“Men of Harlech, stop your dreaming, can’t you see their spear points gleaming?”
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The liberals danced around their savior’s throne in robes of liberal finery, but a savior must save, so we must ask the liberals what, or whom, is the Obama saving them from? I don’t think we will get a coherent answer to that question from the liberals, which means we’ll have to extract an answer by observing the actions of the liberal herd. The answer is that the Obama is ‘saving’ the liberals from the white bogeyman. Just as Victorian nannies scared their young charges with stories of the black bogeyman, the liberals now scare themselves and their fellow liberals with stories of the white bogeyman. Let’s leave aside, for the moment, the question of whether the white bogeyman actually exists while we look at the liberals’ white bogeyman to whom all manner of evil is attributed.
In the liberals’ bible there is a Satan just like there is in the Christians’ Bible, but the liberals have a different version of the Genesis story. The liberals claim that the earth was once a wonderful paradise, a self-sustaining paradise, where the rule of nature was the rule of the earth. Everyone in paradise was natural, loving, giving, and non-white. The black man ruled a multi-colored people of red, yellow, black, and brown. Then one day an evil white man appeared in the garden. He cunningly subverted the good and noble black rulers and gained control of paradise. He then brought other white people, who had been hiding in Bogeyland, into paradise and set up a new and unnatural kingdom over the ruins of the black man’s paradisiacal kingdom of nature. No longer could the loving, caring, sharing people of color continue their natural practices of murder, rape, cannibalism, and free unbridled sex. The white bogeyman curtailed those natural practices and introduced an unnatural, heinous religion. The white bogeyman told the wonderful, natural people of color that there was a God above nature who looked on their natural practices as abominations. They were, the white bogeyman insisted, in a state of sin. We know the rest of the story. Despite the fact that the white bogeyman told the people of color that there was a savior who would save them from their sins and the death which was a consequence of sin, the colored people fled from the white bogeyman’s world and created their own purer, more natural worlds where rape, murder, cannibalism, and unbridled sexual license were the norm.
So two separate cultures existed, that of the white bogeymen and that of the natural men and women of color.
Then the wonderful thing happened. In the cruel oppressive land of the white bogeymen, a magnificent new type of man emerged, a sport of nature, a mutant. This new man was called The Liberal. The liberal hated his own race, his father, his brother, his sister and all of his kinsmen. But he loved the colored people of the world. Black (particularly black) and yellow, red and brown, the liberal loved them all, not as particular human beings — he was incapable of that kind of love — but in the abstract. Because of his great, abstract love of the colored people — the men he called the noble savages — and because the liberal sport of nature wanted to do what the coloreds did – namely have unbridled sex and cannibalize his own people – the liberal tried to rebuild paradise over the ruins of white Bogeyland. He was successful. White Bogeyland has disappeared, and paradise has been regained. But for a time, since paradise has only been recently regained, the liberal will worry about the return of the white bogeyman. He, like the child in the Victorian era nursery, needs to be reassured that he is safely tucked in and there is no bogeyman under the bed and no bogeyman lurking outside the house trying to break in. The Obama re-coronation reassures the liberal baby poohs that the white bogeyman won’t get them, and all is well in paradise.
Was there ever really a white bogeyman who wanted to impose his ‘evil’ religion on the naturally superior tribes of color? Yes, there was, although I wouldn’t call the white man of old a bogeyman and I wouldn’t call the colored barbarians a naturally, superior people. But let that pass. There was such a thing as a white European who stood in opposition to the world of the liberals and the colored tribesmen. Modern day conservatives have tried to dispel that notion, because they would like a place in Liberaldom, but the liberals have correctly ascertained that the white man can never be part of Liberaldom. The white man belongs to a different world than the colored tribesmen and the white sports of nature. The white man’s world was infused with the spirit of God, and he must live in that world and that world only. If the liberals allowed white men back into their “paradise,” the white men would immediately start to rebuild a white man’s world, a world where the spirit of God dwells. The liberals have vowed that such a thing, the rebuilding of Christian Europe, shall never happen so long as they live. They are right. It shall never happen while they live. I saw a liberal’s column on the occasion of Obama’s re-coronation in which he stated that the conservatives’ tears over Obama’s re-election made him laugh. I hope such creatures continue to laugh right up to the moment of their death. What the liberals do not realize is that it is only the conservatives, who put their faith in democracy, that are crying now. The antique European did his crying a long time ago. Only a morally anesthetized man could have failed to see that Christian Europe became Liberaldom many years before the Obama took office. His coronation was merely the final, crowning blasphemy. Having mourned and dried our tears long before the Obama blasphemy, we, the Europeans who are still faithful to Europe, must now find a way to strike home against the treacherous, murderous liberals.
Every day in every European nation all the organs of state, press, television, and film demonize the white race. And that demonization has had a terrible effect. Whites are being exterminated in ever increasing numbers. Violence is not a magic talisman, a cure-all for every problem, but it would not be Christian, it would not be conduct worthy of Europeans, if we remained non-violent in the face of the liberal and colored onslaught against the white race. Why do the white grazers support the liberals’ bombing of the colored stranger over there in his own country but refuse to defend their own country against a colored invasion?
It should be obvious to any European who is not dead inside that the American liberals’ worship of the Obama is not just an American phenomenon. All European people are in the same boat. They are ruled by mad-dog liberals who want to eradicate any memory of Christian Europe and every living embodiment of Christian Europe, in the form of a faithful band of Europeans, from the face of the earth. It’s really a moot point whether America is slightly worse than other European nations or slightly better; we are all up against the same satanic foes. It’s truly remarkable that no matter whom I talk to, whether a European from Finland, from France, from Australia, from England, etc, I find that all white people are facing the same national crisis: their liberal rulers are handing their nations over to colored barbarians. How could it be otherwise? Neither geography nor abstract theories of government make a nation. Race makes a nation. White people in America have lived in the same geographical area as blacks, and shared the same form of government for over one hundred years, and they are not a people. White people and blacks are completely separate people despite what the liberals try to tell us. The reason Burke was so concerned about the effect the heinous example of the French Revolution would have on the English people (besides the fact that he was the soul of honor) was because he realized that the European people were a spiritual entity. What affected one European nation affected all European nations. “The nations of Europe have had the very same Christian religion, agreeing in the fundamental parts, varying a little in the ceremonies and in the subordinate doctrines. The whole of the polity and economy of every country in Europe has been derived from the same sources.” And what happens to a people who deny the sources from which they came into being as a people? They become airy nothings trying to attach themselves to alien races in order to convince themselves that they are alive.
Organized Christianity has become a mere adjunct of satanic liberalism, because the church men have denied Europe. It sounds very proper in the year 2013 to say that the Christian churches should not be bound to one people, but Christianity was bound to one particular people. If we separate the European from Christianity, condemning European Christianity as something apart from and antithetical to genuine Christianity, then we have left incarnational Christianity behind and replaced it with a theoretical Christianity that is a hideous caricature of Christianity, which goes by the name of liberalism.
I’ve often seen inscribed on older tombstones the words, “Sacred to the memory of…” Such is the antique European’s sentiment about the Christian era of Europe. It is sacred to his memory. And so long as that memory is held in one faithful European heart, the light of eternal Europe will still guide all true and ardent seekers to the Man of Sorrows who reigns over and above the material world that the liberal sports of nature claim is the only world.
The word ‘natural’ in the liberal vernacular has come to mean truth. The black savage is natural, so he is a true and authentic human, in contrast to the white man who is unnatural and not authentic. But if the word ‘natural’ is supposed to represent the truth about man, then the antique Europeans, not the black savages or the other people of color, and not the liberal sports, are natural human beings. When Burke told the Reverend Dr. Price that he felt great sympathy for victims of the French Revolution, in contrast to Price who exulted in their deaths, he said it was because it was only natural that he should; “because we are so made, as to be affected at such spectacles…” Burke was and is right. If Christ is indeed the Son of God and we are created in His image, then it is natural that His people should hate liberal Babylon and love Christian Europe. So let us cling to our natural prejudices and our sacred memories in defiance of the liberal sports and their unnatural colored allies; the interim is ours. +
Endeavoring to persuade the people that they are no better than beasts, the whole body of their institution tends to make them beasts of prey, furious and savage. – Burke
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I don’t like science fiction movies, and with very few exceptions I don’t like any movie made after 1965, so I didn’t see the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but I imagine from the title that the movie was about the encounters of earthmen with extra terrestrial beings. I have encounters (albeit not close encounters) with non-human aliens on a daily basis, because the liberals and the grazers seem like creatures from another planet. And if they are creatures from another planet, our planet has been invaded, because the liberals and the grazers outnumber the earth men to such an extent that I seldom have encounters with fellow earthmen. When I do, I treasure the encounter. Yesterday I met a fellow earthman – or in plain English, a white man. We were both stuck in a long grocery line due to a shortage of checkout clerks because of a huge flu outbreak. I could tell this mid-seventy-ish man was not a liberal because liberals have an unmistakable smugness about them that allows one to identify them immediately. And I could tell the gentleman was not a grazer because there was a still a discernible light in his eyes. He had in his cart, among other food items, a bottle of Aunt Jemima pancake syrup. I made the comment, “I’m surprised they still allow that to be sold,” and from that point on we were off and running down Memory Lane. He told me of growing up in a rural area where there were no blacks and no one locked their doors at night, and I told him about growing up in a city where, when my grandmother took me to the park, blacks stayed in their half of the park and whites in their half. On we talked (the line was still not moving) about the demise of decency and (obviously he didn’t use these exact words) the profligate spending of the “unbought grace of life.” My checkout line friend pointed to the sixties as the decade when “everything went to hell.” Of course liberalism began to take root in Western culture long before the sixties, but this wise-blooded peasant had accurately pinpointed the time period when the disease that had been festering within the body of Western civilization became manifest on the outside of the body. The liberals had gathered enough power, by the sixties, to make explicit the heretofore implicit values of liberalism: infanticide, miscegenation, negro worship, and the maniacal hatred of everything white and Christian.
Certainly there were many politicians and rock groups who could serve as a representative sample of sixties liberalism, which is essentially the triumphant liberalism we see before us today. But what is the primary attribute of Satan? The Christian poets such as Walter Scott have answered that question:
Among those who were the first to ridicule and abandon the self-denying principles in which the young knight was instructed, and to which he was so carefully trained up, Louis the Eleventh of France was the chief. That sovereign was of a character so purely selfish—so guiltless of entertaining any purpose unconnected with his ambition, covetousness, and desire of selfish enjoyment, that he almost seems an incarnation of the devil himself, permitted to do his utmost to corrupt our ideas of honour in its very source. Nor is it to be forgotten that Louis possessed to a great extent that caustic wit which can turn into ridicule all that a man does for any other person’s advantage but his own, and was, therefore, peculiarly qualified to play the part of a cold-hearted and sneering fiend.
In this point of view, Goethe’s conception of the character and reasoning of Mephistophiles, the tempting spirit in the singular play of Faust, appears to me more happy than that which has been formed by Byron, and even than the Satan of Milton. These last great authors have given to the Evil Principle something which elevates and dignifies his wickedness-a sustained and unconquerable resistance against Omnipotence itself, a lofty scorn of suffering compared with submission, and all those points of attraction in the Author of Evil which have induced Burns and others to consider him as the hero of the Paradise Lost. The great German poet has, on the contrary, rendered his seducing spirit a being who, otherwise totally unimpassioned, seems only to have existed for the purpose of increasing, by his persuasions and temptations, the mass of moral evil, and who calls forth by his seductions those slumbering passions which otherwise might have allowed the human being who was the object of the evil spirit’s operations to pass the tenor of his life in tranquility. For this purpose Mephistophiles is, like Louis XI., endowed with an acute and depreciating spirit of caustic wit, which is employed incessantly in undervaluing and vilifying all actions the consequences of which do not lead certainly and directly to self-gratification.
Yes, I think Scott describes the satanic intellect quite well. It consists of the type of “caustic wit” which ridicules every decent impulse emanating from the human heart. For this reason I think the British “comedy” ensemble called Monty Python’s Flying Circus is the best representative of the satanic liberalism of the sixties, which became the institutionalized liberalism of the 21st century. Their humor was not the humor of pathos, the humor that elevates, that invites us to laugh at the human condition while rooting for the Third Dumb Brothers, the intrepid pure of heart, such as Laurel and Hardy, who remind us all of our common humanity. Instead, the Python humor dehumanizes, like liberalism itself. It sets up one group of people, white people with traditional beliefs in human decency, honor, and the God whose love passeth all understanding, and invites liberals and colored barbarians to a veritable celebration of sneering, mocking ridicule, all directed at white people. On the Python “comedy” show everything ancient and good in the British and European tradition was dragged through the mud. In their films they blasphemed against Christ and his people, with the puerile delight of a sadistic, public school bully shoving a younger classmate’s head in the toilet. And they did this while maintaining, as is always the case with liberals, that they were heroic underdogs taking on “the establishment.” What establishment? The established church was rife with liberalism; it didn’t oppose them. The royal family was as liberal, if not quite as vulgar, as they were. And the great unwashed whites of the middle and lower classes were too disenfranchised to oppose the middle and upper class homosexual mockers who made up the ranks of the Python comedy team. Extreme cruelty, sexual perversion, the love of the colored alien, and the hatred of white people and their culture was the essence of the Python comedy team, and it is the essence of modern liberalism.
Is it possible for a man with an ancient European heart to live with liberals and colored barbarians who are devoid of all traces of humanity? They exult in cruelty, relish all forms of sexual perversion, and mock and ridicule all that the Europeans once held sacred. One thinks of Macduff’s reply to Malcolm:
Malcolm: If such an one be fit to govern, speak. I am as I have spoken.
Macduff: Fit to govern! No, not to live. O nation miserable…”
Of course Malcolm only listed his self-fabricated sins to test Macduff; what should we say about the liberals’ genuine sins against humanity, and the humane God? Macduff’s answer to Malcolm is our answer to the liberals: “Fit to govern! No, not to live.”
Unfortunately liberals do live and they govern us. But we must guard against the fatalistic assumption that we can’t ever throw off the yoke of liberals. Such would be the case if men were only biological specimens with no animating spirit within. Then men’s lives would be as predicable as the ocean tides or the turning of the earth. But Europeans, more than any other people, should know that history is as complex as the human soul. The spiritual tide of human events can be turned by men who live in the spiritual realm. Nothing is written, except the character of the enemy. We must fight them even to the edge of doom because of whom and what we fight for and because of whom and what they fight for. There can be no peaceful accord with liberals:
The rules and definitions of prudence can rarely be exact ; never universal. I do not deny that in small truckling states a timely compromise with power has often been the means, and the only means, of drawling out their puny existence. But a great state is too much envied, too much dreaded, to find safety in humiliation. To be secure, it must be respected. Power, and eminence, and consideration, are things not to be begged. They must be commanded : and they who supplicate for mercy from others can never hope for justice thro’ themselves. What justice they are to obtain, as the alms of an enemy depends upon his character; and that they ought well to know before they implicitly confide.
Haven’t the Europeans been trying to survive in Liberaldom by timely compromises with the liberals? They have agreed to abandon their God, accept legalized infanticide, and stand by while their racial identity is obliterated by miscegenation. All this the Europeans have done in order to survive in Liberaldom. But the liberals and the colored barbarians have viewed every compromise as a sign of weakness, which gives them free license to step up their persecution of white people. It is the image of God in man that the liberals want to destroy. And the European people, like a formerly great state, were too much envied, too much dreaded, and too much identified with Christ, to find safety in abject capitulation to the liberals and the colored tribesmen.
The Python ensemble of vulgar, degenerate wits presented their vulgarity as “groundbreaking” and “original” just as Voltaire, Shaw, Twain and a cast of thousands of liberals prior to M. Python presented themselves as groundbreaking and original. But such caustic wits were not groundbreaking and original. They were as old as paganism.
When the post-Christian white man returns to paganism he brings a cold mathematical cruelty to all the old pagan rites. Where the pagan killed when his blood was up, the white liberal will set up laboratories of slaughter where he will coldly and efficiently out-slaughter the pagans. And there will be no check on the cruelty of the colored savages because their traditional masters, the white men, want no part of the white man’s burden. They seek blended oblivion in a tidal wave of color.
It all seems quite hopeless from a materialist viewpoint. If you believe, with Spengler, that civilizations are born, decline, and die according to the laws of biology, then it is time for the Europeans to say goodbye and fade into oblivion. But what about the spiritual dimension of life? How can we project the death of the European people from a purely materialist crystal ball when the European people, above all other people, have shown themselves to be a people infused with a spirit that is something more than mere nature? In the realm of the spirit, the natural realm of the European, tidal waves are turned back by determined men of spirit and blood, and liberals, who are monsters of cruelty, are not permitted to govern.
Modern critics label any work of literature from the past that depicts men and women with souls as a distorted, unrealistic work. But why should such a work be called unrealistic? Haven’t we all felt, at some point in our lives, a quickening spirit within that calls us to a better and nobler life than that envisioned by the liberal vulgarians? Are Scott’s heroes and heroines really unrealistic? If they are then why do we feel drawn to them and not the liberal scoffers and caustic wits? Virtue might be rarer than vice, but it exists, especially in the hearts and souls of our European ancestors. Where the liberals see nothing but evil in our European ancestors, I see a roll of honor, a charity of honor. In the collective face of the European people of the days gone by, I see faith, hope, charity, and our Lord Jesus Christ. If we let “our ancient hearts” unite with theirs, we can be as they were, staunch in defense of our people and our God and unrelenting in our hatred of the liberals, who have loosed the dogs of color upon us and institutionalized blasphemy. It would be morally reprehensible to attempt to compromise with such creatures. Nor would it be realistic. Those people who have turned their hearts from the God of mercy will not be merciful to His people.
All seems cheerless, dark, and deadly on the European front. A sneering, satanic liberalism pervades what was once called Christendom. Living in Liberaldom is like living with the death of a loved one: there is an agony in the heart that can only be eased by a contemplation of Him and His promise that nothing eternal dies. That is our hope. If ancient European hearts unite with Christ through His people, then the liberals will not prevail. Ancient Europe will triumph over modern Babylon, even more surely as the turning of the earth. +
This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude, I will no longer endure it,…
– As You Like It
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I never had any interest in World War I or World War II movies when I was growing up. Being ‘just a kid’ I had no idea why I didn’t like such movies; all I knew was that the World War I and II movies bored me. I liked Westerns, swashbuckler movies, Robin Hood, Fighting O’Flynn, etc., but not the modern World War movies. Now, looking back, I realize that I didn’t like the modern war movies because in modern war, as Churchill pointed out, “There is no room for chivalry.” There are brave men in all wars, but in the 20th century World Wars the machines and the conglomerate mass of troops took precedence over the individual. Which is why the exceptions, such as Sergeant York and Marshal Rommel stand out so starkly. In mechanized wars devoid of chivalry a non-mechanized hero is very rare.
Which brings me by a roundabout route to the very unchivalric figure of Adolph Hitler. The most damning thing that can be said about Hitler is not the usual thing. Hitler’s greatest sin was that he used that which was of the spirit, a man’s race, for selfish, material ends. He was a sneering, cynical blasphemer, which – whether they choose to acknowledge him or not – makes him one of the liberals’ own. Hitler, like a phony spiritualist, cynically played with forces he found useful but of which he had no deep understanding. The Nazi scientists who professed to have scientific proof of the superiority of the Aryan blood were like the liberals who stole a consecrated host, subjected it to a laboratory analysis, and then proclaimed the host was only bread. As if God would permit His divine essence to be seen by blaspheming liberals. “But he answered and said unto them, An evil and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and there shall no sign be given to it, but the sign of the prophet Jonas” – Matthew 12:39. The Nazis wanted a material sign to prove their superiority, just as the liberals thought the absence of a sign — that is, no blood found in the host — was material proof of God’s non-existence.
Hitler’s racial myth of the Aryans’ scientifically, certifiably biological superiority obscured the truth about race that every antique European knew: skin color is of the spirit, not the science lab. By tampering with things spiritual for a material end, Hitler made any attempt by white men in the post World War II era to defend themselves as a race seem like something evil. Catholic theologians shrilly denounced “racialism” and proclaimed, “The defense of Western civilization has nothing to do with race.” Conservative thinkers and politicians wrote long tomes about defending democracy against the communists, but never thought it necessary to write about the necessity of defending the white race against mongrelization from within and third world barbarism from without. And the best the Southern partisans could come up with was, “The North was always more prejudiced than we were.” What happened in Germany was what happened in Narnia: a false god was set up (the biologically superior Aryan) who made people unable to believe in the real, divinely sanctioned, spiritual division of the races.
Tirian had never dreamed that one of the results of an Ape’s setting up a false Aslan would be to stop people from believing in the real one. He had felt quite sure that the Dwarfs would rally to his side the moment he showed them how they had been deceived. And then next night he would have led them to Stable Hill and shown Puzzle to all the creatures and everyone would have turned against the Ape and, perhaps after a scuffle with the Calormenes, the whole thing would have been over. But now, it seemed, he could count on nothing. How many other Narnians might turn the same way as the Dwarfs?
A Christian European wandering through the literature of post-war conservatism looks in vain for a defense of the white people as a distinct people with a divine mission. He echoes Tirian and asks, “How many other white Europeans might turn out to be like the white-hating liberals?” The answer is that the entire white, upper echelon of conservative intellectuals took refuge in universals. They defended Western civilization by defending theories of economics, theories of government, theories of religion, and theories of humanity, but they did not defend their own people, who were, and are, the Christ-bearing people. It was left to the outcast men like Anthony Jacob to defend and champion the people whom the conservatives were unwilling to defend and whom the liberals were determined to eradicate from the face of the earth.
The dogma of European conservatives is that World War I gave communism a home in Russia, and World War II made Europe safe for communism. Both observations are true. But I would argue that World War II gave birth to something far more devastating than the communist menace. In the aftermath of World War II a new type of European leader came into being. This new European leader was really a non-leader because he no longer professed a connection to the European people. He was an abstract leader of an abstract people. And it’s no good to say that the people don’t need a leader, because they do. Great movements are always initiated by a spiritual elite. If there is no spiritual elite to renew the peoples’ “ancient heart” the people will wander in darkness and be a reed for every modern ill wind that blows. This was the truly devastating blow wrought by World War II: the white leaders, who should have defended their race and guided their people, abandoned them, to be demonized by the liberals and slaughtered by the colored barbarians, because they were afraid to be called racist.
The apostasy of the white European leaders was so universal and so unprecedented that we really should consider their moral apostasy as occurring in a new era called the A.A.H. era – After Adolph Hitler. When the white people emerge from their Babylonian night (and we don’t know the day nor the hour of that emergence), it will be under the leadership of Europeans who are genuine Europeans, men who are not afraid to love their own people above all other people, even if that means they are stigmatized as stupid and bigoted.
I once, in my late twenties, got to visit a conservative writer whom I admired. At that time, I was just beginning to see the importance of the race issue. I asked the conservative leader why he never mentioned the ongoing colored assault on the white race. His answer was quite revealing. He told me that he would never be published again if he even hinted that the complete integration of blacks and other minorities into Western culture was not a consummation devoutly to be wished for. And despite the fact that he thought the race issue was of vital importance – “The survival of the West depends on the survival of the white man” – this great conservative thinker wrote nothing about it for the remaining 27 years of his life. My idol had feet of clay: he lacked a heart that truly loved. No genuine European forsakes his people for the applause and money of the hard-hearted rulers of Liberaldom. If conservatism isn’t about conserving our people, then how can we call it conservative? A conservatism that is not racial conservatism is liberalism on a slow train, in contrast to mad-dog liberalism which is liberalism on an express train. But both trains are headed for Babylon.
It pains me to see white people performing the conservative tasks of good citizens. They support their local schools, send their sons, and now their daughters as well, into the military, and peacefully abide by the results of anti-white elections. These are the acts of men and women who have lost their way; they need leaders with ancient hearts to show them the way. A people should only be conservative when their government is conservative. Once their government has gone over to the Jacobins, Europeans with faithful European hearts should be counter-revolutionaries and oppose every action that assists the international revolutionary government of the United States, of England, of France, and so on. Our hearts belong to a white Christian nation; if our government is committed to a colored nation of no faith, or, as is more likely, a multitude of non-Christian faiths, we should oppose such a government with our whole heart and soul. “What are we supposed to be conserving?” is the question. If the answer is not “our people,” then we have no choice; we must fight to the knife. If you tell me that such an extreme response to liberalism is unwarranted or impractical, I will tell you that the liberals and their barbarian allies seek our blood. Extreme measures to protect our people are neither unwarranted nor impractical. Quite the contrary, nothing is more impractical than surrendering to a merciless enemy without even putting up a fight. The old leaders, the ‘systems analyst’ conservatives, were pygmy-hearted men who were willing to stand by and see their people perish so long as their systems survived. That era, the A.A.H. era, is now over. It is time for the European men with ancient hearts and a passionate love for their people to come to this battlefield.
Strong passion under the direction of a feeble reason feeds a low fever, which serves only to destroy the body that entertains it. But vehement passion does not always indicate an infirm judgment. It often accompanies, and actuates, and is even auxiliary to, a powerful understanding; and when they both conspire and act harmoniously, their force is great to destroy disorder within and to repel injury from abroad. If ever there was a time that calls on us for no vulgar conception of things, and for exertions in no vulgar strain, it is the awful hour that Providence has now appointed to this nation. Every little measure is a great errour; and every great errour will bring on no small ruin. Nothing can be directed above the mark that we must aim at. Every thing below it is absolutely thrown away. – Letters on a Regicide Peace
The history of the European people runs parallel with the ancient Hebrews. When we stay provincial, connected to a personal God through our kith and kin, we strive as a people. When God becomes an impersonal abstraction, the byproduct of a theologian’s brain, and our people become cannon fodder for an always elusive, abstract, future utopia, we cease to be a people. We become wandering phantoms who come to life only to worship and serve the colored races. This is not the work that we were born to do. The spirit of our ancestors bids us rise up and throw off the liberals’ yoke. And with Christ’s help, the provincial Christ of the European hearth, we shall rise up and burn the liberals’ altars, which are consecrated to their colored gods, and reclaim our own again. +
Dark and dull night, flie hence away, And give the honour to this day That sees December turned to May * * * * * Why does the chilling winter’s morne Smile like a field beset with corn? Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, Thus on the sudden?—Come and see The cause why things thus fragrant be.
-HERRICK.
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The ghost of Christmas present tells us we must strive to keep the Christ Child in our hearts 365 days of the year, not just for one day. But the same ghost through his authorial voice, Mr. Charles Dickens, also enjoins us to be especially attentive to the Christ Child during the Christmas season. I heartily agree with Mr. Dickens; the Christmas season should be a joyous celebration of the birth of our Savior, but it is not always easy to celebrate Christmas in a Dickensian way. Death and illness don’t always wait till after the Christmas season to strike, and then, in our liberal age, there are the family quarrels. Sometimes liberals, who are members of one’s extended family, come to visit, and they do not think that Christmas is about the Christ Child; they think it is about booze, negro worship, and filthy sex jokes. It’s hard to feel joyous in such company.
This Christmas season I was fortunate. No illness or deaths in my family and no visits from liberal relatives. We stuck to the basics: the old Christmas carols, the old Christmas stories from such authors as Charles Dickens and Washington Irving, the appropriate readings from the Bible, and two of my favorite Christmas movies, Miracle on 34th Street and the Alastair Sim version of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. A blessed Christmas indeed. But I am always conscious in the midst of my family Christmas celebration that I and the other members of my family constitute a dissident band of white people whom the liberals would like to eradicate. Our position vis-à-vis the world is the exact opposite of the repentant Scrooge’s position vis-à-vis the world: the Christian Scrooge left his money chamber to seek the company of good Christian men and women whose company he had shunned his entire life. The antique Christian European living in Liberaldom must invert Scrooge’s journey. He must lift the drawbridge, shun the outside world, and keep Christmas within the walls of the family homestead, which in modern Liberaldom must serve as the family fortress. The last thing a European Christian wants to do at Christmas time, or at any other time for that matter, is to go out into the surrounding community seeking Christian fellowship. Such a policy would be spiritual suicide, because the liberal scoffers, the misers and the money lenders, and the colored heathens, who used to constitute the dark and loathsome underground of Europe, have become the rulers of the European people. They don’t have to hide in dark corners any longer because their world is the overworld, and the antique European’s world is the underground world.
I take no delight in the fact that the Christian European people are a captive and despised people. I wish it were otherwise. But I think it would be self-defeating to lie to ourselves by trying to paint the halfway-house Christians into the Christian picture in order to make the painting brighter. A few can defeat many so long as they do not mistake enemies for friends. The problem with the halfway-house Christians is that they want to fuse Christianity with other faiths. Some want to fuse Christianity with Judaism, some with Islam, some with pagan philosophy, and virtually all the halfway-house Christians want to fuse Christianity with the negro-worshipping tenets of liberalism. Such a blending is not what our European ancestors had in mind when they celebrated Christmas. They worshipped a very particular, provincial God named Jesus Christ who was born in a manger in Bethlehem. He told us Himself that He and He alone was the “Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.”
The reason the besetting sin of our post-Christian age, miscegenation, was so abhorrent to the antique Europeans was because they believed that God took flesh and dwelt among us. Their God was not a Gnostic! They believed that their skin color was an outward sign of their immortal soul. Believing that, how could a European blend with other races? He couldn’t. It was only those who consciously rejected Christian Europe that sought to blend with the colored races. In Treasure Island we learn that the pirate Long John Silver has a negro mistress. Such was always the case in Christian Europe. The enemies of Christian Europe sought after the colored people. And in modern Satandom the enemies of Christian Europe have institutionalized miscegenation and made pariahs of the Christian Europeans who still believe that Europeans should fight to the death to preserve that which is essential, their race, that is part and parcel of their soul.
The coming re-coronation of The Obama would not be quite as depressing if white Europeans would view the spectacle as a new beginning for the European people. If they would commit themselves to a non-democratic Europe where ties of kinship and race are more important than abstractions such as universal brotherhood and peace and harmony, then they could reclaim their homeland. The brotherhood of the liberals is no band of brothers, because there can be no true brotherhood when ties to kith and kin are severed. Nor can there be genuine peace and harmony in Liberaldom, because the liberals’ brave new world is a very old world, that of Babylon, where all that is distinctly human is obliterated in one inhuman dunghill of barbaric faiths and barbaric races. To look for peace and harmony in such a blasphemous mixture would be like looking for peace and harmony in bedlam.
Burke said that we were spending the unbought grace of life. He was correct. And now that we’ve spent it all, what is left? Something that is worse than nothing. A world without mercy. The people we have turned our European civilization over to do not even have a word for mercy, but somehow this brave new world, this Haiti within Europe, is supposed to be a better world. But who will champion the Christ Child in an African Europe? Do mothers in Haiti sing “Away in a Manger” to their children? No, they chant barbaric songs about torture and murder.
The simple prayer, “Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask thee to stay; Close by me, forever and love me, I pray!” was at the heart of European civilization. We can’t have Africa in Europe and still keep Him by us. The liberals are determined to banish Christ and keep their black gods at their sides forever. Must we, because we live under their rule, also banish Christ and keep their black gods by our sides? No, we shall not bend our knees to the liberals’ gods. When Satan rules, “I shall not serve,” is the European’s battle cry.
I cannot separate Europe from Christ; He is in Europe and of Europe. If we abandon incarnate Europe where the Son of God had a local habitation and a name, what is left to us? A utopia of unsurpassed barbarism and cruelty, much like the state of Haiti.
Christmas is a time to renew our commitment to His Europe and His people. It is not African Europe that we belong to. There is no Christmas in such a Europe. We belong to eternal Europe where He stays close by us forever. Such is the glorious song of old that we learned at our European hearth fire. That hearth fire is now, and always shall be, our only refuge from the unholy night of Babylon. Be near us, Lord Jesus, thy people ask Thee to stay. +
Why do the heathen rage and the people imagine a vain thing? –Psalm 2: 1
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The liberals have been in power in the countries of European origin for approximately one hundred years. And even now, when they have completely consolidated their power and squashed virtually all opposition, they refuse to accept responsibility when something goes terribly wrong in their world. They refuse to accept responsibility, because by liberal logic nothing can go wrong in utopia, and if something does go wrong, it is because utopia has not yet arrived and some bad people are impeding progress toward perfect peace and harmony. The liberals’ reaction to the recent grade school massacre is a case in point. We know, from their ardent support of infanticide, that liberals have no sympathy for the children that were murdered in Connecticut. The slaughter of innocents does not appall liberals in the slightest. So why the wringing of hands and the phony tears? The liberals must feign concern when public school children are murdered because they want to maintain their power base. The public must believe that schools are safe because that is where children learn to be good liberals. If parents stop sending their children to public schools then the liberals will lose their primary indoctrination centers. Hence the feigned concern must be maintained, and the liberals need to deflect the focus away from the glaring flaws in utopia and focus on the bad men who are standing in the way of heaven on earth. In the case of the school killings, it is the opponents of gun control who are responsible for the murder of school children, the liberals tell us, because they refuse to allow the liberals to have a gun-free society. It is of absolutely no use to tell the liberals that
(1) they are responsible for creating a climate where school killings are commonplace because they have undermined the Christian, patriarchal family, and
(2) that once having undermined the traditional family structure, they then refuse to protect school children from the consequences of the destruction of the patriarchal family by refusing to place armed guards in every classroom.
There will always be violent madmen even in the best of all cultures, but in the worst of all cultures, which is a liberal culture, violent madmen are the norm. A modern day homicidal maniac, Charles Manson, said, “Of course I’m crazy, but being crazy doesn’t mean much anymore because everybody is crazy.” In a Christian society truth comes from out of the mouth of babes, because a pure undefiled child is the most likely person to grasp what is at the heart of a Christian culture. In direct contrast, a homicidal maniac like Charles Manson is a well-suited person to grasp the central ethos of a liberal society. Liberalism is based on the murder of God and the homicidal desire to kill every last vestige of His image in men. Innocence, which is closely allied to faith, must be murdered in the womb, and the Christ-bearing people that have survived the womb must be eradicated by whatever means necessary. How else can utopia be maintained?
Manson, McVeigh, and the grade school murderer are all the liberals’ children, yet the liberals refuse to acknowledge them because the official liberal party line states that “there can never be bad children in utopia”; there can only be good, happy children who love liberals for creating heaven on earth. So all bad children must be the product of the bad, old, non-utopian, white civilization. Of course what the liberals, having abandoned the Christian faith, will never come to terms with is reality: evil is in the hearts of men, not in one isolated group of men (white men) nor in inanimate objects such as guns. Dostoyevsky’s Underground Man took the liberals to task on this very point. “What if you build the perfect new world in a perfect crystal palace and someone comes along and smashes it, just because he wants to smash it?” The liberals always tell us that no one will want to smash their crystal palace. The school killings shove that lie back in the liberals’ face. Liberal utopians never envision that their geometrically perfect world, devoid of God’s grace, can produce madmen who want to smash their world.
Of course any decent European does want to smash the liberals’ world. But because the antique European is not of the liberals’ world he does not want to destroy liberalism by the slaughter of the innocents. The bloody sacrifice of the innocent is a sacrificial rite of the liberals, not the antique European. More school children will die – they must die – because liberals have decreed that individual human beings are merely cogs in the great liberal machine that will ultimately (the liberals constantly assure us) produce the kingdom of God on earth. Again, we refer to Dostoyevsky:
‘…Tell me yourself—I challenge you: let’s assume that you were called upon to build the edifice of human destiny so that men would finally be happy and would find peace and tranquility. If you knew that, in order to attain this, you would have to torture just one single creature, let’s say the little girl who beat her chest so desperately in the outhouse, and that on her unavenged tears you could build that edifice, would you agree to do it? Tell me and don’t lie!’
‘No, I would not,’ Alyosha said softly.
Alyosha’s answer to the liberals’ utopian inhumanity is our answer.
It is impossible to dialogue with the liberals and come to a mutual understanding because the utopian mindset is a totalitarian mindset that will brook no opposition. Absolute power is necessary to ensure that “the people” can enter paradise. And those people are always in the future:
It is no easy operation to eradicate humanity from the human breast. What Shakespeare calls “the compunctious visitings of nature” will sometimes knock at their hearts, and protest against their murderous speculations. But they have a means of compounding with their nature. Their humanity is not dissolved. They only give it a long prorogation. They are ready to declare, that they do not think two thousand years too long a period for the good that they pursue. It is remarkable, that they never see any way to their projected good but by the road of some evil. Their imagination is not fatigued with the contemplation of human suffering through the wild waste of centuries added to centuries of misery and desolation. Their humanity is at their horizon—and, like the horizon, it always flies before them. The geometricians and the chemists bring, the one from the dry bones of their diagrams, and the other from the soot of their furnaces, dispositions that make them worse than indifferent about those feelings and habitudes which are the supports of the moral world. Ambition is come upon them suddenly; they are intoxicated with it, and it has rendered them fearless of the danger which may from thence arise to others or to themselves. These philosophers consider men, in their experiments, no more than they do mice in an air pump, or in a recipient of mephitic gas.
All those who wish to oppose liberalism must grasp that essential point about the liberal. He has hardened his heart against humanity. Nothing matters to him but his ideal of an abstract humanity. The slaughter of millions in the womb and the continual slaughter of hundreds in the classrooms is of no consequence to the liberal. Nothing will force the liberal to face reality. His mind-forged world of unreality is all that he sees. And he will defend that world, showing no mercy to those who oppose him. The liberal Robespierres have no concept of mercy because they have left such outmoded things in the hated European past.
The liberal is not just an utopian on one issue, such as the school killings. He looks at every issue through his utopian tinged glasses. When the AIDs epidemic hit the Western countries, a few non-utopian conservatives recommended that gay bath houses in cities should be closed. After all, that is what people serious about limiting a plague usually did. They tried to eliminate the breeding grounds for the plague. But in the case of AIDs there was a utopian principle involved. To admit that homosexual activity was harmful would be a tacit admission there was something wrong with utopia. So what became ‘wrong’ were the people who equated AIDs and homosexuality. They were just as ‘wrong’ then as the people who want to use guns to defend school children from men with guns are ‘wrong’ now. I recall the diligent efforts of the utopians at a university where I worked to find a heterosexual with AIDs for their AIDs Awareness program. They spent six months searching for a heterosexual with the disease because they didn’t want to imply there was any link between homosexuality and AIDs. There is no limit to the lengths a liberal will go to in order to protect his utopian vision of the world.
The lynch pin of utopia is the noble savage. Without him utopia crumbles, because he is “the people,” the natural, unadulterated, uncontaminated man of nature. “Forget your prejudices against the cruel, merciless savage,” the liberal tells us, “Embrace the future, embrace and worship the noble savage.” And the enlightened men of the brave new world have done just that. When the late John Paul II went to Africa, he told a howling mob of colored savages that when the black man finally threw off the last vestiges of colonialism he would produce a Christian culture that would astound the world. But wait, your reverence, we have already seen what happens when noble black savages throw off the last vestiges of colonialism. Utopia has a local habitation and a name. It is called Haiti, a place where murder, rape, and rapine have been institutionalized and not even a remnant of Christianity remains. But let’s not disturb the utopians, especially the “Christian” utopians. After all, their hearts are in the right place, aren’t they? Only if you deny the obvious. A utopian has killed all the humane instincts that reside in the human heart, such as the love of one’s kith and kin, and replaced them with an abstract love for abstract men of color who live in an abstract world in the utopian’s mind. Is such a man humane? Is such a man Christian?
There was a period of my life when I worked two jobs, one in academia and one in law enforcement. I couldn’t stand my colleagues in academia; the mere thought of seeing them every morning made me nauseous, but I got along tolerably well with the men on the police force. Looking back on the experience I can see why I found the academics so loathsome and the police officers bearable and in some cases congenial. The academics were 100% Jacobin. They hated everything human but loved humanity in the abstract. On the other hand, the police officers were not yet card-carrying, inhuman, Jacobin liberals and still had some vestiges of humanity left in them. Despite the liberals’ relentless work to draw more and more of the police into the liberal orbit by making them attend all sorts of ‘sensitivity’ seminars, there were still some recalcitrant officers left that made police work more bearable than work in academia. That was 25 years ago, and no doubt the liberals have thoroughly Gnosticized our police forces by now.
The liberals’ sole aim in life is to make the world into academia. In academia everything that is perverse and evil is celebrated, and everything pure and good is demonized. The truth is an anathema to academics, because the truth would turn men away from the abstract negro god of the liberals and toward the living God. The liberals must squeeze, as a boa constrictor squeezes his victims, every last ounce of humanity from the white European, because it is through his humanity that the white European reaches out to God. This is why the European is constantly told that his ties to his kith and kin are evil. Such human ties can lead to God, and the liberals do not want men to reach out to a God beyond Liberaldom. There is no need to squeeze the humanity out of the colored races; what little humanity they have can easily be destroyed by worshipping them in all their heathen perversity instead of refusing to sanction their heathen perversity. The heathen will rage if the white men allow them to rage, and in modern Babylon the European does not raise a Christian arm against the liberals and their colored gods. But this will not always be so. The European will strike back when he sees the liberals for what they are and he sees Christ as the antique Europeans saw Him. A European counterattack against the liberals and the coloreds is not a mathematical certainty. It is something more certain than math; it is a spiritual certainty. God does not abandon His people. He will sustain the Europeans who call on Him by name. We need only shift our focus from the managerial, geometric abstractions of the utopian liberals and return to reality, to the dear, dear land of storybook Europe. Behind utopian liberalism in all its guises is the ancient foe. And there is only one God who can sustain us in the day of battle against that ancient foe, the God of our ascending race, Jesus Christ. +
To my readers: It is during the Christmas season that a European Christian feels the most estranged from modern, post-Christian Europe. He feels a deep longing for a bygone age when the ties of kinship and blood, which bind us to our Lord, were honored and revered. What follows then is a tale of European honor and kinship. Merry Christmas.
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A kind Providence has placed in our breasts a hatred of the unjust and cruel, in order that we may preserve ourselves from cruelty and injustice. They who bear cruelty, are accomplices in it. The pretended gentleness which excludes that charitable rancor, produces an indifference which is half an approbation. They never will love where they ought to love, who do not hate where they ought to hate. There is another piece of policy, not more laudable than this, in reading these moral lectures, which lessens our hatred to Criminals and our pity to sufferers, by insinuating that it has been owing to their fault or folly, that the latter have become the prey of the former. By flattering us, that we are not subject to the same vices and follies, it induces a confidence, that we shall not suffer the same evils by a contact with the infamous gang of robbers who have thus robbed and butchered our neighbours before our faces. We must not be flattered to our ruin. – Letters on a Regicide Peace by Edmund Burke
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It was in April of 1934 that Peter Delaine first came to see me. There was nothing about his dress that suggested he was a Roman Catholic priest — he did not wear a Roman collar or any other kind of priestly garb — but I had a certain intuition about this tall, gaunt man who appeared as if he had just come from the stake where he had been tortured for days. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, but it was difficult to gauge his age because intense suffering often makes a man appear older than he actually is.
“Are you a Roman Catholic priest?”
“Yes, I am, but I’ve been… How can I say it? I’ve been on a kind of leave of absence from my duties for the past five years.”
“I don’t mind talking to you, Father; in fact, I’d be happy to talk with you, but don’t you think you should seek out a priest of your own church and your own nationality?”
“What makes you think I haven’t tried to talk to priests of my own church, as you put it? As for my nationality, my father was French, and I was brought up in France, but my mother was English, so I am not such a goose out of water as you might suppose.”
“It’s ‘duck out of water.’”
“What did I say?”
“You said you were not such a goose out of water as I supposed.”
He laughed. “I shall have to be careful with you.”
“No, you won’t. I just couldn’t resist that one. You can you put any animal you want out of the water, and I won’t bother you about it. But may I ask you why you want to talk to me?”
“It is quite simple, Reverend. To the extent that I trust anyone, I trust you. You’re probably not aware of it – men like you never are – but that little book of your sermons was translated into French and made its way across the Channel. I didn’t need a translator of course, but my first copy of your sermons was in French. I found them so moving that I subsequently acquired the original English edition. Does it surprise you that you are known to some of us in France?”
“Yes, it does. I was aware that a volume of my sermons had been published here in England, but I had no idea that they had been published in France as well. Nor do I understand why a Roman Catholic priest was so interested in them that he has come across the Channel to speak to me.”
“It was the title of your book that first intrigued me. Was that your idea?”
“When the publisher asked for a better title than Sermons, I suggested the title, The Sword of Charity.”
“Well that is what caught my attention, because that is exactly the way I look on the divine charity of our Lord; it is a sword that pierces the heart but doesn’t kill; it heals. But of course, I’m quoting almost your very words. You must think of me as a terrible babbler.”
“On the contrary, Father…”
“I’d prefer you call me Peter.”
“As you wish. If we are going to dispense with titles, my given name is Christopher. And I don’t regard you a as a babbler. Quite the contrary, how could I not be moved by a man whose heart is moved by the heartfelt expression of my faith? But I don’t think you came all the way over from France to tell me you liked my published sermons. Is there something I can do for you? Perhaps I should have prefaced that question with the same warning I give every person who seeks me out for guidance. I am not a modern day prophet, a saint, or seer. I’ll try…”
“I’m not seeking a prophet, a saint, or a seer. I’m looking for a Christian European, a man who will look me in the face and tell the truth. I’ve decided that you are the one man in a million who won’t lie to me. Am I wrong?”
There was only one way to answer Peter’s question. I asked him to kneel with me in the study while I said a prayer: “Lord, guide my heart and my mind to answer this, your servant Peter, in the way you would have me answer him, in Christ’s name, Amen.”
“I won’t bore you with the minutiae of my life, Christopher, but I must of necessity, sketch out some of the details of my life so that you can understand my spiritual state and the reason I’ve come to see you.
“Five years ago I obtained a leave of absence from my duties as a parish priest. The leave of absence was to have been for one year, but one year elapsed quickly, and then a second, and then a third, and so on. During the last three years, I’ve made no attempt to contact my superiors. So for all practical purposes I am no longer a Catholic priest, but of course I am still a priest. I haven’t been ‘defrocked.’”
“May I ask why you left the priesthood?”
“Certainly you may ask, Christopher. That’s why I’ve come to you, to talk about this thing called faith.
“It’s not that I don’t believe in Christ anymore. In fact, it’s because I’ve come to believe more fully in the singularness of Christ as God and Redeemer that I felt compelled to leave my church, or at least to leave the organization that has come to be called the Roman Catholic Church.
“I’m not being terribly clear, am I?”
“Not yet, but go on.”
“Well, I know what the Roman churchmen are saying about me. They say I’ve lost my faith. They call me a heretic, a homosexual, or both. But I am neither of those two abominations. I believe in our Lord Jesus Christ. And I believe he is really and truly present in the Holy Communion, but I don’t believe in an infallible Pope, nor do I believe in an infallible fat friar. Forgive my crudeness; I am very bitter, but I admit that I have no right to be bitter. No one made me become a Roman Catholic priest. “
“Why did you become a Roman Catholic priest?”
“Why? I’ve asked myself that question many times in the last five years. I suppose if you asked me that question at the time I entered the seminary, I would have told you that I wanted to serve Christ and my brethren in Christ.”
“Those are certainly commendable motives.”
“But as I got older in years and older in my years of service to the Church, I realized I had become estranged from God because of my profession. I know that might sound strange to most people, because most people equate the church and God as one, but I think you of all people must understand what I am saying, because in your sermons you never refer to the church; you only refer to Christ and to His people. And I must ask you: Do you believe that your church is the true church? Please answer me truthfully, without fear of offending me or shocking me.”
“I could give you the party line, which I believed when I became an Anglican minister, which says that our church is truly Catholic and Apostolic, because our faith is based on the Bible, tradition, the early creeds, and the Church fathers, in contrast to the Roman Catholic Church, which is based on tradition and the Bible as interpreted by an infallible Pope, who has only recently been found to be infallible. But I can’t give you the party line because I don’t believe it. I have a great love for the Book of Common Prayer and the Biblical Catholicism of Anglicanism. We have avoided the excessive formalism of Rome and steered clear of the enthusiasm of the protestant groups, but still, I don’t see how my church with our four squared system of infallibility is any more infallible than your church.”
“Then to whom or what was Christ referring when He said that He would build His church on ‘this rock’?”
“If you’ve read The Sword of Charity you know my answer to that question.”
“Faith in Christ is the rock?”
“Yes.”
“And the true Church consists of those who believe in Him?”
“Yes, but there is a hierarchy in the Church. Without the Christ-bearing people, the Church does not have a local habitation and a name.”
“But what if the European people forsake Christ?”
“They are in the process of doing just that, but that doesn’t change their history. They were and still are the Christ-bearers just as the Hebrew people were. I am not propounding a theory; I am merely stating what I see before me. In the Book of Common Prayer, we say ‘in Him and through Him,’ but how do we come to Him except through His people?”
“Aren’t you open to a charge of extreme subjectivity and personal bias when you claim that we, the Europeans, are the Christ bearers?”
“Yes, I am, but God’s ways are not our ways, and it seems to me that God reveals Himself through His people. And who are the Christ-bearing people if they are not the European people? Every Christian church that professes to know with mathematical certainty it is the rock upon which Christ has built His church has turned out to be a very common, ordinary-type rock, incapable of sustaining faith in Christ. The various churchmen in their zeal to present God to the people in a concise, precise package of facts have made little mini-deities of their church organizations.”
“I don’t disagree with anything you say. It’s… words fail me… to hear one’s own heartfelt faith shared by another is… it’s a miracle of God’s grace.”
“Where do you go from here, Peter? Will you return to your priestly duties?”
“No, you see my church has gone further down that slippery Greek slope, which ends in the classroom of Voltaire and Rousseau. I can only be a Catholic priest so long as I don’t bend my knee to the Christian dilettantes and philosophers who have made Christ into an intellectual construct. I want to fight for my people, and my people, the Christ-bearing people, are in danger of extinction. Oh, I know it all sounds farfetched, as we sit here in the comfort of your study in the middle of this very European city of London. But Satan has vowed to kill Christ by destroying His image in man. The incomparable Burke knew this. Did you know that my great grandfather knew Burke? Of course, you couldn’t know. Now I must really appear to be raving. But the people are on the brink. We all must gird up our loins and… “
“Gird up our loins for what, Peter?”
“For the battle with the Jacobin-inspired black rebellion. What happened in Haiti when the Jacobins turned the country over to the blacks is happening all over Europe and in the nations such as the United States, which were settled by Europeans.”
“I can’t speak for Europe as whole, but it does seem that the idea of the noble savage, which men like Samuel Johnson and Charles Dickens ridiculed, is gaining more and more credence with the British people. And there seems to be a connection between the increase of Jacobin thinking and a belief in the noble savage.”
“Of course there is, Christopher. They are coordinate heresies. If there is no God and no original sin, then sin must only exist in the people who are furthest away from nature, which is white people. And the most natural people are…”
“Black people?”
“Yes, that is precisely the way the Jacobins, whether they be French or non-French, think.”
“We are certainly a great many years away from a brave new world of negro-worshipping whites, but I do agree with you, Peter, that eventually, as the whites fall away from the Christian faith, they will revert to heathen gods or even make gods of the heathens themselves.”
“I want to stand athwart the current of white apostasy and stop it. I know that sounds grandiose, but with God are not all things possible? You see, Christopher, I feel it is my destiny. My family history reaches out to me. I dare not disgrace my ancestors. I must strike a blow for my people and against the coalition of Jacobins and blacks. If you could indulge me for another hour or so, I could explain myself, through this manuscript, in a way that I’m sure you would understand.”
“Who wrote the manuscript, Peter?”
“My great-grandfather on my father’s side. He was born in Saint-Domingue, which they now call Haiti. But you’ll find that explained in the manuscript. I’ll take a walk through your London and watch the lamplighters. If you can take the time, I’d like you to read the manuscript.”
“I’ll read it, Peter. How did you find out about the London lamplighters?”
“On a visit with my mother many years ago.”
“Robert Louis Stevenson is the only poet that I know of who captured the romance (at least to a small boy) of the lamplighters. I have a copy of his A Child’s Garden of Verses right here:
‘For we are very lucky with a lamp before the door, And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight.’”
“You love London, don’t you, Christopher?”
“With all my heart.”
“You’ll understand my great-grandfather’s manuscript then. And when you’ve read it and understood, you’ll stand with me against the world. That is how it will be.”
“Go watch the lamplighters, Peter, and let me read your great-grandfather’s manuscript.”
I opened Peter Delaine’s great-grandfather’s manuscript with much more than idle curiosity. What was so compelling about the manuscript? Why had it had — and why did it continue to have — such an impact on a man like Peter Delaine?
I’ll present the manuscript, translated of course, in the form that I received it, making a note whenever I make an editorial interruption. There are times when the author of the manuscript shifts from straight prose to the dramatic mode of expression. It seemed to me that he does this when the scenes depicted are so indelibly impressed on his memory that he remembers every single word that was said.
What follows are my memories of the events of October 5th, 1791, when a Roman Catholic priest and his black henchmen killed my father and destroyed my home in Saint-Domingue. Of necessity I must also tell of some of the events that occurred before that night of sorrow and of some of the events that came after that terrible night. I write this document in the year of our Lord 1870.
I was born of French parents in the French colony of Saint-Domingue. My father met and married my mother in France, but being a second son he felt his destiny was not in France proper although he always considered himself a Frenchman. He was loyal to the monarchy and to everything it stood for: our Holy religion and our sacred traditions. “We belong to France,” my father used to say, “Here in Saint-Domingue we are an extension of France.”
My father prospered in Saint-Domingue. Within the first ten years after his arrival he owned one of the largest and finest plantations in Saint-Domingue. My education on our plantation was that of a French nobleman. With parents such as mine I would have been happy anywhere, but the plantation in Saint-Domingue was the home of my childhood, and I have nothing but pleasant memories of my childhood. It was only when I started my 16th year of life that my pleasant existence turned into hell on earth.
I was 14 years old in 1789 when the barbarous French Revolution broke out. My father was horrified; being removed from France he was more intensely devoted to France than Frenchmen living in France. His loyalty to the monarchy was absolute. Right up to the time of Louis XVI’s murder my father always entertained the hope that somehow the French people would come to their senses and restore the king to the throne. It was not to be.
There was much discussion at our dinner table and throughout Saint-Domingue, among the white landowners, as to the effect the Revolution in France would have on the French living in Saint-Domingue. Some thought there would be no effect: “After all, they can’t expect liberty, fraternity, and equality to apply to Negroes!”
And some, like my uncle, saw the truth: “The niggers will try to kill every last white man in Saint-Domingue, and they will do so with the blessing of the damn Jacobins.”
Here I must introduce some other of the principle characters in my family tragedy. Before introducing the hero, my uncle, let me speak of the villains.
There was Father Genevesse, a Jesuit priest. He was a short, plump, kindly-looking man in his mid-fifties, a frequent house guest and a friend of the family. I know it is unfair of me to hate all Jesuits because of Father Genevesse, but I am a man, not a block of wood. The very word ‘Jesuit’ sickens me and fills me with a desire to kill.
Another principle character was our house servant, a Negro of about forty-five years of age, who had been with my parents ever since their arrival in Saint-Domingue in 1770. He was tall, slender, and quite the gentleman, educated and treated almost as one of the family. He was in charge of all the house servants, and he enjoyed great prestige on the island because he was the head servant in the house of Michael Delaine, my father. The fiend’s name was Jacques Bauché. My father trusted him implicitly, and I must say I had no suspicions of him whatsoever. He always addressed me as the “young master.” Toward my mother and sister he was always the perfect gentleman. None of us suspected that the outward manners of our trusted servant concealed – there are no other words to describe it – a satanic heart.
That is not quite true; there was one among us who did not trust Jacques Bauché. That man was my uncle, Brian Delaine. I deeply loved my father and shall always love him above all other men, but he was the victim in our terrible family tragedy. The hero’s part was to be played by my uncle. He alone saw the evil in Jacques Bauché and Father Genevesse.
My uncle was three years younger than my father and came to Saint-Domingue one year after my father did. Like my father he was completely loyal to France and did not see himself as any less of a Frenchman because he chose to seek his fortune in French Saint-Domingue instead of in France. But in every other way, my uncle was different from my father. Father was a man of slender build, very handsome and calm in temperament. I never once heard my father raise his voice in anger. In contrast, my uncle had a much more volatile nature. He often raised his voice in anger and quite often, when angry, seemed on the verge of physical violence, especially during some of his heated arguments with Father Genevesse.
My uncle was several inches shorter than my father, but he actually appeared taller because of his large, almost herculean physique. It was amazing that two brothers with the same bloodlines could look so different. My father looked every inch the French Aristocrat, while my uncle looked more like a French peasant than a French aristocrat. Despite their differences in personality, or maybe because of those differences, my father and my uncle were very close. It was a great disappointment to my father when my uncle decided not to settle down on an estate next to him. Instead my uncle invested his part of the family fortune in a merchant ship and became a seafaring man. Because of the life he chose, he was frequently away from Saint-Domingue on long voyages of a mercantile nature. I don’t think my father quite approved of the seafaring life, but he never reproached my uncle for it, although he would occasionally make a joke about finding a good wife for Uncle Brian who would make him stay on land for more than just one week every other month.
I, of course, was very interested in my uncle’s voyages. I always looked forward to his visits to our estate, when he would tell me stories of his travels and the seafaring men who accompanied him on his voyages.
My uncle knew that my father didn’t approve of the life he had chosen, so he always prefaced his stories with, “If your father permits, I’ll tell you of…” My father always permitted it, because he loved his brother and he loved me. And despite my love for my uncle’s sea stories, I never considered any life for myself other than the one my father wanted me to have, that of a French aristocrat tending to his plantation in Saint-Domingue.
It was a good life. Much has been written, since that way of life has disappeared, about lazy, good-for-nothing French aristocrats who lived off the sweat of black slaves. That is a lie, just as the Jacobin story of fat, indolent aristocrats who deserved to be guillotined in the name of liberty, equality, and fraternity is a lie. The truth is that the black man lived off the sweat, ingenuity and vision of the white ruling class. Now that Saint-Domingue is Haiti, what is the lot of the black man? Rape, murder, poverty, and mayhem are normal in the Haiti of the black man. They were vile aberrations in the Saint-Domingue of the French aristocrats.
The climactic events of my life happened when I was 16, two years after the French Revolution. That is how long it took before liberty, equality, and fraternity brought rivers of blood to Saint-Domingue.
I am 95 years old, but I have carried the memory of the events of 79 years ago with me through all these years. Nothing will ever erase the memory of that terrible night and its aftermath.
Why, after so many years, have I decided to write about what happened on June 7th, 1791? The reason is because I have a great grandson, Peter Delaine, who needs a chance to be a Delaine. I have outlived my son, and my grandson has no interest in his family history, so it falls to Peter, when he comes of age, to do what he will with this family history. I trust him to do what is right.
I am no Racine, no Shakespeare, but I intend to describe certain events in the dramatic mode for reasons that I think will become clear. I see the events as a tragic drama. For truly my family history is a tragic drama. But it is also, I believe, the tragic drama, not just of France alone, but of all of Europe and her people:
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Place – The dining room of the Delaine house. Seated at dinner are Father Genevesse, my sister, my mother, my father, and myself. Jacques and two other house servants are also present at dinner.
Characters– Peter Delaine – (myself) sixteen years old Evelyn Delaine – my sister, 18 years old Catherine Delaine – my mother, 40 years old Brian Delaine – my uncle, 39 years old Michael Delaine – my father, 42 years old Jacques Bauché – house servant and overseer of all the other house servants of the Delaine family Father Genevesse – 55 years old, Jesuit priest
Genevesse: I’m truly sorry your brother couldn’t come, Michael. I was looking forward to talking with him.
Mother: A man in your profession shouldn’t lie, Father; you know you don’t like Brian.
Genevesse: Why do you say that? It’s true that we often disagree, but I like a good argument and I like Brian.
Evelyn: I’m afraid Uncle Brian doesn’t like you, Father.
Father: That’s enough, Evelyn. I don’t think Father Genevesse appreciates your jesting on that subject.
Peter: She’s not jesting, father, Uncle Brian does hate him.
Father: That’s enough from both of you. Father, please accept my apologies, and be assured that no member of my family has anything but the highest regard for you.
Genevesse: For me or what I represent?
Father: Both.
Genevesse: I’m not offended. Your brother is a passionate man, and I’m afraid I’ve annoyed him with my defense of our black brothers here in Saint-Domingue.
Mother: I can’t really speak for Brian, Father, but I think I understand how he feels. You often give the impression, which I’m sure you don’t mean to, that you think we should turn Saint-Domingue over to the negroes.
Genevesse: And what would be so wrong about that?
Father: Really, Father, you might as well ask what is wrong with making a three year old child the head of your household. Negro equality is insane.
Genevesse: Equality is coming to Saint-Domingue just as it came to France.
Mother: But they don’t have equality in France, they have anarchy and chaos. Nor has the French Revolution been good for the clergy.
Genevesse: It’s been good for some of them.
Father: Yes, for the traitor priests, the priests who are willing to betray their king and their God.
Genevesse: I hardly call spreading Christ’s Gospel to other people besides Europeans treacherous.
Father: It is not a question of spreading the Gospel, it is a question of the French Saint-Domingueans and their survival as a people. How do we spread the Gospel in Saint-Domingue by liquidating the French? The negroes are not embracing Christ, they are killing white people. And the Jacobins are all atheists. How is that good for France?
Genevesse: I don’t think you understand politics, Michael, but I must say that you do understand wine. This Bordeaux is excellent.
Mother: Jacques, I think we will have our dessert in the drawing room. Will you set out Evelyn’s music so she can play for us?
Jacques: Yes, Madame.
Mother: Will you play, Evelyn?
Evelyn: Yes, but don’t expect a virtuoso performance.
Genevesse: Oh, but I do expect a virtuoso performance. Your father simply raves about your musical gifts.
Evelyn: Father is prejudiced.
Father: No, I’m not. You be the judge, Father.
In theDrawing Room ofthe Delaine Mansion –
Peter, Father Genevesse, my father, my mother, and my sister are present. Jacques and two other servants are going back and forth with the dessert. Evelyn has just finished on the piano.
Genevesse: Your father didn’t exaggerate, Evelyn. That was beautiful.
Evelyn: Thank you, Father.
Genevesse [turning to me]: Do you play, Peter?
Peter: No, Father, the piano is for women.
Genevesse: That’s a horribly narrow viewpoint, my boy. Most of the best concert pianists are men. There is nothing effeminate about the mastery of a musical instrument.
Peter: Well, I don’t play.
Genevesse: You should play a musical instrument. It can be quite …
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This was the moment. Seventy-nine years ago, and I see it all before me as if it were yesterday. Black fiends, dozens of them, carrying machetes, burst into the drawing room. My father, who was completely unarmed, rose to grapple with the foremost negro, while ordering the rest of us to run to the kitchen were Jacques was. But Jacques was not in the kitchen. He was right behind my father. As father wrestled with the foremost negro, Jacques stabbed my father in the back. It was a sickening, heart-rending sight. One thrust of the dagger through the middle of his back and into his heart, and my beloved father was dead.
When I first saw Jacques advancing toward my father, dagger in hand, I thought he was coming to help my father. Oh, that I had known! I could have stopped him. But I didn’t know.
I screamed when my father fell, and I lunged at Jacques, planning to wrest the dagger from him and cut his throat. But I was knocked to the ground by two large negroes and pinned there. My sister and my mother were also restrained and imprisoned in the arms of the filthy negro savages. Father Genevesse was nowhere to be seen. I wondered where he had gone, but I didn’t suspect that he had anything to do with the attack. It was still beyond my comprehension that a priest, a man of God, would participate in anything so vile.
Of course, I was frightened, but that was not my primary emotion. I had seen my beloved father murdered before my eyes. I wanted the blood of the man who killed him. And there he was standing in the drawing room, a mocking, satanic sneer on his face.
“Well,” he addressed me first. I was now on my feet, restrained by three of the black savages. “My fine young master, how does it feel to be slapped by your devoted servant?”
The slap was nothing to me — I was too enraged to feel it. I spit in his face. His face went livid with anger, and he pulled back his arm with the dagger in his hand and prepared to run me through. But an imperial command stopped him. It was Father Genevesse.
“Jacques! Remember, we agreed, only Michael, not the children or Catherine.”
“This is no child, Genevesse, and don’t tell me what to do.”
“Have you forgotten who helped you to plan this and who is going to help you to do the same with the other plantations?”
“I don’t need you anymore, Genevesse. I’m going to cut this white dog’s heart out and then let my friends have the women.”
My mother and my sister had both screamed in terror, as was only natural, when the attack first came. But there was no screaming or pleading after my father was murdered. The blood of their ancestors took hold.
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Mother: I don’t care what they do with me, Father, but if you have any influence with these fiends, ask them to spare my children.
Genevesse: I’m afraid I don’t have any influence with them. I’m sorry.
Mother: You’re sorry! What kind of man are you? We trusted you. You’re supposed to be a priest.
Genevesse: It’s because I am a priest that I had to help the Revolution. Do you think I enjoy this?
Evelyn: You helped them kill my father!
Genevesse: Yes, I did. Someday you’ll understand. Now, in the heat of the moment I don’t expect you to understand.
Jacques: Enough of this. He dies now [motioning toward me] and the white bitches die when my men are through with them.
Genevesse: I really must protest…
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Jacques motioned to one of his savage cohorts and he cut off Father Genevesse’s head with one blow of the machete. It was a horrific sight, but I felt no pity for Genevesse.
Then Jacques turned back to me and raised his dagger again. I waited for the fatal thrust, but it never came. Jacques Bauché fell to the floor with a bullet in his head. My uncle Brian was upon them! Never, in all my long years have I seen such magnificence as I saw that night when my uncle attacked the black devils who murdered my father.
My uncle had gotten wind of an attack on the whites’ plantations while he was in port getting ready to sail. He headed for our house right away. Too late to save father, he did save us. Four pistol shots and four dead savages. The rest of the work he did with his sword, our family sword that my uncle usually kept in his cabin. It was unsheathed that night. He killed them all, and he killed because he loved us and his brother with a passion that no negro could ever fathom.
There is a poem about the great Montrose of Scotland in which he bids his executioners scatter his body throughout Scotland and the God who made him will, he believed, put his body and soul together again whole and entire. Such is the belief of Christians. And I am a Christian. But why do we pray at the graves of loved ones? And why do we shrink from the idea of cremation? I don’t know. Perhaps it is because the body of our beloved dead held, while alive, the light of the soul within it. We can’t bear to part with that light. It often takes months and sometimes years for the bereaved to feel, with certainty, that the body and the soul of their dear departed are united in Christ. But there was no time for a proper burial that night. My uncle wept to part with his brother without a proper burial, but he knew what had to be done. He did what his brother would have wanted; he took care of his family. He knelt and kissed his brother on the forehead, and then he rose up and spoke to us.
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Brian: We must leave him now or we’ll all be dead. There are black savages everywhere killing every white they see. I’m going to try to take you to my ship as ‘prisoners.’ Come while I tie you together.
My uncle smeared black mud over his face so that he might look like a negro from a distance. Up close there was no way my uncle’s features could be mistaken for a negro’s.
Brian: We might get by. Remember you’re my prisoners – try to act the part.
Evelyn: What if they challenge us? You really don’t look much like a negro even covered with mud.
Brian: If anyone challenges us, I’ll kill them. Don’t worry, Evelyn, we’ll make it.
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Uncle Brian set the house ablaze, and with only the clothes on our backs — for prisoners couldn’t be seen carrying their belongings — we left our home and my father. After all these years, the tears still come when I recount that terrible departure.
From a distance I’m sure it did appear that my uncle was a negro with two white female captives and a young male captive. But anyone who came close would be a danger, because they would see that a white man was trying to save three whites from death and torture. And that was the only law left in Haiti. All whites must be tortured and killed.
We made it to within fifty yards of my uncle’s ship when two drunken negroes saw what my uncle was up to. They shouted an alarm to other negroes and charged straight at my uncle with their machetes.
My uncle still had his sword and a brace of pistols. He ran one of them through and shot the other in the head. A group of negroes, about nine in number, having been alerted by the two other negroes, were now running toward us. My uncle bid us drop the ropes from our limbs, for we had only been loosely tied, and run for the ship. As we ran for the ship my uncle turned to face the black barbarians. No army regiment ever had a better rearguard than Brian Delaine. The blacks wanted to kill my uncle quickly in order to get at us. It was not to be. Brian Delaine killed all but one, who ran back into the darkness of Haiti. My uncle arrived on board unscathed a few minutes after us.
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At Sea that Night
Brian Delaine [speaking to the First Mate] I gave the women my cabin. Can the lad bunk with you?
First Mate: Yes, Captain, but where will you sleep?
Brian: I’ll sleep sitting up outside the ladies’ cabin.
First Mate: I understand.
Brian: And, Malcolm…
FM: Yes, captain?
Brian: Thanks.
FM: For what?
Brian: For keeping the ship in the harbor until I got the boy and women on board. The men must have wanted to pull out, what with all the niggers swarming the docks looking for white blood.
FM: There were a few that talked about it, but I put them straight. And there’s no need to thank me. You took me on as your first mate five years ago when I had only the clothes on my back and a proud Highland name. I wasn’t about to leave you to the tender mercies of those black savages. I’m only sorry your brother didn’t make it.
Brian: So am I.
FM [seeing his tears]: Enough said, captain.
[Exit]
[Enter – Peter Delaine]
Brian: You’re still up?
Peter: I still can’t believe he’s dead.
Brian: I’m not a church-going man. You know that, Peter. But on the important things I believe what your father and every white man that is a white man believes. A ship’s captain should never be without this book. I’ve read this passage so many times for burials at sea, but never with the heart and the faith that I’m going to read it tonight:
“Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”
I’m not suggesting you should ever forget what happened this night, Peter, but when you think of your father, think of him at the same time as … dare I say His name? I must. Think of him at the same time as you think of Christ. Then you’ll see your father and Christ as you should see them, as all loving hearts do see them.
You needn’t be ashamed of those tears. Go back to your cabin. And remember your sister and your mother need you to be strong.
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So much more I could say to you, Peter, my namesake, but let that end the tale of the terrible night. A few more pages about the years after that terrible night, and I’ll be finished with the manuscript.
France was no place for us at that time, with every aristocrat in constant danger from the Jacobins who kept feeding Madame Guillotine. And even if we had wanted to return to France, France had no place for us. My grandparents on both my mother’s and my father’s side of the family had gone to their deaths on the guillotine. Even the Jacobins admitted that they died bravely.
My uncle took the three of us to England. Mother recovered all the family fortune that was not tied up in the estate, portable property as Mr. Dickens’ great character Wemick called it, after we arrived, from the Swiss banks where my father had transferred their funds during the time of the Jacobin revolution. So we had enough money to take up residence in a modest English cottage in the town of Rockridge, off the southern coast of England. Life there was not unpleasant, but my mother never really recovered from my father’s death. She died after four years in England. I was twenty years of age, and my sister was twenty-two years. The empiricists tell us that there is no such thing as a broken heart; therefore, it is impossible to die from a broken heart. But the empiricists don’t know anything. My mother died of a broken heart. And I would have died with her, except for the fact that I had some business to attend to. But more about that later.
The main reason my mother took the house on the coast of England was because of my uncle. He always anchored his ship in port and came to see us often. It was on one such visit, six months after the death of my mother, when my uncle told me of some unfinished business of his own.
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Brian: How has Evelyn been since your mother’s death?
Peter: At first I didn’t think she would live through it, but she seems to be returning to some kind of normal life now. It helps that we have made some friends here in Rockridge and have also been in contact with some other French exiles.
Brian: And how are you, Peter?
Peter: I won’t die from sorrow. I won’t die from anything until I’ve had their hearts’ blood.
Brian: What do you mean, Peter? The men directly responsible for your father’s death and for your mother’s death from grief are all dead. You saw Father Genevesse and Jacques Bauché die the same night your father was murdered.
Peter: There were others. Since I’ve been in England I’ve been reading about this thing they call the French Revolution. Have you ever heard of a man named Edmund Burke?
Brian: Yes, of course, I’ve met him and consider him my friend.
Peter: You know Burke! What is he like? I must tell you that I love him; he seems so noble. And he hates the French Jacobins. He calls them regicides.
Brian: And so they are. As for Burke the man, he is everything he seems to be in his writings. He is the soul of honour.
Peter: He talks of war with the regicide French. I want to join him, Uncle.
Brian: Now wait, Peter. Mr. Burke writes like Shakespeare – his words cut right to a man’s heart because he writes from the heart. But I fear not even Burke’s eloquence can inspire a nation to restore another nation’s monarchy and to punish another nation’s criminals. I’ve read Mr. Burke’s letters against the regicide French – he is right in everything he says – but I’m afraid the English will not fight the regicides.
Peter: Then I will fight them, Uncle. There is something burning inside of me that I must give way to. My passion for their blood is not something that can be denied.
Brian: But whose blood, Peter? You can’t kill all the Jacobins.
Peter: Before I answer that, Uncle, I want you to tell me what your business in France is. You know if you’re identified as an aristocrat you’ll be killed, and yet you tell me you have business in France. So I ask you — what is your business there?
Brian: I go on family business. I’m going to France to kill the men responsible for sending my brother Robert, my parents, and your mother’s parents, to the guillotine.
Peter: Then, with all due respect, Uncle, how can you deny me the right to go to France and fight the Jacobins?
Brian: First, because you are my brother’s son. And since his death you have become my son. Second, you haven’t any idea of who you are going to kill. You just want to kill Jacobins. My trip to France is an affair of honour. I don’t expect to wipe out Jacobinism in France by what I do. But if each Frenchman would take care of his family honour, Jacobinism would soon be destroyed. I can’t make other Frenchmen be Frenchmen instead of weasels. I can only do what I must do. And what I must do does not include risking the life of my brother’s only son.
Peter: But as my father’s only son, don’t I have the same right as you to avenge the murder of my grandparents and my uncle?
Brian: We won’t discuss this anymore. You are not coming to France, it’s that simple. I want no more talk of such nonsense.
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There was more talk, not that day, but in the weeks that followed. I was respectful but persistent with my uncle, and in the end I won out. Not because my uncle was weak-willed, but because blood spoke to blood. In his heart, he knew that I had a blood right to go with him.
Certain conditions were imposed upon me though. I was to obey my uncle’s orders implicitly, and the scope of our killings was not to extend beyond those who were involved in the executions of the Delaines. This wasn’t because my uncle was indifferent to the fate of the rest of his countrymen – far from it – it was because my uncle knew that he could not single-handedly wipe out Jacobinism in France.
A few days before our departure for France, my uncle obtained for me an interview with Edmund Burke. The interview remains, to this day, the greatest honour of my life. I remember every word the incomparable Burke spoke to me as if it were yesterday. He was in retirement at the time of our meeting yet still not retired. A man like Burke never retires. His letters against the regicide French were still a source of hope for all of Christian Europe and a thorn in the side of the enemies of Christian Europe.
Burke’s estate was rather humble, like the man himself. He welcomed me to his home as if I was doing him the honour.
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Edmund Burke: You’ve had more than your share of sorrow for a man so young.
Peter: No more than many others who had the misfortune to live in the age of the Jacobins.
Burke: Yes, these are terrible times. It seems that we are spending the unbought grace of life like profligate sailors on a drunken shore leave.
Peter: “The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that charity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness.”
Burke: You’ve quoted Burke better than Burke could. And with such feeling. Truly we are kindred spirits, young man.
Peter: Yes, that is the way I feel. We are kindred spirits.
Burke: Kindred spirits despite our difference in age and nationality. But there are two things the aged Burke must tell the young Peter Delaine. First, this enterprise you plan to share with your uncle is noble, but I think it might have a better chance of success if your uncle would make a few changes in his plans. We’ll talk about that later when your uncle joins us.
There remains one thing more I want to say to you alone, Peter. No man ever formed a loving attachment to a system of religion or to a system of government. All of our affections begin with our families and extend to our local neighborhoods and then to our country. Man is a provincial creature. So long as he stays provincial in his affections a man will not go too far astray from what is right. Do you understand what I am saying?
Peter: Yes, I think I do. You bid me stay faithful to my family and my people.
Burke: Yes, and by that fidelity to your people you’ll stay faithful to the God of your people, not to a system of theology but to a living God, Jesus Christ.
Peter: I won’t forget what you have told me.
Burke: It strikes me that you and your uncle have seen the ultimate future of Jacobinism. Such ignoble, inhuman ideologies as Jacobinism always come to a country violently, preceded by high-sounding words like liberty, equality, and fraternity, and always end in a bloodbath. A perfect equality is never possible. Some are always more equal. A select group of people become “the people,” and everyone else must either serve the people or be exterminated by the people. In the end, if Jacobinism is not stopped, the only truly authentic people will be the negroes. The Jacobins will bid us fall down and worship the negro.
Brian [entering the room]: When that day comes, the world will still see the Delaines standing upright and in defiance.
Burke: I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.
Brian: No, I’m sorry for barging in. But we must be off. We have some final preparations to make.
Peter: Uncle, Mr. Burke had a suggestion before we embark.
Burke: Yes, I do. I was thinking it might be better if you traveled through France as Englishmen rather than as Frenchmen. As Frenchmen you would fall under suspicion almost immediately. Try as you might to conceal it, your aristocratic breeding would come out, and you would then face the guillotine. But traveling as Englishmen — and I could send two English friends with you to make your Englishness all the more authentic — you will be more likely to accomplish your mission and come safely back to England.
Brian: What you say makes sense. But could you find such men? We need to leave almost immediately.
Burke: Two such men can be ready within the hour; I’ve already broached the subject to them.
Brian: Let me meet them. If they are willing, we’ll follow your advice.
Burke: Good. Now, my two kindred spirits, let us embrace, hopefully not for the last time.
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How can I describe those four months in France? It was part idyll, part nightmare, and finally a triumph of honour.
There is nothing, except possibly that first love, which can compare with a young man’s first foray onto the battlefield of honour. My two English friends were closer to my age than to my uncle’s age. They were twenty-two-year-old Edmund Drake, a direct descendant of Sir Francis, and the twenty-four-year-old Jonathan Stone. Both men came from noble families and were accompanying us because they believed in that charity of honour that Mr. Burke wrote about. Just as my uncle and I felt a stain upon our honour because of the unavenged murders of our kinsmen, so did our two English brothers feel compelled to aid us so that no stain could be attached to their honour for a failure to aid their fellow aristocrats in their time of need.
The first two months of our time in France was spent largely in the provinces, planning and gathering information. I never completely forgot the bloody, serious venture I had committed myself to, but there were many moments, whole weeks in fact, when I really felt like an Englishman traveling with my boon companions through picturesque France. Away from Paris and the other major cities, life seemed the same in France as it must have been before the Revolution. But of course this was all an illusion. As you got closer to the towns, you could see, feel, and smell the presence of a malignant power, the power of the Jacobins. At such moments we were so grateful to Mr. Burke. We never could have survived, disguised as French peasants. As it was, Edmund and Jonathan did all the talking to the French, because their French was with an English accent. They gave out that we, my uncle and I, spoke only English, thus sparing us the necessity of speaking perfect French and revealing ourselves as Frenchmen. Upon prior arrangement, before we even entered France we had all agreed to speak English even when we were alone together, in case some busybody might overhear my uncle and me speaking French.
Very soon, my uncle discovered who it was that had to be held to account, but it would not be so easy to confront the murderer because he was very high up in the Jacobin hierarchy. His name was Andre Pavolin, and before the Revolution he had been a wine merchant. As such he frequently came in contact with many of the aristocratic families. He was quite the hail fellow, well met, in those days. But after the Revolution he got a position in the Jacobin government and delighted in sending whole families of aristocrats, whom he had fawned over when a wine merchant, to the guillotine. Among those he sent to the guillotine were my grandparents and my uncle Robert, the oldest son who had stayed in France.
My grandparents on my father’s side were not unknown to me. They had visited us many times in our plantation in Saint-Domingue. My uncle Robert and I had never met. His wife went to the guillotine with him, and his children were murdered the night the Jacobins came for their parents. As I saw up close the evil wrought by the Jacobins, I thought of Burke’s words: “The revolution harpies of France, sprung from night and hell, or from that chaotic anarchy, which generates equivocally ‘all monstrous all prodigious things,’ cuckoo-like, adulterously lay their eggs, and brood over, and hatch them in the nest of every neighbouring state.”
Truly the Jacobins sprang from hell. And the worst of it is that the female Jacobins, the harpies, were the worst of all. Pavolin’s wife, for instance, always dipped a handkerchief in the blood of the aristocrats denounced by her husband, and when she “entertained” she would put the bloody handkerchiefs on display. “This is the blood of Mademoiselle ________ and this is the blood of Monsieur _________.” Surely Tennyson was right when he said, “the difference between a man and a man is the difference between heaven and earth, but the difference between a woman and a woman is the difference between heaven and hell.”
And where did Citizeness Pavolin display her handkerchiefs? In her landed estate, the same estate that once belonged to my grandparents. What’s that you say? You thought all was equal in the new regime of the Jacobins? Far from it! Some, the upper echelon of Jacobins, were decidedly more equal than others. Those who attempt to level all mankind to a state of perfect equality are in reality tyrants who want to rule mankind in the name of an abstract, mythical equality. This I learned from Burke and my own observations of the French Jacobins in action.
The rather pleasant idyll in the French countryside came to an end as we neared Paris. As the day of reckoning approached, we all became more serious and tight-lipped. Even Edmund, who was always ready with a jest, said very little. And then came the confrontation for which we had so carefully planned.
My uncle knew the house; he had grown up in it, and he knew where Monsieur and Madame Pavolin slept. What concerned my uncle were the servants. He didn’t want to kill any servants that were not Jacobins, but as it turned out, when my uncle investigated the backgrounds of Pavolin’s people he discovered that they all were Jacobins. The servants that had stayed loyal to my grandparents had been either killed or cast out into the streets to fend for themselves. So it was understood by all of us that whomever tried to come between us and the Pavolins would die. As it turned out, the paid lackeys had very little stomach for a fight. Edmund killed one servant who tried to run him through with a sword, and I killed another who tried to defend his master, but after those two met their deaths, the rest of the household staff allowed themselves to be herded into the dining room under the guard of Edmund and Jonathan.
How did it feel to kill a man? You must remember that sudden violent death was something that I had seen before on that fateful night in Saint-Domingue. Did it make a difference to me that now I was the one who had issued the death sentence? Not morally. I knew that I had come to France to kill Jacobins so I had no pangs of conscience about the man I killed. It did sicken me though. Just because I knew the killing was a necessity did not mean I received any pleasure from it.
With the potential resistance captured and confined, my uncle and I proceeded to the bedroom of the Pavolins. What were their dreams that night? Did they have a foreboding that something was afoot? Or did they sleep content and happy in their new found wealth and their positions within the Jacobin government? I do not know. How can anyone know such things?
We tied Madame Pavolin to the bedpost, and Brian told her husband to get his sword.
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Brian: You will have much more of a chance to live than my parents had. If you kill me your wife and you will remain alive.
Pavolin: How do I know your nephew will honour your promise?
Brian: My nephew is a Delaine; he is an aristocrat and his honour is without stain.
Pavolin [with a sneer]: Then die, Brian Delaine.
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The fight did not last long. My uncle ran him through within three minutes. I think Pavolin thought he would win, because he began the fight with a supremely confident look on his face that soon gave way to panic and despair. He never spoke again after his final sneering boast.
As for Madame Pavolin? We did not abuse or molest her as so many of the aristocratic women had been molested and abused before their executions, but we did execute her. We used the wine cellar as an execution chamber, and hung her from the rafters. The servants and staff were bound and locked in the wine cellar with the corpse of Madame Pavolin. My uncle thought that one and all, after they extricated themselves from their bonds, would get good and drunk and give us at least 24 hours to escape from France. He was right. We arrived in England twenty-four hours later, undetected by the Jacobin forces.
One week after our return, my uncle and I went to see Mr. Burke. I waited in the outer room while my uncle talked with him. After an hour or so my uncle came out from his conference with Burke.
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Brian: He’s quite ill, Peter, and I’m afraid death is not far away, but he wants so much to speak to you. Don’t be embarrassed to speak to him. Sick or well, he is still the unconquerable Burke. His concern is for his countrymen and his kind, the Europeans. Go speak with him; I’ll wait here for you. And remember, quite probably you’ll be speaking for the last time to one of the greatest men Europe has ever known.
[I went into the sickroom. Burke was seated in a chair. The illness was quite evident on Burke’s thin, pale face and in his wasted frame, but my uncle was right: he was still the unconquerable Burke.]
Edmund Burke: Take a seat, my young friend, and forgive me if I do not get up to greet you. My illness dictates that I sit rather than stand.
Peter: I’m sorry to find you so ill, Mr. Burke.
Burke: It’s nothing, Peter. Simply the normal ills of old age. I’d prefer to die standing up, in actual battle with the Jacobins, but I’ll have to content myself with the metaphysical battle. You are one of my greatest consolations, Peter. My death will be easier knowing that at least one faithful heart – and your uncle is another – truly understands what the Jacobins are and vows to spend his life fighting them.
Peter: I hope that my life will prove worthy of your confidence.
Burke: I know it will, Peter. Once a man, a real man, has seen the true beauty – and all true beauty is moral beauty – of a Europe consecrated to Christ, he will never accept the new Jacobin Europe.
Peter: It seems that the Jacobin influence is spreading throughout Europe. Everything you warned us about is coming true. We, the white Europeans, have spent the unbought grace of life and have replaced that grace with liberalism.
Burke: Yes, that’s all too true, Peter. Even Britain has succumbed. I believe that Britain, since our glorious revolution, has been the foremost Christian nation of Europe. If not for Britain, the exiles of your own nation would have had no place to go. But ideological Jacobinism, which I call liberalism, has engulfed Britain as well as France. We’re moving slower than the French; the innate conservatism of the British people will not be easily defeated, but we are definitely moving toward a liberal state that is opposed to Christianity. When that finally happens with the appearance of a liberal theocracy in France, Britain, and the rest of Europe, only a remnant of Europeans will remain faithful to my Britain and my Europe, both of which were consecrated to our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Every European is bound by ties of blood and faith to oppose the liberals’ Europe and support His Europe.
You will face many temptations in your life, Peter. There will be the usual pagan temptations, which I need not delineate; we are all quite aware of them. But your greatest temptation will be the temptation to minimize the evil of liberalism because you want to go peacefully through the world. ‘It’s not that bad and a man must live,’ you will say to yourself at some point in your life. That is the time when you must go deep into your heart and feel what your ancestors felt. The devil is a liberal, and you can have nothing to do with the devil or his minions. Lest you be tempted to soften toward your own nation, for instance, always remember that those who are governing now, even though they finally deposed Robespierre, are still the same men who voted to kill your king.
Peter: With God as my witness and as I hope for my salvation, I shall never make peace in my heart with the liberals.
Burke: God bless you, Peter. It will not be easy, but I know you shall prevail. You have a great capacity for love and a great capacity for hate, a hate for those who hurt or threaten those you love. Never believe pious hypocrites, whose faith is paper thin, when they tell you not to hate. A man who does not hate where he should hate will be unable to love where he should love.
Peter: I understand.
Burke: I believe you do understand, Peter. Now let me tell you one last thing. Never trust institutions; trust the spirit behind the institutions. All churches, all governments, at least the European governments and the European churches, were created to serve our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, who can be known by every man who has a heart to listen to His words of salvation. Never abandon that Christ, the simple Christ of the Gospels, and you will never be ultimately overcome even if the whole world caves in to liberalism. Now, before you go, let me pray with you.
[The unconquerable Burke rose from his chair and stood up so that he could kneel.]
Burke: Holy Father, in all things bless this young man and help him to withstand the devilish forces arrayed against him. As he grows in years, help him to come to know, in his heart, the love of Him whose love passeth the understanding of the intellect. And may that love sustain him in this world and the world to come. In Christ’s name, Amen.
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That was the last time I saw and spoke to Edmund Burke in this world, but he has always been with me throughout what has turned out to be a very long life. How well have I kept my pledge to Burke? Well, there have been stains on my honour, but a man must be truthful even if the truth tends to show him in a good light. Though I stumbled often I never ultimately succumbed to the liberal demons of the new Europe. And it is my hope that at some time the Delaine blood will renew itself in the person of my namesake, my great grandson, Peter Delaine, to whom I have willed this document. My son died faithful and true to Christ and Christ’s Europe. My grandson went over to the liberals. One can only bear witness with one’s life. If no one, not even those of the same blood, care to listen to my witness or follow in my footsteps, well, — there is free will. I hope Peter Delaine becomes a Delaine, but I at least will follow my Father, Mother, Sister, Son, Uncle, and Edmund Burke to the grave, having fought the good fight, despite my many imperfections, until the end.
-END OF THE MANUSCRIPT-
Footnote: My great-grandfather died six years after writing that family memoir. He was 101 years of age, and I was seven, when he died. I didn’t read the manuscript until I was eighteen.
After I finished reading Peter’s great-grandfather’s account of his family’s suffering at the hands of the Jesuit priest and the black Jacobins, I got a call to a sick bed, so I left a note for Peter saying that I would meet him in my study on the following night, providing something unexpected did not come up.
Peter was waiting for me the next evening; I had given instructions to admit him to the study whether I was there or not. After a few polite niceties, Peter came to the point.
“Did you read the manuscript?”
“Yes, I did. It was profoundly moving and very interesting. If I may be so bold, what was the rest of your great-grandfather’s life like? Was it as eventful as his early life, or did he manage to settle down somewhere?”
“He married a French émigrée when he was twenty-six. He never returned to Haiti, but he did fight the Jacobins, spiritually and actually the rest of his life.”
“In what way?”
“Well, he never was able to raise an army of French émigrés and restore the monarchy, but he did fight many duels, always with the Jacobins who fashioned themselves the new royalty. He did what he could, but he never thought it was enough.”
“And his children?”
“He had four daughters and one son. His son and his daughters remained true to eternal France and absolutely opposed to Jacobin France. They never flew the tricolour flag.”
“What about his grandson, your father?”
“Ah, that was another matter. My father, despite his heritage, grew up neutral. He took the line of, ‘I don’t approve of the excesses of the French revolution, but after all it was necessary.’ Naturally that did not set well with my grandfather or my great-grandfather, and because of his views, my father was estranged from them. They seldom had contact. I, having had virtually no contact with the anti-Jacobin faction of my family, grew up a thorough-going French liberal. Which is why I entered the priesthood; I wanted to serve Christ by spreading liberalism, which I thought was the gospel for modern man. It was when I saw liberalism close up from within the church that I started to listen to my great-grandfather, through his manuscript. At his death my great-grandfather willed me the manuscript you have just read, because his son was dead and he knew that his grandson was against him. I don’t hate my father, but I now know he was wrong. Liberalism is from the devil, and we can never compromise with it.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that point; Burke has always been a writer dear to my heart. Your ancestors certainly seem to have been at the forefront of the battle against the Jacobins. What happened to your great-great-uncle, the man your great-grandfather called the hero of the family tragedy?”
“He married an Englishwoman and settled in Sussex. I don’t think Baroness Orczy knew of my uncle, but her book The Scarlet Pimpernel certainly captured the spirit and adventurous life of Brain Delaine. While the terror was still going on, he made many forays back into France to rescue aristocrats. Like the Scarlet Pimpernel he kept his identity secret. Unlike the Scarlet Pimpernel he had no songs written about him, but amongst the French émigré population in England he was called the scourge of Jacobinism. He never reconciled with the French government, not under Napoleon nor the Republic. My uncle, a descendant of Brain Delaine, told me that whenever the topic of reconciliation came up Brain Delaine simply stated, ‘They are all regicides; I will never make peace with them.’ And he never did.
“He lived the rest of his life in England?”
“Yes, except for his rescue missions to France and two or three trips to Haiti.”
“Why Haiti? What was there left for him to do?”
“My uncle never gave me any details about those trips. All he said was that his great-grandfather’s excursions to Haiti were for rescue and punitive purposes. So I can only assume that the family sword was unsheathed again on those missions.”
“Children, did he have children?”
“Yes, he did, and he was blessed with many years. There seems to be a longevity gene in the Delaine family.”
“Where does this family history figure in your life, Peter?”
“It’s hard to put into words… I suppose it all comes down to what Edmund Burke called that ‘charity of honour.’ I feel I violated the charity of honour by being loyal to a universalist idea rather than to my family and my blood. I’d like, in some small way, to atone, if not completely then at least partially for my sin against that charity of honour.”
“Atonement is primarily something that takes place within a man’s heart, Peter. You seem to have made a heartfelt atonement for your Jacobin sympathies. What else do you think it necessary to do? We must be prepared to forgive ourselves when forgiveness is warranted.”
“What you say is all quite true. But in my case, there is a point of family honour that must be taken care of. My great-grandfather and Burke have made me see that if family honour is not placed first, then honour has to be abandoned. A man who betrays his family will betray his clan and his nation.”
“Then you have something in mind that you must do? Something involving your family honour?”
“Yes.”
So Peter finally came to his main purpose for seeking me out. He needed my help to remove what he felt was a stain on his honour. What I am about to relate will seem quite incredible to 20th century readers, but the march of progress is a mirage; we are still the same morally, struggling for salvation against the wickedness and snares of the devil. The pity of the modern man is that he no longer believes in the wickedness and snares of the devil or in the devil’s Divine Antagonist, Jesus Christ. Peter Delaine believed in both, and he wanted my help against the devil and his minions, fighting them in the name of Christ.
Everything went back to that fateful night of almost two-hundred years ago when Peter’s great, great grandfather was murdered by Jacques Bauché. If you recall, Bauché was killed on that same night by Brain Delaine. And you’ll also recall that Brian Delaine made several trips back to Saint-Domingue after that fateful night for punitive and charitable purposes. It seems incredible, but it is quite true, that Brain Delaine did whatever he could to rescue the few remaining whites in Saint-Domingue and to punish as many leaders of the negro rebellions as he could lay his hands on. Several prominent, newly crowned negro tyrants of blood were found strangled in their beds or lying dead in their mansions with a bullet between their eyes. And many a white captive found themselves released from the sacrificial altars at the last minute by Brain Delaine. He was feared as the great avenger of his people. And long after his death the name of Brian Delaine survived in the voodoo cults of Haiti as the great white devil who could still reach out his arm and destroy black men. Voodoo priests invoked his name to put curses on other blacks. If a man suddenly took sick who was an enemy of one of the witch doctors it was supposed to be because the witch doctor removed his protective shield of black magic from the victim and allowed the spirit of Brain Delaine to claim another victim. It was steadfastly believed throughout the black community in Haiti that the witch doctors were the only men standing between the blacks and the vengeance of Brian Delaine.
A black Roman Catholic priest, a Haitian who blended voodoo and Catholicism, decided to put an end to what he felt was a morbid fear among his people of the ghost of Brain Delaine. He was opposed by many of the witch doctors because they needed Brian Delaine. They wanted to be looked on as the only ones powerful enough to keep the ghost of Brian Delaine from harming the blacks of Haiti. And the witch doctors were the most powerful group of men in Haiti. But the black Catholic voodoo priest had two things in his favor. First, he could get help from other European priests, and second, he was a direct descendant of Jacques Bauché, whose martyred name was also a power in Haiti.
So Father Jacque Bauché – he was named for his famous ancestor – went to France to obtain support for his scheme. And he got it from two French Jesuits. In the name of whatever pig god they worshipped — it was most certainly not Christ – they agreed to help Jacques Bauché accomplish his bloody mission.
Peter learned of Bauché’s trip to France and his visit with two Roman Catholic priests from a friend of his who was familiar with Peter’s family history. When Peter investigated, he discovered a truly hideous plot aimed at a direct descendant of Brian Delaine.
I’ve never felt the slightest inclination to go over to Rome. The inhumanity of Roman universalism has always filled me with horror. Nevertheless I still regarded the Protestant minister and the Roman Catholic priest as serving in the same corps as myself. So it was particularly sad for me to see two of my co-religionists go over, so blatantly, to Satan. When all is laid bare on that final day of judgment, I suspect we will see that the fateful separation was the heart from the head. Once a man makes an intellectual system of the Christian faith and makes his own mind the final arbiter of all things Christian, he is fit for the foulest and blackest treasons and stratagems imaginable. Father Ormand and Father Lejune were willing to betray their race because they had already abstracted the living God into a mind-forged system of their own invention. In their minds everything that had the stink of humanity, from Christ, to their own people, was hateful and deserving of death.
The two apostate priests had helped Father Bauché identify an English girl who was a direct descendant of Brain Delaine. You’ll remember that Brain Delaine married an Englishwoman. Well, Father Ormand and Father Lejune traced the line of Brain Delaine all the way to Susan Bradley. Susan was 18 years old, living with her parents in London. All three were members of my parish. Why didn’t Jacques Bauché and the two Jesuits want the mother? After all, she too was a direct descendant of Brain Delaine. The answer turned out to be quite simple. The twisted priests and their cohorts wanted a virgin for the blood ritual of vengeance.
I don’t think any of the three priests, not even Jacques Bauché, believed in the efficacy of virgin sacrifice, but Jacques Bauché’s Haitian followers believed in it. And that is why he brought six followers along with him. He needed them to witness the sacrifice and tell other Haitians what they had witnessed. Without their witness, Bauché could not prove that he had removed the curse of Brain Delaine.
Jacques Bauché would become the most feared witch doctor in Haiti after he murdered Susan Bradley, but what did Father Lejune and Father Ormand stand to gain by their participation in such a heinous crime? It’s hard to say why a man turns to Satan, but there is something that I’ve observed in the modern Europeans, particularly in apostate clergymen, that might go a long way toward explaining the actions of Father Lejune and Father Ormand.
When a man has only an intellectual knowledge of the Christian faith and no affection for the person of Christ, he tends to resent God. He looks on God as the law giver only, and a rather harsh law giver at that. He then creates another God, an abstract God, who will do his will. Neither Ormand nor Lejune ever really knew Christ; hence, they were open, I believe, to any deviation from Christianity that promised them some relief from the spiritual ennui that always engulfs the post-Christian European. And what is the antidote for the spiritual ennui of the post-Christian European? Some things never change; it is sex and blood. Ormand and Lejune fantasized about killing Susan Bradley and then having sex with Bauché’s henchmen.
Bauché’s beliefs were somewhat different than the two European priests. He didn’t believe that the slaughter of Susan Bradley would remove the curse of Brian Delaine, because he didn’t believe in the curse of Brian Delaine. But he did believe in the major tenets of the Christian faith, and he hated those tenets. His hero was Satan in whom he believed with absolute certainty.
So these three priests and the six negro devotees of the voodoo gods of Haiti landed on English shores to slaughter Susan Bradley. Peter had done his homework well. He knew everything about the plans of the three priests. They were to arrive on June 3rd, a Wednesday, and two days after that they planned to kidnap Susan Bradley on the way home from the dress shop where she worked. The kidnapping had to be done by Fathers Lejune and Ormand because the section of London were Susan lived had no negroes in its precincts. Their presence would arouse suspicion, whereas Fathers Lejune and Ormand, dressed as working class Englishmen, would not arouse any suspicion. After they made Susan a prisoner, the two priests planned to drive her to the outskirts of a small town, Taven, on the southern coast of England. There, on the desolate cliffs overlooking the sea, they planned to kill Susan in a ritual that combined the elements of a black mass and the voodoo rites of the Haitian witch doctors.
Peter wanted me to help him contact Susan and her parents in order to warn them of the danger Susan was in. He thought they would only believe such an incredible story if their own pastor could attest to its truth. And frankly I wasn’t sure I could convince the Bradleys of the truth of Peter Delaine’s story. From the perspective of a lower middle class English family of the 1930’s, the whole affair seemed much too fantastical. But the parents and Susan did believe in the fantastical tale of Christ’s death on the cross and resurrection from the dead, so why, believing that, would they doubt that the battle against principalities and powers, that Christ’s servant Paul warned us of, could come upon us in any form and at any time?
Since Peter’s great-grandfather and namesake set the stage for this story with his narrative that went from narrative to theater, why should I not avail myself of the same means to an end? Let me set the stage. Picture a lower middle class English living room, at 10:30 pm. Susan’s father, a tall lean man with kind eyes and an athletic bearing no doubt maintained by keeping his appointed rounds as a postman, sat in his chair near the family hearth. Susan’s ten-year-old brother Donald was already in bed asleep. Susan’s mother, Mrs. Bradley, attractive for her age, but slightly overweight, sat next to her husband. She knew of her famous ancestor, Brian Delaine, but she did not have the intimate knowledge of that branch of her family that Peter had. Once Peter informed the Bradleys of the complete details of the Delaine family history, and I vouched for Peter, the Bradleys readily believed the truth. And of course Susan Bradley was present, sitting with her parents, in the full bloom of womanhood, more than attractive, quite beautiful. The curtain rises on the stage at 11 pm after all three learned the truth from us and believed it.
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Mr. Bradley: I’m certainly not going to stand by and see my daughter killed by those Satanists, and that’s what they are. I’ll kill them all myself if I have to.
Mrs. Bradley: But will that be necessary, Edward? Can’t we turn them all over to Scotland Yard? What do you think, Reverend Grey?
Reverend Grey: We could tell Scotland Yard about this, but I would be very worried about relying on Scotland Yard. The police are essentially reactive. They prevent crime by catching murderers after they have murdered. Their speedy apprehension of murderers is a deterrent to other murders, but I want Susan to live to a ripe old age, and I don’t want her to be a case for Scotland Yard to solve.
Mr. Bradley: Nor do I, but what do you suggest, Reverend? And may I be quite blunt? You are not a man of action. I mean no disrespect, but if these men intend what you say they intend, I don’t know that either an Anglican minister or a Roman Catholic priest is the man to stop them.
Peter: I have no intention of allowing the Reverent Grey to become involved. It is my honour that has been stained, and it is my kinswoman who is in jeopardy. As God is my witness, these men shall not touch Susan.
Mrs. Bradley: I’m sure you have honourable intentions, Father, but the fact remains that we only trust you because Reverend Grey trusts you. How can we entrust the life of our daughter to you?
Mr. Bradley: Or to you, Reverend Grey?
Susan: May I say something? After all I’m not a disinterested party in this affair.
Mr. Bradley: Of course you may.
Susan: Well then, I have this to say: Reverend Grey baptized me, he confirmed me, and I received my first communion from him. He has come to our house as a guest more times than I can count, and he has also visited this house when little Donald, myself, or you, Papa, and you, Mother, were sick. I’ll never forget when I had the fever four years ago. He sat with me all through the day and into the night. I went to sleep with the words of the Gospel resonating through my room. The way the Reverend Grey read the Gospel to me that night was… Well, it was as if I had heard the words of our Lord for the first time. I can’t describe the comfort I got from those words read by a…
Rev. Grey: No, Susan…
Susan: Yes, Reverend, I mean it – a saint. Whatever he advises, I will do. Don’t you see, Mother? Don’t you see, Father? We can trust this man in everything.
Mrs. Bradley: But Susan, you’re young! Just because a man is good does not mean he is competent in every aspect of life. Your father and I are not questioning Reverend Grey’s goodness, we are questioning his competence…
Mr. Bradley: Your mother is right, Susan. This matter is not something that should be left to the Reverend.
Susan: But I’m content to leave it to him.
Rev. Grey: Perhaps I didn’t express myself clearly. If you leave this matter to me and Father Delaine, you are not putting Susan into our hands alone. I have many friends, in all walks of life. What I am asking you to do, for Susan’s sake, is to trust me to get the help necessary to free Susan from those fiends, not just for one night, but forever.
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There was much more said that night, but ultimately Susan’s trust in me prevailed.
Everything was left to Father Delaine and me. Peter contacted Bauché, Lejune, and Ormand and convinced them that no kidnapping was necessary; he would deliver Susan into their hands. It wasn’t difficult for him to convince the three priests that he would betray his kinswoman, since they were the type of men that would betray their own. The fateful meeting took place on the cliffs of Taven. It seemed as if we were all upon the heath where Macbeth met with the weird sisters. Father Ormand and Father Lejune were present in their priestly garb. Bauché was in the garb of a voodoo priest, and his six followers were also dressed in the ceremonial attire of voodoo devotees. Father Delaine appeared to be alone, leading Susan Bradley, who was clothed in a white bridal gown. I, for reasons which will become clear later, was not visibly present.
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Jacques Bauché: Have you brought the victim?
Peter Delaine: Yes, she is drugged and barely conscious.
Father Ormand: Why have you brought her? Why didn’t you have us take her?
Peter Delaine: Because I don’t believe the guilt of the white man, particularly the guilt of my ancestors, can ever be remitted except by blood. I offer up my kinswoman in atonement for the sins of white men against the black.
Father Lejune: Yes, this sacrifice is only the beginning. What we do here tonight is holy, but the work must not stop here, it must go on until the world is purged of the white race.
Peter Delaine: What you speak is God’s truth. The work must continue after tonight.
Jacques Bauché: Bind her to the altar, and we shall begin the ceremony.
I’ll not describe the blasphemy that Lejune, Ormand, and Bauché called a ceremony. Suffice it to say that the ceremony came to a halt moments before the sacrifice.
Ghost [rising from behind the altar]: Stop, this shall not go on!
Father Ormand: Who are you? [turning to the six negroes] Kill him! [they stand transfixed]
Ghost: I am Brian Delaine. You shall not defile my Faith or touch one hair of my kinswoman! [in one motion, he cuts the victim loose freeing her and heaves the heavy stone altar onto Jacques Bauché, killing him instantly]
Father Lejune: What have you done?
Father Ormand [addressing the frightened blacks]: If you won’t kill him, I will! [He raises a revolver from under his cassock, but as suddenly as he raises the revolver he falls face down. He is dead. Father Lejune runs to his fallen comrade, but he also suddenly pitches forward. He too is dead.]
Ghost [turning to the six blacks and pointing to their boat]: Go, that boat will take you to the ship Jacques Bauché hired. Return to Haiti and never seek the blood of my people, or I’ll have your blood! Take their bodies with you and bury them at sea. This is my command. [The six negroes do as they are commanded.]
Jonathan Talbot [emerging from the rocks above]: They’re gone, Chris. That was a pretty impressive display of strength.
Rev. Christopher Grey [emerging from the ghost’s shroud]: My childhood heroes were strongmen. Lifting heavy weights has always been a hobby of mine. Brain Delaine was supposed to have been quite strong, so I thought I could lend authenticity to my performance by lifting that stone altar. And I must thank you for shooting straight.
Jonathan Talbot: My task was easy. How do you feel, Miss Bradley?
Susan: I just want to go home. This is not something you forget.
Peter Delaine: Don’t forget it, Susan. Remember it your entire life, but remember it as the night your God delivered you from evil.
Susan: I will, Father.
Peter Delaine: No, Susan, I’m your kinsman. To you, I’m Peter. [They embrace.]
Rev. Grey: It’s a pity we’re not in France.
Peter Delaine: Why, Christopher?
Rev. Grey: Because then I could say the lines.
Peter Delaine: I still don’t follow you.
Jonathan: I do. Say them anyway. We’re close enough to France, and the lines fit.
Rev. Grey: “And then to Calais; and to England then, Where ne’er from France arriv’d more happy men.”
Susan: May one happy woman say, ‘amen’?
Rev. Grey: Yes.
Susan: Amen.
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At the time I’m writing this remembrance, Peter is still alive. He stayed in England after his encounter with the descendant of the hated Jacques Bauché. For 12 years he taught in a small college in Sussex by the sea, claiming the sea was in his blood.
Peter taught history and taught it as no one else could. History in Peter’s hand was a living, breathing entity. Through his passion for the truth behind historical events, Peter made his students see that the abstract principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity, abstracted from the minds of evil men bent on destroying what Burke called the unbought grace of life, were evil. Nor did Peter shrink from pointing out the logical consequences, as his great-grandfather saw in Haiti, of the implementation of the godless principles of the Jacobins. Negro savagery unleashed was the logical consequence, the higher culture subjected to the lowest of all cultures and everything good in Old Europe torn down and spit upon.
Peter did not spare Britain when he warned of the spreading influence of Jacobinism. “The old French aristocrats had a country to flee to. Where will Europeans go when Britain becomes a refuge for colored heathens?” Because of his honesty and his ability to influence his students for the good, Peter was dismissed after 12 years of teaching. He still lives in Sussex by the sea and teaches almost as many students on an informal basis at his home as he once did on a formal basis at the college.
Peter always visits me at the Christmas season, which seems particularly appropriate because it is during the Christmas season that we all feel, the most acutely, those ties of blood and kinship that bind us to each other and to our Lord. Peter returned to his God through those ties of blood and kinship, and I love and honour him for his spiritual journey. His is a great heart. In a few days, I’ll be seeing him again, and together we will celebrate the birthday of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, who shall always be the King of provincial, kith-and-kin Europe. As my kinsman wrote, “Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in.”
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
-Wm. Shakespeare
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Just a few nights ago I saw what has become a very rare sight in this brave new racially diverse world of ours. I saw a white soloist, with an all white chorus, singing traditional Christmas carols to an all white audience. It was a wonderful sight. When I was growing up I took such wonderful sights for granted. But for the last thirty years or so I have not taken such events as an all-white Christmas celebration for granted, for the simple reason that the liberal oligarchy in charge of my nation does not want anything that is exclusively white to exist.
Diversity and inclusion are the god words of the liberals. When they utter those sacred words, we are all supposed to fall down on our faces and worship the nearest colored person. But who is being served by such slavish worship? Certainly not the white man who used to live in a racially segregated world where the God-Man, not the colored man, was worshipped. Nor are the colored people being served by inclusion and diversity. If there is no one to light the lamps, how can the barbarians of color find their way out of the darkness?
Inclusion and diversity are code words which mean the destruction of the white race. Every time I see an all-white celebration of Christmas, or see a painting or read a novel from the European past, I feel, along with my love for the particular European art work, a hatred for the liberals who want to destroy everything from the white Christian culture that sustains us all. Never believe the lie that European culture can be sustained without the survival of the white race who created that culture. Our skin color is part of our soul, and individual human souls cannot be transposed into the bodies of other humans by saying the magic words of diversity and inclusion. The liberals themselves could not live in a non-European world, but they are possessed by a satanic hatred of Christ, so like their Jacobin predecessors they attack the creator by effacing His image in man. God’s image was at the heart of European culture, and Satan’s image is at the heart of the colored cultures. To destroy the former culture and worship the latter culture is the liberal agenda.
Before the physical conquest of a people can take place, the soon-to-be-conquered people must have already either lost faith in their own God or wavered in their faith in their God. The Moslems were defeated in 732 A.D. because the Europeans still believed in Christ. The Moslems are triumphing now because Europeans do not believe what Charles Martel believed. But I do not want to dwell on the Moslems, or the Jews for that matter. I want to focus on the technological barbarian hordes that have made Christendom into Satandom: the liberal tribesmen.
The majority of white people have not taken liberalism to their bosoms, but their faith in the European vision of Christ has been shaken enough to make them defenseless against the passionate Christ-haters. And that very term, “Christ-haters,” which so accurately describes the liberals, makes the white grazer cringe. It sounds too extreme, too uncharitable. But look at the world the liberals have built. Is there anything in this new world that Christ would approve of? Just briefly, after the re-election of Obama, many white grazers saw past the liberal façade of diversity and inclusion and beheld the face of Satan. They were willing to listen to terms such as “satanic liberals” and “negro worship” without running and hiding under their beds. But those moments of white sanity passed after they spoke to their clergymen. They then returned to their passive, apprehensive state of existence, hoping that somehow the liberals and their barbarian allies would leave the churches intact (and of course they will because the churches are liberal), and convert to the more moderate mishmosh liberalism of the white grazers. Such a consummation, which we do not wish for, will never happen. The passionate always devour the lukewarm.
Most of the preliminary work of the liberals was done prior to the 20th century. Aquinas, Rousseau, Voltaire, Robespierre, Darwin, Freud, Marx, etc. all prepared the way for the revolution of the managerial rationalists, the bureaucratic men of science who aspire to build a better world than the world created by God. When the white grazer sees through his eye, instead of with it, and perceives Satan behind the rationalist façade, the grazer will become a European again. He will refuse to worship the liberals’ black gods. Such a refusal is not a futile, insignificant gesture, it is the essence of the counter-revolution. Satan’s “I shall not serve” set the satanic revolution in motion, and the European’s “I shall not serve Satan” shall set the European counter-revolution in motion. One case in point – after the Obama’s re-election, when the liberals and the colored tribesmen made no attempt to hide their glee, a mild-mannered friend of mine, a middle-of-the-road Christian woman, told me, “I feel like I’m surrounded by devils dancing around the throne of Satan.” The young woman modified her extreme statement a few days later after talking to her reasonable, responsible clergyman, but for a moment she saw the truth about liberalism. When such moments can be sustained, when one moment of insight becomes a permanent part of a grazer’s heartfelt faith, the grazer will no longer be a grazer. That is a consummation to be devoutly wished for, and devoutly fought for.
A genuine faith, a faith that sustains a man against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and the wickedness and snares of the devil, is bred in the bone of a man at his ancestral hearth fire. Once separated from that blood faith, a man is in grave danger of falling prey to an intellectual man-made faith which cannot sustain him against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or against the wickedness and snares of the devil. The modern European, having abandoned his blood faith for an intellectual faith, has fallen prey to the devil. Our minds are not clever enough to do battle with Satan. Only our hearts, united to His sacred heart, can defeat mankind’s arch enemy. Satan plays a very subtle game. The mad-dog liberals he captures quite easily; they are full of intellectual pride, and “we shall be as gods,” is their fervent desire. The grazers are different; they are proud of their virtue.(1) So Satan appeals to them through that pride in their virtue. Through his liberal minions, he convinces the grazers to worship negroes. His liberal minions tell atrocity stories. We know how that gambit works. The grazer is given utopian glasses with which to view the antique Europeans. Though most atrocity stories are fictitious and the full story is never told — the black who was lynched was a rapist, the Indians were killed by the British in just retaliation for the Black Hole of Calcutta, etc. – let us still concede that some atrocities were committed by Europeans. That, up till now, has been enough for the liberals. They thrust the atrocities front and center and ask the confused grazer if he approves of such atrocities. “By God, no, I don’t!” the virtuous grazer declares.
“Then show us you don’t approve by worshipping the colored tribes,” the liberals respond. And the grazer complies.
But the antique European will not comply. He points out there is no such thing as atrocities in the colored tribesmen’s culture. What a white man would call an atrocity is a normal, every-day, go-about-our-business life to the barbarians of color. The atrocities in the New Orleans Superdome? “What atrocities?” the black man says. “It was only natural.” The same applies to the fiendish cruelty of the yellow races and the savagery of the brown and red races. Their atrocities are viewed as the assertion of their rights, or as “only natural,” but never as atrocities. It is only the white European who is said to commit atrocities. This madness must stop now. Atrocity stories are unknown outside of the European civilization, because mercy is unknown outside of our European civilization. As we welcome the savage hordes of color into Europe, atrocities will increase at an astronomical rate, but they will no longer be called atrocities; they will simply be the normal, everyday activities of the colored barbarians. Having severed their blood ties to their kith and kin, the Europeans have cut themselves off from the God of their kith and kin. A vague pride in their virtuous refusal to support European atrocities will not avail them against the colored hordes who commit atrocities as easily as an antique European prays.
And then we have the liberals themselves. They have institutionalized infanticide and turned their faces away from the atrocities the colored barbarians commit against white people. Why should they be permitted to condemn our European ancestors for the specks in their eyes, while they, the liberals, have gigantic logs in their own satanic eyes? Look at the liberals, look at the colored savages, and then look at those white people I saw the other night celebrating Christmas. Where should our allegiance be? For whom should we fight to the death, and who should we fight to the death against?
When I was a young man I believed that a deeply held passionate faith could defeat any force on earth that was sent against a man. As I got older I learned to hide my belief that Shakespearean passion could move mountains for fear of ridicule, but I never really modified that essential faith I had in the supremacy of the heartfelt passion over reason and ultimately over death itself. Now as an old man I feel that passion even more strongly than when I was young, and I no longer feel inclined to hide my passion for fear of ridicule. I love the European people; I love them because they showed me the face of Jesus Christ. Those Europeans who have gone to their rest in the arms of the Lord and those Europeans, like the ones who sang those Christmas carols a few nights ago, who still walk the earth will always have at least one heart that loves them and one champion who will fight for them. But I think there are others who feel as I do. That which is lost should constantly be before our eyes. And the anger that wells up in us against those who have destroyed Christian Europe and the love that makes us determined to restore Christian Europe will sustain us in the war against principalities and powers.
‘Too late’ and ‘not enough’ are terms the managerial types use. They tell us it is too late to turn back the colored invasion because there are too many of them. But aren’t the devil’s armies always legion? Numbers are only of significance in math class; they mean nothing in the spiritual realm. Sir Galahad’s faith is still our faith: “If God be for us, who can stand against us?” +
Away in a manger, no crib for his bed, The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head. The stars in the sky looked down where he lay, The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay.
The cattle are lowing, the poor baby wakes, But little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes. I love thee, Lord Jesus; look down from the sky, And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh.
Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask thee to stay Close by me forever and love me, I pray! Bless all the dear children in thy tender care, And take us to heaven, to live with thee there.
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I was fortunate to grow up in a white neighborhood where boys could fight with their fists, abiding by certain prearranged rules, without recourse to knives or guns. Once when I was fighting a champion from the other end of town, my self-appointed, 14-year-old, fight manager poured some advice into my ear: “Hit him with the right uppercut.” I followed my manager’s advice and hit him with many right uppercuts, all to no avail. My opponent was not bothered in the least by my right uppercuts. Yet at the end of every round, my manager told me to, “hit him with the right uppercut.” It was only after I discarded my manager’s advice and started working on my opponent’s gut instead of his jaw that I made some headway.
Which brings me, by a very roundabout route, to the subject of this article. More depressing to me than the coloreds’ atrocities, which are reported by the white nationalists — and the atrocity stories are quite depressing – is the white nationalists’ recommended response to the colored atrocities. The late Samuel Francis always said “vote.” The late William Tyndale always said “vote.” The white nationalists still alive such as David Duke tell us to “vote.” And sometimes as a slight variation on the same theme we are told to “take the necessary action now to stop this Islamic stupidity from destroying the free world we know.” What is the necessary action? “Vote.” Voting is not intrinsically evil, but neither is it a magic talisman that can be used to remedy every evil under the sun. And I would submit to you that the present war on white people is not something that can be halted by voting, for the obvious reason that the people conducting the war, liberals, coloreds, and Moslems, all believe in a god greater than democracy. The liberal believes in the negro, the colored believes in his race, and the Moslem believes in Allah. What is needed is white people who believe in Christ more than egalitarian democracy.
If Europeans believed in Christ, they would revere Christian Europe and would do whatever was necessary to defend it against liberals, coloreds, Moslems, and the colored tribesmen, even if what was necessary was violent, illegal, undemocratic, or a combination of all three. The majority of white people have not become card-carrying liberals. Nor are they moral or physical cowards who refuse to fight for the right. They are suffering from a loss of moral vision. They are not able to see the right clearly enough to fight for it. Are they to blame? Yes, to some extent. But aren’t they, no matter what their age, little children who have been led astray by clergymen who deserve to have a millstone tied around their collective neck?
The clergy turned systems about God into God, which left the Europeans without a personal God who dwelt by their hearth fires and defended them against the wickedness and snares of the devil. The war against the white race was instigated by theologians who decided that God did not need a local habitation and a name; He could dwell in their abstract systems and they, like the oracles of the pagan deities, could impart their interpretation of the will of God to the God’s devotees. And our modern oracles have declared that a universal God demands a universal diversity of races and a diversity of faiths. Gone is the crystal clear charity of the provincial Europeans who believed that Christ and Christ alone was the “Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.” The “you must vote” leaders of the nationalist movements have got it wrong. A true leader does not call his people every insulting name under the sun and tell them to do something. That is not leadership; it’s nagging, which any Dame Van Winkle can do. The true leader acts alone like Tell: “Thou know’st the marksman – I, and I alone. Now are our homesteads free, and innocence – From thee is safe: thou’lt be our curse no more.”
Obviously it will take more than one bolt from a crossbow to free our European homesteads, but the essential thing is that our European leaders must act like true leaders; they must see Christ in our European homesteads, call on Him by name, and lead their people out of darkness by heroic example, instead of Dame Van Winkle nagging. Yeats, with blinding sight, depicted the tragedy of men who believe in collective action from below rather than individual heroism motivated by Him, who is above us all. “The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” The liberals, the Moslems, and the colored hordes, have the non-democratic, passionate intensity to make war on the white race. When a few white European men fight back with a passionate, non-democratic intensity that is uniquely and distinctly European, the blood red tide of liberalism, Islam, and colored barbarism will be turned back. A fairy tale scenario? Yes, it is. But Christian Europe was an impossible fairy tale until the European people made it come true. It’s not Pollyanna-ism to believe that all things are possible to them that call on Him by name, because Europeans who did just that, called on Him by name, created the fairy tale land called Christian Europe, which was not run by a liberal oligarchy that permitted Moslems and negroes to commit murder and mayhem throughout the white nations.
I don’t think C. S. Lewis really hit his full stride until he wrote The Chronicles of Narnia. Before that his writings showed an overconfidence in the powers of reason. In The Screwtape Letters, for instance, the senior devil advises the junior devil to try to keep the ‘patient’ out of church. I would revise that section of The Screwtape Letters, and I think the Narnian Lewis, considering the state of our churches, would approve of the revision.
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Senior devil: By all means encourage your patient to attend church.
Junior devil: Isn’t that counter-productive? Won’t he learn about the enemy at church?
Senior devil: A very long time ago that might have been possible. But our master, who the Christians call the enemy of mankind, convinced the Christians that theirminds were untainted with sin and that by dint of pure, unadulterated reason they could reach out and touch God.
Junior devil: But aren’t they ignoring the advice of that pest St. Paul when they do that? He said that, “Having the understanding darkened, being alienated from the life of God through the ignorance that is in them, because of the blindness of their heart.”
Senior devil: You quote scripture well.
Junior devil: I’m supposed to because as you know…
Senior devil: Yes, yes, I know, because ‘The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.’ That’s really not so funny. That man frightens me.
Junior devil: Why?
Senior devil: Because he sees through the surface of things. Our master likes to keep mortals dazzled by superficialities.
Junior devil: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be irreverent. I didn’t think one quote from Shakespeare would…
Senior devil: Let’s drop Shakespeare and stick to the point.
Junior devil: Which is?
Senior devil: The humans are connected to Him through their sloppy little hearts; keep them in their minds, and you, at the very least, make them confused, and best case scenario you will make them into liberals.
Junior devil: Which is the best thing a mortal can be, from the satanic point of view, isn’t it?
Senior devil: Yes, it is. If we could make every European a liberal, which is our goal, we would own the world and every creature in it.
Junior devil: Let me get this straight then. It’s good to send my patients to church, because the men running the churches have an overweening confidence in their own intellects. Consequently they will try to impose their intellectual faith on my patients. My patients will then be cut off from God and leave themselves open to the gods we suggest, such as the negroes.
Senior devil: Yes, that’s it, more or less. It’s not as easy as you make it sound. Our Master had to work at it. The sheer boldness of his plan – to walk right into the churches dressed only in a scientist’s lab coat, in order to spread Satanism – was without parallel. He is one hell (no pun intended) of a devil.
Junior devil: For how long can we make the white Europeans worship the negroes and let the Moslems invade their nations?
Senior devil: As long as we continue to keep their minds separate from their hearts. The miserable wretches are very proud of themselves at present and think they are progressing toward something magnificent.
Junior devil: Well, in a way they are. They’re progressing toward hell, and hell is magnificent.
Senior devil: Ha, ha, that is a good one. You’re a funny little devil. But in all seriousness, keep them full of intellectual pride. So long as they retain their belief in science as something more than the study of nature, you will have them where you want them. There is nothing that makes a mortal man more puffed up with pride than the notion that he is more scientific and forward-thinking than the other guy. If you keep the fear of appearing unscientific and stupid ever before your patients’ eyes, you’ll soon become a senior devil like me.
Junior devil: I’d like that. You get to prowl about the earth with the big fellow, seeking the ruin of souls.
Senior devil: Yes, I do. You mind your Ps and Qs and you’ll get to do the same.
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If you doubt the testimony of those two fictional devils, we have corroborative testimony from an actual senior devil, George Bernard Shaw. Shaw was the exemplar of pure Satanism. He sneered at everything decent – Christianity, Shakespeare, and all sentiments emanating from the human heart. The exalted human intellect was his god. And since he thought that George Bernard Shaw’s intellect was the greatest of all intellects, George Bernard Shaw was his god. Shaw, because he was a senior devil, knew how the devil worked. The supreme ego maniac pointed out that the hated Christian religion of the European people had survived, over the centuries, the various attacks of the pagans and the heretics. What finally killed it as a serious religious faith was the scientific attack. From that attack, Shaw maintained, Christianity would never recover, which was fine with Shaw, because he was a senior devil. (1)
Shaw was wrong. The Christian faith will survive the scientific onslaught because of a force Shaw and his liberal descendents never reckoned with. That force is the moral force of a European hero, determined to protect his own who are being attacked and persecuted for loving and championing the living God. It all comes down to that one central event that took place in a stable in Bethlehem. Accusations of racism from the liberals and the coloreds, of blasphemy from the Moslems, and of intellectual stupidity from the liberals, all stem from one underlying passion: “We hate Christ and His people.” The European hero knows this, which is why he will fight without ceasing for the Little Town of Bethlehem civilization against all the world.
O Holy Child of Bethlehem, Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin and enter in; Be born in us today!
We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; O come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel! +
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(1) Two men, because of their sneering contempt for every single manifestation of Christ’s humanity in the hearts of His people, have always made me feel that I was in the presence of Satan himself. One of those men was George Bernard Shaw, the other is a traditionalist Roman Catholic priest. The antidote for such men is a love for the Christ child depicted in the Christmas Carol, “Away in a Manger.”
Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name. –Psalm 1: 14
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The Christian churches spawned our universities, but the universities soon took over the churches, and there is now very little separating the churches from the universities. Even so called conservative churches bow to the universities on the subject of diversity. That race doesn’t exist when white men try to band together as a race is a liberal dogma. That race is everything when the colored races band together to demand special sainted status is also a liberal dogma. And nowhere are those liberal dogmas more rigidly adhered to than in the universities of the European people. There are black student unions, brown student unions, Asian student unions, and women’s centers, but there is nothing for the white male. And whenever a courageous white male tries to form a white student union, he is deemed a racist and denied permission to form a white student union, because there is no such thing as white people, unless the liberal wants to bring them into existence in order to demonize them. And of course the values of our liberal academies have become the ruling values of our society. Racial diversity, which means the deification of the colored races and the demonization of the white race, is the ruling principle of every European nation. Destroying the universities and their adjuncts, the anti-Christian Christian churches, would not immediately put an end to Liberaldom because the religion of racial diversity has already been institutionalized. But it is also certain that so long as the two-headed monster of academy and church is allowed to spew out its blasphemies unopposed, racial diversity will remain the ruling principle of the European. If, on the other hand, the lifelines of church and academy are cut off from the liberal body, then the foundations of Liberaldom will start to erode.
Christendom eroded when Europeans found ‘problems’ with the whole notion of ‘the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come.’ When the white man believed that the body contained a soul, he had an aversion to diversity because he felt his whiteness was part of his essential soul, a gift from God. The loss of that belief created a new belief in diversity. When faith in Christ’s bodily resurrection from the dead and our own bodily resurrection in and through Christ is restored so will our abhorrence of racial diversity be restored. In the depths of our soul, where the modern European man refuses to go, is a non-diverse, integral personality. Unleash that personality, which longs for a God who transcends the church-and-academy-God, and Liberaldom will erode.
The modern universities have strayed far afield from the classical ideal. The Greek educational model was a band of elite scholars united together in the pursuit of knowledge. Our modern universities are primarily indoctrination centers and vocational training sites where the principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity are supposed to prevail (though some are always more equal) over the elitist pursuit of knowledge. And yet, despite their seeming divergence from the Greek ideal, our modern universities are the logical consequence of a ‘classical education.’ The Greek ideal was fatally flawed because it was too rational. Like the 19th and 20th century psychoanalysts, the Greek scholars overestimated the powers of reason and failed to give sufficient weight to those irrational passions of the heart that ultimately apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends.
It’s not as if the Greeks themselves were unaware of the poetic of life. Homer, Sophocles, and Aeschylus were not rationalists, but who prevailed? Ultimately it was the rationalists. The poets were banned from Plato’s republic. And that ban remained in effect when the Christian Europeans assumed the mantle of Greek civilization. Forgetting that our Lord rebuked the ever-practical, ever-rational Martha, in favor of the fanciful Mary, the Christian theologians insisted on putting God in a silver rod. And by doing so they set in motion an eternal conflict between a faith in a rational system of religion that can be comprehended by the mind of man, and a faith in a God beyond the mind of man who can be comprehended only in the deeper recesses of the human heart.
Our modern academics, whom the churchmen slavishly follow, are in a flight from rationalism. Their worship of the negro is an attempt to escape the rationalist prison of their minds, but their negro worship stinks of rationalism. They have made a rigid, rationalistic theology out of diversity. Will the white man never escape from Greek rationalism? He once did when he believed in the Son of God rather than a rational system of apologetics. Ivan Karamazov’s brief against the Christian rationalists could only be defeated by his brother Alyosha, who had no rational explanation for his faith in Christ; he only knew that he loved Him. It’s very easy to become sidetracked by the visible outer ornaments of Christianity, because such ornaments can fit quite nicely into a narrow box called religion. But the European poets, like the Hebrew psalmists and St. Paul, keep us mindful of the better part of our faith.
And if we distinguish not between Articles of faith and jurisdiction, but account all those superedifications and furnitures, and ornaments which God hath afforded to his Church, for exterior government, to be equally the Foundation itselfe, there can be no church; as there could be no body of a man, if it were all eye. – John Donne
The only broadsword God has given us with which to fight “diversity” is the only weapon we need, our faith in a loving God beyond reason.
I found the last Presidential election very useful as a barometer of where the Europeans are at this point in their history as a people (I think the percentage of Satanists in every European country would be roughly the same as in the U.S.). I place the white people who voted for Obama beyond the ken of humanity. They are Satan’s own. And the rest who voted for Romney? They are in a kind of limbo. They are not comfortable with some of the uglier aspects of Liberaldom, but they lack the heart and the vision to attack Liberaldom and restore Christendom. So they wonder a lot. They wonder why, since they live in the best of all possible worlds (the liberals tell them so) they have such unfilled longings. Perhaps it is just indigestion?
Those people, and the liberals are such people, who think they can grab history by the horns and make it do what they want are always gored by history. The liberal set out to make a new man, a better man, but is he a better man? The modern, liberal European is like no creature, save one, we have ever seen before. The colored tribesmen are what they have always been. The Christian faith that transformed the Europeans did not transform the people of color. So we had two separate worlds, the world of heathendom that the coloreds occupied and the world of Christendom that the Europeans occupied. And then came the ascendency of the European liberal whose progenitor is Satan. A new man emerged upon the world stage, a man without any ties to humanity, a man who denounced his kith and kin in order to bind himself to Satan through the worship of the demon gods of color. Don’t tell me about the airplane, the rocket ships to the moon, or computers. The most significant event of the 20th century was the creation, by Satan, of a large body of human beings fashioned in his image. These newly fashioned creatures, these satanic clones, must be opposed as we would oppose Satan. The old democratic give-and-take, politely agreeing to disagree, cannot be applied to the clones of the enemy of mankind. Even if a European was foolish enough to adopt a polite ‘agree to disagree’ stance vis-à-vis the liberals, the liberals would not follow such a policy themselves. They hate humanity as Satan hates humanity. To expect them to live and let live is suicidal. (1)
The Europeans in limbo cannot oppose the satanic clones because they do not believe in the satanic nature of liberalism. I was surprised shortly before the Obama re-election to hear the usually wishy-washy Mike Huckabee state that hell would be the destiny of anyone voting for Obama. I was surprised because that statement showed some awareness of the nature of liberalism, and I didn’t expect such an insight from Huckabee. But when I mentioned Huckabee’s statement to other limboesque white people, they recoiled from it in horror. “That’s too extreme,” “That’s uncharitable” – you know the litany.
A European is called to fight the devil and his works whether others follow him or not. So we won’t look back to see if the white people languishing in limbo are following us. But one thing is certain: Liberaldom will remain intact so long as “decent” Europeans agree to disagree with Satan’s own. The essential truths that men fight for are seldom articulated, but they are in us; they are in our hearts and our blood. They sustain us in the day of battle. The British soldiers defending Rorke’s Drift defeated a numerically overwhelming army of black barbarians because in their souls they believed they were fighting for Christian civilization vs. Satan’s minions. I hear the cynic in the corner: “They were fighting for personal survival, nothing more.” No, Mr. Cynic, if personal survival had been all they were fighting for, they wouldn’t have stayed to fight in the first place. They would have cut and run with the native contingents. We always must come back to the miracle of God incarnate. Was Christ incarnate in the hearts and the civilization of the antique Europeans? And if He was, then why can’t we follow in their train? He was, and we shall.
The sneer is the liberals’ and Satan’s preferred weapon of choice. The sneering focus of the liberals is always on the imperfections of the antique Europeans, never on their own satanic blasphemies. We should never accept the lie that says because Christian Europe was not heaven on earth, liberals are in the right. Is diversity right? Is the demonization of the European people right? No, such things are not right. Old Europe, in essence, was a Pickwickian world where faith, hope, and charity mitigated the harshness of existence and pointed men to the Man of Sorrows who redeemed the world. If we give up the fight for our European racial stronghold, we will lose that Pickwickian world of grace.
My conclusion is an old conclusion, but it must be stated again and again until Liberaldom is in ashes. We don’t need superior numbers. We need only a few white men to stand up for Europe, fully convinced that in doing so they are standing for the right against Satan and his unholy legions. If we believe in the rightness of Christian Europe and the satanic evil of diverse liberalism, we will fight and prevail against the liberal pestilence that walketh in darkness and the colored hordes that wasteth at noonday. +
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(1) After his defeat, Romney accepted an invitation to dine with The Obama. I hope he took a long spoon with him. White people will remain in limbo so long as they agree to disagree with Satan’s own.
Let us break their bonds asunder, and cast away their yokes from us. –Psalm 2:3
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It’s obvious to all those who have eyes to see that the changing demographics (more negroes and Hispanics voting) render it virtually impossible for a white Republican male, such as Mitt Romney or Ronald Reagan, to win a Presidential election. It’s not a case of running a more personable white candidate – Romney was quite personable and actually got a higher percentage of the white vote than Regan did some thirty years ago – it’s a case of a third world invasion that white liberals welcomed and white conservatives were unwilling to oppose. The white conservatives have no chance of winning the blacks or the Hispanics over to their side nor do they have a ghost of a chance of converting the 35 – 40% liberal minority who always vote with the colored tribesmen. But we, the European remnant, cannot say as the old Scottish Jacobite said, “All that can be done has been done, and all’s been done in vain.” We cannot truthfully echo the fallen Jacobite’s words because we have yet to hear from the non-democratic, non-diverse European. Thus far we have only seen pygmy-souled men, the men of the democratic era, on the world stage.
The European man has, like Odysseus, been waiting in the wings to see if any of the evil suitors could string and shoot the great bow. He watched as democratic man failed. And he saw, much to his disgust, clerical man go over to the suitors. Now it is his time. He must string the bow, draw it, and purge his racial stronghold of the liberals and colored tribesmen who have defiled it. It’s not the work of a day, but it is time for Europeans to begin the reconquest of their European homeland. The enemy is always the most vulnerable when he is in the midst of his victory celebration.
I don’t know the exact date that each and every European government decided to turn their people over to the colored hordes, but every European government has made such a choice. In European America the choice was made in 1965. That’s when Ted Kennedy’s immigration bill which changed the non-white immigration quotas from 90% European to 90% non-European was passed. It would be easy to just blame our present debacle on Ted Kennedy: “He was a sneaky, conniving degenerate.” Yes, he was, but why did Republican and Democrat members of the Senate and Congress go along with Teddy? Because it was popular with the American people? That is ludicrous. If such a bill had been put before the American people, it would have been voted down. And why did every European nation pass bills similar to degenerate Teddy’s bill? We are faced with the incontestable fact that all of the ruling oligarchies in the European nations started, in the latter half of the 20th century, to replace their own white people with black, brown, red, and yellow people from foreign lands.
We don’t have to look far to see the reason why the ruling oligarchs of every white nation decided to betray their own people. Just look at the statements of the Catholic popes and the leaders of the evangelical churches on the subject of colored immigration, be it legal or illegal. John Paul II was representative of all the mainstream churches. He maintained that faith in Christ mandated that white people should open up their hearts, their borders, and their homes to the colored people of the world. Just after the election I saw a cross-section of evangelical “Christians” who had voted for Obama joining together to demand unrestricted colored immigration. But no South African white was eligible. Apparently God, in the liberals’ eyes, is a “some are more equal than others” type of God.
When I was younger I used to call the white-hating Christians well-meaning but misguided. That is nonsense. They are not well-meaning. They hate their own people and wish to see them exterminated. And their desire to eliminate their own people stems from their hatred of God. They are incensed with God for failing to follow any of their rules for the proper ordering of existence, so they strike out at God by attacking His people. Dostoevsky depicted this drama of Christian atheism so well in the Grand Inquisitor scene of The Brothers Karamazov. The secret of the Grand Inquisitor was that he hated God for not ordering the world as he, the Grand Inquisitor, would have it. The liberal churchmen believe they are smarter than God, but in restructuring God’s benevolent ordering of existence according to their rationalist schemas the churchmen, who were the first liberals after the devil, plunged the Europeans backward in time to the failed philosophical faiths of the Greeks and the Romans. There was a reason why the men and the women of the late Roman Empire sought out the mystery religions. The devotees of the mystery religions could be one with a personal God who was nowhere to be found in the philosophy of the Greeks and the ethical systems of the Romans. But is intimacy with God enough? If there is no silken tie of sympathy between a man and his God, can there be a genuine faith? Christ triumphed over the mystery religions because of His humanity, but did He triumph over the Greco-Roman rationalists? In provincial Europe He did triumph, but he never completely conquered the rationalist element in the upper echelons of the Christian academies where love of the syllogism and rationalist theology predominated over the love of our Savior. That ever-present academic snake in the grass would eventually breed a multi-headed viper that would poison all of Christian Europe. The Europeans worship the negro in the 21st century because the rationalist snake was scotched rather than killed in the first centuries of Christian Europe.
Men cannot live with reason alone. They need faith in a living God beyond reason, but the church men placed Christ in a rationalist box only they could open, so the Europeans went a-whoring. The synthesis of rationalism and negro worship is the Europeans’ attempt to combine the vitalism of the mystery religions with the rationalism of the Greco-Romans. What is missing in this synthesis? The living God and the people of Europe who were wedded to the living God. Provincial Europe, the Europe of a particular race of people with a faith in a personal God of their ascending race, has been buried under an avalanche of satanic filth. No matter that the filth is multi-colored and diversified; it is still satanic filth.
The proof of the universalists’ atheism is their defiance of God’s benevolent ordering of the world. “God loves everyone,” the universalists tell us. Yes, he does, which is why He gave us all racial strongholds in this world where we could learn about God’s love through the love of our kith and kin. The universalist Christian ends up loving an abstract race of noble savages while hating his own people. Is this Christian? No, it is not. It is something far worse than paganism even; it is liberalism, which is the synthesis of all the evil ‘isms’ that have ever been created by the satanically inspired minds of men.
There is a depth of feeling that can only be engendered in a man by the love of his kith and kin. Without that depth of feeling a man cannot know, on an intimate level, the Son of God. Why then do the church men tell us that we can only become truly Christian if we become less attached to our own people and more attached to a diversified ant heap of people? Let’s try to understand our instructions. In order to be more Christian, we must become less Christian? “Yes,” Mr. Liberal tells us, “you’ve grasped the point perfectly. Christ will become less of a God and the Europeans will become a non-people.”
“Then what?”
“Then there will be peace and happiness on earth.”
Once, in an endeavor to dissuade a liberal priest from his liberal viewpoints, I pointed out to him that a great work such as Handel’s Messiah was great because Handel’s vision of Christ was non-diverse. The Hallelujah chorus and the entire sacred oratorio are so moving because every word sung and every chord of music is a paean to the King of Kings. How would that sacred oratorio be performed today? It is too horrible to dwell on. Suffice it to say that we would not be inspired by a hymn to the Obama and one universalist Satan-worshipping nation. But let me return to the liberal priest. He agreed with me about Handel’s Messiah: “It wouldn’t be a magnificent work without its purity of theme.” Then came the disclaimer: “Poetry and reality are two different things.” Are they? Isn’t our faith in Christ based on a belief that what touches our heart at the deepest level, at the poetic core, is true?
So let us state what is true. God reveals Himself to us through the intimate, mysterious human relationships we form with our kith and kin. The moral beauty of the European hearth, where our kith and kin dwell, points us to the Star of Bethlehem. The moral depravity of the syncretic religion of rationalism and diversity points us toward the kingdom of Satan. The most counter-revolutionary thing that a European man can do is to refuse to bend his knee to the new diversity of races and faiths. Such a refusal will make the European man a sign of contradiction to Satan and his minions. And such is the European man’s destiny. He was born to bear witness, through his fidelity to the European hearth, to the Lamb of God who taketh away the sin of the world. +
CONTENT UPDATE 7/10/23: All of CWNY’s works have been saved in 7 volumes (PDFs) on the Preservation page. They represent the most complete and accurate versions of his writing so far; they contain no images, just the text.
On August 1, 2021, CWNY ceased writing and passed to be with our Lord Jesus Christ; his family chronicles his passing on the page The Minstrel Sleeps (8/7/21). All his posts from 3/3/12 through 7/31/21 are on this site, via the Home page. All posts from CWNY’s older blog from 2006 – 2012 are also still available online here.
You may recall the deplatforming of CWNY’s first wordpress blog in March of 2019 (see the page On Being Deplatformed (4/21/19). When CWNY returned the next month with his new domain, unfortunately many posts from 3/3/2012 – 3/23/2019 remained inaccessible. Following his death, all of these ‘lost’ posts have been incorporated into this site by his family; see the Preservation of CWNY’s work page for more detail.
On the Preservation of CWNY’s work page, you may download pdfs of both this blog and the original blog, in their entirety. All posts are available in 7 complete volumes in PDF format, with no images, and in 2 incomplete PDFs containing most of the images and text. In addition, a download of CWNY’s Christmas Remembrances is also available on the Preservation page.
The Remembrances by CWNY page includes his final, albeit unfinished, Christmas story, accompanied with links to his previous Christmas stories. In addition, as noted above, all 11 Remembrances‘ chapters may be downloaded in one PDF from the Preservation of CWNY’s work page.
We would love to hear from those of you whose hearts have been touched by CWNY in some way. The How to contact CWNY’s family page explains how to do this.
May God bless you, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. We take comfort in His words, “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.” –John 16:33
