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INVESTIGATE YOURSELF

EVERYTHING THAT IS GOOD IN MAN is associated with his fighting qualities, and he who has no fighting qualities is not a man, even though he looks like one. In fact, it is man's fighting powers that make him what he is. These fighting qualities are manifested in hundreds of different ways, according to the breed and character of the individual.

Why then should we suppress and defame the highest and holiest and most virile of masculine forces? Why should we declare that the virtues of tranquility are nobler than the virtues of combat? What reason is there in this? The argument for “peace of earth” is without logic, without reason and without justice. It is at enmity with every man whose prosperity is still to be won.

Is not all life a battle for bread? How can we get lands, women and gold, if we must not fight for them? What madness therefore to condemn the struggle for existence? Rather should we glorify it and raise it to the highest pinnacle of honor—deify it in fact.

Ask yourself—are you a winner in the struggle for existence. If not, why not? Why are you a failure? Why are you so helpless and suppressed? Why so inefficient? What is the matter with you? Where are your fighting qualities? Have you really got any? If so, why do you permit yourself to be crushed and broken?

Go—investigate yourself.


Free America

That seat of science Athens,
And earth's proud mistress, Rome,
Where now are all their glories
We scarce can find a tomb.
Then guard your rights, Americans,
Nor stoop to falsehood sway,
Oppose, oppose, oppose, oppose
For North America.

Proud Albion bow'd to Caesar,
And numerous lords before,
To Picts, to Danes, to Normans,
And many masters more;
But we can boast Americans
Have never fall'n a prey,
Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza
For Free America.

We led fair Freedom hither,
And lo, the desert smiled,
A paradise of pleasure
New opened in the wild;
Your harvest, bold Americans,
No power shall snatch away,
Preserve, preserve, preserve your rights
In Free America.

Torn from a world of tyrants
Beneath this western sky
We formed a new dominion,
A land of liberty;
The world shall own we're freemen here,
And such will ever be,
Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza
For love and liberty.

God bless this maiden climate,
And through her vast domain
May hosts of heroes cluster
That scorn to wear a chain.
And blast the venal sycophants
Who dare our rights betray;
Assert yourselves, yourselves, yourselves
For brave America,

Lift up your hearts, my heroes,
And swear with proud disdain,
The wretch that would ensnare you
Shall spread his net in vain;
Should Europe empty all her force,
We'd meet them in array,
And shout huzza, huzza, huzza
For brave America.

The land where freedom reigns shall still
Be masters of the main,
In giving laws and freedom
To subject France and Spain;
And all the isles o'er ocean spread
Shall tremble and obey,
The prince who rules by Freedom's laws
In North America.


“Thus did the great guile-masters
Their toils and their tangles set,
And as wide as was the water,
So wide was woven the net.”

Our Federal Government may be appropriately compared to a pirate ship, cleverly disguised as a friendly armed cruiser, convoying a fleet of peaceful merchantmen loaded with an immense treasure and Two-hundred-million passengers. When it first came to their “assistance” it was Oh! so kindly! so affectionate! so full of loving regard for its intended prey, for the welfare and bon-voyage of its quarry.

Now, however, that its fifty ships of state are out in the open ocean, and absolutely at its mercy, it strips off its decoy rig, hoists the “Deaths-head-and-bloody-bones,” opens its hidden portholes, runs out its round-lipped broadsides, and yells through its editorial speaking-trumpets: “Heave to there, or you'll be blown out of the water!”

Thus it will be seen the Jesuitic “Evangel of Equality” has proved itself a tremendous success. It seduced the American People into a feeling of contentment and security till their “bonds” and fetters were properly forged, polished, and neatly riveted on.










Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt


“Verily it was no child's play,
When Sigmund and Ossur met that day,”
Swords alight with fury and bane,
Determination to slay or be slain.

As blood-sworn brothers turn,
As greatness brooks no spurn,
Verily these now-heroes of old,
Each gaze the other does hold.

There can be only one victor,
To emerge from the wrack,
Seize the other by the throat,
Of that surety—no lack.

Words given, oaths taken,
There is no withdrawal,
The span of a breath,
Crowned ambition;
One outlasts the other.


THOUGHT IS MARCHING ONWARD STILL

Tombs of tyrants—graves of bondsmen
Lie around us cold and chill,
Teaching by their silent warning
Thought is marching onward still.

Throbbing with the hope of ages
Hearts of blinded millions thrill,
Crowned with thorns, or crowned with laurels,
Thought is marching onward still.

Millions sunk in saddening bondage,
Other millions millions kill;
Yet, amid the crash of armies,
Thought is marching onward still.

Striding o'er the world's broad highway,
Slow surmounting adverse hill,
Strides the celeste-born immortal—
Thought is marching onward still.

Through the streets of steepled city,
Where the fever-fumes distil,
With distant goal in eye-range,
Thought is marching—marching still.

Aye, dispelling mental darkness,
Aye, dispersing clouds of ill,
Aye, with unblenched brow and bearing,
Thought is marching—marching still.

Firmly fronting marshalled cohorts,
Heedless of the despot's will,
Marching proud to Miriam-music,
Thought to victory hurries still.


Marcet sine adversario virtus;
Omnibus locis fit caedes




Like a Roman Despot of Old the Mob delights to be flattered. No praise is too fulsome for it to swallow. Thus it is deified by its cunning courtiers, who know all the time (in their hearts) that it is a foul and half-insane monster. Thus its favorites are only those who can complacently sink their own individuality and orate before it the acceptable things that its madness craves for. Its murderous, irrational nature augurs its own slavery. How easy it is to be soothed by slippery tongues and its hatreds flamed by plastic aristocrats cannot be overmuch stated. It vigorously quaffs down the Delectable Lies of Government before it shares amongst itself the dreg-ideology of to-day. Its ‘Resistance’ is a byword for failure and a self-doomed generation of Catalines and would-be Sallusts without Caesars. There cannot be a single Count Richelieu counted among its effervescent putridity.

Those that separate from this teeming mass of psychic madness and repugnant cowardice find themselves in a terrible quagmire of being rejected by these animal-slaves (are they any better than animals?), and understanding the Plastocracy hates and discounts their very existence, they seek, unconsciously, the Higher Law, that Rule of Bone.

What other route can one march down before his resentment and wrath boils and bubbles forth in a scorching display of fulgent explosivity? How much can a man endure before he takes matters into his own hands?




The land is the land of the strongest hand
That can lead its legions through.






America! America! in spite of all the surreptitious bonds that in thy sleep have been laid upon thee yet pregnant thy womb is with men of nerve—men of valor—men of might. Lo! the hour approacheth when, in dire travail, thou shalt give birth unto thunderbolts, and Joves to handle them.

Behold that time cometh! Nay, it is at hand! But it will not be a period of pure delight. No! No! It will be a day of wrath, a dreadful day—a day of judgement, tribulation, triumph. And lo! a new nobility shall be born unto thee, furious and unrelenting, O America! for our time here hath proven only that there shall be a new Epoch to master, whatever brings the future.

Whoso maketh himself a dove shall be eaten by the hawk. I have seen the stirrings and have felt the ripples, for this incoming age of ‘decentralization’ is as no different from other disparate ages; power cometh to he who conquers, in love, in war and in the game of nations, thus a truth is spoken. The sword shall, always and forever, be the kingmaker and breaker—Let all other myths be heaped up in the Void where the wreckage of forgott'n and useless things pile. The proud refrain to trumpet aloud:

"I dream of an empire as great—
And prouder than Rome of old,
With its temples and towers of Fate—
Its Eagles of war and Gold."


Sound, sound the trumpet, blow the fife
To all the listening world proclaim
One crowded hour of glorious strife
Is worth an age without a name.


My tongue knoweth not falsehood. When I say a thing is so, it is so. The spirit of my fathers is alive in me, and by their command my tongue is loosened. Listen not, I say; to Oriental fallacies of a subtle and alien race. Forget not forever the ideals of the ancients—they who created you. Be not enslaved by bleeding Messiahs and futile Redeemers. Do not be transfixed by creeds that are delusion and ethics that are vain.

I uplift the cross of steel! I proclaim—the Iron Cross—The Iron Law—The Iron Game! The Ancient Truth respected by kings and warriors, despised by the weak and hated by the odorous plague-swarms of Orient and darker hailings. The half-mad and wisdom-starved banker-kings of to-day rule a mangled and bloated corpse! Not is there sense in their wretched vermin-world, a world strangled by falsehood! I say death to every lie! As Siegmund raised his sword against Ossur in deadly battle, so too does the never-dying Truth ring out ferocious and undaunted against Untruth in glorious struggle! Hail the Dauntless Ones, for the Truth shall never be vanquished.

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