tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187621982024-03-07T13:24:12.499-08:00Notes from a Common-place BookCommon-place Book: n. a book in which common-places, or notable or striking passages are noted; a book in which things especially to be remembered or referred to are recorded.Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.comBlogger788125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-66984165888404486732022-04-09T18:12:00.002-07:002022-04-09T18:12:34.186-07:00Moving<p> I started this blog back in late 2005. For a few years, I posted fast and furiously--138 in 2007. Then gradually it dropped off to the point where I only had 1 post for 2021. What happened? Facebook happened. I let myself be lured by FB's siren song. But I have taken a step or two back from the brink of that abyss. And now I have started blogging again, in a small way. For a number of reasons, I have moved over to Substack. I can be found there at terrycowan.substack.com. This site will stay up, but dormant. So, subscribe (it's free) to my new venture, and I look forward to starting the conversation up again. Best regards, Terry Cowan</p><p><br /></p>Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-85187360912673719642021-06-01T21:42:00.000-07:002021-06-01T21:42:06.179-07:00Some Artistic Detours<p> </p><span id="docs-internal-guid-13d8b665-7fff-8514-2d6c-ce27fc51b26b"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I visited a few art museums on my recent road trip across the Deep South. I have always appreciated beauty, but as the shadows lengthen, so to speak, I have become much more aware of it than before, whether in nature, architecture or art. I do not like just any type of painting, however. I start losing interest at Impressionism, then quickly cool to Cubism, Modernism, Surrealism (excluding Bosch), and any sort of abstract art, which I do not even consider to be art. If abstract art is supposed to speak to us, then I do not like what I am hearing.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My first stop was the Brooks Museum in Memphis, founded by wealthy patrons of the arts in that city. The building is grand enough, anchoring the entrance to Overton Park. I was not particularly impressed with their collection, finding more noteworthy works in much smaller cities. The Brooks does have, however, the most extensive collection of Carroll Cloar, an important 20th-century Southern artist. This was the main reason I sought out the museum. They were nice enough, but my favorite, unsurprisingly, turned out to be <i>Figures in Hell</i>, by the followers of Hieronymous Bosch (ca. 1500).</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmmKxPaw5cXCQNkVVFaLQXJ1oRUEEgB5SI_F-vu8z2qHb_aLKMx1KYl8YuDe20u1YdO8yLyi-Nv0FV-e3BbaTYn34NnKLP3YFW68n637ta0gTt4LZZvYWAyO8G8JgivGhrB58/s640/bosch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmmKxPaw5cXCQNkVVFaLQXJ1oRUEEgB5SI_F-vu8z2qHb_aLKMx1KYl8YuDe20u1YdO8yLyi-Nv0FV-e3BbaTYn34NnKLP3YFW68n637ta0gTt4LZZvYWAyO8G8JgivGhrB58/s320/bosch.jpg" /></a></div><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Oxford, MS, I had hoped to visit the museum at Ole Miss. That institution contains most of the paintings of Theora Hamblett. The museum has not yet reopened, however. “Miss Theora,” in Southern parlance, was a sort of Deep South Grandma Moses. She ran a boarding house near the campus and took up painting late in life. Her primitivist works most often depicted children, trees and household scenes. More and more, however, her work began to reflect her spiritual visions, as she believed she received angelic messages directly. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvBo9q8EvmWVgCpv65ImHU9MMdGV80EvJII5AZ95CZeUruw9IQ1E2tIXibxc6iSeZDtWgdOel0pi5zAlMnO1OTVgS3utOUJSyKfB9V_8lymvIL25wopIwG0BBRdBp7KcfuUYR/s250/theora+hamblett+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvBo9q8EvmWVgCpv65ImHU9MMdGV80EvJII5AZ95CZeUruw9IQ1E2tIXibxc6iSeZDtWgdOel0pi5zAlMnO1OTVgS3utOUJSyKfB9V_8lymvIL25wopIwG0BBRdBp7KcfuUYR/s0/theora+hamblett+-+Copy.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oddly enough, she was “discovered” at the same time and place as Andy Warhol, and her work soon became collectible to the cognoscenti, exhibited in New York, Paris and elsewhere. Miss Theora’s style is not exactly my sort of thing, but I found them intriguing, nonetheless. I had another reason for searching her out, for it turns out Theora was a distant relative. Her grandmother was the sister of my great-great-great-great-grandmother, which makes us, well, hardly kin at all. I correspond with a couple of cousins who knew her. But no matter, I enjoyed going down this rabbit hole.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While in the area, I searched out her grave, in the isolated Hamblett Cemetery. This is William Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha territory. The unkempt cemetery, atop a forlorn and scraggly knob and surrounded by a commercial pine forest, fits the stereotypical image of Faulkner’s creation. Her grave is nice enough, obviously erected by her devotees. Her father, a first cousin to my great-great-great-grandmother, was seventy-one year old at her birth. She lies buried next to him.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgSizeaBqcVCYPLwpu1hztHFO8vWYizjjkuzK-EwwhzEkFVa8GL3oGZSvckj_uZPt4Pgw9aUiTohnphZ96Z3EjTp8dqEGA1xDqgf5UoJOjjvNt2qC_bqaBGwqAv9WdLgoeaNX/s640/Hamblett+grave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgSizeaBqcVCYPLwpu1hztHFO8vWYizjjkuzK-EwwhzEkFVa8GL3oGZSvckj_uZPt4Pgw9aUiTohnphZ96Z3EjTp8dqEGA1xDqgf5UoJOjjvNt2qC_bqaBGwqAv9WdLgoeaNX/s320/Hamblett+grave.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While I was staying in eastern Georgia, I visited the Morris Museum of Southern Art in Augusta. In my estimation, this is one of the hidden gems of the South--so many great pieces. A few that were memorable: </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Atonement</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Luke Allsbrook, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dog Thief</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by William J. Petrie, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Surprise Attack</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">near Harper’s Ferry </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">by John Mooney</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Price of Blood</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Thomas Noble Satterwhite, and </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Georgia Crackers</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Pamela Vinton Ravenal.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found Satterwhite’s work to be deeply compelling. Despite the fact that he was a committed abolitionist from Kentucky, he actually fought for the Confederacy. In his post-war career, his paintings tended to reflect his views toward slavery. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Price of Blood</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is one such work. The painting depicts a wealthy Southern planter, relaxing beside a library table, behind which stands a man of business, a slave trader. The gold coins of the transaction lie neatly piled upon one end of the table, with the brandy decanter and glasses anchoring the other. On the left stands a barefoot young mulatto man staring away from the other two men. He is the son of the man who has just sold him. I plan to incorporate this painting into my teaching from here on out.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghA-l0z70hJvjm0vi0KeYDnlGDDp4Mb7ghiEyXB9U4G3GecGwql-sRQR26lOj8njPwslkZxV59unvfrsb4jBCoSqRe48xywWYO8V6etPYPtLUFFwd0jboG3RC8JgdCjDvPGuQh/s640/Price+of+Blood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghA-l0z70hJvjm0vi0KeYDnlGDDp4Mb7ghiEyXB9U4G3GecGwql-sRQR26lOj8njPwslkZxV59unvfrsb4jBCoSqRe48xywWYO8V6etPYPtLUFFwd0jboG3RC8JgdCjDvPGuQh/s320/Price+of+Blood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The artist that really grabbed my attention was William Joseph “Billy Joe” Petrie (1951-1994). I stopped in the gift shop to pick up a few postcard prints of some of the paintings. I collect them and then paste one into my journal, every twenty pages or so. The museum had a sale table of old art catalogs from earlier exhibitions, selling for a dollar each. I picked up a few, including one of the 2005 showing of Petrie’s work. That night, back in my cabin, I read it from cover to cover. I was hooked. His paintings were often of a comical nature, my favorite being <i>Losing My Religion</i>. A young man is exiting a little Baptist-looking country church, a gobsmacked look on his face, with his fingers clutching at his collar as if he couldn’t breathe. In the doorway, the smiling pastor is greeting congregants as they leave, including, it seems, the Devil himself.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The catalog contained a link to a documentary (</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Dreams Awake</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">). I learned that Petrie grew up on a Kentucky tobacco farm. He went away to college for a while, but came right back to the farm and family he loved. Petrie single-handedly restored a ramshackle storage shed into his home and studio. And except for a couple of years in Greece, and various other travels, this is where he would stay the rest of his life. He worked in the fields all day, but once the workday was over, he would paint. Friends he made elsewhere flocked to Kentucky, just to be near him. And being near him meant working in the fields during the day, so the farm never suffered from a labor shortage. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiVq1piPOxvg-UTEA2m_dxLu3mrnJDD_AVUwPX1T9_5blfEyWloWXUip5WYGv4IRMIadFsspMczXbPdxkPlrd63CUXC70remSEzW_ZAFvRYQBW1CrmEXgRGzldiRm3Y9alO4G/s487/Lost+my+Religion+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="487" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiVq1piPOxvg-UTEA2m_dxLu3mrnJDD_AVUwPX1T9_5blfEyWloWXUip5WYGv4IRMIadFsspMczXbPdxkPlrd63CUXC70remSEzW_ZAFvRYQBW1CrmEXgRGzldiRm3Y9alO4G/s320/Lost+my+Religion+2.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Petrie died tragically after falling off a twenty foot ladder. He was taken to the local hospital where the doctor pulled a bottle of medicine out of an open box and administered it to Petrie for the pain. This turned out to be a completely different medication, triggering a diabetic coma from which he died two days later.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">During our nation’s bicentennial, the local Women's Club commissioned Petrie to paint a mural within the courthouse that would depict the sweep of Grant County history. Petrie’s homosexuality was not a great secret. Because of this, a local fundamentalist preacher years later would punch a hole in the mural, claiming the loinclothed Indian depicted therein was homoerotic. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On my way back home, I stopped over in Laurel Mississippi, best known today for Ben and Erin Napier and their </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Home Town</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> on HGTV. Let me just say that Ben and Erin are in no danger of running out of homes to restore in the town. While there, I visited the Lauren Rogers Museum. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9RIe2RMHKf2KsfE0okeoODMBkMnnrJNVN6E5oLScMxi2e5pFux3h9Yxf6s-92xhjBgl_BI64rGAfPoIS8_QsHA2qGu2-qxcCdRpAcKrmfJS9WHKS9actNYYnmJagpzWOix2Vs/s640/Lauren+Rogers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9RIe2RMHKf2KsfE0okeoODMBkMnnrJNVN6E5oLScMxi2e5pFux3h9Yxf6s-92xhjBgl_BI64rGAfPoIS8_QsHA2qGu2-qxcCdRpAcKrmfJS9WHKS9actNYYnmJagpzWOix2Vs/s320/Lauren+Rogers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Laurel has never been the stereotypical Southern town. It was never really plantation country and Jones County (which may or may not have seceded from Confederate Mississippi) was an island of Unionism in a sea of radical Secessionism. Beginning in the 1890s, Laurel boomed as the center for the exportation of yellow pine lumber, making it, for the first time, a center of great wealth. Laurel’s Silk Stocking Row is about three blocks wide and twelve blocks long, and will compare with any wealthy enclave anywhere. Lauren Rogers (1900-1923) was an only child and heir to two immense timber fortunes. He graduated from Princeton, returned home and married in 1921. He was considered to be intellectually gifted and had a great appreciation for art. He and his wife started building their home just north of downtown, but he died suddenly of appendicitis. His grief stricken parents pulled the house back down to the foundation, and then rebuilt it as the Lauren Rogers Museum. They and other wealthy Laurel families established a Foundation, to which they poured money and paintings. The institution also contains his 10,000 book library. They have never charged an entrance fee. I was greatly impressed with this art museum--absolutely remarkable for a town such as Laurel.<p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-67060036215428991752021-05-21T07:05:00.000-07:002021-05-21T07:05:38.365-07:00A Few Old Churches Down South<div class="separator"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXX-iSY0vmS910Uod1SE63QV6tMMZqeGCSYAp52QZMemT5f6NEmOy5JWRrM3mrVijbgZ6J5NjTohZYNreNxPxZlkD7SocpN_jpW1hSLU2dX54V-C5InEn8dPs2ZU-lmGPHIKh8/s640/Vaiden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXX-iSY0vmS910Uod1SE63QV6tMMZqeGCSYAp52QZMemT5f6NEmOy5JWRrM3mrVijbgZ6J5NjTohZYNreNxPxZlkD7SocpN_jpW1hSLU2dX54V-C5InEn8dPs2ZU-lmGPHIKh8/w185-h247/Vaiden.jpg" width="185" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Clement's, Vaiden, MS</td></tr></tbody></table><p> W<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">hen I am on a road trip, I am always on the lookout for old churches. Modern church architecture interests me not at all, other than to be appalled at what they spent good money to erect. Most of these seem a testament to what Theodore Dalrymple refers to as “The Equality of Ugliness: If we can’t live in a beautiful place, we must all live in an ugly place.”</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7g4Lrn4tnzlpaqEX8thQjEd2KOot27dGXQWXCTOjUiSOBYKLmuFkiR7ncaPgLnKmijz_K2N7CzkXkEhw9CuNdhzPb6vq_rt0XY4QnFt7K4PhEJ8OYGFV78DV-mjIRu4tMoeH/s640/Water+Valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7g4Lrn4tnzlpaqEX8thQjEd2KOot27dGXQWXCTOjUiSOBYKLmuFkiR7ncaPgLnKmijz_K2N7CzkXkEhw9CuNdhzPb6vq_rt0XY4QnFt7K4PhEJ8OYGFV78DV-mjIRu4tMoeH/w188-h251/Water+Valley.jpg" width="188" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ch. of the Ascension, Water Valley<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span id="docs-internal-guid-194f1e34-7fff-0c28-b147-51551a9a635f"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From my most recent trips, here are a few from the Pentarchy of Southern Protestant Religiosity--Episcopal, Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, Church of Christ--as well as one ringer. To all my friends in these fellowships, please excuse the barbed commentary. I did try to spread it around equally. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Episcopal</b>:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />An Episcopal Church in a small Southern town is a sure sign that there was once a degree of concentrated wealth in the locality, with probably some pretensions of culture. I am sympathetic, though a bit ambivalent to Southern Anglicanism. I find it hard to credit them, given the messiness of their founding, spawned as they were from the overheated loins of Henry VIII. I have read too much Eamon Duffy to be a fan of the English Reformation in general, and Cranmer and his <i>Book of Common Prayer</i> in particular. It seems to me that the Elizabethan <i>via media</i> is just Latin for “neither fish nor fowl.” But they did build beautiful churches, which is the purported purpose of this piece. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: Arial;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjCdSPgr-zss4YMeJ-07oNIt-dpGvIncIoiA6OsfkB67bCkhbbrcT5PPBzzlG_EgPpQwdG2qLMIS6BHgZvss8K0pYRgfQKXmj9QkIxK-cmitucUxIZvrEqXBZrjn0gE7dvjJAc/s640/St.+Joe+Episcopal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjCdSPgr-zss4YMeJ-07oNIt-dpGvIncIoiA6OsfkB67bCkhbbrcT5PPBzzlG_EgPpQwdG2qLMIS6BHgZvss8K0pYRgfQKXmj9QkIxK-cmitucUxIZvrEqXBZrjn0gE7dvjJAc/w240-h320/St.+Joe+Episcopal.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christ Episcopal, St. Joseph, LA<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found one in the little crossroads of Vaiden, Mississippi. I had stopped to photograph the gravestones of two uncles who had died in camp there in 1862. The town itself proved of interest. Vaiden is the county seat, though too small to support a proper courthouse square. They do, however, have the requisite statue to Confederate veterans. Besides a few old homes, the only other notable architecture is this, St. Clements Episcopal Church from 1859. The church is not currently in use, and a couple of boarded-up windows on the north side are a bad omen. Clearly, the structure is in need of a benefactor.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found the pristine Church of the Ascension in the bustling downtown of Water Valley, Mississippi, quite a contrast to Vaiden. It reminded me of two other Episcopal churches seen in recent ramblings: <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbQ1v9n7mulnQGtbcib_mVdFTz1L2YG3eMGaTTKPCySvNj1JuqaXeEVlFStSGTBZtkc1qvjM6mUogiT5obtVrWsdycT0vQQn37u0nCLpErjQ7u7kta8TOP4_5_DKws_9FKATlW/s640/Melville+Epis..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbQ1v9n7mulnQGtbcib_mVdFTz1L2YG3eMGaTTKPCySvNj1JuqaXeEVlFStSGTBZtkc1qvjM6mUogiT5obtVrWsdycT0vQQn37u0nCLpErjQ7u7kta8TOP4_5_DKws_9FKATlW/s320/Melville+Epis..jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Nathaniel's Episcopal, Melville, LA</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Christ Episcopal in St. Joseph, Louisiana, and the St. Nathaniel’s in the dying town of Melville, Louisiana. Once this was a thriving port on the Atchafalaya River. The railroad crossed the river at that point, but the highway did not. Melville is no longer a port of call, and the freight trains crossing there have no need to slow down. In short, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Melville is now a backwater at the end of what amounts to a dead-end road. The market there still operates and makes a pretty good muffalata. Back in the day, distant cousins of mine were a big part of the Episcopal Church there and they lie buried under the concrete slabs adjoining, a necessity in this part of the state. The church is now used by the local Woman’s club.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Presbyterian</b>:</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are few rural Presbyterian churches in Texas, but once you cross the Mississippi they are more frequent, though still running far behind the old churches of other sects. But invariably, when you do find them, they are usually quite beautiful. I’m not entirely sure why this is so. Presbyterians always placed a premium on education and perhaps this had something to do with it. Or maybe it was to compensate for the Calvinism contained within. No matter, I always stop to give them a look. </span></p><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeyiEDuTzx-da971oTqELDdBDRYwIlsg74W17reLJtEXPr4-5vzirZq0AE5PeSDBLrJQSzpP2mKe4Twysv4sBb2g3rWfRq8nTO9TgHTdr9I4r2VjjGnwQ4LHyT1Sqg9Jv6U3Kd/s640/Rodney+Presby..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeyiEDuTzx-da971oTqELDdBDRYwIlsg74W17reLJtEXPr4-5vzirZq0AE5PeSDBLrJQSzpP2mKe4Twysv4sBb2g3rWfRq8nTO9TgHTdr9I4r2VjjGnwQ4LHyT1Sqg9Jv6U3Kd/w205-h273/Rodney+Presby..jpg" width="205" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Presbyterian Church, Rodney, MS</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator"><br /></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Historic Rodney Presbyterian is one of the lucky ones. Not in active use since the 1920s, this is about all that is left of Rodney. It is now deep into restoration, thanks to the efforts of an energetic and far-sighted historical foundation. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADx7-8KpG5Gj5JLslURAGwDi4oDTy-TiIFxY3xewhyXwLiz-hEwdq6sus4iRVt1RNxd72RIVyTt5bvMw2_FEjuKHnhymCgdZHt7SnLIiXUF4eBp2XAT9UUUV5VARhKorcQ_R_/s640/lebanon+presby..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADx7-8KpG5Gj5JLslURAGwDi4oDTy-TiIFxY3xewhyXwLiz-hEwdq6sus4iRVt1RNxd72RIVyTt5bvMw2_FEjuKHnhymCgdZHt7SnLIiXUF4eBp2XAT9UUUV5VARhKorcQ_R_/s320/lebanon+presby..jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lebanon Church, Toccopola, MS</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">While breezing through Toccopola, Mississippi, I almost missed the Lebanon Presbyterian Church. I glanced at a yard sign and turned around to have a closer look. A homemade sign had simply said: “Trump 2020 No Bullsh*t.” After TFPDJT lost the election, this true believer, not wanting to waste a good plyboard, painted over the 20 and replaced it with 24. The “No Bullsh*t” remained. The main attraction was, however, the adjoining giant brightly-colored metal Mexican rooster that one tends to see in the better neighborhoods. Anyway, the turning around for this roadside attraction caused me to spy the lovely, and clearly antebellum Lebanon church. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-family: Arial; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivlZIMIBjSPqzSwVcWnwNeLxhR1NQE0YhozOH9BpIOqLAGtaiVsBgsPomxjOEX6auiPG-lGsydaZVk4wfB30A9hFZUGv9iGeRX5Z61QNj3PX8Y8BIlQZ3czPNefxU_gRNP-YUI/s640/Perdue+Hill+Presby..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivlZIMIBjSPqzSwVcWnwNeLxhR1NQE0YhozOH9BpIOqLAGtaiVsBgsPomxjOEX6auiPG-lGsydaZVk4wfB30A9hFZUGv9iGeRX5Z61QNj3PX8Y8BIlQZ3czPNefxU_gRNP-YUI/s320/Perdue+Hill+Presby..jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Union Church, Perdue Hill, AL</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Zipping down Highway 84 in southern Alabama, I found the pre-1880 Union Church (formerly Presbyterian) in Perdue Hill. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZqkO6LjCOeAIDFyHZUdTHEORyYUIUNQ0eSnyScXyz3UNz4QCa1-f1SYhnVgJQyEm7WiDw2j6rWH-lkdi_r1ynpQC4MbjkIbYEYtTEfPDZekT8XncWNDUb55O09fxgjZiRsf-v/s640/Bethsalem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZqkO6LjCOeAIDFyHZUdTHEORyYUIUNQ0eSnyScXyz3UNz4QCa1-f1SYhnVgJQyEm7WiDw2j6rWH-lkdi_r1ynpQC4MbjkIbYEYtTEfPDZekT8XncWNDUb55O09fxgjZiRsf-v/s320/Bethsalem.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bethsalem Presbyterian, Jefferson, GA</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And finally, there is the first Presbyterian church in Georgia, Bethsalem in Jefferson. My 5th-great grandparents were communicants there in the 1780s, long before the present church was erected. Presbyterian churches were usually classy affairs up until 1960 or so, when they discovered modernism. The least said about those built subsequently, the better.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /><br /></span></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Methodist</b>:</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The much more numerous old Methodist churches of the South give the Episcopalians and Presbyterians a run for their money; maintaining some of the same aesthetic sensibilities without all the theological rigor, such as it is. The oldest I visited was the 1810 Wrightsboro Meeting House. Founded in the 1760s, this is one of the oldest settlements in Georgia, after Savannah and Augusta, and marked the furthest extension of Quakerism in the South. The Quakers laid out an expansive townsite in the midst of their 40,000 acre grant. By the time William Bartram visited in 1773, he described the settlement in almost Edenic terms.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: Arial; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKIQZJZ3bfOJsFnq05zi0C1hO6jYoLxgjX7s8HTzSflyJIv-CguA7H6goj6TH40LIwMQANlYKFg9Gt5RHPYZLK9JHaNpJTMQoaV_6W02-3cGRuU80bWgL2yyM2pQtKToQYeOS/s640/Wrightsboro+M.H..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKIQZJZ3bfOJsFnq05zi0C1hO6jYoLxgjX7s8HTzSflyJIv-CguA7H6goj6TH40LIwMQANlYKFg9Gt5RHPYZLK9JHaNpJTMQoaV_6W02-3cGRuU80bWgL2yyM2pQtKToQYeOS/s320/Wrightsboro+M.H..jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wrightsboro Meeting House, GA<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> But other peoples started moving in as well, and the Quaker declension was in full throttle. Some of my family moved here in the 1770s as good Quakers, only to reappear as something altogether different in the late 1790s in Kentucky. By the time this meeting house was erected in 1810, the Quakers were either gone or assimilated, leaving only silent field stones in their burial ground about a mile to the east. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOr1NU7xl2Yar1U8AdtgyRrZ6r4F2_mCK48GgXADTyYUsO21CcyeWfNGYtid30WoVlGZyTL8A-YAGnIvGpjxWzAHq1Hrerl2JdERhcwUVe2HiYETU6wfnBUxbBt1eH1lkuodGe/s640/McKinley+Meth..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOr1NU7xl2Yar1U8AdtgyRrZ6r4F2_mCK48GgXADTyYUsO21CcyeWfNGYtid30WoVlGZyTL8A-YAGnIvGpjxWzAHq1Hrerl2JdERhcwUVe2HiYETU6wfnBUxbBt1eH1lkuodGe/s320/McKinley+Meth..jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Methodist Church, McKinley, AL</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">An excellent example of antebellum architecture for prosperous Methodists is the 1847 church in Jefferson, Alabama. Nearby, but in a much more rural setting is the striking church in the </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">extinct <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7o2Krv7oa8v2twz73Hylq1kSbwhUalcpC0OqUknpjeuA-yH-wucRjVxnEabaJz6bXgK_8f_f_d4UULmos26URxB70UfPcOuY6jZto7wp_scYeIXk0c0FMwca837q7PhxqQ6wT/s640/Jefferson+Meth..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7o2Krv7oa8v2twz73Hylq1kSbwhUalcpC0OqUknpjeuA-yH-wucRjVxnEabaJz6bXgK_8f_f_d4UULmos26URxB70UfPcOuY6jZto7wp_scYeIXk0c0FMwca837q7PhxqQ6wT/s320/Jefferson+Meth..jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Methodist Church, Jefferson, AL</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> town of McKinley, complete with a beautiful blue stained glass window. Their earliest and longtime pastor, my 4th great-grandfather Daniel Monaghan, lies buried across the road. <br /><br /> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, there is the late 19th-century Methodist church in the port city of St. Joseph. The church is abandoned, as they have a newer ugly Methodist church on the main road. The sagging structure needs help soon. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDa4kxbPMg3xVF7xnW19CcPSAvMO0QS634kVDFzZYJ0b-B7RAFV88AYO70heaXi3hVPRkFkVnn6KanreDxLGxmHf_gLwJAFUaB8nkgh92gFi86j1J3cuOFAAsEr72GjGHR2mK/s640/St.+Joe+Methodist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDa4kxbPMg3xVF7xnW19CcPSAvMO0QS634kVDFzZYJ0b-B7RAFV88AYO70heaXi3hVPRkFkVnn6KanreDxLGxmHf_gLwJAFUaB8nkgh92gFi86j1J3cuOFAAsEr72GjGHR2mK/s320/St.+Joe+Methodist.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Methodist Church, St. Joseph, LA</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Baptist</b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">:</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: Arial;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkXX3ujZD59-Rq1Wr6uirUXkuFYzffinWxsWS9SMjrXI3N3L2dLTOGVhB_EBi0pysYb27GKI2qO-zQC5P3ZhLy4euVPMWnwezG-1i3YLECAXl8KVr13036GoT3NduAkxK38LrX/s640/Rodney+Baptist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkXX3ujZD59-Rq1Wr6uirUXkuFYzffinWxsWS9SMjrXI3N3L2dLTOGVhB_EBi0pysYb27GKI2qO-zQC5P3ZhLy4euVPMWnwezG-1i3YLECAXl8KVr13036GoT3NduAkxK38LrX/s320/Rodney+Baptist.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baptist Church, Rodney, MS</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Baptists are the default church of the South; there's more of them than all other denominations combined. This very ubiquitousness is, however, their weakness, in my opinion. The broadness of the Southern Baptistocracy sometimes makes them lazy, and leads to their not being taken seriously. And it is not as if they never built lovely churches in the old South, for there were quite a few. I think the sheer weight of the pervasive banal modern Baptist architecture may have colored my perception. The Baptist church in Jefferson, Alabama is as stately as any. The one fast sinking in Rodney, Mississippi is a gem, though one soon to be lost. The 1888 Barbara Lowery Baptist Church in Perdue Hill, Alabama makes an impression, as does one from a later era, Ramah Baptist in Palmetto, Georgia. But I am afraid these tend to be the exceptions. <br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzBAFVc7w7Vht_GA2dmUiVXUDPbSZWmJ-WIu0UehY894KgulgCOZJh9gY2KD1wx7hCnHjHjjAYjKWEKFJNogtGe9qDmtkIpkt5GeRtXAVXrGsPTlrkYqRdopQjc7HNOyUOqun/s640/Jefferson+Baptist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzBAFVc7w7Vht_GA2dmUiVXUDPbSZWmJ-WIu0UehY894KgulgCOZJh9gY2KD1wx7hCnHjHjjAYjKWEKFJNogtGe9qDmtkIpkt5GeRtXAVXrGsPTlrkYqRdopQjc7HNOyUOqun/w240-h320/Jefferson+Baptist.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baptist Church, Jefferson, AL</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do like the simplicity of the Friendship Baptist Church in Wilkes County, Georgia, where I stopped to place small monuments to my 6th-great grandparents either buried there or nearby. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And one occasionally finds little churches like this--Mt. Nebo Baptist in remote Wilkinson County, Georgia. It is as plain as can be, but they did at least have a cross on the roof. I was checking out the old cemetery adjacent, where my 7th-great uncle Dr. John Taliaferro (1734-1821) is buried. In this truly rustic locale, I was pleased to see a knock-off statue of the “Bird Girl” from “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.” I appreciate it when someone stretches for beauty.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLW_ThUBi1nRfpoR3tkMBv5C0HXQsmSw0XddPBQ_qkiepUYUI7PNVFWHiygASekhGXJUlzb_KhsyOCe7dS2WiRfogNDigJc04yP72dGLA07EL_7e70bXMKtyC3NzSl-gTNnxyQ/s640/Ramah+Baptist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLW_ThUBi1nRfpoR3tkMBv5C0HXQsmSw0XddPBQ_qkiepUYUI7PNVFWHiygASekhGXJUlzb_KhsyOCe7dS2WiRfogNDigJc04yP72dGLA07EL_7e70bXMKtyC3NzSl-gTNnxyQ/s320/Ramah+Baptist.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ramah Baptist Church, Palmetto, GA</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFTFk3ZaPM1ttK2q0hcH3qimKlfJDadcVJD2RdhxD8KsnMKV0VYgQZJAiJ_I7V-mqiBBCQNOwUNOIRq0goX3ueSYt0lN_bC5i2i35NyB4kR-HFYSTKveH15Ife6-iB7Zplzr5/s640/Friendship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFTFk3ZaPM1ttK2q0hcH3qimKlfJDadcVJD2RdhxD8KsnMKV0VYgQZJAiJ_I7V-mqiBBCQNOwUNOIRq0goX3ueSYt0lN_bC5i2i35NyB4kR-HFYSTKveH15Ife6-iB7Zplzr5/s320/Friendship.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friendship Church, Wilkes Co., GA</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-JkirBwBlnbydaf1vJa4gyDOnLl1x1tz9DbdzQ1MvHBshgT4EeLugvxFguuLWEiudNVeK7-WxBLxmwttYsQmDLOrb7gzFBDGdWmWI-L4x0SJi5VpMGLOj-D06OwaTJzzzE4f/s640/Perdue+Hill+Bapt..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-JkirBwBlnbydaf1vJa4gyDOnLl1x1tz9DbdzQ1MvHBshgT4EeLugvxFguuLWEiudNVeK7-WxBLxmwttYsQmDLOrb7gzFBDGdWmWI-L4x0SJi5VpMGLOj-D06OwaTJzzzE4f/s320/Perdue+Hill+Bapt..jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baptist Church, Perdue Hill, AL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu4RoouhkPxytAL6utkOL-BShLUHGyDx1pr7BNHjVjWB2bxz74cMtPQdfTBcmAH9f9WMrO_SLtWaxF279E19Fsj97vUICdJprgKo0N1XcwK4qm9Ds8PtkzcQodAQtibRLmIEG4/s640/Mt.+Nebo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu4RoouhkPxytAL6utkOL-BShLUHGyDx1pr7BNHjVjWB2bxz74cMtPQdfTBcmAH9f9WMrO_SLtWaxF279E19Fsj97vUICdJprgKo0N1XcwK4qm9Ds8PtkzcQodAQtibRLmIEG4/s320/Mt.+Nebo.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Nebo, Wilkinson County, GA</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">Churches of Christ</b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">:</span></div><p></p><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLCHTnz6yfyOoo-gGHtLg_tCkkWXsYW-mV0tkgF7nD15OR4jjBPMx491X_TwPbmX8icN2PchXsTfWbS0VNN65vmLdF9J0ZvIn3mkS6SvocF_2RQTlv20ddspu30HYDW4hg2Ml/s640/Pineywoods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLCHTnz6yfyOoo-gGHtLg_tCkkWXsYW-mV0tkgF7nD15OR4jjBPMx491X_TwPbmX8icN2PchXsTfWbS0VNN65vmLdF9J0ZvIn3mkS6SvocF_2RQTlv20ddspu30HYDW4hg2Ml/s320/Pineywoods.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pineywoods Church of Christ, AL</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Outside of northern Alabama, Tennessee and Texas, one doesn’t see that many Churches of Christ, particularly if you are grading on the Baptist scale. And one almost never sees an historic old Church of Christ building (The isolated Midway congregation in Lampasas County, Texas, where my grandmother worshipped in the 1920s remains, but this is the exception.) </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is a reason for this. After the Civil War, the Christian Church, a unity movement that was never really that united, underwent a rolling 50-year split. One faction, the Disciples, desired mightily to swim in the broad river of American mainline Protestantism. In their headlong pursuit of the same, they ended up with the church buildings, the pianos, and German higher criticism, but in the end suffered the fate of the mainline denominations, perhaps more so than any. The fundamentalist wing, who assumed the name “Churches of Christ” exclusively, was left high and dry, but defiant and clinging to an aggressive and very particular biblical hermeneutic.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I spent 25 adult years in this church--the 7th generation on my grandmother’s side--and I have studied its history in depth. I am familiar with the extreme iconoclasm of their worship and worship spaces where even crosses are verboten. Even so, I was still startled by the starkness of this church, the Pineywoods Church of Christ in rural Randolph County, Alabama.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found myself at the end of a dirt road, searching a family cemetery, which is literally in the church’s front yard. All of those buried there were my distant relations, one way or the other. Any before I left, I met two more (above ground) who came down on a golf cart to see what I was up to. I was interested to see that they still maintained the rural custom of mounding-up graves. I used to do the same with my favorite uncle at the family graveyard in the Texas Hill Country. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After my genealogical snooping, I walked up to the church to have a look in the blindless windows. Inside and out, this was as plain a church building as I have ever seen. Homemade pews, a lectern, and behind that, a huge classroom size dry-erase board. That was it--nothing else, not a thing on the walls. This was a building designed for instruction; a true “meeting house,” rather than a church. I was reminded of something I heard recently on a podcast of Jonathan Pageau interviewing Paul Kingsnorth:</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>The Reformation changes the role of the church from being a center for ritual into being a sort of center for moral teaching...what you are getting is a lecture...a lecturer who tells you what Jesus wants you to do.</i></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is where that road ends. But Kingsnorth's warning applies not only to this humble Church of Christ, but really to all the churches I have noted here and their successors; for this congregation is just an extreme manifestation of the movement that characterizes them all. Time eventually takes care of all our human efforts. But the tragedy here is not the March of Time, but rather the disinterest of those who once believed. To continue with Kingsnorth, just a bit:</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>As soon as you experience a ritual you think, Oh Goodness me, this is what it is supposed to be about. God’s in the room. A culture can’t survive without rituals and they were all designed to take people to the Divine in some way.</i></span></p><br /><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Unitarian-Universalists:</b></span></p><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClcrZKKJ0V3qkcLenliGlKxtzRWkfpEENgWeQu68B1S5T34TMuC5zEAf1INbvvW6pPxVBTZZBvPbHYYz4V6FogaKdP5kr-xeEb1LvMGW0gsiv69SKMItkM3UAPp8m4yJCZojR/s640/Camp+Hill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClcrZKKJ0V3qkcLenliGlKxtzRWkfpEENgWeQu68B1S5T34TMuC5zEAf1INbvvW6pPxVBTZZBvPbHYYz4V6FogaKdP5kr-xeEb1LvMGW0gsiv69SKMItkM3UAPp8m4yJCZojR/s320/Camp+Hill.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Universalist Church, Camp Hill, AL</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And now, for the outlier: I would just about expect to see a Sikh temple as I would an old Universalist Church in the South. But that was before I visited Camp Hill, Alabama, a rural hamlet famous for the Lyman Ward Preparatory School, stretched out along a hilltop south of town, and infamous for the 1931 lynching carried out against the Alabama Sharecroppers Union. The First Universalist Church of Camp Hill was established in 1846, with this imposing church built in 1909. It claimed to be the largest of their churches in the Southeast for much of the 20th Century. One is tempted to substitute “only” for “largest.” Remarkably, the congregation continues on in rural, Trumpy Alabama. On their Facebook page, they have posted a meme with a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson: </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Make your own Bible. Select & collect all the words and sentences that in all your readings have been to you like the blast of a trumpet.</i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thomas Jefferson would have approved, I think.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAhIYzlNL6gTM3xISF-rxi_INfBkFuIfB8tz5-Lz9v-NnBnLzBZzaqpjQPHQSyt8jGyHeVYcKWULuTa_8l8dXkkCzt6fXo1-ayysZ-cQbDK_jnV56DWC-r4gRKK_gg_Z_JYM5/s640/Bird+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAhIYzlNL6gTM3xISF-rxi_INfBkFuIfB8tz5-Lz9v-NnBnLzBZzaqpjQPHQSyt8jGyHeVYcKWULuTa_8l8dXkkCzt6fXo1-ayysZ-cQbDK_jnV56DWC-r4gRKK_gg_Z_JYM5/s320/Bird+girl.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br />Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-33042302244954318132021-05-12T17:58:00.005-07:002021-05-12T17:58:56.767-07:00A Literary Detour<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV4_ev3_aLNdqS-s4UhQoeCVo59BcOwFUSyB_yuQB5tfdTuF6SKixdzCCvswyJKk_P8nxqWJoCQbvnwdwjqVPLX7820MNFvCPPreSAHFvHvGRjVtsUuNuioCNLWHRxHWnmXaLa/s640/IMG_0208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV4_ev3_aLNdqS-s4UhQoeCVo59BcOwFUSyB_yuQB5tfdTuF6SKixdzCCvswyJKk_P8nxqWJoCQbvnwdwjqVPLX7820MNFvCPPreSAHFvHvGRjVtsUuNuioCNLWHRxHWnmXaLa/s320/IMG_0208.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I turned off Interstate 20 at West Monroe, Louisiana, intending to check out the state's only meadery. only to discover that the establishment had burned about two months earlier. No matter, for I was able to see this town's quirky old downtown district, which warrants a closer look some other time. I have been crossing north Louisiana for over forty years, and I never imagined there would be anything worth exiting past Shreveport until, of course, you get to the Daquiri Drive-Inn at Delta. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span> From there, I angled northeasterly across the southeastern corner of Arkansas where I crossed the Mississippi River at Greenville. A wealthy cotton port on the river for most of its history, Greenville is one of those places you go if you are looking for vestiges of the Old South as popularly imagined. I was seeking, however, the City Cemetery, in order to visit the grave of William Alexander Percy. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span> William Alexander Percy (1885-1942) was a Southern writer, poet, man of letters, and aesthete. He is most noted, however, as the mentor of the young kinsman he raised, Walker Percy, who went on to become a famous writer in his own right, and one of my favorites. I read the senior Percy's <i>Lanterns on the Levee</i> many years ago, and have only recently discovered his poetry. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span> The immense forested cemetery is a bit of a mess--low-lying with standing water (though the Percy plot is on a raised bed), monuments jumbled in every direction, with the vegetation just waiting to take over at the first sign of neglect. In short, it is not as impressive as you would think for a wealthy, prideful place as Greenville. The adjacent Jewish cemetery, itself larger than many city cemeteries for a town this size, by contrast is orderly, high and dry, and meticulously maintained. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> The Percy plot is the main attraction due to this larger than life-size statue of a somber, pensive knight, leaning on his sword (no doubt harkening back to the noble medieval English Percys, which this family very much does.) The statue was erected in 1930 for William Alexander Percy's father, LeRoy Percy, a successful planter, attorney, and for a short time, U. S. Senator from Mississippi. The Percys were a notable, but altogether tragic family (see Betram Wyatt-Brown's <i>The House of Percy: Honor, Melancholy, and Imagination in a Southern Family</i>.) </span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">On the reverse of the monument is the poem by Matthew Arnold which ends with the lines: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Charge once more then and be dumb,</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>Let the victors when they come, </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>When the forts of folly fall,</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>find thy body by the wall.</i>" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">William Alexander Percy's simple but elegant slab fronts the stature. An adjacent 1882 epitaph of an earlier LeRoy Percy simply reads "gentleman."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span> My family rolls their collective eyes about my fanciful plans for our family plot, but at least they do not have to worry about something like this. To reference an inside family joke, I would have to sell the farm. I am not at all sure that the Percys didn't have to do so as well.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818;"> good die when they should live, the evil live when they should die; heroes perish and cowards escape; noble efforts do not succeed because they are noble, and wickedness is consumed in its own nature. Looking at truth is not at first a heartening experience--it becomes so, if at all, only with time, with infinite patience, and with the luck of a little personal happiness.</span></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><i> </i>William Alexander Percy,<i> Lanterns on the Levee</i><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p>Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-40394412267830907482020-09-05T15:06:00.003-07:002020-09-05T20:40:03.793-07:00Summer Reading<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"> <span style="color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This has been a weird summer, for me as it has for most. I have read more than I first thought. I catalog my books only after they have been read, and this is the stack since early summer.</span></span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>Solovyov and Larionov</em> by Eugene Vodolozkin. Of course he is best known, at least in Orthodox circles, for <em>Laurus</em>. This is his first novel, from about 11 years ago. Vodolozkin is a good storyteller, and this particular tale jumps back and forth between immediate post-Revolution Russia and early post-Soviet Russia. I recommend it, but if you are looking for another <em>Laurus</em>, this is not that. I look forward to reading more from Vodolozkin.</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;"></p><figure class="alignleft size-large is-resized" style="display: table; float: left; margin: 30px 0px 0.5em 1em;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><img alt="" class="wp-image-3299" data-attachment-id="3299" data-comments-opened="1" data-image-description="" data-image-meta="{"aperture":"0","credit":"","camera":"","caption":"","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"","orientation":"0"}" data-image-title="image" data-large-file="https://notesfromacommonplacebook.files.wordpress.com/2020/09/image.png?w=480" data-medium-file="https://notesfromacommonplacebook.files.wordpress.com/2020/09/image.png?w=225" data-orig-file="https://notesfromacommonplacebook.files.wordpress.com/2020/09/image.png" data-orig-size="480,640" data-permalink="https://notesfromacommonplacebook.wordpress.com/image/" height="517" loading="lazy" sizes="(max-width: 388px) 100vw, 388px" src="https://notesfromacommonplacebook.files.wordpress.com/2020/09/image.png?w=480" srcset="https://notesfromacommonplacebook.files.wordpress.com/2020/09/image.png?w=388 388w, https://notesfromacommonplacebook.files.wordpress.com/2020/09/image.png?w=113 113w, https://notesfromacommonplacebook.files.wordpress.com/2020/09/image.png?w=225 225w, https://notesfromacommonplacebook.files.wordpress.com/2020/09/image.png 480w" style="border-radius: 3px; border: 0px; height: auto; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: middle;" width="388" /></span></figure><p></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>The Quest for Shakespeare</em> by Joseph Pearce. The thrust of this work is the apparent recusant Catholicism of William Shakespeare, hiding in plain sight, you might say. The author certainly lays out a convincing case for it. Pearce’s own story is an interesting one; starting out as an English skinhead and then converting to Catholicism. He is a prolific writer of Catholic polemics, as well as a popular speaker in traditionalist circles. His best works seem to focus on English literary figures who converted to Catholicism, such as <em>Literary Converts</em>.</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>Too Much is Never Enough</em> by Mary L. Trump. This is not the sort of book I usually buy and I doubt that it will remain in my library. But, I am glad I read it. Ms. Trump does not tell me anything about the kind of person DJT is that I did not already know, or anything that should not be perfectly obvious to anyone who views his actions and words with open eyes. I know what Trump is. I was curious to learn how he got that way. The family is, charitably speaking, grotesque. The women come off no better than the men. By the time he was 8 to 10 years old, the die was already cast for DJT; out of control with a father who laughed at every outrage, humored any whim, funded any debacle. Trumpists dismiss this as the work of a disgruntled heir and a homage to her father against the rest of the family. I will just say that first, she has ample reason to be disgruntled, and second, even her father does not come across all that sympathetically.</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>Beyond the Dreams of Avarice</em> by Russell Kirk. I enjoy reading Kirk, and this collection of essays did not disappoint. He is credited with being the founder of modern American Conservatism, providing an intellectual foundation to traditionalist thought. I think History will be kind to Kirk in a way that it will not be, for example, to William F. Buckley. He has been gone about 26 years, I think, and long before that time he was something of a Voice in the Wilderness. against what the Conservative Movement was becoming. Those Americans who wear the label Conservative today would be largely unrecognizable to Kirk.</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>Monsieur Ouine</em> by George Bernanos. Ugh. In the type of journals and sites I visit, Bernanos, said to be one of the great French Catholic writers, is occasionally mentioned as the sort of author who writes the sort of books that someone like me would tend to read. He claimed that this was his greatest novel. I determined that I would finish the thing; mostly dialogue, between which characters I was never really sure. A young boy was killed. An old man died. A floozy woman’s carriage turned over–why and exactly how, I was never able to determine. I was no better informed once I finished than when I began.</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>Malicroix </em>by Henri Bosco. This author redeems French literature from his contemporary, Bernanos. He writes a compelling, somewhat macabre, and ultimately satisfying read, set in the rural South of France. Bosco has something to say, and I will be looking for other of his works.</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>Bearings & Distances</em> by Glen Arbery. I rarely read contemporary fiction. I made an exception for Arbery, a professor at a Catholic college in Wyoming, I believe. I was intrigued to read this well received work, it as it had a land surveying angle, the profession in which I spent 35 years. He also sets the story in the South, where politeness, hospitality and sweet tea often provide a thin protective veneer over the mayhem, murder and madness just underneath. Arbery tells a good story, with important lessons about the persistence of family and faith in spite of it all.</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>Old House of Fear</em> by Russell Kirk. In the early 1960’s, Kirk wrote three novels, today largely unknown. This is the second one I have read. The first was set in post-colonial sub-Saharan Africa, while the setting for this one is on the desolate outermost island in the Hebredes. If he had stayed with writing novels, I think he would be better known today than he is now. These are remarkable stories well told. For many years I have scribbled down memorable passages I read along the way, but they are rarely dialogue from novels. No so with Kirk’s work. Of course his philosophy comes through, as you would expect. But he never beats you over the head with it; he never lets it get in the way of a good story. I will be looking for that third novel, but they are a bit hard to find.</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>Lost Property: Memoirs and Confessions of a Bad Boy</em> by Ben Sonnenberg. Let’s be clear about this: Sonnenberg is not a sympathetic character. He is urbane, hedonistic, well-fixed, well-read, well-traveled and all that. But there is an emptiness to it all. He knows he is a snot and couldn’t care less. But there is a brutal honesty to his writing; so sharp, so clever, so incisive, that you really can’t put it down.</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; outline: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>Proceedings of the Anthony Powell Society Conference, 31 August – 2 September 2018, Merton College Oxford.</em> I did actually read this. The proceedings were edited by longtime friend, Dr. Keith Marshall and the subject was “Anthony Powell and the Visual Arts.” For Powellians, all the papers were certainly worthwhile, but the real treasure was the 78 pages of color plates in the center of the volume. Well done, Keith!</span></p><p style="color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><em>The Crisis in Western Education</em> by Christopher Dawson. My two favorite 20th-Century historians were Sir Steven Runciman and Christopher Dawson, two very different individuals, to be sure. Given enough time, I hope to read everything that each of them published. This 1961 work has been reissued in recent years. Dawson is hardly popular today, but his work on the nature, development and transmission of a culture have stood the test of time, and, in light of contemporary events, have proved to be quite prescient.</span></p><div class="sharedaddy sd-like-enabled" id="jp-post-flair" style="clear: both; color: #383838; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; margin: 1.75em 0px 0px; padding-top: 0.5em;"><div class="sharedaddy sd-block sd-like jetpack-likes-widget-wrapper jetpack-likes-widget-loaded" data-name="like-post-frame-174035670-3297-5f540b6e4fab3" data-src="//widgets.wp.com/likes/index.html?ver=20200826#blog_id=174035670&post_id=3297&origin=notesfromacommonplacebook.wordpress.com&obj_id=174035670-3297-5f540b6e4fab3" id="like-post-wrapper-174035670-3297-5f540b6e4fab3" style="clear: both; margin: 0px 0px 1.75em; min-height: 50px; position: relative; width: 740px;"></div></div>Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-42858078306404221472019-07-13T15:01:00.003-07:002019-07-13T15:16:14.775-07:00England and Wales, 2019<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I am back and rested after spending 15 days in the U.K. While I always enjoy coming home, the truth of the matter is that I was not quite ready to return. I felt much at home there. James and I had a lengthy discussion about the nature of eccentricity, and maybe their broader capacity for acceptance of that sort of thing perhaps explains it. Like our country, you can find most anything you are looking for in the U.K. There are innumerable other aspects to the British, for good or ill, but I was largely seeking one thing: village life and the pastoral. I am pleased to report that it yet survives. While it is not exactly Orwell's vision of "old maids cycling to Holy Communion in the morning mist," enough remains to be recognizable and appreciated by this Anglophile of long-standing. Reservoirs of ways of life are deep and tenacious here, and they have an almost infinite capacity to muddle on through things. If you seek this, however, you must leave London and the Home Counties far behind as quickly as possible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> This trip had a definite purpose. My youngest son is English, though he has not had much exposure to his native country, and what he has had has been in modern, urban Britain. As his American naturalization ceremony approaches, and he becomes more at home as an American, we both thought it would be advantageous to spend some time in the country of his birth, soaking up as much history and culture as we could along the way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I charted an ambitious itinerary, though hardly the marathon of some of my previous expeditions. After making a stop in London's Kensal Green Cemetery, I left the city as quickly as possible, making first for Cambridge and the Fitzwilliam Museum, then on to a small riverside inn in nearby Holywell. As luck would have it, they were having their annual well-dressing festivities at the Holy Well of St. Ivo, right down the way. The next day, we were on to Ely, a quick visit with my Spanish friend and almost-cousin Andres, then Little Walsingham, and around the Norfolk coast and back into the East Midlands, staying at an old Edwardian hotel in the working-class town of Wellingborough. Then with a few stops along the way, we made our way to the misty Peak District, but not before a stop Leicester Cathedral for Richard III and at the Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem pub in Nottingham. The first item of business was to purchase some proper English duds for me in Bakewell: a rain jacket and a pair of wellies. After partaking of the Peak District for a couple of days, we dipped into Birmingham to view the Pre-Raphaelite works there, then stopped by St. Kenelm's Church and holy well, then the Arts and Crafts masterpiece of Wightwick Manor, before settling-in for a number of days in the Welsh Marches. Although we technically stayed in far western Shropshire and Herefordshire, we were all over eastern Wales as well. The attractions here--hiking in the most scenic region of the U.K., snug little pubs, Guinness and homemade gin, </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">h</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">oly wells and ruined abbeys, old churches and new monasteries, book stores galore, and local cider--really made this the heart of our trip. From there, the too-touristy (for us) Wye Valley, a dip into Bath for James, paying literary homage at Mells and The Chantry, then pushing on to the west coast of Cornwall, staying at a 16th-century farmstead in Poldark Country, only steps away from the bluffs. We enjoyed this locale every bit as much as the Welsh Marches, though our activities were more confining to coastal walking and hanging out at our pubs of choice. After several days there, and a side trip up to Clovelly in Devon, we began the somewhat melancholy return towards London; a stop at Cerne Abbas to see the Giant, then T. E. Lawrence's cottage, then on to the Chiltern Hills where we made a few more literary tags, as well as tooling around "Midsummer Murders" territory. On our last day, we visited the Orthodox Shrine of St. Edward King and Martyr at Brookwood, before meeting a longtime acquaintance of mine at Heathrow Terminal 5.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I was in full history professor mode, and the trip definitely took on historical and literary overtones, with me overseeing a variation of Six Degrees of Separation for a number of British authors and artists. Centering on the interrelated notable English families of Asquith and Horner, with stops at the graveyards in Mells and Sutton Courtenay, I was able to link together Edward Burne-Jones, Simeon Solomon, Sigfreid Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Edith and Osbert Sitwell, Fr. Ronald A. Knox, Anthony Powell, Evelyn Waugh, Alastair Graham, Steven Runciman, Steven Tennant, George Orwell, Prince Antoine Bibescu, Patrick Leigh Fermor and others. And from a small stretch of country road in the Ewyas Valley, I brought in Fr. Ignatius, Digby Dolbein, Francis Kilvert, Eric Gill, David Jones, and Bruce Chatwin. Visits to favorite bookstores in Brampton Bryan and Hay on Wye, necessitated that I had unpack the extra soft suitcase that I had folded up inside my main bag.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> In addition, I was able to visit with several literary acquaintances made through the years. We had tea with Nicolas and Frances McDowell, proprietors of <a href="https://www.oldstilepress.com/" target="_blank">The Old Stile Press</a>, at their lovely home on the Wye River. We talked of many things, including the Richard Barnfield and Alice Meynell works I received from them. Late in the trip, we had a fascinating meeting with Tom Sawford at a Middle Wallop pub. If enthusiasm counts for anything at all, then Tom is far ahead of the game. He is responsible for <a href="https://patrickleighfermor.org/tag/tom-sawford/" target="_blank">this website</a> devoted to all things Patrick Leigh Fermor. Tom presented me with a first British edition copy of <i>Between the Woods and the Water</i>, for which I was deeply touched. Finally, at Caffe Nero in Heathrow Terminal 5, James and I visited with my longtime correspondent, Keith Marshall and wife Noreen. Keith is the moving force behind <a href="http://www.anthonypowell.org/home.php" target="_blank">The Anthony Powell Society</a>, of which I am a founding member. We enjoyed a quick hour discussing AP, parting with hopes for future meetings. And in one obscure and only tangentially literary association, we chatted with a nice elderly monk, whom I had met before, at the Orthodox Shrine of St. Edward King and Martyr. I thought this jogged something in my memory, and once home discovered he had been mentioned in passing in the recent biography of Sir Steven Runciman.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> We largely stayed in small inns, usually just a cluster of rooms above a pub. This suited to a tee. We probably had nicer rooms in the venues more on the hotel end of the spectrum, but at the cost of the low key ambiance we were after. I believe that the countryside was something of an eye-opener for James. And I'm not above learning a thing or two along the way myself, even at my age. Over a short course of time, I became a full-fledged convert to the British style of drinking ale and beer; no more ill-considered complaints from me along those lines. In fact, I now actually prefer it that way, and a pint of Guinness in particular. James was an excellent coach in this regard. I do not mean to imply that it was all boozy Guinness nights. On some days I opted for G & Ts. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Given my interests, we found ourselves visiting a number of old churches, both large and small. There are, sad to say, simply too many of them, </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">given the U.K.'s post-Christian, if not post-post-Christian culture</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">. Some of the smaller churches have been converted to other uses, while others sit closed up amidst overgrown churchyards. The lucky ones still have a semblance of parish life, sometimes even a vibrant one at that. The larger churches and cathedrals are the ones where I feel most removed from any real sense of holiness or that it is still even a place of worship. And whether large or small, seemingly all have to resort to using their building for community centers, concerts, plays and lectures to try and make ends meet. The larger cathedral churches are sometimes roped off, where admittance is charged to stroll through the sanctuary (such as in Ely). Pleas for donations are everywhere. Many of them post figures of how much it costs every day to keep the church open. I am suspicious of these figures, but if true then I think I would just throw up my hands in hopelessness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Without being too judgmental about it all, I would say that the problem is baked-in. In Orthodox lands, the scale is much smaller. Even in larger churches with a soaring dome, the interior space is actually quite small and intimate. And the simplicity of Orthodox design means that these churches could be rebuilt or restored or repaired through the ages relatively affordably. The English churches, once they left the simplicity of the Anglo-Saxon age and moved into the Romanesque and then the Gothic high Middle Ages, seem to me to be ever more difficult to maintain or repair given their height and immense size. I'm not sure how they will be able to do it, going forward. If the U.K. were still a land of church-goers, then this would not be a problem, but it hasn't been that for a long time. One thing I have noticed, is that in their interpretive instructions to visitors, they often note how the church had once been awash in color, before, of course, things started going off the rails in the English Reformation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> In one Norman church, tucked away in a corner of Radnorshire, I showed James an</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">exquisitely sculptured font dating from the early 1100s; said to be the best preserved from that era in the entire country. Amidst the intricate design was a Norman version of the Harrowing of Hell, a familiar subject in Orthodox iconography. Six weeks earlier, half a world away in a tiny Orthodox church high in the remote Caucasus mountains, we viewed the same scene, albeit on a frescoed wall. More than anything else we've seen and talked about recently, this spoke to the overall unity and universality of the Faith prior to the Reformation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Before leaving home, I figured this would be my last trip to the U.K. (as well it might be). But if I</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> am granted enough time, I will return. I am already thinking about next summer--Ireland, the Isle of Man and the North. We will see. But from this journey, a few of my favorites, below:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">FAVORITE SCENERY AND/OR VIEWPOINT: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Offa's Dyke Path atop the Black Mountains, even with Llanthony; views of Ewyas Valley and Wales to the west and the Golden Valley and Herefordshire to the east.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The B4391 between Llanfyllin and Pennant Melangell in Wales</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The road approaching Trevique Farm, off the B2363 out of Boscastle, Cornwall.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">FAVORITE COUNTRY ROAD:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The drive between The Bridges and Church Stretton in Shropshire.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">FAVORITE HIKING:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Offa's Dyke Path in the Black Mountains of Wales</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Coastal Pathway in northwest Cornwall.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">FAVORITE SMALL TOWN:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> James loved Hay on Wye--no argument there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Bakewell in the Peak District is also a contender</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">FAVORITE VILLAGE:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Most any of them</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">FAVORITE PUB:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The Stiperstones Inn, Stiperstones, Shropshire--home of their homemade Whinberry Gin</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The Napoleon Inn, Boscastle, Cornwall</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The Cobwell Inn, Boscastle, Cornwall</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The Jug and Glass, Peak District--where I was introduced to the "Gimm's Cup," a Pimm's Cup topped off with cucumber gin</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">FAVORITE CHURCH:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> James' favorite by far was Abbe Dore in Herefordshire, and I agree.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> For a quintessential village church, St. David's at Kilpeck, Herefordshire is hard to beat</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-27752299784303080842019-01-13T18:39:00.000-08:002019-01-13T18:39:34.745-08:00Thoughts on Cuba<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I have always wanted to visit Cuba. For years, my cousin Selma and I would talk about it at the family reunion every July. Last summer, she warned me not to launch off across the Gulf of Mexico without at least extending the invitation to her. And out of the blue, I also learned that my younger son had a keen interest, as well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Back during the days of Cuban-American normalization of relations, I worried that once the restrictions were removed, Americans would rush in and ruin everything before I could visit. In the current climate of abnormalization of, well, just about everything, that now seems a quaint concern. Then last November, John Bolton started blathering about the "Troika of Tyranny," signaling a possible tightening of current restrictions against Cuba, including travel. How could I <i>not </i>go?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The three of us took advantage of a narrow window of opportunity between the New Year and the beginning of the Spring semester. Travel to Cuba is inexpensive and easier than we are led to believe, as long as you are prepared to play the game of semantics with our officials, if needed. So, after 5 days in Havana and 2 days in Trinidad on the south coast, here are, in no particular order other than the first, my thoughts on Cuba, as follows:</span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Cuban people are some of the most open, welcoming and hospitable people that I have ever encountered in my travels. In the past, that honor was always reserved for citizens of the Republic of Georgia. To my Georgian friends, I will just say that now you have some stiff competition.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The world comes to Cuba, and more than a few Americans. There are many direct flights from Canada, Mexico and Central and South America, as would be expected. But there are also direct flights from all over Europe, and even Istanbul. The fellow travelers one meets are from all over the world, and the pleasures of a Cuban vacation are no novelty to them. Flights from the U.S. are centered in Florida--Miami, Fort Lauderdale and Orlando, with an additional flight out of Atlanta and Newark, I believe. The Cubans seems particularly pleased that an increasing trickle of Americans are rediscovering their country, despite the rhetoric out of Washington (this of course does not address the flow of Cuban-Americans back and forth from South Florida, bringing in appliances and electronic gear as they come.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Cuban people seem disinclined to talk about politics, either to laud theirs or to discount ours (no doubt a wise habit of self-preservation that they have taken on in the last 70 years or so.) Travellers one meets are curious about the predicament we find ourselves in now, and Latin Americans are particularly sympathetic, as many of them have had long experience with bullying tinhorn dictators such as ours. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It would be just as wrong to suggest that everyone is fat and happy in this worker's paradise as it is for us to believe that all Cubans are yearning to break free of the Communist yoke. I did not at all witness a sullen, downtrodden populace, under the heavy boot of a police state (as Bolton et al would have you believe). People were going about their daily lives, as happy I suppose, as people elsewhere. No doubt there are those who feel frustrated at the constraints inherent to their system (and the exodus of the upper and middle classes during the Revolution cannot be dismissed out of hand). BUT, the Cuban people receive some of the best medical care in the world, all free. Their college education is also free. They pay no rent. Free public transportation is readily available. And food staples are heavily subsidized. Would they give all this up for more "opportunity?" I wonder.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, there is still grinding poverty in Cuba. This failure of the Revolution to live up to its ideals of equalizing conditions is perhaps the most powerful indictment against it. But, there seems to be no hunger. Cuba feeds itself. And one finds, particularly in Havana, Cubans living is enviable locales, dressing smartly, and dining at the nice restaurants along with the tourists. I do not understand, exactly, how all this happens--surely there has to be something more than just luck of the draw. We were talking to one young couple--he had spent a few years in Montana, of all places--who lived in a choice terraced flat overlooking the plaza in front of the former Presidential Palace (now the Museo de la Revolucion). After talking awhile, we learned that yes, his parents lived there with them, and before that it had been his grandfather's apartment. So there is a continuity, in some respect, of residence, Revolution or not. I suspect there is quite a lot of that. Much of the old elite residential areas are given over to embassies and headquarters. (One wonders why Venezuela, a country with real relations with Cuba is housed in a simple Arts and Crafts Mansion, while the U.S., which has few relations with Cuba is housed in an ugly high rise facing the Malecon.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Cuban food is quite good and healthy--heavy on the fruits and fruit juices for breakfast and heavy on the rice for other meals. They seem less bread-centric than we are (or at least, I am). And the servings are more than generous. For a Texan, I would have to say that it can be a bit bland at times, though this hardly registers as a complaint.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Our trade restrictions are just wrong-headed. It only strengthens the government's position, as economic woes can be blamed on our embargo. And restrictions on the importation of Cuban rum to the U.S. is a self-inflicted wound for us.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Cubans suffer from a bit of the same affliction as some Southerners. To listen to some of my compatriots, you would think that the Civil War was the only thing that ever happened in the South. In Cuba, someone would also be forgiven for concluding that the Revolution was the only thing that ever happened here of note.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We toured the Museo de la Revolucion, which we found to be fascinating. I do think, however, that they overplay their hand a bit when it comes to the CIA. Every bad thing that ever happened is blamed on the CIA, with no proof offered. Mind you, I do not think that the CIA is innocent of this sort of thing at all. I just believe it gives them far too much credit. Just look at all the times they tried to assassinate Castro, who died at 90 in his own bed.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I would have to say that music in Cuba is, quite literally, "in the air." One does not have to go far to hear the salsa beat somewhere, and the Cuban people are quick to break out in dance. My travelling companions took full advantage of this. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The vintage automobiles are a real thing--a tribute to Cuban ingenuity that so many of them are still on the road. In Havana, they are primarily the domain of taxi drivers and/or companies, with the convertibles catering to open air tours for the visitors. In the countryside, one suspects that the vintage cars are used by individuals.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavEBreTiynY62wIQSWMNG9k2uAYDD-pf7mFJmB73bh03b1WE4Smoao5IQW-HE2pqnsXScOYTrti3FdytS-NLgSaFNLkVnWxBdp9qXhA42xaIQ-nWjnpWYX51sJrDeU8I1N0f2/s1600/IMG_3993.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavEBreTiynY62wIQSWMNG9k2uAYDD-pf7mFJmB73bh03b1WE4Smoao5IQW-HE2pqnsXScOYTrti3FdytS-NLgSaFNLkVnWxBdp9qXhA42xaIQ-nWjnpWYX51sJrDeU8I1N0f2/s320/IMG_3993.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Over here, one gets the idea that Havana is a crumbling city. This is only partly true. Make no mistake, architecturally, Havana is a grand city. Beautiful old neo-classical, beaux arts and art deco buildings predominate around the numerous parks, plazas and public spaces. Sure, there is modern ugliness, but it rarely mars the traditional neighborhoods. Many structures are undergoing restoration and fresh coats of paint. It seems these will be relatively luxurious flats, and I am not exactly sure the clientele intended for them. And yet, one also sees many grand old structures tumbling down--the Teatro Capitolio, for example, not a few yards from the Capitol grounds. Often these buildings are blocked off, with some shoring-up in evidence, and with scafolding surround the building. But, vines sometimes wind their way around to the very top of the scafolding, and trees sometimes peak out from the collapsed roofs of the buildings, indicated years of inactivity. In short, the Cuban government realizes what they have, but with limited resources seem to be doing the best that they can.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The inefficiencies of a state-run system can stand out to utilitarian-minded Americans. Credit cards are worthless in Cuba. Every visitor must bring enough cash to convert to Cuban CUCs. And this must be done at the airport, if for nothing more than to be able to pay for your taxi into the city. So, with all the visitors pouring into the one international airport, one would think that more than one government employee in the currency exchange booth might be needed; or that there at least could be another employee in the ready to take over when that employee went on break.</span> </li>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I am sure I can think of other things to say, and when I do, I will update this list. I am a little under the weather at present, so will draw this to a close. The best recommendation I can give for Cuba is the fact that, given enough time, I plan to return. And I have to say something about my two travelling companions. When it comes to travel, someone has to put the plan together and arrange all the logistical matters. That would be me. And then there are those who make things happen once the plan is in play. That would Selma and my younger son. I would travel anywhere with either or both of them.</span></div>
Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-21295441248190238362018-09-03T06:16:00.002-07:002018-09-03T06:16:11.976-07:00Recent Article on Orthodoxy in the South<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t post much about Orthodoxy on FB these days. This is not from any dimming of enthusiasm on my part, but rather more from a recognition that the truth of the faith does not rise or fall on FB posts. I have learned to give a wide berth to anything smacking of triumphalism, which I find to be ultimately unconvincing. And, I do not enjoy theological polemics, even though I realize that for some, this is the very breath of life itself. Finally, I don’t want to provide a target for those who enjoy taking potshots online. So, outside of something of interest involving our particular parish, or an appealing online homily, or perhaps something more related to history, then I avoid Orthodox-related posts.</span></div>
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But I feel a need to make this one--and to promote a recent article in the “Oxford American,” the premier magazine of Southern literature and culture. The journal is in its twenty-seventh year, and we have all the issues, save for three or four from the first couple of years. The article is “The Light of Heaven: Father Damian Hart and the Pull of the Orthodox Church” by Nick Tabor. The broad subject is the Orthodox Church’s history in the South, and more particularly the establishment and growth of the Diocese of the South in my own jurisdiction, the Orthodox Church in America (OCA).</div>
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The author is no disgruntled ex, but a convert of some years, a communicant of the OCA Cathedral in Manhattan. Tabor’s conversion story is similar to many of ours. He first became aware of the Church while in college in MIchigan. Later, his Orthodox life took a detour through the South for a short while, feeding his interest in the subject matter at hand.</div>
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His research into the very early years of the Diocese is fascinating. But his story is no puff-piece extolling the growth of Southern Orthodoxy. And while laudatory of Archbishop Dmitri, it is no hagiography. Tabor squarely addresses the laxity in oversight and discipline in the early years. This allowed for the occasional flowering of what might, at best, be charitably denoted as runaway eccentricity, but sometimes something much worse. One aspect of the story is of particular interest to me. Tabor’s examines the noticeable fixation some Southern Orthodox (mainly men) have with monks and monasteries. Monasticism is an essential part of Orthodoxy, so the concept is not in question. But poorly supervised monasteries have sometimes fallen under the spell of rogue abbots, from which much lasting harm can come.</div>
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Overall, the piece is even-handed, which is to say that it is a real history. I do take pride in the fact that Orthodoxy has taken hold in the South, so that we are a permanent fixture here, albeit in our small way. When the history of Southern Orthodoxy is written, Tabor’s work will be an essential source.</div>
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I didn’t post this to elicit comments pro or con on Orthodoxy. So, please don’t. I wanted to spread the word of this article--in an unexpected source--to interested Southern clergy and parishioners. The piece is in the Fall 2018 issue (# 102). The OA is sold in Barnes and Noble, at least in the South, but the Fall issue is not yet on the shelves. You may go to their online site, click the Shop tab, and there you will be able to purchase a single issue hard copy or a more affordable digital copy for $2.99.</div>
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Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-28174881251090835172018-09-03T06:13:00.003-07:002018-09-03T06:13:50.535-07:00On John McCain and his Funeral<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Now that John McCain Week is over, I thought I’d make a comment or two. I’ve always been ambivalent about McCain, neither greatly admiring nor detesting the man. And, I do adhere strongly to the old adage about not speaking ill of the dead.</div>
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So, yes, I hate it that he was in a prison camp for over 5 years, just as I hate it about the death and suffering resulting from the missiles he fired. The hagiographies this week have skimmed over the personal and career messiness of his post-Vietnam, pre-Senate years. But then, most of our lives couldn’t hold up to very much scrutiny either.</div>
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His senatorial career has largely been characterized by warmongering; unthinking, reflexive, bomb-first-ask-questions-later warmongering. Over the last 20 years or so, you can chart my foreign policy positions as being consistently 180 degrees from whatever John McCain and the Amigos were promoting. Coming off the Bush Administration, there was not the remotest possibility that I would consider voting for him in 2008. His choice of Sarah Palin, a decision breathtaking in its reckless irresponsibility, confirmed my worst suspicions. In recent years, in issues ranging from Syria to Iran to Russia, he has surpassed even himself. The image of a clueless McCain, grinning broadly, surrounded by his Syrian jihadists--excuse me, “freedom fighters,” is one I’ll never forget.</div>
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I do appreciate two things about his public service. The first was his self-deprecating humor. He did not take himself too seriously. Up until November 2016, that had always been a mark of a successful American political career. I sorely miss it. Second, I do appreciate the tone he set following DJT’s election. McCain did not pretend that this is all normal when it is not. He was not hesitant to call-out Crazy when he saw it. So, McCain's calls for civility and dignity and respect have been appreciated, by me, at least.</div>
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Even so, the week-long events have been, I think, just a little much. The schedule was choreographed by McCain himself, in his last days. Clearly, he was trying to send a message to the nation, and I don’t fault that, necessarily. The endless and obligatory references by his hagiographers, however, to his, shall we say, “earthiness,” quickly wore thin. In any other context, they would have been describing a foul-mouthed old crank. The last straw came from Jon Meacham, whose commentary usually runs the gamut from smug to insufferable. He referenced Theodore Roosevelt’s speech at the groundbreaking for the National Cathedral. TR quoted James 1:22, “but be ye doers of the word…” Meacham then brought it around to the present, stating that “there was no greater doer of the word than John McCain.” At that point, I had to turn off the radio. A political life in public service can, I suppose, be a good thing. But that is not at all what the Scripture was saying, if not, in fact, the exact opposite. I have heard no better recent example of the conflating of politics, nationalism, patriotism, and religious sentimentality into the toxic mix that is our national civic religion.</div>
Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-2214232522158928442017-09-04T20:25:00.000-07:002017-09-05T06:15:41.910-07:00More Travels In the U.K: Some Misfits Along the Way<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At grave of Dylan Thomas, Laugharne, Wales</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 18.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The day after returning home in late July, I had my regular lunch an old friend. He is a bit conventional in his view of the way things should be. The fact that things were never actually like that in reality is besides the point. I was talking about poetry in general and made the observation that so many poets seemed to be tortured souls, whether it be by alcohol, sex, or substance abuse, and this tension in their lives fueled their poetic impulses. My friend was unwilling to grant the point, and I countered that I thought very little poetry emanated from the easy chairs of suburbia. He was still having none of it, so I herded the conversation on to more well-nibbled pastures.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I believe my point to be defensible, and not only for poets, but for authors and artists as well. Many were misfits who made a royal mess of things. But these souls interest me far more than the Great Figures of History. While I don’t want to leave the impression that I spent all of my time over there poking around graveyards, I did seek out the final resting places of some interesting sorts, who may not have operated on the same plane as the likes of Chesterton and Tolkien from my previous post.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dylan Thomas statue, Laugharne</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ll start off with </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dylan Thomas</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, the great Welsh poet, monumental drunk and colossal screw-up. At this point, I am more familiar with his biography than I am his actual poetry, but a favorite is the short </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Death Shall Have No Dominion</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. For the last few years of his life, the Thomases lived at Laugharne, a coastal village in the south of Wales. Dylan Thomas’ physique didn’t quite lend itself to statuary, but there’s one of him anyway, down by the harbor. The Boathouse, his workshop in Laugharne, is open to tourists, but that would’ve necessitated a parking fee and a lengthy hike from the town center. I had already walked nearly 7 miles that day, so I decided to give it a pass. I did, however, visit his and Caitlin’s common grave in the new cemetery adjacent to St. Martin’s churchyard. The marker is very humble, a white painted wooden cross with both their names and dates on it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before the Thomases lived in Laugharne, they lived in New Quay, on the west coast of Wales. As would be expected, the poet became a regular at the New Inn pub (now closed, sadly), where he made the acquaintance of an already established regular, a distinguished looking, slightly older gentleman by the name of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alistair Graham</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who was this man? The short answer is that he was Sebastian Flyte, the character created by Evelyn Waugh in </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brideshead Revisited</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I first read of Graham in a passing reference (but extensive footnote) in the new biography of Steven Runciman. The two met in Athens in the mid 1930s, both in low-level diplomatic positions: Runciman in early phase of a long and varied career, and Graham in the only real job he ever tackled. They had some trysts but Runciman was too discreet for someone like Graham. The footnote in the Runciman biography led me to Duncan Fallowell’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How to Disappear: A Memoir for Misfits</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, one of the most weirdly satisfying books I have ever read. He devotes a chapter to Graham.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evelyn Waugh</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alistair Graham</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here, I must double back to </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Evelyn Waugh</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to properly tell of Alistair Graham. I like Waugh well enough, having read </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Loved One, Decline and Fall, Black Mischief, A Handful of Dust, Scoop, The Sword of Honour Trilogy, and of course, Brideshead Revisited</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. He is most noted for the latter, but it is not really my favorite. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Black Mischief</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is particularly funny, and the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sword of Honour Trilogy</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> stayed with me. But on the whole, I prefer Powell. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Waugh gained a reputation in later life as a crusty and ill-tempered traditionalist Catholic convert. But as a younger man at Oxford, he was something altogether different. Here he moved freely among the “bright young people” and the noted aesthetes of the 1920s. He and Graham were quickly drawn to each other, and Waugh was a frequent visitor to the Graham place in Northamptonshire. In fact, for the better part of three years, the two were commonly known to be couple. They eventually separated, and Waugh moved on; marrying, divorcing, converting, and then marrying again, as his reputation as a writer grew. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Graham left briefly for the aforementioned diplomatic posting in Athens. He returned to London and was soon in hot water with the authorities there. In that era, one might think it had something to do with his sexual proclivities, but apparently that was not the case at all, and it is not at all clear exactly why he had to leave the city. But leave he did. He bought a comfortable, roomy estate about a mile out of remote New Quay, Wales. And here he settled into 45 years of anonymity. No one questioned his antecedents, and he was at home in his regular spot at the New Inn. Of course there would be talk from time to time about the goings-on at his house. Once, Caitlin Thomas supposedly danced naked atop his coffee table. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor were said to be occasional guests, and from time to time a Catholic priest would slip in for a visit, for through it all, Graham remained a Catholic.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waugh graves, outside the churchyard, Combe Florey</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Waugh is best known for </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brideshead Revisited</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, basing Lord Sebastian Flyte on Alistair Graham and Lady Marchmain on Graham’s formidable mother. This did not cause any problems for Graham, for it is a safe bet that no one in New Quay had read the book, or if by chance they had, no one could connect it with him. But then in 1981 came the highly successful television mini-series with Jeremy Irons portraying Sebastian Flyte. This changed everything. Interest in the series led to investigations into Waugh’s sources for the characters. Soon, reporters were snooping around New Quay. Graham panicked and went into a recluse mood, refusing to answer any questions, and slamming the door in the face of intrepid interviewers. And, as always happens, the money began to run out. Graham sold the house in the country and moved into New Quay, purchasing a modest row cottage on Rock Street, facing the ocean. (Gentrification has even found New Quay, where little houses on this street now fetch $500,000.) Graham died in 1984, I believe, and his ashes were buried at sea.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While history and celebrity bypassed Graham, Evelyn Waugh, in contrast, was never far out of the public limelight. Revenue from his writings and wealthy in-laws allowed him to purchase a Georgian manor house in Combe Florey, complete with expansive park and imposing gatehouse. I imagine that the advertising for the offer could have easily said: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Be an English Lord of the Manor; the Complete Package</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. It is that kind of place. But while he purchased the social accoutrements to the life to which he aspired, he was ill-fitted for the role; in short, a misfit. And Waugh would probably admitted as much. Nothing illustrates his outsider status better than his grave. The back side of the park is hard up against the Sts. Peter and Paul churchyard. But Waugh, his wife and daughter are not buried in the graveyard, as such, but just over the cemetery wall into the field. One has to step over a wall and onto the private property to view it. The English gravestones do not seem to age well, and his is already almost unreadable. In time, the estate became too expensive to maintain and Waugh’s grandchildren were forced to dump it. Vanity of vanities.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> ***</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Leaving 20th century figures behind for a bit, I also visited the graves of a 15th-century couple, "Black" Vaughan and his wife, Ellen "the Terrible." Subsequent generations attributed the "Black" moniker to the evil character of Sir Thomas Vaughan, though it may have originally been nothing more than a reference to his black hair. Ellen's reputation is a little easier to pin down. A Welsh lady, she shot an arrow through the heart of her brother's assassin, evening the score with her own hands. Vaughan is my wife's maiden name. It would be fun if there were a family connection, but I know that genealogy does not work that way.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrM-aFEURZp-muZpnTFlEZ9px_vdhBpLhFMOaRNFFkR4Mvj09vXkTT8iH_nRYX7JGkzFy-9DYukgdbUDF08jB-fQLUJQ0CZryE1P3BXfLFYAhmKha5PmTzfxUozk6kfGeCJN3W/s1600/IMG_0980.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrM-aFEURZp-muZpnTFlEZ9px_vdhBpLhFMOaRNFFkR4Mvj09vXkTT8iH_nRYX7JGkzFy-9DYukgdbUDF08jB-fQLUJQ0CZryE1P3BXfLFYAhmKha5PmTzfxUozk6kfGeCJN3W/s320/IMG_0980.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tomb of "Black" Vaughan and Ellen "the Terrible"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">Vaughan supported the Yorkists in the War of the Roses, and was captured and beheaded in 1469. According to the legend, his faithful dog brought his skull back to Hergest Court in Herefordshire, near the Welsh border. The effigies of the couple are close by in St. Mary's Church, Knighton. Interestingly, the dog is also in effigy, at Vaughan's feet. Local lore claims that Vaughan's spirit haunted the town until an exorcism trapped the evil spirit into a small box, which was then sunk in Hergest Pool.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The hauntings continued, however, though this time through manifestations of the dog. The Vaughans remained at Hergest Court for hundreds of years after Black Vaughan's beheading. The ghost of the hound would make itself known from time to time, always foretelling the immanent death of a family member. Townspeople would not travel down the road to Hergest Court at night.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nciAV4RDhzSbj-jg85OnTjvK8xcNUwnQOU0M2YJvERD4u81nBCyDrEZ4my877JJKEy2p1512hVbQQU-dRlZKNNQLPY4ulIxgLG8oLgWy2zzaB0rRVJhef8Mo9sF9uIHNTsFb/s1600/IMG_0983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nciAV4RDhzSbj-jg85OnTjvK8xcNUwnQOU0M2YJvERD4u81nBCyDrEZ4my877JJKEy2p1512hVbQQU-dRlZKNNQLPY4ulIxgLG8oLgWy2zzaB0rRVJhef8Mo9sF9uIHNTsFb/s320/IMG_0983.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Effigy of the Vaughan dog, what's left of it</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">If all this sounds vaguely familiar, it should be. Arthur Conan Doyle used this as the basis for his story, "The Hound of the Baskervilles." The monuments in the church are beautiful to behold and worth seeing, even without the legends. We do not have to believe everything of this nature, but we also do not have to automatically dismiss the inexplicable. A wholly rational world, swept clean of any mystery would be dull indeed.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> **</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">*</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some other interesting characters whose locales I visited were the quirky “</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fr. Ignatius</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” and the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Rev. Francis Kilvert</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, and I suppose I should also include </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Digby Mackworth Dolben</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in this group. The former was a Church of England ritualist who attempted to establish Anglican monasticism in the last half of the nineteenth century. As one can imagine, this had to be something of a tough sell, and he failed spectacularly. To the end of his days, Fr. Ignatius remained a controversial figure, something of a gadfly to the church hierarchy. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As is usually the case, I backed into this character. I enjoy the writings of the 20th-century English historian Christopher Dawson, who was Welsh on his mother's side, born at Hay Castle. This is less grand than it sounds, his grandfather was the Archdeacon in Hay-on-Wye and the Castle was simply the ecclesiastical residence (now a burned-out hulk looming over the town center.) Reading Dawson's biography led me to Rev. Kilvert and his diaries. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnuuo8kaKVCYQO5z8mHA3TuMSevblim9Piz8Qj_K9n0HptQv4SMlHDdDq550z2OE6Pow2kdEnCUPFJPHfUkV-gRvcqbRb14pLd3Rh8VjVjfYCc2lqQ5N70vnCSRfjbIdXZcdOB/s1600/kilvert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnuuo8kaKVCYQO5z8mHA3TuMSevblim9Piz8Qj_K9n0HptQv4SMlHDdDq550z2OE6Pow2kdEnCUPFJPHfUkV-gRvcqbRb14pLd3Rh8VjVjfYCc2lqQ5N70vnCSRfjbIdXZcdOB/s1600/kilvert.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rev. Francis Kilvert</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He tragically died just after his marriage, at age 39, but lived a full life, however, and left an impact on his region. Rev. Kilvert was much more at home with the unfortunates, and the vagabonds he met along the road, than he was in ecclesiastical circles. He was a naturalist, in several senses of the word, being a strong advocate of walking, and of nude swimming. Kilvert kept a journal, which after his death was cleaned-up a little by his heirs, published, and becoming something of a cult classic. There is even a Kilvert Society to keep his memory alive. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He had a knack for listening to people's stories, whether it was the crippled old veteran of the Napoleonic Wars, or the old woman who remembered seeing the fairies dancing on the floor of the mill, or the man who proudly showed off an old jug--a family heirloom from that day in the 1640s when the fugitive Charles I came by their house and asked for a drink. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEW7Q6dtw0VarKFtaHcnTqjBDtHERF9wVwVQh9NrzJPq1N0Nd8IX6qLgoWczslGtFdGGLQ_-kud11OPbgWcie09yZ-vy-x3nXZMlwwXG12JjQ4jaj2VVerUGFdZ54W-4RpDRKA/s1600/P1010685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEW7Q6dtw0VarKFtaHcnTqjBDtHERF9wVwVQh9NrzJPq1N0Nd8IX6qLgoWczslGtFdGGLQ_-kud11OPbgWcie09yZ-vy-x3nXZMlwwXG12JjQ4jaj2VVerUGFdZ54W-4RpDRKA/s320/P1010685.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Capel-y-ffin, the chapel house in background where the Rev. Kilvert saw the young washwoman with the "lusty arms"</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And the man could walk. On 5 April 1870, he set out after breakfast from Clyru and made his way to Hay, where he paid his respects to the Archdeacon, wife and daughters (one would eventually be the mother of Christopher Dawson), then walked on south and up to the Gospel Pass, then followed the Honddu River down into the Vale of Ewyas until he reached Capel-y-ffin. Here, he admired the small squatty church amid the ancient yews, and chatted up a young woman across the road at the chapel house, whom he described as "a buxom comely wholesome girl with fair hair rosy face blue eyes and fair clean skin [who] stood washing at a tub in the sunshine, up to the elbows of her round white lusty arms in soapsuds." Here, he cut up the hill in an effort to visit with "Fr. Ignatius," who happened to be away in London (Kilvert would meet him, however, on subsequent visits.) He talked with the stone-masons constructing the monastery and acknowledged the two dour "monks" trudging away in their garden. Overall he was more impressed with the stonemasons and the girl washing clothes--people whom he thought were "living naturally in their world and taking their share of its work, care and pleasures"--than these wannabe monks. He rejoined the road and continued on down until he reached the abbey ruins at Llanthony. Here, he paid a leisurely visit with the caretaker, swapping stories and enjoying a meal together. And then he retraced his steps home, arriving about 6:00 pm. His diary noted, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>"We were rather tired with our 25 miles walk, but not extraordinarily so."</b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwr-iMslVafNYq0pPTkSTb4G29xF9gYivvNyVjho9OFjhcO8JkuXIgHJpAueW_59Q4EpDwAIz9cAlzDG1Bwc8fyi4171iOWTmFsA3H_nq-Sa_P31skfTvIjXJNIoDWcoMoyo2/s1600/dolben.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="654" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwr-iMslVafNYq0pPTkSTb4G29xF9gYivvNyVjho9OFjhcO8JkuXIgHJpAueW_59Q4EpDwAIz9cAlzDG1Bwc8fyi4171iOWTmFsA3H_nq-Sa_P31skfTvIjXJNIoDWcoMoyo2/s320/dolben.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The poet Digby Mackworth Dolben</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I also learned of Fr. Ignatius from the biography of Digby Mackworth Dolben, a young poet who drowned at age 19 in 1867. Dolben was a different sort; there seemed to be an almost ethereal aspect to him which attracted attention wherever he went. He once entered the Church of St. Alban in Birmingham during their Sunday service, walking down the aisle in nothing more than a simple black habit, belted by a knotted rope, and barefoot. He was an early acolyte of Fr. Ignatius, and planned to go even further. He was not interested in any Anglican monasticism, but planned to convert to Catholicism. Dolben's father made him promise not convert until after graduating from Oxford, in order to avoid the "scandal." The noted poet and Catholic convert Gerard Manly Hopkins fell madly in love with Dolben prior to his taking own taking of vows. Dolben never had a strong constitution, but loved to swim. He was teaching the son of a friend how to swim when he lost consciousness and sank into the river. The young poet would have slipped through the cracks of history if not for his cousin and later poet laureate of Great Britain who published his biography and poems in 1911.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPs2eCeiTDQt2kjQO06ihB5tXc3sNvStWp7y3e_8UMYB5Pp-uv9GBa-sWAUWT0EuDeIRr08mdhsSDrmEZ8b5n_5LO-9l5oBNN2s6ve3Cdp7DSGcm_o7KBj3CL5eRzSWeGimoDR/s1600/IMG_0952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPs2eCeiTDQt2kjQO06ihB5tXc3sNvStWp7y3e_8UMYB5Pp-uv9GBa-sWAUWT0EuDeIRr08mdhsSDrmEZ8b5n_5LO-9l5oBNN2s6ve3Cdp7DSGcm_o7KBj3CL5eRzSWeGimoDR/s320/IMG_0952.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grave of Rev. Francis Kilvert, Bredwardine</td></tr>
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After Fr. Ignatius’s time, his monastic experiment was occuped by the artist commune led by the controversial Eric Gill. The troubled Welsh poet and painter David Jones lived at the commune for a while. To bring the loose threads back together, Jones was himself a great friend of Christopher Dawson. Today the site, on a hillside looking down upon the little church at Capel-y-ffin, is a Riding Center, not accessible to the curious traveler. But standing down in the narrow roadway next to the church, one can make out the white building above, and the gleaming white statue of the Virgin Mary carved by Eric Gill. Fr. Ignatius is buried close-by.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWA-4TNTdgigUUR93riaKjrPVckYNtZd9ns-myPsCF-_J5j4eqK5cGmaYg7RFfKyEimMw30Be7m52sbt7UOOYKDPb8isX2VpbBfbwf8xLPL3k96z21xv_NbBtaITuW0S2eGYRK/s1600/P1010703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWA-4TNTdgigUUR93riaKjrPVckYNtZd9ns-myPsCF-_J5j4eqK5cGmaYg7RFfKyEimMw30Be7m52sbt7UOOYKDPb8isX2VpbBfbwf8xLPL3k96z21xv_NbBtaITuW0S2eGYRK/s400/P1010703.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old "monastery" of "Fr. Ignatius," Capel-y-ffin, Wales</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> ***</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As mentioned in a previous post, some artwork led me to the Church of St. Andrews in Mells, Somerset. While there, I visited the graves--a few feet apart--of two friends who pursued widely differing paths, but ended up, literally and figuratively at the same place: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Msgr. Ronald A. Knox</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, priest, author and humorist, and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Siegfried Sassoon, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">poet and author</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They both moved easily with British society, coming from the upper classes, so they could hardly be characterized as misfits. But they both charted independent paths. Knox was an Anglican priest who converted to Catholicism in 1917, at which time his father, the Bishop of Manchester, disinherited him. He became one of the chief spokesmen for English Catholicism and was even entrusted with retranslating the Vulgate Bible, in light of the Hebrew and Greek. Of an amiable temperament, Knox was known for his skillful use of humor in his writings. I picked up one of his novels--”Barchester Pilgrimage’’-which I read while traveling. A great fan of the author, he took Trollope’s Barchester series and followed the families for another 50 to 60 years, bring them into the mid 1930s. It is a good read, and Knox does not try to sugar-coat the story, or make any polemic points. The famiies’ courses follow pretty much the trend of English society during that time period, and they end up about where you would expect them to be in 1935. As a great fan of Trollope, who has read the entire canon, I found that he was faithful to the spirit of the Trollope's work.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2NmwrRblOtfhm2dU-w9xyZHahUfxRB3X9c4vwjcyoyqk4dJz5twa5hyzy9QrBNhKL8hadAG5ZDWrflurCARRGmhAnnVHeDAbAGizJK7GYac6kRN4t29HpumUBsjebO86leZu/s1600/P1010778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2NmwrRblOtfhm2dU-w9xyZHahUfxRB3X9c4vwjcyoyqk4dJz5twa5hyzy9QrBNhKL8hadAG5ZDWrflurCARRGmhAnnVHeDAbAGizJK7GYac6kRN4t29HpumUBsjebO86leZu/s320/P1010778.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At grave of Siegfried Sassoon</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Siegfried Sassoon was from an colorful background, his mother one of the artsy Thornycrafts, and his father one of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>the</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Sassoons, a famous Jewish banking and commercial family, as important in Baghdad, Bombay and Beijing as the Rothschilds were in Europe. Their wealth washed Sassoon’s great-grandfather ashore in London. Siegfried had little contact with his wealthy relatives, however, as they disowned his father when he married a Gentile. One of the most intriguing passages from Sassoon's autobiography of his early years was his sense of being out of place at his father's Jewish funeral, amidst a host of high and mighty relatives whom he barely knew.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xQIq7KUtHWwjJeXCfq5P6DE7QnrWB75sjwr1m773Vyq3986dFJIfrh4n1d8fDrcMBvHM43ZjCAQICh5VrbHGk6P6rLIC8VFUQndyA3kJUN2NN9tdnDdtjudBMURg0k3GpUK9/s1600/P1010780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xQIq7KUtHWwjJeXCfq5P6DE7QnrWB75sjwr1m773Vyq3986dFJIfrh4n1d8fDrcMBvHM43ZjCAQICh5VrbHGk6P6rLIC8VFUQndyA3kJUN2NN9tdnDdtjudBMURg0k3GpUK9/s320/P1010780.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">At grave of Msgr. Ronald Arbuthnot Knox</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Sassoon is best known as being one of the great “war poets”, although he was already making a name for himself before the Great War, and he continued to write for many years afterwards. Sassoon was widely known to be homosexual, discreet but decidely so. As mentioned in an earlier post, he was the mentor of Wilfred Owen. Later, he had an extended relationship with the flamboyant Stephen Tennant. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In middle age, somewhat surprisingly, Sassoon seemed to change course. He married, and then fathered a son. While his marriage eventually ended in divorce, he was incredibly close to this only child. Still later, he became fast friends with his neighbor Msgr. Knox and become a happy convert to Catholicism. I find it fitting that they are buried so near one another. I’ve read some of poetry, as well as his early autobiography. I found him a sympathetic voice.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">***</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hoped to avoid London altogether this trip, with the exception of the last full day in the U.K. I planned to visit a couple of sites on the outskirts of London (which I did) and then that afternoon, I planned to visit the graves of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Francis Thompson</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lionel Pigot Johnson</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in St. Mary’s Catholic Cemetery, and the grave of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Simeon Solomon </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in Williston Jewish Cemetery. Time permitting, there were others that interested me in the Catholic Cemetery, as well as the adjoining Kensal Green. These three definitely fit the characterization of troubled artistic temperaments. While they all died in the early years of the 20th-century, their demons are particularly up-to-date: drugs, sex, and alcohol.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhULYYOJDZj4cgqnZ-6wUV56Aa7XRvBFEQck-W0tDXIsH_t5AHpM39JhukQmUvl1h6ESv51BhGxMqfwInZuX_KB9u3G_YmyxLUIhChaKoOBTO0Qb1vmYAiEm7SSzpEMbzOUfx/s1600/francis+thompson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="600" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhULYYOJDZj4cgqnZ-6wUV56Aa7XRvBFEQck-W0tDXIsH_t5AHpM39JhukQmUvl1h6ESv51BhGxMqfwInZuX_KB9u3G_YmyxLUIhChaKoOBTO0Qb1vmYAiEm7SSzpEMbzOUfx/s320/francis+thompson.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Thompson</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Francis Thompson was the son of middle class Catholic doctor in Birmingham. He was supposed to carry on his father's profession, but repeated failed in his medical studies. A sickly youth, Thompson developed an addiction to laudanum, which later led to the same for opium. He started writing poetry early on, but could not stay straight. He ended up in London, an habitue of opium dens, bars and brothels. In recent years, his name has been added to the long list of possible Jack the Rippers, though I seriously doubt that. He earned a little change as he could, hopefully sending out poetry to various publishers. Alice Meynell, poet and suffragist, received one of them and shared it with her husband, Wilfred Meynell, owner of a Catholic publishing house. They took Thompson off the street and into their home, where he lived as a member of their family for many years. His time with the Meynells was his most productive period. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>The Hound of Heaven,</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in which Jesus Christ's unflagging pursuit of an individual soul is compared to that of a pursuing bloodhound, dates from these years. (On a personal note, this poem is one of the most transforming things that I have encountered in a lifetime of reading.) But somewhat predictably, Thompson could not stay straight, and his life and addictions had taken their toll on him. He died at age 47. While in Hay, I was able to find a set of his collected works.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lYcnVsUAPYntOn2Vg4FzYBw2-vRjaJfyuIVncrEbaypggt6ZabXfRJu0taApVbsR0qIqFE0LceT4eP6M71YMbKGPJSltuhYn5IcY59W-aR1smFOjex8f3I178alovk6bcvrR/s1600/lionel-pigot-johnson-c-1870s_a-G-10103312-4985790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="391" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lYcnVsUAPYntOn2Vg4FzYBw2-vRjaJfyuIVncrEbaypggt6ZabXfRJu0taApVbsR0qIqFE0LceT4eP6M71YMbKGPJSltuhYn5IcY59W-aR1smFOjex8f3I178alovk6bcvrR/s320/lionel-pigot-johnson-c-1870s_a-G-10103312-4985790.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Lionel Pigot Johnson</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lionel Pigot Johnson was another tortured young poet and literary critic. He struggled with alcoholism and repressed homosexuality. It was Johnson who introduced his cousin, Lord Alfred "Bosie" Douglas, to Oscar Wilde. He moved briefly in those circles, but became estranged from Wilde after he took up with Douglas. Johnson found relief in his conversion to Catholicism in 1891. His most noted poem is </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Dark Angel</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. He died in 1902 at age 35, after supposedly falling off a bar stool in the Green Dragon Pub. I have a volume of his collected poems, as well as his critical study of Thomas Hardy.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QgfHFj-8iAz9HsBZMSbcY2WMpFYa7vxuE0ts8i5fCcA41VLG2brA-d9-WrJK3fY6s3tMeRbtzPTX-i0ct6x4TL3bpe6_tCVKB_JJozR-idGd4x7BCB5cQA-DpzKJGGEXvDYy/s1600/solomon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QgfHFj-8iAz9HsBZMSbcY2WMpFYa7vxuE0ts8i5fCcA41VLG2brA-d9-WrJK3fY6s3tMeRbtzPTX-i0ct6x4TL3bpe6_tCVKB_JJozR-idGd4x7BCB5cQA-DpzKJGGEXvDYy/s1600/solomon.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simeon Solomon</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Pre-Raphaelite artists interest me, and starting with Burne-Jones, I have become more and more familiar with the personalities and their works over the last couple of years. Simeon Solomon was the lone Jewish artist among the group. He was well-liked and respected, but tended towards outrageous behavior. Like Johnson, he was homosexual, but there was nothing repressed about it. Long before the Oscar Wilde scandal, Simeon Solomon made scandalous headlines in the English newspapers. He was caught in the act with a stable-hand, prosecuted and convicted. And then he was caught again. In a sad reflection on late Victorian society, Solomon was subsequently shunned by most of his peers, and this brilliant artist ended his days as a derelict street artist, working for small change. He died in 1905.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-Oo7jTrAZR3yUMJymEFZmZ9cFEXTz6zGqQl0iimNvDtYl6_4nc5rHGhNrFKnko1Q22xP2mI4MpH3WmLB4m7nfSGMnqANngyWba2lxCaTmEyPs95H_PVNSv_3tU1DaTfY436d/s1600/love-in-autumn-simeon-solomon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="706" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-Oo7jTrAZR3yUMJymEFZmZ9cFEXTz6zGqQl0iimNvDtYl6_4nc5rHGhNrFKnko1Q22xP2mI4MpH3WmLB4m7nfSGMnqANngyWba2lxCaTmEyPs95H_PVNSv_3tU1DaTfY436d/s320/love-in-autumn-simeon-solomon.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solomon's "Love in Autumn"</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All three of these men were immensely talented, and yet they led tragic lives. But through their poetry, their writings, their art, they speak to us yet. And if we are wise, we will not turn away, but understand that we are no different than they.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The two factors which had dogged me my entire stay in the U.K. were in play that last day, as well; namely, English weather and English traffic. Cutting across Surrey and Sussex, I attempted and then abandoned a plan to visit a site in Crawley, stopped by the giant yew tree at Crowhurst and saw the Last Judgment wall mural uncovered at Chaldon church. This left me south of London, just inside the M25. The two cemeteries I wanted to visit are northwest from central London. What I should have done was to work my way back to the M25 and drive clockwise until I could aim towards my sites from the northwest. But I have been on the M25 when it was a parking lot as far as the eye could see. So, I decided to bust up straight through London. Big mistake.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though much shorter in actual miles, the drive took my far longer, I believe, than using the M25. Traffic congestion was unrelenting, though I was able to see, somewhat against my wishes, a number of neighborhoods up close: Battersea, Chelsea, Kensington, Notting Hill, Shepherd's Bush, to name a few. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicadBARVXr-8Se3n8XENliW0SmCAaeEwmPG9BmFQu1P9PJ1AHvtqlh6GYwbz34WmylynfG81eG0A_3YsHw7cLorXR4RuIfI8KsvbLBslwnQGRNQxWGJDia0yqLwS8i_C_u7SW4/s1600/IMG_1711+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicadBARVXr-8Se3n8XENliW0SmCAaeEwmPG9BmFQu1P9PJ1AHvtqlh6GYwbz34WmylynfG81eG0A_3YsHw7cLorXR4RuIfI8KsvbLBslwnQGRNQxWGJDia0yqLwS8i_C_u7SW4/s320/IMG_1711+%25281%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grave of Francis Thompson</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I arrived at St. Mary's Cemetery a little after 3:00 pm, about two hours later than planned and now pressed for time. The rain, which had never really stopped, was coming down harder and harder. I had done my research and knew the general area of Thompson's grave. I found it with little trouble. It is an above ground tomb, carved by Eric Gill. Pressed for space, the cemetery sold plots in what had been a walkway in front of the grave. Now someone else's tombstone was almost flush up against Thompson's, making it difficult to see Gill's carving, or even Thompson's name. On the other side of the tomb is a line from a poem to his godson, one of the Meynell children: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I had planned to recite all 185 lines of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>The Hound of Heaven</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, but the rain was fast washing away my plans. I made do with the first section of the poem and the concluding verses. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was less sure of Johnson's grave, but just before giving up, found it not 30 ft. from Thompson's. I had a copy of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Dark Angel</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, and as it was relatively short, I read it quickly in the rain. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvFzV200S4QdGKlxVf2vvnmCjXtfPoDp5lRHUdWJMcjs8DhP4xafZH6qSlBfKbqfxhPUjxsaYQ7ObDByVcM_L41m2dF4phWnK_33jFJinzNG1GBPOTAYeukWQA6MYTrJ0GQLq-/s1600/P1010841.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvFzV200S4QdGKlxVf2vvnmCjXtfPoDp5lRHUdWJMcjs8DhP4xafZH6qSlBfKbqfxhPUjxsaYQ7ObDByVcM_L41m2dF4phWnK_33jFJinzNG1GBPOTAYeukWQA6MYTrJ0GQLq-/s320/P1010841.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the grave of Lionel Pigot Johnson</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There were others I wished to visit: Alice Meynell and Pearl Craigie (the author known as John Oliver Hobbes) in St. Mary’s, and Anthony Trollope and perhaps Wilkie Collins in adjoining Kensal Green Cemetery. But time and traffic and rain had made this impractical. These sites, as well as Simeon Solomon's in the nearby Jewish cemetery will have to wait until another trip. For now, my thoughts were all about returning my rental car to the airport and preparing for my early morning flight home the next day.</span><br />
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Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-90367155188049146602017-08-11T17:54:00.003-07:002017-08-11T17:54:56.154-07:00In and Out of Churches in England and Wales<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGS6aHkUgW5xxM4fQjGNrOXE0w12swLfBzuqBtqRt018HAuTdBZwV2xEeTJSftddZvdt8eR0ORqWPgR654U5rcTCYVcxtNT0x_doUbYIf92IoSXyyHRY_A4QpYNuNBJj_T748/s1600/St_Andrew%2527s_Church%252C_Mells%252C_Somerset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="1529" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGS6aHkUgW5xxM4fQjGNrOXE0w12swLfBzuqBtqRt018HAuTdBZwV2xEeTJSftddZvdt8eR0ORqWPgR654U5rcTCYVcxtNT0x_doUbYIf92IoSXyyHRY_A4QpYNuNBJj_T748/s320/St_Andrew%2527s_Church%252C_Mells%252C_Somerset.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Andrew's Church, Mells<br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I spent my first night overseas in a room over the White Horse Pub in Clun, a small market town in the Shropshire Hills. If the bucolic English countryside is what appeals to you, then mark off an area encompassing 20 miles on both sides of the borders between Powys, Shropshire, and Herefordshire--basically the old Welsh Marches. You will not find any prettier.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My itinerary the first day was not straight-forward; first north to Oswestry, then falling back into old Radnorshire on the Powys/Herefordshire border, before ending my day in the Black Mountains. I chose Oswestry for three reasons: first, the Holy Well of St. Oswald; second, the memorial to Wilfred Owen; and third, a small shop that sells icons of the British saints. This last named did not disappoint and I quickly picked out a few for myself and gifts for others. And, I had no problem finding the holy well (of which more later.)</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Wilfred Owen Memorial, Oswestry</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wilfred Owen is a literary figure that I wanted to tag in this particular journey. He is considered perhaps the preeminent “war poet” of The Great War. Owen was already a budding poet when the conflict began. He enlisted early and fought throughout most of the war. After suffering from shell-shock and other injuries, however, he returned to England for convalescence. Here, he made the acquaintance of Siegfried Sassoon, also recuperating. The latter had already made a name for himself as a writer and poet. Owen’s background was lower--or possibly middling--middle class. Sassoon moved in higher circles and he introduced the younger poet to a world he could have only imagined before. Like Sassoon, Owen was homosexual, and he became infatuated with his new mentor. But more importantly, through Sassoon’s influence, Owen came into his own as a poet and his work soon surpassed the older poet’s. Owen determined to return to the front, and Sassoon threatened to shoot him in the foot if he insisted on that course. Consequently, the younger man left secretly, leaving a note for Sassoon. Wilfred Owen died in battle in November 1918, in the very last week of the war, and lies buried in France. "My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity." </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">A memorial to Owen exists on the grounds of St. Oswald’s Church in Oswestry, his birthplace.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Health Club/Cafe/Shoe Store</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found a Sainsbury parking lot and then headed off for St. Oswald’s Church. Along the way, I passed a Victorian-era church which may well be indicative of the current state of Christianity in the U.K. I’m not sure what the name of the church once was, but it now houses Body Tech Health Club, Scotty’s Cafe, and Shoes by Camilla. Now I admit, this may be low-hanging fruit, but I think it may be fairly representative. The U.K. has lots of church buildings, probably too many by half even before the purpose for them faded away. From a 1865 letter from young poet Digby Mackworth Dolben to Robert Bridges:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>What can be the reason that Protestants build Cathedrals...since they have absolutely no use for them. I saw Chapel after Chapel which are never entered from one year’s end to another. I saw the anointed Altar-stones put as paving-stones near the doors that all might tread on them; the ruins of shrines innumerable in honour of Saints whose relics were thrown away by order of Henry VIII. On the whole a visit to an English Cathedral is not a pleasure.</i></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And that was in 1865. So, I’m not at all sure what they’re going to do with all of them. Even at best they often seem more like museums, mausoleums and/or memorials that are periodically used for religious observances. Renting them for particular venues seems popular. Some have opened for “glamping.” And some are just locked up.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Truth be told, unless they contain the bits and pieces of a shrine, or a Saxon foundation, or an intricately carved rood-screen, or perhaps some recently uncovered wall paintings, then they are not of that much interest to me. The soaring Gothic ceilings, and the cold stone pillars and walls leave me unmoved. I am used to smaller, more intimate Orthodox worship spaces. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I suppose this is the post-Christian landscape that so many social conservatives write about. If so, a few general observations:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> A departure from Christian belief does not necessarily imply a return to barbarism. The people I met along the way were the nicest and most courteous people one could ever hope to find. In the long declension of Christian belief, the Faith apparently eventually came to stand for little more than being nice. And that stuck, it seems.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> This is not necessarily our future. We like to think that Great Britain is just a step or two ahead of us in social trends. From the very beginning, however, our country has been infused with a religiosity that was already fading from the U.K. even then.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My unscientific observation is that the small chapels, in out of the way places such as Capel-y-ffyn, St. Brendan’s in Brendan, St. Beuno’s in Culbane, St. Issui’s in Patricio, may be holding on better than larger churches in towns and villages. Many of these churches share ministers and meet only twice a month. But the statistics they post are their boards speak of an ongoing parish life that is appropriate for the size of their churches.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nonconformists seem to have fared no better than the Church of England, if not worse. </span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For the vast majority of British citizens, the Church is simply not a factor one way or the other; and hasn’t been for several generations now. Of course, I have my own ideas about how this came to be. I hold to Eamon Duffy’s characterization of the English Reformation cutting a deep ditch between the English and their history. You might say that between Henry VIII and Thomas Cromwell, then Black Bess, and finally the English Revolution and the latter Cromwell, that the heart was torn out of the English church. The edifice was so majestic, however, that it took a couple of centuries for the hollowness to become apparent. You are welcome to think otherwise.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I reached St. Oswald’s Church, a service was just ending. The vicar was standing in the doorway, chatting with the last of the elderly handful of parishioners. This is nothing to make a judgment upon, for maybe their church is full of young parishioners who just happened to be at their jobs this morning. But somehow, I think not. They instructed me as to the location of the Wilfred Owen Memorial and I went and paid my respects.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Late July and early August is the season for the traditional English church “fete,” just like you read about in “All About Lucia,” listen to on “The Archers,” and watch on “Keeping Up Appearances.” During these “fetes” the nave is commandeered for musical recitals, theatrical productions, and arts and crafts exhibits. I encountered three of them: at the Church of St. Nonna in Altarnon, the Church of St. Endellion in the village of the same name, and the Church of St. Nectan at Stoke, all more or less in Cornwall. I was actually stopping in Altarnon to see the Holy Well of St. Nonna (since I had neglected to do so when close to her well in St. David’s). There was no evidence of it anywhere in the vicinity of the churchyard, so I did give the inside of the church a peek, as well as the art show in the Hall. The interior of the church was a bit unusual; three aisles, more or less equal in size. The distinctive thing about the church was the carved pew ends, but nothing much else caught my eye. I purchased a small pamphlet on St. Nonna and left. I was more purposeful in my seeking out of St. Endellion, named after a 6th-century sa<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Beuno's, Culbane<br /></td></tr>
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int, daughter of Brychan of Brecon and sister to St. Nectan and St. Morwenna, among many others. My interest here was two-fold: the base of St. Endellion’s shrine was still intact, though the relics were scattered like all the others in the English Reformation; and this was the home parish of Nicholas Rosscarrock (1548-1634). The Rosscarrocks were the leading family in the area, occupying a modest manor house nearby since just after the Conquest. During the English Reformation, they refused to go along with Henry’s “reforms,” becoming recusants. As I understand it, in the reign of Black Bess, attendance at Anglican services was required at least once a month. Nicholas steadfastly refused and was eventually jailed in the Tower of London for four years, during which time he was tortured on the rack. He was eventually released and a benefactor scurried him off to Yorkshire, where he spent the rest of his long life. Roscarrock compiled an 800-page hagiography of the early British saints. While the work was not original, it represented a remarkable feat of compilation. Though never published in its entirety (now safely housed at Cambridge), selections have been reprinted. The folks at St. Endellion were keen enough of Roscarrock's significance to have several items for sale pertaining to his life and work. The “fete” was underway at St. Endellion when I arrived. The pews had been pushed back a bit and a small orchestra, or ensemble was playing. Twice, a singer went up to the podium and warbled out a song or something (not to my taste). A few spectators watched and listened, if a bit listlessly. The one thing I particularly wanted to see was the shrine to St. Endellion. Surely it would be too big to miss, I thought. I finally found it, nearly hidden. A bunch of chairs had been pushed up against it, and the musical cases had been piled around and atop it. I didn't linger as it was clear it was of no special import to the good St. Endellionians. I chose St. Nectan’s more for its adjacent holy well, rather than for the church itself. But the church is of some historical significance, so I wandered inside. The stained glass windows were more appealing to me than most, and it contained a unique painted ceiling, but beyond that, it was another mass of cold, gray stone (the huge, empty interior being far in excess of any actual need, ever.) In one corner, someone had painted them an Orthodox icon of St. Nectan. I've seen that in quite a few Anglican churches. I'm not at all sure they know what to do with it, however. The fete was ongoing and the sanctuary of the church had been converted to an art gallery and pottery show. I found a nice little pitcher with a peacock motif, the perfect gift to carry home to my wife.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJBbsRcZbFi0-PvPYrMvAD8G0GdWfOtsINgsHb2zUCYYQSZ2QzWGNCAGvefadYmw2bwQqdvO9EJfBAOcqaDvBVgRO3Nw8-biRQO6aho1-7QH996LY8W4Scqki1vXdpDDL4-Za-/s1600/P1010750.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJBbsRcZbFi0-PvPYrMvAD8G0GdWfOtsINgsHb2zUCYYQSZ2QzWGNCAGvefadYmw2bwQqdvO9EJfBAOcqaDvBVgRO3Nw8-biRQO6aho1-7QH996LY8W4Scqki1vXdpDDL4-Za-/s320/P1010750.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shrine of St. David of Wales</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8NNu2ugR21ZhnwMPnCKiRcXs9oX-lEYOL2SQW8sAJNrbC9mapCoVmdsF9BHndcWrFKRC0xN8_pkxhiW1F7XHYz15OGgo7uYeDyYoZ8JktK6RBOsiLfHtfYErBel59WtKkpaIl/s1600/P1010764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8NNu2ugR21ZhnwMPnCKiRcXs9oX-lEYOL2SQW8sAJNrbC9mapCoVmdsF9BHndcWrFKRC0xN8_pkxhiW1F7XHYz15OGgo7uYeDyYoZ8JktK6RBOsiLfHtfYErBel59WtKkpaIl/s320/P1010764.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. David's Cathedral</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I visited two cathedrals along the way, St. David’s Cathedral in St. David’s, and Llandaff Cathedral in Cardiff. My visit to St. David’s was late in the day and a bit hurried. The cathedral has restored the shrine of St. David, and one can pray at the shrine and light a candle, which I did. I saw the impressive tombs of Rhys ap Guffydd and Gerald of Wales. And the stonework inside was not to be dismissed. But at the end of the day, the big empty space was as cold as most the others. The choir was practicing while I was there. I heard the director tell them to liven it up, and when they broke out in song again it was certainly peppy. If you are looking for an antonym of reverent, I believe a good one would be “lively,” or “peppy.” I ventured into the Cardiff area primarily to the wall murals on the Church of St. Teilo near St. Fagan’s on the outskirts of the city. The church is now within the confines of the National Museum of Wales which would have necessitated five quid to park and whatever entrance fee was required for the compound. I opted out. I found a number of things to interest me in Llandaff Cathedral, however. The place was all abuzz with vacuum cleaners running and flowers being arranged. On the following day, their new bishop was being installed. The docent breathlessly informed me that her name was June. I checked out the Rossetti triptych, the Burnes-Jones tiles in the St. Dyfrig Chapel, as well as the relics and shrine of St. Teilo. In the center of the nave, a huge four-pronged concrete platform supported a modernistic depiction of the Ascension. I’ve seen worse. The Germans bombed the cathedral during the Second World War, so the ceiling dates from the immediate postwar era. When I left, it was, of course, raining again, so I made my way back towards Llanthony.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Before the English Reformation, British churches were an altogether different thing than what one sees today. They would have been largely without pew or pulpit. The side aisles would be lined with shrines dedicated to particular saints, maintained by the various local guilds. Wall paintings in rich colors, somewhat similar but not as stylized as Eastern iconography, would have covered the walls. Candles would flicker throughout. In short, the worship space would have been very familiar and comforting to an Orthodox believer of any era. But all of that went away--the shrines were ripped out and the relics dumped; pulpits were installed, followed by pews so that they parishioners could now be lectured to. And the wall paintings were covered with whitewash. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUmaLyDaTpN_0Yo2l6gLPBjehn2F8U28lI0i_RFhVQ68ns5cyie5FcpXBBhd8_I3dr1MzfSu0P-AM8Ed4wnfpDrt8ZVqfNzm1AFOvmhyRcuwsdTVAWz6hk9NGc5PrK7ZIlEOZ/s1600/P1010709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUmaLyDaTpN_0Yo2l6gLPBjehn2F8U28lI0i_RFhVQ68ns5cyie5FcpXBBhd8_I3dr1MzfSu0P-AM8Ed4wnfpDrt8ZVqfNzm1AFOvmhyRcuwsdTVAWz6hk9NGc5PrK7ZIlEOZ/s320/P1010709.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Death," St. Issui's Church, Patricio<br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">In recent years, a few have been uncovered and preserved, though many were lost during Victorian "restorations." I sought out several last year, and found a couple on this trip as well. The first was the small church of St. Issui in Patricio. This was the most remote active church I have ever visited, until I walked to the Church of St. Beuno at Culbane a few days later. Maybe somewhat perversely, my favorite iconographic depiction is of the Last Judgment. In the East, the format is fairly uniform: Christ and the angels above, the scales of judgment, the angels protecting and ushering the redeemed into Heaven and the demons pulling the unrepentant into the Jaws of Hell. Almost invariably, these depictions are on the west walls, visible as the parishioners leave a church. St. Issui is a small chapel, without much room for extensive wall paintings. But they have uncovered and abbreviated reminder of the Last Judgment on the west wall. It is of a skeleton, holding an hourglass in one hand, a scythe in the other, with a shovel draped over his arm. That gets right to the point of the matter. The other church was the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in Chardon, a semi-rural village inside the M25. They have uncovered a more elaborate depiction of the Last Judgment, complete with sin-specific punishments for dishonest tradesmen. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJF-saUt6vL7T0vNW4tpH_4FXgd92RK1IsbP6sUJyT5RjSTteUs-ZLuvQ9368dcU1CMVjKTmDQFBv-W8dXG2rOn2ze896jDNrhMzZOruhchZZDQZY3Xq1BvN_8w0pAjk47PZBD/s1600/P1010831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJF-saUt6vL7T0vNW4tpH_4FXgd92RK1IsbP6sUJyT5RjSTteUs-ZLuvQ9368dcU1CMVjKTmDQFBv-W8dXG2rOn2ze896jDNrhMzZOruhchZZDQZY3Xq1BvN_8w0pAjk47PZBD/s320/P1010831.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last Judgment, Chardon</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My favorite churches were the small chapels I mentioned earlier. But two other churches were particularly intriguing: St. Andrews in Mells and the Watts Chapel outside of Guilford. I found my way to Mells primarily because it is just up the road from The Chantry, the long-time home of Anthony Powell. The late author was, in his words, “non-croyant,” so there is no tomb to visit. I believe his ashes were scattered on a pond or something. The best I could do was to take a picture of the gatehouse at the entrance to his estate. Between The Chantry and Mells, I passed a large quarry, which probably served as the model for the one depicted at the beginning and end of Powell’s twelve volume magnum opus, “A Dance to the Music of Time.”<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i8O1g6OZ6H4v18gY0DR6gl6LtiJgw266q-k-EyN4-yL0XajtFbQvPFTVWqShCQCkz89j0Oa7ATssHBAtg3ys-R7wTafKXJwglFXFBUHDoYCgWgujLKTVUfoxOGclNtIesDRN/s1600/P1010777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i8O1g6OZ6H4v18gY0DR6gl6LtiJgw266q-k-EyN4-yL0XajtFbQvPFTVWqShCQCkz89j0Oa7ATssHBAtg3ys-R7wTafKXJwglFXFBUHDoYCgWgujLKTVUfoxOGclNtIesDRN/s320/P1010777.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gatehouse to The Chantry (I think)<br /></td></tr>
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I wanted to visit St. Andrew’s for two reasons; first, the churchyard contains the graves of Ronald A. Knox and Siegfried Sassoon (to be subjects of a later post), and second, the church is the repository of several interesting works of art. It’s hard to avoid the Horner family here, whose manor house is hard alongside the churchyard. There’s a large tapestry depicting a Pre-Raphaelite angel. Lady Frances Graham Horner wove it based on a design by Edward Burne-Jones for whom she had modeled before her marriage. At the rear of the church is a stunning relief carving of a peacock, carved by Burne-Jones in honor of Laura Lyttleton. This is another appropriate place to play Six Degrees of Separation. Laura Lyttleton was one of the noted Tennant sisters. Another was Margot Asquith, whose step-son Raymond Asquith married Katherine Horner, daughter of the aforementioned Frances Graham Horner. Raymond Asquith was killed in the Great War, along with his brother-in-law Edward Horner. The Horner estate then passed to Lady Katherine Asquith. She was a patron of Msgr. Ronald A. Knox, and after the war converted with her family to Roman Catholicism. For good measure, Raymond Asquith’s sister, Lady Violet Bonham Carter, grandmother of actress Helena Bonham Carter, is also buried at St. Andrews. But back to the art; the nave of the church is dominated by a large equestrian statue of Edward Horner, mentioned earlier. I know that Orthodox churches often incorporated the donors into the iconography somehow, but some of these English churches can become little more than warehouses for the memorials to the local squireocracy. I found, nevertheless, the setting, the church itself, and the surrounding churchyard to be altogether of interest to me.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7zRSumw1Ed02GK4EpO8Ft_VI-n9Zx_N0STkgPNlbBzPuISkOG-rf-GOfqaaM73e6UDP7f0RV7S6zVnxvAZ3ymIAQHeWXysk88087oXfkR-C9MRhWXAUWUtd8-yyiw_wGb4nK/s1600/P1010790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7zRSumw1Ed02GK4EpO8Ft_VI-n9Zx_N0STkgPNlbBzPuISkOG-rf-GOfqaaM73e6UDP7f0RV7S6zVnxvAZ3ymIAQHeWXysk88087oXfkR-C9MRhWXAUWUtd8-yyiw_wGb4nK/s320/P1010790.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue of Edward Horner inside St. Andrew's Church, Mells</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Watts Chapel is not really a church at all--though there is an altar of sorts within. The famous artist George Frederick Watts lived on this property and had his art studio in his home. He and his wife created a cemetery on part of the property and both are buried there. After his death, she designed this quirky Celtic-Norse-Byzantine-Art Deco temple as a funerary chapel on the cemetery grounds. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. Queen Marie of Romania’s private apartment in Pelisor Castle comes as close as anything I’ve seen. Also of interest is the grave of Aldous Huxley, just outside the chapel.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsp9Jc0STAce9-esUlEUk0M_TrtB26WdU1Gkx0pmOWT_S7QNfJFMjeZEOPQy4TLXsucNLCVR-ri8jSjCMbtXunIdfdUaud5-KvrDX9GA_k78X6d9Vze8ld6Sud23PbUfwMBrM8/s1600/P1010826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsp9Jc0STAce9-esUlEUk0M_TrtB26WdU1Gkx0pmOWT_S7QNfJFMjeZEOPQy4TLXsucNLCVR-ri8jSjCMbtXunIdfdUaud5-KvrDX9GA_k78X6d9Vze8ld6Sud23PbUfwMBrM8/s320/P1010826.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior of Watts Chapel</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2w98u6g-ODIBv8DHkWRSG-ONwR9SIO9qYGohVvTnRhG8NpjIidOb5FJyCSQxf49AL4rg2nMSIjvgqnDNWpkU8KivPtKsbizc27Q-ZhI5OCzLgcxdDdpGceOXsaDkhDzVsisr/s1600/P1010825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2w98u6g-ODIBv8DHkWRSG-ONwR9SIO9qYGohVvTnRhG8NpjIidOb5FJyCSQxf49AL4rg2nMSIjvgqnDNWpkU8KivPtKsbizc27Q-ZhI5OCzLgcxdDdpGceOXsaDkhDzVsisr/s320/P1010825.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watts Chapel</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In my travels, I also found two Orthodox churches; the Church of the Holy Fathers of Nicea in Shrewsbury, and the Church of the Three Hierarchs and Saint Cybi in Lampeter. The Orthodox found an abandoned medieval 900 square foot chapel stuck off in the corner of a field and purchased it for 50 quid in 1994. They repaired the roof and made it into a proper worship space. Some medieval wall paintings depicting Thomas a’ Becket were discovered under the whitewash. Aidan Hart painted the iconography over the altar and on the iconostasis. A tiny loft area holds the choir, the library and who knows what else. A housing estate is now crowding in around the church, but Fr. Stephen welcomes the new neighbors. I asked him about attendance and he replied that they normally numbered about 60. He went on to add that there were 400 parishioners associated with the parish but many of them lived great distances away. We have parishioners who drive eighty miles for Liturgy, but that type of distance is an altogether different thing in the U.K. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjnM-FJJinXOAlY97K_3ZV94RIqb7VQtoB4z6YB8XWJKorEhon88LkyGW6GUJGH79ovGdueb19PnVgMEfxvFi5IjQOYoOqet_gmNydjS26Ry7ng8FXafAy5CeazWMotcIxS-p/s1600/P1010652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjnM-FJJinXOAlY97K_3ZV94RIqb7VQtoB4z6YB8XWJKorEhon88LkyGW6GUJGH79ovGdueb19PnVgMEfxvFi5IjQOYoOqet_gmNydjS26Ry7ng8FXafAy5CeazWMotcIxS-p/s320/P1010652.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orthodox Church of the Holy Fathers of Nicea, Shrewsbury</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdW2JPW5yg_-_VSexXFTIGiGF2y2wZUU4HOLmAQZjALn8Vhu0nM_64F7PDVboYZOPdCBF0Pabl6m5CEGguk8wU5zXSra8dsjqMkAi9S4Zz4w-ZYTWkqJ_5MNezU0Zan8yy_fr8/s1600/P1010657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdW2JPW5yg_-_VSexXFTIGiGF2y2wZUU4HOLmAQZjALn8Vhu0nM_64F7PDVboYZOPdCBF0Pabl6m5CEGguk8wU5zXSra8dsjqMkAi9S4Zz4w-ZYTWkqJ_5MNezU0Zan8yy_fr8/s320/P1010657.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orthodox Church of the Holy Fathers of Nicea</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saxon font fashioned from Roman column</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orthodox Church of the Holy Fathers of Nicea</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was pleased to learn that their youth organization was known as the Varangian Guard. How neat is that? The parish is a mix of a number of ethnicities, with a healthy percentage of “renegade former Anglicans,” as one of them so described himself. I believe that where Christianity continues on the island, it will be incubated in small chapels such as this, and not necessarily in lofty cathedrals. Later in my journey, I attended Divine Liturgy at the church in Lampeter, a small college town in central Wales. A Victorian Methodist Church had, in better days, built a Hall annex at right angles to the rear of their main building. They are no longer much in need of even the main chapel, much less the annex, so the Orthodox use the back portion of the church. They have converted it into a warm and inviting Orthodox church. I had a chance to visit with Fr. Tim and the altar servers and others during Coffee Hour. We were only a small number--15--but I think that was perhaps a reflection of it being in the summer with most of the students and professors away. There were hardly more in the adjacent Methodist chapel. Fr. Tim gave me better directions to St. Cybi’s Well (subject of a later post) and the ruins of the old abbey at Strata Florida, an important site in Welsh history. There, I visited the grave of the medieval Welsh poet Dafydd ap Gwlym, under the ancient yew tree in the adjoining graveyard (below). Dafydd died young, and apparently frustrated if the following poem displayed at the abbey is any measure:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJPsM5CUyQA5e8bCIn2IT3DMH4Qx3EhFE8p0gppsbXTo2AGr5ujviden2UDpY2j7JVoACfnB1Y6IBJYcojRozuJnyP3BmEeGZ4pX0sZU8tmToSQTkFyhBVhNLcE5u-P4Gc3hfk/s1600/P1010742.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I bend before this passion:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A plague on the village girls!, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since, o force of my longing,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have never had one of them!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not one sweet and hoped-for maiden,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not one young girl, or hag, nor wife,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What recoil, what maiicious thoughts,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What omission make them not want me?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What harm is it to a thick-browed girl,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To have me in the dark, dense wood?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It would not be shameful for her </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To see me in a den of leaves.” </span><br />
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Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-531828049805608452017-08-03T14:56:00.001-07:002017-08-03T15:05:31.361-07:00First Day in the U.K.: And Six Graves Along the Way<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My first day overseas is always the roughest. I cannot sleep on the flight over, and I slept only 2 and 3 hours on the nights leading up to the flight. A delay at JFK put me on the M40 later than I planned. Driving on the left doesn't throw me; in fact I kind of like the roundabout approach to traffic flow. What does give me problems are the narrow roadways with hard curbs, even on many country lanes. It takes a while to judge the distance to the curb. Once you are going at a certain speed, bumping the curb that first time will probably not do much harm; nor the second time. But the third time is usually the charm. Sure enough, I had a flat. I pulled down a little lane and parked in front of a nice home with acreage. This was not the first time I've had to change a tire overseas; or the second, or the third. I open the boot of the car to get the spare and jack and found that it was empty. I called </span>Europecar<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and discovered</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> that they don't provide spares anymore--they would call a service that would find me and change the tire. Well, okay then.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I settled in to wait. The owner of the house drove out in a black Range Rover to suggest I park somewhere else, but I explained my predicament and he left me alone. I could see my itinerary for the day slipping away. Truth be told, it was overly ambitious anyway. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had planned to tag </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Churn Knob where the preaching of St. Birinus converted the pagan Saxon king Cynegils in 637, the shrine of St. Birinus in Dorchester Abbey, the Church of St. Margaret and the Holy Well of St. Frideswide at Binsey (also the inspiration for the “Birnsey Poplars,” the poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins), Hailes Abbey and the adjoining church with the incredible wall murals, St. Kenelm’s Holy Well, St. Kenelm’s Church in Romsey, Wightwick Manor (home of collection of Pre-Raphaelite art and William Morris decorative arts), and Much Wenlock and the Shrine of St. Milburga. This may also illustrate why I travel alone so much of time; I tend to wear-out traveling companions. But none of that was to be, and it was raining of course.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My rescuer arrived within an hour of my call. He turned out to be a bright-eyed young man with a thick accent. He said I could wait in the car while he changed the tire, but I answered I would stand out there with him. I asked if he were Russian, or from the Balkans. Poland, he said. His name was Pavel, and he has been in the U.K. for about 5 years, just returning from a holiday at a beach near Cardiff with his wife and daughter. He told me his dream was to go to America, but that visas were non-existent. Once he had obtained his British passport, however, he hoped to travel to the U.S. on holiday. He wanted to spend a month in our country, seeing New York City, the Big Canyon, and Detroit. I questioned his choice of Detroit, and he replied that it was his wife's idea, that she wanted to visit the home town of Eminem. I suggested that Chicago might have more to offer. I gave him my card and told him if he ever makes it to the U.S., to contact me and I would show him Texas. He promised he would do that. I told him that the number in my email address was the year of my birth. He looked at me funny, and said he would not have thought me older than age 45. Such intelligent,perceptive people, these Poles.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I was soon on my way again. I would like to say that I didn't bump any more curbs, but that would be a lie. And I didn't give my altered plans a second thought. What I was meant to do was talk with this young Polish immigrant, not check off sites on an over-planned itinerary.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was able, however, to visit a few churchyards along the way, where I paid my respects to six individuals. </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That is an old fashioned habit of mine. I show honor to the deceased by visiting their places of burial. The current popularity of cremations dismays me, or at least in those cases when the ashes are not subsequently buried. Apart from being unmoored from history, tradition and theology, uninterred cremations give one no </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">place</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> where one can honor the deceased. I understand this is not absolutely true in all cases, but I still believe it is a consideration often overlooked today. I would have liked to have visited the graves of Edith Sitwell, Christopher Dawson, and Steven Runciman, among others, but these sites simply were too far removed to be practical. I did, however, stop by Shepherd's Lane Cemetery in Beaconsfield, All Saints Churchyard in Sutton Courtenay, and Wolvercote Cemetery outside of Oxford where I paid my respects to the following disparate individuals:<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">G. K. Chesterton monument, carved by Eric Gill.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">G. K. Chesterton</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Chesterton is an obvious choice for me. One can easily find fault with something he wrote, considering the breadth of his writing. His blatant militarism during the Great War, for example, is jarring. But he certainly wasn’t alone in that, and faced with the sheer volume of his writings, I find myself largely in agreement. Chesterton had no time or sympathy for the English aristocracy and class system. He took a dim view of capitalism. Although he is so closely identified with Catholic polemics, the fact is that it took him a long time to come around, and most of his work was written prior to his conversion. Chesterton wrote with such clarity and good humor. In contrast, I respect but never warmed up to C. S. Lewis. I could easily visit his grave on this itinerary, but it is not at all compelling for me to do so. Chesterton, on the other hand, is one of the most likable of authors, regardless of what you think of his positions. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George Orwell's grave</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Eric Arthur Blair</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: George Orwell was undoubtedly one of the most consequential writers of the twentieth century. And I think most would agree that his works have stood the test of time, being as popular and instructive now as they ever were. After the November election, people started reaching for their Orwell. I was not surprised to see cheap paperbacks of “Nineteen Eighty-Four” popping up in airport newsstands. Orwell wrote with consistent moral clarity and authority. And like Chesterton, he had little use for Great Britain’s entrenched class system, though recognizing how it had colored everything. He died early, in 1949, and is known mostly for “Animal House,” and “Nineteen Eighty-Four,” though these works came near the end of his career. He wrote much, much more. My son’s favorite it “The Road to Wigan Pier,” from which he can quote selections. From that book, Orwell mused that he hoped for a civilization in which ‘progress’ meant something more than “making the world safe for little fat men.” So do I. Memory Eternal, Eric Arthur Blair.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lady “Margot’ Asquith</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Lady Asquith seems an odd choice, coming on the heels of Chesterton and Orwell. She was the second wife of Lord Asquith, the British Prime Minister in the years leading up to the Great War. Margot Asquith was, however, a formidable personage in her own right. Even so, I never knew of her before studying the life of Stephen Runciman. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even a superficial reading into the literature of the interwar period of English history leaves one with the distinct impression that the same people were all at the same cocktail parties, all lounging about the same drawing rooms, all at the same country house fortnights, all sneaking a bit of sex with the same other people’s wives, etc. Margot Asquith offers about as much insight into this incestuous and self-perpetuating web of connections, power and influence as anyone. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWW8ybe_qKplgHP6QHhhw2WS-d0kAS3lKoCzzZY8xr4ugAYiko-ATKNa8KVR1ZqBO5l5MTsijrZn-_n4QM5aBt0OdeDfJvAXhPj58uhfD4M1FgHE8VGn4BKo89_Dg0v96MA5WA/s1600/P1010635.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWW8ybe_qKplgHP6QHhhw2WS-d0kAS3lKoCzzZY8xr4ugAYiko-ATKNa8KVR1ZqBO5l5MTsijrZn-_n4QM5aBt0OdeDfJvAXhPj58uhfD4M1FgHE8VGn4BKo89_Dg0v96MA5WA/s320/P1010635.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The relatively modest tomb of Lord Asquith and wives<br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I enjoy playing Six Degrees of Separation with these people, but usually takes no more than three degrees. Margot’s stepson died a war hero and lies buried in France. He had married Katherine Horner of Mells, Somerset, daughter of a simple country squire of ancient lineage and the former Frances Graham, also Margot’s great friend. Frances Graham was the hauntingly beautiful model of Edward Burne-Jones, and other Pre-Raphaelite painters, as well. Burne-Jones was the uncle of Rudyard Kipling (fun, isn’t it?) </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Margot was aunt to Stephen Tennant, noted aesthete and the “brightest of the Bright Young People.” She was stepmother to Lady Helena Bonham Carter, the grandmother of the actress of the same name from all those Merchant Ivory adaptations of E. M. Forster. The Asquith’s daughter, Elizabeth, married Romanian diplomat and aristocrat, Antoine Bibesco, also kinsman to the husband of author Marthe Bisbeco, which brings us back to Steven Runciman.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Both Runciman’s parents were Liberal Party politicians, immensely loyal to the Asquiths. The good-humored historian was not a snob in the conventional sense of the word. He used his lower-runged upper class status to open doors to archives, private collections and useful informants, rather than to social ascendancy. Margot Asquith first enlisted Runciman to help nudge along her nephew. Although the earnest and discreet Runciman shared the same inclinations as the flamboyant Stephen, he was repelled by Tennant’s indolence. Later the young man would find a more congenial partner in Siegried Sassoon, and they were, in fact, a couple for a number of years. Runciman parlayed his Asquith-Bibesco ties first to an interlude with Edith Wharton in France, and later into the Romanian aristocracy; the Bibescos, the Mavrocordatas, and the Cantacuzenes. Similar doors opened for him in Bulgaria and Greece, and before long the young man had established himself firmly in Balkan and Byzantine studies. To his credit, Runciman fully appreciated the advantages of his birth and connections. As his grave in the Scottish lowlands is outside the scope of this itinerary, I will have to just note this bit player, you might say, in the life of Steven Runciman.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHrSeGLhDjAnTwjKBt9We3Fas-nY-e9-_Tzv2QIBLY7PBy_PmmyPrWt-vImhRI94NgXPznEhN2VkfpQxmP-kCBcPGY8P7-Ad3gthdJKD11LvcM5pXpF_LI9ZFAOl6oICHAdpmP/s1600/P1010647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHrSeGLhDjAnTwjKBt9We3Fas-nY-e9-_Tzv2QIBLY7PBy_PmmyPrWt-vImhRI94NgXPznEhN2VkfpQxmP-kCBcPGY8P7-Ad3gthdJKD11LvcM5pXpF_LI9ZFAOl6oICHAdpmP/s320/P1010647.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luthien and Beren (the Tolkiens)</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">J. R. R. Tolkien</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: If I made no others, this is one pilgrimage I was determined to make. And concerning him, I will say the least, for there is simply no need to do so. His life’s work speaks for itself. One quote: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We have come from God and inevitably the myths woven by us though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of the true light, the eternal truth that is with God. Indeed, only by myth-making, only by becoming a “sub-creator” and inventing stories, can Man ascribe to the state of perfection that he knew before the fall.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Prince Dmitri Obolensky</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: He was born into one of the wealthiest families in Russia, but that accounted for nothing as the Revolution broke out when he was just one year old. The family made its way first to Malta and then to England. Obolensky became a protegee of the older Steven Runciman, and the two formed a close and long-lasting academic bond. Obolensky established an enviable reputation in Byzantine Studies. I have two of his books, some of my earliest acquisitions as I was building a Byzantine collection. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEianItagzmopl5iMI95kdp6Wltn-bSzZs_UePjp3lzzJ9aT9bj-WDKZdQvyTGupNKIXLenQJUl9kKqjrp-teNNFgCu0fUtkCFYzIfWp6YoFPDsLhjtWk6Z4DZNb2idUYFQdoz09/s1600/P1010640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEianItagzmopl5iMI95kdp6Wltn-bSzZs_UePjp3lzzJ9aT9bj-WDKZdQvyTGupNKIXLenQJUl9kKqjrp-teNNFgCu0fUtkCFYzIfWp6YoFPDsLhjtWk6Z4DZNb2idUYFQdoz09/s320/P1010640.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grave of Dmitri Obolensky and Mary Tolstoy</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hamo Thornycroft</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Though largely unknown today, Thornycroft was the most noted British sculptor in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras. The Thornycrofts were an artistic family all around, in both painting and sculpture. I learned of Hamo through the autobiography of his nephew, Siegfried Sassoon. Some of his best known works include the famous statue of Alfred the Great in the roundabout at Winchester, “The Mower” at Kew Garden, and a bit closer to home, the statue of Teucer at the Art Institute of Chicago. Thornycroft was a strappingly handsome man. British authors Edmund Gosse and John Addington Symonds were both besotted with Hamo, apparently after skinny-dipping excursions in Goring Creek. Thornycroft, however, was not given to that sort of thing, so their affections remained unrequited. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVE5tYimmQfQQgK1tGGgiqGjJOEHMCw3wsNHQ99ouarPs8mFmoaGHm6OScJwFwvePxvVtNpVNNw_Cs7MOML5IdoZ8PcpNhUt0k2MdC9IVfdx2IvW5xWTH2E93_6IKH6OoEXuP5/s1600/P1010641.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVE5tYimmQfQQgK1tGGgiqGjJOEHMCw3wsNHQ99ouarPs8mFmoaGHm6OScJwFwvePxvVtNpVNNw_Cs7MOML5IdoZ8PcpNhUt0k2MdC9IVfdx2IvW5xWTH2E93_6IKH6OoEXuP5/s320/P1010641.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tomb of Hamo Thornycroft</td></tr>
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<br />Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-87088285760485756142017-07-03T16:36:00.000-07:002017-07-04T05:59:29.464-07:00Some Thoughts on Patriotism this Fourth<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some Thoughts on Patriotism this Fourth</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wendell Berry had much to say about the nature of true patriotism. The following quote is but a small sampling:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>For a nation to be, in the truest sense, patriotic, its citizens must love their land with a knowing, intelligent, sustaining, and protective love. They must not, for any price, destroy its health, its beauty, or its productivity. And they must not allow their patriotism to be degraded to a mere loyalty to symbols or any present set of officials.</i></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On July 4th, I often think back to a conversation I overheard as a young boy. My mother and her brother-in-law, my favorite uncle, were drinking coffee in the kitchen of our old house. My uncle was a career Navy man who fought in three wars, circumnavigated the globe four times, and was, to my great pleasure, the fount of endless stories. His life revolved around commitment, duty, honor and service. It must’ve been around the Fourth and he was expounding on such themes. When he referenced the flag, my mother replied, matter-of-factly, that “it was just a piece of cloth.” She was blunt and plain-spoken, without an ounce of artifice to her. I suppose one of her virtues was that she said exactly what she thought. But it was also her vice. This flabbergasted my uncle and left him almost sputtering for a response. Truth be told, he was a little put out with her. And so was I, for although I loved my mother, of course, I idolized my uncle.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were not patriotic in the generally accepted sense of the word. We never flew the flag. We didn’t pop fireworks (a waste of money). We didn’t pontificate about “freedom,” or “liberty” or “democracy” or such things. The Fourth of July was a day off from work (unless we had hay on the ground and it was threatening rain). My mother would fix quite a spread: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, her special rolls, fresh tomatoes, okra, peas, etc., and a selection of desserts. My dad and I would be in the carport, taking turns with the ice cream freezer. My sister and her family and my brother and his children would pile in. My dad would be in an expansive mood and would tell the old familiar stories from his youth. As often as not, neighbors or extended family stopped by for dessert and coffee. That was what the Fourth of July meant to us: our place, our family, our neighborhood and extended connections. We would have been uneasy had anyone tried to make more out it than that.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have come to realize that both my mother and my uncle were each right and wrong. She wouldn’t have know Wendell Berry from Adam, but she would have agreed with the sentiments he expressed. My mother’s stark literalism, however, can leave one with a cramped view of the world and our place in it. Material objects may very well have meaning beyond their mere materiality. Their symbolism, however, cannot be in the abstract, but must be rooted in the particular.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Like my mother, I am naturally suspicious and wary whenever anyone speaks of patriotism by way of freedom, liberty, or democracy. Frankly those terms have been so mangled and abused, stretched here and there to cover most anything, that they are now largely without any real meaning. Patriotism to me is simply settled love and affection; love of place, love of family, love of friends and neighbors. We can stop it right there, particularly if we understand, as we are instructed, who is our neighbor. The rest will take care of itself. </span><span id="docs-internal-guid-d6ba03a1-0aa4-14ed-4d4c-d0b5621b9ed9"></span>Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-24456879551332144372017-02-24T18:40:00.000-08:002017-02-25T11:40:06.854-08:00Fun With Modern Day Heretic Detectors<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is fun.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back in the early days (1837-1842) of the American Restoration Movement, now dubbed the Stone-Campbell Movement, there was a brotherhood journal named "The Heretic Detector." Their name tells you all you need to know about them. They flared out, and others took their place, but none with as nifty a moniker as "Heretic Detector." But their intellectual descendants yet survive.</span></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-f0f97eac-730d-8ce0-3c02-e1361c781317" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here’s the setup: A Baptist seminary in Louisville, Ky recently held their annual lecture series. I know nothing about the college or the lectures (other than they are named after a wealthy Louisville family to which I am distantly related, and who were not at all Baptist.) One of their speakers was none other than Rod Dreher, an author and writer for <a href="http://www.theamericanconservative.com/dreher/" target="_blank">The American Conservative</a>. But Dreher (whom I know) is a fairly public Orthodox Christian, and his talk concerned “The Benedict Option,” also the title of his forthcoming book. This was apparently too much for some Baptists (though I suspect my subject is a fringe group).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A self-described Calvinist Reformed Baptist pastor, JD Hall, runs a site called Polemics Report. In his most recent <a href="http://polemicsreport.com/2017/02/23/sbc-seminary-invites-greek-orthodox-scholar-to-promote-monasticism/" target="_blank">post</a>, he took the Baptist seminary to task for inviting Dreher to speak, calling him out as a non-Christian. I would consider Dreher to be a fairly innocuous choice, but I have half-forgotten how this mindset works. We had such groups--plenty of them--back when I was in the Church of Christ. A non-Church of Christ speaker would never be invited to speak at one of our Lectureships. Having been away for a dozen years, I don’t know if that is still the case--but it may not matter, for the lectureships themselves seem to be fading away from lack of interest. I do remember my son being called down after a Wednesday night devotional for citing C. S. Lewis. The preacher asked him, “You do know that C. S. Lewis was not a member of the Lord’s Church?” Duh. We were also told that his books should be burned. That same spirit apparently animates Pastor Hall.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t imagine that he has much sway in Baptist circles at large (and I don’t keep up that much). In fact, my impression is that some Baptist leaders (Albert Mohler, Russell Moore, etc.) have a clear understanding of what is happening in the larger culture. The Great Sluffing-Away has reached their ranks, with Baptist numbers actually declining in recent years. Oh, there’s no danger of them going away anytime soon. But still, some leaders realize that their coziness with our materialistic, consumer culture has transformed them, rather than the world; that a faith that survives is one that has a bit of substance to it, that their allegiance to the GOP has been a disappointing dead-end, and perhaps that they need to be something more than the Republican Party at Prayer, something maybe, well, a bit more Christian. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pastor Hall’s circle-the-wagons polemic seems almost like old times for me. (In my former church’s language, this was called “keeping to the old paths.” Unfortunately, those paths only led back to the 1920s or so.) Four times in the article, Hall drives home the point that Dreher is non-Christian. His wording indicates that he is only superficially aware of the beliefs of Christian Orthodoxy. He refers to it only as “Greek Orthodoxy” and he takes Dreher to task for finding inspiration in Dante, rather than Scripture. And sometimes, he’s unintentionally funny--calling Dreher a “crunch-con,“ when he no doubt meant “Crunchy-Con,” his first book. But here are his basic accusations against us (cleaned up a little for clarity):</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We deny Sola Fide</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We believe in the perpetual virginity and veneration of the Mother of God</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We venerate icons (he puts “icons” in italics--ha!)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We pray for the dead</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chrism for the reception of the Holy Spirit</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Baptismal regeneration and the baptism of infants</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We deny justification by faith alone, which puts us “outside the bounds of Biblical Christianity.”</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We deny penal substitionary atonement, which puts us “squarely outside Christianity”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hoo-boy. What do you say to that? "Guilty as charged," I suppose. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Actually, I don’t really resent this at all. I even feel a little sorry for Hall. Calvinism does that to me; it makes me sad. But I much prefer this sort of in-your-face opposition rather than the usual broad-church-foyer smile in person followed by vicious ripping-into you when your back is turned.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A kinsman of sorts once remarked that he'd rather I'd become an Agnostic than Orthodox. No doubt Pastor Hall would agree. Sorry to disappoint. </span></div>
Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-31365156144905344032016-12-26T20:30:00.001-08:002016-12-26T20:30:38.611-08:00Three Biographies<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2foVnJXnnIzQfePvEq_CBbK48KMzNOHGURQDWJFJX8gHPOZIXx1KyhYNLnqv7r9VV2toSmMa3X7tgvaKuIzfXel2lX6UbEHLBank9y_eEwHtIS2vzRYa17DNHzHoPYY0pze4H/s1600/runciman+and+monk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2foVnJXnnIzQfePvEq_CBbK48KMzNOHGURQDWJFJX8gHPOZIXx1KyhYNLnqv7r9VV2toSmMa3X7tgvaKuIzfXel2lX6UbEHLBank9y_eEwHtIS2vzRYa17DNHzHoPYY0pze4H/s1600/runciman+and+monk.jpg" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over the last week or two, I’ve finished three biographies: Steven Runciman, the historian; Edward Burne-Jones, the artist; and Francis Thompson, the poet. There’s nothing particularly that unites these men together, though there is a slight overlap in the supporting cast of characters in the Burne-Jones narrative and Runciman’s story. They were all English (despite Runciman’s Scottish affectations) and they were all middle-class in background. The only real connectedness between the three, however, had to be their love of beauty.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Runciman biography is <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Outlandish-Knight-Byzantine-Runciman-2016-09-29/dp/B01MYMFSVV/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1482810933&sr=1-1-fkmr0&keywords=unlikely+knight+runciman" target="_blank">Outlandish Knight: The Byzantine Life of Steven Runciman</a> by Minoo Dinshaw. The book weighs-in with 640 pages of text, plus copious notes. Frankly, I would have been just as satisfied with 200 fewer pages. But no matter, the book is detailed, and Runciman lived 97 years. That takes a bit of telling. I consider Runciman to be one of the greatest historians, of our age or any other. Contemporary historians are prone to dismiss him because of the biases he supposedly harbored. The fact that some historians think they write without bias is funny in and of itself. Rather, Runciman’s biases were of a different sort than the ones popularly employed today. He didn’t fret much over such criticism, just as he dismissed the thinly disguised jealousy of peers who questioned his methodology. To one he replied, “but you must understand that I am writing literature.” And by this he certainly did not mean fiction. In the future, people will be reading Runciman for the same reason they still read Gibbon: each was a masterful story-teller (and it is not without irony that much of what Runciman wrote was to correct Gibbon’s mis-tellings, in his eyes.) Runciman recognized the role of chance and circumstance in the history of families and nations. As a consequence, he remained skeptical of purely ideological interpretations or deterministic grand theories of history. Once William Dalrymple (another much-admired writer) asked Runciman what he thought of the French Annalistes School, and more particularly their most famous adherent, Fernand Braudel, and his “The Mediterranean.” Runciman said that he had tried to read it, but three pages in he realized that the author didn’t know what a dromedary was--this was the famous racing camel of the the southern Mediterranean world. Not knowing this basic fact of life in the region, Runciman saw little need to proceed any further with the ponderous tome. Broadly speaking, Runciman probably did more than anyone to shift the focus of European historiography south and east and away from the English Channel.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUn6-ka3lG__bo8A2kTfXh97As1Db3LtLzwJeP7gtbZ2sfN9p_g6nap_wgJKWn4md1oOzU59tBCR4zZDvKpgmsKcipXCxAqhGHxwbHR1WagFBMUVwLctMt8mfk9g4mMGzduDL_/s1600/runciman.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUn6-ka3lG__bo8A2kTfXh97As1Db3LtLzwJeP7gtbZ2sfN9p_g6nap_wgJKWn4md1oOzU59tBCR4zZDvKpgmsKcipXCxAqhGHxwbHR1WagFBMUVwLctMt8mfk9g4mMGzduDL_/s320/runciman.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, Runciman made a name for himself in his three volume treatment of the Crusades. But his real love--and the focus of much of his scholarship--was the Balkans. He developed a lifelong respect for the peoples and histories of Greece, Bulgaria and Romania. He maintained warm relations there to the end of his long life. In connection with this, he developed an abiding respect for the Orthodox Church. He was raised in a teetotalling Calvinist environment, and Runciman reacted as one would hope and expect a young man of intellect to do. He largely rejected it, but perhaps because of it, retained a lifelong skepticism of both Anglicanism and Roman Catholicism. But he took to Orthodoxy like a duck to water--the friend and confidante of priests, monks and patriarchs. He actually held the title of Grand Orator to the Patriarch of Constantinople. Late in life he won the Onassis Award, which came with a $300,000 cash prize. Runciman immediately turned over the proceeds to the monks of Mount Athos, but with a specific purpose in mind. He funded the restoration of a tower at Vatopedi Monastery to house their priceless manuscripts and icons. At age 97, the then wheelchair-bound Runciman was airlifted onto Mount Athos by helicopter for the ceremony--certainly something of a first. And while Orthodoxy had no greater friend, he never converted, and was buried in the rites of the Church of Scotland. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If one didn’t know better, one might dismiss Runciman as an effete aristocrat, a bored 20’s-era Bright Young Thing of the sort that one encounters in Evelyn Waugh novels. He did move in those circles. In fact, it sometimes seemed that most every name between the wars in England attended the same cocktail parties and could be found at the same country house weekends. His parents were both prominent Liberal politicians, very much in the camp of Lord and Lady Asquith. This association--and particularly with Margot Asquith and her Tennant and Wyndham connections and by extension even the Bibescu and Cantecuzene families of Romania--opened doors for the youthful Runciman which never seemed to close. But for Runciman, these connections were never an end in themselves, but pathways to get to the people he needed to see, to ask the questions that needed asking. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since he was British, it goes without saying that he could be snobbish if the situation required it--to the unwanted visitor such as the gushing professor from Idaho, for example. But this was the exception. He had a very real sense of who he was--certainly not as “British,” or some faux Scottish affectation, but who he was as a Runciman, a family of Scots whom he described as coming south “to see what kind of money they could make off of the English.” A family member thinks that his deep sense of family was a defense mechanism against the family’s creeping embourgeoisement. Runciman’s grandfather had come up from a hardscrabble existence to forge a small shipping empire. This funded his father’s career in Liberal politics and was, as Runciman always remembered, the source of all their good fortune. But he was one of many grandchildren, and while Runciman was comfortable, he was never flush. He lived frugally and without ostentation. He took jobs for the same reason the rest of us do--because he needed the money. During the 1920s and 30s, he was frankly disgusted by the aimlessness of many of the real upper classes. Perhaps harkening back to his low-church Calvinism, Runciman set out to live a purposeful and useful life. And he did just that. In his late 50s, Runciman received a knighthood. And while he didn’t reject it, he certainly took a jaundiced view of the matter. When the Queen Mother asked him how he felt about it, he replied that for the first time in his life he knew what it meant to be both middle-aged and middle-class. In his eyes, the honor could certainly be useful to him in his career, but as far as it being anything in and of itself, no. For he was already a Runciman.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Runciman’s homosexuality was widely known in Great Britain. There was no ambiguity about it at all, and he was certainly forthright among close friends in private settings. But in an age when homosexual behavior was a crime, Runciman was fiercely protective of his privacy, which was never subject to publicity or scandal. Runciman formed no lasting emotional attachments with his partners. Again, this was done purposely on his part, and without regret, apparently. From an early age, he accepted that his would be a solitary existence, though played out in the midst of a company of many. That said, and without salaciousness, the author notes that Runciman lived a life of discreet but aggressive sexual adventurism, across many continents and throughout many decades. Late in life he published “A Traveler’s Alphabet,” a book which takes each letter of the alphabet as the starting point for a short remembrance of a particular place. Runciman confided to an associate that he could have done the same thing with his sexual partners, if only he hadn’t rebuffed the advances of Quentin C**** (and yes, there was an “X,” a young Greek named Xenophon.)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegxMIWHjtbPn7vaTp687_N1lQdhm1ckBm3MZmA5T2_ZNRrVUDG1IKnok85mawq-Pj6Xa48q79C4bN3y_EhfpvB3WnttPEOvjXHO9Pyb3QznljzxfwqyiXmx7zDwEIfu5YzOUx/s1600/runciman+quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegxMIWHjtbPn7vaTp687_N1lQdhm1ckBm3MZmA5T2_ZNRrVUDG1IKnok85mawq-Pj6Xa48q79C4bN3y_EhfpvB3WnttPEOvjXHO9Pyb3QznljzxfwqyiXmx7zDwEIfu5YzOUx/s320/runciman+quote.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Runciman’s life crossed paths with another favored writer of mine--Patrick Leigh Fermor. By the time he made it to Bulgaria, in 1933, in his now famous trek across Europe, Paddy looked more the part of a young, dashing desperado, rather than the teenaged English lad he was underneath. And as the English do things, he had obtained a letter of introduction somewhere along the way--Hungary, I think--which would allow him entry into the front door of the British Embassy in Sofia. A cocktail reception was underway, and the young vagabond was ushered into its midst. Among the other guests was the young historian, Steven Runciman. The two made a connection with they nurtured for the rest of their long lives (most notably in Greece during and after the war). The book ends with a visit by Fermor and a female companion to the 97-year old Runciman’s home in Dumfriesshire. After a night of reminiscences, Fermor and his guest start home. This is how he remembers it:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“As we motored through the Cumbrian dusk, we imagined him helping to plot the circumference of the dome of St. Sophia, before a late supper with the Empress Theodora, or--he had a soft spot for crowned heads--or advising Princess Anna about the accuracy of the Alexiad. In other scenes, he was shaking his head over the wilder tenets of the Bogomils and persuading a team of iconoclasts to drop their hammers, or calming rebellious prelates at the Council of Ephesus. In yet other scenes, he was reasoning with Bohemond at Antioch or counseling Richard Coeur de Lion about his policy at Acre; or playing chess with Saladin, in his tent; then, a bit later, rallying Bessarion for accepting the filioque clause at the same time as a cardinal’s hat; consoling the eastern Comnenes for the loss of Trebizond; or, under Mount Taygetus, exchanging syllogisms with Gemistros Plethon as they strolled along the future Runciman Street. Later on still, we imagined him hobnobbing with Phanariot hospodars in the snows beyond the Danube...It was hard to stop.” </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next biography is <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Last-Pre-Raphaelite-Harry-Hill/dp/0571228623/ref=sr_1_sc_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1482811374&sr=1-2-spell&keywords=the+last+preraphaeelite" target="_blank">The Last Pre-Raphaelite: Edward Burne-Jones and the Victorian Imagination</a> by Fiona MacCarthy. Like the Runciman book, this one is overly long, and I took to skimming passages--which I did not do with the former. For some time now, I have been trying to become more knowledgeable and appreciative of art and art history, as long as that history stops before Modernism and/or Abstract Art. I was vaguely family with Burne-Jones, having seen a couple of his paintings at the Met, but I was never particularly obsessed with the Pre-Raphaelites. I’ve written about this before, but several years ago I stumbled across a Georgian Orthodox Church in a remote village in Samtskhe. The Church of Alexander Nevsky is not at all ancient--funded in the 1890s by the Tsar’s brother, George, living in a nearby hunting lodge. He commissioned Mikhail Nesterov for the iconography, and the finished product--I can only describe it as ethereal--is unlike anything I have ever seen, in any church, anywhere. Art scholars might differ, but I connected it with what I imagined Pre-Raphaelite art to be. And so, since that time, I have been more interested in these particular painters. I will say this, however: Pre-Raphaelite art is best appreciated in moderation. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Burne-Jones came from the struggling middle class--not destitute, but not at all secure either. His path was not easy, but in time he developed supporters and patrons who encouraged his efforts. I don’t find myself drawn as much to Burne-Jones as I did Runciman. The artist had a long-suffering wife at home, whom he frankly didn’t deserve. He exhibited a predictable and bad habit of forming (or attempting) love affairs with all of his models. And Burne-Jones has a pattern of running off on extended junkets to Italy for “inspiration.” </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIC6hrtSfpp01yP9fJGVLUj8qkFOcxVJYAzNxbzS9bEm-5baB7jVDBv8GgM_sVEZ3TrpyF4NPrxcCLjceFizYgl-Hw64XDQrF8E6XI2rST1zEGf6xyYw5I6ym4hcPq1SOmiydJ/s1600/burne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIC6hrtSfpp01yP9fJGVLUj8qkFOcxVJYAzNxbzS9bEm-5baB7jVDBv8GgM_sVEZ3TrpyF4NPrxcCLjceFizYgl-Hw64XDQrF8E6XI2rST1zEGf6xyYw5I6ym4hcPq1SOmiydJ/s320/burne.JPG" width="257" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As in the Runciman book, part of the charm of Burne-Jones’ story is the wide cast of supporting characters. Seemingly every writer, poet or artist of note in mid to late Victorian England found their way to his studio. One of his more interesting associates was Simeon Solomon--a wild and audacious young Jewish artist of the Pre-Raphaelite school. And before there was Oscar Wilde, there was Simeon Solomon. In the late 1870s, he was caught in the act, so to speak, with a stable hand in a public restroom. In a mockery of equal justice, the other man received 18 months of hard labor while Solomon only paid a fine. But the notoriety ruined his career, nonetheless. Commissions were cancelled, patrons dropped him, and his peers abandoned him--that is, except for Burne-Jones. He was the only one who stood with Solomon throughout this ordeal. I find that to be his finest hour. Solomon, however, was in a downward spiral, eking out an existence as an alcoholic street-artist in his remaining years.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The final biography is: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strange-Harp-Symphony-Francis-Thompson/dp/B0006BRDZ8/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1482811475&sr=1-1&keywords=strange+harp+strange+symphony" target="_blank">Strange Harp, Strange Symphony: The Life of Francis Thompson</a>, by John Walsh. Unlike Runciman and Burne-Jones, I knew nothing of Thompson until a few months ago. I stumbled across a short essay on Thompson by Joseph Pearce which whetted my appetite. I then followed through and found a copy of his most famous poem, “The Hound of Heaven.” I was hooked. </span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thompson’s life was a sad one, as he was an opium addict from a young age. He was sensitive and well-liked, but it became increasing clear that he would never be able to conform to late Victorian norms. And the more he struggled, the more dependent he became on opium. Throughout it all, Thompson remained a devout Catholic. Indeed, one of the more interesting aspects of the book is its depiction of the close-knit, insular world of English Catholicism. In fact, his story is also the story of one English Catholic family--his rescuers, the Meynells. Before they came along, Thompson had been abandoned by his family (who thought him beyond hope) and was living on the streets, eking out enough money for his habit, occasionally being taken in by a kind prostitute. The Meynells gave him the family support he needed, and encouraged his writing, and through their publishing connections, saw that it reached a wide audience. Even during this time, his demons did not retreat, however, and he spent extended rehabilitations in Catholic monasteries in Surrey and Gwynd. Thompson was able to stay more or less straight for a period of five to six years, and produced some of his most extraordinary work, including “The Hound of Heaven.” But he was not to win his battles--at least not in this life--and he died too soon. Put simply, the story of Francis Thompson and the Meynells has much to teach us about the nature of struggle and repentance and compassion. I am memorizing “The Hound of Heaven.” As it is a long one, I’ll be at it a while. Knowing his story better makes the poem all the more meaningful. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhIQPnEwqV7wZeXJrrWNxWhNb9fYKP2KC1JAJKsz4C-LIf85tmmUth5_uhf-tZzBzQn0hVfiLiWWwGTPOkr7dj6cM66ufP6TQwoGGyljwZ3DBiW2WAlnrwZfdcN5xGVrMOyQ5/s1600/thompson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhIQPnEwqV7wZeXJrrWNxWhNb9fYKP2KC1JAJKsz4C-LIf85tmmUth5_uhf-tZzBzQn0hVfiLiWWwGTPOkr7dj6cM66ufP6TQwoGGyljwZ3DBiW2WAlnrwZfdcN5xGVrMOyQ5/s320/thompson.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-73602655792924534852016-11-10T19:27:00.000-08:002016-11-10T19:44:02.089-08:00The Portuguese Parrot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLrPQGh4eapRH64j9DoeYSEQB-0jvzh0csE3_hZcdYPW-CvNSb1yhq-2Og32CnoqKfR0DX9MgZFjijKYmW1yTQ5gnr0IOCJ4Zh0pvXPJEW8NYm7dgJKb2espi_2mqdu62bUMJ/s1600/parrot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLrPQGh4eapRH64j9DoeYSEQB-0jvzh0csE3_hZcdYPW-CvNSb1yhq-2Og32CnoqKfR0DX9MgZFjijKYmW1yTQ5gnr0IOCJ4Zh0pvXPJEW8NYm7dgJKb2espi_2mqdu62bUMJ/s320/parrot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My Aunt Sis died yesterday, November 9th, at age 93. She was the last of her generation, having outlived all her siblings and cousins. With her passing, I lost my last living link with a world that now exists only in my mind.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stuck away in the mountains of northern Arkansas, for many years it has been my habit to make an annual trek to visit Aunt Sis. Kind, gracious, and hospitable to a fault, we would sit around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and sharing the old stories. She kept her mind until the end. She became forgetful, and prone to repeat herself, to be sure. But this was the little stuff. On the big items, her mind remained clear. She always knew exactly who she was, who you were, and where she was. On my last visit, she recognized me immediately, and we became teary-eyed before any words were spoken. Towards the end, her mind become more focused on the times of her youth, with events 80 years past more real to her than the events of the day. I believe that to be a great blessing.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlKhK3Xn5GGf0q0w8bey6KsHIDBGqQetJlLejzHgxzc1uaXNZ5XHqomw1LRZ6gkBP-OApefytyVJOi34MstT0jbd5ucBfSr0_CpL1RfKE8mqHGJv8zu7e-_BYgRRvZtDboAMP/s1600/eathel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlKhK3Xn5GGf0q0w8bey6KsHIDBGqQetJlLejzHgxzc1uaXNZ5XHqomw1LRZ6gkBP-OApefytyVJOi34MstT0jbd5ucBfSr0_CpL1RfKE8mqHGJv8zu7e-_BYgRRvZtDboAMP/s320/eathel.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On this last visit, she shared a new story, and I think I heard it a half dozen times before I left. For some reason, her memory had focused in on an incident from over 75 years ago, involving her uncle and a parrot that “spoke” Portuguese. A little background is necessary.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My grandfather and his two sisters--all born within 4 years of one another--were always close. The sisters called him Brother. Due to advantageous family connections, all three were able to attend Wedemeyer’s Academy in Bell County, Texas. The girls went on to graduate from Mary Hardin Baylor College. The sisters were true Edwardian ladies--prim, proper, and polite. They were easily scandalized, and my good-natured granddad took especial pleasure in shocking them, to which they would gasp, “Oh, Brother!”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The sisters lived their entire lives in tandem. They went to college together, became teachers and taught together, and eventually married brothers. The older aunt married last, and even after marriage maintained much of the air of an old maid about her. The two couples lived just outside of Fort Worth.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After the great tragedy that befell my grandparent’s family, the aunts stepped in to help as they could. The older aunt offered to adopt my youngest uncle, then an infant. My grandfather, a proud man, refused. (I wonder how my uncle’s life would have been different, had he grown up in this aunt’s stable environment. But while his path might have been easier in life, he might not have become the quirky, funny, happy-go-lucky man we loved so much). Aunt Sis and her baby brother, nevertheless, did spend extended periods of time living with their aunts.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFlQYK3IeY7oWok21uQJOKZuNBDJQo-aWKF-q9iIaz61cNK-dgHYOuq50J_WH36VyLCT-o_O7Jlp1I8fDMJlAk_3zXjoYriU-EXKXOQXDmE-Oze8KBryJRkYnf4dK19K0-4ktM/s1600/Cowan20080011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFlQYK3IeY7oWok21uQJOKZuNBDJQo-aWKF-q9iIaz61cNK-dgHYOuq50J_WH36VyLCT-o_O7Jlp1I8fDMJlAk_3zXjoYriU-EXKXOQXDmE-Oze8KBryJRkYnf4dK19K0-4ktM/s320/Cowan20080011.jpg" width="181" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When they moved out to Lake Worth, the youngest aunt and her husband purchased their place from an elderly Portuguese immigrant. They bought the place, lock, stock, and parrot. The old man’s bird “spoke” in Portuguese. Up until the last two years, my Aunt Sis could, remarkably, remember and repeat what the parrot would say, though she had no idea of what it meant. The large parrot and its cage was her responsibility. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her aunt’s husband would sometime tease the parrot. Once he even gave Polly a cigarette. The bird bided its time. Finally one day, as my uncle was walking through the house, the parrot flew onto his back and clawed little vees into the back of his shirt. He hollered for Aunt Sis to get that bird off his back. She found a handy broomstick and lifted the parrot off of him.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What happened next is the thing that stuck in her mind. The parrot got down on the floor and on its side, squawking and twisting in circles. In Aunt Sis’s eyes, the bird exacted its revenge and was now laughing at our flustered uncle. My aunt described in great detail how the parrot’s eyes looked, and how they pivoted around.</span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-a15353e5-5166-2063-5b69-55e7aaa8ce60"></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our memories are funny things. At the end of a long and well-lived life, it fills me with wonder that it was this little thing that filled her consciousness, the eyes of a happy parrot from almost 80 years ago. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMSmYYAwNEU58WyWHTAldU5w9c40z9O7P2_RqfAXAhhbwCZsX6GdC2ToTpgm8ZeD-QVQ-JSHTwu46PIqtpuF8RgN945lptEFGlwummhQxTAGqlK3_4fYwti4siJd933F5327l/s1600/maryjo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMSmYYAwNEU58WyWHTAldU5w9c40z9O7P2_RqfAXAhhbwCZsX6GdC2ToTpgm8ZeD-QVQ-JSHTwu46PIqtpuF8RgN945lptEFGlwummhQxTAGqlK3_4fYwti4siJd933F5327l/s320/maryjo2.jpg" width="229" /></a></div>
Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-58484303524390321572016-11-07T15:14:00.001-08:002016-11-07T15:14:34.408-08:00A Melancholy Tuesday<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A Melancholy Tuesday</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As things stand now, Tuesdays are my “day off.” I plan to make good use of it. If the weather permits, I will cut some wood. If not, I can immerse myself in genealogy, or some other form of escapism, such as re-reading something from Trollope. This may keep my mind off the events of the day. For at the end of it, the American people will have elected either Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump as President. That does not say anything particularly uplifting about our nation.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have always taken a keep interest in current events, and I do not expect that to change. Normally, election days are characterized by high-flown and self-congratulatory rhetoric about freedom, democracy, the American Way, etc., and it is easy to get swept up in all that. This year, however, I’m just not feeling it. Frankly, I am exhausted from the eternal campaigning, but more so by the hyper partisanship and the general craziness, of the bat-sh*t variety. I would be better served to step away from Facebook, but I’m not going to do that any more than you are.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For example, I recently suggested to someone on Facebook that their projection of Trump carrying all the swing states plus PA, MI, NH and ME might display a bit of hopeful thinking on his part. He told me I was rude, to “scram,” and then blocked me. And I thought I was thin-skinned. But this is typical of what passes for political discourse these days.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My own particular political beliefs do not fit into the boxes we’ve been assigned. The terms liberal and conservative, as currently understood in the American context, have little real meaning anymore, and I would resist being labeled as either one. I am most comfortable with the designation of “traditionalist.” I value order, stability, peace through humility, continuity, conservation, and preservation. I have no faith in, or love for, unfettered free market capitalism. In recent years the real evolution of my thinking has been the growing awareness of just how destructive this has been to the human condition. At the same time, doctrinaire socialism leaves me cold, as well. I am mostly attracted to Distributism, to the extent that I understand it. It will never have a chance here, however, unless of course, after we start over. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have conservative friends who still believe, I suppose, in Movement Conservatism, who believe that there are political solutions to our problems, and that only one political option exists for right-thinking Christians to support. For these people, my ideas are so around-the-bend that they characterize me as a wild-eyed Leftist. I get a chuckle out of this, for I have friends who are truly Leftists and they know me well enough to know that, while sympathetic, I am not totally in their camp. I have no stomach for storming the barricades and burning everything down. Revolutions always destroy much more than they intend to do, and the ends never justify the means. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have tried to be even-handed in my criticisms this election cycle. Not being a supporter of either major party candidate, my interest has largely been analytical--charting the polls and their accuracy. Also, whenever I have dumped on Trump, I feel compelled to post an article criticizing Clinton. I have learned that you get no credit for this, however. In our hyper-partisan age, any criticism of Trump is seen as an endorsement of Clinton, and visa-versa. Apparently the only thing that matters is your partisan slant.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So here, the day before the election, I want to come clean about the major candidates. First, Trump. The man is a colossal fraud, on nearly every level. He lies--not stealthily like Clinton, but compulsively and pathologically. He is a narcissist, seeing every issue and every subject as being ultimately about himself. He is petty, refusing to let anything go. He is bombastic, speaking almost totally in exaggeration and hyperbole. He is uninformed, and the worst of it is that he is proudly so. And finally, he is a dangerous demagogue, one like we’ve not seen since Huey Long. I can’t say that I oppose him on policies, because he has none. All is going to be Great, just trust him. We have elected little, petty men to the Oval Office before. But in every case, I believe they recognized that they had ascended to something greater than themselves, and set about to make themselves worthy of the honor. With Trump, I don’t believe he understands that there is anything greater than himself. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I tend to agree with a recent article by Damon Linker, who suggested a small part of him would take a perverse satisfaction if Trump were elected. He lists 4 reasons:</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To destroy the knowingness of the poll-watchers (not unlike myself)</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To teach Progressives that “history is not on their side” (yes,yes, yes!)</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To humble the smugness of the Establishment Republicans</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To humiliate hubristic Democratic elites</span></div>
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</ol>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have to admit that while this would be deeply satisfying, is that enough reason to vote for Trump? No, no, a thousand times no!</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Clearly Trump has tapped-into the legitimate concerns, fears and anger (if unfocused) of a significant segment of Americans. But again, his skillful exploitation of these issues does not warrant a vote for him. In fact, the only reason I can see that anyone would want to do so would be if they believe Hillary Rodham Clinton is far worse. I lived through the 90s and voted both for and against them along the way. I have never really understood the visceral hatred they engender among the GOP. It has been my observation that the Republicans lose every time they go up against her. I believe that it is because they always run against the Witch Woman of Chappaqua, rather than against Clinton the political animal. Believe me, there is enough ammunition to use on the latter without resorting to portraying her as a cartoon villain. Two examples: when it comes to “Benghazi,” or the emails, Republicans ought to be screaming to high heaven about Judgment. Instead, they go for Criminality, with chants of “Lock her up,” or questioning how she could even be allowed to run. These narratives are reinforced by the Epistemic Bubble of the Right’s social media, from which Republicans refuse to venture outside. They will believe anything and everything, no matter how outrageous. Congressional Republicans have signaled that they are ready to start impeachment proceedings now, as well as declaring that they will refuse to consider any of her Supreme Court appointments. This explains why they always lose up against her. Like the Bourbons of old, they have forgotten nothing, and they have learned nothing.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, would all this suggest a vote for Clinton? Well, not for me, at least. We have multiple avenues to not vote for Trump that do not require voting for Clinton. For let’s face it, she represents nearly everything that is wrong with our system, as well as everything that people despise about our governing elites. After being in the political arena for so long, it is almost sad that her main selling point is that she is NOT Donald Trump. She may well get us into a war with Russia. But if she does, it will be because of her ideological worldview, one who remains wedded to a dangerous, confrontive, and increasingly outdated and discredited foreign policy. But Trump could just as easily get us in a war with Russia, as well. All Putin would have to do is to publicly repeat the comment many have made before--that Trump’s hair looks like a wolverine crawled up on top of his head and died. Again, with Trump everything is personal. I would prefer to take my chances with the first scenario.</span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-a58d594b-4109-4249-a058-fb90c726a2ea"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If Trump were to win, I believe things would start to come apart, probably starting with a stock market crash. That would not be good. If Clinton wins, things will stay as they are. And that is not very good, either. To look beyond this particular election, our Great Experiment may be winding down. Winston Churchill, I believe, once quipped that democracy was the worst system of government in the world....except for all the others. The applicability of this axiom may be nearing the end of its lifespan. </span></div>
Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-13725041875908627662016-10-11T20:21:00.001-07:002016-10-11T20:21:34.611-07:00In Praise of Declinism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIaBcuDRzqXCGt15BbC5-skAFU_f11MnxQOum6IS_o5_xglUKzQqNEPu_Tgj0_XerODfsU_c9gCfF25hfB7Wv87W4JBzgNDQCYu2fMlwKZCgj7LwPi9FD15k5NRuiUQphFkBms/s1600/lovein%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIaBcuDRzqXCGt15BbC5-skAFU_f11MnxQOum6IS_o5_xglUKzQqNEPu_Tgj0_XerODfsU_c9gCfF25hfB7Wv87W4JBzgNDQCYu2fMlwKZCgj7LwPi9FD15k5NRuiUQphFkBms/s320/lovein%255B1%255D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I consider myself a thorough-going declinist, which is easier than saying hell-in-a-handbasketist. And I am quite comfortable in that worldview. To be clear, this is not at all the same thing as doom-and-gloom pessimism. For us, the situation is hopeless, but not serious. For them, everything is forever hopeless and serious. The cramped and self-pitying view of these dour and sour pessimists is not for me. Avoid such people at parties, if you can. Dispassion and/or realism in the face of the overall fallenness of our world does not fit neatly into a binary choice between optimism and pessimism. It does not take a particularly perceptive person to note the weariness in our sagging old Western civilization. In the meanwhile, small kindnesses abound. If not exactly happiness, then certainly joy can be had, which is, anyway, far better and more lasting. Laughter, food and drink can still be shared and enjoyed around the table. Think “Love in the Ruins.” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The confused bright-and-sunny optimists miss out on all of this, doomed as they are to live lives of perpetual disappointment. The declinist is rarely disappointed, and certainly not when things go amiss. He is, however, pleasantly appreciative when events (often) do not turn out as grim as was expected. And he savors this experience to the fullest, knowing it will not last long. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The realist generally looks to the peripheral edges of both Leftist and Rightist thought for support. We look askance at all utopian schemes--the progressive technological/capitalist fantasies of the Right, as well as the progressive social constructions on the Left. A pox on both their houses. The very idea of “decline” is anathema to American progressives, whether liberal or conservative, for the Left and the Right both worship at the altar of Progress; just on different days and observing different liturgies.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Left usually rejects declinism out of hand, and when the Right does engage our civilizational collapse, it is usually some variation of the “We are Rome” argument, or the apocalyptical histrionics of the “God and Country” crowd. Both fall far short of any meaningful assessment of our situation.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve heard the “We are Rome” argument for decades, but I never really bought into the “we are just like Rome” argument. Sure, some broad comparisons can be made between the breakdown of society in the West during late antiquity, and the fraying of Western civilization in late modernity. Decadence is not hard to spot. But as a historian, I was always aware of the vast dissimilarities between Rome and America. And then again, Rome did not really “fall” in 476 A.D. did it? As one who now often approaches things from a Byzantine perspective, I know that “Rome” lived on and prospered for almost another 1,000 years. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maureen Mullarkey has an interesting take on this in a recent article <a href="http://studiomatters.com/5257-2" target="_blank">here</a>. She too warns about the danger of reading ourselves into the past. The quote sometimes attributed to Albert Schweitzer is appropriate here--”looking into the well of history and seeing only ourselves in the reflection.” Mullarkey warns that to say “that conditions today are ‘shockingly similar’ to those in Rome at the advent of Christianity is to confuse symptoms with causes." Nor, she says, should we “bend history to fit homiletics.” Her conclusion is well worth noting. Mullarkey posits that pagan Rome was, in fact, deeply religious, committed to ritual, if not dogma. “The pagan temperament was not nihilist. By contrast, modern man has put God out of mind...What we face today is not paganism. It is the desolate freedom of the nihilist.” </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtR4cyRNCvOG-iQh1kq8D1v6eaiireNq0olt43vpbuSB6s13CS4-SXoZAYMEk9OmcT-d6CR45fWSI8qdfJD25Z_suCqZbV7_QBlCzdy1clmCrVDQI-JxRa442djtxeu-U0HNSd/s1600/The_Romans_of_the_Decadence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtR4cyRNCvOG-iQh1kq8D1v6eaiireNq0olt43vpbuSB6s13CS4-SXoZAYMEk9OmcT-d6CR45fWSI8qdfJD25Z_suCqZbV7_QBlCzdy1clmCrVDQI-JxRa442djtxeu-U0HNSd/s400/The_Romans_of_the_Decadence.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The “God and Country” crowd erroneously believe they own the “decline” argument. Their solutions are nostalgically simple, usually involving decisions made at the ballot box or on the battlefield: If only we could go back to the Reagan years; If only we could elect a President who will appoint conservative judges; If only we could reverse Roe v. Wade. If only. These arguments are often cast in apocalyptical terms, with the U.S. cast in the role of God's chosen people, who will face His judgment raining down on us, as in Sodom and Gomorrah, if we do not repent. This forlorn hope, a nostalgic, nationalistic fantasized idealization of a recent past, is not realism at all, but simply utopianism of the conservative stripe.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Michael del Sapio, in a recent <a href="http://www.theimaginativeconservative.org/2016/10/decline-west-michael-de-sapio.html" target="_blank">article </a>has something interesting things to say about our decline. I took note of the article because of his reference to Jacob Burckhardt, a historian I first read twenty-five years ago. Burckhardt:</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.3333px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I have no hope at all for the future. I am tired of the modern world. I want to escape them all, the radicals, the communists, the industrialists, the overeducated, the fastidious…the -ists and -ers of every kind. </i></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The author notes that “a sick, worn-out mood dominated intellectuals at the turn of the twentieth century, a feeling that the Western cultural tradition was going to seed. This is in contradiction to our often rosy view of the nineteenth century as a time of progress, relative peace, and self-confidence.” He sees several explanations of the West’s cultural atrophy: loss of a spiritual core, simple exhaustion from striving after progress and change--in time, “all the possibilities are exhausted,” and creativity being drained away by material comfort and opulence. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The main point of del Sapio’s article is that our decline has been in place for far longer than those who see only recent developments. And I would add that the roots of decay run so deep that they transcend traditional political remedies.</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-63811b2c-b6c1-ea4c-ef24-e04fd2a2a354"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.3333px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since the late nineteenth century, each generation has managed to put enough gas in the vehicle of Western culture to keep it going. But in any decline, one eventually reaches rock bottom. The question facing us is, have we now reached it? The jadedness, ennui, and mind-numbed distraction of many modern people—a tableau of decadence mimicking </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.3333px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Romans of the Decadence</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.3333px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—seems to suggest that we have. The only response to such a situation is what Jacob Burckhardt did: rediscover, hoard, and cherish the cultural treasures of our past.</span></i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.3333px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As John Lukacs observed, living at the end of an age is not such a bad thing, if you are aware of it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEX47JBEnYk24kE_KmJSXzIqOolExMxFt-HKMGMxbypbOHXOypdF7U1C1subMw_oHc1xkAG4r9NDbLYqCl7aQxRGr9LmvFsoExulgB7OZ8Sglc-DjaYmtd5K9o5zP742jz5vk/s1600/ruins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEX47JBEnYk24kE_KmJSXzIqOolExMxFt-HKMGMxbypbOHXOypdF7U1C1subMw_oHc1xkAG4r9NDbLYqCl7aQxRGr9LmvFsoExulgB7OZ8Sglc-DjaYmtd5K9o5zP742jz5vk/s320/ruins.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-90014405102168616862016-08-28T16:52:00.002-07:002016-08-28T16:52:37.376-07:00The Boyhood of Cyrus<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVUpOqWeWzqNnPAblIWQJiz0yRYVPTUSDah_iWJJZkMpge_417hquttoj3SZ9x0LrKKn3t2ABY5y90RmYcGSAn_WwLpKqk6snLEEo1qYaP0AncQFN_ll_aIHRJhWJMiv6_fURX/s1600/dance_to_the_music_of_time.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVUpOqWeWzqNnPAblIWQJiz0yRYVPTUSDah_iWJJZkMpge_417hquttoj3SZ9x0LrKKn3t2ABY5y90RmYcGSAn_WwLpKqk6snLEEo1qYaP0AncQFN_ll_aIHRJhWJMiv6_fURX/s320/dance_to_the_music_of_time.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A Dance to the Music of Time," Nicholas Poussin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For well over 30 years, I have been a fan of the English novelist Anthony Powell. A prolific writer, he is best known for the twelve novels he wrote between 1951 and 1975, known collectively as <i>A Dance to the Music of Time</i>. I have read through them at least three times, or perhaps four, and hope to do so at least one more time. My son is slowly working his way through the <i>Dance</i> while in Tbilisi. He is about halfway through. I have a complete collection of first editions, as well as a Folio set, but the copies I read from are four thickish volumes, each containing three of the novels. They were my introduction to Powell back in the early 1980s. I am a founding member of the Anthony Powell Society, as well. So you could well say that I am a serious Powellian.<br />
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The series takes its name from the painting by Nicholas Poussin, and indeed art plays a prominent role in the weaving of Powell's narrative. The opening passage describes a street scene evoking images of Poussin's <i>Dance</i>, and the ultimate passage in the twelfth volume is a conversation within a London art gallery. In between, there are countless encounters with, and allusions to art and artists, both real and fictional. Charles Stringham's Modigliani appears regularly in the narrative, but my favorite has to be <i>The Boyhood of Cyrus</i> by Edgar Bosworth Deacon. The work appears early in the narrative, and the irascible Deacon is a recurring character in some of the earlier novels. He is somewhat at war with the modernists and paints in a classical and realistic style, falling somewhere between Alma-Tadema and Burne-Jones. By the 1920s, this sort of thing was long out of favor, having lost out to modernism. But by the end of the series--in the early 1970s--Deacon's work had undergone a reappraisal, was being snatched-up by collectors, and the subject of "retrospective" exhibits. As <i>The Boyhood of Cyrus</i> was the fictional work of a fictional artist, I could only picture it in my mind's eye.<br />
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I suppose I have always enjoyed art, if in a casual way. From my earliest childhood, I remember visits to my great-aunt's house. Each of my parents, on their own schedules, were in the habit of dropping by for a quick visit there on trips between our house and the farm. The aunt's house was the simplest of four-room affairs, with no running water. A quilt frame hang over the bed in my great-aunt's mother's room. This was where we visited. My attention was always drawn to an oval picture hanging in the back corner--a sentimentalized pastoral scene depicting two swans gliding across a reed-enclosed glade. No doubt it was only an inexpensive print, but to me it was a thing of beauty, and I knew that we had noting to compare with it in my home.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju_3SKAfgGWm2Ng8gXDa_D5cjbf0o99FOZtydnIJ6L6uv9wfcbZ7IDg2u0jkMOPnIg9XcPzi3AY6AJ5SOaYTLlSTOHpo29NnMMtDGB6FJKmaBn0odgmIvM6B1pUFbfc1ySMCJW/s1600/the-beheading-of-st-john-the-baptist-1869.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju_3SKAfgGWm2Ng8gXDa_D5cjbf0o99FOZtydnIJ6L6uv9wfcbZ7IDg2u0jkMOPnIg9XcPzi3AY6AJ5SOaYTLlSTOHpo29NnMMtDGB6FJKmaBn0odgmIvM6B1pUFbfc1ySMCJW/s320/the-beheading-of-st-john-the-baptist-1869.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Beheading of St. John the Baptist," by Puvis de Chavannes</td></tr>
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I have been very fortunate in life to have visited a number of great art museums. Only in recent years, however, have I been able to intelligently categorize the type of painting I appreciate. My wife and I were at the Met in New York City back in 2015. A snowstorm had blown in, which delayed our arrival and necessitated leaving in a timely manner. And so, I spent my limited time upstairs with the Great Masters. Then earlier this year, when in New Haven, I took the train into the City and returned to the Met. I went directly to the wing housing the work of the European artists of the 18th and 19th century. This might not be to everyone's taste, but I realized that I had found my artistic home. I was introduced to new artists--Gustave Moreau, Edward Burne-Jones, and most of all, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes. The Met owns four of this latter artist's work--<i>The Shepherd's Song</i>, <i>Allegory</i>, <i>Cider</i>, and <i>Sleep</i>. I stood, almost in amazement, at these paintings. Once I returned home, I began to familiarize myself with Puvis de Chavannes' body of work. Then in May of this year, when in England, I made a special trip to Birmingham to the Barber Institute. Without this museum, I can assure you that there would have been no reason for a detour to this city. I did so because the Barber Institute contains, among other excellent paintings, Puvis de Chavannes' <i>The Beheading of John the Baptist</i>.<br />
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To return to Anthony Powell, when pursuing the odd Powelliana online, I recently came across <a href="https://picturesinpowell.com/2013/08/22/the-boyhood-of-cyrus/" target="_blank">this </a>site. The writer muses on the fictitious <i>The Boyhood of Cyrus</i>, and which real life painter and painting could have served as Powell's inspiration for Deacon and his work. Perhaps it should not have surprised me, but he suggested Pierre de Chavannes and his <i>Ludes Pro Patria</i>. In some way, I found this satisfying, the way things had come full circle.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47PaP8hkfYIw48Ri1dMGaM_mbcD9Az9TyJ5ybxzxeYRupOzkmhsz-GA26YA76vIbTm0Afx9-wBykm7vUsumfvTCrNZex45adCoJyw1JiLq_tE_cL3kl3cGZ5WmHaSo9b-NrUO/s1600/Pierre_Puvis_de_Chavannes_-_-Ludus_Pro_Patria-_-_Walters_3716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47PaP8hkfYIw48Ri1dMGaM_mbcD9Az9TyJ5ybxzxeYRupOzkmhsz-GA26YA76vIbTm0Afx9-wBykm7vUsumfvTCrNZex45adCoJyw1JiLq_tE_cL3kl3cGZ5WmHaSo9b-NrUO/s320/Pierre_Puvis_de_Chavannes_-_-Ludus_Pro_Patria-_-_Walters_3716.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ludes Pro Patria," by Pierre Puvis de Chavannes</td></tr>
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Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-39207918100966939942016-07-31T18:23:00.004-07:002016-07-31T18:23:43.289-07:00The Cultus<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVnIMENC2XEHTGTbET7WE5niKBnP4gKfP_4wysRzH4vBtO2xT5eHHeUuGv-1nurCXfajJSelNGhWQ7q-3wrczCAWEMaK7MuvoaIBknfSDiTp6hhXqWxi6sk3CbjdYEqx9TbM5/s1600/P1010149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVnIMENC2XEHTGTbET7WE5niKBnP4gKfP_4wysRzH4vBtO2xT5eHHeUuGv-1nurCXfajJSelNGhWQ7q-3wrczCAWEMaK7MuvoaIBknfSDiTp6hhXqWxi6sk3CbjdYEqx9TbM5/s320/P1010149.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical Romanian wagon<br /></td></tr>
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During my recent travels around Romania, I was reminded of the Orthodox custom of crossing oneself whenever passing a church. I know this is not unique to Romania, for Georgians have the same practice. I observed this throughout the country--from Bucharest to Curtea de Arges, to Siniai, to Brasov, to Sighisoara, to Suceava, to Iasi, and back to Bucharest. I detected no discernible difference between urban and rural areas. To be sure, not everyone does it, but enough people do it that it is noticeable to the casual observer.<br />
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This custom does not come naturally to Orthodox Americans, and the reason is pretty obvious. While one might pass several Orthodox churches in a small Romanian village, and in many of these locales, everything is strung out along one main road. In the U.S., you can easily drive 100 miles between churches, and even so, the Orthodox churches would have to be sought out. In this context, crossing yourself while passing churches is a hard habit to form. When in Romania, at least, I assumed the custom and enjoyed being able to do so.<br />
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While driving through Romania, you quickly become accustomed to the ubiquitous Romanian wagons on the roads--long, almost canoe or dug-out shaped carts, open-ended on the rear. Romania is rich agriculturally, but I saw little in the way of mechanized farming. I observed lots of hay and grain being cut by scythes and gathered by hand. Only in Moldova--south of Iasi--did I really see anything in the way of tractors and harvesters and hay bailers. And I did not see a single pickup truck in the country. So these wagons are absolutely necessary for hauling any number of things down the road: hay, equipment, small livestock, children, or mothers-in-law. The sheer number of these one-horse carts does not necessarily imply backwardness. Many of the riders were as modern looking as anyone, perhaps talking on their cell phone as they clip-clop down the road. I did not take advantage of the countless opportunities to snap a photograph of these carts on the back roads of Romania. I have always refused to treat people as if they were quaint photographic props.<br />
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I visited seven monasteries in Bucovina alone. The neglected and down-at-its-heels Arbore Monastery was the only one that was not a going concern, with monastics in residence. I pulled off the road and was locking the car before going through the gate. Two carts approached me, each with two adults in the driver's seat and a wagon load of children behind. These Romanians were clearly what we call "country people," a bit poorer in dress than many I saw. As they drew even with the abandoned monastery, all of them--and there were ten to twelve altogether--started crossing themselves. As each of them did it three times, it was a bit hard to miss!<br />
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No doubt, some readers will shake their heads over this, dismissing it as a silly superstition, if not an outright cultish practice. Well, I will reject the superstition argument out of hand, but I fully embrace the accusation of cultishness. Christopher Dawson, one of the greatest historians of the last century (or any other century, for that matter), always maintained that the "cultus" (the cult, or religion, if you will) came first. From this foundation, a culture emerged. Given enough time and favorable condition, the culture could blossom into an actual civilization. But then something very interesting sometimes happens. The civilization, in its hubris, thinks that it was self-creating, and its verities self-evident. Having no more need for the cult, it kicks it away. Of course, what happens next is what always happens when a foundation is destroyed--the superstructure begins to crumble and fragment. This fragmentation is where we are now as a country--albeit with the appearance of a myriad of new cults. But they are all cults of Self, and offer no foundation with any real permanence. <br />
Romania has lots of problems. Four millions of its citizens live elsewhere, in order to simply survive. The country needs good governance, jobs and security--and of course, by this I mean jobs offering a livable wage. But as long as their citizens still cross themselves while passing their churches, I wonder if they don't have strengths that elude us in our bracing age.Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-38564184150580711592016-07-24T19:11:00.004-07:002016-07-24T19:45:40.780-07:00(5) In Mercia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Mercia was one of the kingdoms of the old Saxon Heptarchy. Their boundaries were fluid, but roughly corresponded with the region known today as the Midlands. The Mercians played the role of spoilers in the history of Dark Age Britain. Late-comers to Christianity, they warred against all their neighbors, though it seems the Welsh kingdoms benefited from having them as buffers against the other Saxons and Scandinavian invaders. The Mercians brought down the nascent Northumbrian civilization, and were for a couple of generations, the preeminent power on the island, before themselves succumbing to ascendant House of Wessex. Mercian history does not elicit much sympathy, having neither the chroniclers of old Northumbria, nor the romance of the House of Alfred. I would have liked to have visited sites associated with Aethelflaed "Maid of Mercia, the extraordinary daughter of Alfred the Great. Those sites, such as they are, presented too much of a logistical stretch, though I did visit the early Norman church at Kilpeck, and the Saxon churches at Deerhurst, Repton, Breedon and Brixworth, as well as the Cathedral of St. Alban's.<br />
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In addition, to my Saxon sites, I also made one of only two forays into urban areas (the other being in Newcastle). I drove into Birmingham, and visited the Barbour Institute on the University of Birmingham campus. The museum is of modest size, free, and absolutely exquisite. I like nothing better than visiting art museums. I am not an art scholar, but I know what I like--and what I do not. Although I am very fond of impressionism, I have no taste for modernism, nor its early antecedents. What I appreciate, I now know, is referred to as the "realist" school, to contrast them with modernism. The latter won out, unfortunately, for a 100 years or so, and the realists of the 19th-century were largely overlooked or discounted. They are coming back into their own now, however, and the Barbour Institute has them in droves, as well as many by the Old Masters. My favorites, below:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilHpxmyJaACQlgyPmtiLPOibYEHnAkHnr61xgqlWe3O6zW0yA2b6eLBrUjdnTnsiMGDrHvmY8F8-p__82AuKL2rPJ0hwuCSS1gqo8DMnbjQAl-otRFSUp9FwNt7WTvT5zxmcKi/s1600/P1000235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilHpxmyJaACQlgyPmtiLPOibYEHnAkHnr61xgqlWe3O6zW0yA2b6eLBrUjdnTnsiMGDrHvmY8F8-p__82AuKL2rPJ0hwuCSS1gqo8DMnbjQAl-otRFSUp9FwNt7WTvT5zxmcKi/s320/P1000235.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Crucifixion" by Cima da Conegliano</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWnYWu3WVDRWDCfV9r4N4SyMnh4bH-WIwDGWQX4F-gcppobP0nBkKEuvuXzyvX2G-FeO8HrPJgx-M5m61TaOrrRbgX4ya3S4_ap22vQe2sY2m5PoB_AeT58lJ1Aeng3K9G6c2/s1600/P1000243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWnYWu3WVDRWDCfV9r4N4SyMnh4bH-WIwDGWQX4F-gcppobP0nBkKEuvuXzyvX2G-FeO8HrPJgx-M5m61TaOrrRbgX4ya3S4_ap22vQe2sY2m5PoB_AeT58lJ1Aeng3K9G6c2/s320/P1000243.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Beheading of St. John the Baptist" by Pierre Puvis de Chavannes</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGoF9Pk9joMH9foIapQ8qoSt7SbFLmlTHjMgPDD9fDnnimr_4dnW2hjD0p0N5YbGBaN1sRNKluBnkLD8EzUXSr3QtSwCNcrDfW82vxzNQluugSkTh2KAV_fAiBsTJ8Mc3pODt/s1600/P1000244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGoF9Pk9joMH9foIapQ8qoSt7SbFLmlTHjMgPDD9fDnnimr_4dnW2hjD0p0N5YbGBaN1sRNKluBnkLD8EzUXSr3QtSwCNcrDfW82vxzNQluugSkTh2KAV_fAiBsTJ8Mc3pODt/s320/P1000244.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Blue Bower" by Dante Gabriel Rossetti</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhwBkRbjEDYyAtmPpUSh_Ppw2lnVefUPZ6tEMZnxFQE5kLepD9WiLVlUz-fbOepiC3a0I8ZV5FqzyIFb_Md2qjoZVrS_8av2VhyphenhyphenDIBiZOQipc_2RkOra-lKp_oF3hh_WBmrh6/s1600/P1000245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhwBkRbjEDYyAtmPpUSh_Ppw2lnVefUPZ6tEMZnxFQE5kLepD9WiLVlUz-fbOepiC3a0I8ZV5FqzyIFb_Md2qjoZVrS_8av2VhyphenhyphenDIBiZOQipc_2RkOra-lKp_oF3hh_WBmrh6/s320/P1000245.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Paolo and Francesca" by J. A. D. Ingres</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipf7IveW1RUMdCUDAqpEohYTnoC9SX_1JDTMwpvKFsOW25pkYdo5-AKSih2LzJiUEMOmV8byFvXwLR02JTljwn2FsI97AT-qroFrONqX4CqPrlwrm3htplXLhG5rKWIUA4dRI1/s1600/P1000231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipf7IveW1RUMdCUDAqpEohYTnoC9SX_1JDTMwpvKFsOW25pkYdo5-AKSih2LzJiUEMOmV8byFvXwLR02JTljwn2FsI97AT-qroFrONqX4CqPrlwrm3htplXLhG5rKWIUA4dRI1/s320/P1000231.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Visitation" by Veronese</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLT5-U6bqFGbebqUGhdDJkEFBmPFwG0_vOObBSVEd_7aJhpVf5x3_Y_QY_bkH1MlHxQtmG9YwGuMOus70pllG1v9YqxlHyvgfg2XJR5V7F3tWDKViDhV6Lud5oMb3If-mDJtk_/s1600/P1000223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLT5-U6bqFGbebqUGhdDJkEFBmPFwG0_vOObBSVEd_7aJhpVf5x3_Y_QY_bkH1MlHxQtmG9YwGuMOus70pllG1v9YqxlHyvgfg2XJR5V7F3tWDKViDhV6Lud5oMb3If-mDJtk_/s320/P1000223.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ecce Homo" by Anthony van Dyck</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXvYYk_XLg1ypJ5lETx2yz0cvcx-t-v-b5t0f0_vfoDMRBsBbVc1hAtBJCQwt8rUD7ywEIvnhjFUYDFZ_Wan3qHYV4GFsFOKZoJmlk2wUIuzuT3530PVqTaKQfWU2L-Njbe_h/s1600/P1000224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXvYYk_XLg1ypJ5lETx2yz0cvcx-t-v-b5t0f0_vfoDMRBsBbVc1hAtBJCQwt8rUD7ywEIvnhjFUYDFZ_Wan3qHYV4GFsFOKZoJmlk2wUIuzuT3530PVqTaKQfWU2L-Njbe_h/s320/P1000224.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Marriage at Cana" by Bartholme Esteban Murillo</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdlDKeAO4UibJJ5STXL5ifZM04xsAUxPX8IjkFWEwyt5l8gf5gfjOfz-Mgw7z9Ld8KCamIOEmFy3K76aKWPKW3NvM-syS3sD7WXj1HzlQN-Hmyl5HWv5Ny6wrVfjpd9_L00js/s1600/P1000228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdlDKeAO4UibJJ5STXL5ifZM04xsAUxPX8IjkFWEwyt5l8gf5gfjOfz-Mgw7z9Ld8KCamIOEmFy3K76aKWPKW3NvM-syS3sD7WXj1HzlQN-Hmyl5HWv5Ny6wrVfjpd9_L00js/s320/P1000228.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Isaac Blessing Jacob" by Matthias Stom</td></tr>
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The Parish Church of St. Mary and St. David at Kilpeck lies just across the border from Wales into Herefordshire. The church is noted for its unique outer stone carvings. The Church of St. Mary and St. David dates to the year 1143, during the "Time of Troubles." The interior, of course, has been stripped bare and scrubbed, so that it is as stark as most any other Anglican church you would visit. The allure of Kilpeck, however, is in its exterior carvings--particularly framing the south door, and along the roof line all around the building. The artistry is an intriguing mixture of Christian, Celtic, and animalistic imagery. There is even a Sheela-na-gog. Visitors end up walking around the outside of the church, their eyes craned to make out the sculptures high above. The site itself is idyll, adjacent to a ruined castle and a small cluster of houses, surrounded by fields and meadows. But like I say, the attraction here is all on the outside of the church.<br />
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The Church of St. Mary's at Deerhurst is one of the larger churches from the Saxon era. The church appears to be the center of active parish life. The structure has been the subject of quite a bit of archaeological investigation through the years. For example, researchers using advanced technology have shown that St. Mary's was awash in color during the Middle Ages--dramatically at variance with the drap interior today. There seems to be a growing realization of just how much was destroyed and lost during the English Reformation. One of the treasures of the church is an immense, intricately carved Saxon font from the mid 8th-century. I also noted that an Orthodox iconographer had donated an icon of St. Alphege to the church (as he was connected to it). It seemed to me that they didn't know what to do with it, exactly, but they did have it on a stand in one of the back corners.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Peasants Bundling Faggots" by Pieter Breughel the Younger</td></tr>
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Repton is a Norman church, but it is built over a Saxon crypt dating back to the early 8th century and only rediscovered in 1779. The crypt served as the burial vault for Mercian royalty, including St. Wystan, murdered in 849. The stairway going down into the crypt was not lighted, so I had to feel my way down. Once into the crypt proper, I lit a candle on the candle stand that illuminated the room. Sir John Betjeman described the space as "holy air encased in stone." The crypt with its graceful columns and alcoves does not fail to impress. I wandered around a bit, said a prayer to St. Wystan, and started to ascend the stone steps to the ground floor. I was startled and briefly alarmed to see that the pathway was shut tight. I went back into the crypt, looked around for an explanation, and then realized that I had descended from a stairwell on the other side of the crypt. I quickly scurried up into the daylight.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kilpeck</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kilpeck</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kilpeck</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">8th-cetury Saxon font, Deerhurst</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">The Church of St. Mary and St. Hardulph at Breedon on the Hill was a favorite of mine. The church is perched atop a lone hill outside the village of Breedon. A Saxon church existed here by the beginning of the 8th-century. The present structure dates only to the 13th-century, but contains remarkable Saxon stone frieze carvings from the earlier church. In all, there are 63 feet of these carvings, which have been called the equivalent of the Lindesfarne Gospels in stone. A separate carving, known as the Breedon Angel, is considered to be one of he best examples of Saxon art, though unfortunately hidden away from view in the locked tower. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Wystan, Repton</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">All Saints Church at Brixworth has the distinction of being the largest surviving Saxon church. The structure has been little changed on the outside since its construction in the 8th-century. Of course, the extensive monastic complex which the church once anchored is long gone. There is nothing of particular interest in interior of the church, however. All Saints is as bare and austere as any church I visited. The church has a relic of St. Boniface, and Orthodox and Catholics make pilgrimages here because of that. The church volunteers I encountered, however, really did not know about it, or where it had been tucked away. They didn't know seem to know much about the historical significance of the church either.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Saxon crypt, Repton</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">I avoided cathedrals on this trip. I made an exception with St. Alban's, as it retains the shrine to the British protomartyr. I have mixed feelings about St. Albans. If you enjoy cathedrals, then St. Albans should certainly be on your list. It is reputed to be the longest in England, and the soaring interior is as impressive as any. And prior to the Reformation, St. Alban's was the premier English Benedictine abbey. By the 19th-century, the immense building was in near ruins. Wealthy benefactors saved the church, though with some questionable restorations. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breedon-on-the-Hill</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">These soaring Gothic cathedrals no longer impress me as they once did. Even large Orthodox cathedrals (Sameba in Tbilisi, Alexsandr Nevsky in Sofia, for example) have an intimacy to them that is foreign to the cathedrals in the West. The best explanation I have heard about this difference in sensation is that while the Gothic cathedral seeks to reach the heavens, the Orthodox cathedral seeks to contain the cosmos. And so, I found the very size of St. Alban's to be off-putting. There are a dozen things going on at once inside--multiple tours, plant sales, a gift shop, a cafe (off to the side), concerts, classes, masses, and lots and lots of pleas for contributions in a thinly-veiled and almost desperate attempt to raise fund to maintain this pile. I found the shrine to St. Alban behind the main altar. (Another nave and altar lay east of that.) An organist was plying his trade in the easternmost nave. I do not like organ music. Not even a little bit. I attempted to block out the noise while I venerated the relics of St. Alban, along with a Filipino woman and her small child. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saxon frieze-work, Breedon-on-the-Hill</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">One intriguing aspect of St. Alban's is the Nave Screen Martyrs Statues. There's something here for just about everybody: St. Alban, St. Amphibalus, George Tankerfield, St. Alban Roe, St. Elizabeth Romanova, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Blessed Oscar Romero. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Alban</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shrine of St. Alban, St. Alban's Cathedral</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">In conclusion, I do not believe I experienced enough of Mercia to draw any noteworthy conclusions. I dipped into the region from Wales, and then looped through it again coming from the North of England down into East Anglia. The region was not the main focus of my travels, and I did not stay overnight there. There are certainly some Saxon treasures in Mercia, but you have to look for them.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All Saints, Brixworth</td></tr>
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Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-13263919771899259942016-06-26T20:19:00.001-07:002016-06-26T20:27:42.366-07:00Observations on Romanian Orthodoxy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For the past 13 years or so, my travel preferences have largely been traditionally Orthodox countries, or at least lands that were formerly so. Coming from a nation upon whose shores our faith arrived relatively recently, I enjoy observing how it is practiced in the “Old Countries.” I was fortunate to spend 10 days in Romania earlier this month. The following observations are merely that of a curious traveler and nothing more. An in-depth critical analysis is definitely not intended, nor am I trying to gloss-over problems and situations within Romanian Orthodoxy. I look to my Romanian friends to correct any erroneous conclusions contained below.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-DeTpXa1YtkkZSJDiy3K5W3DDdbxeafefQwNhfNbiLoszsmWbHHUazurIpQvJt93juXe7aGJQk-FEXyYXPVabIwsRgPo5uHhmn-215yUrJL-N70AKLXbjsWB2fl2OkoN59t-G/s1600/P1000912.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-DeTpXa1YtkkZSJDiy3K5W3DDdbxeafefQwNhfNbiLoszsmWbHHUazurIpQvJt93juXe7aGJQk-FEXyYXPVabIwsRgPo5uHhmn-215yUrJL-N70AKLXbjsWB2fl2OkoN59t-G/s320/P1000912.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<ol style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> For the most part, Romanian Orthodoxy appears alive and well. I made a large, counter-clockwise loop through the eastern half of the country: Bucharest to Curtea de Arges, Bran, Sinaia, Brasov, Sighisoara, Bucovina, Suceava, Iasi, Neamt, Focsani, and back to Bucharest. Best I can figure, I visited 29 churches along the way, and saw countless others. I had occasion to attend parts of several services--Divine Liturgy, some vespers services, and others the nature of which I could not exactly determine. I would estimate worshippers to be divided about 60/40 between women and men, which is really not that bad at all. More importantly, I noticed that no particular age demographic predominated--all age groups seemed to be well-represented. I found this to be true in both urban and rural churches. The vitality of the Romanian churches was in sharp contrast to what I experienced a few days earlier in Great Britain. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWnCu8nT4a9lCeDc5PTN7007_3dsmrUHikGYtRZfKSFExAun91RrdAHtHtaMpj497xJP0FoXRO2GzgbdVLl1ZL41Zb9l1S5xm7HL7VBnTVya8a7AYiJOX7kwwbt-03ms2DG0za/s1600/P1000936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWnCu8nT4a9lCeDc5PTN7007_3dsmrUHikGYtRZfKSFExAun91RrdAHtHtaMpj497xJP0FoXRO2GzgbdVLl1ZL41Zb9l1S5xm7HL7VBnTVya8a7AYiJOX7kwwbt-03ms2DG0za/s320/P1000936.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<ol start="2" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I noticed quite a bit of new church construction in the country, both in rural and urban locales. This may not be on the same scale as what I have observed in Georgia, for example, but then there may not be the need for it. Most villages have at least one Orthodox church, and often more. The churches are relatively newer than their Georgian counterparts (maybe 16th-18th century as opposed to 8th-12th century in the latter). In short, there appears to be no shortage of Orthodox churches in the parts of Romania that I visited (certainly thicker on the ground than the ubiquitous English parish churches). In addition, many homes have small chapels in their front yards, and there is the occasional roadside chapel just for motorists.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_UBYodqKjKm76i8YT6gd1PTJoivvwZdGmRzpLqoo7r-8ECqneeRwwQxcWXPz63QK-5HLfHt2-A4u3oo9YvHPLl4I9hOpDKHQiu4JkuO5KDW3cdU-Z6RSBRvfWf64Ws1Zvm4n/s1600/P1000920.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_UBYodqKjKm76i8YT6gd1PTJoivvwZdGmRzpLqoo7r-8ECqneeRwwQxcWXPz63QK-5HLfHt2-A4u3oo9YvHPLl4I9hOpDKHQiu4JkuO5KDW3cdU-Z6RSBRvfWf64Ws1Zvm4n/s320/P1000920.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<ol start="3" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I saw several variations of what can be called a distinctly Romanian style, and the new churches under construction are holding true to those earlier patterns. The churches are characterized by being long and narrow, and quite high, and usually with broad overhanging roofs. </span></div>
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<ol start="4" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the older churches at least, the interior space is a bit different than other traditions. The narthex is usually quite large. A low doorway leads into a second chamber, which I once saw referred to as the “funeral room.” If there are graves of saints or notables, chances are they are in this room. Another low doorway leads into the nave, and of course after that is the altar. The iconostasis is nearly always soaring, quite elaborate, and usually gilded. Standing in the narthex, one almost has the sense of looking down a long tunnel, through the doorways to the altar in the distance. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCG_AaNGG8BetvdpMSbWwyK5-7XI_XiIcFgNfCYyQnGurTKF2xqmzg73BqZ55CQIYgYaXTsTicfJmhrBlQURKv9ItlggWG1GAsZHwCSMxDZzUGvE10-kzSjPBvWcjlMRo-kLU/s1600/P1000891.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCG_AaNGG8BetvdpMSbWwyK5-7XI_XiIcFgNfCYyQnGurTKF2xqmzg73BqZ55CQIYgYaXTsTicfJmhrBlQURKv9ItlggWG1GAsZHwCSMxDZzUGvE10-kzSjPBvWcjlMRo-kLU/s320/P1000891.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<ol start="5" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Romania is not uniformly Orthodox. In Transylvania, the Orthodox churches quickly give way to German Evangelical or Hungarian Catholic churches between Brasov and Sighisoara. The large Greek-looking Orthodox church in the latter looks almost out of place there. Heading northeast from Sighisoara, I saw few signs of Orthodoxy until I reached the foothills of the Carpathians again, near Toplita. In Bucovina, I noticed villages with all three groups represented--though invariably there might be 2 or 3 Orthodox churches, a neglected-looking Catholic church, and an abandoned Evangelical Church. So, it appears that non-Orthodox adherents in this region might be declining, for whatever reason. But then, the area east of Neamt and south of Iasi seems to be overwhelmingly Catholic. Finally, there is no shortage of American-style sects: Adventists, Jehovah Witnesses, and Pentecostals. In short, there is more of an American-style religious pluralism in evidence in Romania, than say in Georgia, though Orthodoxy clearly predominates.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq8dlwJsl7NInxBebVlRsGF8NYOMhnCRwSvbPlMXmueqViRvqfyxAbxapmLwUAAT-d6mn2AtAN73_WKYpp2E3sbWpy1tZRRm9KmLnIJAjIfLFAmVD-7uT5f9_MTxnw5DGEfmil/s1600/P1000700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq8dlwJsl7NInxBebVlRsGF8NYOMhnCRwSvbPlMXmueqViRvqfyxAbxapmLwUAAT-d6mn2AtAN73_WKYpp2E3sbWpy1tZRRm9KmLnIJAjIfLFAmVD-7uT5f9_MTxnw5DGEfmil/s320/P1000700.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<ol start="6" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was initially disappointed in the iconography, though this quickly changed as I experienced more of the country. The older iconography is among the best I’ve seen anywhere. But I find that of the modern era--roughly corresponding to the Kingdom of Romania during the 19th and 20th centuries--to be just dreadful. It reminds me very much of the natural, westernized, sweetly sentimentalized iconography that was so popular in Russia during the 19th century. I am not an iconographic specialist, so that is the only way I can characterize it. Sadly, the icons that are available for purchase are largely of this variety. Romanian iconography of the post-Communist period, however, is truly exceptional. From the reworking in old churches, to the soaring new temples, to the little roadside chapels for motorists, contemporary Romanian iconography is a wonder to behold. I would hope that this will become more commonplace in small, individual icons as well. Also, In the older tradition, the iconography--whether inside or out--is often not done in large</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsCtA6quST0J2_KjcG5YctZUCelur_IHODUr5vrytHWIrtkk1SzO5ZKIVcIQf2Bjvt5fpgHyAYc0ZYVwkjCO70b-p1g-Vas0rTA4v05Rq6vc_3c55-4MoHCuUKIOE_WqJ-XgIR/s1600/P1010026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsCtA6quST0J2_KjcG5YctZUCelur_IHODUr5vrytHWIrtkk1SzO5ZKIVcIQf2Bjvt5fpgHyAYc0ZYVwkjCO70b-p1g-Vas0rTA4v05Rq6vc_3c55-4MoHCuUKIOE_WqJ-XgIR/s320/P1010026.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
scenes, but rather with dozens, if not hundreds of panels, each depicting a biblical scene. The iconography is what draws me to these churches, wherever I’m traveling. While in the Bucovina monasteries, I wondered if there was a single biblical story that had been omitted. </li>
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<ol start="7" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In a number of churches with 19th and 20th century iconography, I was a little surprised to often see the royal family depicted on the west wall. I am used to seeing medieval princely families--or in Romania’s case, the voivodes and their families--depicted, as they were often the original donors who endowed the monastery. I thought it a little odd to see the modern era monarchs: usually King Carol I and Queen Elisaveta and their daughter Maria, and sometimes accompanied by King Ferdinand and Queen Marie and possibly some of their children. Those two couples were good sorts, and I suppose this is no different than the depiction of rulers of earlier centuries. I know a bit about the Romanian royals, and I found it almost insulting, however, to have a large cameo of Carol II on the back wall, as is the case in Sighisoara. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJAMTw9O2G1GZRmQsKcPxiSZMYjkkkPs_pGVA5uQvOMYkEb8o1o3bS82ECpGlR9RzxKYm-Y2Ijg1laMj8GYcSWgoKFRH_5e1hfUT8Ifi0JlmE2whfnfm7VkJ_xb1UlafHsDsrj/s1600/P1010045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJAMTw9O2G1GZRmQsKcPxiSZMYjkkkPs_pGVA5uQvOMYkEb8o1o3bS82ECpGlR9RzxKYm-Y2Ijg1laMj8GYcSWgoKFRH_5e1hfUT8Ifi0JlmE2whfnfm7VkJ_xb1UlafHsDsrj/s320/P1010045.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<ol start="8" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Romanians burn lots of candles--just not in the church. This was a difference I noticed right away. There are no interior candles, but lots of people buying them. All churches have metal boxes outside the church where one can light candles, always divided between commemorating the living on the right, and the deceased on the left. I found this to always be the case, without exception.</span></div>
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<ol start="9" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I did not see any pews in the 29 churches I visited around the country. The grandmothers, however, made good use of the stasidia around the walls.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4cCMBVuZvcIJ1XklzbbswyGvpTEJwYgTbXmFjd8xzkbtIHgAyn_EFLEh2y3tGRxGfQHr4S1qUX6f0ICbgcujkD1cHj44bi34cJE9hFSTewcX_o7uQLfXu4E2pvItTLfTap3wq/s1600/P1010058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4cCMBVuZvcIJ1XklzbbswyGvpTEJwYgTbXmFjd8xzkbtIHgAyn_EFLEh2y3tGRxGfQHr4S1qUX6f0ICbgcujkD1cHj44bi34cJE9hFSTewcX_o7uQLfXu4E2pvItTLfTap3wq/s320/P1010058.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<ol start="10" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Romanians kneel during parts of the Liturgy, which is not our normal custom, other than specified services. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">11. Romanians have the habit of crossing themselves whenever they pass a church. Not everyone does it, and maybe not even a majority do it, but enough do so that it is noticeable. I found this to be the case in Bucharest and Iasi, as well as in the rural areas. I picked up the habit while I was over there.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1fiWFalCY3aFxT5MkIHmC7U7ChQCi1IbroYviojkgbZeakvxauPVYSBsbdytIJmPUnd584aRwA3GWe2mgfMpqDqPdLxatgx8btWTI7tqQs8JqsnmH01hL5qoJUbNwLkF7EO6/s1600/P1010122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1fiWFalCY3aFxT5MkIHmC7U7ChQCi1IbroYviojkgbZeakvxauPVYSBsbdytIJmPUnd584aRwA3GWe2mgfMpqDqPdLxatgx8btWTI7tqQs8JqsnmH01hL5qoJUbNwLkF7EO6/s320/P1010122.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4XEg71XgmrxdxJsKapQHltIfX7XGOphrManq35AbxEezVOdhlngpi0qynwLhiAxUo5ynG6FG7CdG8hRDeRzXTKHBDL1Hun5aNV8pSdxFhRi-C0aXOEqLCdLRpu8pnpMBDrOnP/s1600/P1010246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4XEg71XgmrxdxJsKapQHltIfX7XGOphrManq35AbxEezVOdhlngpi0qynwLhiAxUo5ynG6FG7CdG8hRDeRzXTKHBDL1Hun5aNV8pSdxFhRi-C0aXOEqLCdLRpu8pnpMBDrOnP/s320/P1010246.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-25295032119352771372016-06-18T14:19:00.002-07:002016-06-23T13:59:41.302-07:00(4) In the Northumbrian Kingdoms<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking north from Hadrian's Wall (with ever-present clouds)</td></tr>
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I was intent on including the north of England--the old Northumbrian kingdoms--in my itinerary, primarily for two reasons: a) Northumbrian history is characterized by a certain rough romanticism, for this is the land of Kings Edwin, Oswald and Oswin, as well as Saints Aidan, Cuthbert, Bede, Cedd and Hild; and b) it is the land of my forebears. For a time, Northumbria could be said to be the leading light in Britain, the most literate and civilized place in western Europe (though at that period, the bar was not set particularly high). In my view, the synthesis of Saxon culture grafted onto Britain reached its peak in Northumbria, only later to be overshadowed by Mercia, and eventually incorporated into a Wessexian "England." But Northumbria's story is one of valor and tragedy, of nobility and treachery, of courage and deception. I intended to see the crosses of Ruthwell, Bewcastle, and Lilla, the the Holy Island of Lindesfarne, Yeavering Bell--the Holy Mountain of the Saxons, the battlefield of Heavenfield, the cathedrals at Hexham and Durham, the churches at Escomb, St. Gregory's Minster and Pickering, as well as Edington on the Whiteadder Water, the very spot where my ancestors lived for at least 160 years. My story begins here, with my own Northumbrian kin. The tale is of interest, not so much for its particulars, but rather for how it all came together. (If this sort of thing bores you, it will not hurt my feelings for you to skip over the following five italicized paragraphs.)</div>
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<i>In 1719, my 7th great-grandfather David Cowan(e) and his grown sons arrived in the Pequea Valley of now Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. The sons worked adjoining farms totaling 900 acres and prospered quickly, suggesting that they arrived with some wherewithal. By 1750, large numbers of the growing family (including my William Cowan, a grandson of the emigrant David) starting peeling-off to the frontier, primarily the Piedmont of North Carolina. There, they built 2-story stone houses facing south, like they had done in Pennsylvania and in Scotland before. The particulars of their immigrant history were quickly shed, other than the knowledge that the family was "Scottish" in origin. Many years ago, I let myself be swept-up into the Victorian myth-making of Scottish clans and tartans, trying to link my family to the Clan Colquhoun of Loch Lomond. Over time, however, realism trumped romanticism, as the real history of my family began to come into sharper focus.</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edington Mains (my ancestors lived in cottages opposite)</td></tr>
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<i><br /></i><i>Some of the family remained in the Pequea Valley. The youngest son of my emigrant brother John Cowan inherited his father's farm and the stone farmhouse. He married a first cousin from an uncle's neighboring farm. I don't much hold to any notion of "progress" and discount triumphalism in the narratives of both families and nations. Family stories are necessarily ones of decline, and salvaging, and rebuilding, just as it is in nations. The tales that ascend from height to greater height are as false as the lies nations tell themselves. And so, this family's stewardship of the land was troubled, and by the early years of the 19th century, their only surviving son lived on only 26 acres of the original farm. His 11 children, however, all grew up within sight of their ancestor's 1720s stone farmhouse. One of these children became a doctor, who lived a long life and practiced in an adjoining county. He never married. When quite old (in the 1880s), Dr. William Lightner Cowan wrote down in brief form the family history. He sent one copy to a niece in Ashville, North Carolina and another to a nephew in San Francisco. The unmarried niece assumed the mantle of family historian of the next generation, adding to his chronicle the oral tradition that this Scottish family specifically came from the Cheviot Hills. About 120 years later, copies of the letters fell into my hands. I noted that <span style="line-height: 22.4px;">the Cheviot Hills are not actually in Scotland, but in Northumberland, adjoining the Scottish Borders region. But this clue told me that I should probably focus my search on the Scottish Lowlands. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parish church, Chirnside</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>One peculiar characteristic of my particular Cowan family is that they were not Presbyterian, or at least not until they had to be. David Cowan and one of his sons helped organize the St. John's Pequea Church in 1729, where family members were very active in this parish for a number of generations. They lived in an area that was predominately Scots-Irish Presbyterian, with many local Calvinist churches. The Anglicans were much thinner on the ground. In other words, it would have been easy to be Presbyterian, whereas it took real effort to be Anglican in their part of Pennsylvania. Family members in North Carolina attempted to establish a diocese there, as well. Fierce opposition by their Scots-Irish Presbyterian neighbors prevented that from happening. Eventually, the family somewhat grudgingly settled-in to Presbyterianism in the South, although some of the lines (not mine) reverted to Episcopalianism once they had attained a certain level of affluence. This is significant, because as adherents of the established church, it implies that the family could be traced in British parish records, whereas as if they had been Scots-Irish Covenanters, no records would exist. Every extant birth, death and marriage record is available, and searchable online. </i></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue of Joseph Cowen, Newcastle</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>A search of the records for the U.K. revealed only one match--the parish of Chirnside, a few miles north of the English border, in the foothills of the Cheviot Hills, in old Berwickshire. The church records only went back to the 1650s, but that was enough to find my particular family. Research in the Latin archives in Edinburgh, as well as in the private archives at Duns Castle, fleshed out the bare bones of the parish records. The family first appeared in area records in 1562, with my 11th-great grandfather. They were small yeoman farmers who owned their own land. In the late 1500s and early 1600s, they, along with other area families, were squeezed out by the landed gentry, in this case the family of Ramsay and Dalhoussie. They still lived in the same place, but now they were tenants of Lord and Lady Edington. The Cowans seemed to have some standing with the residents of Duns Castle, however. My ancestors often acted as agents for the family, and sometimes served as constables for the parish. Other family members, however, blanketed the official records with typical Scottish litigiousness. </i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>In recent years, advances in genetic science have revolutionized what many families can know about their ancestry. For whatever reason, Cowan family members have been eager participants in the project. Ours is not a particularly common name, so most everyone thought that we were all related one way or another. YDNA samplings prove this not to be the case at all, and my particular Cowan family is no more related to others of the name than any two people would be who meet on the street. Interestingly, we share a genetic link to a family from the town of Ryton, in Durham, just west of Newcastle. They spell their name as either Cowen or Cowings. But the genetic markers indicate that we shared a common ancestor in the early to mid 1500s. This family produced a famous British politician from the Victorian era, Joseph Cowen (1829-1900). His roots were thoroughly working class and two generations were spokesmen for the workers movement in Newcastle. But the father also built a successful brick-making factory, which allowed Joseph Cowen the younger to pursue a career as a Liberal politician in Parliament, and as a newspaper owner. A grateful city of Newcastle erected a statue to him shortly after his death. In his biography, his particular family story is outlined. The family believed that they emigrated to Ryton from Lindesfarne after the dissolution of the monasteries (ca. 1539). They came there, as Catholics, because of the protection they would receive from the Catholic Tempest family. And so, if there is truth to this tale, then it is my story as well. It would seem that the Cowans left Lindesfarne after Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries in the late 1530s. One branch moved south to Ryton in Durham. Another, apparently moved about 20 miles northwest into Berwickshire. I also note that the parish church in Chirnside was non-juror during the "Glorious Revolution," which means that they refused to renounce their oath to James II. The bottom line seems to be that my heritage is not so very Scottish at all, with my roots more accurately anchored in Saxonish Northumbria. (Of course, I do have plenty of Scottish ancestry if I want to claim it: my ancestors went three times to the same Stewart well in marriage.) </i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 22.4px;">My first stop in the north of England and the Border regions was the magnificent Ruthwell Cross in Dumfriesshire. With the remaining section standing over 17 ft. in height, the Saxon stone dates to about 700 AD, as they were consolidating their control over the area. The cross does not commemorate an individual or event, but is rather a preaching cross. The east and west panels depict a great number of scenes from the life of Christ, with accompanying Scripture in Latin. The north and south panels, however, are covered with the decorative Saxon vines and branches, filled with animal life. Around them are runes, a selection from the Germanic epic, "The Dream of the Rood." From G. Ronald Murphy, in "Tree of Salvation: Yggdrasil and the Cross in the North"--"The tree on which Christ was crucified was the tree of life, but, not so much the tree of life from the Garden of Eden, of which we have no poetic description and only the briefest mention in Genesis, nor even Eden's tree of the knowledge of good and evil, but rather the magic and rune-bearing cosmic tree of Northern poetry." And, "a more startlingly emotional contrast to the sobriety of the Latin panel descriptions could scarcely be imagined. Do living people not recognize what was done on the wooden pole for their lives? Yggdrasil recognized him. The animals realized who he was. The eagle above the Tree is looking down, and sees...And so we come to a joint theme that binds the whole sculpture together: recognition, realization." The section of the "Dream of the Rood" included on the cross is, as follows:<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ruthwell Cross</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>Almighty God took off his gear and clothes</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>When He wanted to climb onto the gallows,</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>Courageous in the sight of all men.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>I did not dare bow,</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>I had to stand fast.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>I lifted up the powerful king,</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>Heaven's lord. I did not dare bend or bow.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>People mocked the tow of us together.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>I was drenched with the blood</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>that poured out of this Man's side when he sent off his spirit.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>Christ was on the pole;</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>Even so, noblemen were hurrying there from far away,</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>to the One alone. I beheld it all.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>I was sorely troubled with sorrows.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>To these men I bowed down, to their hands.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>Wounded with arrowheads</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>They laid Him down, weary in limb.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>They stood for HIm at the head of his corpse;</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>They beheld there Heaven's Chieftain. And he rested himself</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><i>there a while.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 22.4px;">I found it hard not to be moved by the Ruthwell Cross--a 1,300 year old statement of faith and loyalty to "Heaven's Chieftain," and a bold testament of the intertwining of Christian belief into native cultures. But this sublime work of art had no place in the hard, dour dogmatism of Calvinistic Scotland. Their Assembly, meeting in 1640 passed an "Act anent to demolishing of Idolatrous Monuments," decreeing that <i>in divers parts of the same, many Idolatrous Monuments, erected and made for Religious Worship, are yet extant--such as crucifixes, Images of Christ, Mary and the saints departed--ordaines the said monuments to be taken down, demolished, and destroyed, and that with all convenient diligence...</i> And so, the Cross--then approached 1,000 years old--was to be destroyed. The parish vicar held off destruction for two years, but was finally forced to oversee the process. He insured, however, that the cross was carefully broken and laid to rest in the clay floor of the parish church. In the somewhat less severe year of 1823, the Ruthwell Cross was rediscovered and eventually returned to its place within the church. The vicar of that day found a way around the still-virulent British anti-Catholicism, reckoning that it wasn't really idolatrous since it was erected under the auspices of the "Celtic" Church and not that of the Roman Church. Such mental gymnastics allowed for the re-erecting of the Ruthwell Cross as we see it today. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist's depiction of Bewcastle Cross</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remains of the Bewcastle Cross</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">The Ruthwell parish church is noted as the oldest church still being used as such in the south of Scotland today. The way things are going, it may be the only one used for such purposes before long. By this time, I had visited a great number of churches in the U.K., a few of which I found to be quite memorable (Brookwood, the Church of St. Cadog, the Church at Pennant Melangel, for example). But after eleven years as an Orthodox believer, I am still struck by that which was once commonplace to me, namely, the lack of any sense of a "sacred space." Ruthwell is decidedly low-church Presbyterian in tone. The table--where it seems communion is served--is in the center of the church, near the Ruthwell Cross. But there is nothing particular to set it apart in much of any way, and the back side of the table is visible while viewing the Cross, and one could clearly see the cleanser and other cleaning supplies stored underneath. It was almost as if they were trying to underscore the utilitarianism of it all, and to impress the fact that there was "nothing irrational or supernatural going on here." <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxZeyfHGgQLPl6UTaGhP5SQ3SVIqT14w4BYlhP2ubvggWvwvR4CH5aQ-ErWE8Fm-iyg0NltspmLGclqSIgm4Wld1Q6b8BTgE46dTPuYZsDPw1k35_YY7K51sU59Da7QSAK4MY/s1600/P1000401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxZeyfHGgQLPl6UTaGhP5SQ3SVIqT14w4BYlhP2ubvggWvwvR4CH5aQ-ErWE8Fm-iyg0NltspmLGclqSIgm4Wld1Q6b8BTgE46dTPuYZsDPw1k35_YY7K51sU59Da7QSAK4MY/s320/P1000401.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Literally or figuratively, Scotland is far from Rome</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">I cut across country to see the Bewcastle Cross, which is considered to be the compliment of the Ruthwell Cross, erected to honor King Aldfrith, whose reign began in 685 AD. The setting in the remote Bewcastle churchyard is spectacular, but a hard, driving rain made any in depth inspection of the Cross impossible. At the end of my time in Northumbria, I had hoped to visit the Lilla Cross. Lilla was a subject of King Edwin of Deira (southern Northumbria). An assassin sought to stab Edwin, and Lilla jumped between them and took the deadly blow himself. This act led the king to promise his Christian wife that he would convert to her faith. He eventually did, but took his own sweet time in doing so. This ancient stone cross commemorates that event in the life of Northumbria. I spent considerable time spotting the cross on British topographical maps and aerials, as it is deep in the Yorkshire moors. Again, weather conspired against me, and I had to mark this destination off my list. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">The next day, I ventured north into the Cheviot Hills of Northumberland and Durham, as well as the Scottish borders. I drove along the top of what had been Hadrian's Wall for some time. I had crossed the wall twice before, many years earlier, but was able for the first time to get a real sense of what the structure entailed. I stopped off at the church of St. Oswald, built near the battlefield of Heavenfield, where King Oswald believed his prayer for divine assistance was answered. The church sits is a shady churchyard, atop a hill amidst a pasture. I parked on the road and walked across the meadow to the church. The present structure is not ancient, though they are well aware of their historical associations with St. Oswald. An Orthodox church in Norwich had given them an icon of St. Oswald, along with an explanation (which they had mounted) of what an icon was, exactly, in an Orthodox understanding. The church had the icon on a stand, in a nook of the church, with a candle in front--trying to accommodate the occasional veneration of this Saxon saint within a decidedly Calvinistic venue.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuuFUP8ES10S_JaboxZwJXB10yyZdjdOgtB44r9lC_9Uvy_VII8cm0HgALprlobfzKtCw1NcGK0E22ofuCluQhAEgMx8JQ39DYj9ZtMrLh803DiKytPz04GSMuFnSemm89_Ic/s1600/P1000416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuuFUP8ES10S_JaboxZwJXB10yyZdjdOgtB44r9lC_9Uvy_VII8cm0HgALprlobfzKtCw1NcGK0E22ofuCluQhAEgMx8JQ39DYj9ZtMrLh803DiKytPz04GSMuFnSemm89_Ic/s320/P1000416.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Icon of St. Oswald in St. Oswald Kirk</td></tr>
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Of course I visited Lindesfarne--the Holy Island--on my way up, as the incoming tides would cover the causeway and make it a true island about mid-afternoon. This is a small place with just about enough room for the village. A large car park handles the steady stream of tourists who descend on the island in the morning hours. The island is truly historic, and with its associations with Sts. Aidan and Cuthbert, is definitely a place of pilgrimage. And yet, perhaps because of the crowds, it did not rate high among my experiences in the U.K. The priory (the ruins of the 13th-century church of St. Peter) is managed by English Heritage. As it stands, however, I could see everything I needed to see by standing on the outside, without purchasing a ticket to view the inside of the ruins. The more important stop, however, was the Church of St. Mary the Virgin. The present structure dates to about the same time as the priory, but it was built on the ancient foundations of the church that St. Aidan founded. This church seems to be more than just a historical way-station, with evidence of a real parish life, despite the steady inflow of tourists. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjhHIV_Xf2qqKBfSsGKVbIKkqm2RHWPF1RTCyS5VAvzGuMWQi35VbPsIN_mmni2wy6YxsgR760sZMTx1QuKADNOsO7xNuaEGb1N4ZUMm9VLqHyI831MM3JboTGsS_-WY4wCTw/s1600/P1000456+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjhHIV_Xf2qqKBfSsGKVbIKkqm2RHWPF1RTCyS5VAvzGuMWQi35VbPsIN_mmni2wy6YxsgR760sZMTx1QuKADNOsO7xNuaEGb1N4ZUMm9VLqHyI831MM3JboTGsS_-WY4wCTw/s320/P1000456+%25281%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeavering Bell</td></tr>
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From Lindesfarne, it was just a little over 20 miles to the village of Edington, where my family lived hundreds of years ago. I stood in the field that they tilled, and viewed the site of their former cottages. I visited the churchyard where they are no doubt buried (though no monuments survive from that early a date). I can now say that I have been there and have something of a feel for the region. But perhaps it was the lousy weather, but I did not feel much of a connection with the area. In fact, I felt very American, and not a little thankful that they boarded that ship in 1719. On my return to Durham, I visited Yeavering Bell, the rounded hill in the Cheviots that the early Saxons considered holy. One of their capitals lay at its base--so confident were they that they never fortified the site. Again, weather prevented further exploration.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Saxon Church at Escomb</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">I visited two cathedrals in the North country: Hexham and Durham. Cathedrals, as such, were not really on my itinerary as I did all that sort of thing back in 1994 and 1996. And frankly, they do not impress me as they do some. True, they are architectural wonders and should be appreciated on that level. But in my mind, they are often cold and sterile, with their austere vaulted ceilings trying to reach to the heavens. In my biased experience, even the largest Orthodox temple, with its domes and rounded ceilings, envelops you, aiming not for awe and grandeur, but for a real sense of intimacy, with the heavens laid out above and creation all around you. This is, of course, only my simple layman's observation. The two I visited were immense, particularly Durham. They are so large, that there are often many things going on within at the same time. They are forced to market themselves as half tourist site and half holy place simply due to the incredible cost of maintaining these piles. In Hexham, I visited the Saxon crypt, the only remains of the Saxon era church of St. Wilfred, which predated the Norman cathedral. The crypt is a quiet refuge beneath the main sanctuary--in times past, a site of pilgrimage.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumVjPeRmKp2Rz-Lx1RwYGqHwJE1MXQ2Y9zOpNZglR7-8YorF_turlSPJuaLzX0APvnmNHu4tfLQEjE2FjvynhCt3ayqM3G_tsQ-OLwxmkkEk9QVQTgF4P_s3zoORJC8G4gmxk/s1600/P1000473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumVjPeRmKp2Rz-Lx1RwYGqHwJE1MXQ2Y9zOpNZglR7-8YorF_turlSPJuaLzX0APvnmNHu4tfLQEjE2FjvynhCt3ayqM3G_tsQ-OLwxmkkEk9QVQTgF4P_s3zoORJC8G4gmxk/s320/P1000473.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Wilfred's Crypt, Hexham</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">At Durham, I venerated the relics of St. Cuthbert, in a special chamber behind the main altar. Despite the bustle of ticket booths and tours, and the meandering independent visitors, the tomb of St. Cuthbert is an oasis of secluded quietude. Instinctively perhaps, tourists are silent and contemplative there, or like me, venerating this saint on the rugs laid out in front of the tomb. I wanted to also visit the grave of the Venerable Bede, in another part of the church complex. A service was in progress,however, so I was unable to do so. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LS_Sn86S-hslwh9Qjjb2J7uF6iPTPgT5U1jvKf61fFpghGpOxiNwXn4v_rn54RJhQqmE6J5NMUoJ0ypHrVWFzSQ06pQogG-vIIHBIUjn8Ri8_ZXs5KGuwDKBTMQNJ5WTQ9ak/s1600/P1000529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LS_Sn86S-hslwh9Qjjb2J7uF6iPTPgT5U1jvKf61fFpghGpOxiNwXn4v_rn54RJhQqmE6J5NMUoJ0ypHrVWFzSQ06pQogG-vIIHBIUjn8Ri8_ZXs5KGuwDKBTMQNJ5WTQ9ak/s320/P1000529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martyrdom of St. Edmund, Pickering</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">I also purposely skipped the ruins of Whitby Abbey. While this location looms large in the history of Saxon Northumbria, the ruins are from a much later era. Also, the entire site is managed by English Heritage, requiring an admission ticket--something I instinctively balk at if I am visiting a place of pilgrimage. Their website plays up the Bram Stoker/Dracula connection as well, marketing the ability to "converse with people from Whitby's past such as Abbess Hild, a monk, and Bram Stoker, through entertaining and interactive touchscreens." Thank you, no.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGQhlKZ8km0YEHO2_02hgUa2o7G0MI4Wi06P9tQoDXoIw1sV5YkU70GlPMZsGRU4eou_UDx2KLvmoJPhiJuJYmPOlK_QT0FbKKgQLSXQZt8yP9DJLZiPrejt2K8TbmAJbwxpJ/s1600/P1000563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGQhlKZ8km0YEHO2_02hgUa2o7G0MI4Wi06P9tQoDXoIw1sV5YkU70GlPMZsGRU4eou_UDx2KLvmoJPhiJuJYmPOlK_QT0FbKKgQLSXQZt8yP9DJLZiPrejt2K8TbmAJbwxpJ/s320/P1000563.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Come The Day, these will see it out of the corner of their eyes ;)</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">I had more fruitful engagement with some of the old Saxon churches in the area: Bywell St. Andrews, St. Peter's at Monkwearmouth, the Saxon church as Escomb, Pickering, the Church of St. Mary at Lastingham and St. Gregory's Minster outside Kirbymoorside. The small Saxon church at Escomb is perhaps the most perfectly preserved church from the Saxon era, dating to the late 600s. St. Gregory's Minster, near Kirbymoorside, was another favorite. I talked briefly--if it can be called that--with one of the volunteers. He was clearly on the far side of 80 and as deaf as a post. The church showed signs of an active parish life and he informed me that there were 18 members in the choir, though no doubt he had not actually heard them in years. The churchyard was as neat and tidy as the church itself, with a newer graveyard across the road. The stones were all facing east, awaiting the Resurrection, except in one corner, where the stones for those cremated were all facing north. I know--it's a little thing, but not without, I think, some significance. The Church at St. Mary's at Lastingham is on the site of an ancient Saxon monastery where St. Cedd, brother to St. Chad, labored. His tomb and shrine is in the Saxon crypt below the somewhat newer church above.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlBxCdADRNofnKr1ojJLHGyOYTLiWMP37h9lS-e-rT2Vpjf0hJ0gMsCyAUd9gw9azk4CgBVGvWUSFaNQZGfGe_T4GWQUTEaiViUMLdOyVsgndLx-fhyRIQEA8tRLlq8TyM5nd/s1600/P1000539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlBxCdADRNofnKr1ojJLHGyOYTLiWMP37h9lS-e-rT2Vpjf0hJ0gMsCyAUd9gw9azk4CgBVGvWUSFaNQZGfGe_T4GWQUTEaiViUMLdOyVsgndLx-fhyRIQEA8tRLlq8TyM5nd/s320/P1000539.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shrine of St. Cedd, St. Mary's Church, Lastingham</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">I went to the church at Pickering for a different reason. The church only dates to the 13th-century or so. Pickering is a larger town than you might think, and the church is wedged-in close in the old town. It is a bit down-at-the-hills, obviously far larger than any need for it today. Yet inside is one of the great unheralded treasures of England. During the Reformation, admidst the general de-sanctification of the churches, interior walls were whitewashed to cover "idolatrous" wall paintings. In an 1852 renovation of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul, the artwork was uncovered. The reverend of the parish was shocked. "As a work of art [they are] fairly ridiculous, would excite feelings of curiosity, and distract the congregation." He had them quickly re-covered in a thick yellow wash. The discovery was not forgotten, however, and a subsequent vicar had more appreciation for what was underneath. The paintings were uncovered again and crudely "restored" by the mid 1890s. The most famous scene is that of the Martyrdom of St. Edmund, but there are other extensive scenes, such as a treatment of the life of St. Catherine and the Beheading of John the Baptist. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwyxP643ws6s9aVYV8Tcoas165rJeUjioDyaNBAk_a9tgpNsCEaLLWQKO6A7XOqroHXcDawdc7B5e8uRbEunqSFMze7CNadKjWNk05b3jEpLTuJyoVZDxx1V59SgM_E7tOKdiA/s1600/P1000530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwyxP643ws6s9aVYV8Tcoas165rJeUjioDyaNBAk_a9tgpNsCEaLLWQKO6A7XOqroHXcDawdc7B5e8uRbEunqSFMze7CNadKjWNk05b3jEpLTuJyoVZDxx1V59SgM_E7tOKdiA/s320/P1000530.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beheading of John the Baptist, Pickering</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"> It is these upper walls of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in Pickering, along with the recently discovered paintings on the Church of St. Cadog in Llancarfan, Wales, that offer a glimpse into medieval English worship spaces, and leave the viewer with a melancholy realization of all that was lost in the iconoclastic frenzy of the English Reformation and Civil War. They are the poorer for it, and as this particular history has worked its way out and into modernity, I cannot help but place much blame there for the hollowness at the core of Britain (and we their former colony) today. </span></div>
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Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-38860774100717946262016-06-07T13:31:00.000-07:002016-06-07T13:31:47.958-07:00(3) In the Welsh Kingdoms<div align="center" style="background-color: white;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FGYSzKGaTBpCH5CIblogPP_HIZTcnp9yepfeq7SXWsJUiFdiN5lgwb29bOi9EMPxXFtEWzYEDFZigknZS9oPJgQyP0HaPdj9cKdZ8t9-LyWoH5kk5FgU84nB_a4tthO5C_FZ/s1600/P1000333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FGYSzKGaTBpCH5CIblogPP_HIZTcnp9yepfeq7SXWsJUiFdiN5lgwb29bOi9EMPxXFtEWzYEDFZigknZS9oPJgQyP0HaPdj9cKdZ8t9-LyWoH5kk5FgU84nB_a4tthO5C_FZ/s320/P1000333.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Pennant Melangel</td></tr>
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<h1 class="story-body__h1" data-asset-uri="/news/magazine-25214557" style="border: 0px; clear: both; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: inherit; font-size: 2rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.125; margin: 0px; padding: 16px 0px 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, 'trebuchet ms', arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 12px;">Wales proved to be the most surprising region of my travels through the U.K. I had not attempted any systematic study of the Welsh until recent months. I had some vague notions of a coal mines and poverty, largely from a few films half remembered. And maybe there is that, but I didn't see it, spending the better part of 4 days crisscrossing the region. True, there is a lot of industrialization in the far south of Wales, but no more so than you would expect from coastal areas along major shipping routes. In terms of natural beauty, Wales takes second place to none on the island. Without gushing about it, the Welsh countryside--south, north and central--is simply stunning. And, the roads are wider and traffic a bit calmer, which means that you can actually savor the beauty, maybe even pull off the side of the road and walk about--imagine that! I include the Welsh borderlands--Shropshire and Herefordshire--in this general commendation, as well.</span></h1>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKeDgxVN9p2JRyXeVALSTZ3aNW2xb-yQsx2cOV-Pni2YUkLAktgyJ2yJOP5MIofu6Hl1dRrFY2otyWhEB3U-tnCwz_VC3yJTD6897UdKpXnV9ItrxEMd5l8yy2-jk6auQIdgS/s1600/cadoc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKeDgxVN9p2JRyXeVALSTZ3aNW2xb-yQsx2cOV-Pni2YUkLAktgyJ2yJOP5MIofu6Hl1dRrFY2otyWhEB3U-tnCwz_VC3yJTD6897UdKpXnV9ItrxEMd5l8yy2-jk6auQIdgS/s320/cadoc.jpg" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">St. Cadog<br /></td></tr>
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<div style="color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 12px;">I realize that I sometimes draw sweeping generalizations from limited observations. That said, I would have to say that yes, the Welsh are different from the English. From what I saw, I would say that they are maybe more boisterous, a bit louder, and more direct--none of this English standing on ceremony. Of all the places I visited in the U.K., Wales is the one region that I would definitely contemplate a return visit.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 12px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 12px;">As in Wessex and Cornwall, my itinerary in Wales had to be trimmed due to rain, my miscalculation of realistic traveling times in the U.K, and my own absent-mindedness (on my first day in Wales, I had to first double back and retrieve the luggage I left behind in Cornwall--adding 140 miles to that day's travels.) The main casualties were the elimination of the Church of St. Tewdric (Arthur's grandfather), the Cathedral at Cardiff, and most importantly, my trek to the spot where King Arthur may be buried (not in Glastonbury). Theories about King Arthur are something of a cottage industry in the U.K. The places that play it up the most (Glastonbury and Tintangel) are probably the sites with the least connection to the actual historical figure. For despite the stories and medieval myth-making that came later, there is at the heart of it, a real man, Athrwys. Like I say, there are plenty of theories to pick from, but the one that I believe has the most historical legs to it is <a href="http://www.britannia.com/history/arthur/mynydd.html" target="_blank">this one</a>. I had actually built my entire Welsh itinerary around visiting Mynydd-y-Gaer. But due to running hours late, by the time I finally reached the site, it late in the day, steadily raining, and I realized that I would not be able to drive as close to the site as I had anticipated. I was still a ways from my inn for the night, so I took a deep breath and chalked it up as something that was not meant to be.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBjALu5Fag6qeH2x8v4WqAJqiZCGAFC7tywWUQBLN76c-kQXhdZR8RdjFIsrvHrRAZz0RBnpoxrM43m_TPVEfeVQCivmdwOb-71kaCmxYsZbb63lEsP_BtqskzCU6Z_9iAO-x/s1600/P1000124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBjALu5Fag6qeH2x8v4WqAJqiZCGAFC7tywWUQBLN76c-kQXhdZR8RdjFIsrvHrRAZz0RBnpoxrM43m_TPVEfeVQCivmdwOb-71kaCmxYsZbb63lEsP_BtqskzCU6Z_9iAO-x/s320/P1000124.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">At St. Cadog's Church<br /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 12px;">The fascinating thing about Athrwys is that he is right in the mix of the early Welsh saints and missionaries to Cornwall and Brittany. I have it all charted out (but that is at home), but I do remember that he was a close kinsman of King Brychan, and of course, all of King Brychan's children. There are stories of Athrwys visiting his kinsman, Nectan, at St. Nectan's Glen in Cornwall. He is a kinsman of St. Cadog (of more later), and of St. Govan (Gawain). So, the pursuit of Arthur (Athrwys) was really not at all removed from the main scope of my inquiries--the early Welsh saints. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCq-PAUbwIyZBkxtLSsnqwj5KizdBhbxOOd979T7QJ83bi08s9loVkygQ_cNJ5WJY3sTsnt1knamHEGsb9Q3PWvKXx5Mf9EScP7XU85nmQuAdF09MMuJiKotOYMuMBYXMeuY7c/s1600/P1000125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCq-PAUbwIyZBkxtLSsnqwj5KizdBhbxOOd979T7QJ83bi08s9loVkygQ_cNJ5WJY3sTsnt1knamHEGsb9Q3PWvKXx5Mf9EScP7XU85nmQuAdF09MMuJiKotOYMuMBYXMeuY7c/s320/P1000125.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At. St. Cadog's Church</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, trebuchet ms, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 12px;">The highlight of my time in southern Wales (in the Vale of Glamorgan), was the Church of St. Cadog (or Cadoc) in the village of Llancarfan. The present church dates to about 1200, but was built on a monastic foundation laid by St. Cadog, grandson of King Brychan, in the sixth century. Llancarfan is as pretty a village as can be found on the island. The church, unlike many, shows signs of active parish life, and interestingly enough, seemed to be of an extremely "high" nature. If not known as being part of the Anglican communion, it showed every sign of being a Catholic church, with holy water outside the door, a sign saying that the Blessed Sacrament was reserved here, and a statue of the Virgin Mary, so placed for devotion. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjypwItvuURsGWEco3la-qDxclB_snDcM6g1DlherYzz6qM-uCstxfXKq06L_vRnOmC0uTv9I1-iQa72AyTIAF29AM-zxUVbHJ7GgLI6TDNIcnFVklD3lrAzA8-hCXE7uRIL0wk/s1600/P1000162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjypwItvuURsGWEco3la-qDxclB_snDcM6g1DlherYzz6qM-uCstxfXKq06L_vRnOmC0uTv9I1-iQa72AyTIAF29AM-zxUVbHJ7GgLI6TDNIcnFVklD3lrAzA8-hCXE7uRIL0wk/s320/P1000162.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At St. Cadog's Church</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, trebuchet ms, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 12px;">The unique thing about this church, however, was the discovery several years ago of some incredible "wall paintings" underneath the limewashed walls. The British are very careful, for some reason, not to call it "iconography." Now admittedly, it is not of the same quality, or as stylized as Orthodox iconography, but at the end of the day, that is what it is. As the church literature itself maintains, "encouraged by waves of Protestant reforms, the Puritan in us whitewashed away the decorative narratives of culture and belief." The impression of English churches, even if you like the soaring Gothic nature of many of them, is that they are, well, austere and stark. Llancarfan (and other churches) show that it was not always thus. The old English church was colorful, with walls covered in iconography. Candles would have been lit everywhere, with shrines to various saints filling in the sides of the churches. With the Reformation of the 1530s, and the Puritanism of the 1640s, the walls were whitewashed, the shrines busted-up, and the devotion to the saints prohibited. So, what we think as a typically English style of worship is a relatively new thing, not 500 years old--and the way things are going, it may not reach 500 years.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji8rF1q684eim602939qdEdcL7eLsTk2_eNUdJKk7ykWqR3EwEi-H5OoKH26NW-3knxrhIONLFLoKQgiRyANpdCxP78Xw3D03y2Mv_qp0k8z2Z-mkepPMJZq4UoGTUOMJkL1Pu/s1600/P1000266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji8rF1q684eim602939qdEdcL7eLsTk2_eNUdJKk7ykWqR3EwEi-H5OoKH26NW-3knxrhIONLFLoKQgiRyANpdCxP78Xw3D03y2Mv_qp0k8z2Z-mkepPMJZq4UoGTUOMJkL1Pu/s320/P1000266.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pembrokeshire coast, above St. Govan's</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4ZnhBOxn5sxldBhiqI2i9w_2QVFO-oYyfCaA39HphdzBghhKJHUET6FdRfAeSKWzXbnwqFwqxYt55sLszQErhJP7ULAUjpvb6Ir_7vTePT4UJmwtTGPsaPmc54-zbv3SfBVz/s1600/P1000285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4ZnhBOxn5sxldBhiqI2i9w_2QVFO-oYyfCaA39HphdzBghhKJHUET6FdRfAeSKWzXbnwqFwqxYt55sLszQErhJP7ULAUjpvb6Ir_7vTePT4UJmwtTGPsaPmc54-zbv3SfBVz/s320/P1000285.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At St. Brychan's Church, Nevern</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, trebuchet ms, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 12px;">I next visited the Church of St. Illtud in Llantwit Major. This is one of the site of the oldest center of learning in the British isles. St. Illtud was a disciple of St. Cadog who founded the first monastic school in Britain. The church is one of the longest in the U.K., built in phases from about 1100 to 1300. But I did not come to see the building, but rather their display of early Celtic stone crosses and pillars--primarily the "Samson Stone" of St. Samson.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_K1xBXWu9bx30TZ94Ti9_dXHnJyxYONvBM2XHCNfxjG4OSfkShMhiUdeCfGOqO7MQEmN0XpCHgphxdgMI1EMXNP6_lcnsWZY82BBEf5Gn2lzHWKQ5hb3SwUW8oVOMRYNfY6DF/s1600/P1000308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_K1xBXWu9bx30TZ94Ti9_dXHnJyxYONvBM2XHCNfxjG4OSfkShMhiUdeCfGOqO7MQEmN0XpCHgphxdgMI1EMXNP6_lcnsWZY82BBEf5Gn2lzHWKQ5hb3SwUW8oVOMRYNfY6DF/s320/P1000308.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shrine of St. Melangel</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, trebuchet ms, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 12px;">I stayed one night on the Pembrokeshire coast--this to be close to St. Govan's. This saint (also known as Gawain in the Arthurian legends) was a member of King Brychan's extensive connections, and retired here as a hermit. His hermitage is wedged between the rocks, underneath the cliffs in Pembroke. It's a lonely site, but I suppose that's what being a hermit is all about. I skipped St. David's Cathedral, knowing it would press me for time as I was venturing into central and northern Wales. But before I left southern Wales, I did stop at Nevern, the see the ancient stones in the churchyard there. One dates to the 6th-century, and the Celtic cross stone to the 9th-century.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv-RAfU4tU8TQl-2E7NciJojiLF5TlFV_5poQlfIpToYzuGXBFQKDSVXYiFDJ7qIuaVZKms3p6yfCA1iiYqHJE7CVHfokW7-JOM40rro0LS_AE3ahP8Jwqipp_VLSkMH1YIVD1/s1600/P1000313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv-RAfU4tU8TQl-2E7NciJojiLF5TlFV_5poQlfIpToYzuGXBFQKDSVXYiFDJ7qIuaVZKms3p6yfCA1iiYqHJE7CVHfokW7-JOM40rro0LS_AE3ahP8Jwqipp_VLSkMH1YIVD1/s320/P1000313.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Melangel's grave</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, trebuchet ms, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 12px;">My stop in central Wales was the Church at Pennant Melangel, hidden at the end of the prettiest valley in the U.K. There are Orthodox churches in the U.K, and there's a monastery or two on the island. But outside of these sites, I would say the most Orthodox place on the island is this remote church--a true place of pilgrimage. The pieces of the shrine to St. Melangel--smashed in the Reformation--has been carefully reconstructed. The grave of St. Melangel has been discovered in what was once the altar of the church. The church has a number of icons, and it is clear that they know what to do with them. They are obviously placed where they can be venerated. There is some interest in the U.K. these days in things "spiritual." So, you have those who go on pilgrimage, but are not exactly sure why, as evidenced by the leaving of feathers and other odd items on St. Melangel's grave. The void is real and the yearning is real. My prayer is that this may grow into something real. I would recommend this as a pilgrimage site to any Orthodox Christian.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGhvGbbs9li5r4tahGMlN3pt3E4mC1Ag5P-QHfUVTEIdDzSd5WiFSgc0dxNERuMapWUdyOzPhEta1hPiYng9NVyxbci4B_OzRW4XwIe8c_u7EEIOIjI73EaH8XJ36tVJQ03pL9/s1600/P1000322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGhvGbbs9li5r4tahGMlN3pt3E4mC1Ag5P-QHfUVTEIdDzSd5WiFSgc0dxNERuMapWUdyOzPhEta1hPiYng9NVyxbci4B_OzRW4XwIe8c_u7EEIOIjI73EaH8XJ36tVJQ03pL9/s320/P1000322.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Melangel</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, trebuchet ms, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 12px;">I visited two of the three holy wells I had intended to see in northern Wales. My favorite was the well of St. Dyfnog, in St. Dyfnog's Church in Llanrhaeadr. The 13th-century church is noted for its "Jesse Window," a stained glass depicting the ancestry of Jesus. Amazingly enough, even this was too much for the Calvinists. During the English Civil War, the window was dismantled and hidden-away, only to be dug-up and re-installed in 1823, I believe. The interior of the church also contains a carved golden pelican. The religious symbolism is that a pelican will pick at it's own breast to bleed and feed its young. The porch once contained a carved image of St. Dyfnog, but of course, this was hacked out as well. All this behavior puts me in mind of the countless churches or former churches visited in the Balkans, Turkey and Georgia where the Turks would deface the images. Both Puritan and Turk wore the same ideological and fundamentalist blinders. But the inside of the church did not interest me much. I'm not overly impressed with stained glass, and the rest of the church was as stark as most. What I wanted to see was at the end of a trail that snaked through the churchyard and up a wooded ravine. Several hundred feet beyond was the Holy Well, the spring of St. Dyfnog. Here he established a hermitage, and it became a pilgrimage site from the very earliest days. I said my prayers here, not in the church.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, trebuchet ms, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 12px;">The well of St. Winifride was my last stop. This is the most famous holy well in Wales--if not the entire U.K. For a variety of reasons, it was my least favorite. It has always been a site of Catholic pilgrimage, even during the darkest days of England's anti-Catholicism. Elizabeth I wanted to appoint a commission to investigate the purported healing properties of the well. The pilgrims kept coming anyway. In 1687, King James II and his wife, Mary of Modena, made a pilgrimage to St. Winifride's. She had given birth to and buried 10 children, the last 3 years earlier. She bathed in the well and they prayed for a son. The next year, for better or for worse, she gave birth to the James, "the Old Pretender." The site is maintained by the Catholic Church. They do a good job of presenting the hagiography of St. Winefride, and clear-up some of the latter accretions to her story (such as the fact that her brother avenged her death by killing her assailant, which is more believable that the earth swallowing him up.) You have to go through their gift shop, however, full of treacly, sentimental sweet Catholic kitsch. In all fairness, I would make the same statement about the Orthodox gift shop I recently visited at Curtea de Arges, Romania. There was nothing in there about St. Winifride, specifically. The slick, generic marketing of the site was just a little off-putting is all I am saying.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, trebuchet ms, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 12px;">My visit to Wales would not be complete without telling of my flat tire in Llannefydd. Frankly, I had met too much oncoming traffic on country lanes just barely wide enough for one vehicle, with my response being to hug the edge of the hedge on the left. After a while, that took a toll on my left front tire. I limped into the church parking lot at Llannefydd, where I was to stay that night. I have changed many a tire in my day, and so I got out the spare and jack and equipment and commenced the process. After I had jacked-up the car, I noticed that my lug wrench did not fit the lug nuts on the tire. I was frustrated beyond measure. I walked down to the Hawk and Buckle where I was to stay that night. There was good crowd in the pub. I talked to the young girl working the bar (the owner's daughter) and asked to borrow a lug wrench, in the hope that it would fit. With the borrowed lug wrench in hand, I trudged back to the site of my misfortune. As it turns out, that lug wrench was the wrong size, as well. About that time, two small cars swerved into the parking lot, and six of the lads from the pub noisily piled out, speaking in Welsh, no less. They were all over my situation. One squatted down next to me and I showed him my problem. He reached into the tire-changing paraphanalia and pulled out a tweezer-looking thing. He then reached in and pulled off a little plastic cover over every nut--after which removed, would render my lug wrench exactly the right size! He was going to go ahead and change the tire from there, but I wouldn't let him. No doubt they had a good laugh later on over my ineptitude. I offered to buy a round of drinks at the Hawk and Buckle, but they had to get on. Just as suddenly and noisily, they sped off out of the village. I could live with people like that.</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica, 'trebuchet ms', arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 12px;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Winifride's Well</td></tr>
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Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18762198.post-39295700366632757992016-06-01T12:37:00.002-07:002016-06-01T12:37:48.321-07:00(2) In Cornwall<div style="font-family: arial, geneva, helvetica, 'lucida sans', trebuchet, verdana; font-size: 13.3333px; text-align: justify;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPvOncaLXlaF1_lH4k05lSGPGjgoBDLl8FKjavBFai7W5axEcBZbcCti9-xFggwcWSBmMJ-gtyOaHLWvNmtHQPVPWx1nC6XZYZMFtBkGWRFAwodDzr9Mvg9wcNVWePIxSoBP7/s1600/stpiran.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPvOncaLXlaF1_lH4k05lSGPGjgoBDLl8FKjavBFai7W5axEcBZbcCti9-xFggwcWSBmMJ-gtyOaHLWvNmtHQPVPWx1nC6XZYZMFtBkGWRFAwodDzr9Mvg9wcNVWePIxSoBP7/s320/stpiran.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Piran of Cornwall</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Piran's Cross</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Cornwall (the old kingdom of Dumnonia) was a particular destination on this journey. I had never been further than Devon, and had heard good things about the region. I enjoyed my stay there, but it was not exactly what I intended. A look at the map clearly shows that Cornwall is not on the way to anywhere. There is basically one or two ways in, and the same routes out. And so, the problems encountered in old Wessex hold doubly true of Cornwall. The traffic is just as intense, and if anything, the roads are even narrower. That, coupled with the cold, wet weather, eliminated several of my "must-sees" in the region. That said, Cornwall is every bit as picturesque as any other region in England. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tristan Stone in Foway, Cornwall</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">The Welsh loom large in the Christian hagiography of Cornwall. Both Cornish and Welshmen were Celtic peoples, somewhat holed-up in the west of the island by those worrisome Angles, Saxons, and Jutes. It was mainly Welsh missionaries (though some from Ireland, as well) who finally, completely Christianized Dumnonia. Many of these were children of the near mythic King Brychan of Wales. He was the first cousin of the man most likely to be King Arthur (but more on that in a later post). Brychan had a great number of children who became missionaries. The varying numbers sometimes defy credulity, and it seems it became popular to ascribe saints as children of Brychan. But no matter, I believe the basic story line holds (and why should we not trust it?) And so, any number of sites are associated with his progeny: St. Kew, St. Clether, St. Cleer, St. Nectans, Morwenstow, St. Keyne, to name just a few.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">The particular expression of Christianity in this extremity of Britain expressed itself in a profusion of stone crosses (usually round in the Cornish style) and holy wells. Cornwall also has the greatest number of villages and towns starting with "Saint". No one denies that some of these crosses and wells pre-dated the Christian era. Pagan, even neolithic menhirs were converted into stone crosses ("Old Tom") below, being an excellent example. Sometimes the stones marked graves, other times they marked events, and still others designated boundaries. The wells, whether they existed prior to the arrival of the saint, or sprung forth miraculously, were always associated in a particular way with an individual saint, and each had their own healing properties.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Tom</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">A recent poll confirms that the decades-long slow decline of professed Christianity in England has turned into a precipitous drop. Cornwall appears to be no exception to the overall figures. From my admittedly superficial understanding of the particulars here, I believe that the region went strongly in the Nonconformist direction after the revolutions of the 1540s and the 1640s. Methodist chapels became the preference, if there was one at all. So, at least some of the old churches look a bit down at the heals these days. And the Protestant chapels that once were are thin on the ground these days. I used to say (and did in fact say in the prospectus for this series) that England was full of churches. It is not, really. Yes, every village and town will have the old church, and maybe, just maybe, a chapel. But that is it. The old village church is probably just hanging-on, with maintenance and upkeep being the overarching concern of its increasingly elderly parishioners. Pleas to the visiting tourists become ever more strident. A similarly-sized town in the U.S. would have any number of competing Protestant sects (not that that is necessarily a good thing), and perhaps even a Catholic church. England is, for better or worse, stuck with their drafty and stark old Gothic churches, and fewer and fewer seem committed to staying that course.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's left of Celtic Cross, St. Neot's Church</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">And so, my intention of finding some of those "thin places" in Cornwall did not meet with great success. Hopefully, I will be proven more wrong than right. One of my first stops was the 1,500 year old "Tristan Stone," which originally marked the grave of the hero of the epic "Tristan and Isolde." The stone's inscription refers to "Trystan" and "Marcus Cunomorus" (King Mark). The stone has been moved several times in its history, so poor lovelorn Tristan's actual burial place is lost to history. The stone current sets close to the road (as does everything in England), next to a Texaco station. a local builder has requested permission to develop the site, and in the process, move the stone once more. This has some in the village a bit riled. "Such desecration is the equivalent of Napoleon shooting at the Sphinx for target practice...it's an infringement of the cultural integrity of Cornway; it is cultural violence." There might be a bit of hyperbole here, but I am in whole-hearted sympathy. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frs. Niketas and Raphael, St. Piran's Orthodox Church</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Another similar stone is known as "Old Tom", marking the high point in the region. This menhir is ancient, and the cross carved into it is hardly legible today. Nearby, King Doniert's stone marks the burial place of the last king of Cornwall before being absorbed by Wessex (England.) I visited the church of St. Neot, who was strangely not a child of King Brychan. According to his hagiography, Neot was a close kinsman of King Alfred the Great, who visited him at this site. The 15th-century church contains a noted stain glass window depicting the life of St. Neot, but the building was locked-up tight when I arrived. I admired a few old Cornish crosses int the graveyard, though. With literally no place to park a car in the village, I gave up on trying to find St. Neot's well. I did however, visit St. Cleer's well, right in the village of the same name. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegYCPPLulRQ2nGYOYyt-fXmSgXzhLvzCALdbt27iN6W8LnqRDT8vGApk-9yuyfF8FWALIxvKePIG-patpaLpcm4jSbOobGMc-szAeb0pEfOBtXWyB6PlnxG-RjodpzfWP1-u0/s1600/P1000099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegYCPPLulRQ2nGYOYyt-fXmSgXzhLvzCALdbt27iN6W8LnqRDT8vGApk-9yuyfF8FWALIxvKePIG-patpaLpcm4jSbOobGMc-szAeb0pEfOBtXWyB6PlnxG-RjodpzfWP1-u0/s320/P1000099.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the path to St. Nectan's Glen</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I had made an appointment to meet Fr. Raphael and Fr. Nicetas of the Orthodox Church of the Archangel Michael and St. Piran. The two priests opened the church for me and we were able to visit briefly. We talked of our differing situations, but each of us in our own way in areas not particularly given to Orthodoxy. They currently use what was once a tiny Methodist chapel, wedged between a barn and the very edge of the road. They have land, and hope to build where they have more room. They said they have little traction among the English. Most of their parishioners are Greeks and Romanians and Ukrainians and Russians and other Orthodox scattered around this tip of England. Our situation is just the opposite. They asked for prayers for their church, and I intend to do that very thing. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlhw020ZJyal1Yd1DPTwaSbKC5TTuh8aiDYBN3-RewZERZIdE2zwgp6L6_ovXx8J10I7jJO8Aw2ifuOtt5z55cGvEGH5JDUAR52-rCBqqIBuPeZeyjIfm6KHEGSQ1ljpFC4UV/s1600/P1000108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlhw020ZJyal1Yd1DPTwaSbKC5TTuh8aiDYBN3-RewZERZIdE2zwgp6L6_ovXx8J10I7jJO8Aw2ifuOtt5z55cGvEGH5JDUAR52-rCBqqIBuPeZeyjIfm6KHEGSQ1ljpFC4UV/s320/P1000108.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Church of St. Morwenna, Morwenstow</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">St. Piran is the patron saint of Cornwall, an early missionary from Ireland. The site I wanted to visit most of all in Cornwall was St. Piran's Cross and the nearby ruins of St. Piran's Church. The cross is thought to be the oldest in Cornwall. Through the years, the church became buried under shifting sand dunes. When the church was moved a bit further inland, it too suffered the same fate. I had the spot pinpointed on the map, but the best access to the site was blocked by a caravan park. I would have walked in from the road, had it not been raining pretty heavily. And so, I had to cross this one off my list. I did however, visit a much newer St. Piran's Church, as well as a St. Piran's Well.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-1TZljTzUaODVKonMdHNN4GRk0Lu2afTB7odGEi7zKUNxAhYkIpwEBlQ6yLJbC_PI_qwRGRKYgOjl2B9P7dtt1X4xBk5Klpl-fw836ffgq3DT5C4eK7OoEAeaEOgGLjrjg0M/s1600/P1000112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-1TZljTzUaODVKonMdHNN4GRk0Lu2afTB7odGEi7zKUNxAhYkIpwEBlQ6yLJbC_PI_qwRGRKYgOjl2B9P7dtt1X4xBk5Klpl-fw836ffgq3DT5C4eK7OoEAeaEOgGLjrjg0M/s320/P1000112.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Morwenstow</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I walked most of the way up to St. Nectan's Glen, where St. Nectan lived as a hermit where a waterfall fell into the glen. He has a large church dedicated to him just outside of western Cornwall in Devon. Due to time constraints, and the ever-present rain, I also eliminated St. Clether's Well in the village of St. Clether. I really regret not being able to make the walk back to this well. St. Keyne's well is located right next to the road, so I was able to visit the well, even in the rain. All three--Nectan, Clether and Keyne--were children of King Brychan of Glamorgan. St. Keyne's well has an interesting tradition: For married couples, it is believed that the one who drinks from the well first will wear the pants in the family. I could make a joke about this, but I've always done pretty much what I wanted to do, and everybody knows it.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0JGqNFs9Xlp4R7zJgSjrnlgxkH-d3kSfWZAd1lJc-AmReLAtoWOAgids1uLem7YL3ZARGZvFY0MhKtbMHAbaN__RxFofTe6__wlaU-mjpF5-vpjKzwkBKZ9YOAzMmIbqRNSs/s1600/P1000113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0JGqNFs9Xlp4R7zJgSjrnlgxkH-d3kSfWZAd1lJc-AmReLAtoWOAgids1uLem7YL3ZARGZvFY0MhKtbMHAbaN__RxFofTe6__wlaU-mjpF5-vpjKzwkBKZ9YOAzMmIbqRNSs/s320/P1000113.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Site of St. Morwenna's Well</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">My most moving experience in Cornwall was visiting Morwenstow, and the Church of St. Morwenna, along the northwest coast. Inside the church, they have recently uncovered some "wall paintings" (otherwise known as "iconography") under 300 years of whitewash. The female figure is thought to represent St. Morwenna. But this tired old church, at the end of long trail masquerading as an actual road, was locked tight. I walked on across a field to the bluff overlooking the Atlantic. The wind was blowing pretty fierce and the waves were crashing--it seemed right out of one of those 1940s adaptations of a Daphne du Maurier novel. I walked down the cliff a ways to the site of St. Morwenna's Well, now overgrown with gorse. The fog was really rolling-in, so I started back, the church tower just barely visible in the mist. Back in the churchyard, I noticed a strange monument. I discovered it was a copy of the masthead of the ship "Caledonia," which busted-up and sank on the rocks below the bluff. The reverend of the St. Morwenna's saw that the drowned sailors were taken up the bluff and given a Christian burial in his churchyard. For many years, the actual masthead of the ship served as their monument, but in recent years it has been placed inside the church and this copy put in its place. Morwenstow was probably the most atmospheric and moving place I visited in Cornwall. I wouldn't mind going back one day.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mk8owjMLBVokEKkaR8YyOdi0SqHai6A05_sh6c-vncNsHrCV9XvaBL9H_WZN0MVkm7qk-C7agau-QwycmFbzDJXSq7MsJp_w70Vo9jmdusm6zmHb0Or5RnGQCAdp-T2GSpTu/s1600/P1000115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mk8owjMLBVokEKkaR8YyOdi0SqHai6A05_sh6c-vncNsHrCV9XvaBL9H_WZN0MVkm7qk-C7agau-QwycmFbzDJXSq7MsJp_w70Vo9jmdusm6zmHb0Or5RnGQCAdp-T2GSpTu/s320/P1000115.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monument to drowned sailors, Morwenstow</td></tr>
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Terry (John)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07523479530843509695noreply@blogger.com1