St. Gilbert visits Fenwick University

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Chesterton received the ovations of the Fenwick students and faculty. He planted a crabtree (the only surviving crabtree, replaced in later years by its lesser cousin, the crabapple tree) by our library and bore with the motion picture camera men. 

No newspaper accounts provide a transcript of his speech, but we found one. A clerical philosopher transcribed a portion of it word for word and stored it under a figurine of an Alpine ibex in his office. He kindly shared this tidbit with us:

”Thank you all very much for having me. Do you know, I think modern people have somehow got their minds all wrong about human life. They seem to expect what Nature has never promised; and then try to ruin all that Nature has really given (like crabtrees). At all those atheist chapels of Boisdelierre’s they’re always talking of Peace, Perfect Peace, and Utter Peace, and Universal Joy and souls that beat as one. But they don’t look any more cheerful than anyone else; and the next thing they do is to start smashing a thousand good jokes and good stories and good songs and good friendships.”

The clerical philosopher then got distracted and ceased his transcription when he noticed a sign on a wooden pole painted white, suspending a square board also painted white, depicting a highly grotesque blue ship such as a child might draw which had within it a disproportionately large, red St. George’s cross that appeared somewhere behind Chesterton’s head. It soon disappeared. Mr. Philippe Boisdelierre spent the rest of the speech fuming and searching for the culprit. A school wide email was sent out to address this issue after the fact. When asked if he knew anything about the sign, which was reportedly inspired by one of his books, Mr. Chesterton responded: “I'm not entirely sure what you mean when you accuse me of knowing anything about this sign. Signs that appear behind one’s head, as you know, are customarily unseen by the person whose head it is behind. We receive our eyes on the front of our faces. We have no real say in the matter. It seems to me that you are alluding to something of which I am unaware.” 

 I first entered campus in the cold of the day light's third hour at the base of the steps leading to the University's library. Upon entering the illustrious and world renown library, where I was received by 7 of our civilization's greatest contributors to the cultural canon, who themselves are lauded as honorary Fenwickians by students and staff alike, I was given a brief tour of the University's impressive collection of books. They housed several volumes of poetry, literature in many tongues, and, out of charity, even allowed for the allotment of some of their precious library space to store scientific texts, treatises, and technological manuals.

After my visit to the library I was given the liberty to wander around the university halls, where I endured some perhaps rather unfortunate adventures whose details need not be concerned here. The university president greeted me outside, the sun now fully set and a radiant first quarter moon shown bright among a blanket of stars wrapping itself around the cosmos, then we proceeded to sup in the university's dining hall. So far I had seen how the university attained excellence in all things, and dining was certainly no exception. We supped on beef tongue, peas, potatoes, and various root vegetables, topping the meal off with an exquisite Italian ice cream (I, for one, did not know that there were anymore innovations to come from that peninsula).

The next day the university presented me with grand send off. I felt a great stink when I had heard that the ambassador of France had come to the event in the hopes of getting a nice photo so he may, upon his inevitable return to his native continent,  boast to his peers his commitment to the transatlantic tranquility. An army of students accompanied by the marching band gathered to wish me farewell outside the library. To commemorate the visit I planted a crabtree near the library. The student body was much more Irish than I had anticipated. A senior at the university presented a gift to me on behalf of the whole university. It was a blackthorn walking stick made of pure Irish wood. I soon quipped to the audience that from this moment on I shall make no more rude remarks about the gaels of Ireland. As I expected, the comment was well received and the sea of black and red hair erupted in laughter; though I must note here that I am fully serious about my remark. Following a the band's rendition of a beloved Christmas Carol, the Boar's Head Carol, I departed from the lovely campus more joyful than when I arrived.