Against the Heathens

How long the holy city
Shall heathen feet profane?
Return, O Lord, in pity;
Rebuild her walls again.

-Henry Francis Lyte

The former Prime Minister of Britain, Tony Blair, recently stated that massive Third World immigration is “a very positive thing, and there’s no way for a country like Britain to succeed in the future unless it is open to people of different colors, faiths, and cultures.”

Now if Blair’s opinion was the opinion of one isolated lunatic, we could ignore it. But Blair’s opinion on the subject of diversity is the opinion of the ruling elites in every single European nation, so it behooves us to examine Blair’s opinion in the light of reality.

The first point Blair makes is that the influx of colored people with different cultures and different religions from white Britons is a “positive thing.” Why is it a positive thing? Liberals such as Blair never give us a direct answer to that question. It is supposed to be one of those self-evident truths that cannot be questioned. But if we listen to what the liberals in every European country say about the traditional culture of their ancestors we can ascertain the liberals’ answer to the question, “Why is the destruction of white, Christian Europe by colored barbarians a good thing?”

The liberal answer, which is implicit in their hate-filled rhetoric and their hate-filled immigration policies, is that the traditional culture of the European people must be destroyed because it, and the people who created it, were evil. Because the liberals are lunatics their condemnation of the antique Europeans is illogical and inconsistent. On the one hand the antique Europeans are criticized for being insufficiently Christian: “They were racist when they should have been egalitarian and they fought wars with each other when they should have made peace.” But then on the other hand, the antique Europeans are criticized for being too Christian: “They held to their belief that their God was not just a manifestation of the good in man; He was, they claimed, the one true God; all other religions were false; only their faith was true. This was terribly narrow-minded, hate-filled, and prejudiced. And we shouldn’t forget that the Europeans of old polluted the world with their repressive attitudes toward sex and marriage.”

The most negative aspect of the older European culture, according to the liberals, was its unscientific nature. At the center of the Christian Europe was a belief in a fairy tale God who impeded the upward and onward march to a future of science, diversity and sexual pleasure. Such great liberals as Darwin, Freud, Marx, Voltaire, and Rousseau taught us that man was a glorified animal that could only be happy so long as he believed in gods who were merely manifestations of the natural world. The pagan faiths of Voodoo, Islam, Hinduism, and so on, are all acceptable to the liberals because they are not transcendent faiths. Only the antique faith of the Europeans, which proclaimed that Gandhi, Buddha, Socrates, Mohammed, and the generic black man were not co-equal with Christ the Messiah, is a proscribed faith. And the edict against the Christian faith includes, of necessity, the white race because the whites are the Christ-bearing people. So when liberals such as Tony Blair tell us that the destruction of the white race is a positive thing, what they are saying is exactly what Julian the Apostate was saying at the beginning of the Christian Era of Europe: “The Christian God is a false God, and His followers have polluted the world.” Julian sought a future that was a regression to paganism just as the modern Tony Blairs want a future that is a regression to Babylon.

The conservative branch of Liberaldom has tried to “save” Christianity by making it a propositional religion. But our God is an incarnate God; He needs a people to say “Come, Lord Jesus, into our hearts and to our hearth fires.” The incarnate God is not a propositional God who can be passed from one people to the next by sprinkling magical philosophical pixie dust on the new devotees. The “race has nothing to do with Christianity” conservatives are in a state of denial. Having nothing but a propositional faith themselves, they cannot see that a genuine faith must be rooted in the hearts of a people connected to the heart of God. The seeds of European Christianity can be planted in other nations, but if they are not nurtured by Europeans they will never bring forth Christian fruits. The Christ-bearing race must return to Christ; salvation will not come from the colored tribes.

Blair’s second point, echoed by all European liberals, is that in order to “succeed in the future” white people need to open up their nations “to people of different colors, faiths and cultures.” If we needed any more proof of the liberals’ insanity, that statement would provide it. Are white people succeeding in the new diverse nations that have come into being? Spiritually? Heavens, no! Are they succeeding financially? Don’t be ridiculous; they are becoming the lower rungs on a Third World ladder. So what kind of “success” are Blair and his fellow liberals talking about? They must mean a successful shift from the Christian faith to a faith in the colored races of the world, particularly the black race. What kind of success is that? It is the same kind of success achieved by the swine in the Gospels. But the liberal must, like Jonah, hide from God no matter what the cost. And never let a “conservative” tell you that European suicide is really Christian charity. The colored races might make short term economic gains as a result of pillaging the West, but in the long term there will be nothing to pillage when there are no whites to build economies containing something worth pillaging. But the real cost will be in souls. There will be no colored conversions to the light, because the light that shone from Europe will have become the darkness of Babylon. Such a future of “success” is not a consummation devoutly to be wished for. It is an abomination to be resisted with all one’s heart and soul.

The clerics and their liberal brethren tell us that resistance to the colored barbarians is wrong. The conservative, statistical men tell us that resistance is futile because the demographic charts show that the European nations will be colored nations by 2050. And the nationalist leaders tell us that our only hope is to eschew violence and win elections by “getting the message out.”

We should take note of the grim demographic figures in order to get an idea of what we are up against, just as the British soldiers took note of the number of Zulus arrayed against them at Rorke’s Drift. And certainly if a pro-white candidate ever appears we should vote for him. But ultimately the battle for Christian Europe will not be decided by the number of colored barbarians who occupy the European nations. Nor will the battle be decided by elections. The battle will be decided by the Europeans' fidelity to their God. We don’t know what miracles of grace might occur if the Europeans renew their covenant with God. We do know that miracles occurred in the past when white and Christian were synonymous, so why shouldn’t similar miracles occur in the future if the Europeans pick up the discarded mantle of their Christ-bearing ancestors?

Of course, we can’t simply make an intellectual commitment to “old-fashioned” values in order to save the secular, democratic West or a faltering economy. We must truly love His Europe, which has nothing to do with democracy or capitalism, and refuse to let it die, because we came to know Him at the European hearth fire.

The colored barbarians rape, murder, and pillage because white people do not believe themselves to be a people; they believe they are walking propositions without a past or future. They exist to the extent that they can serve the non-propositional people of color. When black “youths” rampage through the Mall of America in Minnesota, attacking white people, they are not, by liberal logic, doing any harm, because they are only attacking propositional people who do not have a genuine existence. We are facing the Descartian theory carried out to its logical conclusion. The white thinks he is an abstraction without any blood connection to a particular race or God, so he acts out the part. He is a man cut off from everything that makes life worth living, a loving attachment to a particular people and a particular God.

John Stuart Mill, the utilitarian philosopher, worried at one point in his life that he was becoming mad through an excess of rationality. He tried listening to music in order to subdue the rationalist monster inside him, but he couldn’t bear it because he kept thinking about the finite nature of musical compositions. Mill then turned to the reading of fairy tales. Judging from what he wrote, it doesn’t appear he ever successfully conquered the rationalist demon, but he was on the right track when he started reading fairy tales, because the sickness of the modern European is the result of his inability to see life feelingly as the heroes of the fairy tales do. The third dumb brothers of fairy tale fame do not wait for a consensus against dragons before they venture forth to slay the dragon devouring their people. Nor do they allow Descartian philosophers to tell them that they and their loved ones are not worth fighting for because they don’t really exist at all. The fairy tale hero is a simple soul who loves his people and hates those who attack and menace his people. If a mere handful of modern Europeans were to become like unto the fairy tale heroes of old Europe, the tidal wave of colored barbarians would be turned away from European shores. And the multitudinous herds of colored barbarians that are raping, murdering, and pillaging within the European walls would be driven back to the black holes from whence they came.

My favorite comedians are Laurel and Hardy. They are both, in their best movies, third dumb brothers. In March of the Wooden Soldiers they reach their zenith. At a critical juncture in the film, the very existence of Toyland, which is Europe, is threatened by the evil liberal, Barnaby. Motivated by sheer hate, Barnaby leads an army of negroized bogeymen against Toyland. When hope seems nearly gone Laurel and Hardy set in motion 100 six-foot wooden soldiers, who miraculously become flesh and blood soldiers that drive the bogeymen back beyond the walls of Toyland and into a river of crocodiles. How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable would our existence seem if we did not believe that the European fairy tale is true. If Christ be not risen, it would be better to become propositional people and fade away into the Babylonian night. But Christ is risen, and He enjoins us to rise from our lethargy and defend and champion His fairy kingdom, which is ours to defend, against the liberals and their armies of colored bogeymen. +

Remembrances

And there reigns love and all love’s loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.

I was pastor at St. John’s Anglican Church in London from 1910 to 1950. When I started there as assistant pastor I was thirty-one years of age. For the first five years I was assistant pastor and for the last thirty-five I was senior pastor. Many people have passed through the doors of St. John’s while I was pastor there, but I only came to know a small minority of the people who came to St. John’s. Let me clarify that. I came to know a large number of people by name, and I knew their occupations and their family histories, but I know the souls of only a few of my parishioners. I think that must be the way with all pastors. When you leave the seminary you have notions of taking a world of troubles onto your shoulders and solving the deep and perplexing spiritual problems of your many and myriad parishioners. But reality quickly sets in. The spiritual problem of most of my parishioners was that they didn’t believe they had any spiritual problems. They needed Christ’s pastors to baptize them, marry them, and bury them. In return for those services they were willing to put up with a Sunday sermon and a few pastoral visits. That is the reality, but there are a few, the men and women who seek you out because you have publicly avowed your allegiance to Him. Those men and women need something more from a pastor than the average parishioner. It’s not for me to judge whether their need makes them better or worse than the average birth-marriage-and-death parishioners. I can only say that those men and women who came to me in the throes of spiritual dilemmas are the men and women I came to know. My remembrances are not of things past; they are of people past. Every human personality is a universe. What follows are my memories of those universes.

______________________________

“The Policeman”

John Talbot looked, at first glance, to be a man in his early forties, broad-shouldered, deep-chested with eyes that looked quite through you. In point of fact he was in his early sixties; except for the few grey hairs he showed no outward signs of age. Before I knew his profession I had marked him as a military type. John approached me one day after a Sunday sermon in April of 1921.

“Reverend, sir, could I speak to you for a moment?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“I’d like to come see you sometime about a matter of some importance, at least to me.”

There were many people around me at the time, most of them waiting to ask me something, and I could see John did not want to make his private problem a public one, so I quickly made an appointment with him for Tuesday night of that week and we parted.

The front of my house, which was next to the church, faced the main street, but the door to my study faced a side street. That is usually where I received the nocturnal Nicodemuses such as John Talbot.

“It’s kind of you to see me.”

“Not at all, it’s one of the most pleasant aspects of my calling. I get to meet so many different people.”

“I’m not a particularly religious man, Reverend, but I heard you were not a typical religious man.”

“I won’t inquire who it was that said that about me.”

“She meant it as a compliment.”

“Then I’ll take it as a compliment. But what is it you want from me?

“I want you to listen to me for about an hour, and then I want you to pass judgment on me.”

“I’m not really in the business of passing judgment on people.”

“I put that rather crudely, Reverend. What I meant was… well, if you listen to what I have to say, you’ll be able to understand what I mean when I say I want you to pass judgment on me.”

“Certainly, I’ll listen to you. Do you want what you say to be under the seal of confession?”

Talbot looked at me a long time and then took his time answering my question. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I was raised in the Church of England, though I haven’t been to church in years, and I know about the seal of confession. But if you’re the type of man who would break his word, then you’d be the type of priest who would violate the seal of confession. So I’ll take my chances with your word. If you tell me that what I say here stays right here with you, then that is good enough for me. You see I’ve already decided that you’re a man of your word.”

“So soon?”

“Not that soon, Reverend. I’ve made my living as a police inspector at Scotland Yard for over thirty years, and I’ve learned to read people pretty well.”

“And you’ve read me already?”

“I guess I’ve put my foot in it again. I don’t mean to sound presumptuous. I certainly don’t know you inside out from just one meeting, but I know enough to take a chance with you. And I’m not taking a chance based on just one meeting. I listened to your sermons the last four Sundays. Actually I didn’t do much listening, I observed you. That’s when I made up my mind that you were my man, the man I needed to judge me. Then when I came here and saw you and your study, I was even more convinced that you were the man I needed.”

“I hope I can be of some help to you, but I’m also afraid you might be making something of me I’m not, because I most definitely am not a seer or a man with the ability to read souls. You seem to be a man with a great weight on his heart – that I can see – but that is all I can discern.”

Talbot had a way, no doubt developed from years as a detective for Scotland Yard, of seeming to ask irrelevant questions that were in reality very relevant. Such was the case in this instance. “I see a Bible on your bookshelf and the Book of Common Prayer, and I see Shakespeare, Dickens, and Scott as well. But I don’t see any books of theology or church history, which are the books one usually sees on a clergyman’s shelf. Why is that?”

“I have the books that give me spiritual sustenance. I never had much use for theology or ecclesiastical history. I love the poets and the novelists, though. Do you read literature yourself?”

“No, I don’t; well, I do read one author.”

“Who?”

“Shakespeare.”

“If I could only read just one author, he would be the one.”

“I find he helps in my work, Reverend.”

“He helps me in mine, too.”

“How so?”

“For the same reason he helps you, I imagine. He helps me to understand people, for good or for ill. Surely a minister needs to understand people just as much, if not more so, than a police inspector?”

“I suppose you do. But most ministers wouldn’t go to Shakespeare to find out about people.”

“Not just people, Mr. Talbot. I go to Shakespeare to find out about God. It never ceases to amaze me, and trouble me, that Christians who profess to believe that God has a human heart think that they can’t learn anything about God from the human heart. Speaking for myself, I can honestly say that I only know God through the hearts of his creatures. But you didn’t come here to listen to me; you want me to listen to you.”

“You just made my point, Reverend. You are not the run-of-the-mill cleric, and I need a man who is not run-of-the-mill.”

“I think then, Inspector, you should proceed with your story.”

______________________________

I won’t present what the Inspector told me verbatim, but I will, to the best of my recollection, relate what John Talbot told me.

In 1895, there was a murder in the town of Langsford, England. Langsford was a small fishing village on the west coast of England between Liverpool and Blackpool. The people there were not strangers to violent death. The sea is cruel. But murder was something else. There had never been a murder in Langsford. The town had a constable, but he was an elderly man and more a night watchman than a constable. He felt, and the Mayor of Langsford agreed with him, that the town needed someone from Scotland Yard to “come up.”

John Talbot was in his mid-thirties at the time and considered to be one of the best detectives on the force.

“The locals expect Scotland Yard men to get results. Make sure you get results.” With those words from his superior, Talbot was sent to Langsford to “wrap things up in two weeks.”

“Some things have changed considerably in law enforcement since 1895,” John related, “but the basics still remain the same. In murder you look for motive, opportunity, and means. Find those three components, and you’ve found your murderer.”

The victim in this case was a twenty-year-old woman, who was found on the Langsford docks at 1:00 AM by the town constable. She had been raped and stabbed in the heart.

John had seen many dead bodies before in his capacity as a police detective and before that in his capacity as a soldier in India’s sunny climes. But this murder hit John personally.

“It’s hard to describe, Reverend. I know all human life is precious, but that young woman seemed more precious. Even in death, she had… I can’t really describe it… she was beautiful but also something more than beautiful. She seemed like an angel. I felt such a rage inside me. If her murderer had been beside me when I viewed the body, I have no doubt I would have killed that man on the spot with my bare hands.”

As it turned out, it didn’t take the Inspector long to find the murderer. The one suspect was a young man who had been engaged to the victim two years before she was murdered. About a year before her death she broke off the engagement and became engaged to another young man from Langsford. The first thought of many of the townspeople when Jennie was found murdered was that her former fiancé had committed the crime. But he had an unassailable alibi; he had been out with the fishing boats during the time of the murder. That left the constable without any other suspects and necessitated calling Scotland Yard.

As John related to me, he followed the usual procedures. He talked to everyone connected to the young women: her parents, her friends, and her fiancé. It was during his interview with the fiancé that John knew he had found the murderer.

“It wasn’t because he didn’t show any emotion when he talked about the woman he had been about to wed. I’d learned by that time that people respond to grief in different ways. Some go cold outside, kind of numb, while others get hysterical. There isn’t one set pattern. So it wasn’t his lack of emotion that made me certain he had murdered Jennifer Cowley. It was the cold hate I saw in his eyes every time he talked about her and every time I mentioned her name. It’s not evidence you can present to a jury -- I knew I still had to prove my case – but I knew as sure as the turning of the earth that Arthur Windom had raped and murdered Jennifer Cowley.”

John needed evidence of a motive if he was going to get a conviction. He could easily establish means and opportunity, but why would a man kill his fiancé? John came up with nothing useful in his countless interviews with people of Langsford. By all accounts Arthur Windom was a beloved native son. He grew up in Langsford, got into some trouble as a school boy, but not anything unusual. He was handsome and a great athlete. The only period of his life in which he didn’t live in Langsford was the four years he spent in India, “a servin’ of her Majesty, the Queen.” When he returned to Langsford at age twenty-six, he was viewed as a conquering hero. And as a conquering hero he became engaged to the prettiest girl in town, Jennifer Cowley. Windom was twenty-eight at the time of Jenny’s death.

After two weeks, the time limit which his superiors had given him, John had no evidence to support his belief in Windom’s guilt. Nor had he told a living soul of his conviction. He was hoping he could turn up something or that a witness would come forward. He asked Scotland Yard for one more week, telling them he was about to crack the case. He was given one more week.

It was more than just the detective in John Talbot that made him unwilling to let go of the case. He had fallen in love with Jennifer Cowley. I can remember the exact words he used to describe his love. “It’s not just a romantic love, Reverend, in fact it isn’t that type of love at all. It’s… well, it’s a spiritual love, and I know a man like me has no right to talk about spiritual things.”

“It’s not a question of rights, John. The spirit goes where it lists. There is no law that says God’s love is confined to church-goers.”

“Thank you for not laughing at me. It was, and still is, of absolute importance to me that Jenny Cowley should know that I loved her. I needed to love her; she deserved to be loved. I spent some time with her family and there was something that her brother told me about her that confirmed for me what I already knew about her.

“He was twelve when she was eighteen. And he was passionately fond, as most English boys are, of football. His favorite team was playing in Liverpool on an upcoming Saturday. Neither the boy’s father or mother could get away from Langsford on the day of the game, so Jennifer agreed to take her brother to the game. At some point during the game, Jennifer spotted a boy, around eight years old, who had somehow gotten separated from his parents. Jenny took that crying boy in her arms and assured him he could stay with her until his parents found him. ‘She took care of everyone like that,’ her brother said through his tears. ‘Why wasn’t there someone there to take care of her when she needed someone?’ Could you have answered her brother, Reverend?”

“No, I could not.”

“Neither could I, but I vowed then and there that if I didn’t collect the evidence to have Windom hanged, I would kill him myself. Oh, I knew what the Christian pastors would tell me. ‘Vengeance is wrong; leave him to God’s justice. She would have forgiven him.’ All that they would say and more. But there was something inside of me then, and it’s still in me, that said, ‘Someone has to stand up for Jenny in the here and now. If anything is to make any sense, someone has to stand up for her.’ I couldn’t get past that. I suppose you’d call it an obsession.”

“An obsession isn’t necessarily bad.”

“But was my obsession wrong?”

“Suppose you finish your story before I say anything more about your obsession.”

After John failed to “crack the case” during his one week extension, he was called back to London. The Langsford murder case was still his case, but only if the local authorities found some evidence, and in that event he would be sent for again. So John went back to his work in London, but he spent all his spare time working on another aspect of the Cowley murder. He checked on Arthur Windom’s war record. That took time, but John was a bulldog on every case he took on, even when he wasn’t emotionally involved with the victim. With the added incentive of love, John was indefatigable.

Windom’s war record was quite good. He had been decorated for bravery on two separate occasions. Talbot found three former officers, now back in England, who had served with Windom. They all spoke highly of his character and his courage under fire. Gathering incriminating evidence via Windom’s war record seemed to be a dead end. But six months after his return to London from Langsford, Talbot received a visitor in his office.

“I’m looking for Inspector Talbot. I’ve come in reference to that advertisement in the paper. It said you was looking to interview them that was in the 2nd Irregular Calvary Regiment from '89 to '93. There was also mention of some kind of reward.”

“Come in and sit down, Mr. uh…”

“My name is Thomas Hughes.”

“Sit down, Mr. Hughes. The reward is not large, just five pounds, but I would be most grateful if you could tell me if you knew Arthur Windom. He was said to be in your regiment."

“Five pounds ain’t much, but it’s better than nothing. Yes, I knew Arthur Windom. What do you want to know about him?”

“First, I would like to know what was your relationship with Arthur Windom while you were in the service.”

“I was his orderly, and he was my superior officer. I was a private, and he was a captain. I got assigned to him after his promotion.”

“And for how long were you his orderly?”

“Two years.”

“During that time did you notice what his relationships were with women?”

“Privates don’t get to go around with captains.”

“Certainly they don’t, but surely during the two years you were Windom’s orderly you must have been told to get out his uniform and clean it and polish his boots for those special affairs officers are always invited to.”

“Yes, Captain Windom went to a lot of those affairs. And he made a lot of married officers pretty nervous.”

“And why was that?”

“’Cause he was handsome and had a way with the ladies.”

“Was there ever one special lady?”

“Well, there was the Colonel’s daughter. She must have been about seventeen or eighteen. And she hated India; most of the women do. Her mother was always after the Colonel to invite the young officers for dinner and cards and so on. So the girl wouldn’t be bored. The Colonel was a tartar with us, but he was a weak sister when it came to his wife. Whatever she wanted, she got. So he always tried to get the young officers over to his place to please his wife who wanted their daughter to meet young men her own age.”

“And that’s how she met Arthur Windom?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t long before they were meeting each other places that neither the Colonel nor his wife knew about. They were very private meetings, if you know what I mean.”

At this point in the interview John Talbot felt he had to make a decision about Thomas Hughes. If he was to get the type of cooperation he needed, he had to appeal to Hughes’ humanity. That was the rub. Did Hughes have any humanity? Talbot decided that he did. He sized Hughes up as a man who would fight with his friend over a shilling, but would never think of taking a single shilling from the same friend if that friend had entrusted his life savings to him.

“Mr. Hughes, I need to appeal to you man to man. I can give you another twenty pounds on top of the five I gave you, but that’s about all I can give you for something that is worth more than a million pounds to me. I need to know if you ever heard or saw anything in those private meetings between Windom and the Colonel’s daughter that would suggest that Windom was capable of raping and murdering a young woman.”

“This sounds serious, Inspector. I don’t know that I want to be involved in …”

“I think Arthur Windom raped and killed a young woman in Langsford because she refused to give him what he wanted before they were married. I can’t save that woman’s life, but I can, with your help, make sure that Windom is called to account for the murder he committed. And if he murdered once, he will do it again, so you would also be helping me to prevent other murders.”

“I’ll help you, Inspector. I never liked Windom, but I didn’t want to be the type of man who does a man dirt just because he doesn’t like him. But if it’s murder, and worse yet, rape you’re talking about, I’m for you and that woman that’s been murdered, and I’m against that Windom.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hughes. Is there something then that you saw or heard that would indicate that Windom was capable of rape and murder?”

“Yes, sir, there was. He had been seeing the Colonel’s daughter privately for about six months, and one night she came out to the Captain’s tent. I was just about to come in and ask if there was nothing else he wanted me to do before turning in. I stopped short of going in though because I could hear him screaming at someone. It didn’t take long for me to make out that it was the Colonel’s daughter he was screaming at.

“He was boiling mad at her for coming out to where we was camped and showing herself where somebody might see her. Oh, she cried something awful and said nobody had seen her and she just had to see him and when was they going to get married like he said they were.

“Well, he made it clear they were not going to get married ever. That he wouldn’t marry damaged goods and such talk like that. It was pretty clear, Inspector, that it was him that made her damaged goods and that he had promised to marry her. But after she settled down from all her crying she got real calm and she told him that she didn’t care what happened to her; she was going to tell everybody what he had done.”

“What was his response?”

“That’s what sent chills down my spine, Inspector. He said he’d kill her; not in the way you say ‘I’ll kill you’ to somebody that cheated you at cards or because you’re angry but you don’t really have any intention of killing ‘em. I mean he meant it. And she must have believed him because she never said a word about what he done. Not even in the hospital.”

“Why did she go to the hospital?”

“’Cause she almost drowned. Her parents said she fell into the river, but I think – no, I don’t just think it, I know it – she jumped in after what he said to her that night. Some young lieutenant that was just going back to the barracks after having a few saw her go off the bridge, and he jumped in and saved her. She spent some time in the hospital, but she came out alright. And you know at the time I left India I heard she was engaged to that young lieutenant, only he wasn’t a lieutenant anymore, he was a captain. Imagine that, he went out for a few beers and ended up saving the Colonel’s daughter!”

“I’m glad it worked out for that young girl. But let’s not forget the girl that it didn’t work out for. I can’t prove it, but I’m convinced more than ever, after what you’ve said, that Jennifer Cowley was going to break off her engagement to Windom, or else she refused to have relations with him before they were married. He most likely had no more intention of marrying Jennifer than he had of marrying the Colonel’s daughter.”

“No, I don’t think Windom was made for marriage, Inspector, leastways not to a fisherman’s daughter. He always said he’d only marry a woman as wealthy as a duchess and then he’d be as faithful to her money as he was unfaithful to her.”

“I need your help, Thomas, and I want to make it clear what type of help I’m asking you to give me. I don’t have enough evidence to arrest Windom, let alone to have him convicted of the murder. I intend to confront him, give him a chance to confess, and then kill him. You needn’t know all the details. All you need to know is that I plan to go outside the law to bring Windom to justice.”

“What do you need from me, Inspector?”

“I need you to write him a letter, which I’ll dictate, asking him to meet you on a certain date on the moors near Cheviot Hills.”

“Don’t you think he’ll be a bit suspicious, me asking him to meet me on the moors?”

“Possibly. But why should he be suspicious of you? And when you tell him you found a way to make 10,000 pounds, but you need the help of a bold Officer of the Dragoons, he’ll meet you. And we’ll make sure to tell him to destroy the letter after he reads it. That way there will be no way anybody will link you to his death.”

“It all sounds kind of crazy, Inspector. Two hours ago, I was reading an advertisement in the paper that said there was 5 pounds reward for anyone that had served in the 2nd Irregular Calvary Regiment. Now I’m to invite Arthur Windom to be murdered on the moors.”

“Not murdered, Thomas; he is going to be executed.”

“Begging your pardon, Inspector. I didn’t mean to call you a murderer. I think you’re a man.”

“Then you’ll help me?”

“That I will. You dictate the letter and I’ll sign it and send it, though I’m a bit slow on the writing.”

“Does Windom know that?”

“Yes, sir, he does. He once asked me to write a letter for him, and he was mad at me when he saw what a bad job I made of it.”

“Then we’ll send him a letter that is a bad job of it so he’ll know it came from you. But I should warn you, Thomas; once he sees me there, he’ll know who set him up. And if he kills me, he’ll come after you.”

“I’ll take that chance. There’s just one thing, Inspector.”

“What?”

“I’ll take the five pounds ‘cause I need it, but I don’t want no more money from you than that. I just want you to let me know when it’s done. Just send me a line that says, ‘It’s done.’”

“Thomas, you’re a man. God bless you.”

A certain chill came over me when John came to the end of his description of his meeting with Thomas Hughes. I knew that I was now going to be told about Inspector John Talbot’s meeting with Arthur Windom on the bare lonely moors of Cheviot Hills, after which I would be expected to render some kind of judgment. I told John one more time that I was not fit to judge anyone, and he was not obligated to go any further. Though I must admit I was not immune to the all too human failing of morbid curiosity. I was afraid he was going to tell me what happened on the moor between him and Arthur Windom, and I was afraid he wouldn’t tell me. But John was not a man for half measures. He had chosen me as the man to whom his tale had to be told, and there was no going back. He accepted a glass of water, finished it in one gulp, and proceeded with his narrative.

“The letter did the trick. Two weeks after we sent it I met Arthur Windom at midnight on the moors. It sounds like some kind of detective story, but that’s how it turned out. There he was. If he was surprised to see me instead of Thomas Hughes, he didn’t show it. He was completely self-possessed and calm. Probably because he thought I was there to trick him into a confession or something like that. The surprise came when I pulled my revolver and leveled it at his heart.”

“What’s that for, Inspector? Surely you don’t intend to shoot me?”

“I do.”

At those words his self-possession left him, and he assumed the defensive posture of a hunted animal at bay.

“Why?”’

“You raped and murdered Jenny Cowley.”

“That’s absurd, she was my fiancé. I loved her.”

“So you told me.”

“Then why are you accusing me of murdering her?”

“And raping her.”

“All right, why are you accusing me of raping and murdering her?”

“I’m not accusing you. I’m telling you I know you did it. And I’m going to give you one chance to save your miserable life. You confess and I’ll put this gun down.”

“You’d let me go?”

“No, I’ll put this gun down and we’ll settle it between us with knives. I’m sure you carry some kind of blade; maybe it’s the same one you killed Jenny with. You’re supposed to be quite an athlete as well; maybe you’ll get lucky. If you do you can drop me in the moor and live happily ever after.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

“How do I know that you’ll keep your promise?”

“You’ve been in the service. You can read a man, even if you’re not a man yourself.”

Windom’s eyes flashed hate at John’s remark, which was what John wanted.

“You’re an English gentleman, and a English gentleman never breaks his word, is that it?”

“Let’s just say I prefer to take you on man to man, and to the knife.”

“All right, you’ll have your knife fight. And I’ll dump you in the moors after I slice you up. Oh, wait, you wanted a confession first. It’s all quite simple. The young lady wanted to call off the marriage. It seems that she had detected certain deficiencies in my character. I wasn’t really put out by her breaking off the marriage, because I had no intention of going through with it. But I wasn’t leaving without my… well, to put it in military terms, without my commission. She owed that to me. It was her own fault that I killed her. She made such a fuss that I had to shut her up. Now, I ask you, man to man, does it really matter that one silly twit of a girl died before her time? I saw young men and plenty of children die in India, and no one cared. Why make such a fuss over one dead girl? Well, say something, you stupid copper.”

John never said a word. He set his gun aside and drew his knife as Windom drew his. The fight was long, and John received a wound in the thigh, which troubled him the rest of his life, but in the end, Arthur Windom was buried in the moors of Cheviot Hills. Three days later Thomas Hughes received a letter of just two words: “It’s done.”

“I know it’s unfair to place my burden on you, Reverend, but I needed someone to hear my story.”

“Tell me, John, now with benefit of hindsight, do you regret what you did?”

“No.”

“Then I’m at a loss to understand why you want my judgment, as you put it, at all.”

“It’s like this, Reverend. There are things you know inside, things that just are. I fell in love with Jennie Cowley, and I couldn’t let her murderer live. Nothing will make me regret what I did. But it’s been lonely keeping the secret all those years. I needed someone to share it with, and not just anybody, but someone who could, if not agree with what I did, at least understand why I did it. Even if your judgment goes against me, I’m still glad I told you my secret.”

“There is a passage in the Bible, John, which you may be familiar with. Under attack from the Pharisees who accuse Him of undermining the law, Christ tells them: ‘Think not that I come to destroy the law and the prophets, I come to fulfill.’ Any law, it seems to me as a Christian, to be a binding law must be rooted in God’s law. If there is something in the letter of our law that prevents a man from carrying out the spirit of God’s law, then I must side with the man who carries out the spirit of God’s law in defiance of the letter of man’s law.”

“You surprise me, Reverend. I never expected your approval.”

“You have it.”

I don’t think John was the type of man who cried often, but he cried then, and we embraced.

“There’s one more thing, John. You said you read Shakespeare.”

“Yes, often.”

“Have you read the sonnets?”

“No, just the plays; I’m not too fond of sonnets.”

“Well, there is one sonnet I want to read to you. It’s the greatest Christian work of devotion ever written, yet it is seldom noted by the members of the Christian community. If you hand me that volume of Shakespeare on the table there, I shall read it to you.”

John handed me the volume of Shakespeare’s works, and I read him Sonnet 31:

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I loved, I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.

“What you loved and still love in Jennifer Cowley is still alive with Christ. If you have Him you have her. Our Lord said in the Kingdom of Heaven they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but we shouldn’t take that to mean that there are no special bonds between a man and a woman in heaven. How could the Source of all love banish any genuine, pure bond of love between a man and a woman? Jenny waits for you, John, in the arms of the Lord.”

“Do you believe that, Reverend?”

“Yes, I do. And you’re not to be stranger here after tonight. I expect to see you often, if not in church, then here in my study. Now, will you kneel and let me give you my blessing?”

“Yes, please do.”

“Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord, and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night, for the love of thy only Son, our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.”

John retired two years after our meeting with over thirty years of service to Scotland Yard. He lived well into his eighties, and we became very close friends. He only attended services on Christmas and Easter, but he visited my study almost every week. I must relate the circumstances of his death.

During World War II, England was under siege from German planes. We were in complete darkness every night. The lights of London could not be used for fear of the German war planes. Although he was in his mid-eighties, John Talbot was still strong and healthy. He served as an air raid warden, and he was always the last to seek shelter. “Women, children, and everybody else before me,” was John Talbot’s code of conduct. One night the German bombers exploded a building on top of John. He was still alive, but no one knew quite how. He asked for me. When I got to him he was almost completely covered with the remains of the building, but I could see his face and shoulders beneath the rubble.

“I didn’t want to die until you came, Chris.”

“Are you in much pain, John?”

“No, not much. I see her now, Chris. It’s as you told me that first night in your study. She’s alive and in His arms. I’m going to her and to Him. I must thank you for…”

“No, John, I must thank you.”

I made the sign of the cross over him, and gave him my final blessing.

“O merciful God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who is the resurrection and the life, in whom whosoever believeth, shall live though he die, and whosoever liveth and believeth in him, shall not die eternally; who also taught us (by his holy Apostle Paul) not to be sorry, as men without hope, for them that sleep in him: We meekly beseech thee (O Father) to raise us from the death of sin unto the life of righteousness, that when we shall depart this life, we may rest in him, as our hope is this our brother doth; and that at the general resurrection in the last day, we may be found acceptable in thy sight, and receive that blessing which thy well-beloved son shall then pronounce to all that love and fear thee, saying, Come ye blessed children of my Father, receive the kingdom prepared for you from the beginning of the world. Grant this we beseech thee, O merciful Father, through Jesus Christ our mediator and redeemer. Amen.”

The most remarkable thing about John Talbot was that he didn’t see himself as a remarkable man. He saw himself as a sinner, and his constant prayer to our Lord was always, “Lord, have mercy on me a sinner.” I loved him then. I love him now, and I shall always love him. I think in many respects, John was the last of a breed. His Christianity was in the blood. He was of the same metal as Alfred and the Christian heroes of Walter Scott. When there are no Englishmen left like John Talbot, there will no longer be an England.

+++

Blessed England, Blessed Europe

“This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England…” – Shakespeare

I saw two Londons the other day. The first London was in a short documentary following a movie made in 1940. An American photo journalist gave Americans a close-up view of Londoners going about their daily lives despite the fact that every night the Germans destroyed their buildings and killed thousands of their people in air raids. Still, in spite of doom, the Londoners remained undaunted. The American journalist concluded that “London will survive.”

I saw the second London in a recent news report from a London newspaper:

Carol singers raising money for a cancer charity in Trafalgar Square were attacked by protesters during a night of disorder that saw 139 arrests.

Shops were attacked, passers-by threatened and car windows smashed during a demonstration in central London against the election result in the Democratic Republic of Congo…

Masked teenage boys ‘stormed’ the singers, throwing bottles of water and hot drinks into the crowd. A woman in her 40s, said to be undergoing treatment for breast cancer, was pulled to the ground. A youth attempted to set light to the Christmas tree, an annual gift from the city of Oslo since 1947, one witness said.

The obvious question is, “Why did the Londoners of 1940 stand firm against megatons of German bombs while the Londoners of 2011 cannot even prevent a few black punks from terrorizing their people?” The answer is quite simple: The Londoners of 1940 might have loosened their ties to the past prior to World War II, but they hadn’t yet made a complete break with their heroic past. Hence they had the spiritual reserves to survive as a people. But the modern Londoners, like all modern Europeans, are morally adrift. They don’t believe in the same God that their ancestors believed in, so they can’t respond to black barbarism in the way their ancestors would have responded. If you don’t regard black people as gods you can treat them like the thugs that they are.

In the 18^th and 19^th centuries the British not only defended their own in Britain, they defended their own abroad. For instance, in my school days of long ago, I remember reading about an incident that took place in an African country in the 1800s. A British couple were jostled in an African riot, and in retaliation the British invaded the country and deposed the black dictator. Nor did the British in India allow their people to be killed or injured without retaliating. It’s sad and tragic when white men no longer believe they should defend their own people.

The incident in Trafalgar Square was typical of the ongoing war waged by the colored races against white people. And the liberal response to such incidents is always the same. “Let’s not let the acts of a few violent ‘youths’ prejudice us against the vast majority of fine, moderate black people who are a credit to multi-racial Britain!” If the white-liberal does not know by now that there is no such thing as a moderate black person he will never know, because he has no intention of removing the mind-forged blinders from his eyes. The only reason every single black in a formerly white country doesn’t riot, rape, pillage, and murder is because some are still afraid that there might be consequences for their actions. The escalating number of black atrocities in every European-based nation is the result of more and more blacks coming to an awareness that there will be no white response to black violence except the usual liberal double-speak. Gangs of black murderers and rapists will be called ‘youths,’ and their criminal activities will be described as ‘unfortunate’ but (as if some outside source was making them commit violent acts) “understandable under the circumstances, blah, blah, blah…”

No matter what acts of violence are perpetuated by blacks we must, our clerical elite tell us, keep up the refrain, “Let’s not let a few misguided youths prejudice us against a whole people. And let us not become violent; that would be counter-productive.” But why shouldn’t whites be prejudiced against blacks? Have the negroes as a race ever shown themselves capable of supporting the good and hating evil? The bolder ones seem to genuinely enjoy murder, rape, and mayhem. And the more timid majority enjoy the violent activities of their fellow blacks vicariously. While working as a police officer I was struck by the contrast between the black and white neighborhoods. When we went into white neighborhoods to arrest white punks the people there cheered us. When we went into black neighborhoods to arrest black punks the people threw rocks and homemade explosives at us.

And why is it a given that white people must not respond violently to black crime? Because it is ‘counter-productive’? I beg to differ; immediate, violent retaliation is the only thing that does deter black violence. As whites retreat and appease, the blacks advance and escalate their violence. If the anti-Christian Christians of the new Christless churches would stop looking for the mythical, moderate blacks whom they can worship and adore and face reality, they would see that every humane, charitable impulse on this earth emanates from white people. It’s quite simple, Mr. Negro-worshipping Liberal. When the white remnant disappears so will charity. And then what will happen to your beloved black gods?

In view of what Savanhu considered to be European unfitness to govern Rhodesia, we might examine what he would consider to be African fitness. Having already glanced at African political fitness we can leave that on one side. But where for example the Africans’ purely humanitarian regard for their own kind is concerned, we find the Native Affairs Department reporting that film scenes of African children suffering from disease and starvation are greeted with shrieks of laughter by African audiences, “We have found that a distressingly large proportion of our rural population see nothing but humour in the sufferings of other people,” Mr Nesham, the N.A.D. senior information officer, reported. Similarly, Mr Guy, of the Rhodesian Association for the Prevention of Tuberculosis, stated: “I have met no Coloured, Asiatic or African workers in the campaign against tuberculosis. Is it too much to ask members of these communities to come to our assistance?” Likewise, the only African-managed orphanage in Rhodesia reported that it has to rely entirely on White generosity for its support, as Africans themselves refuse to contribute because they feel that that is “the white man’s job.”

It is the colored barbarians’ love of cruelty and indifference to human misery (and the Asian surpasses the black in this regard) that separates them forever from the antique European. Between such wholly different peoples there can be only enmity. The white is repulsed by the black’s barbarism and the black is enraged by the white man’s attempts to bring him out of his beloved Babylonian night. The new “unity” between whites and the colored races has come about because the white liberal has become a techno-barbarian. The techno-barbarian, like the colored barbarian, has not charity, but there is a difference between the two barbarian tribes. The techno-barbarian, because he once was Christian, does not want to look at the consequences of his inhuman philosophy. He relies on his technology to shield his eyes from his own cruelty. Where a colored barbarian would kill a child up close and personal with no compunction whatsoever, a white liberal has the child tortured and killed in an abortuary hidden from his liberal eyes. The modern liberal is like the head bad guy in the old gangster films. He tells the hero that he deplores violence, but he must torture him if he doesn’t talk. When the hero refuses to talk the leader exits the room and “regrettably” leaves the hero to the not-so-tender care of his subordinates. Robespierre, an ardent opponent of capital punishment who had thousands killed in the name of humanity, was a forerunner of the modern technocratic liberal.

The crazed voices you hear from the hinterlands of Liberaldom are the “conservative Christians” of the Catholic and Protestant denominations. “It doesn’t matter that white people no longer support the antique faith of Europe,” they tell us. “The black, yellow and brown people of the world will take up the cause of Christian Europe.” Oh really? Where is the evidence for such an astounding claim? In Africa where the inhabitants, in the absence of white rule, have returned to cannibalism and voodoo? In China where Asian cruelty still reigns supreme over all other forms of cruelty? How about Mexico where the ancient Aztec faith has returned? Et tu, Mr. Conservative Christian? Why must you plunge your dagger into the European remnant? Aren’t there already enough bleeding wounds in the Europeans? If the conservative wants to regain his honor as a man of Europe instead of trying to hold on to his cherished corner of Liberaldom, he must venture forth with the remnant band of Europeans to wrest the kingdom of Europe from the liberals and colored barbarians. But it is easier to proclaim heathendom the new Christendom than it is to fight for the restoration of Christendom. Which is why we won’t see the conservative in the ranks of the antique Europeans. That’s just as well, because the conservative, when forced to choose between the antique Europeans and black-worshipping Liberaldom will always side with the liberals. Something to do with the side their bread is buttered on.

In a short story called “The Haunted Man,” Charles Dickens tells the story of an educated man, a Chemist, who makes a bargain with a phantom from the world of spirits. The ghost grants him a “gift.” The Chemist asks to be released from the remembrance of all the sorrow, wrong, and trouble he has ever known.

“I have the power to cancel their remembrance – to leave but very faint, confused traces of them, that will die out soon,” returned the Spectre.

And the Chemist is also granted the power to erase the remembrance of sorrow and trouble in the lives of others.

“And take this with you, man whom I here renounce! The gift that I have given, you shall give again, go where you will. Without recovering yourself the power that you have yielded up, you shall henceforth destroy its like in all whom you approach. Your wisdom has discovered that the memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble is the lot of all mankind, and that mankind would be the happier, in its other memories, without it. Go! Be its benefactor! Freed from such remembrance, from this hour, carry involuntarily the blessing of such freedom with you. Its diffusion is inseparable and inalienable form you. Go! Be happy in the good you have won, and in the good you do!”

Of course the “gift” does not make the Chemist a happy man; he becomes a haunted man, and he does not bring happiness to others, for without the remembrance of past sorrows there can be no present joy. The haunted man and the people he blights with his presence know neither sorrow nor joy; they are devoid of all humanity. And without a knowledge of past sorrow the haunted man cannot know the Man of Sorrows who turned our sorrows to joy with His resurrection from the dead. It is only when a woman breaks the curse by refusing to give up the remembrance of her dead infant, that the chemist and those he polluted can once again see the light.

Redlaw fell upon his knees with a loud cry.

‘O Thou,’ he said, ‘who, through the teaching of pure love, hast graciously restored me to the memory which was the memory of Christ upon the cross, and of all the good who perished in His cause, receive my thanks, and bless her!’

I would suggest that the great majority of modern Europeans are in the spiritual state of Redlaw, the Chemist. They have tried to build a utopian world of science in which there is no remembrance of past sorrows. So the faith of their ancestors, who believed in the Man of Sorrows, must be either eliminated or modified into a Christianity without the cross.

I love the ending of Dickens’ story. The haunted man is not restored by a wise man; he is restored to life because one simple, unlearned soul loves too much to give up her remembrance of past sorrow. Christ’s Europe, the Europe of Grimm’s fairy tales, “A Christmas Carol” and Christmas caroling, church bells at midnight, and evening lingerings, depends on our loving remembrance of the cross of Christ and our determined refusal to let His Europe, with all its sorrows and troubles, die. Europeans who love deeply will simply not let barbarian hordes rule His Europe. God has never abandoned His people. If we hold fast to our remembrance of Christian Europe we will see miracles in the blessed plot of land and throughout the sacred realm of Europe. +

A Christmas Carol

'I am mortal,' Scrooge remonstrated, 'and liable to fall.'

'Bear but a touch of my hand there,' said the Spirit, laying it upon his heart, 'and you shall be upheld in more than this!'

It’s the time of year when I read A Christmas Carol, Dickens’ marvelous Christmas gift to the people of Europe, with my family. There is always something new that comes across to you when re-reading a great work of literature such as A Christmas Carol. On this reading I was struck by the relative ease with which Scrooge was brought to repentance by Jacob Marley and the three spirits of Christmas. Scrooge was in desperate spiritual straits, which is why the spirits visited him, but he was a mere traditional sinner addicted to greed and avarice. The spirits of Christmas touched his heart by showing him scenes from his childhood, former loves lost because of his avarice, and his eventual lonely demise if he remained obdurate. And Scrooge did repent, but what if he had been a liberal (which is something infinitely worse than a miser)? Would the spirits have had such an easy time of it? Could the Spirit of Christmas Past touch a liberal’s heart as he touched Scrooge’s and transform the liberal into something other than a liberal? No, the triune spirits of Christmas could not melt a liberal’s heart; we have seen the liberals reject the spirits’ overtures time and time again. What enables the liberal to remain steadfast against the light that caused Scrooge to repent? Solzhenitsyn wondered about the phenomenon of the liberals’ stubborn resistance to the light in the second book of his Gulag memoirs. He concluded that it was ideology that gave the liberal such an advantage over the regular sinners like Scrooge and the Macbeths. The Macbeths had guilty consciences after their blood-letting, Solzhenitsyn opined, because they lacked a utopian ideology that could kill all the “compunctious visitings of nature” in the human breast. Burke made the same point as Solzhenitsyn centuries earlier when he wrote about the radical French revolutionaries, the progenitors of the Russian communists and the European liberals:

Nothing can be conceived more hard than the heart of a thoroughbred metaphysician. It comes nearer to the cold malignity of a wicked spirit than to the frailty and passion of a man. It is like that of the principle of evil himself, incorporeal, pure, unmixed, dephlegmated, defecated evil.

To completely divest oneself of all humanity is no easy task, but the liberal, for all practical purposes, has done it. He has built a world where every good and noble sentiment stemming from the human heart is condemned by law, or else, if not proscribed by law, covered with scorn and ridicule. The liberal has succeeded where Scrooge failed, because he has made his rebellion against the light into religious orthodoxy. He has become a Jew by hardening his heart just like the Jew:

You may as well do anything most hard,
As seek to soften (than which what’s harder?)
His Jewish heart.

The spirits of Christmas had to convince Scrooge that his contra mundum stance had alienated him from his fellow men by killing the ties, such as our attachments to kith and kin, that make us human. The spirits of Christmas have quite a different task ahead of them, a much more difficult task, when they face off against the modern liberal. Unlike Scrooge, the liberal is not, at least at the superficial level, an outcast from his fellow men. Nor is the liberal contra mundum; quite the contrary, he is completely in sync with the modern world. It’s ironic – the repentant Scrooge, were he to be transported to modern Liberaldom, would have to be contra mundum if he wanted to hold onto his new faith in the God who “made lame beggars walk and blind men see.” The repentant Scrooge living in modern Babylon would face different visitations than the unrepentant Scrooge living in Christendom faced. The satanic Spirit of Earth Days Past would show him the girl he could have married had he been willing to abandon his sexist, patriarchal notions of marriage. He would also show him scenes of his childhood in which the other children shunned him because he didn’t worship negroes or blaspheme the living God. Then the demonic Spirit of Liberaldom Present would show Scrooge all the jobs he had lost because he would not bend his knee to Babylon. And finally the Spirit of Liberaldom Future would show Scrooge his lonely demise, shunned by his fellow men for his refusal to worship the gods of Liberaldom. But of course the satanic spirits would not show Scrooge what awaits him beyond the grave, a crown of glory, for having fought the good fight. Nor will any of the demonic spirits of Liberaldom past, present, or future, show their adherents what awaits them when they cross the bar.

A direct attack on God Himself is beyond Satan’s capabilities. But he can attack His people. Following the same procedure that a farmer might follow to eliminate vermin (and that is how Satan views human beings) Satan works to destroy the breeding grounds for God’s grace. He seeks to separate a man from his ties to kith and kin that enable him to feel there is a human heart at the center of the universe. “From my hearth fire,” the antique European asserts, “to His heavenly kingdom is not such a great leap, because my God has taken flesh and dwelt amongst us.” The desire to keep the vision of a loving God revealed to us at the European hearth remains the same. But the struggle has changed. The arch enemy of mankind has shifted the scene of battle. Satan used to fight contra mundum; he was against Christian Europe, but in the Babylonian present he fights in defense of Liberaldom. The antique European now must be contra mundum; he is against the Babylonian state, against the negro-worshipping church, and against the new family structure of the liberals which consists of inter-racial couples gathered around one universal bonfire dedicated to the gods of Babylon.

The antique Europeans’ situation is far from hopeless. We are no worse off, as regards the numbers arrayed against us, than Alexander Smollett was when he flew his sovereign’s colors in defiance of a seemingly invincible horde of pirates. But we must respond to the liberal-barbarian coalition as Smollet responded to the pirates. He was confident in the rightness of his cause, and he knew that his enemies had an implacable hatred for him and his fellow Englishmen. The fight had to be to the death; pirates do not give quarter. Nor do the liberals and their barbarian colored allies give quarter to white Europeans. Babylonians can never unite in love, because there is no love in Babylon, but they can unite in hate. And they hate with the satanic fury of a people wedded to darkness. If the remnant band of whites were to be eliminated the dark races and the liberals would dry up and die, because the sum total of their lives is the hatred of the white, and they feed off that hatred like vultures feed on carrion.

You can’t reason with the liberals or the colored tribesmen. Their hatred is deeply ingrained in their souls, and they will not abandon it because it is wrong -- they have declared that wrong is right – or because it is un-Christian – they are at war with Christ. Jean de La Fontaine wrote a fable called “The Wolf and the Lamb” that the European who wishes to remain European should take note of.

Might has a conquering logic of its own,
As will immediately be shown.

A Lamb one morning to the brink
Of a clear stream went down to drink.
A Wolf adventuring in quest of food
Came to the spot, and flew into a passion,
Saying: ‘I like your hardihood,
To foul my drink in this disgusting fashion.
Now for the chastisement I owe you!’
‘Nay,’ said the Lamb, ‘so please Your Grace,
Your Lordship’s wrath is out of place.
A moment’s thought will clearly show you
I’m drinking twenty yards below you,
And therefore cannot possibly
Befoul your beverage in the least degree.’
‘You do,’ he snarled; ‘moreover, I’ll be sworn
‘Twas you maligned me last July.’
‘How could I, when I wasn’t born?
I’m not yet weaned,’ was the reply.
‘Well, if it wasn’t you, it was your brother.’
‘I have none.’ ‘Then it was some other
Of your insufferable crew--
‘Tis common talk on every side.
I’m sick of being vilified
By sheep, lambs, dogs, and shepherds too:
‘Tis time I made my vengeance good.’
Thereon he haled him to the wood,
And ate him in a righteous fury
Without recourse to judge or jury.

The antique European has been found guilty, “without recourse to judge or jury,” of crimes against the colored races. And for his crimes he, and all those who refuse to renounce him, are to be destroyed as the Lamb in La Fontaine’s fable was destroyed. If you feel angry at the unjust condemnation of the ancient Europeans, and if you are enraged at the liberals’ efforts, in tandem with the colored barbarians, to destroy the European remnant, you will face the liberal and colored coalition with the resolve of the European heroes of old. We are told to hate the devil and his works. The techno barbaric-colored barbaric world of Liberaldom is the work of Satan. The passionate love of our people, the remnant Europeans, will enkindle a hate for Liberaldom that will ultimately break down the walls of Liberaldom. What is needful is that the European should hate and love with all his heart.

It’s quite telling that Scrooge’s journey toward redemption starts when the Spirit of Christmas Past touches his heart. That is our starting point for a European counter-revolution: a heart connected to our European past. Christ loved so much that He refused to let those He loved die. We, who love His people and the Little European Town of Bethlehem that they built and consecrated to Him, should love enough to keep the European Bethlehem alive.

The modern liberal professes to be very wise, much wiser than the Europeans of the past. But if the liberal is so wise, why does he worship the ignoble black savage? And the churchmen who ape the beliefs of the liberals? Why does their new faith of the illuminated elect boil down, in practice, to the worship of the negro? Because the modern liberal and the modern cleric have forsaken the incarnate God of the Christmas Carol for a mind-forged, esoteric system that bids its devotees kill the heart so that the mind can be ‘illuminated.’

And we see before us the results of their wonderful cogitations. We must reject their world, in which the Light of the world is replaced by darkness, and stay connected to the non-esoteric world of Dickens’ Christmas Carol. That is our world, a world where a repentant sinner can become a man with a heart connected to His Sacred Heart:

…and it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!

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