PAUL HALLINGBY JR. loves this Caribbean enclave’s coral-colored houses, its worn chintz, engraved stationery and imported household help. He treasures what he calls his ”old-fashioned beach house”: a $9 million, 6,500-square-foot villa with two circular driveways and a private beach.

Then there is the always-reassuring sight of the neighboring Lyford Cay Club, a pink mansion with Tara-style white columns, where Mr. Hallingby, a managing director emeritus of Bear, Stearns & Company, has been a member for 16 years. He and his friends Sandra McConnell, an Avon heiress, and Bill Paley Jr., a son of William S. Paley and his wife, Babe, appreciate the club’s conservative prohibitions. Couples must be married to stay overnight, public displays of affection are frowned upon and bikinis cannot be itsy-bitsy. Everybody still chuckles at the scolding Sir John M. Templeton, the British philanthropist, received for wearing white bathing trunks that went embarrassingly transparent when he hit the water.

The Lyford Cay Club.

”It’s a very pleasant social life,” Mr. Hallingby said of this thousand-acre gated resort community 12 minutes from Nassau. Here on ”Lifeless Cay,” as many residents have called it, there are no stores, no restaurants, no Manolo Blahniks.

At least, not at the moment. But the clicking of those sky-high heels is getting closer. The worlds of fashion, celebrity and, gasp, shiny new money, are invading this part of the paradise where the Duke of Windsor once reigned as governor. Where reasonable-sized villas once ruled, 50,000-square-foot houses are springing up. ”Who needs that?” Mr. Hallingby said. He is considering selling up and moving out.

Is the last bastion of civilized society in danger of becoming extinct? Like Southampton, N.Y., Greenwich, Conn., and most recently Palm Beach, Fla., Lyford Cay is being invaded by the young and the feckless. And almost nobody likes it.

So habitues of this Eisenhower-era retreat for the uber-moneyed set — Nicholas F. Brady, the former Secretary of State; the Bacardi family — now confront party-hearty spillover from nearby Paradise Island. That’s where Sol Kerzner, a South African developer, has built Atlantis, a gaudy $850 million resort, and revitalized the Ocean Club, an estate once owned by the Old Guard grocery heir Huntington Hartford. Beaches where Mr. Hartford once sunned in Bermuda shorts now host Leonardo di Caprio, Oprah Winfrey, Michael Jordan and the thong-clad Gloria Estefan.

”I have my own set of values,” said Peter Nygard, an outsider whom some call the Canadian Hugh Hefner. His hotly debated home is a 150,000-square-foot ”hut” — a Polynesian village by way of Robinson Crusoe with flocks of 300 peacocks, parrots and cockatoos free-ranging indoors and out, and a lagoon through the house. The spread is growing; he’s pumping sand daily to expand his stretch of beach on his five acres.

The typical Lyfordian blue blood, ”is afraid to step out of the box,” Mr. Nygard said, adding ”I’m part of a new generation.” Indeed, and it is taking root inside the gates, just half a mile from the Lyford Cay Club. Mr. Nygard, who is a self-made clothing designer and ”is somewhere over 50,” said he grew up in poverty in Finland, the son of a seamstress mother and a father who worked in a bakery. Now, he is worth more than $500 million.

”I have no choice whether to be old money or new money. I’m new money, based on a new set of values, and that’s based on merit,” he said, looking over a stream of purple steam belching from two 40-foot urns.

Hospitality chez Nygard is eye-popping, too. Where Mr. Hallingby’s housekeeper offers a cocktail to guests, Mr. Nygard offers a masseuse. He has four housemen who cavort on trampolines anchored in the ocean. He has a 40-foot dining room table that drops down to become a disco dance floor once dinner (and bird droppings) are cleared. On karaoke nights, scantily clad young women dance while he sings ”I Did It My Way” (his favorite song) until 5 a.m.

”Nygard Cay is a perfect neighbor for Lyford Cay,” he said, standing on his beach with a red and green parrot on his shoulder.

E. P. Taylor, a Canadian brewer and racing magnate, bought Lyford Cay in 1954 from Sir Harold Christie, a powerful Bahamian developer, for the purpose of creating the ultimate international country club. Then he hired Henry Montgomery of Britain’s Bass-Charrington brewery fortune, who had serious European connections, to offer lots to the right people: Prince Rainier III of Monaco, Stavros Niarchos of Greece, Henry Ford II, the Aga Khan.

Mr. Taylor ran Lyford like his own private club until 1971, when he sold it to the members, ensuring that its standards would continue after his death. His dictatorship was replaced by committees on everything from croquet to decoration.’

Samantha Gregory, a Manhattan socialite who has spent holidays [on the Cay] since she was 8[:] ”It’s like the 1950′s,” said Ms. Gregory, who was born in 1974. Fifties is code for ”really boring,” she admitted. Still, she added, ”it’s a timeout.”

She, too, has noticed cracks in the pink-stucco facade. At the club, where she sees the same people who have been serving her ice cream since she was a little girl, she also notices a lot of faces she doesn’t recognize. And a lot of un-Lyford-like behavior, too.

As one 30-something member of the club put it, ”The newer people can be very aggressive, very loud and really mean to the staff.” Not to mention, they seem lightfingered. Last year, more than $30,000 worth of towels bearing the club crest were stolen. (The total hasn’t come in yet on purloined club-crested glasses.)

”It’s happened everywhere,” said Letitia Baldrige, the maven of manners, who first visited Lyford Cay in the 60′s. ”Palm Beach certainly. Greenwich. Conn., Southampton. I shouldn’t be so regional. The Riviera, my goodness — when I first knew it, it was very straight-laced, well behaved and well manicured. Now, thanks to the new colony, anything goes — nudity, sex in public.”

Last year, many Palm Beach residents, worried that their own posh sandbox was becoming overcrowded, headed for the rigid structure of Lyford Cay, where club membership has grown to 1,000, from 100 in the 60′s. Even if they can patiently handle the two-year waiting list and afford the $65,000 entrance fee, plus $7,000 a year in dues, the Floridians aren’t entirely welcome. Old Guard Palm Beach just isn’t Old Guard enough for Lyford Cay.

”It’s getting much more like Palm Beach,” sniffed Elizabeth Moffett, a septuagenarian who vacationed here with two husbands and is now a frequent guest. In the early days, ”everyone had money, and no one talked about it,” she said, adding, ”Now, it’s who has the most caviar and the biggest bottle of Champagne.” Her host, who asked not to be identified, said she saw visitors from Palm Beach renting houses in the compound for $5,000 a day. ”They were all overdressed, wearing all their gold jewelry and always asking where the next charity party was,” she said.

Here, life is purposefully low key, in a way that seems oddly normal and strangely suburban given the trust-fund babies lurking behind every bush. People set great store by the club’s greasy hamburgers and slow service. There are family barbecues and limbo parties, and members travel the roads by golf cart.

”The reason people are fleeing back to Lyford from Palm Beach is because of the infusion of vulgarity that’s creeping up from Miami and down from the newly rich New York crowd,” said R. Couri Hay, a Couristan carpet heir and the society editor of Palm Beach magazine and Hamptons magazine.

Yet, Mr. Hay acknowledged, ”it’s the only haven of gentility and etiquette and family life left.”

Strong words, but perhaps true. Why else would the tempestuous actor Nicholas Cage drop by, pulling up to Mr. Hallingby’s driveway in a white stretch limousine accompanied by beefy bodyguards. Mr. Cage was house hunting in the Bahamas, and if the vehicle didn’t make his outsider status perfectly clear, his Rodeo Drive wardrobe did: orange pants dripping with crystals, a lime-green shirt and a straw sombrero.

Mr. Hallingby said he was certain the actor wouldn’t buy. He said, ”We’re not happening enough for someone like him.”

Editor’s Note: …and hopefully remain that way.

With Facebook’s Timeline application, they warn, private online data will be even less safe than it was before, when its only threats were Twitter, blogs, Google, Flickr, Photobucket, Tumblr, LinkedIn, MySpace, and the old-fashioned Facebook. The alarmists have, as pointed out in these pages once or twice before, overlooked – in their rush to the ramparts – the obvious solution:

If you don’t want people to know something about you, and don’t want them to be able to find it out, don’t put it online. Don’t post, tweet, chirp, hoot or do any other silly thing about it. Keep it to yourself. Contrary to apparently popular belief and reality television, not everybody needs – or wants – to know everything about everbody else, all the time.  

Accusing organizations like Facebook of invading our privacy, or paving the way for others to invade it, is a galactic abdication of personal responsibility. After all, Facebook didn’t put those embarassing New Year’s Eve photographs online for public consumption… we did. Making information available online and complaining when it’s found is like leaving the keys in your Mercedes and being surprised when it’s stolen.

When American banks failed in 2008 and had to be rescued through federal intervention (a necessary evil), there was national talk of “moral hazard”: the concept that, once financial houses were made aware they would not be allowed to fail because of certainly catastrophic repurcussions, there was no reason to alter dangerous patterns of behavior.

Yet, when organizations much larger than any bank – whole nations – go belly-up because of greed, laziness, and cosmic mismanagement, some folks are aghast at the idea a more wealthy nation might refuse step in to right her neighbor’s foundering ship of state. The same outspeakers who were so harsh with their own government for rescuing banks with federal funds are unbelieving that Germany might not plug holes drilled by Spain and Greece in their own financial hulls.

As Mr. Brooks points out, why should Germany help? It achieved its current prosperity through efficiency and austerity. As the editorialist puts it, “Over the past few decades, several European nations, like Germany and the Netherlands, have played by the rules and practiced good governance. They have lived within their means, undertaken painful reforms, enhanced their competitiveness and reinforced good values. Now they are being brutally browbeaten for not wanting to bail out nations like Greece, Italy and Spain, which did not do these things, which instead borrowed huge amounts of money that they are choosing not to repay.”

The difference in attitudes may owe to what’s being bailed out: a bank, which exists to turn profits, or a country, which exists – theoretically – to provide for the welfare of its citizenry. People are more acceptably bailed out than banks. Still, the question inherent in the concept of moral hazard applies: these states have been systematically and galactically mismanaged, to the point of looming national bankruptcy, and if they’re rescued at the eleventh hour, what’s to keep them from reverting to their old ways with their new money?

In short: their voters. The management of countries is much more changeable than that of banks. The leaders of countries are more easily held to account than are heads of industry. Case-in-point: Silvio Berluschoni, formerly the Prime Minister of Italy who presided over the massive botching of that nation’s economic affairs, was recently given the boot by Italian voters, who replaced him with a career economist and a platform of cost-cutting. Greek and Spaniard electors might soon follow suit.

So, Germany, bail out Greece. Bail out Italy. Bail out Spain, too, if they need it. But use the leverage your money will purchase to exact commitments to new, stricter financial regulations, stringent oversight, a managing stake in central and policy-making banks, and the placement of more prudent (and Teutonic?) regulators of finance in strategic posts.

Americans were critical of bank bail-outs because banks take care of themselves and their officers, and banks ran themselves into trouble. But the citizens of Eurozone countries like Italy and Greece and Spain didn’t run themselveves into trouble; their governments ran them there. Governments which are often divorced from the needs and influence of their people. And governments which, if Italy is any bellweather, may soon be divorced by their people. As Mr. Brooks concludes:

“The real lesson from financial crises is that, at the pit of the crisis, you do what you have to do. You bail out the banks. You bail out the weak European governments. But, at the same time, you lock in policies that reinforce the fundamental link between effort and reward. And, as soon as the crisis passes, you move to repair the legitimacy of the system.”

The site of the Union Club, which peers down from the crest of Lenox Hill at 69th Street and Park Avenue, is appropriate for an institution generally considered the cynosure of men’s organizations in New York.

At the moment, the building is concealed by scaffolding, but the real showstopper is its inventive interior.

Organized in 1836, the Union is considered the first men’s social club in New York, or at least the oldest. The club was known as particularly conservative. According to the historian John Steele Gordon, a member of the club, it did not expel its Confederate members during the Civil War years. Some members took exception to this and withdrew to found the Union League Club, now at 38th and Park. In the 1870s, other members, who thought the Union’s standards of admission had fallen, went off to form the Knickerbocker Club, now at 62nd and Fifth Avenue. The Brook and Metropolitan Clubs were also offshoots.

In 1901, the Union built an ebullient limestone clubhouse at the northeast corner of 51st and Fifth. But, according to “The Architecture of Delano & Aldrich” (W. W. Norton, 2003) by Peter Pennoyer and Anne Walker, the members voted in 1927 to move uptown, to a quieter and less crowded location. They sold the 51st Street clubhouse, with an agreement giving them five years to move, and began a leisurely hunt for property that led to 69th and Park, the center of a concentration of mansions, even though apartment houses lined the rest of the street.

The club hired William Adams Delano and Chester Holmes Aldrich, who had already designed the Knickerbocker, the Brook and the Colony clubhouses.

Mr. Delano’s desire for a simple design was not shared by club members, Mr. Pennoyer and Ms. Walker note, citing a quotation from his memoirs: “The Building Committee insisted on a good deal of ornament inside and out, which they were used to at the old club.”

Thus, although the Knickerbocker Club is slim and elegant, the Union clubhouse, opened in 1933, is chunky with rusticated limestone and a huge angled mansard roof so big it looks like a Fifth Avenue mansion gone wild.

Nonmembers usually get no farther than the entry hall, but even there it is possible to see past the strange elliptical columns, up into the spectacular coffered dome of the main hall, which is in the form of a Greek cross. The room to the left, originally the lounge and writing room, runs the full width of the Park Avenue facade.

To the right is the card room, which displays Mr. Delano’s witty and inventive decorative abilities at their peak, with a frieze of hearts, spades, diamonds and clubs running around the ceiling, and carved reliefs of face cards across the marble mantelpiece.

“I had great fun in designing every detail — all the electric light fixtures, mantels, ventilators, etc.,” Mr. Delano wrote in his memoirs, which were published in 1950. The same spirit informs the frieze of flying fish on his Marine Air Terminal at La Guardia Airport.

The same spirit can be seen in the backgammon room, where the wall vents are patterned like backgammon boards, and in the library, whose light fixtures are shaped like the planet Saturn. The lounge off the squash courts is one of the astounding rooms in New York — its patterned ceiling in gold, buff and green billows in like a festival tent.

The Pennoyer-Walker book has historic photographs of the building inside and out, but also sumptuous color photographs by Jonathan Wallen. (Many of them are accessible on Amazon.com, with the “search inside” function.)

In its December 1932 issue, Fortune magazine painted a picture of the club’s 1,300 members as “men who are, rather than men who do.” This meant, above all, old families who did not need to strive, either professionally or economically, with surnames like Gallatin, Iselin, Pyne, Wilmerding, Goelet and Pell.

The Union clubhouse had five dining rooms, a humidor with 100,000 cigars, and, according to The Herald-Tribune, an early television set, a radio in each room and “much modernistic decorative art.” From a 1933 photograph of the library, it is possible to make out the title of only one magazine: Esquire.

By the 1950s, membership at urban social clubs was dwindling because of the continued movement of well-to-do families to the suburbs and the quickening pace of city life. The New York Times reported in 1954 that the Union was down to 950 members. Four years later, according to The Times, the Knickerbocker Club was considering an invitation to join its 550-man membership with the Union Club’s 900 members, but the plan came to naught.

A 1969 article in The Times bore the slightly surprised headline “Union Club Still There.” The president, Edward C. Brewster, was quoted as saying, “We want no salesmen here, nobody who pushes himself and barges in,” adding, “The Yale Club can absorb that kind, I suppose.” Mr. Brewster had graduated from Yale in 1932, according to his Social Register listing.

On a beautiful Labor Day weekend in Hanover, Dartmouth kicked off their fall season with a pair of tough tests against top Canadian sides Queen’s University and McGill University as part of the Dartmouth Rugby Classic, presented by Rockwood and Royall Rugby.

Although The Big Green had a tough opening game against Queen’s, losing 36-0, they bounced back nicely to defeat McGill 32-15 to get a split on the weekend. Overall, both games were good experiences that helped a 1st XV looking to break in several new starters, according to Captain and No. 8 Paul Jarvis, Darmouth Class of 2012. “I was very excited to see the team progress over the weekend,” he said. “We still have a ways to go in terms of technique in contact and winning set piece ball, but the team really showed glimpses of greatness this weekend.”

Dartmouth was back on their heel right away in their first game against Queen’s, as the opening kick off didn’t go ten meters, giving the Golden Gaels a scrum at midfield. From there, they quickly moved the ball down the field, taking it to the five-meter line in only a few phases. It was then that Jarvis got hit in the head by an opponent’s knee while going for a tackle, suffering a mild concussion.

As he lay on the field still reeling from the injury, Queen’s quickly moved the ball wide to get their first try. As the guests made the subsequent conversion, Jarvis was able to walk off the field under his own power, but was unable to return to the game. “It was immensely disappointing to get hurt so early in the season,” he said afterwards. “Fortunately it’s only the preseason, so I should be back within a few weeks at worst. In the mean time, I’ll contribute to the team in other ways and work on my recovery.”

With their captain sidelined and down a try only two minutes into the game, things somehow only got worse for The Big Green. A few minutes later, they would have a kick deep in their own territory blocked, leading to a mad scramble in the try zone for the ball. While fullback Madison Hughes, Dartmouth Class of 2015, was able to hold up a Queen’s player to prevent the try, the Golden Gaels would not be denied that easily as they deftly moved the ball wide from the subsequent scrum to get their second try and go up 12-0. They would add another only two minutes later as they once again went wide, this time from a lineout to increase the lead to 17-0. Ultimately, Dartmouth would not be able to recover from their slow start. “The first ten minutes against Queen’s evidenced our relative inexperience with one another on defense, as we conceded three fairly routine tries at the very start of the game,” said co-captain and flyhalf Bill Lehmann, Dartmouth Class of 2012. “From that deficit, it was always going to be difficult to catch up.” While the match became a much more even contest as it went on, any hopes of a Dartmouth comeback would be dashed right before halftime, when a Queen’s player caught the ball off the goalpost after a missed penalty kick and then proceeded to run it through the hands for another try to make the score 24-0. The Golden Gaels would add two more tires in the second half to bring the final score to 36-0.

The Big Green would have a much better opening, and much better go of it overall, in their next game against McGill. Where they had been stifled by the Queen’s defense the day before, Dartmouth was able to move the ball well against the Redmen. Dartmouth was especially effective when they were able to get it with pace to their speedy back three, who in turn created several line breaks. The team was able to open the scoring this way, as center Owen Scannell, Dartmouth Class of 2013 was able to hit Hughes, who took it from around the 22-meter line into the try zone to give The Big Green a 5-0 lead.

Hughes would strike again about ten minutes later, once again burning the McGill defenders on the edge to increase the advantage to 10-0. He would finish off the hat trick five minutes later, and would add on the conversion for good measure to make it 17-0. All in all, Hughes was far and away the best player of the day, tallying 22 of the team’s points (three tries, two conversions, one penalty). “It felt great,” Hughes said when asked about his performance after the game. “After yesterday’s loss, it was important for the team to turn around and perform better today. I was really happy to be able to help do that and we got the result we wanted. Hopefully we can build on this and get a winning streak together.”

While McGill was able to respond only a few minutes later with a converted penalty to make the score 17-3, the outcome of the game once would again be put out of question right before halftime. Except this time, it was the Big Green who put the game away, as prop Lawrence Anfo-Whyte, Dartmouth Class of 2013, burst through the McGill defense on a set strike move from a lineout and took it the distance to bring the lead to 24-3. That lead would prove too big to come back from for the Redmen. Although they would score two tries in the second half, good defense from Dartmouth, along with a Hughes penalty and a try by wing Kevin Clark, Dartmouth Class of 2014, would be enough to let The Big Green hold on for the 32-15 win.

Dartmouth will next be in action Saturday, Sept. 10th as they host the Granite State Cup in Hanover. The one-day tournament will see the Big Green’s 1st and 2nd XV sides taking on college teams from all over New Hampshire and Vermont. The action will kick off at 9 am at the Corey Ford Rugby Clubhouse, located at 9 Reservoir Road in Hanover, 1.8 miles north of the Hanover Inn, off of Lyme Road.

The requirements are near to non-existent: own more than one pipe. Smoking them is optional; owning them is enough, though owning and smoking them is best. And the agglomeration need not be out-sized, or costly: though hand-worked meerschaum may command hundreds of dollars in shops, an elementary briar is nothing to sneer at.

One benefit of collecting pipes, instead of other ephemera, is that pipes remain useful once collected. Unlike postage (once you use a stamp – that is, lick it and attach it to a letter – it leaves your assemblage, likely for good), pipes can be used and re-used, yet the collection remain whole. Indeed, use can even improve the timbre of the cache considerably. There is no interest in new pipes, save the interest of breaking them in. The stories belong to older pieces.

Most pipe smokers turn collectors, though not by intent: they begin with one pipe, add a second, and two quickly becomes five. The scale is manageable, but the collection is born. Collecting pipes is a natural, pleasurable consequence of smoking them.  True, not every pipe can be smoked; some are too old, too dry, too fragile. Those tend to be too expensive, also, for the tyro. For collectors of means, however, pipes fall within one of two categories: those collected for beauty, history or value, and those collected for smoking.

Per the costlier specimens, time is money: the older the pipe, the more murderous to bank balances. Still, meerschaums with forty or fifty years’ history on them can be had reasonably at most antique and curio shops, in addition to the porcelain pipes so popular in central Europe a century ago.

This is not to discourage the purchase of new pipes: collectors on the make should purchase whatever modern pipes suit their tastes and budget. They can be smoked regularly, not just admired, and such interaction with pieces of the collection will increase the pleasure of collecting itself. Afterall, everything new will one day be old. It will have its own history. In terms of your pipes, their history might as well be yours.

When the sainted Bill Buckley first won prominence, one of his earliest tasks was to run the nuts out of conservatism. Chiefly: the John Birch Society. Once things were sufficiently fumigated, National Review and he helped elect President Reagan who, in turn, introduced the idea of “big tent” Republican politics. That is, the tent was big enough for everybody (except the loonies, who are to the Republicans what Al Qaeda is to Islam).

What followed was the nascence of the modern GOP, not to mention national prosperity and international laurels.

Now, a band of Fascist pirates in conservative clothing has hijacked the tent by shouting down the moderates and seems intent on a Bachmann caliphate. Loonies will be loonies – they insist on it - but their war whoops are stealing thunder from legitimate Republican contenders for the presidency. That is, candidates who have some grasp of American history and geography.

Even John McCain recently faced a stiff re-election challenge from a Tea Party candidate in Arizona.

What’s more, Tea Party grandstanding detracts from deserving conservative thinkers and stains the entire right. Who steals my purse steals trash… but he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed. [Othello, act 3, scene 3.]  

With Mr. Buckley having ascended to harpsichord music and regattas eternal, who will cleanse and re-dedicate the temple? His protege and former National Review staffer David Brooks, now of The New York Times, gave it a shot when he criticized Rush Limbaugh in that paper. The probem was, Mr. Brooks’ column reaches about a quarter as many left-leaning intellectuals as Mr. Limbaugh’s radio program reaches hard-right fundamentalists.

Which meant, ironically, when Mr. Limbaugh denounced Mr. Brooks on-air, Mr. Brooks was probably one of the few in the audience who had ever heard of David Brooks (or the Times).

And anway, Mr. Brooks (though a wizard – albeit of a lesser stripe than his mentor – with words) isn’t the dynamo Bill Buckley was. He’s a scholar, not a general.

The challenge in re-directing the flock is that the most vocal members of it have sworn off intellectualism. Or, for that matter, almost any -ism. That stuff sounds too much like Socialism. (Which they venemously denounce, despite cashing Social Security checks and claiming Medicare benefits).

The whole production, as Mr. Buckley might have written, is simply too much for words. Here’s hoping for a conservative spring… Al Aribya coverage optional.

"But, dear... this tea party is mad, mad, mad!"

“Pardon me, sir. Your tie.” 

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything, sir. If you will allow me?”

“All right, go ahead. But I can’t help asking myself if ties really matter at a time like this.”

“There is no time when ties do not matter, sir.”