Wednesday, 28 September 2011
Monday, 26 September 2011
''Thank goodness,'' laughed Bilbo, and handed him the nicorette patch.
I think all great literature will read like this one day; just like on 15th August 1949 the proper prayers of the Mass ran Gaudeamus omnes in Domino, etc, and in 1951 they went Signum magnum apparuit in caelo. Testament to the fallacy that our godly forebears, who died fortified in Christ's Faith, were in error and that anyone, in their presumption and insolence, has any right whatsoever to change the Tradition of the Church on a whim, to adorn it or make it their own.
I don't smoke; I never saw the attraction, but the art of harvesting pipe-weed and smoking it from pipes was given us by the goodly folk of the Shire (Tobold the Old if I remember aright), as was the brewing of ales, and ornamental waistcoats (I am desperate to get one, but apparently I'm not fat enough to pull it off). It is to be remembered that all great men smoked; from C.S Lewis, who had the art of latinizing the Coverdale Psalter (I discovered this when I read his Latin Letters - he never once quoted the Vulgate, though he encouraged the reading of it); to Oscar Wilde - although he smoked cigarettes.
Just a thought. Oh and from now on Traddies will be known as the Sackville-Bagginses (or S.B's for convenience) on this 'blog. Very apposite if certain friends of mine familiar with Tolkien remember the worst of them!
FYI: I don't often make use of images from the film trilogy (the book is not in fact one), but I thought at the time (and still do) that Ian Holm made a fine Bilbo.
Friday, 16 September 2011
Thursday, 15 September 2011
I was not referring to Patricius' statements on his sexuality, in which I have no interest at all. I was referring to everything he says about LITURGY, in which he demonstrates an ignorance which is as comprehensive as his lack of charity. He may be honest about that, but he knows nothing about anything else.
My personal life is naturally something I am not prepared to discuss in a public or semi public forum, such as a 'blog. I suppose this comment was related to my post about the article that that ignorant autodidact wrote a few weeks ago? I wrote then what I wrote purely to make my own argument more plausible. I can only humbly observe that perhaps it worked, since the conclusions reached by the American Traddie seemed nonsensical to me.
Even so, perhaps the individual who composed the aforementioned comment would care to come forward and justify his claims? I never said I was an expert in Liturgy, but I am by no means ignorant! I just said that I had something to say (when I can be bothered saying it) which seemed to be ignored by the Traditionalist world, where sycophancy, a lot of might-have-beens, and satisfaction with mediocre Liturgy tolerated (though in some cases, not even allowed!) by Rome seem to be the norm. If I have said anything worthwhile then perhaps my small, mean endeavour here can be said to have procured at least some good for the Catholic Church. As for my supposed ''lack of charity,'' how can I be charitably disposed towards people who care more for blind obedience where it serves us not when blind obedience got us all into this liturgical mess in the first place? If any Traddies still read this blog, it's nothing personal. You just make me sick.
The flowers have nothing to do with the post, but they are my personal favourite. They are purple saxifrage, a rare mountain flower, which oftentimes flowers among the snow. They are extraordinarily pretty. I first saw them as a boy in my grandmother's rock garden, that worshipful lady who fostered rather than tried to suppress my inclination toward beautiful, lofty things. When I went to the florist to engineer a bouquet to my own specifications for my mother's 50th birthday I asked the florist if she knew them (she didn't); I went away thinking that I must be among a handful of male clients who knows anything about flowers!
Monday, 12 September 2011
Saturday, 10 September 2011
Friday, 9 September 2011
Oh well, I shouldn't care really. The Romans who read this blog can get on with their new mistranslation and the rite of 1962 to their heart's content - it has nothing to do with me!
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
This painting depicts Nikita Pustosvyat, a poor Russian priest of the Old Ritualist tradition, challenging the authorities, even the Tsar, who had changed the Russian liturgical books to bring them into line with modern Greek praxis, by appeal to the traditional liturgical books. In other words, this is me 300 years ago.
Monday, 5 September 2011
Sunday, 4 September 2011
They err who think that all enemies of the new translation are tambourine-waving yokels and serviettes of the ''spirit of Vatican II'' generation. I despise the new translation with the uttermost fervour, and for very good reasons; yea and I look down my nose at such idiots who welcome it, whose views are inimical to the Gospel. In reality they're very much like the Modernists, two sides of the same Ultramontane coin; just as tasteless, ignorant and untraditional as the lacey tabard-wearing pope, whose idea of liturgical tradition is more lace, more candles, more Latin and dalmatics for Lententide. Dress up a pig in a lace cotta, give him a 1962 Missal, and you call that Tradition? Puleeeeeeeeez.
During my lunch break at work the other day I was perusing my copy of the Book of Common Prayer, and comparing the texts therein with the new ICEL ''equivalents.'' I am now more than ever convinced of the superiority of the Church of England to the Roman communion. Just look!
A general Confession (''meekly kneeling upon your knees'') from the Order of the Administration of the Lord's Supper (said by one of the Ministers of the Mass on behalf of those present who are duly disposed to receive the Sacrament, under both kinds naturally):
Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Maker of all things, Judge of all men; we acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, which we, from time to time, most grievously have committed, by thought, word and deed, against thy Divine Majesty, provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation against us. We do earnestly repent and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; the remembrance of them is grievous unto us; the burden of them is intolerable. Have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us, most merciful Father; for thy Son our Lord Jesus Christ's sake, forgive us all that is past; and grant that we may ever hereafter serve and please thee in newness of life, to the honour and glory of thy Name. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Compare this to the rather bald translation of the new, untraditional, version of the Confiteor in the New ICEL:
I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters [is this an accurate rendering of ''et vobis fratres''?!], that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault; therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin, all the Angels and Saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.
Or the Gloria:
Glory be to God on high, and in earth peace, good will towards men. We praise thee, we bless thee, we worship thee, we glorify thee, we give thanks to thee for thy great glory, O Lord God heavenly King, God the Father Almighty. O Lord, the only-begotten Son Jesu Christ; O Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. Thou that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. Thou that takest away the sins of the world, receive our prayer. Thou that sittest at the right hand of God the Father, have mercy upon us. For thou only art holy; thou only art the Lord, thou only, O Christ, with the Holy Ghost, art most high in the glory of God the Father. Amen.
New ICEL crap:
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to people [''people''!?! ffs, hominibus is a dative plural form which refers to MEN, not men and women - see the botched confession above] of good will. We praise you [thee], we bless you, we adore you, we glorify you, we give you thanks for your great glory [or better, we give thee thanks for the greatness of thy splendour?], Lord God, heavenly King, O [please] God, almighty Father. Lord Jesus Christ, Only Begotten Son, Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us; you take away the sins of the world, receive our prayer; you are seated at the right hand of the Father, have mercy on us. For you alone are the Holy One, you alone are the Lord, you alone are the Most High, Jesus Christ, with the Holy Spirit [Ghost], in the glory of God the Father. Amen.
I'm sorry but I don't think I have ever read such an awful translation. It conveys nothing but artificiality and pretence, and is not edifying in the slightest. It betrays the very principles of good translation in many respects. Why, for example, translate consubstantialem into ''consubstantial''? What is wrong with simply saying, as in the Prayerbook, being of one substance with? It isn't really a ''translation'' in the proper sense if you keep using latinate words is it? (This, I guess, is my chief objection to the translation Holy Spirit. It is more traditional to say Holy Ghost; why shy away from a goodly name used by our Catholic forebears?) The idiocy of the translators is shown most clearly in the inconsistency of the next part, referring to the Holy Ghost, where they say: who with the Father and the Son is adored and glorified. What would Tolkien, or Fortescue say? Oh I know what Fortescue would say:
Saturday, 3 September 2011
Friday, 2 September 2011
'''Then let us do first what we must do,'' said Legolas. ''We have not the time or the tools to bury our comrade fitly, or to raise a mound over him. A cairn we might build.''
''The labour would be hard and long: there are no stones that we could use nearer than the water-side,'' said Gimli.
''Then let us lay him in a boat with his weapons, and the weapons of his vanquished foes,'' said Aragorn. ''We will send him to the Falls of Rauros and give him to Anduin. The River of Gondor will take care at least that no evil creature dishonours his bones.''
'Quickly they searched the bodies of the Orcs, gathering their swords and cloven helms and shields into a heap.
''See!'' cried Aragorn. ''Here we find tokens!'' He picked out from the pile of grim weapons two knives, leaf-bladed, damasked in gold and red; and searching further he found also the sheaths, black, set with small red gems. ''No orc-tools are these!'' he said. ''They were borne by the hobbits. Doubtless the Orcs despoiled them, but feared to keep the knives, knowing them for what they were: work of Westernesse, wound about with spells for the bane of Mordor. Well, now, if they still live, our friends are weaponless. I will take these things, hoping against hope, to give them back.''
''And I,'' said Legolas, ''will take all the arrows that I can find, for my quiver is empty.'' He searched in the pile and on the ground about and found not a few that were undamaged and longer in the shaft than such arrows as the Orcs were accustomed to use. He looked at them closely.
And Aragorn looked on the slain, and he said: ''Here lie many that are not folk of Mordor. Some are from the North, from the Misty Mountains, if I know anything of Orcs and their kinds. And here are others strange to me. Their gear is not after the manner of Orcs at all!''
There were four goblin-soldiers of greater stature, swart, slant-eyed, with thick legs and large hands. They were armed with short broad-bladed swords, not with the curved scimitars usual with Orcs; and they had bows of yew, in length and shape like the bows of Men. Upon their shields they bore a strange device: a small white hand in the centre of a black field; on the front of their iron helms was set an S-rune, wrought of some white metal.
''I have not seen these tokens before,'' said Aragorn. ''What do they mean?''
''S for Sauron,'' said Gimli. ''That is easy to read.''
''Nay!'' said Legolas. ''Sauron does not use the Elf-runes.''
''Neither does he use his right name, nor permit it to be spelt or spoken,'' said Aragorn. ''And he does not use white. The Orcs in the service of Barad-dûr use the sign of the Red Eye.'' He stood for a moment in thought. ''S is for Saruman, I guess,'' he said at length. ''There is evil afoot in Isengard, and the West is no longer safe. It is as Gandalf feared: by some means the traitor Saruman has had news of our journey. It is likely too that he knows of Gandalf's fall. Pursuers from Moria may have escaped the vigilance of Lórien, or they may have avoided that land and come to Isengard by other paths. Orcs travel fast. But Saruman has many ways of learning news. Do you remember the birds?''
''Well, we have no time to ponder the riddles,'' said Gimli. ''Let us bear Boromir away!''
''But after that we must guess the riddles, if we are to choose our course rightly,'' answered Aragorn.
''Maybe there is no right choice,'' said Gimli.
'Taking his axe the Dwarf now cut several branches. These they lashed together with bowstrings, and spread their cloaks upon the frame. Upon this rough bier they carried the body of their companion to the shore, together with such trophies of his last battle as they chose to send forth with him. It was only a short way, yet they foun it no easy task, for Boromir was a man both tall and strong.
At the water-side Aragorn remained, watching the bier, while Legolas and Gimli hastened back on foot to Parth Galen. It was a mile or more, and it was some time before they came back, paddling two boats swiftly along the shore.
''There is a strange tale to tell!'' said Legolas. ''There are only two boats upon the bank. We could find no trace of the other.''
''Have Orcs been there?'' asked Aragorn.
''We saw no signs of them,'' answered Gimli. ''And Orcs would have taken or destroyed all the boats, and the baggage as well.''
''I will look at the ground when we come there,'' said Aragorn.
'Now they laid Boromir in the middle of the boat that was to bear him away. The grey hood and elven-cloak they folded and placed beneath his head. They combed his long dark hair and arrayed it upon his shoulders. The golden belt of Lórien gleamed about his waist. His helm they set beside him, and across his lap they laid the cloven horn and the hilts and shards of his sword; beneath his feet they put the swords of his enemies. Then fastening the prow to the stern of the other boat, they drew him out into the water. They rowed sadly along the shore, and turning into the swift-running channel they passed the green sward of Parth Galen. The steep sides of Tol Brandir were glowing: it was now mid-afternoon. As they went south the fume of Rauros rose and shimmered before them, a haze of gold. The rush and thunder of the falls shook the windless air.
Sorrowfully they cast loose the funeral boat: there Boromir lay, restful, peaceful, gliding upon the bosom of the flowing water. The stream took him while they held their own boat with their paddles. He floated by them, and slowly his boat departed, waning into a dark spot against the golden light; and then suddenly it vanished. Rauros roared on unchanging. The River had taken Boromir son of Denethor, and he was not seen again in Minas Tirith, standing as he used to stand upon the White Tower in the morning. But in Gondor in after-days it was long said that the elven-boat rode the falls and the foaming pool, and bore him down through Osgiliath, and past eh many mouths of Anduin, out into the Great Sea at night under the stars.
'For a while the three companions remained silent, gazing after him. Then Aragorn spoke. ''They will look for him from the White Tower,'' he said, ''but he will not return from mountain or from sea.'' Then slowly he began to sing:
'Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.
''What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?''
''I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey;
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.''
''O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.''
'Then Legolas sang:
'From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it moans.
''What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.''
''Ask not of me where he doth dwell - so many bones there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea.
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!''
''O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south,
But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey
'Then Aragorn sang again:
'From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
''What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.''
''Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the waters brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.''
''O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.''
'So they ended. Then they turned their boat and drove it with all the speed they could against the stream back to Path Galen.
''You left the East Wind to me,'' said Gimli, ''but I will say naught of it.''
''That is as it should be,'' said Aragorn. ''In Minas Tirith they endure the East Wind, but they do not ask it for tidings. But now Boromir has taken his road, and we must make haste to choose our own.''' (The Lord of the Rings, Book III, Chapter I).
Tolkien's Requiem Mass was celebrated on 6th September in the church of St Anthony of Padua in Headington, Oxford, by his son John with the assistance of Fr Robert Murray, SJ (whom I met in 2006) and Mgr Doran, the rector. He is buried beside his wife Edith in the section of Wolvercote cemetery reserved for members of the Roman church. The modest headstone, of Cornish granite, is inscribed: ''Edith Mary Tolkien, Lúthien, 1889-1971. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, Beren, 1892-1973.''