Tintagel vs. Haiti

Samuel Francis was one of the few men who pointed out the ugly lie at the heart of the cultural diversity agenda of our government, our schools, and our churches. When the people in these institutions say "cultural diversity," they claim to mean, "You respect my culture and I'll respect yours." But in reality they mean, "All white culture is evil and must be eradicated from the face of the earth."

And in fact there has never been a nation with multiple races in which one race was not dominant over the other. I think it is better for the white race and for the black race if the white race is the dominant race. I base that politically incorrect sentiment on the historical record. When white folk dominate, if you look at the totality of their actions, an amazing record of noblesse oblige and Christian charity emerges. When the black race dominates, there is unspeakable barbarism and darkness. Read T. Lothrop Stoddard's book, The French Revolution in San Domingo, to see the prototype for all black states.

Stoddard begins the book, written in 1914, with his reason for presenting us with an historical account of the revolution in San Domingo:

The world-wide struggle between the primary races of mankind – the "conflict of color," as it has been happily termed – bids fair to be the fundamental problem of the twentieth century, and great communities like the United States of America, the South African Confederation, and Australasia regard the "color question" as perhaps the gravest problem of the future. To our age, therefore the French Revolution in San Domingo – the first great shock between the ideals of white supremacy and race equality, which erased the finest of European colonies from the map of the white world and initiated that most noted attempt at Negro self-government, the black republic of Haiti – cannot but be of peculiar interest.

Yes, it should be of peculiar interest. But it isn't. White people just ignore the warning sign.

When the white citizens of San Domingo foolishly linked their government to that of the French, they suffered through the chaos of the French Revolution in their own country. But the reign of terror in France was a Sunday picnic compared to what happened in San Domingo:

The time was now ripe for the final blow. When the French troops had left the country in November, 1803, Dessalines had promised protection to all white civilians who chose to remain, and shortly afterwards a proclamation had invited all white exiles to return. The favorable treatment accorded those who remained after the departure of Rochambeau induced a considerable number of colonial whites to return to San Domingo. But no sooner was the black leader firmly seated on his imperial throne than those unfortunates discovered their mistake in trusting the word of Dessalines. Scarcely had the new year begun when orders went forth to massacre the white population, and on April 25, 1805, a ferocious proclamation set the seal on this awful proscription and laid down that doctrine of white exclusion ever since retained as the cardinal point of Haitian policy.

The nature of these events is well shown by the letter of a French officer secretly in Port-au-Prince at the time, who himself escaped by a miracle to the lesser evil of an English prison in Jamaica. "The murder of the whites in detail," he writes, "began at Port-au-Prince in the first days of January, but on the 17th and 18th March they were finished off en masse. All, without exception, have been massacred, down to the very women and children. Madame de Boynes was killed in a peculiarly horrible manner. A young mulatto named Fifi Pariset ranged the town like a madman searching the houses to kill the little children. Many of the men and women were hewn down by sappers, who hacked off their arms and smashed in their chests. Some were poniarded, others mutilated, others 'passed on the bayonet,' others disemboweled with knives or sabers, still others stuck like pigs. At the beginning, a great number were drowned. The same general massacre has taken place all over the colony, and as I write you these lines I believe that there are not twenty whites still alive – and these not for long."

This estimate was, indeed, scarcely exaggerated. The white race had perished utterly out of the land, French San Domingo had vanished forever, and the black State of Haiti had begun its troubled history.

And what happened after Stoddard published his account of the first black attempt at self-government? Did white people take note and take the precautionary measures necessary to ensure the survival of the white race? Of course not. Rhodesia went the way of Haiti, and then South Africa followed suit largely because of outside pressure from Britain and the United States.

And what about Britain and the United States? They are both endeavoring to transform themselves into larger versions of Haiti, which, to put it mildly, seems rather self-destructive, doesn't it?

And it seems there is always some Christian clergyman who can be seen, torch in hand, running around setting fire to every European virtue. Look! There goes 'chivalry' up in flames. And over there I see 'love of kin' going up in flames. And now I see Father Spirit-of-the-Times setting fire to 'charity' while the whore called Ms. Modern Times looks on and applauds.

And then from the shadows steps an old man, with the eyes of a prophet.

"Think about what you do this day. As Judas betrayed Christ, so do you betray Him when you burn all the fruits of His glorious life and death."

But the crazed clergyman does not heed the old man, and in fact it appears he sees but does not hear him. The applause of the whore is all he hears. So the fire rages and eventually envelops the clergyman and the whore. Before the flames completely engulf them we can see them embracing each other, still enjoying the sight of the old European virtues in flames, but not realizing that they embrace for the last time.

In the morning the old man with the prophetic eyes walks through the rubble and ashes. He weeps. In the distance he sees, through his tears, a tall figure walking toward him. The figure is hooded and wearing the garb of some ancient religious order. He walks right up to the old man.

"Why do you weep?"

"Because I once ruled this very kingdom, or at least one like it. We were one race, one faith, and our swords and our hearts served Him. But we were defeated from within. My own queen and my most trusted knight betrayed me. That was long ago. But I returned, hoping to stop the destruction of this kingdom and these people. But it was too late and they did not heed me. And so I weep, for I have seen it all turn to ashes a second time."

"But you mustn't weep, my king."

"You know me?"

"Yes, I know you. You are Arthur Pendragon. And I have come to tell you that you shall be a king once more. Across the sea, in your own Tintagel, there is a small band of Europeans. They are eating roots and berries and have no knowledge of the true faith. But they are Europeans and they need you. They have that special fire in their hearts. They long to serve a true king, a king who can tell them about the King of Kings, a king who will show them why a sword is shaped like a cross. You must go to those people and be a king once more."

And then a strange thing happened. The old man was an old man no more. He was young again. He was Arthur in his prime.

The monkish stranger walks with Arthur to the shore where a ship waits for him. The ship is manned by an angelic crew. Arthur turns to the stranger.

"I think I know your voice, but I dare not believe what I hope. Are you not my own true knight, the bravest of the brave and the purest of the pure? Are you not Sir Galahad?"

The stranger steps out of his monkish attire revealing a knight in light armour.

"Yes, my king, I am Sir Galahad. And together we will build a nation of one race, one faith, one king, and one Lord."

And so they sailed for Tintagel, to build a new Europe, which was a very old Europe, and to worship a new God, who was a very old God.

--CWNY