The Homing Instinct

I am dreaming of the mountains of my home,
Of the mountains where in childhood I would roam.
I have dwelt ‘neath summer skies,
Where the summer never dies,
But my heart is in the mountains of my home.

I can see the little homestead on the hill;
I can hear the magic music of the rill;
There is nothing to compare,
With the love that once was there,
In that lonely little homestead on the hill.

I can see the quiet churchyard down below,
Where the mountain breezes wander to and fro,
And when God my soul will keep,
It is there I want to sleep,
With those dear old folks that loved me long ago.

-- W S Gwynne Williams
_______________

As a confused undergraduate, desperately concerned about the existence or nonexistence of God, I sought out a Roman Catholic priest who taught courses at the university. I went to him because I had read one of his books in which he indicated he believed in the Christian God in a non-modern sense as defined in the Apostle’s Creed. During a lengthy conversation we touched on many aspects of this thing called faith. He shared his thoughts with me, and I told him of my perplexities. I still, after forty years, remember his response when I asked him what he found to be the biggest obstacle to faith. With a look of intense pain on his face he said, “There are so few signs.” The New Testament passage about an evil and adulterous generation which seeketh a sign did not occur to me then, and if it had I would not have applied it to that man, because he was kind to me.

After that first lengthy meeting I only saw my priestly friend in passing. After I graduated I didn’t see him again for ten years. He was still teaching at the university, and I was on campus to participate in a kind of religious roundtable discussion in which my friend was also a participant. He greeted me warmly, and I told him what I had been doing, placing particular emphasis on my conversion to Christianity and my membership in his church. He said he was delighted and that he too had taken a spiritual journey in the last ten years. I didn’t quite know what he meant and before I could ask for clarification the roundtable discussion began.

I knew before the discussion started that I would be facing a sneering group of former clerics and intellectual something-or-others who would be united in their sneering ridicule of the simple faith that set Europe ablaze in times past. But I knew I would have one ally, the friend of 10 years ago. I pictured us fighting back to back, like Will Starrett and Shane, against an army of sneering academics. It didn’t turn out as I expected. My believing friend had become a member of the sneering intelligentsia. I had to shift scenarios; instead of Shane and Will Starrett fighting against difficult odds I was the disinherited knight fighting against impossible odds. I didn’t acquit myself very well, frequently losing my train of thought and stumbling with my responses to the panel of sneering atheists.

Much to my surprise, my “good friend” came up to me afterwards and acted like we were ever the best of friends. It was all just a fun, scintillating discussion to him. Not so with me. I come from Welsh coal miners and German farmers who believed that a man who insults your faith is not your friend. I did not hit the man as my ancestors would have, but I did walk out without shaking hands or pretending we were all educated men who could forget our differences over something as silly as the Resurrection of Christ and still get along just swimmingly.

I’ve had many years to think about the old priest’s apostasy and I’ve formed some definite opinions on the subject. I think the old priest’s statement, “There are so few signs,” was an indication of a man teetering on the brink. Man is a social animal. He tends to conform to the values of his peers. The old priest had spent most of his life in academic circles, which is probably why he yearned for a sign; he needed something to buttress up a faith that was beginning to erode. I spent three hours with the academics he saw every day, and my faith was reeling after contact with such people. I needed to go home and reconnect with Walter Scott’s Europe before I felt cleansed of the academic disease. Little wonder then that the once firm-in-his-faith priest succumbed to sneering liberalism.

“Thy honourable metal may be wrought
From that it is dispos’d; therefore it is meet
That noble minds keep ever with their likes:
For who so firm that cannot be seduc’d?”

Who so firm? No one is. Over the years I’ve seen such a falling off of friends. There was the Southern segregationist who, once removed from his native land, ended up marrying a black girl. A fire-brand of a fundamentalist who went to California and became a free love advocate. Then there was the “good” Italian Catholic girl who left her husband, my friend, for another woman. In my mind’s eye I can still see them all, and it’s not a pretty sight.

The liberals and the halfway house Christians are fond of telling people like me, who write about the moral gulf between old Europe and modern Europe, that every sin known to man existed in old Europe just as it does now. And that is true; but we must make two distinctions. First, the antique Europeans did not deny that they were sinners. When they committed adultery they called it sin; when a woman killed her child, she was called a murderess. And the second distinction is like unto the first. When a man or woman sinned they were not supported by their peers; they were shunned. For instance, in antique Europe if a man was addicted to sodomy he had no support system. He knew if he couldn’t control his sinful desires then he must confine them to secret places where the outcast men dwelt. And repentance was possible, because if a man persisted in his sin he knew he lost the fellowship of his fellow men, just as Scrooge cast himself into greed-forged isolation by his illicit love of money. The sinner could be reclaimed, because there was a world beckoning to him in which people believed there was a such a thing as sin. Not so today. I remember a congressman in the not-too-distant past who was, in addition to being a congressman, a columnist for a conservative Catholic magazine. He got caught in a homosexual tryst. Not something unusual, such things happened in Old Europe as well. But what followed was completely modern. The congressmen, after first expressing contrition, ended up becoming a member of a Catholic homosexual organization (I believe it was called Dignity) which claimed homosexual acts were sanctioned by God. And therein is the great difference between our current Western society and antique Europe. Miscegenation, infanticide, sodomy, and academic atheism all existed in old Europe, but such things were not sanctioned by society. Virtue was encouraged and sin was discouraged in old Europe by labeling sin as sin and by socially ostracizing the unrepentant sinner and the advocates of sin. Today a sinner is lauded and told he is virtuous. He has a support system for his sin. Miscegenation becomes “striking a blow against prejudice,” infanticide becomes “a woman’s choice,” sexual promiscuity becomes “free love,” and institutionalized blasphemy becomes “liberalism.” Who is so firm that cannot be seduced in such a society? Only the prejudiced, intransigent Europeans will survive, those who cling to an older segregated Europe with the ferocity of Ratty in The Wind in the Willows:

“The River,” corrected the Rat.

“And you really live by the river? What a jolly life!”

“By it and with it and on it and in it,” said the Rat. “It’s brother and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and (naturally) washing. It’s my world, and I don’t want any other. What it hasn’t got is not worth having, and what it doesn’t know is not worth knowing.”

And even he was almost seduced away from his European river by the siren call of exotic foreign climes.

"Why, where are you off to, Ratty?” asked the Mole in great surprise, grasping him by the arm.

“Going South, with the rest of them,” murmured the Rat in a dreamy monotone, never looking at him.

“Seawards first and then on shipboard, and so to the shores that are calling me!”
He pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged fixity of purpose; but the Mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself in front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed and set and turned a streaked and sifting grey—not his friend’s eyes, but the eyes of some other animal! Grappling with him strongly he dragged him inside, threw him down, and held him.

The Rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength seemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with closed eyes, trembling. Presently the Mole assisted him to rise and placed him in a chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into himself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into an hysterical fit of dry sobbing. Mole made the door fast, threw the satchel into a drawer and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass. Gradually the Rat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and confused murmurings of things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened Mole; and from that he passed into a deep slumber.

He was brought back to his senses, to his instinctual love of his home and his people by the “unenlightened” Mole. And he in turn, along with the Badger and the Mole, brought the Toad back to an appreciation of his ancestral home. So long as something of the homing instinct is alive in a white man, he can be reclaimed by the fidelity of other whites. If he can’t be reclaimed it’s because propositional Christianity and the lure of the exotic peoples and exotic lands have killed his homing instincts. A friend once told me about a white nationalist rally he attended. A white male sat up front and held hands with a black girl while the main speaker talked about the necessity of segregation and the preservation of the white race. As it became obvious that the interracial couple were there to make a statement, the speaker stopped his talk and addressed them. He asked them if they thought there was anything wrong with race-mixing. Of course the couple replied that there wasn’t anything wrong with it. It was sanctioned by love, and what could be wrong with love? Now the speaker could have responded as Princess Flavia responded to Rudolf Rassendyll in Prisoner of Zenda:

“Is love the only thing?” she asked, in low, sweet tones that seemed to bring a calm even to my wrung heart. “If love were the only thing I could follow you—in rags, if need be—to the world’s end; for you hold my heart in the hollow of your hand! But is love the only thing?”

I made her no answer. It gives me shame now to think that I would not help her.

She came near me and laid her hand on my shoulder. I put my hand up and held hers.

“I know people write and talk as if it were. Perhaps, for some, Fate lets it be. Ah, if I were one of them! But if love had been the only thing you would have let the king die in his cell.”

I kissed her hand.

“Honor binds a woman, too, Rudolf. My honor lies in being true to my country and my House.”

But that would have given a European dignity to the couple that they did not deserve. What the speaker did say was that there was nothing to be said to the young couple. They had no instinctive horror about what they were doing, so there was nothing that any white man could say to convince the degenerate couple nothing good stems from a betrayal of kith and kin.

Race-mixing is an abortion of the white race. Liberals have decided that the white race deserves to perish because it was sexist, racist, and Christian. No matter how far the modern white moves away from his ancestors, the liberal still wants him destroyed because of his past history. The white grazer might be spared for a time if he complies with the dictates of the liberals, but in the end the grazer will be killed with the last Europeans. Or so the liberals purpose. Their triumph is not mathematically certain, because the grace of God exists. European civilization was the result of a marriage between the European people and Christ. Liberaldom was built when the Europeans divorced Christ and married Satan. The second marriage can be annulled, and if it is annulled it will be because the European’s homing instinct became stronger than the siren call of Babylon. But there must be a home for the prodigal European to return home to. It is the task of the hero to stay wedded to the European hearth fire and never yield his place or waver in his devotion until His God calls him home.

How can the remnant band of Europeans remain faithful unto death when they have no support system? How can they avoid the fate of that apostate priest who made a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde transformation from a Christian to a sneering academic? They can remain faithful by staying close to their kith and kin who have left this world but live in His eternal Europe. The death-in-life existence of the modern Europeans is not life. Their life, the ancient Europeans of Christian Europe, is the genuine life; it is life eternal. The communion of the saints is not mumbo-jumbo. Where two or three are gathered together in His name… There is a legion of Europeans gathered in His name who are willing to sustain us in our day of battle against the liberals and their colored gods. If God and His legions of saints are for us who can be against us? I don’t want to minimize the feeling of God-forsakenness that envelops a man when he tries to adhere to the code of the ancient Europeans without the support of his peers. But at the same time I must emphasize that the bond of love and affection that can exist, if a man stays connected to the antique Europeans and their God, is something that can sustain a man as he walks through the valley of the shadow of Babylon.

Le Fanu is right. The devil approaches the citadel of a man’s heart by stealth, “with many zigzags and parallels.” Satan did not, at first, ask the European to give up his faith. He walked right in the church door preaching a new, a purer Christianity, devoid of racism and superstition. And once the initial betrayal is made, the betrayal of kith and kin, a man is primed for the next betrayal and the next, until a man becomes, as my old friend the apostate priest became, a sneering academic, one of Satan’s own.

We live amongst an evil and adulterous generation of men who laugh in derision at the old faith, asking us, “Why, if your God is the true God is there no sign? Why does He not come down off the cross and punish us and save you?” But we have been given a sign, the sign of the cross.

In a black Mass, I am told, the satanic devotees worship an inverted cross. Isn’t that the essence of liberalism? Christianity is still preached, but it is an inverted Christianity. Pope John XXIII forgives non-repentant, black, torture-murderers for the sins they committed, not against him, but against others. The liberals offer up other whites as an atonement, not for the sins of liberals, but for the sins of the racist, white people of the past. And the definition of sin itself has been inverted. Only one race and one sex within that race has the taint of original sin. Is such a faith the Christian faith? To be young again is not permitted in the natural world, but in the realm of the spirit we can become young again. We can rescind the first betrayal and return to our ancestral European home and clean out the stoats and the weasels that have overrun it.

“God of our fathers, be the God
Of their succeeding race!” +