MY grandfather, George Keppel, sixth Earl of Albemarle, was born in 1799. I remember him quite well. He
was always a delightful raconteur, and many is the yarn we heard from him at Quidenham, when in the winter
evenings he gathered us round him before the old library fire. He would tell us how as a child he had been
frightened into obedience by the cry of " Boney is coming!" and he recalled quite clearly the alarm produced
in England by the avowed intention of Napoleon to invade our country. As a boy he often stayed in London
with his maternal grandmother, the Dowager...
There is no topographical division of Europe which more readily defines itself and its limits than the Rhine
valley from Schaffhausen to where the river empties into the North Sea.
The region has given birth to history and legend of a most fascinating character, and the manners and customs
of the people who dwell along its banks are varied and picturesque.
Under these circumstances it was but to be expected that architectural development should have expressed
itself in a decided and unmistakable fashion.
So there we were, rumbling south down Highway 77 in our Chevy
Impala on our way to a football game, when my dad became my hero
and the Nebraska Cornhuskers my team for life.
It happened, oddly enough, over the cb radio, the best in-car entertainment
in those pre–Game Boy days. The drive to Lincoln from
Rosalie, our tiny town of two hundred in the northeast corner of the
state, wasn’t exactly jam-packed with excitement. There was the traditional
pit stop at the Fremont Dairy Queen to look forward to or
maybe even an interlude at the corner café in Wahoo....
The following study is an exercise in traditional metaphysics. By ‘traditional’
I mean, somewhat tendentiously, to qualify that method of thinking
and those doctrines which, despite occasional interludes and conflicting interpretations,
embodied the prevalent school of philosophy for nearly two