Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.—William Shakespeare, Richard the Third.
ANOTHER year has passed, and we find ourselves in 2025. It is still within the Twelve days — and the Christmas Season lingers on until Candlemas. Let us continue to enjoy Christmas so long as we can, knowing that it is one of those little views of Heaven that make this life bearable. It is the start of a new year on the death of the old, and should remind us also of how fleeting this life is. For many, the upcoming inauguration of Mr. Trump on January 20 is certain to usher in a new golden age for these United States — others are not so sure. Victories — like that of the House of York over their Lancastrian cousins and celebrated in the opening quote — are often illusory, as are defeats.
It was a triumph of sorts when the three Kings brought their gifts to Our Lord; as the World sees things, that was about it, until His Royal identity was hailed by the Jews of Jerusalem — on Palm Sunday. But the agonising defeat at Calvary on Good Friday lasted no more than three hours on the Cross and several more through Holy Saturday, to be succeeded than and forevermore by the Triumph of Easter — and in which each of us may participate, if we give up the inevitable defeats to which following our own fallen nature shall lead us.
Our Scots friends celebrate the memory of their national bard, Robert Burns, starting on around the date of his birth, January 25. The Burns Suppers follow an elaborate ceremonial, and may be found wherever there are sufficient Scotsmen to put one on. His was an interesting if in many ways tragic story. But he left a definite mark on his countrymen; his poetry summed up both the human condition and that unique element of it particular to his homeland. He influenced supremely a young Sir Walter Scott, whose own work would affect every major benevolent figure of his era from Washington Irving to St. John Henry Newman. Yet he died at age 37, working extremely hard to maintain his wife and four children in modest comfort.
On and around January 21, Requiem Masses are held all around France and elsewhere, to mark the judicial murder of King Louis XVI by the National Assembly on that day in 1793. These often involve reading that martyred Monarch’s Last Will and Testament, the Consecration of his people to the Sacred Heart, and the allocution of Pope Pius VI to his cardinals on hearing of Louis’ demise. At least as much responsible for the independence of the United States as the rebel leaders of 1776, he derived as much benefit from that act as any of our allies ever have in assisting us — gratitude aside. But he was in himself a most remarkable Monarch. From his accession in 1774 he began a series of financial, governmental, and military reforms that made his country’s victory over Britain in the 1778-1783 war possible — this after France had been defeated by the ancient enemy four times from 1686 to 1763. But the bankruptcy the American War brought made it impossible for him to do anything meaningful when the French crops failed in 1788 thanks to an Icelandic volcano. Out of that impasse (and other factors) came the French Revolution. From being at the top of the world, he and all he loved came crashing down in a whirlwind of blood that would engulf France and finally all Europe until 1815. But every year, he is remembered with Masses, prayers, and love — and his murderers are not.
January 28 is the feast day of Bl. Charlemagne, Father of Europe — and indeed therefore of Europe-over-the-Sea, to include ourselves. Although his liturgical feast is now only observed in a few locations — Aachen, Frankfurt, and elsewhere — he certainly retains his hold over the Western Imagination. Although since the Protestant Revolt, certain historians have always chipped away at his reputation, he is such a large figure that their nastiest and vilest efforts have only limited success. Even the Eurocrats in Brussels, anti-Catholic as they are, like to pretend that what they have twisted the European Union into is somehow a fulfillment of Charlemagne’s vision. The truth is that what is the West has become could not be further from that of Charlemagne, but is far closer to Isaiah’s vision of a nation ruled by effeminate, stupid, and vicious children (cf. Isaiah 3:1-5). But for all of that, many still venerate the great Emperor, and even the ruling children have to give lip service to his name.
That name was shared by Charles I of England, Scotland, and Ireland, murdered himself by Cromwell and his Parliament on January 30, 1649. Slain for his resistance to the abolition of bishops in the Church of England, his negotiations with the Holy See for reunion with Rome, and his opposition driving the peasantry off their lands with what were called the enclosures, he died true to his coronation oath. But while he reigned without Parliament in the 1630s, his peoples enjoyed some of the happiest times they had ever known — as did he, his wife, family, and court. From that time emerged the Cavalier Poets and the Caroline Divines, and sundry other good things. But it all came crashing down when the Parliamentary and Puritanical oligarchs made the ultimately successful power grab historians call the Wars of the Three Kingdoms. But as with his descendant, Louis XVI (as also his later descendants, Bl. Karl I and SG Zita of Austria-Hungary), King Charles’ memory is revered — indeed, some venerate him as a saint — to this day; the same cannot be said of Cromwell and the King’s other enemies.
The day following the anniversary of the King’s murder and the last day of the month is also the death day of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the King’s great grandson, and his successor, de jure, as Charles III of the Three Kingdoms. Charles II, the murdered King’s older son, was restored in 1660. He managed to keep the Oligarchs at bay, despite converting on his deathbed. His already Catholic brother, James II, was less clever or else more honest, and lost the thrones to William of Orange in 1688. After armed struggle in England Scotland, and Ireland, the King’s supporters, the Jacobites (after the Latin for James) kept up the fight after James II died in 1702. His son, James III, led the movement, first from France and then Rome; the most obvious results were two failed risings in 1715 and 1719. But his son, in turn, as a young and romantic figure, led yet another attempt in his father’s name in 1745. Desperate attempt though it was, ironically it came the closest to success. It certainly featured dramatic episodes — not least the Bonnie Prince reigning in State at Holyrood Palace. The tragic end at Culloden also ended the Prince’s relationship with his father, who would die 20 years later in 1766; Charles would live on, an increasingly miserable figure, until his own death in 1788. Succeeded in his claims to the throne by his younger brother, the de jure Henry IX’s clerical status as Cardinal York ended the serious side of the Jacobite cause.
But here again, contemporary and subsequent poets and writers — not least Robert Burns — from that day to this have celebrated the Jacobites and their doings, from the Battle of the Boyne to the Field of Culloden. The victors — like “Butcher” Cumberland — remain unsung, and something of an embarrassment even to their ideological descendants.
With all of these notions of past, present, and future, of victory and defeat swirling around in my mind, I face the New Year in a somewhat quizzical state of mind. At 64, I can no longer take seeing the next New Year for granted; too many of my nearest and dearest of my own age have seen their last year over the past decade. I think about their triumphs and defeats, as I might those of Burns and the Monarchs. Unlike the more famous set, I shared in those victories and defeats as they did in mine. So too with my own. Neither Kings nor great poets nor ordinary folk such as you and I really know the true meaning of the events in our lives, nor their actual significance.
On a lesser level, we cannot know whether they shall add or detract to our reputation or renown on this Earth, because those choices are made by those who live after us. More important, however, than the reputation the world assigns us after our death, is our eternal fate. How our victories and defeats contribute to our Salvation or damnation is the true measure of their worth. One day, in the next few decades, I shall have to face the Divine Judge, and account for all that I have done. But that day shall not be the end of my life — it shall be its beginning in Eternity. When the Final Judgement comes, all of us shall everything in its true light, and how indeed all things worked our in God’s Justice and Mercy for the Good of those who truly love God. May you and I be in that number!
