My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Two

Wednesday, 7 December, 1988
Caen to Mont-St.-Michel to Chartres

ON THE TRAIN-- Unbelievable, but I actually made it onto the 6:48 AM train to Pontorson (final destination, Rennes). No line at the guichet at this hour so it didn’t take any time at all to get my EurailPass validated. The guidebooks all tell you to write on a piece of paper what you think the correct usage limitation dates are, but I couldn’t find anything to tell me exactly how long a one-month pass is to go, thirty or thirty-one days. So I went for broke and put down the 7th of January as the end date, and ticket agent accepted it and wrote it in. Hope to gracious that’s acceptable. Some of the literature said something about a special stamp . . . but maybe that’s just the validation seal.


7:05 AM-- M. le Conducteur was just in. He didn’t even look that closely at the thing.

There was an older couple in the car when I got on. I'd looked around and discovered the only place to put my luggage was on the overhead rack. When it came the turn of the heavy blue suitcase, I grabbed hold and tried hoisting it over my head. Impossible. I simply could not manage it. But the gentleman saw my plight and came to the rescue. As he deposited my bag on the rack, he and his wife gave me greeting, in French.

Um, I know what they just said-- the polite response is, um, um . . .

And the gentleman said, "Mademoiselle ne pas française."

"Oui, Monsieur."

"Vous êtes l'anglaise?"

"Non."

"Hollandaise?"

"Non, Monsieur. Je suis une Americaine."

Funny! But I guess I have a lot of both English and Dutch in me, with the Zickefooses and the Lewises and the Hendrickses and so on . . .


MONT-ST.-MICHEL, 1:40 PM-- O mon âme, pour toi que reste-t’il á faire, mais brise ton orgeuil, devant si grande mystere?

Comment á dire? The coach travels the winding road from Pontorson, passes through another little village or suburb, winds through nondescript wintry fields and hedgerows, and all of a sudden, out from behind a stand of trees or a screening cottage, there it is. You think it’s a mirage but no-- "Domine! non confundar in aeternum!" You sit back stunned and say to yourself, "So, it does exist!"

You look again, and drawing ever closer and ever more distinct it rises against the horizon like a vision of the New Jerusalem come down from God-- Mont-St.-Michel, the Mount of the Holy Archangel. And you weep. C’est tout.

The bus driver drove over the causeway and pulled up on the beach, under the walls and next to the portal. Having confirmed the hour of departure-- tout en française-- I got down, one of only four passengers on this trip.

The calm and silence spread like a benediction. I looked up through the portail de la ville and saw how the sunlight, radiant in a clear blue sky, glistened on the buttresses and spires high above, striking a high resounding note off the gilded effigy of St. Michael on the peak of the fleché of the crossing of the church at the island’s summit. It was so beautiful I was overcome again.

But practical matters came to the rescue: I was out of film in the Minolta and by the time I’d put a new roll in I’d recovered my equilibrium.

Mostly.

It would be impossible to describe all the little winding streets with their stairs and bypaths leading up, down, around, but predominently up, up, magnetically drawing you to the Abbey itself. But every step brought new vistas, new compositions in stone and sky, new marvels of unself-conscious beauty, all with that blessed sunlight illuminating and highlighting the textures, the details, and the warm yellow-orange of the stone. The only sound was the slapping of the waves in the canal estuary and, as I climbed higher, the cooing and flutter of pigeons in the tower above.

I seldom saw another soul and I did have to wonder if anyone lives here at all or if the whole town has been made into a museum. I did see one young man cleaning the windows of a restaurant just inside the inner gate, but not much of anyone else. Perhaps the village missed a little of the medieval clamour and bustle but it was blessed peace for me.

I wish I had a better voice: l’ambiance, le lumiere du soliel, le jour, le Mont lui-même-- all demanded Berlioz’s "Te Decet Hymnus," and sung better than I could in my breathless way.

Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion,
Et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem.
Exaudi, exaudi orationem meam:
Ad te caro omnis veniet!

The whole atmosphere of the place led me to worship, to a desire to kneel down and pray, right there on the pavement stones of the little ascending street. That impulse I would save for the church. But first I explored and photographed (and photographed! and photographed!) all the little lanes and ramifications, with their continually-surprising compositions of walls and steps. I would let the greatest thing come towards the end.

To reach the abbey one enters a kind of porch with leaded glass windows and more staircases leading upwards. There sits une jeune femme behind a guichet and she sells you a ticket for 23F. Then you go up the steps and through an archway out into the sunlight again. The echo of the pigeons in the tower is omnipresent, like a great whirring machine. As you proceed up the way, you can see low arched doors set into the wall to your left. These were, or are, the cells of the monks. To the right, en haut, is the crossing tower and the pinnacles of the Gothic choir. The southern portal to the church was ravished in sunlight, the beauty of the whole an aweful thing to behold. Oh my God and Father!

Tibi omnes angeli,
Tibi coeli et potestates,
Tibi cherubim et seraphim
Incessabili voce proclamant:
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus,
Deus Sabaoth!
Pleni sunt coeli et terra majestatis gloriae tuae!

Mon cher Hector has been in a similar state, and I have the advantage of him-- I am a Christian. But at last I began to understand what he meant by "Les grands transports."

The south door is the Mass entry only. To visit the church one goes through the little bookstore and out into the wide court before the western face. There are abbots buried under its pavement, but of course that used to be inside the nave-- I think-- until three bays of it collapsed in the 18th Century. And you can see mason’s marks-- or are they positioning codes? on the pavers.

From here you can see far out to the west, south, and to the north, where then, at 11:00 am, the signature shadow of the Mont spread across the tidal flats.

The west front is handsome in an honest, homely way; they must’ve done it to match the old Romanesque one after the disaster. I learned later that the spire that now surmounts it all is a 19th Century contribution. In that case, it’s an instance of when the Neo-Gothic improvers actually accomplished their goal. There was sort of an anti-climactic onion dome before. The new spire gathers all the energy from the rocks and buildings below and sends it straight up to God in a transformation from material to spiritual that is more than metaphor. And suspended between heaven and earth sanctus Michael signifer acts as God’s agent for the final defeat of Satan, our accuser, and oh, Lord, may that actually happen soon.

One of my fellow-passengers from the bus came out of the church just as I was about to go in. And so I had it all to myself.

The light, filtered by the cames of the glass, was playing in softly-formed arches on the stonework of the choir ambulatory and reflecting gently off the plastered groin vault of the side aisle. Mon Dieu! qu’est-ce tu as fait!

The Romanesque nave has a wooden barrel-vault shaped ceiling but the choir is loftier and has a ribbed vault with bosses. There is an oculus, about four feet wide, in the center of the crossing. It has a trap door, through a hole in which passes the bell rope, to the tower above.

I could describe all the architectural features; heaven knows I’m used to writing such essays by now. But I will, God willing, let the slides speak for me on that.

Before I took more than one or two pictures I did sit and pray-- there were no kneelers in the nave-- I can’t say I told God this in so many words but I was most grateful for the opportunity to be private in that place. I prayed for my vocation, that God would show me what He wants me to do in Architecture once I return to America, or if He still wants me to be an Architect at all, and if not, Lord, what do You want me to do? I sang the old 15th Century [Johannes Ciconia] Gloria, and though it was done softly the acoustics are sensitive enough that it still set up echoes. I know it sounds overweening to say so, but somehow, when I went over by one of the crossing piers and aimed my camera up at the north nave elevation, something told me the Gloria was in order. I kept raising my camera as I sang it, thinking Oh, I could shoot and sing both, but each time I knew it wasn’t right. There is a marked difference between an act of worship, however inadequate, and merely testing the acoustics.

I’m afraid I tripped over the French language at one point, and it was on a word I should know. No, I do know it; I was just reading in meanings. I do the same in English . . . At the boundary of the choir and of the choir ambulatory there were signs in French notifying visitors that the consecrated Host was in the sanctuary, so kindly do not enter the choir, except for-- and there was a word I thought meant "priest." But I’ve known for ages that "priere" means "prayer"! But I saw what I expected to see and that was that. And so I did not enter at all.

Visits to the church are supposed to be limited to one hour so I pulled myself away and walked out into the cloister and into the refectory. I was soon joined by a couple as I was making a circuit of the cloister garden. One of the Mont wardens came in and told us-- en française, á bien sûr!-- that the church was closing for the morning. But he showed the three of us through the Salle des Hôtes [Guest House] and the Chapter House/Scriptorium, into the crypt with its great pillars, past the treadwheel, and through various other chambers, though far from all there are, until we were ushered through another long room, at one end of which was another bookstore, and thence into the foyer with the ticket booth.

But I had already made up my mind to go to Mass, even if I haven’t been for several years, and when I was halfway down the stairs I remembered that the south door to the church was the other way. So I climbed back up and remet the warden chap, who was talking with the priest. The latter told me, in English, Yes, go back on up, but keep in mind there’s no leaving in mid-service.

I wouldn’t dream of it, especially not today.

There were seven laypeople in the congregation for Mass, along with the priest, two co-celebrants and three deacons. Their deacons are deaconnesses, nuns, probably, making me wonder how the little community here is set up. (I saw some of them coming out of the little cells in the wall about the time I turned around to go back up to the church.)

I was able to understand the French well enough to recall where we were in the service. I could tell the priest’s homily was on an Advent text from Isaiah. But it would have been much better had I been able to participate in the chanted responses more confidently. The overtones made our little group sound like a picked choir. It was glorious.

And it was good to sit there in the choir pew and think of all the saints who have gone before and those who are now yet struggling, to pray for the Coverdale* silent retreat that starts today and the college’s ordinands’ vocations and to thank God for Nigel* and how he models the grace and light of Christ for me.

When it came time to stand, I found I was shaking on my feet. But it was from tiredness or nervous excitement. Not from cold, not at all from cold-- even though I’d laid my car coat aside and was wearing only my blue velvet jacket over my sweater and shirt, even though I could see everyone’s breath. Amazingly, my perpetually-cold hands and the rest of me felt warm!

I think there could be something to physical self-denial, if it were offset by a high level of spiritual excitement. Maybe that’s always the way it’s been. You’re so caught up in God you forget yourself and mundane things like what would be nice to have for lunch.

I did receive Communion, RC or no. You know my feelings on that. It was right.

Afterwards, I wended my way out and around where I hadn’t been before, along the tops of the outer towers. The sky was starting to sport some clouds but it was still quite warm out for this time of year.

Pretty soon, I passed on to one of the restaurants, La Terrasse Poulard (everything is "Poulard" something here) and decided I’d go in and have one of the famous Mont-St.-Michel omelets. So I did, with cuttlefish in sauce. And that is where 1:40 found me.

I wish I could say my exalted mood survived lunch. There’s nothing like surfeit to knock the poetry out of one. The omelet was huge and, true to French custom, left warm but undone inside so the whipped egg made a kind of sauce. Then I had almost two large bottles of mineral water and a piece of tart aux pommes. (The second bottle of water was on the house, because after drinking two-thirds of the first one I poured out the last glassful and discovered a small spider had committed suicide in it. One does not think of the implications . . . )

Oddly, after I left the restaurant the streets I visited were ones that were being repaired. Or that led to houses or areas of the abbey that were under reconstruction. Or those from which I could see TV antennas on a hotel or two, or the plastic bubble skylights somebody had stuck on the roof of one of the houses . . . More tourists were arriving by now, mostly French but still bringing an atmosphere contrary to the sensations of the morning. I was rapidly falling prey to prose.

But I had thought about this in the church, during Mass! No matter what sort of spiritual experience we may have, the realities of daily life will intrude and must be dealt with. Roofs need to be repaired and other people, including ourselves, can be difficult. But let us, let me, take the strength and the awe and the sense of God’s presence gained in worship and in that deal with the world, instead of working on the world’s terms. You let yourself get tied up in a worldly point of view, and all is lost.

[Here ends the entry for the day. But at 4:00 PM I caught the return bus to the mainland and the station at Pontorson. I collected my checked luggage and took the train on to Chartres, where I checked in at the Youth Hostel, aka L'Auberge de Jeunesse.]

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Twenty-One

Thursday, 6 April, 1989
London to Rochester to Canterbury to Moatenden (Kent)
Day Twenty-one

Got up and dressed in time to go feed the meter a pound or two. That was only good for an hour but that’s all the meter will give you in the daytime.

Phyllis* was already gone to her job but one or two of the roommates was rattling around. Didn’t see any of them, though.

Made myself some breakfast then got out of there, bag and baggage, around 9:00. Did not want a ticket.

I’d made no particular plans for today, but I thought I’d like to see Westminster Hall. So I muddled through the very slow London traffic, figuring I’d get down to the Parliament buildings and check out the parking and take things from there. But when I hit Parliament Square the sidewalks were lined with people behind barricades and bobbies everywhere. Parking situation didn’t look hopeful enough to even mess with. So I took the Lambeth Bridge south then started looking for the A2 to Canterbury.

This morning I took a version of Phyllis’* advice of last night. I spotted a coach with a Kent logo on it and followed it. Although the way to the A2 was fairly well marked, staying in the wake of that light green coach made things a lot easier.

I was well into the suburbs when I heard on the radio that all the hooha in Westminster was because Mikhail Gorbachev was in town today, Raisa in tow. Another good reason to skip town. That could’ve been a zoo.

The signs for Rochester came along just before the junction of the A2 with the M2. I decided what the heck, as Dr. Gendle [my Oxford medieval architecture history tutor] says the castle’s worth seeing, I might as well look it over as long as I’m here.

You go through a town called Strood first, then across a good big stretch of the River Medway, before you get into Rochester proper. The downtown is still pretty old looking but they obviously do a good deal by way of shipping. I parked the car on the street under the castle wall, opposite a marina.

The light meter on the Minolta is definitely screwy. The ring on the lens is stuck and the lollipop and stick never line up. So first item on the agenda was to find a camera store on High Street and get it checked.

The man there says the meter’s fine, if you disregard the fact that the f-stop ring on the lens is stuck. I nearly let him sell me a used exposure meter but the thought of having to fiddle with it was too tedious. Besides, I’ll see about getting the camera fixed in Oxford, this weekend. Did get a typical reading for today’s cloudy conditions and that’ll have to do. You’d think that after fifteen years of using that lens I’d be able to set it without the meter, anyway.

Well, we’ll see.

Another thing-- the camera’s case smells like beer. That’s strange, because I didn’t have it in the pub with me Tuesday night.

It was mizzling a bit when I got back to the castle. Came in by way of King John’s round turret, or rather, through the encircling wall to the left of it. The castle entrance is up some modern steps to the forebuilding. Inside you meet the admission desk and the postcard concession. Your tariff paid, you turn right to go into the castle proper-- though it’s more like going outside, since the hall and solar are now roofless all the way up.

The circulation is all around the perimeter, with stairways in the corner towers. Kept having to remind myself that the stairs wouldn’t’ve been so precariously worn in the 11th and 12th Centuries. But still, the old owners had a fine disregard for the niceties, like railings and uniform riser heights, considered so necessary by 20th Century American housing codes. The National Trust has supplied the railings, but some of them were wet with paint today. It was really too bad for some of the other visitors, such as some women wearing medium-heeled shoes. With my suede waffle-stompers I was fine.

The central wall is still there, of course. I’m trying to remember if one of the shafts in it was a rudimentary sort of dumbwaiter, or if that was just the loo. Pretty fancy loo, if so.

The castle also has some nicely-carved fireplaces for the various chambers. All very up to date and civilised, for the time.

They’ve built a new roof, with a skylight, over the chapel, which is in the upper storey of the forebuilding. It looked better-preserved than the rest of the castle. It got me thinking about the religious attitudes of the old inhabitants-- were they sincere Christians or just using God (like so many of us do) as an endorser of their own plans and prejudices--in their case, the making of war on their neighbors? From our pacifistic perspective it’s easy to think the latter, but who are we to judge?

Could’ve done with less rain today. Used the flash a lot, which overcame some of the meter problems. Deliberately set it low to preserve some of the effects of the subdued lighting.

After the purchase of two or three postcards, I went out and took a look at the remainder of the castle grounds. There’s a very fine dogtooth-moulded Norman archway to the northwest-- except that it’s a restoration. I feel so ambivalent about that.

Skipped the cathedral-- no time to satisfy mere curiosity-- and returned to the High Street in search of something portable to eat. This town turned out to be remarkably short on fruit stands, which is what I really wanted. But I got a box of shortening biscuits from a grocers and a couple of disgustingly greasy pastries called Eccles cakes from a bakery and returned, dripping crumbs, to the car.

Took off at around 1:00. Tried to be creative on my route out of Rochester but I only succeeded in getting myself sequestered down a potholed, dead end lane. Back across the bridge across the Medway and through Strood, then.

Listened on the radio to the effusions of enthusiasm for Gorby and company that were coming out of London. I can’t believe the simplemindedness of some people. They probably think Mrs. Thatcher’s a spoilsport because she advises caution.

Back on the M2 and thereby to Canterbury. Cute town, lots left of the ancient city wall. But with all those generations of pilgrims and tourists you’d think they could do better regarding parking. I drove round and round and round, literally, before I found a carpark that had spaces, let alone one that was affordable. And we were talking 40p per half hour, at that.

Anyway, ditched the Astra and threaded my way though a pedestrian mall in the city center and eventually found myself at the Cathedral.

More scaffolding, lots of tourists. Expected by now, and at least it wasn’t high season.

Entered by way of the southwest porch. But I couldn’t hang about contemplating the nave, as one is required to purchase a photography permit. You get that at a little bookstall in the southwest transept. So I made my way there first.

After that, I passed between the parish altar and the massive choir screen to the northwest transept, to where it all happened in 1170.

It’s a little daunting to consider that-- there’s no doubt of it whatsoever-- in this very spot St. Thomas á Becket was murdered. And whatever you may think about the relative merits of his case and of Henry’s, there’s still the fact that Thomas was upholding as best he knew the will of God. There’s an immediacy about being there, even after these long centuries, enhanced by the evocative modern sculpture, a cross formed of two jagged swords and their scabbards, set above the altar. And behind you is the cloister door through which the four knights entered . . . Kyrie eleison!

There was also a plaque commemorating the occasion on which Pope John Paul II and Archbishop Runcie prayed there together. Very sweet and ecumenical, what?

Took the stairs down to the crypt, with its chapel and treasury. There’s a sign reminding people that that’s still part of the church, but some boys down there hadn’t got the idea. I refrained from adding my admonishments to the noise, though.

Quickly scanned the display of church plate then reëmerged back up around in the southwest transept. Being limited as to time I didn’t spend much time in the choir, rather I crossed quickly again northwards and climbed the aisle steps to the Trinity Chapel. They’re a big flight of them, but I decided that if all those people for all those centuries could make it up without complaining so could I. It was piquant to think I was making my own Canterbury pilgrimage, anyway. I liked the sense of heritage.

The glass in the Trinity Chapel is absolutely brilliant, in any way you use the word. God, those glaziers know what they were doing! 17th Century Flemish stuff is cut and paste in comparison.

While I was contemplating the Becket miracle windows the PA system came on and a man’s voice welcomed the visitors to the cathedral. It also reminded everyone that this is not only a tourist attraction but also a house of worship and prayer. After informing us when the evening service was to be, the voice requested everyone to please bow their heads for the Lord’s Prayer. I knew there were a lot of French tourists about today-- there always are, lately-- and I wondered if they’d know what was going on.

Apparently so, because although not everyone seemed actually to be praying, the noise level, blessedly, went down.

I wonder who that was on the PA. Robert Runcie himself? No, probably not . . .

I passed around then and stood before the spot where Becket’s tomb once stood. There’s nothing left of it now-- Henry VIII and his successors made sure of that. But still, at the site of the final earthly lodging of a determined and visionary cleric I was moved to pray for the ministers soon to come out of Coverdale College*, for their ministries and vocations, and especially for Nigel’s* . . . O sancte Thoma, ora pro vobis!

To the east is the Corona with its altar-- it’s roped off so you must survey the glass there from a respectful distance. The Jesse Tree window is there.

I came back round via the south aisle of the Trinity Chapel; I was disappointed to see that both St. Anselm’s and St. Andrew’s Chapels, pre-Becket parts of the Cathedral, weren’t open to visitors. But as long as I was now back on the north side, I popped out to see the cloisters. They’re elaborately fan-vaulted, and ornamented with everybody’s and everyone’s shields and arms.

The Cathedral bookstall, in the southwest transept, didn’t have as many nice postcards as I would have wanted. Still, I purchased one or two and was reminded at any rate to go visit the West Window with its image of Adam delving, before I departed. It’s some of the most ancient glass here.

Couldn’t stay much longer, though: I was afraid of getting a parking ticket. But I did pop into a souvenir shop on the High Street and got more postcards and a nicer Cathedral guidebook than they had in the church itself.

One thing they didn’t have was a copy of The Canterbury Tales in the original Middle English. Nothing but modern. If it could be done with sufficient economy, it’d be neat to have an edition that was dual-language, with illuminations.

Got back to the carpark by 4:30 or so; no ticket, thank God. Got out onto the A28 and headed southwest.

I really love the names of the towns in this place! Between Canterbury and Ashford there’s actually a town called "Old Wives"! Is that the original site of the original tales?

Got the A262 then the A274 and began to look for Mrs. Deane’s guidemarks for Moatenden Priory-- except for doing it the other way round: she’d assumed I’d be coming from the north. They were good directions and I spotted the turn-off just fine. But as I wasn’t expected till 7:30 and it wasn’t even 6:00, I overshot it on purpose and drove up to Sutton Valence to see what I could do about dinner.

Not much, there. I stopped into the local pub. They weren’t serving proper dinners yet, since the cook wouldn’t be in till 6:30 or so. But I could have a beef burger for around six quid. What is this, London or something? I declined and drove down the lane to Chart Sutton. But the pub there wasn’t open yet at all.

Oh well! So I’ll be early!

Mrs. Deane, the white-haired lady who owns Moatenden Priory, didn’t seem to mind. She showed me up some narrow steps to a good sized room overlooking the back garden. It had a fireplace (plugged up, unfortunately), nice dark-wood furniture (including a glass-fronted case full of books), and two twin beds, one of which had a coverlet of patchwork deerskin, with the hair still on. The other had a synthetic thing that was more or less supposed to match it, in a fake fur sort of way.

The other people staying here, a couple from London and their grown daughter, pulled in before I could get my things out of the car. It was a pity, because otherwise I could’ve moved mine and got an unobstructed photo of the front of the house-- part of it is 12th Century.

All day I’d been wondering why the back of my Minolta smelled of beer-- and now I found out why: The lid of the jug of cider I got in Taunton yesterday morning was loose. Oh, boy, are the EuropCar people ever going to love me!

Mrs. Deane suggested I try Headcorn for supper. I’d decided that since it was my last night out I’d splurge on one. The people in the local there were rather friendlier and the prices weren’t so ridiculous. I still had to wait for the cook to arrive, though, so I retired to a table with a half pint of ale and Walter Scott and sat back to observe the goings on.

It was rather different from the Plough in Somerset. The people here came filtering in wearing jackets and ties-- good chance they’d just finished a commute from London. And when one bloke pulled out a portable phone and made a call, I almost burst out laughing, it was so incongruous. Because for all that, it still was a basic British pub, with kids running in and out (the boy may’ve belonged to the landlord) and the usual decor, enhanced in this case by airplane memorabilia.

I ordered roast beef with peas and potatoes and was glad to get it, too. Can’t get it at Coverdale*.

Back at Moatenden, I sat down in the little white painted hall reading in front of its great fireplace and making faces at the little dogs that trotted in and out. That fireplace is taller than I am-- I could’ve walked right into it. The fire on its bed of ashes and coals occupied one corner-- you could just imagine pulling a chair into the other side of it.

I didn’t see any other of the company while I was there; I retired to bed around 9:30. I decided, even though I’d been sitting on the bed with the fake fleece coverlet, to sleep on the other one-- one doesn’t often get a chance to slumber under deerskin and I doubted I’d ever have such again.

Books and More Books!

This past Saturday the area library held its annual book sale.

And regular income or not, I needs must go and see what I can find. At a dollar per hardback, I'd be an idiot not to.

Here is this year's haul, in the order they happen to be stacked on my study floor:

1) Common Errors in English and How to Avoid Them, by Alexander M. Witherspoon, Ph.D., 1943.

I've inherited some of my English teacher grandmother's propensity for being a grammar and usage cop. And as much fun as it is to deplore others' mishandling of the language, it's salutary for me to make sure my own writing is itself up to par (hmmmm . . . . should that actually be "propensity to be"? And would it be more accurate to say I want to get "down to par"? I'd better read this book and find out!). Then, too, it'll be interesting to see what usages have absolutely changed in the past 64 years. I actually hadn't known that "contact" hadn't always been a verb as well as a noun!

2) Hypatia, by Charles Kingsley, no copyright date shown but originally published in 1853. The design and frontispiece illustrations of this American edition look more Edwardian. 1905, let's say.

Charles Kingsley is a familiar name, somehow in association with the Inklings of Oxford. A predecessor? And I'd heard of his Hypatia, but I hadn't known what it was about. Turns out it concerns a young woman, a philosopher and teacher, who is trying to bring back Classical paganism against the momentum of post-Constantinian Christianity. But that's only the first two chapters. I'll see what ensues.

3) David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens, 1948 Literary Guild edition, first published in 1850.

Everybody needs a copy of David Copperfield. Otherwise, how are you going to know when Masterpiece Theatre gets it wrong?

4) Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo, English translation 1943; French original published 1862.

Gosh, I hope, I hope, I hope this version is unabridged, discursions on argot, the Battle of Waterloo, and all!

5) Cathedral, Forge, and Waterwheel: Technology and Invention in the Middle Ages, by Frances and Joseph Gies, 1994.

Promising-looking treatment of Medieval architecture and technology, with reproductions of period illustrations. The people who put together the library sale tables had filed it under "Religion." Hilarious! (Unless you really do think that architects will save the world).

6) All Things Bright and Beautiful, James Herriot, 1974.

Dogs! Cats! Horses! Furry critters in general! And the vicarious pleasure of looking in on a country vet's life without having to get cold and tired and grotty oneself! Eh, oop!

7) Laughing Stock, Bennett Cerf, editor, 1945.

In his Introduction, Mr. Cerf states, "The joke book of the future will bear little resemblance to this collection. My grandson will tell me . . . 'For Pete's sake, is that what people laughed at fifty years ago?'" Alas, Mr. Cerf was right. But there are still enough good ones to amuse any occupant of the porcelain throne-- which is why I pick up books like this in the first place.

8) The Hymnbook, David Hugh Jones, editor, 1955.

Not a lot of Presbyterian Church (USA) congregations still use the Dark Red Hymnal. But occasionally I'll preach at a church that does. Now I can return the copy I borrowed from the church of a pastor friend of mine two years ago (sorry, Deb!)

9) The Presbyterian Valley, William Wilson McKinney, editor, 1958.

A collection of essays on the history, development, and accomplishments of the earliest Presbyterian churches in the Upper Ohio Valley. The church I used to pastor is shown on the map on the endpapers, but far, far south of where it's located now. Another congregation by the same name? Or the same one, and is this yet another example of the lack of communication and obscurantism I encountered in that parish? I knew when I was there that the church had moved at some point to its present location, but nobody could or would tell me from where. Maybe they had no historic sense and simply didn't know. Or maybe it was more of the quality that made the clerk of session keep the church register and Session minute book at his home and refuse to ever, ever let me see them.

10) Home Painting, Wallpapering and Decorating, a "Wise book," 1951.

Screamingly out of date for many products, tools, and techniques, but containing some recipes that may come in very handy as I renovate my 1920s foursquare house (see my blog The Sow's Ear). Worth spending a buck for, just in case.

11) Decorative Painting, by Emma Callery, 1990.

I've already done some nice (I think!) faux finishing on my kitchen (which someday I'll get round to publishing on my house blog). This book should come in hand for the next such project I may try. Lots of well-photographed illustrations.

12) A Certain Justice, by P. D. James, 1997.

I "read" this story before, in 1999, by way of Books on Tape, while en route to a Face-to-Face pastor search cattle call in Corning, New York. Got so wrapped up in the story that I missed my exit for my friends' house in Cincinnati (where I was to spend the night) and ended up in Over-the-Rhine. There are times when that could've been very awkward for someone like me, but happily, that midnight was not one of them. A friendly gas station clerk set me straight and I eventually made it back to the suburbs.

As for the story, P. D. James can always be relied upon to give the reader a grim but gripping, well-constructed, psychologically-motivated tale. And, what fun, I see that she has signed this copy on the flyleaf!

13) The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, fourth edition, Vol. 1, Maynard Mack, general editor, 1979.

14) The Norton Anthology of English Literature, fifth edition, Vol. 1, M. H. Abrams, general editor, 1986.

15) The Norton Anthology of English Literature, fifth edition, Vol. 2, M. H. Abrams, general editor, 1986.

Back in June of 1975, Judy, an architecture school classmate at my Great Midwestern University, borrowed my Norton Anthology of English Literature; I think it was to clear up an Incomplete she'd had to take in an English class. But she absconded to Iowa, transferred to Maharishi University, and I never saw her or my Norton again.

When I laid eyes on these books last Saturday, I thought, "Ah! here's my chance to recover my loss." But the sale room was too crowded and the books were too heavy to see if any of them were the same one I had in the mid-'70s. I'm particularly looking for a story called "August Heat," about a man who goes walking in London on a blindingly hot Bank Holiday afternoon, and somehow ends up in a stonecutter's yard where the unknown craftsman has just finished chiseling a tombstone with the protagonist's name on it . . .

Haven't found it yet. Maybe it was in the 1974 edition, but left out of this. I know it always creeped me out enjoyably.

There should be one more, going by the amount I was charged. But I can't find it. Oh, well, if the volunteer made a miscount, that's one more dollar for the library fund!