official endorsement idol worship by the Episcopal Church USA.

That's really the only way to interpret "A Woman's Eucharist: A Celebration of the Divine Feminine". The theologically and biblically literate (and very funny) Ted Olsen at Christianity Today's Weblog pins this down as a worship ceremony of Ishtar/Ashtoreth/Astarte, the "Queen of Heaven" against whom Jeremiah issued some of his best, uh, jeremiads.

How very old-school, no? In a perverse, heathen kind of way?

Next up: blood sacrifices! It's a hip liturgical innovation!

Considering that this is, as Ted says, hardly hidden from public view on the official ECUSA website, can we simply conclude that the ECUSA is dead from the waist up?

This looks like an Onion headline, but it's not:

Buddhist Monks Fall for Beer Girls

These however ARE some of the latest Onion headlines:

Jacques Derrida "dies"

Kerry: Stem-Cell Research May Hold Cure To Ailing Campaign

Or this one from the Lark:

Ushers with stun guns stir controversy -- MONTGOMERY — Ron Henning recalls the day he first "put a man down" in the center aisle just before the pastor gave the altar call. "I thought he was reaching for a weapon in his pocket," Henning says. He rushed over, zapped the man with a church-issued stun gun and sent him to the floor for seven minutes, throwing the service into tumult. It turned out the man was heading to the altar to give his heart to Christ, but couldn't wait for the pastor to finish the altar call. The church apologized and paid the man $500, but he has not returned.

As the fog swirled over the river, across painted trees, gently obscuring a rose sky, it became obvious that the time has come for today's posting.

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

-John Keats

Peter Brimelow says "Thank You for Smoking." Smoking can be good for you? Apparently in some limited cases, yes.

But consider this theoretical possibility: Should 60-year-olds take up smoking because its protection against Alzheimer's is more immediate that its potential damage to the lungs, which won't show up for 30 years if at all?

A theoretical possibility and likely to remain theoretical. Research into possible benefits of tobacco and nicotine is widely reported to be stymied by the absolutist moral fervor of the antismoking campaign ...

Why don't tobacco companies point out the potential offsetting rewards of smoking? Besides the usual corporate cowardice and bureaucratic inertia, the answer may be another, typically American, disease: lawyers. Directing the companies' defense, they apparently veto any suggestion that smoking has benefits for fear of liability suits and of the possible regulatory implications if nicotine is seen as a drug.

Which leaves smokers defenseless against a second typically American disease: the epidemic of power hungry puritanical bigots.

That last bit, a nice Menckenesque touch.

I fear that the friendship between myself and good Mr. Soames may be running into rough waters, at least for the next two weeks.

First, he scolded my dear Boston Red Sox for lack of personal hygiene and overall cleanliness, of which I happen to agree (Bronson Arroyo's cornrows make one wince -- I'd rather see him bald as a melon). Second, he reminded his devoted readers of the 1946 World Series between Boston and St. Louis, a seven game marathon won by the Cardinals. Third, he posted yet another reminder of the 1967 World Series between the same, also a seven game thriller won by the Red Birds.

As a bred and buttered New Englander and a lifelong member of Red Sox Nation, I cannot let these gratuitous taunts stand. Enos Slaughter is dead, and Musial and Gibson retired years ago. While the past can be illustrative, it acts only as a soft guide and not a strait-jacket. Whatever we seek to do, a dead man's icy hand obstructs us, wrote Nathaniel Hawthorne in House of the Seven Gables. What slaves we are to bygone times. So impressed by repeated failure, and trapped within our fears, we slip into nonsensical talk of curses and jinxes. If it is true that those who ignore the past are condemned to repeat it, those who live only in the past are condemned to miss the slow changes (not all of them bad -- is revelation a bad thing?) that occur within time, history itself.

Thus, while St. Louis beat the Red Sox in two great Series in '46 and '67, that is no guide to what will necessarily happen in '04. I remain optimistic, hopeful, and anxious for a better fate. A true fan can do nothing else. Change, in this case a Red Sox Series victory, need not be an awful thing. I quote the French Roman Catholic philosopher Gustave Thibon:

There are -- and this can hardly be overemphasized -- two very distinct types of the conservative mentality. One is that of the impotent and the satisfied, and this kind of conservatism, due to inertia, is far more the more widespread of the two; people hold onto what is because they have lost all ability to renew and build; lacking in the slightest motive virtue, they deify acquired momentum. But the other kind of conservatism is conservative wisdom -- that of Pascal, for example. It does not close its eyes to the defects of tradition and the established order; it well realizes that many things ought to be changed; it is merely skeptical as to man's creative capacities in general.

The Boston Red Sox are one of the grand old teams of baseball, the embodiment of the game's traditions, playing in America's greatest old ballpark, filled with the memories (good and bad) of thrilling games and storied ballplayers. Yet they have not won the title since Woodrow Wilson was president, doughboys fought the Hun, and spats and tails were all the rage (perhaps if they win, spats will come back? Hopefully not Wilson, though). This ought not to be. It will be a difficult task, against a formidible Cardinals team, but it can be done. If the Red Sox-Yankees series proved anything, it showed that Boston has remarkably resilient "creative capacities" for good.

No Series win since 1918. This defect in our "tradition and established order" ought to be changed. Embrace conservative wisdom rather than conservative inertia.

Root for the Red Sox.

The Stupid Tree

I thought this article from the Von Mises Institute was too rich to pass up, and certainly deserving a mention here at Curmudgeon Central HQ: an all-out assault on Shel Silverstein's famous children's book Giving Tree.

Given the idiotic assignation of human feelings to the tree in a story that depicts an odd man-tree friendship, it is hard to see the appeal of this book. Those drawn to it, it seems to me, tend to have a left-of-center orientation, and they like the message that it is better to spend a life giving than to spend one taking. If only the government could inculcate that value into the taxpayers! The book assumes that, surely, only the selfish would object to such a message ...

Halfway through my most recent reading of the book with my daughter, and knowing the ending, it hit me: this wasn’t a noble giving tree at all. This was a stupid tree. In giving to the boy-man at every opportunity, the tree thought it was doing right. Instead, it created a dependency relationship in his human friend that lasts his whole life and that leaves both impoverished. This is not a quality one would wish for a friend, and even more so, for one’s son or daughter entering into marriage.

Parents who raise their kids in this manner are bad parents who create selfish kids; governments that treat whole classes of people in this manner are bad governments that fashion dependency classes that cling to the State in a way similarto the way the boy-man depends on his tree-friend.

Now that is vituperation.

So long sad times
go long bad times
we are rid of you at last
howdy gay times
cloudy gray times
you are now a thing of the past!

Happy days are here again
the skies above are clear again
so let's sing a song of cheer again
happy days are here again!

All together shout it now
there's no one who can doubt it now
so let's tell the world about it now
happy days are here again!

Your cares and troubles are gone
there'll be no more from now on
happy days are here again

the skies above are so clear again
so let's sing a song of cheer again
happy times
happy nights
happy days are here again!

I don't think I've seen mention of this on the various sites I visit daily, but it looks quite interesting and useful: Buckley Online, the complete and searchable corpus of WFB's writings from the 1950s to the present. Columns, book reviews, speeches, everything. Hillsdale College in Michigan coordinated and hosts the project.

Scooter the corgi still has hair, as do I, but there is little liquor left in the house. Watching these games has drained me and my cabinet.

Just when you thought the games could not get any more tense, more exciting, more meaningful (after the train wreck of last year), the Yanks win 3 in a row and the blessed Red Sox win back 3 to be the first team in 100+ years of MLB history to recover from an 0-3 deficit.

A few observations:

It's been said by more than one sportswriter, but with blood stains showing through Schilling's sock, it was a scene straight from The Natural. "You ok, Roy?" "Let's play ball."

As if we don't have enough reasons to despise Alex Fraudriguez, the tomahawk chop on Arroyo's arm will do down as one of the cheapest shots, one of the most glaring examples of desperately poor sportsmanship in the history of the game. Low rent.

As one New England wag put it, rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for the house in blackjack.

Everyone keeps saying that Foulke is too exhausted to play in Game 7, that he cannot pitch or close today. That may be true, but if the Red Sox have a lead going into the eighth or ninth inning tonight, look for Pedro to be the closer. How about that for drama?

For good or ill, I have to teach tonight and cannot watch the game. By the time I get to my car, the game will probably be in the seventh, eighth, or ninth innings. Perhaps that's a good thing. I'll be spared the stress.

Go Sox.

Somewhere in Indiana there is a small, bald Corgi. Given the way the Red Soxs have been squeaking the games out, there's probably a bald Bostonian to accompany that Corgi.

What is better than two historians fighting it out? Not much, in my book.

One says that Scotland is fairly insignificant in UK history: "It is a statement of fact. Scotland matters for a single reason, which is its involvement with England from the 17th century onwards ... I love Scotland but it is not an important country."

The other, well, disagrees most heartily: "This is a basket of cheerfully stupid English prejudice. Of course it is true that Scotland is not important to England ... It is a fact that England failed to reduce it to Scot-shire and maybe that's a source of annoyance to some people in England. "

Fightin' words.

A Spot on Spats

Let me be upfront about my spats bias: I adore them. I especially adore them in a quiet grey worn with a grey morning coat worn by a man of suitable figure. That I have never seen them so worn does not dim my ardor for them any more than the fact that I have not seen the Beast Glaisant dims my passion for it. (Once one of my friends told me and assorted other friends that she dreamed she had attended my wedding. As she described who else was in her dream and the specifics of my dress, demeanor, etc. one of the other listeners demanded "But who was the groom?" The narrator looked baffled. "He was the one wearing spats," I helpfully supplied. She continued to look baffled.)

But of those spats to which the good Doctor linked in his screed, 80% of them were abominations unto the needle that sewed them. They made me think of Bertie Wooster's old Etonian spats:

For the last day or so there had been a certain amount of coolness in the home over a pair of jazz spats which I had dug up while exploring in the Burlington Arcade. Some dashed brainy cove, probably the chap who invented those coloured cigarette-cases, had recently had the rather topping idea of putting out a line of spats on the same system. I mean to say instead of the ordinary grey and white, you can now get them in your regimental or school colours. And believe me, it would have taken a man of stronger fibre than I am to resist the pair of Old Etonian spats which had smiled up at me from the window. I was inside the shop, opening negotiations, before it had even occurred to me that Jeeves might not approve. And I must say he had taken the thing a bit hardly. The fact of the matter is, Jeeves, though in many ways the best valet in London, is too conservative. Hidebound, if you know what I mean, and an enemy to Progress.

Count me with Jeeves on this one. Can we see that debonair expression of wit and style, by which I mean the dashing Mr. Peanut, wearing cat spats? No we cannot. It would be like seeing Mr. Peanut wearing a ball cap backwards, indoors. Civilization would end on the spot. Besides, we hidebound enemies to Progress eventually find a way to crush it:

"Jeeves, " I said, "those spats."
"Yes, sir?"
"You really dislike them?"
"Intensely, sir."
"You don't think time might induce you to change your views?"
"No, sir."
"All right, then. Very well. Say no more. You may burn them."
"Thank you very much, sir. I have already done so. Before breakfast this morning. A quiet grey is far more suitable, sir. Thank you, sir."

So your private pre-school is low on cash and you need a nifty new way to raise funds? Bake sale? No. Hike fees? No. Hire a whiskey expert to educate discerning parents for $35 a head? Yes.

Some big birthdays today as well:

Virgil was born on this day in 70 BC.

And Happy Birthday Friedrich Nietzsche, born this day in 1844. Thus Spoke Doc.

And (with much enthusiasm) Happy Birthday P. G. Wodehouse, born this day in 1884. Look to Roger Kimball to explain just why we still read the man. A smashing bit of all right, Jeeves!

As they say in job interviews, always ask for the job.

I have to say Kerry was pretty funny on the marry up line. " I'm somewhat disturbed," cries the Ombudsman "Kerry does have self deprecation! Where did THAT come from!"

Kerry the Catechizer

Golly where was John Kerry when I was getting confirmed. He knows so much. To him religion, and especially Christianity, is an open book. Nor only does he know bits and bobs of verse, but he also knows he loves his neighbor more than the President for one thing, unless that neighbor is an unborn child. He can ignore them. They don't vote.

Kerry speak: Highest levels=summits. It's barely coded. Perhpas along with "I have a plan", the Kedwards contingent also sings "Climb Every Summit!" Lyrics tomorrow.

Love it! I'm a "country person" according to Kerry. Friends, Roman, and country people, lend me your ears!

Those who live in glass houses

Did I just hear Sen Kerry, the plan man, disparge Bush for having a plan? And how silly does a man from Massachusetts sound trying to dispute a former Texas governor's understanding of border issues?

I have many things of pith and moment to say about spats, but the Presidential debate is on. I arrived late and missed, MISSED, the vaccine question. I am shattered. But me, with the help of a generous swig of bourbon, I persevere.

I was going to say of what I've seen so far el Presidente is doing well. We just had an awkward moment, but far better performance than the first debate.

I cannot quite tell from the portrait of a reclining Mr. Soames, but he would seem the type of gentleman to prefer spats. Today we see them in Broadway productions and retro shows ("steppin' out with my baby..."), but there was a time when they were quite fashionable.

The predecessor to spats was cloth shoe covers with a leather sole that were popular in England in the 1600s. The French removed the sole and incorporated the footwear into military attire. The design was actually longer, with the spatterdash (or gaiter, as they were also called) reaching nearly to the knee. The style moved across Europe, and by the 19th century they had been pared down to the shorter ankle length that is familiar today, fastened with a buckle underneath the sole. Near the end of the century, spats were a prized accessory worn by men and women alike. In winter, they would be made out of heavy boxcloth; in summertime, linen was the fabric of choice. As the fashion sense of the day became keener, the louder colors and shocking patterns of spats were simplified. High fashion dictated that the best-dressed person wore spats only in grey, white or tan.

And they are still being made for those adventurous types: white spats, a waistcoat, and a trim pocket square. And here too.

And the irrepressible John Derbyshire has been urging a spats revival now for over a year:

One additional sad thing about the death of Bob Hope was that he was the last person of any importance in the Western world to wear spats. (The late Duke of Windsor is the only possible contender for this title.) Spats disappeared sometime around 1950 — I can't remember ever seeing anyone, in the flesh I mean, wearing spats; though they must have been around when I was a small child, and my mother's older brother Bill, the snappiest dresser in the family, was said to have worn spats as a young man. Funny how these things ebb and flow. Perhaps spats will come back. After all, they don't make any less sense, and are a great deal more sightly, than body piercings.

Right. Odd how a pierced nose (or worse) gets nary a strange glace, but don a pair of spats and let the stares begin. I'm the weirdo?

And today is the Feast of St. Edward the Confessor. He is buried at Westminster Abbey.

Edward the Confessor, as he was known, had not been a particularly successful king, but his personal character and piety endeared him to his people. In appearance he is represented as tall, dignified and kindly with rosy cheeks and a long white beard. He was regarded as a saint long before he was officially canonized as Saint and Confessor by Pope Alexander III in 1161. A Confessor is a particular type of saint. The term applies to those who suffered for their faith and demonstrated their sanctity in the face of worldly temptations, but who were not martyrs.

King Henry III (1207-1272) held Edward the Confessor in great veneration and decided to rebuild his Abbey in the magnificent new Gothic style. He erected a new and costly Shrine with workmen and mosaics from Italy, which was finished in 1269. Sick persons made pilgrimages to the Shrine and knelt in the recesses to pray for healing. A cult of St Edward had grown up and people regarded him as the patron saint of England. However, after Henry III's death the cult declined and St George eventually became recognised as patron saint of England.

The Benedictine monastery at Westminster was dissolved by Henry VIII in 1540 and the Shrine despoiled. The Saint's body was buried in some obscure spot in the Abbey. Mary I restored the coffin to its place in 1557 and gave new jewels to replace the stolen ones. The fabric of the Shrine has suffered much during the centuries. However, the Confessor's coffin still lies in a cavity in the top part of the marble structure. The Shrine is regarded as the centre of the Abbey and five kings and four queens lie buried in his Chapel. Edward's wife Edith (died 1075) is buried near her husband's Shrine. On the western side of the Chapel is a stone screen with fourteen scenes of events, real and legendary, in the life of the Confessor. A special service is held every year on St Edward's Day (13 October).

Been busy and out of town a bit recently, so the posts have been few and far between. A few notes:

Yes, last night's Boston-EE game was a hair-puller, and, yes, poor Scooter the corgi was hiding underneath the desk for much of the night. Go Pedro. Please.

A belated happy first birthday to Mr. Soames, a font of culture and good taste in the world 'o blogs. The pleasure is all ours.

A new addition too: We've added Blimpish to our link roll, a lover of Strauss (Leo, not Levi), with the charming byline "In which, reaction." Here, here. As Paul Elmer More said of being a reactionary: it is essentially to answer action with action, to oppose to the welter of circumstance the force of discrimination and selection, to direct the aimless tide of change by reference to the co-existing law of the immutable fact, to carry the experiences of the past into the diverse impulses of the present, and so to move forward in an orderly progression.

I've been reading T. S. Eliot lately, Russell Kirk's biographical study plus an old short collection of his works.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.

The Wasteland, 1922

O perpetual revolution of configured stars
O perpetual recurrence of determined seasons,
O world of spring and autumn, birth and dying!
The endless cycle of idea and action,
Endless invention, endless experiment,
Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness;
Knowledge of speech, but not of silence;
Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word.
All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,
All our ignorance brings us nearer to death,
But nearness to death no nearer to God.
Where is the Life we have lost in living?
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

Chorus from "The Rock," 1934

Comfort me with apples

In honor of apple season, here is a very fine apple cake courtesy of a neighbor of ours. It's a remarkably versatile recipe, delicious at all times and with many beverages. The Ombudsman likes it with bourbon; the Lutherans pay it the high honor of saying it "goes really well with coffee". (Of course what Lutherans' call "coffee" bears little resemblance to the actual substance. Tonight at church the big debate was over whether to follow the wishes of the strong coffee contingent and go with a daring 6 tablespoons of coffee for 12 cups of water or to stick with the traditionalists who advocated 3 tablespoons for 12 cups of water. The traditionalists won. Perhaps those of you who actually drink coffee can attest as to whether this cake goes well with it.)

Cathy Orr's Favorite Apple Cake

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Combine:
2 c. flour
1 c. sugar
2 1/2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt

Cut in: 1/2 c. butter

Mix together:
1 c. milk
2 eggs
1 t. vanilla

Add to flour mixture. Pour into greased 9"x13" pan.

Peel, core and thinly slice 4-6 apples and arrange on top of cake batter

Combine: 1/2 c. sugar
3/4 c. nuts
1 1/2 t. cinnamon and sprinkle over apples. Dot with 1 t. butter.

Bake at 350 until done (about 30-40 minutes).

Here at The Company's Virginia branch we are, at this very moment, ferevently hoping that as part the Doc's big move, and big new job, he also got a bigger living quarters, because if the playoffs go as they are going now, poor Scooter needs a place to hide.

Laugh or Cry?

Just to add a laugh (or maybe cry) to your day. I had this question on my most recent US History to 1877 quiz: "When French diplomats demanded a bribe before negotiating with American representatives in 1797, the resulting controversy was known as the _____________ Affair."

I had two students answer: "Laissez."

Think about it...

And the verdict: Cheney won. Personally I expected Edwards to be good. I didn't expect him to cowed or timid. He's a TRIAL LAWYER, people. Timid ain't in the job description. So I'm not "impressed" that Edwards wasn't timid, which seems to be what makes most people think Edwards did a good job. He was fine style wise, but he wasn't up to Cheney's level on you know...the knowledge thing.

Admittedly, I do have a bias for Cheney. Obviously smart, detail oriented men with a dry sense of humor enthrall me, especially when they mention things like ricin.

But will this debate change anything? Not a fraction of a percentage point.

Incidentally Gwen Ifill was a fine moderator. Better than Lehrer. Perhaps the number two is angling for the top job after all...

"That's a lot of money even by Massachusetts standards." Super! Mind you I don't think the Feds should be involved in education so this bit all leaves me cold, but this plan action not only has killed my bottle of the Isle of Jura, but it occurs to me it sets up a perfect song for the Kerry Campaign:

" I have a plan, a plan for you, baby.
It's gonna come true, baby.
They think that we're through, but baby,

We'll be swell! We'll be great!
Gonna have the whole world for our date!
Starting here, starting now,
honey, everything's coming up roses!

Clear the decks! Clear the tracks!
You've got nothing to do but pay tax.
Vote for us and take a bow.
Honey, everything's coming up roses!

Now's our inning. We'll stand the truth on its ear!
Set it spinning! Vietnam was just the beginning!
Taxes up! Iraq's a plight!
We talk about plans 'til they're trite!
We'll be swell. We'll be great.
We can tell. Just you wait.
That big summit we talk about is due!
Honey, everything's coming up roses for us and for you!

We can do it, all we need is a hand.
We can do it, if Mama Teresa don't screw it!
Taxes up! Iraq's a plight!
We talk about plans 'til they're trite!
We can tell, wait and see.
There's the bell! Vote for me!
And nothing's gonna stop us 'til we're through!
Honey, everything's coming up summits and little plans!
Everything's coming up tres bon for Jacques Chirac !
Everything's gonna be insourced but globally !
Everyone's coming up roses for us and for you!"

"I don't talk about myself very much." says the VP. Yes! An INTROVERT on a political ticket. How refreshing! How delightful! Our day will yet come.

"A best defense is a good offense" says Edwards, but when you have to run the playbook by the global council, what kind of offensee are you going to have there, Senator? (And poor man, he keeps mentioning John Kerry, contra the rules. Basking in the greatness I guess.)

This "a long resume doen't equal good judgement" line. Can I get my future employers to adopt that approach please? None of them seem so inclined.

Good for both candidates. Talking about AIDS and not mentioning Africa and/or China as Gwen Ifill wanted is daft and wrong.

Cheney was much more gracious than I would have been about Edward's comments. We see now why I am not in politics.

Also I know about Edwards' trial record. And yes, he is part of the problem. And Cheney knows it too, but after a bit of an awkward lead in.

STOP THE PRESSES!!!!! A lawyer just said there are too many cases!!!! Mercy, he's out of The Guild. But Hurrah they have...A PLAN.

Under his standards though, Edwards cases on cerebral palsy would probably be out. Three strikes, Senator, you're out.

Whoa. Was it just me? Was Edwards INCREDIBLY patronizing when he talked about the Cheneys and their daughter? I mean breathtakingly so?

And I forgot..that Howard Dean line was superb.

Points to Edwards on the " was the question about jobs?" response. Smooth. But using old data with Cheney? Foolish, foolish, young man.

Gracious that Halliburton round quite depleted the Isle, looks like I'll have to switch over to the Craggamore before the evening is over.

I can't believe that a trial lawyer was daft enough to quible figures with Cheney. My gracious, Cheney lives for detail. He reminds me of that quote from Van Loon's Lives "he rattles off figures like water off a gutter."

Much smarter on Edwards part to switch to story telling, the trial lawyer's strength.

OUCH! The President of the Senate gets testy on attendance.

Is Cheney thumb pointing? Yes! Added to the drinking list.

Here in Dr. Curmudgeon's Virginia branch, we have broken out the Isle of Jura in honor the vice presidential debate. We will of course drink for the mention of "Halliburton" and "we have a plan","summit", and any mention of Kerry's Senate career from the VP.

I arrived late alas held up at a church function, but when I walked in all heck was breaking loose, with the VP delivering some lovely uppercuts. That line " you probably weren't there to vote for it" was priceless. The best part was that in response John Edwards made what can only be described as a moue. (He did the same when Cheney rattled off the figures and slammed him for not respecting Iraqi casualties.) I am enchanted; so few people moue today, and that a trial lawyer would moue is even more exciting. I have added Edward's moue to the drinking list.

For some reason, autumn is tied with poetry for me, perhaps becasue, I know about 5 poems, and three of them are autumn poems. 2 of the 3 are superlative works; one is definitely not, but as it does just fit certain days in Fall, like today, I give you:

October's Bright Blue Weather

    O SUNS and skies and clouds of June,
        And flowers of June together,
    Ye cannot rival for one hour
        October's bright blue weather;

    When loud the bumble-bee makes haste,
        Belated, thriftless vagrant,
    And Golden-Rod is dying fast,
        And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

    When Gentians roll their fringes tight
        To save them for the morning,
    And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
        Without a sound of warning;

    When on the ground red apples lie
        In piles like jewels shining,
    And redder still on old stone walls
        Are leaves of woodbine twining;

    When all the lovely wayside things
        Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
    And in the fields, still green and fair,
        Late aftermaths are growing;

    When springs run low, and on the brooks,
        In idle golden freighting,
    Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
        Of woods, for winter waiting;

    When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
        By twos and twos together,
    And count like misers, hour by hour,
        October's bright blue weather.

    O suns and skies and flowers of June,
        Count all your boasts together,
    Love loveth best of all the year
        October's bright blue weather.
-Helen Hunt Jackson

The Closer

Kerry mentions Vietnam. Big surprise. The plans mentioned, but not alas the summit. I'm becoming quite fond of the summit. God bless America a nice touch.

Bush nice with fighting terrorists around the world so we don't fight them here. "Trasformation power of liberty", nice line. the speechwriters return in the closing.

Verdict
Kerry won the debate, but it won't hurt Bush. It won't in fact change anything, It was a good debate though.

The Russia Question.

Smart of Kerry to go back to North Korea and the multilateral talks and argue China has an interest. Bush wandering off in a wee dree on points.

Points to Kerry. The nuclear proliferation point is a good one, especially containing the Russian materials, except that he lost it on the bunker busting bombs. I think we rather need bunker busting bomb.

Bush flounders badly in response, but then find his groove. Such as it is. I do like though how he keeps bringing up Libya.

The bilateral talks angle is an interesting one. Bit reversed. Who's yer internationalist, noo?

Oh my the personal touch. Gag-o-rama to both of them. Kerry's smart though with the quite graceful compliment to Laura especially when Bush paid none to Teresa.

Ah the Dafur question. Well of course they're both going to say it's genocide. No brainer that one Interesting. Kerry has been pressing for "action through the African Union", yet he derides using Iraqis in Iraq. How does this fit?

Both would commit troops though to back the African Union...they had better get ready.

Alas, the Prez appears to be floundering a bit after his excellent point re "the global tests".

O mercy, the climate change treaty. SENATOR Kerry conveniently ignores that the Senate rejected consideration of the Kyoto treaty as currently written 98-0. I do not believe Senator Kerry was one of the missing 2.

A petty poin perhaps, but then so silly to bring the topic up.

I have now added "summit" and "I have a plan" to the debate drinking game. The Craggamore is going to take a beating tonight.

Judging dispassionately, Kerry is a better debater than Bush, no surprise there because debating isn't Bush's thing. But ye gods, the summit! It SO petit bureaucratic: have a meeting, and all will be better! The tiny soul and imagination of the man, all summed up in his "summit".

Excellent

I'm halfway through a glass of Craggamore just on Kerry's Vietnam references alone.

And we're only a half hour in.

I like some of the clever nicknames people are suggesting for the Washington baseball team.

Courtesy of WTOP radio:

Gridlocks
[CLASSIFIED] (with names blacked out on uniform)
Blue Sox
Red, White & Blue Sox
Filibusters
Frankenfish
Explos (as in Exploding Manhole Covers)
Ex-Expos
Angel-O's
Pandas
Cicadas (because like the Wizards, they'll make the playoffs every 17 years)
D.C. Diamonds
Beltway Bandits

Go Nats!

Although the price tag looks to be a bit steep for Washington DC, the fair capitol now has baseball back for the first time in 33 years. Will they be the Senators? I hope so, but apparently the Texas Rangers (who left DC in 1971 to become that franchise) still own the name. Why not field a team of big, fat, slow home run hitters and call them the Washington Monuments?

I just love stories like this: book returned to the Inverness Library 100 years overdue and with a five thousand pound fine. It was found in a South African book sale. Oh, the tales that book could tell of the trip it made!

Our dear friend Mr. Soames has been deep into wardrobe discussions of late, and we approve heartily. Our thin wallet oftentimes prevents following through on his advisings, but we try. And where does he find such good links? How about this magazine, called The Chap, which blazes a fiery trail for the cause of good dressing:

Society is withering, like the fruit on some diseased vine. We have become the playthings of corporations intent on converting our world into a gargantuan shopping precinct. Pleasantness and civility are being discarded as the worthless ephemera of a bygone age - an age when men doffed their hats at the ladies, and small children could be counted upon to mind one's Jack Russell while one took a mild and bitter in the local hostelry.

Instead, we live in a world where children are huge, inelegant hooded creatures lurking on street corners; the local hostelry has been taken over by a chain and serves chemically-laced lager which aggravates the nervous system. Needless to say, the Jack Russell is no longer there upon one's return.

The Chap proposes to take a stand against this culture of vulgarity. By turning ancient rituals of courtesy and dress into revolutionary acts, the immaculately attired Anarcho-Dandyist can use the razor-sharp crease in his trousers to press home his advantage. Once presented with the dazzling sight of rakishly angled trilbies, gleaming brogues and exquisitely mixed dry martinis, hoi polloi's long-cherished nylon sportswear and strawberry milkshakes will suddenly lose their appeal.

Good stuff, but don't make my martini too dry. I want to taste that vermouth behind the crispness of the gin. Might I also suggest joining the Country Gentlemen's Association, and shopping for your waistcoat at Horse Country Saddlery. We must look sharp while walking the corgis, mustn't we?

Academic Style

Myself, I am currently looking I was dragged through a hedge backwards by a rope. So I should really not be saying this: the article on academics and dress expressed what I saw at the last American Historical Association.

It also expressed much of what I felt as an undergraduate. Professors seemed damned unwilling to speak to a class, and they expressed this in part by looking like unkempt hobos. Who can say which came first, the unwillingness or the esthetique hoboesque. But the two did often co-exist. What a refreshing thing it was to have a professor who wore a gown during his lectures. He had been savaged by campus radicals for this practice in the '60's. In the '80's, us neotraditionalist undergrads found it an indication that he thought lecturing to us was an Event; and we treated it accordingly.

While I applaud the Doc on his neo-Schlesingerian apparel, myself I look forward to dressing in something a bit towards the formal side, yet in colors and patterns not to be found in a law office. As much as I like a nice tweed, I am afraid that it is a little too sterotypical. Unless it comes in a suit, or with a leather waistcoat, of course.

Ahem.

While that article was quite on target for most academics, I'd like to take this opportunity to exempt myself from the ill-dressed collegiate club. As we speak (and this is no different from normal), I am wearing a pressed white Oxford shirt with Brooks Brothers red-patterned bow tie, pressed brown pants, brown Bass leather shoes (sufficiently buffed), and a dark green/brown wool-tweedish Canadian sports coat. And just to make sure I do not err in my color selections, I always check with my wife first. She has a rather good eye.

I do not say this to brag or gloat, although I could, but to suggest instead that in some dark corners of higher ed, some of us aim to dress as George Saintsbury not as the checkout boy as Sainsbury's. Remember, I went to undergrad in Vermont, so I know what what fashion-challenged professors look like. Burlington is their lair.

And, yes, I do advocate the recovery of academic robes as classroom wear, not to cover-up but to distinguish. (I sigh wistfully every time I see Anthony Hopkins as C.S. Lewis in Shadowlands) The last thing colleges need is to become more casual. Any more casual and campuses will become nudist colonies. To be casual on campus today is to be orthodox; to be rather more formal and "put-together" is quite radical. A bowtie can cause a riot.

Now, where's my pipe?