Hymn for the End of Term

In the last days of the era BB—Before Beryl—, an old friendly acquaintance … wait. Let me explain. Some decades ago, during the Bubble, there was a website. Its gimmick was to provide reviews of consumer products—books and films, fatally, included—by actual consumers thereof. Royalties were based upon, ostensibly, the quality of the reviews as measured by their popularity and, thus, the ad revenue which they could drive. Unfortunately, this model had the same failures as that identified by Polybius in his comments upon democracy, a form of which maxim has been wrongly attributed to Alexis de Tocqueville, my 12th cousin six times removed, and to Alexander Fraser Tytler, Lord Woodhouselee, my 13th cousin six times removed: that democracy can exist only until the majority discovers it can vote itself largess out of the public treasury. Many excellent reviewers did very well for a time, writing for the site, all off the quality of their work: including (I did mention books and film, did I not?) the now celebrated authors David Abrams, Curtis Edmonds, and Cornelia Read, and the editor JK Kelley (as well as such Grub Street hacks as, well, me). Others, however, created little cliques and claques, upvoting one another regardless of merit and profiting illegitimately in consequence, and running the thing into the realm of the profitless; the founders, in the usual Silicon Valley fashion, sold out for a profit and walked away; the whole thing collapsed in a welter of debts (they never did pay me the $5k or so which they then owed me); and that was that. But many of us remained friendly acquaintances online, and occasionally offline and in person.

So. In the last days of the era BB—Before Beryl—, an old friendly acquaintance of mine from the days of that dead website, a physician and a specialist at that, posted the query, Did the decision in Trump mean that Nixon could not have been prosecuted for Watergate? I replied, naturally, ‘No. Next lay question.’ To which another old friendly acquaintance from the days of that dead website took, mildly enough, both exception and umbrage. In the course of our back and forth, I pointed out, perhaps with more apparent acerbity and asperity than I intended, that only one of us—me—was a lawyer, however retired, and one who in fact had spent some three decades not only in, but effectively as, alone, the in-house appellate section of a small but politically well-connected law firm (and not a Republican one)[1] in one of the four largest metropolitan areas in the United States. My old friendly acquaintance demurred, on the stated ground that Supreme Court opinions are so written as to be (as Article XXIV[2] puts it) ‘understanded of the people’ … wherefore my vita was irrelevant.

To this I replied that I should have to rejoin the issue after the hurricane which was bearing down upon me had passed.

We are now in the beginning of the Era AB, After Beryl, and I have both power and Internet access (‘fear me!’).

Americans remain in character, through centuries of demographic change, what my connexion Edmund Burke MP said of us in the House of Commons, urging conciliation, on 22 March 1775. Amongst the many symptoms of the decay in our public discourse is less an exaggerated deference to expertise, problem though that too often is, than an excessive and adulatory regard for it, leading those who don’t possess it to claim it for themselves. Bluntly, every Karen in every two-bit HOA thinks herself a physician (brandishing ‘essential’ snake-oil and decrying vaccines); every halfwit in the country thinks himself a theologian; and every layperson is persuaded he or she is a lawyer. I do not think it too much to say that part of the envenoming of our increasingly violent uncivil discourse is predicated upon this delusion. I don’t tell engineers how to engineer; I don’t argue with doctors about medicine;[3] I’d as soon mechanics, astrophysicists, doctors of divinity, journos, SAHMs with no other identity, and real estate agents should cease arguing—from a purely lay perspective—appellate law with me, or, for that matter, politics in the academic sense (one of my other degrees), philosophy (another of my degrees), or history.[4] Note that my old friendly acquaintance who was ready to argue law with me should never have dreamt of arguing medicine with that old friendly acquaintance who posted the question which occasioned the argument. I stay in my lane as much as I can do; I’d as soon others also followed the rules of the road. We’d have fewer crashes, as a country, less partisan road rage, and less frequent swerves into the ditch, if we all did this.

But we as a nation go on thinking, each of us, that each of us is omnicompetent, within and without those fields in which we do have some colorable claim to expertise.

As the Era BB stumbled to its end, a lamentable hysteria could be far too frequently observed, and one directed towards the Supreme Court of the United States. Another old friendly acquaintance from the defunct website posted a photograph of the entrance to Auschwitz Birkenau with the legend, This was an official act. (Yes; it was … by German standards, in Germany, under a dictatorship, with the rule of law suspended and no constitution worthy of the name in place. That’s not apples-to-oranges, that’s apples to orcas. I find it interesting, in a mournful sort of way, that people who loathed Ronald Reagan are now urging that freedom is only one generation away from extinction here…)

Others on social media ranted about the Divine Right of Kings and The King Can Do No Wrong, with copies of a portrait of Charles I. Well, that monarch is my second cousin twelve times removed, and we higher Anglicans consider him Charles I King and Martyr, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland, one who, for all his faults and follies, yet became a martyr: to the independence of the Church from interference by a passing majority of her enemies, just as much as were Becket and More;[5] and to the rule of law and to due process, when he was judicially murdered by a kangaroo court which allowed him no defense: one established by a miliary coup led by my despicable fifth cousin nine times removed, one Oliver Cromwell, and a kangaroo court which included ten of my connexions and rather more of my cousins from fourth to eleventh, between ten and fourteen times removed.

Still others, when not having the screaming hab-dabs over how the Court is ‘corrupt’ (rubbish), commenced shrieking over the intrusion of ‘unelected functionaries’ in the political process. Which is an utterly daft thing to say of a Court which, in Loper Bright, told the unelected functionaries of various Federal agencies that they could not do just that and expect the courts to defer to them, and in Snyder, in Fischer, and in Trump—which were not final dispositions, for you laypeople: they were remands with instructions on the law to apply—, told (unelected) prosecutors not to overreach (amazing, really, that people who commonly begin the mnemonic Alphabet Song with ‘A, C, A, B…’ and who lump prosecutors in with police as Enemies of the Proletariat, are now bitching about restraints on law enforcement and prosecution on no other grounds than whose ox was gored and is in the ditch); in Corner Post, told those unelected functionaries the agency regulators they couldn’t change the rules in the bottom of the seventh inning without complying with the Administrative Procedure Act; in Jarkesy, told those unelected functionaries the SEC they couldn’t do an end run around the right to trial by jury before a real and independent judge…

Like my 18th cousin twice removed, Abraham Lincoln, I do not think that ‘thus saith the Court’ is the final answer to any political issue. Nor do I have any exaggerated regard for the Court now or in the past: sometimes, the Court gets it wrong. But, although I agree with Mr Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jnr, my 14th cousin twice removed, that the life of the law is not in logic, but in experience, the fact remains that decisions are to be judged upon their legal reasoning and not upon one’s agreement or disagreement with the result. As in a mathematical proof, the right answer is meaningless unless you can show your work and it checks out.

And I think we must conclude, from the present discontents, that, pace my old friendly acquaintance from the defunct website, legal decisions and appellate opinions are not in fact readily and easily understandable by laymen, as a result. As my tenth cousin four times removed, CS Lewis, wrote,

Comparative evaluations of essentially different excellences are in my opinion senseless. A surgeon is better than a violinist at operating and a violinist better than a surgeon at playing the violin.[6]

There is a reason why for so long so many law library shelves, until all of this was moved to the Internet, groaned (and grumbled and muttered about suing over it) beneath the weight of volume upon volume in the Words and Phrases series, and all the Reporters. The term ‘mortar’ means very different things to a bricklayer and an 11C; parents complain of irritable children, but pædiatricians rejoice when an infant is responsive to stimuli; ‘port’ can have several meanings at sea, none of which is the same as the meaning your wine merchant has in mind; testators may wish, absolutely, to make a bequest, but a bequest of a property ‘absolutely’ means something specific in law. Ambiguity abounds in common speech, and so also does misuse: rare is the layman who knows the difference between slander and libel, and rarer yet the layman who is aware how infrequently some statement he resents is in fact actionable as either.

Indeed, I submit that the ascending likelihood of understanding legal decisions and appellate opinions is as follows: laypersons; laypersons who take their opinions from what passes as news in this increasingly benighted country; laypersons who know a lawyer; laypersons who read law-blogs or listen to media-friendly legal ‘experts’ (who are the equivalent of hired expert witnesses in litigation settings); lawyers with no appellate experience; lawyers who subsist off being media-friendly legal ‘experts’; political partisans brandishing their Bar cards; and appellate lawyers, who may in good faith but always within reason disagree. I further submit—and, remember, the question here is not whether you or I approve a result; it is, rather, whether the result was properly reached—that the sort of opinions, whether majority, concurring, dissenting, or concurring in part and dissenting in part, which are embraced, when handed down, by laypersons, tend to be objectively bad: always in their reasoning and quite often in their ruling. After all, the classic samples of popular and popularly misunderstood opinions include Dred Scott; Plessy; Schenck; Buck v. Bell; Griswold;[7] Roe;[8] and Obergefell.[9]

So what did happen in the opinions for the Term? And what is the takeaway?

There were non-unanimous decisions, of course: there almost always are. But they were by no means always split along what laymen and journalists lazily label ‘ideological’ or ‘partisan’ lines. I reiterate: I give each successive Court the respect it earns; the Court as an institution, however, commands respect as the Constitution commands respect. Whoever is on the Court; and whoever one, as an observer, may be. (Of the seventeen Chief Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States, three—Jay, Burger, and Roberts CJJ—are connexions. The other fourteen are cousins of mine. For most of the Court’s history, until recent times, a similar proportion as between in-laws (and outlaws) and cousins has obtained as to the Associate Justices.)[10]

And what, precisely, is it that the Court properly does?

The answer is simple, and is set out in McCulloch v. Maryland, 17 U.S. (4 Wheat.) 316, 407 (1819), Marshall[11] CJ writing for the Court:

A Constitution, to contain an accurate detail of all the subdivisions of which its great powers will admit, and of all the means by which they may be carried into execution, would partake of the prolixity of a legal code, and could scarcely be embraced by the human mind. It would probably never be understood by the public. Its nature, therefore, requires that only its great outlines should be marked, its important objects designated, and the minor ingredients which compose those objects be deduced from the nature of the objects themselves. That this idea was entertained by the framers of the American Constitution is not only to be inferred from the nature of the instrument, but from the language. Why else were some of the limitations found in the 9th section of the 1st article introduced? It is also in some degree warranted by their having omitted to use any restrictive term which might prevent its receiving a fair and just interpretation. In considering this question, then, we must never forget that it is a Constitution we are expounding.

Note that: We must never forget that it is a Constitution we are expounding. What does that mean in practice? Well, for our present purposes, the most important thing it means is that the Court must always remember that what it does becomes precedent, of general application, and likely to be used in unforeseen ways in unimagined circumstances after. The decision of a trial court is binding upon the parties to the case decided, and those in privity with them: it is the law of the case. Decisions of the Supreme Court are the law of the land. You may never be a small-town mayor in the Rust Belt; pray God, you shall never be a rioter drunk on MAGA moonshine, storming the Capitol; and by God’s grace you’ll never be remotely like the flabby orange hypno-toad, Donald Trump, who, pace the delusions of his simple-minded acolytes, ‘ain’t no new messiah’ and is not ‘close enough for rock and roll’.[12] But given that even a minimally competent prosecutor can, without or without a typically spineless grand jury, indict a ham sandwich, you may be thankful that prosecutorial overreach has been checked by Snyder, Fischer, and Trump, and that the Court has said clearly that statutes under which prosecutions are brought mean what they say and no more, and cannot be used in the ‘throw mud at the wall and see what sticks’ fashion so long resorted to by prosecutors: whether the target is an ordinary moron, a small-town pol, or an ex-President. The law—and you may thank God for it—is no respecter of persons.

And because the law is no respecter of persons, it is equally true that the lower courts must be and now have been instructed that statutes and the Constitution itself are to be read as written and intended, ‘within the four corners of the document’ (just as we do with contracts), for their intended purpose and not as Hail-Mary passes to reach an otherwise unreachable but desired result. Wherefore you may and ought to be grateful—whether you like the immediate result or not—for the decision in City of Grants Pass, wherein the Court declined to accept an amorphous reading of the Eighth Amendment and its use as a catch-all ‘gotcha’ to justify an otherwise legally unjustifiable decision. After all: if mayors and municipalities and politicians and ex-Presidents of the United States—the powerful—are to be in a position in which they cannot know the law to follow it and the law can be made malleable to their detriment at the whim of any judge, then no citizen is safe. That. Means. You. The powerful are not, of course, above the law; but they must not be beneath it, unworthy of its protections and of equality before it, either: in that, they are the canaries in the coal mine.

The law—and the Constitution, a fortiori—is no respecter of persons; the law—and the Constitution, a fortiori—is the guarantor of our rights: which includes the rights of those we hate, even of those we justly hate. (Politicians, for example.)

One of those rights is of course that of free speech and publication. The ‘corrupt’, ‘unelected’[13] Court so many people are screaming at is the Court that slapped down Texas and Florida, and the Fifth and Eleventh Circuits, in those states’ nakedly political attempt to police the Internet, in Moody v. NetChoice. (The Fifth got it utterly wrong; the Eleventh got it only half right; and now everyone has been told to go back and get it right by conducting a complete facial analysis[14] of the First Amendment implications of the statutes at issue.)

This is equally true of the right to association, particularly when the association is united by a purpose of free speech, and political speech at that. Regulators, legislators, and prosecutors cannot be allowed to use the powers of their office or authority to pressure others to hamper associations engaged in political speech the government dislikes, and thus to do, or attempt to do, indirectly what they most certainly cannot do directly. And whatever you think of the NRA, that principle—one which could as easily save organizations you like—was reaffirmed in NRA v. Vullo.

The law—and the Constitution, a fortiori—is no respecter of persons; the law—and the Constitution, a fortiori—is the guarantor of our rights: everyone’s.

It is unlikely that most of you are investment advisors. Few of you, I think, shall be part of the Atlantic herring fleet. I doubt many of you own a truck stop; I can, to be frank, readily imagine most of you shuddering at the thought, because, Well, Really, That’s Where Those People Work and Gather, Daaahling… It is doubtful in the proverbial extreme that you are a major multinational corporation or a union boss. And there are much better than even odds that you have an irrational fear of firearms and the Frightfully Common People who own them. But if so much as work a day in your life, and granting that you pay taxes, you ought to welcome a series of decisions in which the Court has said, No: regulators do not get to change the rules during the game without adhering to the Administrative Procedure Act, rewrite statutes to say what Congress did not but the agency wishes they had done, obtain injunctions against your business or the business which employs you without satisfying the four factor test for getting an injunction, or try you administratively before an agency employee who is not an Article III judge and without your being able to avail yourself of your right to a trial by jury. Nor shall the courts any longer defer to agencies arrogating to themselves the power to legislate which is held by your elected representatives in Congress. You ought, then, to be grateful, whether or not you like the particular outcome in a particular situation, for the rulings in Loper Bright, Corner Post, Cargill, Starbucks v. NLRB, and Jarkesy. Because that is what those cases do: they say, Stop, to administrative and prosecutorial overreach and to lawmaking by unelected and unaccountable bureaucrats, and any man jack or woman jill of you may tomorrow find yourself in a position in which you’ll be unfeignedly thankful for those precedents.

Likewise, any one of us may at any moment find cause to be heartily grateful that a case cannot be dismissed when it is stayed for arbitration pursuant to an arbitration clause in a contract (you may well be surprised how many arbitration agreements you’re a party to without knowing it, because, frankly, most of you shan’t have read the Terms & Conditions of the things which make your lives easier or keep you employed, or the End User License Agreements which allow you to do all the things you do); and any one of us may find at any moment cause to be heartily grateful that a lawsuit you have every prospect of winning cannot be time-barred just because the government fucked around for years on its decision which gave you the right of action once issued, and then sent notice of its denial to the wrong address so that you didn’t receive it timely. So be thankful for Smith v. Spizzirri and for Harrow.[15]

The law—and the Constitution, a fortiori—is no respecter of persons; the law—and the Constitution, a fortiori—is the guarantor of our rights: and is Kantian. I don’t want to be a—wait for it—complete Kant about this, but what’s sauce for yon goose must, if we are to have equality before the law, be sauce for the gander yonder.

This is one area in which lay opinions on legal decisions so often fail miserably. Yes, it’s true that laypersons, in confronting a legal opinion, literally don’t know what they are talking about, just as laypersons opining on a medical diagnosis do not. But there’s also, always, the hypocrisy. Focusing solely upon their preferred policy outcomes—which is effectively a category error, confounding and conflating legislation with judicial decision-making—, laymen have trouble grasping the stark fact that they must ‘will universals’ here. The law must be the same for you and her and them and the senile old fool and the Day-Glo orange Mussolini wannabe, for W and Obama and Biden and Trump, for Your Guy and Their Guy, or it is not the law. Particular outcomes and your happiness or discomfort with those outcomes is irrelevant: the procedure, and the equalization of the law to apply universally, is what matters.

It’s the sheer hypocrisy which annoys me. The stale-bong-water slacktivists who chant that ‘corporations aren’t people’ (no one said they were: legal personhood has nothing to do with the state of being human): all right; have it your way; and take as the inevitable consequences that newspapers cannot endorse candidates, unions can’t make campaign contributions, corporations can’t be prosecuted or sued civilly, and the Sierra Club, the NRDC, the ACLU, NORML, and the Human Rights Campaign can’t lobby pols, contribute to causes, or sue anyone. The crowds shrieking ‘Keep Your Laws Off My Body and Out Of My Bedroom’? Fine. What do you think Obergefell did? Because it damned sure intruded the state into your private sexual life.[16] Those of you now running about hyperventilating and with your hair on fire over a preliminary presidential immunity ruling? Okay. Nobody’s pulled a Gerald Ford yet and pardoned or otherwise immunized Bill Clinton, or 43, or Barack Obama, so … be careful what you ask for. We have an independent judiciary because its decisions are not subject to being overruled by the other two branches. We have an independent legislative branch because its deliberations and actions are nonjusticiable, and because of the Speech or Debate Clause, Art. I, Section 6, Clause 1:

The Senators and Representatives shall receive a Compensation for their Services, to be ascertained by Law, and paid out of the Treasury of the United States. They shall in all Cases, except Treason, Felony and Breach of the Peace, be privileged from Arrest during their Attendance at the Session of their respective Houses, and in going to and returning from the same; and for any Speech or Debate in either House, they shall not be questioned in any other Place.

And if we are to have an independent executive branch, there must equally be some degree of presidential immunity, or non-justiciability for some sorts of executive actions. Congress tried a power-grab in 1867 with the Tenure of Office Act, and failed to make it stick with the failed impeachment of Andrew Johnson;[17] the Court, retrospectively, noted that the Act, by then repealed, should have been in all likelihood unconstitutional, in Myers v. United States, 272 U.S. 52 (1926).

To an extent, this confusion, or Sheer Bloody Ignorance, may be excused in laypersons, on a sort of ‘Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do’ basis: violinists assessing surgery, surgeons reviewing a violin recital. Unfortunately, the dissents upon which people are presently seizing, most notably in Trump, cannot plead ignorance in extenuation. These Justices clearly know better: they have written excellent opinions, including majority and per curiam opinions. Not here, though: these are only in form legal opinions; what they are, are stump speeches, in the same way that the majority opinion in Obergefell was a sociological screed disguised (thinly) in a judge’s robes. As stump speeches, they’re pretty good, and align with my preferences. As legal opinions even in dissent, they are monumentally unpersuasive.

What (inter multa alia) laymen do not understand is that any court is constrained, in its rulings, by the evidence before it (which, in an expedited appeal of a preliminary ruling, as is the case in Trump, may be limited at this stage); by the competence of counsel for the parties; by what points counsel raised and briefed; and, on appeal, by the record and briefs before the appellate court, and, here, the error, if any, committed or not committed by the intermediate appellate court.

That is how appellate law works.

Within these constraints, and at this point in the proceedings, the majority opinion in Trump, distasteful as the immediate result is—I hold no brief for the base, vile, power-hungry, crooked, wholly un-conservative, liberty-hating, sociopathic, damn-Yankee orange son of a bitch—, is, alas, legally compelling. It is incontrovertible that a President of the United States in exerting the powers specifically granted to any holder of that office by the Framers, in the Constitution, is not accountable to the Courts for his actions. He is accountable to Congress only in the context of impeachment (from which only the shameful cowardice of the Senate saved Trump in the past, just as was so for Bill Clinton), and, at the ballot box, to the electorate. Likewise, the Court is not accountable to the Legislative or Executive Branches in its performing its functions; and the Congress, whose impeachment power is constrained by no law save its own will,[18] cannot be made to answer to either of the other branches, and its choice to impeach is not justiciable. See Nixon v. United States, 506 U.S. 224 (1993); 113 S. Ct. 732; 122 L. Ed. 2d 1.

Here, by the way, is where I think the majority foozled the approach shot: instead of speaking of immunity, it had been better to speak in terms of non-justiciability. Political questions are non-justiciable. Nixon, supra, at 228, citing Baker v. Carr, 369 U.S. 186, 217 (1962) and Powell v. McCormack, 395 U. S. 486, 519 (1969). Laypeople may not like hearing this: if so, they have not considered what should become of the separation of powers, and thus of our liberties, were this standard to be abandoned. Be careful what you wish for.

At this stage and in the context of a pretrial motion, and on the current briefs and record, it is equally reasonable to grant ancillary official actions of the Executive a rebuttable presumption of immunity. I believe, personally, with Cousin Tom,[19] that that government governs best which governs least. But it must govern; and the system of federalism and of the separation of powers established by Cousin John,[20] Cousin George,[21] Cousin Alec,[22] Cousin Jimmy,[23] and the rest of the Framers, and glossed by Cousin John Marshall, demands that the three branches not be perpetually in a Mexican standoff after the manner of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. The determination of what are these ancillary official actions, and if and when any presumption of non-justiciability or immunity is rebutted, is for the district court, and the Court in Trump duly remanded that issue. (Remember when most of those now throwing conniption fits were celebrating Knight First Amendment Institute v. Trump, 928 F.3d 226 (2nd Cir. 2019), and its characterization of that twunt’s tweets as official acts? Be careful what you wish for, as I said at the time.)

Donald Trump is not Charles I: he’s not worthy to lick Charles I’s boots. Do you wish to make Trump a martyr to due process? (If he were to become so, he’d not be Charles I King and Martyr, or S Thomas More; he’d be the Amalgamated International Brotherhood of Putinists & Trumpshirts (Local 666)’s Horst Wessel.) Be careful what you wish for.

All that has happened here is a remand for further proceedings below, consistent with this and prior opinions of the Court, reaching back to Cousin Harry’s[24] day, regarding the extent of what are and what are not core or ancillary powers granted the Executive by the Constitution: just as in Trump v. Hawaii, 585 U. S. 667 (2018). This is the Court’s job; this is what is meant to happen.

The same shall likely happen with the Florida District Court ruling.

Which brings us to the real takeaway from this term’s opinions.

None of this should be happening had Congress done its damned job: impeaching Trump, which should have been unchallengeable and non-justiciable; writing its own statutes and not seeking political cover by passing high-minded aspirational rubbish and leaving the details to the bureaucracy; committing to legal clarity so that all may know what is and is not lawful and unchangingly so, and ensuring equal treatment before the law; crafting legislation that applies equally to both sides…

None of this should be happening had Congress found its balls and reenacted a Special Counsel statute; or had Joe Biden and AG Garland not doubled down on failure and taken the political risk of getting in a better DoJ team from Main Justice and assigning a competent one to take over from Jack Smith.

And none of those failures should be happening had the electorate done its damned job.

I cannot but imagine that the Court is as tired in its sphere as I am in mine of having to step up when no one else will or shall, and being, faute de mieux, the only adult in the room.

You’re unhappy with the present situation? So. Am. I. Wherefore leave off looking for someone else to save your bacon, and get off your asses and vote. And stop wasting time pretending you know the law—and arguing it. It wastes time and does nothing to fix things. As my connexion John Stuart Mill said,

A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.

So … stop moaning about legal decisions you don’t understand, and act to address the political issues you do grasp, however feebly. A republic cannot be run on the cheap by cowards and helpless damsels perpetually in distress who must be rescued by the exertions of better men, and by small minds and slackers.

Here endeth the Lesson.


[1] Largely made up of Blue-Dogs and Conservative Southern Democrats, in fact. Though we had a Republican of counsel.

[2] Of the Anglican Articles of Religion, the Thirty-Nine Articles; not of the Constitution, which does not have so many Articles, for those unaware.

[3] I do however take them to task as an historian where I have grounds to do so—my book on RMS Titanic comes to mind—just as, at an earlier point in my life, I cross-examined them as needed.

[4] Last I looked, I’m the author of what is, in an admittedly uncrowded field, the definitive work on the Washington-Huntingdon correspondence and of its effects upon early US immigration policy; the author of what I think I can fairly say is a well-regarded analysis of the political history of the 1941 extension of the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940; the co-author of one, at least, of the primary works on the legal and political history of the enquiries into the loss of RMS Titanic; and the co-author of a popular account of the events of 1937, from the Spanish Civil War to the Second Italo-Ethiopian War and from the publication of the encyclical Mit brennender Sorge to the Marco Polo Bridge incident and the Rape of Nanking, which were the final catalyst for the Second World War.

[5] Sir Thomas being a connexion of mine.

[6] The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature, Cambridge University Press, London, 1964.

[7] ‘My God, Justice Douglas! What is that awful stench?’ ‘Emanations from penumbras, m’ boy, emanations from penumbras…’ William O. Douglas, I’m sorry to say, is my 15th cousin. John Marshall Harlan II is my 17th cousin. Whizzer White, who was right in his dissent, is my 13th cousin twice removed.

[8] Roe—that egregious instance of legislating from the Bench—has bedeviled American public discourse for decades. The infuriating thing about abortion laws is that they ought never to have been made a Federal issue at all. Those opposed to abortion regard abortion as homicide, and the only issue as being, When is it legally justifiable homicide? Those in favor see it as a matter of public health and welfare (and, though they refuse to confess it, of eugenics, mostly racially-motivated eugenics). In the United States’ system of federalism, both these issues are traditionally the province of the several states, such that if Texas, say, wishes to outlaw abortion and Massachusetts, for example, to make it publicly funded to all who seek it, then, under the Ninth and Tenth Amendments, there is nothing for the Federal courts to consider. It’s not simply that Roe was a badly-reasoned opinion; it ought never to have been granted cert. at all.

[9] Again, the issue is not the result, but, rather, its reasoning and how it was reached.

[10] John Jay, 1st Chief Justice of the United States, is a connexion. John Rutledge, 2d Chief Justice of the United States, is my 11th cousin ten times removed. Oliver Ellsworth, 3d Chief Justice of the United States, is my 16th cousin four times removed. John Marshall, 4th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 10th cousin six times removed. Roger Brooke Taney, 5th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 11th cousin six times removed. Salmon P. Chase, 6th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 15th cousin four times removed. Mott Waite, 7th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 13th cousin four times removed. Melville Weston Fuller, 8th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 12th cousin five times removed. Edward Douglass White, 9th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 13th cousin thrice removed. William Howard Taft, 27th President and 10th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 12th cousin four times removed. Charles Evans Hughes, 11th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 13th cousin four times removed. Harlan Fiske Stone, 12th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 9th cousin four times removed. Frederick M. Vinson, 13th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 12th cousin thrice removed. Earl Warren, 14th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 19th cousin four times removed. Warren E. Burger, 15th Chief Justice of the United States, is a connexion. William Rehnquist, 16th Chief Justice of the United States, is my 12th cousin thrice removed. John G. Roberts, 17th Chief Justice of the United States, is a connexion.

[11] John Marshall, being my 10th cousin six times removed. James W. McCulloh is a ninth cousin six times removed. Counsel for McCulloh was Daniel Webster, my 12th cousin thrice removed. Maryland was represented by Luther Martin, my 11th cousin six times removed. Chief Justice Marshall was writing for a unanimous Court, the associate justices of which were my 10th cousin seven times removed, Bushrod Washington; Henry Brockholst Livingston, my 19th cousin five times removed; Thomas Todd, my 9th cousin eight times removed; Joseph Story, 12th cousin six times removed; and two connexions of mine, Gabriel Duvall and William Johnson Jnr JJ.

[12] To paraphrase Messrs Peterik, Smith, and Sullivan as writers of .38 Special’s single, ‘Rockin’ into the Night.’

[13] Thank God. Imagine if it weren’t.

[14] That is, Are the statutes unconstitutional on their face, as a preliminary consideration prior to assessing whether they are unconstitutional as applied in this specific situation?

[15] Cue loud booing from any Old Etonians in the comments.

[16] I reiterate my dissent from this ruling, on grounds you may not expect. Marriage, as a legal institution, has nothing to with love—or sex. It’s about property. It exists merely to promote the orderly division of heritable property from two sets of in-laws, through their children, to the grandchildren. The state has otherwise no valid interest in the domestic, romantic, or sexual arrangements of any two or more consenting, capable adults, and no other justification for extending everything from tax breaks to testimonial privilege to married couples, imposing fiduciary duties on them, and making them one another’s agents, cestuis, and trustees, to preserve a marital estate for the benefit of any children of the marriage. (And, no, save for wry humor I do not root my objection in same-sex marriage’s having deprived legal draftsmen of doing joint Wills, POAs, Durable POAs for Health Care, and the like, at $50 a pop per document, for same-sex couples … although this does violate the Lawyers’ Full Employment Act of 1750 BC as amended.)

[17] My 20th cousin thrice removed. Downward mobility is real. Ludwig, Graf von Ravensberg, became a maternal ancestor of my 15th great grandfather, James III, King of Scots; the descendants of Ludwig’s daughter, Jutta, Gräfin von Hohnstein-Sonderhausen by marriage, in America declined into rural Appalachian preachers from whom Johnson’s mother was descended.

[18] And how supine, spineless, and gutless the bastards are.

[19] Jefferson. Try to keep up, folks. I don’t ask much.

[20] Adams, my 13th cousin seven times removed.

[21] Washington, my ninth cousin eight times removed.

[22] Hamilton, my eighth cousin seven times removed.

[23] Madison, my eighth cousin seven times removed.

[24] Truman, my 13th cousin thrice removed. The reference is to Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. v. Sawyer, 343 U.S. 579 (1952).

A Republic … if you can keep it.

Political violence, whatever its source or support, its affiliation or who are its apologists, is never acceptable in this Republic. We do not and cannot permit it, any more than we can and do permit politics to go about in uniform or in vestments. Nor does it matter to our purpose ‘cui bono?’, or if the conspiratorially minded obsess over to which party any given incident is more convenient. Nor ought support for any candidate or party to increase or decrease owing to such an act: that does nothing save to reward, and thus to encourage, political violence. Any given party, any given candidate, remains either worthy or unworthy of office when judged on character and principles, or the lack thereof, or, where there is a choice to be made, which is more lacking in character or principle. Whether your reaction is glee at a violent act or glee that it was partly or wholly foiled and is thus become politically useful to whichever side you support, you are failing as a free citizen in a republic. Violence remains utterly unacceptable, whether you think in a partisan madness that a politician or a party was preserved by Almighty God or that the Devil looks after his own; that a party or politician nearly became or attempted to appear to be Lincoln, or Horst Wessel. You all of you need to do better. Political violence; its encouragement or embrace; your allowing it to influence your vote; your obsession with imagining some overarching occult meaning in it: all of these unfit you for liberty, and, if indulged, make you one who deserves to lose the freedoms to which you pay lip service.

You are all to cease this nonsense at once.

Beryl-ing down the highway (and presumably flirtin’ with disaster)*…

Lost power MON 8 JUL. Got it back in fits and starts about 15 hours later. Which is more than a lot of town can say, including, critically, no few shops. Got Internet back only on FRI 12 JUL. (First site checked: MLB.com, of course.) Also on FRI, the family had to bid farewell to the bestest and goodest girl ever, after 17 years: Shadow is now in whatever celestial field awaits Very Good Dogs. (I see that on WED 10 JUL, whilst I was incommunic-avocado (Tacit Guacamole’d be a great name for a band), my alma mater, so-called (a real mutha these days, yes; but not a kindly one) was closed for a bomb threat. Hmph.) None of this was the best kickoff to my birthday. Still, it did happen all the same. As things calm down, I’ll be back to explain the opinions in Loper Bright; City of Grants Pass; Fischer; Corner Post; Trump; Jarkesy; and Moody v Netchoice to those who think they understand them. Keep those still dealing with the sequelae of Beryl in mind, and I’ll work on catching up.

___

* And you are too, baby. It ain’t for everybody.

The means of Grace and the hope of Glory: praying the Daily Offices

Today is the Sunday after Christmas Day. It is also, this year, New Year’s Eve, in the civil calendar; which means it is the Eve, the Vigil, of the Feast of the Circumcision.

From that, it should be obvious that this is a post of limited interest—as regards, at least, its likely audience, if any. More specifically, it is directed to that subset of my readers and listeners who are Christian; who are Christian in a liturgical tradition; and, to be perfectly blunt, are, largely, my fellow Anglicans. We are going to speak briefly about the Daily Offices and the Book of Common Prayer.

I am an aging man. I am not in the best of health. It is impressed upon me, as it is not always impressed upon us, that every day or any night could be my last in the body, without warning. This is something of which we ought all to be aware in ourselves, however young, however healthy; but, as Dr Johnson once said, the prospect of being hanged in a week concentrates a man’s mind wonderfully. We tend to give lip service, if we think of it at all, to the truth that any night our souls may be required of us; we rarely give more than lip service. Age and ill health motivate one to do better.

In any case, whether you attribute it in me to undignified fear or to hard-won experience, I read the Daily Offices to myself, Mattins and Evensong, Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer, daily. I find it useful, and I find it comforting. I do not insist that anyone else do. I am addressing myself to those who do.

To paraphrase Will Rogers, I am not a member of any organized religious denomination: I’m an Anglican. We are a disorganized lot. So, tedious as it is, it is practically a necessity that I put my cards on the table (exclusive of any aces up my sleeve) and further define my particular strand of Anglicanism. I am traditionalist and orthodox; I am a believer in the 1662 and the 1928; I do not believe in the validity of the ordination or purported ordination or attempted ordination of women to Holy Orders other than that of deaconess; I am conservative in my churchmanship, and High Church to the point of Anglo-Catholicism, but a resolutely Prayer Book High Churchman. I think Douglas Adams was inadvertently right when he wrote that 42 is the answer to life, the universe, and everything: because 42 is the sum you arrive at when you add together the three Creeds and the 39 Articles. I equally believe that the 39 Articles are to be read in the light of their Tractarian exegesis. I believe in the Lambeth Quadrilateral and the Anglican tripod of Scripture, reason, and tradition. I adhere to branch theory on an Anglo-Catholic basis.

You may very well not. So, for the handful of you who have not yet closed your tab, closed your entire browser in disgust, or thrown your device across the room in a fit of righteous anger, denouncing me and all my wicked views, let’s go on.

I am a firm adherent of the BCP. Certainly this is in part a function of literary taste: the 1662 and the 1928 are far better written, from a purely secular view, a purely literary view, than are the meager substitutes which have been proffered us in their place. But the Church is not a literary society. It must however be a literate one: and that must include theological, and thus liturgical, literacy. Lex orandi, lex credendi—and it ought to entail lex vivendi as well—is not merely a Latin tag to be used so we sound clever. But the point of the Book of Common Prayer is that it is a book of common, of communal, prayer. Explicitly or implicitly, it contains a very full and rich diet. But private prayers deserve our attention. Sometimes, specificity is called for, not in order to tell the Almighty something He may have overlooked, but to recall it to ourselves.

The C of E may be on life support; TEC is DOA and awaiting only the declaration. And the difference is that the C of E has AEO. TEC does not: wherefore, ACNA. That is one way in which Anglicans in the United States can find themselves without a local parish which they can in good conscience attend; and thus be thrown back upon the resource of the BCP and upon daily private devotions. Health issues may do the same; or so may the press of duty to others: no one rightly expects the paramedic, the veterinary surgeon, the soldier, the farmer, the lawyer, or the physician always to be in a position to make it to Mattins and Evensong every day. Yet it is a good and healthy thing for all of us daily to say the Offices, however privately. The 1928 US BCP contains forms for family Mattins and Evensong, and even short forms of both for when time and duty presses. I alternate those every other day; you might be interested to try it yourself. These include extra collects; the 1662 has admirable set Prayers and Thanksgivings; yet health, bodily dexterity, declining vision, or duties in service to our neighbors, may even then leave us pressed for time.

I am not here to tell you what to do: I am a mere layman, and I am not a particularly good man. I have neither priestly nor moral authority to lecture you or to sit in judgment upon you. I am here to tell you what I do, which you may or may not find helpful or of use in your own practice of specifically private prayer.

There are the psalms, both those of the liturgical and those of the monthly day, the lessons, and the Gospels and Epistles appointed for each day, and I begin with these. I do so, as to the psalms, in their regular rotation, precisely so as not to concentrate only on those which are personal favorites of mine or which do not confront me with discomfort and the need of self-reflection. One month, it should be the first of the daily psalms, in the next, the second, in the next, the third, and so on. And let me pause to point out that at this season especially, it is easy to see a special genius in the choice of the readings appointed for each day and each season. Just now, we got the 40th chapter of Isaiah and the second of Saint Luke at the same Mattins: which means, respectively, a significant chunk of the libretto for Handel’s Messiah and the source of the Nunc dimittus. Try reading those without humming.

And then of course there are the formularies, there is the text. I do not recommend omitting or treating as optional the daily collect. It comforts, it helps, and it is invariably brilliantly written, both literarily and theologically as a matter of liturgy.

Yet I have implicitly promised you what is nowadays called a ‘hack’ for your use when time presses or when the implicit needs to be made explicit. Well: here it is. In most cases, there is a collect for these things. We’re Anglicans: we have a collect for everything. All the same, you may not have the time or the bodily energy or the manual dexterity to collate all these collects and to read or say them.

Do not despair, and do not give up. Not all is lost. All is not lost. Nothing is ever truly lost. Not here; not in this endeavor.

Even in the shortest form, there are places and passages where it is not only possible, but is specially apt, to insert what should otherwise be omitted, to say what should otherwise go unspoken, to make explicit the implicit. A few days of familiarity in and from reading the Offices daily shall show you where these are.

Here, for whatever worth it may be to you, are the unspoken parts I say aloud.

I pray for the peace of Jerusalem and for the rest, the repose, of the faithful departed.

I pray God to deal tenderly according to His covenant with His people Israel; and to reform, and, having reformed, so to sanctify and stablish, His holy church: that she may once more be, and ever hereafter remain, holy, faithful, and orthodox.

I pray God that He mightily defend all free nations and peoples; that He grant swiftly, and without further effusion of innocent blood, complete and irreversible victory to Ukraine and to the State of Israel; that by His sovereignty, He prevent any successful use of weapons of mass destruction; that He liberate everywhere the oppressed, and cast down utterly, even unto the dust, all oppressors, aggressors, terrorists, and tyrants; and that He advance the cause of liberty and, with the victory of the free, make war to cease upon the earth.

I pray that He specially bless the United States, her president—rarely as I personally like or support any one of them of either party—, the Congress (same caveat), and the judiciary (need I say it?), turning her people again to our old love of liberty and reverence for the Constitution as we have received it; the United Kingdom, and His Majesty’s Government and judges, continuing the same united and a kingdom, and making the same swiftly to prosper outside the EU; the ROC, the ROK, Ukraine, the State of Israel, the NATO member states, and the Commonwealth nations; in all cases granting wisdom to their governors and so moving the hearts of their peoples that no unworthy person ever, or ever again, hold any office of trust or profit thereunder.

I pray that He of His mercy send all of us in our several necessities and situations temperate and seasonable weather, defending us from all natural disaster and granting us plenty and cheapness in place of dearth; and that He lift from us the current poxes, plagues, and pandemics.

I pray His comfort and blessing upon family, friends, and neighbors, by name; upon the Bench and Bar—laugh it up, fuzzball, but the less you think of them the more you must admit they need it—; upon all healers, and upon all creators, that their hearts may be turned to Him and their talents to His glory and service; upon all domestic and companion animals, beasts, cattle, and livestock, and all His animal creation; upon the congregation of His poor, the homeless and neglected of men, those who walk in mental or spiritual darkness, the old, the ill, the shut-in, the dying, all those in hospital and all those facing, undergoing, or recovering from medical intervention; all women laboring of child; all those fighting in a just cause; all who travel, by land, sea, or air; the widow, the orphan, and all them that do mourn; the refugee and the exile; all prisoners and captives, particularly of war, and all hostages, that He restore them swiftly and unharmed to their families; all those, by name, whom I know to be in difficulties of health or otherwise; and all those who, in this transitory life, are in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity.

And I am not ashamed to admit that I pray for myself that He continue me, day by day and night by night, in the body until I shall be at least 80 years in age, without further hospitalization or the need of it, without being a further burden upon others, without further indignity, without further diminution in health, faculties, or material circumstance, doing daily and being able daily to do the duties of the day and to redeem the time thus given; and that, when, after I am 80, I do come to die, I not die alone and unattended. And I pray the same for all others.

(Personally, and I am not ashamed to admit this either, I also pray every year that the Astros win the World Series, and, in every Ashes year, that England win the Ashes; but this is clearly an instance in which we should all strive for unity-in-diversity, and you may support different teams and sides. Turn right at the next clivus and merge onto the Via Media. There: there’s your Anglican humor for the day.)

Some, all, or none of this may be of use or interest to you; take from it, if anything, what your conscience dictates and which may be of service to you. In any case, without any pretense on my part of special piety or special goodness, neither of which I possess, I hope you do not think it an impertinence to know that you are, by name, or by classification, or by category, in my prayers. And I trust that you are all doing well, as we have begun the new year of the Church and are beginning the new year of the civil calendar, and that you have all the blessings that are implied, here where I live, by black-eyed peas for good fortune, cabbage for folding money, notes, and sliced carrot for coins on New Year’s Day.

The Lord bless us and keep us. The Lord make his face to shine upon us, and be gracious unto us. The Lord lift up his countenance upon us, and give us peace, this day and evermore. And may the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen.

Remember, remember

Another Guy Fawkes Night: Bonfire Night. ‘The only man who ever went into Parliament with honest intentions.’ V-for-interminable-comic-book-and-cinema-preachiness. Fireworks. 1605 and All That.

(Or, as I privately call it, that time when a bunch of my second through sixth cousins, against the urgings of various fifth cousins, tried to blow up my first cousin and a lot of remoter kinsmen … and failed: very conveniently for another lot of fourth and further removed cousins, and to the detriment of a right smart of innocent and uninvolved fifth and remoter cousins.)[1]

After four centuries in America, I can’t say that I or my family have made much of Bonfire Night, as a rule (not counting that Bonfire Night with that nice, jolly-hockey-sticks Home Counties young lady in about 1983 who was doing a semester abroad at Sweet Briar and turned out to have the same hobbitish appetite for real ale and fried mushrooms as had I…).

Yet whether the Gunpowder Plot was what it is believed to have been or was a Cecilian frame-up from the off, it has lessons for us.

The first is that politics must never be allowed to go about in vestments any more than in uniform.

The second is that odium theologicum is no legitimate ground or basis for a revolution, and does not meet the criteria set out by a ninth cousin of mine when he set out that, The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.

And the third is that avoidable civilian casualties are absolutely off-limits and terrorism is never the answer—particularly against an even remotely democratic system, and least of all on religious or sectarian grounds.

So … it turns out that Guy Fawkes is relevant after all, and specially so just now. Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest this lesson.


[1] This is not bragging, or a source of pride: I do not share in my ancestors’ crimes or glories, and have nothing to do with any of it. But the uses of genealogical awareness shall be important in a later essay on writing…

For all the saints, who from their labours rest

Today is the Eve of All Hallows’ Day, Hallowe’en, the first day of the three days of Allhallowtide, the Fast before tomorrow’s Feast which begins with the Vigil this night, with the First Evensong of All Saints’ Day, Hallowmas. Allhallowtide shall then conclude, as ever it does in the eternal cycle of the Church Year, the Kalendar, on the third day, the day after tomorrow, with the Feast of All Souls. And in the Commonwealth, for obvious reasons, Allhallowtide is held to stretch to St. Martin’s Day or the Sunday nearest … because that is now Remembrance Sunday, and All Saints include all martyrs fallen in the good fight against evil.

There is even amongst nominal Christians nowadays much confusion and much ignorance surrounding Allhallowtide; and even more amongst those of other faiths and none. I shall, as usual, explain. Not everyone shall be interested; but even they deserve to be better informed, at least. And God He knoweth they’ll not hear it from, say, TEC in these thin and piping times.

The Eve of All Hallows is not about costumes or chocolate. (Which is a relief to those of us who don’t play dress-up and are diabetics.) It is not about paganism or pranks. And it accordingly does not deserve the commination of the First Redneck Church of Jesus Christ the White Republican ’Murican, or the co-option of the Coven of Blotchy Drumming Wymyn and that sort, which it gets from the mudsills and the morons, the Calvinists and the cranks and the Klan of Star-soul Karens, every year.

(Charity is not my strong suit. Lack of charity is one of my besetting sins.)

Allhallowtide is about saints, not Samhain.

Has it been commercialized? Yes. So have the Feasts of the Nativity and of the Resurrection, the two observances of the Church Year on which merchants of every faith and none join in a rousing rendition of ‘What A Friend We Have in Jesus’. That does not invalidate the Feasts.

Has a right smart of guff and folk-tradition and vaguely heathen-hangover nonsense been attached to it by the commons? Yes. The same is true of Christmas and Easter; and is in all cases immaterial.

So let us consider—and keep—this Feast as it is.

Celtic and Northumbrian Christianity—the real thing, not the retrospective fakelore—began to keep the Feast of All Saints on 1 November rather than on other dates—many of which, frankly, interrupted the agricultural calendar intolerably, which was not so great a problem for the new date—in the late VIIIth Century; and Alcuin introduced this date to Charlemagne, and it was then adopted throughout Western Christendom. There is no good evidence of the date’s having anything to do with any pagan ritual or observance falling on or about the date.

There are many traditions in many times and places amongst many folk and many faiths which involve mumming and guising. But it should be rash to assert that the costumes associated with All Hallows’ Eve derive from these. The evidence is that part at least, and likely the purest source and headwater, of the tradition is simpler. Most cathedrals at the time, and some abbeys, had relics to display; not all major churches, even in shire towns, even collegiate churches, had relics, and lesser parishes in market town and village almost never had. But all churches had and have patronal dedications. On All Saints’ Day as at other times, one way of reaching the congregation, in days almost as illiterate or subliterate as our own, was to stage a liturgical dramatization of the Lessons or the Gospel for the day appointed: and these involved some degree of stage costuming. Even without a play, in the absence of relics the patronal saint and all saints could be symbolized and recalled to immediate memory by mimesis: a mimesis representing the saint with that saint’s usual attributes in ecclesiastical art, which commonly involved the instruments of the saint’s martyrdom if the saint were, as many were, a martyr.

If your parish were dedicated to Our Lady, the BVM, or to St George, say, neither being a martyr, this was easily done so far as props and costuming went. If the patron saint of the parish were St Lawrence, dress a chorister as a deacon and let him carry a gridiron; if, as was likely in East Anglia, he were St Edmund King and Martyr, stick a few blunt arrows through the deacon’s surcoat and put a tinsel crown on him. St. Margaret of Antioch was a bit trickier: where do you find a stuffed dragon? St Bartholomew was readily enough handed a flensing knife; but the butchers, the Fleshers’ Guild, might want to sponsor his stage depiction by providing also a flayed hide.

After all: ‘all saints’, as a class, includes the subset ‘martyrs’, and many of these ‘red’ martyrs. All saints have won through to their crowns by resisting and combating temptation and the forces of Evil. And liturgical drama had a prop room full of prop swords and devils’ costumes ready to hand.

Those today who shriek But Thank of them Chil-derrrrn at the very idea of gory modern Hallowe’en costumes, secular as these are, should break down gibbering if we sent the tots through the suburbs made up and dressed up realistically to resemble John Baptist and St Andrew and St Barbara and St James the Greater and St Magnus and St Thomas and Charles I King and Martyr.

As for the begging… The old tradition of All Saints is handing out soul cakes. No: this is not some occult rubbish or some cult o’ the dead. These are pastries marked with a cross: the Allhallowtide equivalent to hot cross buns on Good Friday, which day marks a far greater martyrdom. What is happening, beneath the modern secularized distribution of high fructose tooth-rot, is the distribution of alms.

And why? But … why?

Well: what is a saint? The class, All Saints, is comprised of the Church Triumphant and At Rest, whether officially recognized as saints for Kalendar purposes or not, and includes also the visible, mortal Church Militant, every Christian, in potential: the blessèd company of all faithful people, together with those proven faithful to the last and now in the immediate presence of God, the faithful departed. Of those yet in their earthly pilgrimage, you may have had a drink with one at the country club last month; you are very likely to have shared an aisle with one at Walmart; one may well be at the till at Whataburger; if there’s one at Tony’s, it’s likelier the busboy than the cash-splashing patron; one or two might even be amongst the lawyers and judges you know; one well might be the EMT who took you to the hospital, another, your mail-carrier, another, the neighbor you nod to but don’t care to speak much with, another, the stern teacher you still resent. You. Don’t. Know.

And neither does the Church. The Church—Roman, Eastern, and (continuing, trad, orthodox) Anglican—does not make saints. The Church Triumphant, that cloud of witness all about us (which ought to give you blushing pause), must be stuffed to the gunwales with those you’d never think should make it to Heaven, and be noticeably missing a right smart of people who were sniffily certain they’d be there with front-row seats.

What the Church Catholic does do is occasionally to recognize one or another saint as proper to be held out, with a Feast on the Kalendar, as a template and exemplar for and to the rest of us.

But because these are not by any means all of the saints … we have the Feast of All Saints. And although all the faithful departed are saints stricto sensu, we have also, because of the emphases of All Saints’ Day, the Feast of All Souls on the day next after, commemorating all the faithful departed.

At this point, of course, the usual Protty McProts start howling about ‘worshipping saints’ and ‘Mariolatry’ and ‘invoking saints’ and ‘Romish paganism’ and the rest of that happy horseshit. This is what comes of letting pettifogging provincial French notaries, Edinburgh bully-boys, and the like play at being theologians.

Living in the South as I do, I am all too familiar with this shrieking ignorance. These are not people who understand—or have ever heard of—the distinction between dulia and latria. (This was so of a right smart of rednecks in the Eastern Roman Empire as well, particularly in the Levant and particularly as to ikons, and the sorry result of it all was the invention if Islam.) The funny thing about these people—many of whom may well end up in the Church Triumphant after all, because we aren’t the ones who pick and choose—is that they are big on prayer-groups and telephone trees.

Saints matter to us because they are examples: yes. But they matter for other reasons as well, as very present helps in time of trouble. To be an actual Christian, rather than a nominal or cultural one, requires assent to a few propositions, and these are set out in the three creeds: the Apostles’ Creed, the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed, and the Athanasian Creed, the Quicunque Vult. Key amongst these, for our present purposes, is this affirmation:

And I believe one Catholick and Apostolick Church. I acknowledge one Baptism for the remission of sins. And I look for the Resurrection of the dead, And the life of the world to come.

What, then, is that one Church? It is the Church Triumphant and the Church Militant together: one. To be a Christian means to believe in the Communion of Saints: that mere death of the body does not separate us from our fellow Christians, who are as ready to aid us and pray with us as ever, their souls living forever on. This may not have occurred to the First Self-Righteous Church of Pascagoula, but it really ought to have done. Certainly it ought to have done to the little old blue-haired church ladies forever mixing the pleasure of gossip with the piety of enlisting as many of them as are available for petitionary and intercessory, common, communal prayer.

‘Maybelle? Charlene here. C’n you hear me on this-a-here line? I dunno iffen you heard ’bout the youngest Mutterspaugh girl … that’s right, Dreama, and whut her Momma was thankin’, that name and all … well, she’s done fallen preg’nt aaay-gin … I know, I know, but Jim Bob, ’sumin’ it’s his’n,  ain’t a-goin’ t’ he’p, you know he’s back in jail after that set-to in that nip-joint up Irish Creek … no, we done got a mite of money together to he’p with the baby, but Dr Byrd says she’s riskish … well, whatever she done, she needs prayin’ fer … you call Anna-Lee up, and Sally, and Betsy, I done called May and Nancy a’ready and they’re prayin’ for her … Oh! And Bob Ed’s down in his back again, and Becky cain’t hardly deal with that and him, and you know that son of theirs ain’t a-goin’ to lift ary finger, so they’s a-needin’ prayer, too…’

Congregants who mobilize half the congregation to pray for Darlene’s youngest and Bubba’s cancer screening but who will not invite the joined prayers of Wite and Alban and David and Patrick and Andrew and George, of Birinus, Petroc, Piran, Osmund, Swithun, Boniface, Cuthbert, Cedda, Chad, and Dubricius, of Winifrid, Jordan, and Kenelm, of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of Michael the Commander of the Host, and generally of Angels and Archangels and all the company of Heaven … seem to me to have booted an easy, inning-ending double play.

The Church does not pray, in the sense most mean by the word, to saints or angels; the Church prays, in that sense, solely to God. Even John Calvin, having some legal knowledge, ought to have known that much. Every lawyer is very familiar with this point, though he may never have applied it here. No lawyer regards the Court, including any appellate court you care to name, as divine; still less shall she mistake the temporary occupant of the Bench for Almighty God—though far too many judges seem to make that error. But every pleading ends with some form or other of a prayer for relief.

That is because prayer retains two meanings. As does petition, as anyone who has filed a lawsuit knows. Nowadays, these terms are usually used by non-lawyers only in respect of asking, begging, imploring God for something. Prithee tell me why that is, I pray. Of course, it is because in common demotic speech, we have shifted to asking, politely or otherwise, things of other humans, or simply demanding them (Karenism is rampant), and without formality. But in two of the Four Professions, Divinity and Law, these formalities are preserved and observed.

To pray, in that sense, of a saint that he or she add his or her intercession to God with yours and the whole parish’s for a particular end, is simply to ask politely: ‘Our departed sister Sidwell, our departed sister Juthwara, our departed sister Urith, who are now in God’s immediate presence, join, please, us, who are of the Church Militant, in imploring Him to comfort Jane in her distress, to heal Nell and Jim, to bless, console, and defend the congregation of the poor’ and so on.

The saints—All Saints—and the faithful departed—All Souls—are our families, those we love, our brothers and sisters in the Faith, our models and exemplars, our witnesses, and our helpers. (And no matter how much one likes, quaintly, the Baroque-cum-Rococo exuberance of Neumann’s Vierzehnheiligen Basilica, there are a right smart more of them than fourteen.) They are there to help. They doubtless do so without being asked; but there is no sin in asking. Politely.

And because they are who they are in all these roles, it is meet and right that we observe their Feasts and so call them to our remembrance that we may better model ourselves on their virtues and examples.

So do relax about Allhallowtide if you are a fundie white with foam (at the mouth); and if you are not Christian, do stop filching from it as an excuse to dress up with your freak flags flying and to bully people out of treats and carry on like Bassarids and Luperci. As for the rest of us … let us keep the Feasts.

Forty years long was I grieved with this generation

Sunday the 22d October was the 20th Sunday after Trinity. That workaday Season of the Church is hasting to its yearly end: soon enough, it shall be Advent-tide, and then Christmas, the birthday and New Year of the Church. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

(O that men would therefore praise the Lord for his goodness : and declare the wonders that he doeth for the children of men!)

Sunday the 22d October was a morning of complex skies which some should no doubt have called confused. There were clouds of several classes at separate strata in the column of air above us, and the winds aloft blew in divers directions, and blew them accordingly. (The wind bloweth where it listeth…) I did not regard the sky, the clouds, or the winds aloft as confused: I saw contrary motion. Fugal. Baroque. Bach.

But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

Writers are very kittle cattle indeed.

A middling-distant cousin of mine some generations back once wrote, The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure. The natural diet, the meat and drink, of writers, is in two sources: in words, notably including the words of others; and in natural sense experience. Both must be consumed to nourish the writer: to eliminate either from a balanced diet makes a scurvy writer and scurvy writing. Writers are kittle cattle—as kittle, as self-willed and headstrong, as any wild kine in the history of domestication and its failures—, and, however kittle, require a nicely calculated diet if they are to flourish.

We spoke the other day of the merits of observing the natural world and its phenomena. We must now speak of words.

A very dear, very generous, and very patient friend of mine, an editor, author, and poet, reminded me a week or so ago that my mind … does not work after the fashion of other minds. I know. A decade ago, after my triple bypass, one of the lawyers at my old firm (the invariable dream-setting of all my anxiety dreams and nightmares), still occasionally contracting with me for appellate assistance and writing, said, in response to my warning that I had lost a step, that that meant only that the rest of them could at last keep up. That was not flattery … because it was not commendatory, or not altogether, nor meant to be: I do have—and everyone knows it—an ill-regulated, ungoverned, and Catherine-wheel mind, an inability to imagine that others are not on the same proverbial and metaphoric page, and no patience whatever. I stand at one Altuve in height, and my patience and my temper are shorter than I am.

Frankly, I’m simply thankful that I avoided synæsthesia with the rest of it.

As it happens, I am possessed of, and am not, I fear, always unfeignedly thankful to possess, a retentive but ill-directed memory. I forget what I ought not to forget, and I cannot forget things any normal person had long forgotten.

Decades ago, I ran across, and yet remember, something in The (old) New Yorker: something itself decades old at the time, which cannot have been printed any later, I think, than the earliest Fifties. Shawn might have passed it, but it seems more likely to date to the dying days of Ross as editor. What I remember of it is the setup and the punchline; I could not now tell you if it were a squib or a cartoon. The main character was a Southern Literary Figure at a Manhattan cocktail party, who had clearly moved North to the flesh-pots but continued to work the same old vein of literature; the punchline, his rather self-defensive remark, Thank God, Ah’ve kept my sense of loss.

As a Southerner and a writer, that tends to stick with me. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

My grandfathers—whom I mention in this context because both outlived my grandmothers—saw in the course of their lives vast changes. Both were born before the Wright Brothers took to the sky: both lived long enough to see men land on the Moon. They saw out two World Wars and innumerable smaller conflicts, beginning with the Spanish-American War; they saw the fall of empires. They saw seventeen US presidents and six British monarchs. The pace of change, and particularly the pace of social change, much of it but by no means all of it salutary, was greater by some magnitude than any known by their ancestors in recorded history: because it embraced changes in kind as in degree. In most material aspects, my late parents’ lives and mine have seen change yet more frenetic; but, save in material aspects, only in degree. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

In the United States, society has atomized: and not voluntarily, as a byproduct of expansion and the frontier: as was the case in elder days. Neither major political party bears any resemblance to its founding principles or its founding ethos, and neither is now fit for a gentleman to belong to. Politics is the art of the possible: even the salutary social changes of the past century were compromised from their beginnings, as they must necessarily have been to have occurred; and now their virtues are mostly spent and the disadvantages and dross and dirty deals which attended their success alone remain. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

The secondary school I attended no longer exists as such. My native city has changed out of all recognition. My old university, and its law school—for I was a Seven-Year Man—, now exists in name only, and those responsible for that sea change are bent upon dispensing with the name so soon as they can be assured that it shall not cost them a bankrupting drop in alumni contributions. It is only for the moment that they are content to continue trading under the old name to trade upon the confidence of the public. But it is a long-firm fraud, and must come in time to an end.

Thank God, Ah’ve kept my sense of loss.

But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are getting somewhere relevant with this.)

I am naturally a man of conservative temperament. This, in the United States, has nothing to do with what the current so-called Right in America has become, but is dedicated to conserving the founding principles, the Classical Liberal principles, of the Republic, as held and expressed and codified by the Founders and the Framers. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

I am naturally a man of conservative temperament. This is not a reaction, emotional and sub-rational, to the childhood disappointment and anger of having my one trip to Disneyland interrupted and ruined by the Yippies’ takeover of the park. It proceeds rather from my conviction that babies ought not to be thrown out with the bathwater, that there is a profound difference between growth and mere change, that precedent matters, that one may trust more safely in the tested than in the theoretical untested, that, as Mr. Justice Holmes put it, the life of the law is not in logic but in experience. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

My life today, like perhaps all lives, has been a long series of losses and of desperate rearguard actions. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

Thank God, Ah’ve kept my sense of loss.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are getting somewhere relevant with this.)

I have a clear visual memory of having seen, decades ago, a cartoon from The New Yorker which cannot date to later than the 1930s or pre-Pearl Harbor ’40s and which as a matter of style was unquestionably by Peter Arno. It involved a crowd of socialites on the pavement or sidewalk outside a brownstone. One of these was a gormless-looking man about town in a dinner suit, soft shoes, a Panama hat, and a look of settled dim confusion, whom I immediately set down as likelier a Yale man than a Harvard man. He was in the foreground, but he was not the central character. Within the brownstone, there was clearly a social gathering, perhaps a cocktail party, and the window was open. Calling out to the crowd within, at the open window, was the protagonist of this little drama, a woman with a mouth as wide as Martha Raye’s, urging the partygoers to tag along with her companions, as they were all ‘going to the Trans-Lux to hiss Roosevelt’: that is, going to the cinema to jeer at the newsreels when FDR appeared.

The cartoon was of course in black and white, and, I think, wash. But I recognized that woman immediately. From her shoes to her clutch to her furs to her hair to the color of her lipstick and the color of her complexion and quite possibly of her teeth and her pearls, she was a symphony in various shades of fawn; and her voice was long marinated in a bottle of booze and five packs of cigarettes a day. Allowing for slight differences in latitude and geography, I knew her precisely: the Junior League, the Tuesday Musical Club, a benefactress of the opera and the symphony, utterly self-centered, the progenitrix of Karens, and quite probably a nominal Anglican. My late mother, although a brunette, as the Welsh tend to be, had none of these vices: music, yes; a sincere Anglicanism unquestionably; popping by the Junior League certainly, at least for the orange-glazed rolls; yet a lady of a wholly different quality to the woman in the cartoon. Moving, however, in those circles, she knew a right smart of that woman’s sisters or daughters.

Mumsie, the daughter and niece of clergymen, expended her energies on better objects, at the parish and the parish church: the Thrift Shop, the ECW, the Altar Guild. Protesting all along that she was not clever—a reaction to having both a husband and a son who were both, there being no more pleasant way of putting it, smart-asses—, she read theology for fun. She had no real use for earthly politics. A daughter of the Great Depression, who had seen rural parishes during the Great Depression, she was utterly free of snobbery. (In this she differed somewhat from my great-uncle, her father’s brother, whose all-consuming ambition to be made a bishop was so obvious that he never became one.) As you may imagine, I was effectively raised a ‘sanctuary brat’, forever in and out of the church, rather a chorister than an acolyte.

All things change: πάντα ῥεῖ; πάντα χωρεῖ καὶ οὐδὲν μένει. The question is whether things merely change, or whether they grow in accordance with their natures. Loss is bearable in the second case, but not in the first.

I do not now, as I did in university, attend local and committee meetings of the Democratic Party, as my father’s grandfather, landowner and local chairman, did before me. I do not, whether on a Sunday after Trinity or at the great Feasts of the Church, Christmas and Easter, attend my local services. I cannot do either in good conscience. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

There is no point in my expatiating all the reason for the former abandonment, that of active engagement in the secular faith of my fathers. You’d not be interested in that, and it is of doubtful relevance.

As for the Anglican Communion… Well, Thank God, Ah’ve kept my sense of loss.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are getting somewhere relevant with this.)

I am absent from my local parish church because I am an orthodox (and thus Continuing) Anglican, and St.-Tendentia-the-Trendy’s is not in my view Anglican at all. (Rite CCCXII for Stardate 2207.9, ‘contemporary’ worship muzak, people with their hands in the air, a mosh pit in the pews, all the liturgical, ecclesiological, and theological rigor of a Baptist shad-planking, and not a validly ordained priest in fifty miles.) I enjoy but can no longer play my beloved Bach: my left hand no longer works to the necessary extent, as some miserable SOB ran over me—in a crosswalk, with the right of way, the lights, and all signals in my favor—in his pickup truck, thereby retrospectively making a waste of years of my being tutored in, and playing, violin; I have not now wind enough, after my triple bypass a decade ago, to thunder amongst and amidst the other bassos. But this has not cost me my love of—or the glories in—Bach, and in Handel. I cannot drive now, let alone an hour and more to the nearest High Anglican, ACNA church; yet I remain an Anglican.

Peter Arno’s dowager Karen should nowadays, as her great-grand-daughter Karens now do, expend her excess of unintellectual energy, assuage her self-important sense of injur’d merit, and satisfy her Wille zur Macht in right-on political campaigning and activism or MAGA-Karenism, and quite possibly in seeking pretended ordination, or even purported consecration to episcopal orders: a deaconess in togs above her station. The majority of the non-GAFCON Anglican Communion has managed, as only Anglicanism could have done, to do what was beyond the power and authority of Pope Leo XIII (who, at the time, was in any case mistaken in his facts), and invalidate the Anglican Communion’s Apostolic Succession and the validity of her orders. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are getting somewhere relevant with this.)

I do not pretend that birding and morning walks and observations of the sky substitute for, or compensate for, the absence in my life of being able in good conscience to attend, to find, a proper Anglican Eucharist: for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory.

But if all things flow and all things change, they not infrequently repeat, in stretto or in contrary motion, fugally.

There is a difference between growth and mere change. It is only in the surreal logic of dreams and fantasies that things do not grow according to their natures but rather change without reason. The drupe becomes a damson, not a dragon, save in dreams; save in grim and Grimmish Hausmärchen, the House Martin begets House Martins, not hydras. Writers of fantasy especially must know the lands and fields we know, and know them thoroughly, if they mean to write of lands and fields we do not know and carry the reader with them to that land and those fields, amid the alien corn.

You do well to be interested in that truth; and must not doubt its relevance.

There have been times before when churches have been closed or in which none of the faithful could, without eating and drinking their own damnation, in good conscience attend them. At the beginning of the 13th Century, in England, and in Wales, there was a period of five years in which all the realm lay under interdict and the monarch had been excommunicated. This was the fault of perhaps the most despised of all my more despicable ancestors, a 21st great-grandfather of mine. The effects were felt even by foreign visitors, not to say hostages, at the royal court, so long as they were there. They did not quite cause a revolution, but they clearly embittered politics and contributed markedly to the scarred survivors’ approach to the First Barons’ War and its savageries, which followed after the interdict was lifted.

When, later, a great-uncle of mine and a first cousin of mine many generations back re-enacted this quarrel, they had to hand a continuing church as refuge. When, later still, cousins of mine revisited these follies, yet other cousins had that consolation, and, even when forbidden openly to practice their religion, had resources and sustenance.

They, like all writers and many a non-writer, fell back upon and found their nourishment in words. Words received from their fathers before them. The words of other authors. Part of the natural diet of the writer. You do well to be interested in that truth; and must not doubt its relevance.

There is always a grace and a refuge, an Island of Athelney in the direst times: and for the writer and the reader, that is commonly words. As matters stand, in the parlous state of the Anglican Communion in the Global North, I have fallen back upon the Daily Offices and The Book of Common Prayer.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are even now come somewhere relevant with this.)

Regardless of your religion or irreligion, your faith or lack of it, your opinion of faith and religion, you must as a writer be interested and find this relevant. The sources of the modern English language, in Britain, in Australia and New Zealand, in Canada, in the United States of America, in South Africa, in India and Pakistan and Sri Lanka, in Hong Kong, and throughout the globe, have but a few major sources and tributaries. We get very little immediately from the Beowulf poet, or Cædmon, or even from Great Alfred. We get little more from Chaucer or Langland, or, save indirectly, from Wycliffe. The sources of our common tongue, its poetry and its prosody, rest primarily and fundamentally upon the Authorised Version—the ‘KJV’—, the 1662 BCP, and Shakespeare, topped up only a little by Bunyan and by Milton. And of these sources, only Shakespeare is secular.

Regardless of your religion or irreligion, your faith or lack of it, your opinion of faith and religion, you must as a writer immerse and ground yourself in these sources of our common tongue: for many of the phrases and metaphors and figures, and the moods and modes, of the speech you use and write daily are like the Order of Battle at Agincourt in Willie the Shake’s play: names familiar in the mouth as household words:

… Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester—
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’ed.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd…

Aldo Leopold wrote, in ‘Round River’, ‘a species must be saved in many places if it is to be saved at all’: and that is true of language as of the natural world. ‘Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ / We are not now that strength which in old days / Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are…’ This ought to be written above the desk of every writer; as ought panta rhei. All things change; but if they are to grow rather than transmute without reason—which should in no long time make communication impossible—, the writer must hew to the ‘hard sayings of old’.

Most writers are aware of the debt the language owes to Shakespeare. It owes no less a debt to the BCP and the Authorised Version. …In whom we live and move and have our being. We, thy needy creatures. Humble praises. This our morning sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving. Peace in our time. In the midst of life we are in death. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust… To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, til death us depart. In the beginning. Lift up your hearts. Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee. Grace at this time with one accord. Desires and petitions. From lightning and tempest; from earthquake, fire, and flood; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death, Good Lord, deliver us. Long-suffering. Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid. Ye that do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins. It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty. The peace of God, which passeth all understanding. Try reading, speaking, or writing English without being influenced by any of these: I’ll watch. And if you’re betting on your success, I’ll take that wager against you.

Good luck speaking, reading, or writing English without these, too. Or even listening to music in English, from Messiah to Molly Hatchet to Motown; in bluegrass, big band, or Carolina beach music; at rock concert, rodeo, or Remembrance Sunday. In the beginning was the Word. Scapegoat. Feet of clay. Peacemaker. Reap the whirlwind. Kill the fatted calf. A leopard cannot change its spots. A man after his own heart. The apple of his eye. Lost sheep. The love of money is the root of all evil. They shall beat their swords into ploughshares. Pearls before swine. Pride goeth before a fall, misquotation though it be. The powers that be. Rise and shine. Vale of tears. Three score and ten. Holier-than-thou. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Filthy lucre. An eye for an eye. The fly in the ointment. The road to Damascus. Coals of fire. Merciful kindness. The valley of the shadow of death. A word fitly spoken. The Greeks gave us a golden apple; but not apples of gold in pictures of silver. Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein. He made a pit, and digged it, and is fallen into the ditch which he made. The rock whence ye are hewn. Lift up your heads, O ye gates. Glorious appearing. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Principalities and powers. All we like sheep. Many are called, but few are chosen. Things invisible and unseen. Faithful servants. Behold, I tell you a mystery. The trumpet shall sound. O death, where is thy sting? His yoke is easy. The day of His coming. More precious than rubies. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.

The language you use has been shaped by these words. I don’t ask it shape your soul; but as it is going to shape your writing and your thought—and good luck trying to think or write without it—, I suggest you get the heft and feel of its shape.

I mentioned Bach and Handel for a reason. The rhythms of our language are reflected in Anglican plainchant, in its syllabic stresses; the Augustan love of Latinate meter is an affectation, though it has its uses. What the language did inherit from Beowulf, from Cædmon, from Deor and Widsith and The Ruin, from The Seafarer and Vainglory and The Wanderer and all the Exeter Book, from The Dream of the Rood, from the Finnsburh Fragment and The Battle of Maldon, are these things:

an innocent, or at least a naïve, delight in pomp—and in secular fame;

a sense of deep abyssal history, an unknown and unknowable past which looms over and dwarfs a diminished present: in fact, a carefully cherished and nurtured … sense of loss;

a luxuriating in melancholy coupled with heroic resolve which stands out the more against a blackened sky—

Hige sceal þē heardra,   heorte þē cēnre,
mōd sceal þē māre,         þē ūre mægen lytlað.

Thought be the harder, heart the keener, / Courage the greater, as our might lessens:—,  

the template for

Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them;

The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us only the choice of brave resistance, or the most abject submission. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or die; I shall never surrender or retreat.

…I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country—Victory or Death;

There is Jackson standing like a stone wall. Let us resolve to die here, and we will conquer. Rally behind the Virginians!;

Whatever happens, there will be no turning back … I propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer;

We shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone; We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender—;

the love of riddles and riddling talk, often bawdy;

the springing alliterative line and its balances, an equipoise which surpasses the Latinate and persists in Gibbon; and

a tough-minded and often sarcastic and self-deprecatory irony, notable in Alfred’s translations.

Alliteration largely left the literary language later. Where it reappears, it is in itself of little moment. Where it succeeds, it does so because it shares with its original what has persisted, the balance of opposing figures, the tension, the Anglo-Saxon cæsura which appears in Gibbon and in Pope and in Dr Johnson as it did in Langland and in Shagsper: and that inheritance was passed down by the balanced and contrasting phrases of the Authorised Version, building upon Wycliffe and Tyndal and Coverdale, the Henrician Great Bible and the Elizabethan Bishops’ Bible, and by the BCP from its 1549, 1552, 1559, and 1604 versions to its crowning glory of 1662. (The 1662 BCP in the C of E and the 1928 US BCP are the last flowering, in a literary sense: everything since has been puerile. None of the new nonsense has affected the language, save perhaps by coarsening it, by infantilizing it, and by unmooring it yet further from reason and beauty both; and I doubt any of these miserable mutilations shall ever be a discernible influence on our common tongue.)

Observe: We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done

Note how contrapuntal and fugal is this: …that we may be effectually restrained from sin, and incited to our duty. Imprint upon our hearts such a dread of thy judgments, and such a grateful sense of thy goodness to us, as may make us both afraid and ashamed to offend thee. And this: temperate in all things, and diligent in our several callings. These figures run through the whole of the language; they are in its linguistic DNA.

I mentioned Bach and Handel for a reason. Long before the Baroque, and without the Baroque efflorescence of ornamentation, the English language had invented the fugue. English prose, demotic and literary alike, is inherently contrapuntal. It is by its nature polyphonic. It is compound of subject and exposition, answer, episode, false entry, contrary motion, counter-exposition, modulation, stretto, tonic, cadence, coda… It thrives on inversion, imitation, ricercare, augmentation, and diminution. Its balances and equipoises are structurally fugal. It is a supremely well-tempered instrument.

I don’t recommend that you listen to Bach and Handel in order to be converted to a religion. I don’t suggest that you immerse yourself in the Authorised Version and the BCP in order that I may convert you away from your religion or irreligion, let alone into mine. I do say and shall say, I do and shall maintain, that the language you use, the language in which you write or wish to write, cannot well be used and written, and cannot be written and used properly, unless and until you immerse yourself in these resources (so far of course as your faith or conscience permits), even if purely as a literary exercise and education.

O taste and see.

The secret utility of mist and fog: observations on observing

This morning was a morning of mist and fog. Some should no doubt casually label it autumnal. I do not, quite, because I do not particularly measure by weather or by equinox: to me, Autumn has come when first I hear the geese overhead.

Fog and mist are not commonly welcome in history or law or the literary art, in the main. They are dangerous by themselves in theology as well: the mystic and the hesychast are sadly misled and likely to fall by the wayside if they have not a thorough grounding in the clarity of theology. And yet this quietude and this veiling obscurity have their uses.

Ten days or so ago was a brilliant morning. My hours are dictated by the seasons and the Sun, as I am possessed of a South-facing window in my bedroom. That morning, I looked out as I ever do: on this day, upon bright clarity. The daily, matutinal cloudbank just at and offshore was a tumbled, solid-seeming blueness behind the tree-line, an image of far blue hills beneath the dawn. We had had rain at last, after a summer of drought and oppressive Sun. My windows look over a channel which debouches into the lower Brazos a few miles away; and look over the local Roman Catholic church and the Regional Hospital, itself a Roman Catholic institution. (At my age, and in my present state of health, it is pleasant to know that, disgruntled Continuing Anglican that I am, I am within not so many yards of a validly ordained priest, though one not of my communion, and of a competent medical facility.) My smaller and more casual set of field glasses, which I keep by my bedside, I trained upon the channel. My field of view was suddenly filled and eclipsed by a raptor winging northwards, too large, too near, too fast for identification: the first I had seen in quite some time. When my vision cleared, I saw something on the channel’s waters which caused me immediately to seize my highest-powered and best field glasses and hie me to my best vantage point overlooking the channel. It had cleared and filled with the recent rains, and the Egrets were returned. That was exciting; but what gripped me was that in their midst were six Roseate Spoonbills, pink as the poster for the Barbie movie.

After a period of observation, I returned home to ring up Cousin Ann, also a birder and one rather better at it than I. (I am an enthusiastic but inexpert birder, in enthusiasm and dedication almost a twitcher, but betrayed by the limitations of my eyesight in my middle age, which is not what it was and never has been: which is curious as I, the possessor of that faculty, have ever been a has-been.) I gabbled into her voicemail with a message, being so excited that I momentarily said Flamingo and had to correct myself a few moments after. Later that afternoon, she rang me up with the news that she had driven to the bridge over the channel, which links the Roman Catholic parish church and the hospital, to photograph the Roseate Spoonbills.

That had been a day of visual clarity and good light; but so had been many previous days almost without observable birds because of the lack of rain. It had been the grateful rains which had made that observation possible and brought birds back to us.

This morning was different again. It was a morning of mist and fog. Dew pearled on every surface. Sound was hushed. And in that dove-grey nun-quiet morning, I was reminded of a great truth. There is merit and utility, there is opportunity, in fog and mist and stillness. If the birder’s eye is hampered, his ear must be the keener. His horizons limited, his eye must be sharper. The more muffled his footstep, the greater his opportunity. The less certain his footing, the sharper his attention must be. And as in birding, so also in life entire.

When was the last time you observed—not saw, but observed—the panels let into sidewalk and road for the visually impaired and those with mobility issues? They are remarkable things in their pattern. They form an arrangement of Greek crosses within Greek crosses, chess-squared with squares: in them are the memory of Mycenæan tiles as at Knossos and Pylos; of Roman pavements, floor-mosaics; of Orthodox vestments.

When last were you thrown back upon the resources of hearing for the dawn chorus and the identification of the choristers unseen?

This morning’s notable visual identification was made possible by the fog and mist, and made the more certain by them. It was a Cormorant, the first for weeks. In the monochrome world of near-silhouettes on a foggy, misty morning, it were impossible to mistake it even at a distance for an Anhinga. It was easy to identify it as a Neotropic Cormorant, Nannopterum brasilianum, rather than a Double-Crested, Nannopterum auritum, precisely because of the sharp silhouetting of the bird against the grey near-solid background. The difference in the orange facial skin at the base of the bill between these two was rather enhanced than diminished in this greyscale world of morning.

The Cormorant is always worth seeing, and particularly as it perches on a telephone wire, as this morning, and spreads its wings preparatory to preening itself for its next foray after fish. The Eagle of Greek and Russian and Germanic heraldry has its particular attitude, and that same attitude appears in its infrequent uses in Gallo-British heraldry and in the civic symbolism of the United States. Iberian and Hispano-American heraldry, as, for example, under Iturbide, and that of Bonaparte, tends to represent the eagle in the attitude of the Cormorant. The seeing eye and the retentive mind is receptive to connotation, associaton, and symbol, and has a remembrance of unlike things, and synthesizes the whole of the human experience even in the sighting of a bird.

Mist and fog can clarify can concentrate, can isolate the essential. They can direct attention to the important and mute the common noise and distraction. They can and they do force a focus upon what matters.

This is the lesson of a misty, foggy morning; and it is one worth learning and heeding: a true saying, and worthy of all men to be believed; one we do well to read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.

Here endeth the Lesson.

Luke, geese, and Anglican humor: a miscellany in times of trouble

Briefly tearing my eyes, at once enraged and horrified, from the spectacle of barbarism that is Hamas, I note that today is the Feast of Saint Luke. In a world in dire need of spiritual physic, not to say an emetic of the soul, and of Greek logic and learning, that is no bad thing. It is also for half the world, though one can hardly feel it here, more or less Autumn. I am not celebrating ‘Fall Day’: for me, Autumn begins when I hear the first geese overhead. Even so, it is the time of year in which one turns to rereading Aldo Leopold and John Graves. And darkling though the world seems—if one discounts the Providence of Almighty God—, there is time even in a dire time for a little Anglican humor for those who can bear it. To wit:

The Texas Doxology (Anglican)

Praise God, th’ Eternal Trinity:
For barbecue and H-E-B,
Tex-Mex, the ’Stros, and the Gulf Coast,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

The Virginia Doxology (1928) (Anglican)

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow:
For Cohee and for Tuckahoe:
Spoonbread and Smithfield hams we boast;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

The Kentucky Doxology (Anglican)

Praise God, whose blessings fall like dew,
On bourbon, horses, and burgoo;
Let this be our Call to the Post:
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

The Chester County, Pennsylvania Doxology (before 1789) (Anglican)

Praise God, from whom all blessings come:
We, far from Severn and from home,
’Midst Friends, Lenape, folk named ‘Jost’,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

Finis Palæstinæ. Delenda est.

It is impressed upon me that those with close personal ties to the region, or with family present in the warzone, particularly but by no means exclusively Jews or Israelis, may find my necessary afterword too much to read as they mourn or wait in dreadful suspense for news of their families, friends, and neighbors. I comprehend that. I bitterly and furiously regret the necessity of the concluding part, and I encourage them to pass it in silence, unread, and to limit their reading only to Part I of this essay. The very last thing I wish to do is to add to their pain. Part II exists only because it is essential to preempt the usual false claims from the usual suspects which are directed against any supporter of Israel who is not Jewish. And I am incandescent with rage that I have been compelled to write it; rightly and righteously angry that I have been driven to the necessity of refuting these usual canards with facts which, at a time when the Jewish people, inwith and outwith Israel, are mourning their dead without yet knowing who has been murdered and who, taken hostage by barbarians, it is obscene to have been forced to adduce. And yet, even now, in order to preempt the non-argument derailments of little lapsed Unitarian pricks at Harvard in keffiyeh scarves, right-on Congresscritters, hereditary isolationist Kluxers and Bundists, Trumpshirts, Islamists, supercilious diplomats, second-rate academics, swivel-eyed Labour councillors, incarnate EU pomposities, and other offscourings of nominal humanity ‘dipping their poisonous tongues into pools of blood’, I am driven in Part II to making clear—even as doing so must give unspeakable pain to them that mourn—that this is everyone’s, every decent person’s, fight; and that I cannot be debarred from speaking by their maliciously false assertions that I must be Jewish to support Israel, that I must be a Prot religious nutter to do so if I’m not Jewish, that I am ‘too white’ and somehow—or thereby—too ignorant to have a say in any case, and/or that I must be being paid to do so. May Almighty God everlastingly damn these people to the lowest circle of Hell.

Part I: Ceterum censeo… Smite the Amalekites.

The whole point and purpose of the Geneva Conventions is to limit their protections to those who observe the laws of war, regulars and irregulars alike. The entire reason for this is to incentivize that observance and to visit consequences upon those who do not observe the laws of war. The State of Israel observes and is observing these, both as to ius ad bellum and ius in bello. The terrorists (and their patrons and supporters)—axiomatically—do not.

Immediately upon Israel’s having been attacked, civilized nations’ governments and many of their citizens, including those with elevated public profiles, asserted sympathy and solidarity with Israel and Israelis as victims. Well within the succeeding week, the tone has changed, to deprecate almost any response by Israel to the crimes of which it has been victim. We saw this in September of 2001: on 12 September, it was ‘we’re all Americans now’, swiftly followed by ‘those vulgar, violent Americans mustn’t hit back’; we saw this in January of 2015, when attitudes turned on a dime from ‘Je suis Charlie’ to ‘there must be no disproportionate response’, and again in November 2015, and again, and again, including towards the criminal invasion of Ukraine by Russia: this swift oscillation of sentimental ‘support’ followed by outright hostility to countermeasures and counterstrikes. And it invariably happens when it’s Israel under attack.

Part of this, when the State of Israel is attacked, is simple Jew-hatred, however sublimated and clothed in the similitude of respectability. Much of this, no matter who is attacked, is mere human nature: the relief that one’s country and oneself is not the victim; the thrill of posing as sympathetic; the joy of patronizing those suffering even whilst pretending that patronizing them is help; the malign pleasure of seeing someone else in difficulties, as La Rochefoucauld knew; the wish that the victim continue helplessly a victim to be condescended to—and the resentment when he does not. And of course the mainspring is mere sentimentality, an exaggerated care for the guilty as much as for the guilty party’s innocent victim, with the fillip of a sense of superiority in wishing a plague on the houses of both These Little People in their ‘petty quarrel’ which is beneath us because we’ve avoided being a part of it. That’s where isolationism comes from, after all: a remote, aloof, pro forma tut-tutting of far-off disasters in ‘less happier lands’ and of ‘quarrels in a faraway country, between people of whom we know nothing’. It is also the source of actually defending, in the guise of disinterested and magisterial judgment, with much babble of ‘root causes’ and ‘we are all guilty’, actual crimes against humanity.

It is no kindness to anyone, it is indeed a special sort of evil, to let evildoers off the consequences of their evil acts. The State of Israel, having been attacked unlawfully by quasi-state and non-state terrorists and their paymasters and accomplices, has an inalienable and absolute right, by war and otherwise, to destroy these enemies and their power to work evil: to abate their pride, assuage their malice, and confound their devices. And the United States—remember the Second Barbary War, and the Perdicaris Affair as well, and the Tampico Affair, too—and the United Kingdom—recall the Don Pacifico affair, amongst many, many others—have similar rights, as their citizens have been murdered by these same savages. (If you are wondering, No, I’m not a ‘Progressive’: never mind Reagan, I’m a Goldwater Democrat, and rather to the rightwards of Margaret Thatcher. Suck it up and deal with it.)

Extending unwarranted protections to terrorists merely encourages them to behave unlawfully without consequences. Hamas, Hezbollah, & Co. deserve no quarter not absolutely required by law and are owed no such protections. Their Charters—the demonic inverse of that asserted in ‘Rule, Britannia!’, for theirs condemn common Palestinians ever to be slaves to terror-masters—call for genocide and terror. They oppress, terrorize, and torture their own people. They take women and infants hostage. They behead children. That is their Charter, and not theirs alone; and their Charter—for which they claim religious sanction—is their Mein fucking Kampf: only fools—or sympathizers with terror—ignore, defend, or diminish it, or attempt to explain it away. They told and tell us their intentions; their actions declare them; they have shown who and what they are, and only fools—or sympathizers with terror—do not believe them to be what they are. Like the Serbian Black Hand in 1914, or Wagner, they are effectively akin to hostes humani generis, and frankly, as is true also of pirates, ought once more to be so regarded under international law. Diluting consequences is a grievously misplaced, and a murderous, sentimentalism. Rewarding bad behavior merely encourages more of it. Those who dilute the distinctions between lawful and unlawful combat, who extend the former’s protections to the latter, who consequently wink at hostage-taking, rape, the targeting of children, genocide, mass murder, torture, attacks upon discrete civilian gatherings, the siting of military targets amidst civilian populations, the emergence of fighters without distinguishing apparel and a chain of command from a noncombatant populace and their melting back into it and hiding in its midst, bear moral responsibility, guilt, of an order equal to the terrorists’, for the casualties thus befalling the noncombatants and protected sites amongst whom and which these abject cowards hide.

Supporters of evil and of evil deeds, their paymasters, their accomplices, their defenders, and anyone whose name crops up when one asks, Cui bono?, must suffer the utmost and most stringent consequences. They are guilty under the law of parties.

The PA and its dictator for life, currently in the second decade of a five-year elected term, must also be so treated and regarded. (They are not a legitimate government by the measure defined by Thomas Jefferson; and the idea that Abbas ‘was elected’—as if that excuses his actions since—merits the riposte that so were Cæsar, the younger Bonaparte, Mugabe, Marcos, Erdoğan, Putin, and that Austrian corporal … prior to their self-coups.) He and they and the unlawful combatants are solely responsible for civilian casualties by their having unlawfully placed legitimate military targets in civilian areas. The moral responsibility for civilian casualties is entirely on the terrorists who have emplaced legitimate military targets amongst the civilian population, and is upon them only. A foggy-minded sentimental shudder at the consequences is precisely what they are aiming for in order to paralyze resistance to their war crimes. And to escape the consequences of them. This is how indulgent parents, in spoiling their children, raise psychopaths and sociopaths.

Macaulay, Sherman, and Jackie Fisher were right. So was Vegetius. Ignoring their maxims as the West has done, and international diplomats have done, leaves these Western sentimentalists and the pinstriped brigade with blood on their hands—and upon their souls, presuming they have any such organs.

I’d like to think that at last the FCO and Foggy Bottom Camel Corps, and Jew-haters in all political parties (o Jeremy Corbyn, Rashida Tlaib, Ilhan Omar, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Paul Gosar, the Squad and the Trumpshirts and all isolationists, the ‘Palestinian’s Pals’ Battalions, Iran-normalizers, ’Murica-Firsters, and Little Englanders), and UNRWA and the WHO and the EU’s aid agencies—for the common or garden Palestinian is given these opiates of the masses and remains complicit in or compliant with their terrorist leaders in consequence, carefully kept ready for radicalization and dependent upon the terror-state complex for distribution of aid—, thumb-sucking pundits, professional distributors of aid whose jobs rely on the continuation of misery, every weasel in the West, et al., shall have ceased to look at the Palestinians and think, What lovely people: let’s give them a state. They’d have done much better over the past seven decades to have echoed what King Harold said at Stamford Bridge. The invading Harald III Sigurdson Hardråde, Harald III ‘Hardrada’ of Norway, sought land in England—and, frankly, the Crown—for himself, and land for his puppet-ally, Harold’s exiled brother Tostig. King Harold’s counteroffer? ‘Six feet of ground or as much more as he needs, as he is taller than most men.’ The last time the Palestinians, so-called, had a state of their own was before the arrival of Nebuchadnezzar. They were and are not autochthonous to the region, even in the common usage of that term. They are a mix of Minoans, Cretans, other Sea Peoples and pirates, Nabatæans, Macedonians, Bedouins, Syrians, Roman auxiliaries, apostate Byzantines who converted for the tax breaks, invading Arabs, Crusaders’ by-blows, Bosniaks on the run, Turks, and the bastards of Allenby’s Anzac cavalry troopers circa 1917, all topping up a prior meager population of lost Jews and Canaanites and Edomites and Early Inhabitants hanging about since the Chalcolithic.

No criticism there: such is the common history of man. (Innumerable groups complaining of ‘settlers’, ‘occupiers’, ‘colonizers’, or any group they can label as such with whatever degree of truth they can manage, always resort to telling those whom they resent to Go Back to Where They Came From (and not, alas, to a Beatles tune), just as certain repugnant people do to perfectly legal immigrants. What they do not realize is that they are exposing themselves to a valid tu quoque: we can all go back to where we came from, the complainers included; but Olduvai Gorge and the Great Rift Valley generally are going to be damned crowded.)

The Western idolization of the Palestinians is rooted in Jew-hatred; sentimentalism and the pleasure of playing almoner and patronizing the poor and the distressed; and Orientalist exoticizing—and eroticizing in some cases (Thesiger and Lawrence both come to mind, though the idea that anyone ever saw the chinless Arafat as Rudolf Valentino is bizarre. There is I think no fetishizing of the women—having seen them, I understand why not—because the terrorists are visually presented as young men, and they are the group swooned and eroticized by fools of either sex, after their habit with that little shit ‘Che’ Guevara).

But, although the Palestinians have Arabized, and weaponize their Arabization, I for one am at a loss to understand the absurd hold they possess over the Pan-Arab mind, if that is not an oxymoron. I equally stand astonished that a people who have in their time been governed by Rome, the Eastern Roman Empire, the Persians, the Umayyads, Outremer, and the British can, even allowing for a period of Ottoman government—or misgovernment—, have remained in or reverted to the state of savagery and barbarism in which they appear to rejoice and upon which they seem determined to pride themselves. There is a reason why one reaches to the Balkans for analogies when dealing with these people, the rabid Karens of the Levant. They are as vicious and as bent on provoking a world war as were the Serbian irredentists and irreconcilables of 1914, whom they seem bent on emulating. They are as irresponsibly murderous and as willing to ignore the laws of nations and of war as the Villistas of that period, or Raisuni. All the same, they were offered a state, as part of a two-state solution—that mirage, that chimæra—in 1947, and not only rejected it—and are pledged to reject it yet—, but participated in and cheered on the attempted invasion of Israel by all her neighbors. And lost. Well … vae victis. They are complicit in their own oppression—which is at the hands of their own people only—and have not the backbone to rise against it. Unable or unwilling to come out from under the porch and take on the big dogs, the snarling little feists bite only the hands that feed them.

A people who have supinely acquiesced in their immiseration are pathetic—and not in any commendatory sense. The Jews of old resisted and revolted against Rome as against the Seleukídai and their predecessors; against the overwhelming material might of the Nazis, the Jews formed the Bielski partisans, the Parczew partisans, l’Armée Juive—including Scriabin’s daughter, mind you—in the French Resistance and the Comité de Défense des Juifs in the Belgian, the Rab Battalion of Tito’s ‘National Liberation Army and Partisan Detachments of Yugoslavia’, and the ŻZW and ŻOB in occupied Poland; they rose against their oppressors in the Battle of Muranów Square, in the Slonim Ghetto, the Łachwa Ghetto, the Mizocz Ghetto, the Mińsk Mazowiecki Ghetto, the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in conjunction with the Battle of Muranów Square, the Częstochowa Ghetto, the Będzin-Sosnowiec Ghetto, the Białystok Ghetto… They rose even in the death-camps, at Treblinka, at Sobibór, even at Auschwitz itself. Where not under the Nazi grip, they joined SOE’s Jewish Parachutists of Mandate Palestine, the Jewish Infantry Brigade Group, Eighth Army, in HM Forces, and the Special Interrogation Group.

The Palestinians? Their leaders (if that’s the word)—to an extent their chosen leaders, bitterly though they repent them of that choice after—, from Hitler’s pet Großmufti Mohammed Amin al-Husseini to Fatah and Hamas, have carefully inculcated in them resentment, privation, a sense of ill-usage; and have directed their calculatedly cultivated hatreds towards those not responsible for their privations, for the leaders’ own purposes and power. It’s legitimately Orwellian. When they have risen, it has been in the ranks and at the behest of their own oppressors and not against their actual enemies: that is the infantilism of the intifadas.

Oh, they haven’t a state, poor dears? They have been living as refugees (cue the Tom Petty track) for seven decades in a camp writ large? Well: whose fault is that?

They have made no attempt to better their situation or gentle their condition. Imagine what Gaza and the West Bank should be in the hands of Singaporeans, Hong Kongers, the Dutch, the Swiss, or the Americans. Nor have they directed any attempt at their liberation of themselves against their actual, home-grown oppressors: contemplate what twelve Highlanders with a piper, ten families from rural Virginia, a handful of Texans, or any five Poles or Ukrainians had done in such circumstances. Israel should then not need to deal with Hamas: if Palestinians were like other peoples, they’d have strung the bastards up themselves.

They were offered a two-state solution in 1947; they screamed and held their breath until they turned blue—or green. These people have the political instincts of King John, VV Putin in Ukraine, 1914-vintage (and current) Serbs, Hillary Clinton, the late Merovingian rois fainéants, and the Provos, combined. Which is to say, all the cunning of Wile E. Coyote. Their neighbors won’t take them in: the Jordanians tried, and the Palestinians attempted a back-stab, a coup, and a civil war. Lebanon tried: same result. No one trusts them, and with cause: their sworn word is meaningless, always. They are like the Great Heathen Army in the 870s and before, never keeping their word, always coming back for more plunder and rapine. Well: the Vikings got their Danelaw and eventual assimilation into England, all right: after Alfred curb-stomped them at Ethandun and extracted the Treaty of Wedmore from Guðrum, and made him and his successors keep its terms. Israel is having to do the same—and with much more moderation than Texans, say, or Scipio, should have shown.

Peace is the child only of victory. Grant and Lee between them ensured military peace—which the politicians then screwed up civilly—with the imposition of unconditional surrender on the one side and a renunciation of guerilla warfare and ‘continuing the struggle in the hills and mountains’ on the other. The Germans’ halting progress in their application for readmission to the human race has been made possible only by the Allies’ having won the War and NATO’s having won the (first) Cold War. France was able to rejoin the community of civilized nations only because Wellington won at Waterloo.

If—if—any good thing comes out of this latest irruption of the irrational, of barbarism and savagery, I should like to think that it is, or shall be, the far overdue realization that the Palestinians—and their state and non-state supporters—must take the consequences of their actions and of their past choices, and that the West needs to stop waffling in an access of sentimentalism. (Yes: looking at you, Varadkar, and you, Darroch, and you, Egeland, and all your needy, seedy crew.)

I don’t ‘pray for peace’. I pray for victory.

‘If—if—any good thing comes out of this latest irruption of the irrational, of barbarism and savagery…’ Yes: if. It’d be nice. However, my weary cynicism suggests otherwise. That leaves but one option: that of removing their capacity—and that of their state and non-state supporters, accomplices, and co-conspirators—to effect their malicious designs ever again; the removal of their having the strength to do so. (Iran, as presently constituted, is, for example, a prime candidate for … deletion.) So… Delenda est.

I implore my Jewish friends, and all who have lost innocent kin to these barbarians, to end their reading here. The next bit is going to be incandescently profane and very angry.

Part II: This is the cause of all who love liberty, and all free men have a stake in the consequences—and no, caring for and supporting Israel is not and must not be limited to Jews. So stuff your attempted ad hominem, your genetic fallacy, your Bulverism, your conspiracy theories, and your demand that I ‘declare my interest’.

It is difficult even when doing or attempting to do the right thing always to avoid possibly being unintentionally insensitive. Particularly in a moment of peril and disaster at the blood-boltered hands of barbarous tyrants. That is why I have recommended that those with ties—close ties; personal ties—to Israel skip this part, which exists only to spike the guns of those who would seek to dismiss my remarks for the usual horseshit reasons. For all the Ellis Island mythos of the late 19th and early 20th centuries in the United States, many of us do not have the close familial ties and emotional connections to the countries from which our ancestors immigrated which are had by some; and the same is I think true for most Britons who are not Black Britons—or of course who are not British Jews, or members of parts of the Subcontinental diaspora. More recent immigrants in any Western country may well feel those ties to an extent, but those who have been in one or another Western country for 400 years or more tend not to—with one exception. There are of course, for example, some rather sad Anglophiles and Royal-watchers, and, even now, Diana-manes, in the United States, just as there are Plastic Paddys wondering where the NORAID boxes went at their favorite fake Irish pub; but they are a distinct minority. One of my old university friends and contemporaries, for example, is a dual citizen of the United States and the United Kingdom, with immediate family in both; but not even he, to my knowledge, reacted to the London Tube bombings in quite the same visceral fashion in which we all reacted to September 11th. And I don’t think there is a very great deal of Italian-American interest in day-to-day events in Italy any longer, after so many generations; nor so very much attention regularly paid to affairs in los Estados Unidos Mexicanos even by Chicano families in the Rio Grande Valley. Quotidian Finnish affairs are, I think, of little moment even to most Finnish-Americans, even in Minnesota or in Delaware. But Israel is not merely a small embattled beacon of hope and liberty in a very dark part of the world: for many Jews in the West, it is something rather more, to an extent the rest of us cannot grasp. I may be exasperated by the continuing echoes of The Troubles, materially annoyed by the SNP, contemptuous of Plaid, driven to despair by the C of E and much of the rest of the Anglican Communion, or naturally outraged by Russian FSB thugs spreading poison in Wiltshire, but these things cannot strike me with the gravity with which terror and war in Israel must necessarily strike any Jew of the Diaspora, some of whose families have been in the United States for at least three centuries or longer. The only justification for these concluding remarks, then, is preemptively to dismiss the usual ad hominem attacks directed towards anyone, not himself Jewish, who defends, as we ought all to defend, Israel.

Let’s get this out of the way at once: as the usual braying jackasses shall raise it. I have no recorded Jewish ancestry. The one candidate in my recorded genealogy for that honor is the unknown mother of Ebles, Ebalus, II Manzer, Duke of Aquitaine, a 29th great-grandfather of mine. I do not support Israel on the ground that I am Jewish: because I am not.

‘He’s insisting he’s not Jewish. That means he’s secretly Jewish.’ No, it means you’ve misspelled genealogist, you jackass.

Like JRR Tolkien, I can only regret that I appear to have no ancestors among that gifted people. If I did, and I thought Israel to be in the wrong, I’d say so. I don’t, they’re not, and I shan’t. I’m an Ó Cearbhaill of Éile on both sides of the family, I’m a 31st great-grandson of Brian Bóruma mac Cennétig, Rí na h’Éireann and a 33d great-grandson of Cellach of the Hard Conflicts, Cellach mac Cerbaill, King of Osraige; and I’m ashamed to share an ethnicity with most of Ireland, North and South, on a far too regular basis—and especially when I see the latest rot from the contemptible Leo Varadkar. When I look at the Republic, and remember that, on the English side, our Ludlow cousins and connections were Cromwellians when we were Cavaliers, I suddenly feel that perhaps more of the Irish ought to have been sent to Hell and fewer to Connacht. I’m descended of every King of Scots who left descendants, from Cináed mac Ailpin to James V, inclusive; and I’m embarrassed to share that ethnicity with a plurality of modern Scots a majority of the time—especially the Nats, and especially under their current vile leader. And so it goes: the English regularly disappoint me; even the Welsh sometimes embarrass me; once in a while, a few Cornishmen manage to make me resent our kinship. As to the Continent, let alone those lasting humiliations My Fellow Americans… Well, as a 25th great-grandson of Giacomo Tiepolo and a 22d of Pietro Gradenigo, as a 19th great-grandson of Bernabò Visconti, as a 24th great-grandson of Friedrich Barbarossa, a 28th great-grandson of Robert Guiscard, a 26th great-grandson of Bjørn Haraldsen Ironside, a 27th great-grandson of King Inge Stenkilsson the Elder, a 29th great-grandson of Vladimir II Monomakh Vsevolodovich, as a 21st great-grandson of Philippe IV ‘le Bel’, Roi de France (is that Gentile enough for y’all?) … all I can say is, vaffanculo, va te faire enculer, and the various local equivalents.

Do the EPs of the 1st Hamas Demolition Brigade (Derailment Company) have even a tenuous grasp of what they’re doing—and the consequences? I’d be right surprised if they did. Jews—noncombatant, civilian Jews, including women and children, protected by the laws of nations and of war—have been murdered, kidnapped, tortured, massacred—and you demand no one speak up for them if the speaker could possibly be Jewish? A crime against humanity is in progress at your filthy hands, and you decline to hear the victims’ and their families’ testimony? Fuck you.

Cowards want to hit and not be hit back, and if they are hit back, want to tattle, and enlist Mommy or Teacher. Hamas, whatever that Day-Glo orange toad Trump says, are cowards, not (‘very stable’) geniuses, or smart. They are counting on waffling weasels in the West—who are already emerging like cockroaches—to ‘support-Israel-but’ and to ‘counsel restraint’ and all that happy horseshit. Not happening; not here. Not from me. My mood is near to being that of my 24th great-grandfather by one line Simon V de Montfort, 5th Earl of Leicester, his son Amaury VI, Comte de Montfort, a 24th great-grandfather of mine by a slightly different path, Philip II Augustus, King of France, yet another of my 24th great-grandfathers, and his son King Louis VIII le Lion of France, a 23d great-grandfather of mine (blame the Stuarts, the Leslies, and the Erskines of Mar for these pedigrees), at the siege of the Cathar stronghold of Béziers. (Sufficiently Gentile for y’all?)

The State of Israel is being a right smart nicer and more restrained than I’d be.

Jew-hatred—Islamist, nominally Christian, Marxist, secularist—always has at its shriveled, evil heart some foul, false notion of collective guilt and collective punishment. If that’s the sauce you want for the goose, Abu Gander… No one is responsible for any sins or any soul save his own.Æðelred Unrǣd is, lamentably, a 28th great-grandfather of mine. I’ve had my share of clusterfucks in this life; but I never ruined a kingdom, and I’m not responsible for his having done so. The despicable Noll Cromwell is a fifth cousin of mine—something even I find it difficult to be cavalier about—; but it’s on him, not me, that he went from a devout, psalm-singing tax protester and religious fanatic to a proto-fascist, tyrannical Sullan dictator. (Low Churchmen … sigh. They’re hopeless.) Richard de Malbiche, a first cousin of mine, my Percy and Darell cousins, and my 24th great-grandsire Sir Peter de Fauconberg were the main players in the massacre of the Jews of York in 1190. They shall have exchanged this life for all the sad variety of Hell, where I trust they are burning screaming; I bear no responsibility. Benedict Arnold is an 11th cousin of mine, and Alger Hiss a 15th; I never sold my country. That rabid racist Theodore G. Bilbo is one of my 12th cousins; I am not he, and the Baldwins of Aston Clinton and Dundridge who are our common ancestors, MPs and a Chief Justice of the Common Pleas and All That, aren’t responsible for the son of a bitch either. Senator Bilbo is merely a minatory example of the downward social mobility and moral degeneration which so often attends the colonial and frontier experience in the British and Irish. So is Nathan Bedford Forrest, an 11th cousin of mine: I cannot claim his brilliance as a cavalry commander and am not guilty of his sins, and no more are any other common descendants of the Savages of Rocksavage and Clinton. I have seen it suggested that that smarmy, smirking sociopath Matt Gaetz is, like me, a descendant of Bjørn Haraldsen Jærnside and Princess Katarina Ingesdotter; if so, that’d make the pedo-looking bastard a 28th or so cousin to me. I don’t know the whoreson, don’t care to, and bear no responsibility for him. (Though I do say that had either Bjørn Ironside—the Ragnarsson of that name being ostensibly a 31st great-uncle to me—encountered said Congresscritter on some witless Witan, they’d have marked him down for the blood-eagle as soon as his usefulness had ended. Vikings were always happy to use the treacherous … and then reward them as they deserved.)

Gentile enough for you?

I have saints in the family: Ælfred Micela, Alfred the Great, a 33d great-grandsire of mine; Ēadgār the Peacemaker, one of my 31st great-grandfathers; Eberhard of Friuli, one of my 32d; Louis IX of France, one of my 23d; Ferdinand III, King of Castile & León, also a 23d great-grandfather of mine; Margaret of Wessex, Queen Consort of Scots, a 25th great-grandmother of mine: but I take no credit or sanctity by them. Nor should anyone in such case; any more than any of us answers for sins and crimes in which we did not participate.

There is no collective sin; no collective guilt; no collective punishment. The complicit and the collaborators, on the other hand, are liable to consequences: something Hamas and its pals—including the both-siders, the restraint-counselors, the both-houses-‘humanitarians’, the support-but set, the whatabouters, and Winken, Blinken, and Nod—really ought to contemplate quietly and with dread. Because if that argument, and consequent weaponry, is turned on them… Fortunately, Israel is infinitely more moral than they.

And the Let’s Not Be Beastly to Hamas crowd can drop this derailing horseshit right sharpish.

Hamas’ hellhound, Hell-bound whores want a Judenrein defense of Israel? Challenge. Fucking. Accepted. Game. Fucking. On.

‘He supports Israel? Oh, he must be Jewish if he does that, whatever he claims.’ No, Dr. Bulver; merely attuned to elementary morality. And monumentally Gentile.

Like not a few figures in Western European history in the late 9th and in the 10th and 11th Centuries, Ebles Manzer managed to succeed his father despite his being illegitimate. William the Bastard of Normandy, one of my 25th great grandsires (Gentile enough for you?), who after 1066 rejoiced in the slightly superior sobriquet of William the Conqueror, did the same. Particularly in polities such as Normandy which were founded by Vikings who decided to settle, marriages more Danico and uncanonical marriage generally, as well as the usual royal or noble bastardies, were not infrequent: how the hell else did you think I descend of my 29th great-grandparents Harold II Godwinson and Ealdgȳð Swann hnesce, through their daughter Gytha of Wessex and her husband Vladimir II Monomakh? (Gentile enough for you?) Ebles was unique only in being known for his illegitimacy as ‘the Manzer’ or ‘Mamzer’—the Hebrew term—rather than ‘the Bastard’, ‘le Bâtard’. None of the other ruling bastards swanning about at the time were thus designated. Some people find that distinction in epithets suggestive, and posit that the unknown mistress of his father, Ranulf II of Aquitaine, was Jewish. No one knows, and I could not care less if I put my mind to it. Is that sufficiently Gentile for the critics? If the House of Poitiers picked up a certain genetic introgression of Jewish descent in the Year of Our Lord 870 or thereabouts, it clearly did not slow Ebles down or affect his career and that of his descendants—or make him less of a prick, as one should otherwise have expected. (I know effectively no bad Jews. I become a complete misanthrope when I survey the mass of my fellow Gentiles.) Ebles’ direct descendant Eleanor of Aquitaine, one of my 22d great-grandmothers, hardly comes across in the historical sources as a stereotypical Jewish mother, either. I am approximately as ‘Jewish’ as Harald Hardrada, supra, a 30th great-grandfather of mine, and a ghastly sod with it, or Thomas Jefferson, supra, a 9th cousin of mine, as it happens—all of which is important only to this Part II. And it is obscene that I must go into all this to preempt the usual deflections of the usual Jew-haters; and more obscene yet that I must do so even as Jews worldwide and the citizens of the State of Israel are once again wondering, as too often in history, what has become of their relations, and who are to be prayed for as dead, and who, as captive, their names not yet being verified and released.

‘Oh, another American who says he’s not Jewish but supports and defends Israel. He must be some subliterate snake-handler, some trailer-trash tethered to some tin tabernacle, some guns-an’-Jesus backwoods Bible-thumper, some redneck enraptured of eschatological fantasy.’ Well, son, that’s a hell of a way to describe a learnèd Anglican of good family.

I am, much to my displeasure, compelled to clear the air and show my cards in this fashion because the softer sort of modern Jew-hater—the sort who do not march about with tattoos and armbands—quite as much as the usual pitiable Kluxers, European neo-pagans, Rodnovers, Putin’s putaines, Said-ists, Saddam-ites, Camel Corps diplomats, catchpenny academics, and other sweepings and scourings of mudsill, white-trash, trailer-park Karens in togs above their station, tend to say two things about anyone who supports Jews, the Jewish people, and the State of Israel. The first is to award us the undeserved honor, which I must decline, of being one of that admirable people. The second is to charge them, us, with being the sort of eeeee-vangelical ’Murrican nominally Protestant redneck who says nice things about Israel as a country in between telling ‘Jew jokes’ and taking huge chomping bites of a three-pound bacon cheeseburger. I have no objection to a Whataburger, though my cardiologist does on my behalf, and if I get one, it will be sans bun, owing to my Type 2 diabetes. But I am a High, Trad, Continuing Anglican, an Anglo-Catholic—not surprising in a man one of whose 15th great-uncles was Henry VIII and one of whose first cousins fifteen times removed was Good Queen Bess. (Fat Harry’s sister Margaret married James IV, King of Scots, and they are 14th great-grandparents of mine. Their son, James V, my 13th great-grandfather, had, he being a Stuart, a right smart of bastards (ahem), though only one surviving legitimate child). Europeans, particularly on the Continent, have this vision of redneck, burger-chomping, Nonconformist Protestant cowboys as being the only supporters of the State of Israel, or of Americans as being, at the least, too unsophisticated to grasp the balanced, remote, aloof disapproval of both sides, the nuances so clear to the ever-so-sophisticated European mind: which does not exist. There’s a reason the English-speaking nations have spent several centuries rescuing the nuanced, ever-so-sophisticated, supremely wise, frightfully enlightened Europeans from their own dictators and those of their neighbors. (Armada Year comes to mind.) In comparing the histories of the nations of continental Europe—which are in their present forms in many cases younger than the United States—and the histories of the United States of America and of the United Kingdom, I for one fail to see how the English-speaking nations have anything to learn from, or are in want of the tutelage of, the heirs of John Lackland (my 21st great-grandfather, alas), Ivan IV Vasilyevich Grozny (my 8th cousin, sadly), Louis XIV (my 7th cousin, regrettably), Bonaparte (a 17th cousin, and I despise the fact), Petain (no relation, blessedly), Wilhelm II (another 17th cousin I prefer not to contemplate), Nicholas II (same again, barkeep), Mehmed Talaat,Lenin, Mussolini, Stalin, and Hitler (all of them, laus Deo, no kin of mine).

‘Typical pro-Israel American: doesn’t know anything about the matter, or the nuances, and is a racist against the poor oppressed Palestinians.’ Oh, horseshit. Your ‘nuances’ are running lower than the Nueces in a drought.

Those who believe that one must be partly Jewish—or must be, to use the vile Spanish canard of old, a ‘crypto-Jew’—to support the State of Israel, presumably also believe in the sort of ethnic or racial essentialism, some one-drop rule, whereby one’s sympathies must be enlisted on the side of the enemies of the State of Israel if one shares any of their DNA. I mention post-Reconquista Spain for a reason: of all the puerile obsessions which have taken hold of the human mind, that period’s Iberian insistence upon ‘purity of blood’ is perhaps the most ludicrous, given the genetic history of the Iberian Peninsula. Peasants—my ancestral Pastons, initially, for example—may marry within their kin-groups. Monarchs and peers do not; and the extra, and the illegitimate, children and grandchildren of monarchs and peers soon become commoners, squires, the County gentry. And further accidents, including economic and religious, can reduce those families and their circumstances further still, or put them on the first boat to the colonies.

My family too has its history with the region: Raymond III of Tripoli is one of my second cousins; Guy I of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem and Cyprus jure uxoris, a 25th great-uncle; his wife Sibylla of Anjou, Queen of Jerusalem, a first cousin of mine; Conrad I de Montferrat, King of Jerusalem, a 25th great-uncle; Baldwin III, King of Jerusalem, a 24th; Baldwin I, King of Jerusalem, a 29th great-uncle; Baldwin IV the Leper, King of Jerusalem, a first cousin; Fulk V, King of Jerusalem, one of my 24th great-grandfathers; and Baldwin II, King of Jerusalem, one of my 28th great-grandfathers. They were, on religious rather than racialist grounds, not precisely known as friends to Jews, Arabs (the yet-Christian ones included), or—explaining the preceding—Orthodox rather than Roman Christians, equally. Such was the temper of the times. And my family, like the Palestinians, were but transient late-comers to Israel, the homeland of the Jewish people for long ages to which the memory of man runneth not to the contrary. Tell me I don’t understand the history and background of the region…

‘Listen, we’re not going to accept this sort of lecturing from some white-bread American.’ Well, it’s nearer to cornbread. Or naan. Or shelpek. Or pit(t)a.

The Eastern Roman Emperor Nikephoros I Logothetes is one of my 42d great-grandfathers … because descendants of his married into Italian and French ducal and comital houses (and the House of Árpád): including eventually that of Burgundy, and thence that of Savoy, thence into the House of Saluzzo, and thus into the Fitzalans of Arundel. Modern Palestine was a territory of the Eastern Roman Empire. And Nikephoros I, an Orthodox Christian, naturally, was nearly certainly a Levantine Arab of the Banu Ghassān, which tribe originated in Arabia Felix as Sabæans and removed to the Roman Levant consule Zeno.

People do not grasp what having a thoroughly British and Irish descent actually means. It means being related to ancestors, cousins, and connections half a world to the East of East Anglia and Easter Ross and the East Neuk of Fife. My 16th great-grandfather Edmund Tudor, 1st Earl of Richmond, the father of Henry VII, was descended, through Naples, Anjou, Aragon, Bavaria, and Valois, from steppe people of Western and Central Asia, and South Siberia. Cue the Borodin.* This is because my 25th great-grandfather, Stephen V of Hungary and Croatia, married my 25th great-grandmother, Elizabeth of the Cumans. István was of course anÁrpád, a Magyar, they being originally a tribe from the steppes of Central Asia; Erzsébet, the daughter of the Khan of the Qipchak-Kumans, a Turkic steppe tribe. (Tonight’s encore by Borodin: the Polovtsian Dances.) Like an astonishing number of persons of English descent, I am descended of the Skleroi, a Rhangabe or two, various Phocids, the Komnenoi, Laskares (Stephen V’s mother was a Laskarina), Palaiologoi, Angelids, Doukai, Dalassenoi, Byzantine-Armenians of the Kourkouas family, the Bulgarian royal family of the Kometopuli (the Bulgars also being formerly a semi-nomadic steppe people), and so on—and of the Bagratids as well, marching through Georgia: with the result that my cousins and connections, and those of unknowing millions of persons of British descent, include, ultimately, the Hamdanid emirs of Mosul and Aleppo; Alā ad-Dīn Kayqubād I ibn Kaykhusraw, Sultan of Rûm; Batu Khan of the Golden Horde; Saladin; and Timur the Lame: Tamerlane. Not terribly Wonder Bread, is it. So let’s drop the race-baiting and the whole nonsense of ‘I can speak because I am browner than you’, shall we, Karen al-Husayni?

Similarly, in the fragments of what later became Spain, in the 9th Century there was Musa ibn Musa al-Qasawi, a Muwallad wali in Tudela, Arnedo, Huesca, Zaragoza, and parts adjoining, always rebellious and often victorious. He was the uterine half-brother of the Basque hero Eneko Aritza, Íñigo Arista de Pamplona, the first King of Pamplona; and their descendants intermarried thoroughly within a century’s time. Íñigo Arista is one of my 35th great-grandfathers; Musa ibn Musa is one of my 36th … through the marriage of the Infanta Isabella of Castile to Edmund of Langley, the first Duke of York, they being among my 19th great-grandparents. (Always assuming that my 18th great-grandsire Richard of Conisburgh, 3d Earl of Cambridge, was Edmund’s son and not a product of Isabella’s rumored affair with John Holland, 1st Duke of Exeter, who is in any case one of my 19th great-grandfathers through his daughter Constance, Countess of Norfolk.) And Edward I of England married Eleanor of Castile and León, my 21st great-grandparents through three of their great-grandsons: Edmund of Langley aforementioned, John of Gaunt, John of Gaunt, 1st Duke of Lancaster, 1st Earl of Richmond, one of my 18th great-grandfathers, and Lionel of Antwerp, 1st Duke of Clarence, one of my 21st great-grandfathers. Pretty damned Gentile, if you ask me… It is also through the numerous Plantagenet-Iberian marriages that I am a first cousin to Abd al-Rahman III, the 1st Caliph of Córdoba, a descendant of Musa ibn Musa in five generations. His great-aunt Toda Aznárez—in euskara, Tota Aznar—of Pamplona was Queen Consort of Pamplona married her children into the Houses of León, Castile, and Galicia, and is an ancestress of mine—and the Plantagenets at issue—many times over, most nearly in my case one of 32d great-grandmothers. Gentile enough for you?

In any event, the Infanta Isabella of Castile—like Eleanor of Castile and León and like John Holland, 1st Duke of Exeter—is a descendant of Musa ibn Musa: he being in turn a direct descendant in five generations of the Caliph Marwân I ibn al-Hakam al-Qurayshi, the fourth Umayyad caliph, who, for the benefit of Muslim readers, was in his youth one of the sahaba, the Companions.

In this inane game of ticking boxes by the Hamas apologists’ own metrics, I get to speak, being, by their litmus tests, of recognized Indigenous descent (Basque), as much a POC as Rashida Tlaib (I being of Arab—of the Quraysh, at that—and Central Asian descent), and, hell, let’s throw in Hispanic (being descended of every post-Roman and mediæval Christian ruling house in the Iberian Peninsula, before and after the Reconquista) whilst we’re at it.

As for my not knowing the territory or its history, allow me further to point out the irony that Sir Mark Sykes is an 11th cousin of mine (and François Marie Denis Georges-Picot one of my 10th cousins), and T. E. Lawrence, a 12th … and that the most recent common ancestor I share with Lawrence of Arabia was herself a descendant of the Caliph Marwân. (My and Georges-Picot’s MRCA was likewise a descendant of Marwân I’s, as it happens.) Oh—and Allenby was one of my 13th cousins once removed (and himself a distant Marwanid). (Hell, from the days of Marwân I, Nikephoros I, Michael I Rhangabe, Basil I ‘the Macedonian’, and Leo VI the Wise, through the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem, to the Arab Revolt and the Sykes-Picot Agreement, my family has been fucking the region up for fifteen centuries. Tell me I don’t know the territory…)

Ethics and morality are not tribal.

Those who think that this disposes me to think highly of or to support the Palestinians; or who think that it ought to do; or who consider me some sort of—to use a term associated with the sort of scum who think in these terms—‘Rassenverräter’ not to do; or who think that I am somehow a bigot or even a ‘racist’ towards the Palestinians because I do not … ought to go home, because they’re drunk, or too Goddamned stupid to be let out without a keeper.

I’m an historian. I’m well aware of How We Got Here. And I know who bears the war guilt here. It isn’t Israel.

I should love to see the Palestinians freed of oppression. That’s why I support Israel: they’re the only ones trying to liberate those poor bastards.I regret that the civilian Palestinians are in the position they’re in … those of them who have any claim to innocence; but it’s the consequence of their own choices and their own actions—or inactions. They have been supine at best, collaborationists at worst, not resisting—or actively participating in—their own degradation at the hands of their own home-grown lunatics. As Cousin Tom Jefferson wrote to William Stephens Smith—Smith was married to Abigail Adams the younger, daughter of my 13th cousin John Adams; his sister Sally Smith married one of Adams’ sons, Charles Francis Adams (is this Gentile enough for you?)—‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.’ The Palestinians have chosen not to tend their garden. As John Stuart Mill—a distant connection of mine by marriage and no kinsman to me—noted, ‘A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.’ Call that a Western, Christian-informed, Gentile view if you like; that does not refute it. My sympathy for the oppressed attenuates to the vanishing point when they who claim oppression are the instruments of their own oppression and have not the testicular fortitude to rise against their oppressors, or even to bug out for a freer land—and who are abject cowards who, worse still, at their oppressors’ bidding, assail the enemies of their oppressors—: which precisely describes the inert mass of Palestinians.

I shall always side with the civilized man rather than with the barbarian and the terrorist. In Israel as in Ukraine, all free men have a stake in this battle against terror, aggression, oppression, and the spread of tyranny, be their fathers who they may. The blood of those slain by terrorists cries out for vengeance.

‘Well, if he supports Israel and he’s not Jewish and he’s not some religious nut-case, that must mean the Jews are paying him to do so.’ … Seriously? To paraphrase a 13th cousin of mine, Willie the Shake, ‘stand not upon the order of your pissing, but piss off at once,’ you pathetic, abject morons.

Oh—and to round out the trifecta of idiocy, No, I’m not being paid by whatever non-existent Jewish ‘controllers’ and ‘paymasters’ the phantom presences of whom inhabit your pitiable delusions, you pathetic little halfwits. Nor am I in the pay of the See of Rome, the Freemasons, any alleged Illuminati (who must be pretty geriatric by now), Hubbard’s cupboard of crooks and crackpots, the Mor(m)ons, or David Icke’s pet lizard—as my bank could glumly attest. (Banks are professionally amoral.) Hell, I’m as poor as a Grub Street hack of old, nowadays, and the embodiment of, If you’re s’ damn smart, why the hell ain’t you rich? So shove your idiot pamphlets and forged Protocols up your asses. Alongside a 12-gauge shotgun, and go out with a bang, exchanging this life for all the sad variety of Hell.

It is utterly absurd, intolerable, and appalling that I have needed to declare my non-interest and establish my bona fides in this fashion; but this is the moronic, intellectually dishonest world in which we live. That being got out of the way … read Part I again.

__________

* Aleksandr Porfiryevich Borodin, Александр Порфирьевич Бородин, a 20th cousin of mine. Gentile enough for you?

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: they shall prosper that love thee.

Exsurgat Deus:

Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered : let them also that hate him flee before him.

Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt thou drive them away : and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God.But let the righteous be glad and rejoice before God : let them also be merry and joyful.