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 As a novelist, Taylor Caldwell was an American master, on par with, or superior to, virtually any other novelist born in America in the 20th century. Her phenomenal success supports the contention; during her illustrious career, she wrote more than 40 novels, many of which were outstanding best sellers. All told her books sold an estimated 30 million copies. Among her most famous were Dear and Glorious Physician (about Saint Luke), A Pillar of Iron (about the Roman statesman Cicero), and Great Lion of God (about Saint Paul). One of her most beloved novels, Captains and the Kings, was made into a television miniseries.
In addition to her wildly successful career as America's favorite novelist, Taylor Caldwell was a witty and conversational essayist, and many of her delightful works of this type appeared in American Opinion magazine, the forerunner of The New American magazine.
These essays, as well as others from the past, increase in value as time marches on. Not only are they enjoyable on their own merits as literary masterpieces in short-form prose, they are irreplaceable as purveyors of perspective. The noted historian Barbara Tuchman coined the phrase "a distant mirror" for the title to her book on 14th century Europe because a look at that tumultuous era revealed much of substance about our own. That is definitely the case as well with regard to many, if not most, of the essays written by Taylor Caldwell and few notable, if less known, authors who wrote for American Opinion during the tumultuous decade of the 1960s.
In the coming weeks, we will polish the glass of our own "distant mirror" and republish many of the essays Taylor Caldwell and others penned for American Opinion. We are proud to begin the series with Caldwell's recollection of her first speech to a gathering of The John Birch Society in an essay she titled "Bob and Me, and God Bless Bob!" -- Ed.
Up to the time I went to Phoenix to attend the testimonial dinner in behalf of Robert Welch, on September twenty-fifth, I had never met a "Birchite" nor had I ever attended a single meeting of the "sinister" John Birch Society. I had, of course, read all the contents of AMERICAN OPINION with great satisfaction and pleasure, notably the magnificent prose of E. Merrill Root and his beautiful, haunting poetry. I had felt a glow of passionate admiration for Martin Dies ⎯ well, every contributor appeared to be (and is) a man of superior intellect, reason, and patriotic fervor.
So, I was naturally curious and anxious to meet all those awesome Birchites in Phoenix, the home of my darling friend, Barry Goldwater ⎯ who, in a letter I received from him today, expressed his regret that due to his illness and absence we did not meet on that occasion.
In blissful ignorance of my dour character ⎯ I had been raised in the dirk-mace-shillelagh school of thought and racial background ⎯ some innocent gentlemen had blithely invited me to give the "keynote" speech in behalf of Mr. Welch, whom I had not as yet met. As I had never seen beautiful Phoenix before, and had also been invited to give an autographing party ⎯ what writer can resist that?⎯ I consented. Incidentally, Phoenix surpassed my highest hopes in glorious scenery, a truly noble citizenry, climate, and hospitality and a pervading atmosphere of American strength. Well, anyway, I prepared a speech at home, starting out with a merry paraphrasing of Mark Antony's speech at the funeral bier of Julius Caesar:
Friends, Americans, countrymen! Lend me your ears.
I come not to praise America, but to mourn her.
If you have tears, Prepare to shed them now.
In short, the speech was not to bring cheer and gaiety to the assembled 1,500 wonderful people who gathered to honor Mr. Welch but to scare the bell out of them. I fancied myself the modern Cassandra speaking doom not against the pearly towers of Ilium but against the backdrop of our American cities. (You will remember that Cassandra was mighty unpopular in Ilium; probably because no one really loves a prophet, or a prophetess; nor a Mrs. Jeremiah, as my husband calls me ⎯ and one remembers what happened to poor Jeremiah.) When I read the speech to my husband before Joyously departing for Phoenix, he shook his head sadly and said, "Oh, those poor people! Can't you give them a little hope for America?" "Nope," I replied, always being of the dirk-mace-shillelagh-and-doom fraternity, and inspired, from the age of three on, with a lack of optimism with regard to my fellowman and his obdurate preference for stupid and disastrous behavior. "I see no hope for America in the least," I said to my husband, and then added a few more doomful notes to my already voluminous speech.
I had been told that the members of The John Birch Society in Phoenix were really out for "a nice, good time." If the gentlemen who invited me to speak had not added that soothing phrase I might have given a more cheerful speech, but in my background there was always a foreboding that no one, really, should have a "good time." It's sinful, that's what it is. Especially now, though personally I'm all for a good time after many tears have been shed and penance done.
I confess here and now that had I seen brilliant Phoenix before writing that speech I might have added a more exhilarating note to the effect that though the hour of America's death is fast approaching there may be a reprieve from the Governor before midnight ⎯ He being famous throughout the Holy Bible for last-minute rescues and smiting of the enemy. I repeat, I might have. It would have gone against the grain however, and I always try to be consistent with my character ⎯ which was never notable for sweetness and light and hope. Particularly not in these days.
After I gave the funeral speech for America in Phoenix on September twenty-fifth, and poor Mr. Welch (a truly great gentleman) tried to overcome the mass gloom I had tried to instigate, it came to me out of my subconscious why I had perpetrated that speech, and the many others like it over the past ten years. So, I will relate what the background of my Phoenix speech was and what perpetrated it.
. . . . . . . . . .
On three successive Sunday afternoons, when I was nine years old, our pastor came solemnly to consult with my parents at our house ⎯ about me. Now, the accepted Christian Doctrine is that a baptised child who is not yet Confirmed is really a "Saint"; that is, he or she is incapable of committing any mortal or venial sin which might make the Creator take a dim view of the little one and his or her immortal soul. It seems that our unfortunate pastor had had his faith in that Doctrine more or less shaken since encountering me, though all I had done was to dispute the somewhat hopeful lessons of my teacher in Sunday school. (Unfortunately, as I was an ardent theologian, I was right and Miss Jones was wrong, and somehow the pastor thought that sort of diabolic, the innocent good man. How could such a little monster as Janet Miriam Taylor Holland Caldwell be right, anyway.)
In Papa's library there was a copy of Milton's Paradise Lost, which I had read avidly. But I had particularly rejoiced in the glorious etchings which illustrated that book, created by a famous artist whose name escapes me just now. Lucifer looked like a fine muscular party, and I deplorably admired his independence and his rolling cadence:
Here the Almighty hath not built for His Envy!
The illustrations on the walls of the Sunday school depicted Our Lord as a sweet Body, all saccharine smiles and beaming with goodwill and carrying a small lamb who looked disgustingly sanctimonious to my nine-year-old eyes. Depicted angels were sexless and very blonde, and I had freckles and red hair, which was one reason I detested the angels. So, I told the Sunday school teacher that long reading of Scripture had convinced me that Our Lord was not "gentle Jesus, meek and mild," but that He had been a sturdy Carpenter, and carpenters have muscles and that, without doubt, He had possessed a very powerful and denunciatory voice. Otherwise, how could He have annoyed the cynical Sadducees so much, and the grim heresy-hunters, the Pharisees? It stood to reason, I told the teacher, that He must have been a very powerful Personage, indeed, and Powerful Personages always get crucified, drawn and quartered, hung, assassinated or something else equally unpleasant. Meek and mild people, I asserted in a piercing voice, get everybody to love them, ergo.
Our pastor, alas, was of the "meek and mild" school, and he shook his head when I repeated my remarks to the teacher. It is obvious to me now that it is not the kindest of ideas to shake the faith in Doctrine of any clergyman, particularly the Doctrine that un-Confirmed children are "Saints" and incapable of sinning or inspiring controversy of a heated and disturbing kind. I don't dispute the Doctrine myself, I add hastily, but I am sure it is based on a merely technical point. My parents, after clouting me briefly upon the pastor's dolorous departure, decided that Something must be Done. I was not only always in disputations with my teachers in the secular school I attended, but now I had committed Blasphemy. I was disputing with Christian teachings, and therefore, despite the fact that I was a technical "Saint," I was in danger of Hell-fire. (My father mentioned that last somewhat wistfully, and my mother got a far-away moist look in her eyes, as if contemplating something which wouldn't exactly displease her.) I went back to Paradise Lost and gloated over the illustrations of Hell, where things were lively to say the least and not to be compared with some sterile Golden City where all one did was sing, "Peace on earth to men of good will." Even at nine I was convinced that men of good will were practically non-existent, so the Golden City must be inhabited only by angels, who didn't look too joyous in the illustrations, or too optimistic about mankind.
My father was, at that time, some hundreds of miles away from his formidable Irish mother who, though a lapsed Catholic, still was rigid about what was properly done or not done with regard to Teachings and dogma. One of the things which were Not Done was going to hear traveling evangelists. But in our city there was now, in that summer, a world-famous and eloquent evangelist who was calling the people to "repent and be saved," otherwise Armageddon would be upon us. (He was quite right, of course.) Papa had his paternal duty: My soul needed to be saved, and very fast. So he invested one dollar for a couple of tickets and hauled me off to hear the evangelist and "get some of the hellishness knocked out of you." I can’t say I looked forward to the experience, but anything that could persuade Papa to part with a dollar must be something extraordinary, I reasoned. So off we went to the huge tent pitched in one of our parks and entered the hot, dim confines, which were filled to the canvas walls.
I noticed that the several thousands of the citizenry gathered there were fine, gentle, upstanding Americans with really noble faces and courageous eyes ⎯ and now that I think of it they strangely resembled the people assembled to hear me in Phoenix! They smelled of soap and Sunday polish and decency, and you couldn't imagine that a single one of them needed to be "saved." They were saved, already. This put me at a great disadvantage, it will be noted. I kept looking about for an intransigent face, like mine. Then the choir, an exceptional one, begin to sing and all stood and sang, except Papa and me ⎯ because we didn't know the hymn. But it was a jolly, rousing one and I began to hope. Things were looking up.
The evangelist now appeared, and he was a gentleman with an earnest, sincere kind of expression, firm and convinced ⎯ and now I must admit he resembled our very own Bob Welch! He spoke in a fine and sonorous voice. He prayed with passionate fervor and faith. He called the people "my brothers and sisters," which, for a moment, put me off him, for I had a literal brother of my own for whom neither my heart nor my voice trembled, except with rage. Then the evangelist launched into his sermon. He described the sinful atmosphere of the world in ringing accents, and prophesied that doom was upon it ⎯ unless it repented its sins and turned its face to God again. (This was a few years or so prior to the First World War.) However, the evangelist ⎯ the poor man! ⎯ assured us that he had the deepest hope that our deserved bad fortune could be averted. He was sure of it. The ghastly Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were waiting in the gloomy regions beyond our immediate knowledge, to ride down upon us: War, Pestilence, Famine, and Death. But, the evangelist cried, God's Hands were upon the reins of the horsemen! We needed only faith, love, charity, and decent human conduct to keep those Hands in control of the dread horsemen; and he, the evangelist, was positive that we could, and would, attain faith, love, charity, and decent human conduct.
I was sure we wouldn't. I felt close to tears for that evangelist who so obviously believed that mankind was capable of those virtues which would avert a dire fate.
The congregation had listened with the utmost sobriety and respect to the evangelist. Here and there a genteel cry of "Amen!" would follow one of the evangelist’s pauses. But it was clear to me that they agreed with the preacher: The world could be "saved." I knew it was a delusion. Then the evangelist asked those who believed to "stand up for Christ," literally, below, the billowing folds of the tent's ceiling.
Now, there is nothing so heart-shaking to true ladies and gentlemen as to be asked to make a public spectacle of themselves, or call attention to themselves by fervid conduct. The congregation sat very still and looked a little embarrassed. The evangelist exhorted. I stared at scores of faces with fierce young eyes, commanding them with all my will to stand up. Papa, suspecting something about me, held firmly to one of my pigtails and whispered furiously to stop staring and behave myself ⎯ an absurd request on the face of it. In the meantime the evangelist pleaded that the congregation stand up. It did not. Then his eve alighted on me.
He must have read something in my pale freckled face. He smiled upon me, and moved forward to see me a little better. Then he said, gently, "Have you something to say, little one, to move the hearts of our dear brothers and sisters here, so they will not be afraid to fight for the Lord?"
Papa started and groaned under his breath, "Oh, God." He gave my pigtail a hard jerk. I jerked back and stood up, leaving my hair-ribbon in Papa's hand. I looked at the evangelist and honest tears, for a change, ran down my face. I said very loudly, "Oh, Reverend, why do you bother? We're all going to Hell, anyway, all of us!"
Stark and deathly silence fell upon the people. Papa turned aside his head, uselessly pretending I wasn't with him. The evangelist approached me more closely, and his own eyes filled with tears. Then he said in that vast silence, "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings...."
The congregation rose as one man, galvanized into action by my words of awful doom, and with one powerful voice they shouted, "We stand with the Lord, our Savior, our Redeemer!"
I had, inadvertently, scared the hell out of them ⎯ which was not exactly what I had intended then. But it was effective. The choir joyously burst into that ancient and inspiring hymn, Onward, Christian Soldiers!
Not a single one of those nice people even muttered, "What a dreadful child!" As they sang so exultantly, and with so much pathetic sincerity and heroic nobility, they beamed upon me and Papa looked stunned. I had excited attention in the past only too often, but certainly not approval, and this was a new experience for Papa.
The congregation marched from the tent into the hot sunshine, singing with exaltation, lifting their eyes to the sky, obviously and gravely, and faithfully vowing that they would do their part to save the world from its just retribution. I am sure they did try, all the rest of their lives. They were such good people.
Alas, alas. There were so few of them. There are always so few. They are even fewer in these days. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are about to ride again ....
And that, children, is my story of Phoenix. And me and Bob.
. . . . . . . . . .
There are too few members of The John Birch Society, too few American patriots, and what there are of us are too frightened. It has been said that there are no quarrels in Hell; the evil are always in accord, but the good just simply can’t seem to get together. The Liberal-Socialist-Communist conspirators doubtless have their secret disagreements, being human, though I often dispute the "human" part of them. But they don't let on to us; they keep their ranks closed. They march together toward their fearful destination, which is Hell on Earth for the rest of us. I've talked before many thousands of good Americans over the past fifteen years. I've begged them to get together, to forget minor differences, to move as one to save America. They agree it is necessary, but they are a little dubious. They don't like the "strenuous methods" of other patriots who see our danger of doom somewhat more clearly than they do. They think the average American can be reasoned with, taught to recognize his enemy, and defend his country! Imagine. In short, most Americans, they declare, need only to be enlightened through good men speaking softly, gently, and reasonably. Imagine.
I have sad news for all who believe men prefer virtue to evil, freedom to slavery, honor to dishonor. Men really prefer something which will free them from the necessity to think for themselves, and which will fill their bellies comfortably three times a day and leave them only enough liberty to have "fun." Freedom, Cicero said, demands men who desire to be free, and who prefer the uncertainties and precariousness of liberty to the warm safety of slavery. Cicero doubted that there would ever be enough such men, and he so declared, and he had his head cut off. That usually happens to men who are brave enough to tell the truth.
In 1956 I was in Israel gathering information for my novel about St. Luke. The Israeli government was most helpful and kind and a guide was appointed to lead me all around that tiny country to all the Judeo-Christian shrines. That was the time when Eisenhower incontinently raved against England, France, and Israel for their attempts to protect the Suez zone. (I was off Eisenhower forever afterwards, and that's why I voted for Mr. Kennedy.) The average Israeli, in particular, was quite bewildered by Eisenhower's tirade. After all, wasn't it reasonable. . . .? Sure, it was reasonable, but it was dangerously wrong. The average Israeli simply could not believe that the American government did not understand that Nasser was under the dominance of Moscow!
I talked with a number of Catholic priests in Israel, and they told me that the Sinai Peninsula was full of cement pads for heavy guns, that it teemed with American tanks, and that Nasser had just been given fifty million dollars of the American people's hard-earned money! The priests were gloomy and cynical about this action of the American government in support of Nasser ⎯ and all their prophesies have come true.
I brought the news from the priests to members of the Israeli government, and they were aghast. They could not believe it! It wasn't reasonable! Why, America would not support Arab Communists, she simply would not!
Brother!
Even when the dire news could no longer be denied, the average Israeli could only say sadly, "It must have been a mistake, some way." I doubt that even to this day the Israelis really believe that men can be ungentlemanly and support enemies of their own country. It isn't reasonable, you see.
Like Hell it isn't! It's perfectly logical, considering the make-up of the human mind and the wickedness in the human soul. The illogic comes in when some men persist in believing that the majority of men will fight for their country and their God, their honor and their freedom. They have done so only very few times in history, and those few times are little inspiration to us in these days.
It happened so seldom. Will it happen again? Mr. Welch believes it is quite possible, for America.
I say I don't. And that's the full story of me and Bob, and only time ⎯ now running out ⎯ will prove who was right and who was wrong. I hope to God that Bob is right! I hope the Governor will send in His Reprieve, at midnight. I doubt it, though. Does America deserve to be "saved," considering her long and loving toleration of the Liberal-Socialist-Communist Conspiracy? That's the question, the great question. Our reasonable "tolerance" has brought death to a whole world and its generations. It is the "tolerance" of Cain, and we all know what happened to Cain.
Selah.
What's that? You're standing.
“On-ward Chris-tian Sol-d-iers ....”
Very well then. Fight them, fight them all. Fight them because you are brave and it is the right thing to do and because that's the kind of men and women you are and because your honor makes you fight the more as the danger is the more. Fight for your God, your civilization, and your children. And if anybody says stop . . . use a mace on them.
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