Some favourite books - Historic day for the F.SS.R.

It has recently been announced by Messrs D.C.Thomson & Co. that publication of the Dandy comic in its existing format, is to end in December 2012. Happily it is to be re-incarnated, apparently in a format more in tune with  the minds of children of the 21st century.  Some may question whether this is necessarily a good thing, and some may suggest that children’s minds do not really change from one generation to the next. No doubt the reality is that whilst children’s minds do not change, the world certainly does. Let us hope that the new Dandy continues to provide innocent delight and pleasure to children everywhere.

One of the great pleasures in life is reading. When aged about ten years, my idea of heaven was reading a ‘William’ book by Richmal Crompton, with a selection of sweets to hand,  preferably fruit or acid drops which lasted a long time.
Other favourites authors included  Arthur Ransome - ‘Swallows and Amazons’, ‘We didn’t mean to go to Sea’, etc.;   Enid Blyton  - ‘Valley of Adventure’, ‘Secret Five’, etc.;  W.F.Johns - the 'Biggles' stories of heroism by fighter pilots of the Royal Air Force; Percy F Westerman - similar stories of heroism  at sea involving the Royal Navy. There were many other authors of course, but those mentioned were particular favourites of mine.

As a teenager, mystery and detective stories were my  favourites.  Edgar Wallace, Dorothy Sayers, Arthur Coynan Doyle, Peter Cheyney ,  Earle Stanley Gardner, Agatha Christie, were all authors whose books I looked for. I have to admit that my literary  taste was simple and  low-brow i.e.popular, rather than intellectual and high-brow,  and to be perfectly honest I think this is still the case.

As a young man, serious  reading took a back seat, in fact virtually disappeared into the boot!  There were so many other things to be done, leaving little time  to read  anything other than newspapers or  magazines.   Marriage, family, and my job, also sporting activities  and  involvement when possible in Church events, filled my life, and over time it became extremely difficult for me to discipline myself to read  a book of any real substance.   An Open University degree course, which  necessitated  reading  books on a variety of subjects, and  also my  job  which involved  reading  official documents and reports, certainly helped to exercise my brain, and it was enjoyable, but it could not be described as reading for pleasure.

It was only in later life that I found the time and inclination to read  those  books  that I had  postponed reading for so many years.  Much of the fun was actually searching the second-hand market place for the books I wanted. Finding those books at an affordable price often entailed  spending  many enjoyable hours  browsing  in bookshops specialising in second-hand books , of which there were many in Devon where we lived at the time.

Books I read now and which take pride of place on my bookshelf, include religious  biographies  of Saints and martyrs of the Catholic Church, lives of different Popes and eminent Catholic  hierarchal figures, particularly those of the 19th and 20th centuries, and lives of  outstanding English men and women eg. Winston Churchill,  Leonard Cheshire VC,  and his wife  Sue Ryder ; various war history books,  e.g.‘A Bridge Too Far’ by Cornelius Ryan; travel books, e.g. ‘In the Steps of the Master’ by HV Morton; short story collections by selected authors; and an eclectic assortment of books including novels by R.F.Delderfield, Norman Collins, and others;  poetry by John Betjeman  and others;   numerous historical biographies and books of religious interest e.g. 'Lives of the Desert Fathers', and others; also certain fine art reference books. 

If you  ever find yourself in Kirkwall, Orkney, with time on your hands, I recommend a visit to the only second-hand bookshop in town, situated next to the Library. I think the shop is called ‘McCarthy’s Bookshop’. At first sight the shop is not particularly prepossessing, but don’t judge it by external appearances.  Inside is a large selection of books to suit all tastes, and at extremely reasonable prices. There is a certain order within the shop, but not too much! The element of surprise and possible delight has not been eliminated by an over-scrupulously organised shop proprietor, thus when browsing, one retains  a  sense of hopeful anticipation! It is not a big shop, but it is full of books , on shelves and in boxes, high and low. The proprietor/ manager of the shop is a Scotsman with a pointed ‘Van Dyck’ beard, a droll but sharp  sense of humour, and a never-ending fund of  stories. He  appears  decidedly knowledgeable on most matters literary,  and  is genuinely helpful, always  remembering  his customer’s interests and needs even if he hasn’t seen the customer for several weeks.  I have bought several books from him, including one which according to  various  websites, was only available in Australia, the British Museum, and in south-west Scotland, at a shop which, coincidentally, shared the same owner as the Kirkwall shop. This was a book dealing with the sinking of the SS Athenia by a German submarine, on the first day of the 2nd World War, with an account of the incident by various survivors. I particularly needed this  book for a project here on Stronsay  in Orkney,  where we actually  have one of the  lifeboats  from the stricken ship ,  converted to an out-house and used as such for many decades , and which we still entertain faint hopes of restoring if sufficient funds can be raised.

        Lifeboat from SS Athenia on Stronsay foreshore.

My most recent purchase from this shop, is a trilogy of novels in one volume, translated from the French, entitled ‘Cecile among the Pasquiers’ written by Georges Duhamel, and published by Dent & Sons in 1940. The original retail price  was  9s.6d., a not inconsiderable amount of money at the time. I don’t read many novels, but  I was tempted by  some excellent reviews on the cover , and  have not been disappointed. I think it a beautifully  written book and one  which held my  attention from the beginning, which with  many books is not always the case, and  I find  it difficult to put down.  The author, a qualified doctor who served with the French army in the Great War, and thereafter strongly anti-war in his views, was a prolific writer and author of many books. I am  enjoying it to the extent that I have already purchased through Amazon, another book by the same author, entitled ‘The Pasquier Chronicles’, being  five further stories  in one volume, relating to the lives and fortunes of the same  family .

We  have an elderly lady friend on Stronsay, in her nineties, who is unable to read owing to poor eyesight. This causes her great frustration and distress as reading was her favourite pastime.  Her unfortunate situation has made me especially appreciative of the unique gift of sight,  reminding me that as the eyes are our 'windows to the world' ,  even more importantly they  are  the  ‘windows of our soul’.  

Which brings me to the final toast - 'To the Dandy. Long may it continue to flourish,  for the innocent pleasure and  delight of  children everywhere.’

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A unique and joyous occasion:-

Today, Wednesday, 22nd August 2012  is a very special day for the Religious Community, the 'Sons of the Most Holy Redeemer' (F.SS.R) also known as the 'Transalpine Redemptorists', based at Golgotha Monastery, Papa Stronsay, Orkney.

                                 

          R.C.Diocese of Aberdeen - Coat of Arms


'Invitation to the Public Profession of Vows of the Fathers and Brothers of the
Congregation of the Sons of the Most Holy Redeemer.

We have the joy of announcing to you that our communities in Papa Stronsay and Christchurch have been canonically recognised as a Clerical Institute of Diocesan Right and now form an officially recognised Religious Order. After consultation with the Holy See in Rome, the Decree of our Canonical Erection was issued on 15 August, 2012 by Dom Hugh Gilbert, O.S.B., the Bishop of Aberdeen. In consequence of this recognition, as a new Religious Order we invite you to our public profession of religious vows to be made before the Bishop of Aberdeen. The Profession Ceremony of the above will be held at 6.15 p.m. on Wednesday 22nd August, 2012, in Our Lady’s Chapel, Stronsay.'

Signed:   

Fr. Michael Mary, F.SS.R.        Fr. Anthony Mary, F.SS.R.

Br. Yousef Marie, F.SS.R.          Br. Jean Marie, F.SS.R.

Br. Magdala Maria, F.SS.R.       Br. Martin Mary, F.SS.R.

Br. Nicodemus Mary, F.SS.R.    Br. Gerardo Maria, F.SS.R.

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Ave Maria, gratia plena,

Dominus tecum,

Benedicta tu in mulieribus,

Et benedictus fructus ventris tui,

Jesus.

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,

Ora pro nobis peccatoribus,

Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae,

Amen.

'The Twelve Men' by G.K.Chesterton

 
 The following sketch was one of many written by G.K. Chesterton in the early 1900’s, and published  in the ‘Daily News’ national newspaper. They were subsequently printed in book form by Sheed and Ward, New York, in 1955, under the title ‘Tremendous Trifles’.  In today’s world, the suggestion that juries are inadequate and counter-productive for the efficient administration of justice, and should be done away with, is regularly put forward by those of a certain mind-set. It is interesting to read Chesterton’s view on this, remembering that he wrote this article more than 100 years ago. The world has changed since then, but not people.
                                               
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                  Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936)


         ‘The Twelve Men’   by  G.K.Chesterton

'The other day, while I was meditating on morality and Mr H.Pitt, I was, so to speak, snatched up and put into a jury box to try people.  The snatching took some weeks, but to me it seemed something sudden and arbitrary.  I was put into this box because I lived in Battersea, and my name began with a ‘C’.  Looking round me, I saw that there were also summoned and in attendance in the court whole crowds and processions of men, all of whom lived in Battersea, and all of whose names began with a ‘C’.
 
It seems that they always summon jurymen in this sweeping alphabetical way.  At one official blow, so to speak, Battersea is denuded of all its ‘C’s, and left to get on with it as best it can with the rest of the alphabet.  A Cumberpatch is missing from one street – a Chizzolpop from another- three Chucksterfields from Chucksterfield House; the children are crying out for an absent Cadgerboy;  the woman at the corner is weeping for her Coffintop, and will not be comforted. 

We settle down with a rollicking ease into our seats (for we are a bold, devil-may-care race, the 'C’s of Battersea), and an oath is administered to us in a totally inaudible manner by an individual resembling an army surgeon in his second childhood.  We understand, however, that we are to well and truly try the case between our sovereign lord the King and the prisoner at the bar, neither of whom has put in appearance as yet.
 
Just when I was wondering whether the King and the prisoner were, perhaps, coming to an amicable understanding in some adjoining public-house, the prisoner’s head appears above the barrier of the dock; he is accused of stealing bicycles, and he is the living image of a great friend of mine. We go into the matter of the stealing of the bicycles.  We do well and truly try the case between the King and the prisoner in the affair of the bicycles.  And we come to the conclusion, after a brief but reasonable discussion, that the King is not in any way implicated. 

Then we pass on to a woman who neglected her children, and who looks as if somebody or something had neglected her. And I am one of those who fancy that something had.
 
All the time that the eye took in these light appearances and the brain passed these light criticisms, there was in the heart a barbaric pity and fear which men have never been able to utter from the beginning, but which is the power behind half the poems of the world. The mood cannot even inadequately be suggested, except faintly by this statement that tragedy is the highest expression of the infinite value of human life.  Never had I stood so close to pain; and never so far away from pessimism.  Ordinarily, I should not have spoken of these dark emotions at all, for speech about them is too difficult,  but I mention them now for a specific and particular reason to the statement of which I will proceed at once.

I speak of these feelings because out of the furnace of them there came a curious realisation of a political or social truth.  I saw with a queer and indescribable kind of clearness what a jury really is, and why we must never let it go.
 
The trend of our epoch up to this time has been consistently towards socialism and professionalism.  We tend to have trained soldiers because they fight better, trained singers because they sing better, trained dancers because they dance better, specially instructed laughers because they laugh better, and so on and so on. The principle has been applied to law and politics by innumerable modern writers.  Many Fabians have insisted that a greater part of our political work should be performed by experts. Many legalists have declared that the untrained jury should be altogether supplanted by the trained Judge.

                'The Jury' (1861) by John Morgan


Now if this world of ours were really what is called reasonable, I do not know that there would be any fault to find with this. But the true result of all experience and the true foundation of all religion is this. That the four or five things that it is most practically essential that a man should know, are all of them what people call paradoxes.  That is to say, that though we all find them in life to be mere plain truths, yet we cannot easily state them in words without being guilty of seeming verbal contradictions.  One of them, for instance, is the un-impeachable platitude that the man who finds most pleasure for himself is often the man who least hunts for it. Another is a paradox of courage; the fact that the way to avoid death is not to have too much aversion to it.
 
Now, one of these four or five paradoxes which should be taught to every infant prattling at his mother’s knee, is the following:  ‘That the more a man looks at a thing, the less he can see it, and the more a man learns a thing, the less he knows it.' The Fabian argument of the expert, that the man who is trained should be the man who is trusted, would be absolutely unanswerable if it were really true that a man who studied a thing and practiced it every day went on seeing more and more of its significance.  But he does not.  He goes on seeing less and less of its significance. In the same way, alas, we all go on every day, unless we are continually goading ourselves into gratitude and humility, seeing less and less of the significance of the sky or the stones.
 
Now, it is a terrible business to mark a man out for the vengeance of men.  But it is a thing to which a man can grow accustomed, as he can to other  terrible things; he can even grow accustomed to the sun.  And the horrible thing about all legal officials, even the best,  about all judges, magistrates, barristers, detectives, and policemen,  is not that they are wicked (some of them are good), not that they are stupid (several of them are quite intelligent), it is simply that they have got used to it.
 
Strictly they do not see the prisoner in the dock; all they see is the usual man in the usual place. They do not see the awful court of judgement; they only see their own workshop.  Therefore, the instinct of Christian civilisation has most wisely declared that into their judgments there shall upon every occasion be infused fresh blood and fresh thoughts from the streets.  Men shall come in who can see the court and the crowd, and coarse faces of the policemen and the professional criminals, the wasted faces of the wastrels, the unreal faces of the gesticulating counsel, and see it all as one sees a new picture or a ballet hitherto unvisited.
 
Our civilisation has decided, and very justly decided, that determining the guilt or innocence of men is a thing too important to be trusted to trained men.  It wishes for light upon that awful matter, it asks men who know no more law than I know, but who can feel the things I felt in the jury box.  When it wants a library catalogued, or the solar system discovered, or any trifle of that kind, it uses up its specialists.  But when it wishes anything done which is really serious, it collects twelve of the ordinary men standing round. The same thing was done, if I remember right, by the Founder of Christianity.'
      
‘Tremendous Trifles' by GK Chesterton.

'Christ addressing the eleven remaining Apostles, after His Resurrection' by Duccio di Buoninsegna (1255-1318)

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'Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God' - Sermon on the Mount

'May Our Blessed Lady guide and protect our Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI'

'Pontifical High Mass in St Peter's, Rome'

With the magnificent spectacle of the Queen's Diamond Jubilee celebrations still fresh in our mind, it seems appropriate to mention a celebration of a rather different event, an event of worldwide significance which occurred many years ago, but within the lifetime of our Queen, namely the ratification on 7th June 1929, of the Lateran Treaty between the Kingdom of Italy and the Holy See, which recognised and accepted the sovereignty of the Holy See with its own 'Vatican City' State.

Cardinal Gasparri and Benito Mussolini (seated) after exchanging treaty ratifications in the Hall of Congregations, the Vatican, June 7th, 1929

Thus ended a period of 58 years during which the incumbent Pope had been a virtual prisoner within the Vatican itself, and ‘persona non grata’ without. The Vatican having refused to recognize the 'Law of Guarantees' (1871) on the grounds that in the exercise of its spiritual jurisdiction, the Law failed to guarantee Vatican independence from political influence and interference.

 Benito Mussolini reads his credentials prior to signing the Lateran Treaty on behalf of King Victor Emmanuel III.    Cardinal Gasparri (seated) signed on behalf of Pope Pius XI. (February 11th, 1929)

After the signing of the Treaty, Pope Pius XI made his first public appearance at a Pontifical High Mass in St Peter’s. The author H.V. Morton, in his superb book, ‘In the Steps of St Paul’, has this to say about this momentous and historic occasion:-

                ‘I obtained a ticket for the Pontifical High Mass in St.Peter’s. Pope Pius XI, no longer “the prisoner of the Vatican”, was to make his first public appearance. The snow had turned to rain.
Early in the morning, and in full evening dress, I went to St Peter’s, and never have hours passed so easily, as I sat watching the crowds that swiftly filled the gigantic building. The Vatican Guard patrolled the aisles of the church. They wore bearskins, white doeskin breeches and black thigh-boots and, as their spurs rang on the marble floor, I thought that they might be a squadron that had strayed from history at the time of Napoleon.'

The Vatican Guard, also known as the Noble Guard - disbanded by Pope Paul VI in 1970.

'The Swiss Guard was on duty round the Baldacchino, which rises above the tomb of St Peter. They wore their full dress uniform, which is said to have been designed by Michelangelo: steel casques, doublets and hose slashed with stripes of red, yellow, and blue. Each guardsman grasped a pike. As the hours passed, Vatican officials, who might have stepped from the canvasses of El Greco, came softly down the nave to show distinguished visitors to their seats, their pointed white beards lying against starched ruffs, swords slanting against black satin breeches.'

                    Band of the Swiss Guards outside St Peter's Basilica

'Words of command rang out suddenly from some distant archway. Troops all over the church stood to attention with a ring of pikes and spurs. Then through St Peter’s rang a fanfare of silver trumpets at the sound of which, to my amazement, the thousands of men and women rose to their feet and began to cheer.
                I looked down the nave towards the great west doors, and I saw what seemed to be the splendour and chivalry of the Middle Ages coming in slow procession up the church. I saw the burnished casques of the Swiss Guards moving slowly above the heads of the standing people. I saw the Papal Bodyguard, carrying drawn swords and wearing scarlet tunics and helmets from whose crests hung long plumes of black horsehair. I saw members of the Vatican Chapter walking two by two, representatives of every Catholic Order, and many a monk walking in a brown habit. When the cheering died down and there was a second or two of silence, I could hear the steady tramp and the ring of spurs on marble.'

The dome of St Peter's, designed by Michelangelo and others, and completed in 1590, the last year of the reign of Pope Sixtus VI. Height 136.57 metres from the floor of the basilica to the top of the external cross - the tallest dome in the world.

'As the procession came at funeral pace up the nave, the great church, lit hitherto by the pale daylight, blazed suddenly with countless lights; and the trumpets ceased their fanfare. The sound of a solemn march now filled St Peter’s, and I saw Pope Pius XI far off at the east end of the church, seated in the state palanquin, the sedia gestatoria, clothed in white. There was a jewelled tiara on his head, and he sat motionless, except when he slowly raised his hand to trace the Sign of the Cross in the air.'

                                                            Pope Pius XI

'Two 'flabella', great fans of ostrich feathers, moved slowly above the Pope’s head, and they reminded me of Constantinople and of the Byzantine emperors, and of the time when the representative of St Peter ruled the church of Eastern Christendom. There was not one meaningless thing in all this rich display. There was not one piece of embroidery that had not been pinned in position by Time. All the centuries had combined to make this progress of the Pope. St Peter’s was suffocating with its memories. I could not understand how people could find breath to cheer and shout their “vivas”. The centuries had flooded the church to the roof, and in that flood the imagination struggled like a drowning man.'

Interior of St Peter's Basilica - painting by Giovanni Pannini (1691-1765)

'People all round me were cheering, but my throat was dry, and I do not think that I could have cheered to save my life. Strangely, perhaps, I was not aware of any emotional appeal in the sight before me: the appeal was purely to the mind and imagination.
                              There was an elderly man in white, borne shoulder-high in a chair that trembled slightly as it advanced, but I was looking not at one man or one Pope: I was looking at all history and at all Popes. It seemed to me that everything else in the world was young. I had seen the oldest living thing in the world: I had seen the visible expression of a corporate memory that goes back into the very beginning of the Christian Age.'

'The great chair was lowered from the shoulders of the bearers. The white figure stepped from it and walked to a white throne under a scarlet canopy. One by one the Cardinals approached and kissed his ring. High voices sounded from the Sistine Chapel, and the Pope rose and knelt before the altar ................. '  'It was a moment I cannot describe. I saw a line of men kneeling into the dim perspective of the past, and the first in the long line was St Peter.'

    “Tu es Petrus, et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam”

Ack. 'In the Steps of St Paul' by H.V.Morton

           Published by Rich and Cowan, London, 1937.                                       

                                                
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'May Our Blessed Lady guide and protect our Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI'

'St Peter, pray for us.'