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World Order

FALL 1969

THE TRANSCENDENTAL

FRIENDSHIP OF

EMERSON AND CARLYLE

Margaret Y. Jackson

THE CULTURAL

ENCOUNTER BETWEEEN

INDIAN AND WHITE

Mary Dahm

THE MILLERITES

Billy Rojas

INDIAN BAHÁ’ÍS

OF BOLIVIA

Gregory C. Dahl

LIVING IN A

KALEIDOSCOPE WORLD

Pamela Ringwood

[Page 0]

World Order

A BAHÁ’Í MAGAZINE • VOLUME 4 NUMBER 1 • PUBLISHED QUARTERLY

WORLD ORDER is intended to stimulate, inspire and serve thinking people in their search to find relationships between contemporary life and contemporary religious teachings and philosophy

Editorial Board:

FIRUZ KAZEMZADEH

BETTY FISHER

HOWARD GAREY

ROBERT HAYDEN

GLENFORD E. MITCHELL

GAYLE MORRISON

Art Consultant:

LORI NEUZIL

Subscriber Service:

JEANETTE ROBBIN

WORLD ORDER is published quarterly, October, January, April, and July, at 112 Linden Avenue, Wilmette, Illinois 60091. Subscriber and business correspondence should be sent to this address. Manuscripts and other editorial correspondence should be addressed to 2011 Yale Station, New Haven, Connecticut 06520.

The views expressed herein are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the publisher, the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, or of the Editorial Board. Manuscripts and suggestions for articles and subjects to be treated editorially will be welcomed and acknowledged by the editors.

Subscription: Regular mail USA, $3.50; Foreign, $4.00. Single copy, $1.00.

Copyright © 1969, National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, World Rights Reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

IN THIS ISSUE

1 Principles for One World

Editorial

2 Interchange: Letters from and to the Editor

6 The Transcendental Friendship of Emerson and

Carlyle, by Margaret Y. Jackson

15 The Millerites

by Billy Rojas

26 Summer’s Bay

a poem by Raymond L. Hudson

31 The Cultural Encounter between Indian

and White, by Mary Dahm

41 Indian Bahá’ís of Bolivia

by Gregory C. Dahl

47 Living in a Kaleidoscope World

by Pamela Ringwood

53 Education: Looking Ahead

a book review by Arthur L. Dahl

56 Authors and Artists in This Issue

[Page 1]

Principles for One World

EDITORIAL

IT HAS OFTEN BEEN OBSERVED that the Bahá’í message is particularly modern. Viewed against the background of its origin, it was certainly ahead of its time. Many Bahá’í principles hardly seem startling when expounded today, but they were so novel when promulgated as to be received by many with shock, dismay, incredulity, or simple incomprehension. How could the equality of men and women be visualized, much less accepted, by the typical mid-nineteenth century Persian—or European, for that matter?

Was there any indication a century ago that recognition of the brotherhood of man would become a condition of our survival on earth? Again, how could the concept of a world government be grasped in a world in which travel across the oceans took months, and in which vast regions were populated by men unknown to any but their immediate neighbors?

Europe was hardly prepared for the statement that science and religion were really in harmony. Science was in the ascendant, while traditional religion was fighting the new conceptions with desperate vigor.

Are the Bahá’í principles perhaps no longer issues, but mere vestiges of past struggles long since resolved? On the contrary, examination of the few principles upon which we have touched shows, first, that they are still imperfectly accomplished, and, second, that many remain controversial. It is true that a vast number of people of good will may recognize many Bahá’í principles, upon first hearing them, as ideals to which they have held for some time already. The question is, what does the Bahá’í Faith continue to offer us? Have we heard all its principles?

The grim urgency of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s warning to America on race relations in 1912 was not understood by his contemporaries as it is today. What new relevancies will be revealed in the Bahá’í Writings as history moves on? How earnestly must we scrutinize them to extract all that will soon be urgent? When we draw up lists of Bahá’í principles to share with our friends, we can do so only to the degree that our limited understanding permits us to discern them. Fortunately, there is infinitely more potential in the Writings than any one Bahá’í can tell his friends about. Hence the Bahá’í Writings remain—a rich mine of wisdom to satisfy our practical and spiritual needs for centuries to come.

[Page 2]

Interchange LETTERS FROM AND TO THE EDITOR

FOR THE EDITORS OF WORLD ORDER each issue, as it develops toward publication, comes to have a personality of its own. From this collection of articles two dominant themes have emerged, stimulating further reflections on our part which we would like to share with you.

The first of these themes is Western philosophy and religious thought in the nineteenth century. Ralph Waldo Emerson and Thomas Carlyle, whose friendship is discussed by Margaret Y. Jackson, and William Miller, the focus of Billy Rojas’ article, were contemporaries of the Founders of the Bahá’í Faith. In the middle of the last century, however, any relationship spanning the chasm between East and West would have been hard to imagine. Europe had not yet recognized the wisdom later embodied by such men as Rabindranath Tagore and Mahatma Gandhi. Even Miller, who anticipated the return of Christ, looked to the skies rather than to the Holy Land to yield the second coming. The transcendentalists, like most Westerners (Leo Tolstoy and, ironically, Joseph Arthur de Gobineau being among the exceptions), probably knew nothing of the movement which was infusing Persia with a new spirit and a concomitant fanatical reaction. Yet Bahá’u’lláh, at a time when nationalism and racism were infecting the West and were about to be spread throughout the world by means of the final outburst of European imperialism, was proclaiming a creed which knew no bounds—that mankind is one and must become united, politically and spiritually. Thus Bahá’u’lláh, an untutored Easterner, surpassed his place of origin and his time.

Several articles in this issue revolve around the special kind of unity enunciated in the Bahá’í writings. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, likening mankind to a garden, observes: “How unpleasing to the eye if all the flowers and plants, the leaves and blossoms, the fruit, the branches and the trees of that garden were all of the same shape and color! Diversity of hues, form and shape enricheth and adorneth the garden, and heighteneth the effect thereof. In like manner, when divers shades of thought, temperament and character, are brought together under the power and influence of one central agency, the beauty and glory of human perfection will he revealed and made manifest.”

Bahá’ís appreciate, therefore, the variety of cultural hues represented by such peoples as the Maoris and the Indians of Canada and Bolivia. They are confident that this appreciation need not promote divisiveness, an obstacle to the development of a world civilization. Rather it is a means of fostering a sense of human dignity. Shoghi Effendi states that Bahá’u’lláh’s teaching “can conflict with no legitimate allegiances, nor can it undermine essential loyalties. Its purpose is neither to stifle the flame of a sane and intelligent patriotism in men’s hearts, nor to abolish the system of national autonomy so essential if the evils of excessive centralization are to be avoided. It does not ignore, not does it attempt to suppress, the diversity of ethnical origins, of climate, of history, of language and tradition, [Page 3] of thought and habit, that differentiate the peoples and nations of the world. It calls for a wider loyalty, for a larger aspiration than any that has animated the human race. It insists upon the subordination of national impulses and interests to the imperative claims of a unified world. It repudiates excessive centralization on one hand, and disclaims all attempts at conformity on the other. Its watchword is unity in diversity . . . .”

* * *

To the Editor

OVERPOPULATION

From all over the world we hear the cry “overpopulation”, “too many mouths to feed”, “running out of land”, “running out of resources”. One highly disturbed author said, “Population explosion is more dangerous than the hydrogen bomb” and others allude to the possibility of shortages of essential resources. (from “World Order” magazine.)

In this inquiry we are dealing with (1) the number of people in the world and (2) the amount of land, i.e., the productive potential, the resources, the amount of usable land, living space; so let’s first divide the population of the world into families of four, give each family of four a large half-acre estate, and we find we can all be contained in an area of 540,000 square miles, which is approximately 3 1/2 times the size of the state of California—an extremely minute area when visualizing it in relation to a map of the entire world. Astonishing, isn’t it?

Assuming this area is rich in resources, in productive potential and that enough of the flood waters, the run-off and the river waters could be diverted into it, it becomes increasingly obvious that from it we could supply the needs of every man, woman and child in the entire world and save the rest of this enormous planet for posterity.

Our government pays out billions of dollars per year to both the farmers and to industries not to produce. And yet in one breath we speak of over-production and the next that three-fourths of the population of the world are in rags—never have seen enough to eat, live in hovels. Is this not a peculiar self-contradiction? The cry of industry is “give us the market and we will more than supply the demand”!!

Even though many of our men of learning attribute unemployment, malnutrition and starvation to “over-population” and “population explosion” the facts seem to prove we had best look elsewhere; to injustice in the economic structure of the nations, to ignorance and corruption in politics—to land (resources) monopolization —to “inequality of privilege”.

Is not the cry of “over-population” the result of not examining the facts—of not trusting our God-given faculties of logic and reason?

“Hydroponics” is a method of producing vitamin-packed foodstuffs without soil; “the equivalent of ten acres of tomatoes from a 30 x 120 ft. area in an abandoned warehouse; but we don’t need it yet and probably won’t for several hundred thousand years, if then.

The over-all solution lies in several statements in the Bahá’í Writings—“Land does not belong to individual men or individual nations but to mankind as a whole nay rather it belongs to God and all men are but tenants.”—“No more trusts (monopoly for the purpose of price fixing) will remain—” “Inequality of privilege —is a matter of deep and vital concern—.” “The governments will enact these laws establishing just legislation and economics that all humanity may enjoy full measure of welfare and privilege—without legislation, rights and demands fail,—.” “All economic barriers and restrictions will be completely and permanently abolished.”—“The unimaginably vast resources of the earth will be tapped and fully utilized.”

How soon our world will be one of peace and plenty for all mankind depends on how rapidly [Page 4] peoples of good-will will join in with the Bahá’ís to assist in reestablishing the disinherited masses, in rebuilding the world according to God’s Justice and delineated by Bahá’u’lláh, the founder of the Bahá’í Faith.

MARTIN KOB

Santa Monica, California

MEDIEVAL FORESIGHT

Did you know that there was an Italian philosopher in the sixteenth century who wrote that: “All reality is one in substance, one in cause, one in origin . . . . Every particle of reality is composed inseparably of the physical and the psychic. The object of philosophy, therefore, is to preserve the unity in diversity, mind in matter and matter in mind; to find the synthesis in which opposites and contradictions meet and merge; to rise to that highest knowledge of the universal unity which is the intellectual equivalent of the love of God”?

His name was Giordano Bruno and, for this and other heresies, he was burned at the stake in 1600. Evidently he had been inspired greatly by Nicholas of Cusa, probably the greatest scientist and philosopher of the early fifteenth century, who had ventured to suggest that “all religions are essentially one” and introduced the “cosmological principle” of spherical symmetry in space with the argument that wherever in the heavens anyone may be placed, it naturally appears to him that he is in the center of the universe—that therefore the earth cannot be central because the universe is infinite and infinity has no center. This view may have inspired Copernicus, who supported it geometrically soon after, but what I am trying to show primarily is that Bahá’í principles were occasionally expressed in late medieval and Renaissance times—and both Nicholas of Cusa (sometimes called Cusanus) and Bruno were, in a sense, Bahá’ís long before their time.

GUY MURCHIE

Marlboro, New Hampshire

FROM ATHENS TO NAVAJOLAND

I have just read Mr. James C. Haden’s article, “The Ignorance of Socrates”, published by you in WORLD ORDER (Winter 1968-69). The article is most interesting covering a number of aspects of the dialogues which had hitherto eluded me. . . . There are obvious broad parallels between family units, government and education, but Mr. Haden’s description of Athenian family life could be transposed with the changing of a few phrases to a description of Navajo tribal life or Hopi or Jicarilla Apache or Santa Clara Pueblo. . . . At this moment in New Mexico the Pueblo Tribal Council is holding hearings which they hope will permit them to be exempt from the Civil Rights Act. Their justice is of a different weave. The younger Indians ask for the destruction of the tribal system justice and look forward to habeas corpus and private lives. Socrates would have loved this.

POVY LA FARGE BIGBEE

Encino, New Mexico

A PLEA FOR LAUGHTER

I have been reading your magazine ever since it first appeared and I think that it is a splendid publication, but I do feel that there should be a portion of WORLD ORDER dedicated to a God Loves Laughter type of thing. Perhaps the comical or witty aspect would sharpen and heighten the appeal that the magazine already has.

LOUIS A. KAYE

Bridgeport, Connecticut

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[Page 6]

The Transcendental Friendship of EMERSON AND CARLYLE

By MARGARET Y. JACKSON

MATTHEW ARNOLD, Victorian poet, essayist, and critic, sought diligently to establish man’s critical effort—the competency “to see the object as in itself it really is”—as a desirable alternative to his creative endeavors. In “The Function of Criticism at the Present Time,” he called attention to the rarity of creative epochs in literary history, especially in England. Good literature, he explained, depends not alone upon the genius of the writer, because “two powers must concur, the power of the man and the power of the moment, and the man is not enough without the moment . . . .”

This theory of the origin of belles lettres is equally applicable to successful literary friendships. The transcendental bond that existed between Ralph Waldo Emerson and Thomas Carlyle represents the coalescence of two powers: the men and the times—a matrix of political, intellectual, aesthetic, and religious ferment known as the Romantic Movement. Yet the personal qualities and the social milieu which magnetized the American and the Scot and, hence, molded the friendship were not of instantaneous origin but, rather, gradually developed years before they knew of each other’s existence.

This essay sets out to analyze the Emerson-Carlyle relationship by identifying the unusual circumstances and attributes which brought the two men together for the first time, by tracing the somewhat intermittent progress of the friendship over a period of forty-eight years, and by showing the impact of nineteenth-century trends of thought on the union. No attempt has been made to minimize the authors’ characteristic differences in temperament and ideas. Rather, care has been taken to disclose incongruities and conflicts, since, as in no similar association, they are essential to understanding that the relationship was based upon values more profound and complex then mere mutual agreement on principles.

The Momentous Meetings

IN 1832, the year before the two men met, Thomas Carlyle was in a state of dejection and misery. Although he had completed the preliminary phase of his literary career, his efforts had met with very little financial success and recognition. His masterpiece, Sartor Resartus, had been finished but had lain idle for two years. Dyspepsia, a digestive disorder that plagued him throughout his life, was a source of physical agony. At this time, consequently, Carlyle considered himself the most solitary, the most helpless person imaginable.

In 1832 Emerson was torn by emotional conflicts resulting from the death of his first wife, Ellen Tucker. His break with the Unitarian Church, though voluntary, preyed upon his mind. The wasting away of his two brothers from the effects of tuberculosis and his own suffering from this family malady were reasons enough for sorrow. In a spirit of despair Emerson came upon an article which evoked the following comment in his Journal on October 1, 1832:

I am cheered and instructed by this paper on Corn-Law Rhymes in the Edinburgh by my Germanick newlight writer, whoever he be. He gives us confidence in our [Page 7] [Page 8] principles. He assures the truth-lover everywhere of sympathy. Blessed art that makes books, and so joins me to that stranger by this perfect railroad.

That Emerson immediately recognized the Teutonic influence in this unknown writer’s transcendental expression is significant. Yet he had almost completely ignored transcendentalism in its original environment. Hence, one must conclude that, although impressed by the German thought in Carlyle’s article, he was even more attracted to the integrity of its author and to his thoroughly unique style. Soon the identity of that writer was established, for in his Journal on October 19, 1832, Emerson wrote, “If Carlyle knew what an interest I have in his persistent goodness, would it not be worth one effort more, one prayer, one meditation?” So great was his interest in his new discovery that he ferreted out all previously published articles of the Scot, making numerous entries in his Journal concerning them. For the first time, then, he came face to face with Carlyle’s German transcendentalism, which created in him such great enthusiasm that he resolved to cross the ocean to pay a personal visit to the man, who, undoubtedly, was superior to his writings.

After visiting Italy, France, and England, calling upon such men as Landor, Coleridge, and Wordsworth, none of whom as a person impressed him, Emerson, avoiding an opportunity to tap the fountain of transcendentalism at its source, discovered the whereabouts of the then obscure author of Sartor. Hiring an old gig, he journeyed the sixteen miles to Craigenputtock, the lonely home of Jane and Thomas Carlyle. According to Carlyle the two of them went through an entire encyclopedia and enjoyed a pleasant interruption of their solitude. Afterwards Emerson was to refer frequently to the amiableness and gracious hospitality of Carlyle and his wife. Even at this time some of the outstanding differences in opinion were noticeable, but no serious clashes occurred. Carlyle burst forth in a lively stream of wisdom and humor, and Emerson found himself strangely attracted to the spontaneous laughter characteristic of his host. Yet the American took care to hold his own laughter within strict bounds. He was the perfect guest—a patient and enthusiastic listener.

Obviously something other than verbal eloquence set this host apart from all others. A distinctive—but perhaps elusive—quality or manner and, most of all, sincerity inspired immediate admiration. Earlier, Emerson had been repulsed by the superficiality, ostentation, and dogmatism of the great men whom he had visited. Carlyle seemed completely different. His frank and friendly manner and, especially, his marked originality, his uncompromising aversion to illusion, and his disdain for traditional methods of thought and stereotyped modes of expression were gratifying. Beneath their frequent differences, Emerson was able to discern a fundamental agreement on basic philosophy. Each believed in viewing the universe as a living organism rather than as the product of an external craftsman. Each, at this time, was a transcendentalist, making the empirical universe subservient to the spiritual. Each believed in conforming to the principles of truth and righteousness as he saw them.

Emerson, desirous of someday being reunited with his departed wife, sought from Carlyle answers to questions about the immortality of the soul. Carlyle tactfully intimated that the subject was too profound for precise replies. Nevertheless, Emerson departed from Carlyle a happy man. His philosophy of self-reliance was born. Though he had failed to find a spiritual dictator as he had hoped, he had accidentally stumbled upon something much more valuable—faith in himself and in his own convictions. From [Page 9] this time on he looked “at” rather than “up to” great men. He resolved never again to seek dependence upon another man, but to value his own intuitions. To his brother he wrote that there was no better place than his own study.

In 1848, Emerson, on a lecture tour of England, paid another visit to Carlyle, then living in London. The intervening years, during which they had kept up a warm correspondence, had been, materially and spiritually, the most rewarding in the literary careers of both men. Emerson was known throughout America and Europe as the leader of the New England transcendentalist circle. His Essays (1841 and 1844) and Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus (1833), The French Revolution (1837), On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History (1841), Past and Present (1843), and Oliver Cromwell’s Letters and Speeches (1845) had brought financial success and literary fame to both authors. Emerson was more than ever impressed with the extraordinarily wide range of speech and vigor of his friend, whose volubility allowed for no interruption, except for an occasional question. The conversation, as before, lasted for hours. However, during the week that he spent in the Carlyles’ Chelsea home, Emerson discovered facets of his friend’s personality with which he was unfavorably impressed. The discovery was not at this time a serious threat to the relationship.

Possibly Carlyle’s own failure as a speaker evoked from him contemptuous words about his friend’s plans to deliver a series of lectures in England. The Scot inquired, “‘What has brought you over to the old country?’ . . . ‘Surely not to “lecture.” Aren’t there enough windbags in Lancashire?’” Nevertheless, Emerson was often able to pierce the hard outer shell and to detect beneath it the same reverence for realities, decorum, and fortitude, as well as the same enthusiasm, as formerly. A sentimental, climactic visit to Stonehenge did more than anything else to restore the friendship to its former level and to wipe away the ill feeling that had sprung up. The mystery enshrouding the monument and the loneliness of the place brought back the quiet atmosphere of Emerson’s initial visit. Much of the tenderness, sincerity, and humor of the Carlyle of old returned, and the men parted as amiably as on the occasion of their first meeting.

The tragic destruction of Emerson’s home by fire on July 24, 1872, motivated a final trip to Europe. An elderly man of sixty-nine with failing eyesight and occasional lapses of memory, Emerson, for the third and final time, embraced his old friend. Carlyle, approaching his seventy-ninth year, was gradually losing his alertness and vigor. The conversation, as formerly, consumed much time and was as pleasurable as before. The past twenty-five years had been the most trying of the friendship; yet the authors’ affection for each other had triumphed over even such grave disagreements on moral issues as those arising from slavery and civil war. William Allingham, one of Carlyle’s devoted disciples at that time, analyzed the friendship in this manner:

Each, in his inner being, honoured the other’s voice. The friendship endured because of its own peculiar qualities, and because each man, the Ocean’s breadth lying between them, looked over affectionately to the other and idealised him. Perhaps both, in the wisdom of their years, guessed this secret of their bond.

Tracing the evolution of the Emerson-Carlyle relationship makes clear the conditions under which the authors met upon each [Page 10] of three occasions, and points out the inspiration for their transcendental bond. For a more thorough understanding of the friendship and of the men, it is necessary to consider a few of the dominant trends of thought which affected the alliance one way or another. Such an examination affords greater insight into the conditions which threatened the bond as well as those which welded it together through its most critical periods.

Transcendentalism

THE GENERAL ASSUMPTION—though there is no real proof—is that Emerson learned the term “transcendental” from Carlyle. It was allegedly used in the discussion of Sartor Resartus, upon the occasion of the first meeting of the two men in 1833. Emerson was the first well-known writer to use the word in American literature, the earliest record of it dating from April 30, 1835, when he wrote a letter to Carlyle and made an entry in his Journal. Emerson’s account of the word’s ultimate origin, is useful in understanding what transcendental meant to him:

. . . the idealism of the present day acquired the name of Transcendental from the use of that term by Immanuel Kant, of Konigsberg, who replied to the skeptical philosophy of Locke. . . . The extraordinary profoundness and precision of that man’s [Kant’s] thinking have given vogue to his nomenclature, in Europe and America, to that extent that whatever belongs to the class of intuitive thought is popularly called at the present day Transcendental.

While Carlyle’s German transcendentalism had first attracted Emerson to him, the New England brand contributed to the authors’ first conflict of opinions. During Carlyle’s apprenticeship as a writer, he had turned to the Kantian theory, partially at least, as a means of rationalizing his own miserable condition: his dyspeptic agonies, the religious conflict within him, his ostensible failure as a creative writer. After a spiritual awakening followed by financial success and literary fame, Carlyle had lingered no longer in the realm of philosophic idealism, but had embraced the more realistic political motto “Might is right.” After the publication of articles on German transcendentalism and Sartor, Carlyle began devoting his attention to more concrete subjects. Possibly had not Emerson discovered these earlier articles, he never would have developed a desire to know the Scot. The second phase of Carlyle’s career was devoted mostly to the treatment of history and biography, neither of which was of any special concern to his American admirer.

Carlyle was not pleased to find Emerson ascending higher and higher into the ethereal sphere of the spirit and denying the existence of an external universe. In a letter, Carlyle criticized his friend for lingering “on the eternal mountain-tops”: “Why won’t you come and help us then? We have terrible need of one man like you down among us!” Emerson’s response was totally unsatisfactory. He felt justified in refusing to identify himself with the transcendentalists, though he was known in America and England as their leader, as the first to make use of the word in America, and as the chief contributor to the group’s organ, The Dial. In a lecture Emerson referred to the transcendentalists as “these exacting children who eat clouds, drink wine and talk the sun and moon away.” He accused them of withdrawing from society and of shirking their responsibilities.

Paradoxical though these views on transcendentalism may sound, there was sufficient reason for confusion in its interpretation. The term had been loosely defined in New England. There it was used to refer to any [Page 11] group of persons who refused to accept the traditional beliefs or dogmas of the day and who emphasized, instead, intuitive thinking. Thus, however much the group might have differed among themselves, as long as there was direct opposition to convention, its members were associated with the transcendental circle. In this loose sense only could Emerson be called their leader. Followers included Amos Bronson Alcott, Theodore Parker, Margaret Fuller, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Henry David Thoreau. On the other hand, if membership in the circle were to be determined by participation in humanitarian reform activities, then Emerson could not be counted among them.

Whatever his connection with the transcendentalists, Emerson was very much disappointed to find Carlyle, his feet implanted on terra firma, exhibiting a reverence for brute force. His efforts to inveigle Emerson into following his lead failed. Despite Carlyle’s plea that his friend produce something concrete —something “well Emersonized”—and that he return to his own generation, Emerson “would yield to none in his admiration and love of . . . high intellectual beauty and piercing spiritual insight, . . . which . . . bore the unmistakable stamp of genius.”

Good and Evil

AT THE SECOND MEETING of Emerson and Carlyle in 1848, the two men differed widely in their attitudes towards good and evil. Emerson had continued in the direction of platonic idealism and of optimism in his view of life, while Carlyle had each day descended deeper into the valley of mammonism and of pessimism. Fortunately for the friendship, Carlyle’s disdain for the Emersonian was balanced by his love for Emerson, the man. Certainly this variance was one of the severest tests of their mutual regard. That the friendship survived in this sternest period in their philosophical, intellectual, and moral development is an indication of the strength of the bond. So fierce, though, was Carlyle’s temperament at this time that, when asked about the Scot’s well-being, Emerson, usually gentle in his criticisms, replied, “‘Oh, he sits in his four-story house and sneers.’”

Carlyle, viewing mankind with abhorrence and pity, detected only degradation all around him. In this life, he averted, man should seek blessedness, not happiness. By courageously bearing the miseries, despairs, and responsibilities of life, he should look forward to worse conditions, not better ones. An antiquarian at heart, he insisted that the “Golden Age” belonged to past history—to medievalism—not to the future. He labeled “moonshine” Emerson’s belief in the eventual triumph of good over evil in this world. Disgusted with the American’s optimism and serenity (so a persistent legend has it), Carlyle led him to the most abominable spots of London, pointing out man’s misery. After the tour, when asked if he believed in the devil, Emerson tranquilly responded that he had an ever-increasing confidence in the goodness of the English people. The mere presence of beauty in anything was, for him, sufficient inspiration for hope, and he saw beauty in the worst of mankind. Carlyle, himself, did not completely reject man’s propensity for good. He observed that if one slew Oliver Cromwell, some good was bound to come of it.

Efforts have been made to account for the authors’ opposing attitudes towards life. Perhaps one reason may be found in their states of health at the time. Emerson, to be sure, [Page 12] had suffered much from illness in his early life, but he had long since regained good health. His wholesome appetite and predilection for savory dishes, especially desserts, have evoked more than one comment from his friends. On the other hand, Carlyle received little relief from his persistent dyspepsia and found gratification of bodily appetite virtually impossible. Perhaps one whose attention is constantly preoccupied with physical pain should be granted the right to view life through clouded glasses. Even so, Carlyle’s joviality did not disappear altogether; at times, he was considered the most hospitable person in all London. This duality in Carlyle’s personality is evident in reactions to interviews with him of Margaret Fuller and Harriet Martineau. The former described him as having “‘a very sweet humour, full of wit and pathos, without being overbearing.’” Miss Martineau, however, accused him of having “‘a mind reduced to these three elements—imbecility, dogmatism, and unlimited hope.’”

Emerson’s entire philosophy taught acquiescence and optimism. A hopeful view of life was the only possible one for him; and his confidence in the natural constitution of things made him conceive of Nature as infinitely good and man, though “fallen,” as having unlimited potentialities. This overconfidence in his moral law was assailed by many of the nineteenth-century contemporaries of Emerson and is still under attack by his admirers today. Brownell, perhaps unfairly, condemned him on the grounds that “culture as well as experience feels the lack of depth in any philosophy that ignores conscience.” Just as Carlyle was able to concede that there was some good in everything, so Emerson admitted reluctantly a consciousness of evil and of the conflict in society; but he had confidence in the gradual triumph of spirit over flesh and of God over the beast. With this thought in mind Dillaway labeled Emerson the discriminating optimist who looked to the ultimate rise of goodness to higher levels.

The Theory of the Hero

THE YEARS PRECEDING Emerson’s final visit to Carlyle in 1872 had seen the most serious clash of ideals. But for a deep spiritual understanding and a forgiving spirit, the friendship might have terminated abruptly and disastrously. Carlyle’s Heroes and Emerson’s Representative Men (1850) attest to a divergence of opinions on the question of noble men. Weighing human greatness by ideal standards, Emerson employed the hero merely as a symbol. So indifferent was he to the individual man that he constantly lost sight of him for many pages. His great man was reconciled to democratic principles. For him, as for Arnold, successful achievement and fame depended almost solely upon the coincidence of the man and the moment. Carlyle, on the other hand, descending from the spiritual realm to which he had risen in his biography of Teufelsdröckh, was extremely practical in delineating qualities of the hero. In his own unique and impassioned manner, he effected a reconciliation of his theory of the divine idea with action and force. Although he saw the impossibility of imposing the feudal system upon his own age, his admiration for it is reflected in the characterization of Jocelyn of Brakelonde as the possessor of those elementary medieval virtues which the author found admirable. Carlyle had little respect for the intellectual and moral capabilities of the ordinary man. He had seen too much misery and suffering among the poor. The common man, he felt, needed firm, intelligent, morally upright leadership from among the educated, reformed aristocracy—leadership which would not hesitate to use force, if necessary.

[Page 13] Naturally, Emerson protested against Carlyle’s undemocratic reliance upon the intellectual elite and his failure to see potentials in a man ill favored by circumstances. Yet, Carlyle’s sincerity in the formation of his convictions was unquestionable. As a struggling author, he had suffered much and had seen wretchedness among the poor all around him. “Chartism” (1839) and Past and Present (1843) revealed his deep sympathy and concern for the welfare of the underprivileged. After much observation and meditation, he became strongly convinced that the masses of men were incapable of looking after their own interests. In spite of his earlier harsh criticisms of the landed aristocracy and the “Captains of Industry”, he did not once give thought to the possibility of an educated proletariat competing in leadership ability with the apostles of “dilettantism.”

Democracy and Abolitionism

PRACTICALLY ALL MEN who devoted thought to the questions of democracy and abolitionism in America became either earnest advocates or opponents of the causes. According to them, complete rejuvenation or complete destruction of American civilization was imminent. Such opposite views were embraced by Emerson and Carlyle. In “Chartism,” Past and Present, and Latter-Day Pamphlets (1850), Carlyle had expressed his utter contempt for American democracy when he wrote:

Democracy . . . is a regulated method of rebellion and abrogation; it abrogates the old arrangement of things and leaves zero and vacuity. . . . You say democracy means freedom. True, the workers have freedom to go without work, a greater slavery than before. The self-government of a multitude, moreover, is an impossibility; how in conjunction with democracy is sovereignty to exist?

Carlyle’s objections to democracy grew out of his belief in the stupidity of the common man and his inability to discern character and truth. Emerson’s belief in democracy, on the other hand, stemmed from his faith in the individual. Most often the differences among groups of people have proved to be beneficial to society. Democracy does not deny individual differences; rather, it recognizes their importance and strives to develop to the utmost each man’s abilities and talents. It holds that the things men have in common are far more important than their differences. In the light of these common basic truths, Emerson saw no need for a highly organized government. Rather he preached the doctrine “Reverence thyself.” He wrote in his Journal, “It is the inevitable effect of that doctrine, where it has any effect (which is rare), to insulate the partisan, to make each man a state.” At another time he regretted the existence of a “selfish aristocracy” in America and longed for the removal of distinction created by contemptible pride.

Emerson’s reverence for individual development caused him to view with disapproval reform movements based on association and, at first, he saw no distinction between the abolition movement and other reforms. He wrote,

‘He who aims at progress should aim at an infinite, not at a special benefit. The reforms whose fame now fills the land with temperance, anti-slavery, non-resistance, no-government, equal labor, fair and generous as each appears, are poor bitter things when prosecuted for themselves as an end.’

Gradually, however, as the abuses became more and more severe, he realized that in abolitionism, more than in any of the other reform movements, the question of morality [Page 14] was involved, and he affiliated himself with the cause aimed at applying the principles of Christianity to the American way of life. He could not hold out against his moral law— the same law that pervaded all of his writings and was his guiding principle and, he had once thought, that of Carlyle’s.

Emerson’s speech on the Fugitive Slave Law, delivered on May 3, 1851, allied him with the ardent abolitionists. Shocked over America’s positive support of immorality, he openly denounced both the law and its chief defender, Daniel Webster. The law he condemned as one that none could possibly obey without losing his self-respect and without forfeiting the name of “gentleman”. There followed heated lectures in New York, Boston, and Concord.

From across the water, his old friend, frowning upon his conduct, could not refrain from entering the American “brawl”. Carlyle looked scornfully upon the “philanthropy” of the abolitionists and, without considering the pain he would cause his friend, began an open defense of the slave-holding South. Probably from stories related to him, Carlyle had been led to look upon slavery as an ideal patriarchal system, similar to the feudal system of medieval Europe. The master-slave relationship formed a perfect economy, yielding the greatest possible profit to all concerned. Each person, he believed, had a specific role in the social organization. What a contrast to the overturned economy of the West Indies, which condition he woefully assailed in Latter-Day Pamphlets!

Upon the publication of “An Occasional Discourse on the Nigger Question” (1849) and “An Iliad in a Nutshell” (1863), Carlyle drew upon himself the wrath of the New England abolitionists. Emerson, deeply wounded by Carlyle’s stand, attempted to correct the Scot’s distorted conception of the South and to point out to him the true state of affairs. He described the slave system as a morally debilitating situation, which encouraged all kinds of persecutions—killing, ear-cropping, branding. Slave owners, freed from all labor, spent excessive time in idleness, squandering their money on horse races and cockfights. William Lloyd Garrison suggested that Carlyle’s portrait be turned to the wall.

The most heroic aspect of the entire controversy was Emerson’s strained but polite silence. Naturally, the friendship lagged and the correspondence ceased altogether. Gradually, however, Carlyle came to a realization of the actual conditions under slavery in America. He repented, begged forgiveness of his friend, and paid tribute to Harvard’s war dead by enriching the university’s library with the books used in research for his History of Frederick II of Prussia (1858). Thus he removed the stigma caused by interference in the Civil War agitation in America. Upon the death of Mrs. Carlyle suddenly on April 21, 1866, Emerson, in a letter, assured Carlyle of his genuine affection and profound sympathy and, once more, the correspondence was resumed.

From a study of the Emerson-Carlyle relationship one thing is clear: there was by no means complete accord between these two men. On the contrary, there were grave threats to mutual esteem. Yet, the friendship suffered no ultimate damage. Most significantly, after each disagreement there evolved a truer and more sincere attachment, almost spiritual in nature, the profundity of which was sufficient to place at naught even the most serious differences. Furthermore, this attachment obviously originated in their common attraction to the truth, sincerity, integrity, and intuitive insight extolled by the transcendentalists. In short, the bond of friendship, established between Emerson and Carlyle when they met in 1833, suffered at no time a substantial diminution in esteem on either side. In spite of disagreements, it solidified in two volumes of superb literary correspondence, unparalleled in the nineteenth century, and it stands as a monument to transcendental thinking.

[Page 15]

THE MILLERITES

Millennialist Precursors of the Bahá’í Faith

By BILLY ROJAS

The footnotes are at the end of the article.

THOSE WHO ARE FAMILIAR with the history of the Millerites know it as a social movement whose members were committed to the doctrine of William Miller that Christ would return during the Hebrew year which began April 21, 1843, and ended April 21, 1844. Bahá’ís, in some cases, have derived much of their information about the Millerites from William Sears’ book, Thief in the Night. Unfortunately, however, that work used another book—this one by Clara Endicott Sears (no relation to William)—called Days of Delusion as an exclusive source of data on Miller’s advent movement. Several myths, distortions, and inaccuracies which recent scholarship has exposed in the later study, especially the apocryphal story that the Millerites wore “ascension robes” while awaiting the second coming, were uncritically accepted by William Sears and subsequently by many of his readers. Thief in the Night has several qualities to recommend it. The Millerite episode deserves attention, for in it Bahá’ís can recognize spiritual predecessors and can see the results of the ideas [Page 16] which those people espoused, ideas which anticipated some Bahá’í teachings.

Furthermore, Americans, whether Bahá’ís or not, can see in the nineteenth-century adventists a focus—as it were—of many trends which have been influential in the social traditions of the United States. And the significance of the Millerite movement cannot be explained without reference to the context, the intellectual environment from which the group found meaning for their beliefs. Any serious study of the Millerites would, therefore, be incomplete if it did not account for the appeal of millennial doctrines among ante-bellum Americans, whether they were poor farmers from the new, rural west or relatively well-to-do and educated inhabitants of eastern cities. In short, the Millerite movement was a complex development. Miller’s millennial doctrine attracted Garrisonian abolitionists and moderate abolitionists into its fold. It attracted temperance advocates, suffragettes, and pacifists. But it also appealed to food-faddists and mesmerists. In addition, the Millerite movement included anti-masons and Arminian Christians, but it attracted Calvinists as well. William Miller himself was an arch-mason.

This essay seeks to make clear to the reader, then, why expectation of the return of Christ would bring people together who might otherwise be expected to be mutually antagonistic. Furthermore, since the Millerite movement was also the point of departure for present-day Adventist denominations, and since those denominations have lost many of the original attitudes of the followers of William Miller, it will be useful to mention the process by which this came about.

Background

WHO were the Millerites? What did they do? More importantly: why did they do what they did? To answer these questions it is necessary to try to understand their background. The Millerite movement flourished during the late 1830’s and throughout the 1840’s. Its adherents could be found in those parts of the United States most strongly influenced by the Puritan religious tradition: Boston, western Vermont, the Ohio “Western Reserve”, and what became known as the “burned over” district of upstate New York (an area coterminous with the economic market served by the Erie Canal, so-called because the abundance of religious “fires,” i.e. revivals, ignited in the region eventually exhausted its “fuel” for religious enthusiasm). The antecedents of the Millerite movement can be directly traced to the Great Revival of 1801-1805 and include events which followed, such as the evangelical campaign initiated by Charles G. Finney during the years 1825-1831 and, simultaneously, the ramifications of the democratizing policies enacted by the administrations of Andrew Jackson and Martin Van Buren.

The religious texture of the age was the result of the predominating influence of what can be called the pietist attitude. This attitude explains much that happened among American Protestants before the Civil War. Religious piety was ambiguous because it was uncritical, because it was predicated on a single supposition: that the Bible had an answer for every conceivable human problem. Corollary to this belief was the insistence that people should experience salvation and, as a result, lead “sanctified” (holy, pure) lives. Just what the Bible meant was, however, another matter. The ambiguity of those scriptures, consequently, explains the ambivalence of pietist ideas.

Pietists were radically subjectivist; personal criteria were employed in scriptural interpretation. The psychological mood of the believer, his sense of optimism or pessimism, determined the structure of his theology. Emotional dispositions served as religious norms for pietists because the breakdown of the Puritan-Calvinist theocracy in Massachusetts left Protestants with an altered frame of reference. In the absence of restraints, pietists tended to see issues as absolute paradigms. [Page 17] Whatever posture pietists adopted, it had to satisfy their need to act in a world they dichotomized into sacred and profane elements. Whatever doctrine pietists espoused, it had to solve the problem of subjective duality: things that satisfied the mind did not necessarily satisfy one’s feelings.

The pietist tradition supported three alternate methods of resolving this conflict, methods which were not, it should be made clear, mutually exclusive. (1) The revival tradition attempted to infuse new life into individuals through the means of moral suasion. Evangelical preachers sought to evoke decisions for Christ from their hearers, decisions which would commit them to a Bible-centered set of values. (2) The reform tradition mobilized groups of people in endeavors to overcome either social evils or religious indifference. Abolitionists and temperance advocates, on the one hand, worked to eradicate particular wrongs while members of Bible and tract societies, on the other hand, worked to distribute religious literature to the unchurched. And, at a time when scientific verification was impossible, dubious reform causes such as health-foods or animal-magnetism were attached to the periphery of mainstream reform. (3) Utopian experimenters enlisted communities of people in the attempt to create prototypes of the Kingdom of God or, at any rate, settlements based on principles derived from Christian sources. The Shaker communities were, in effect, villages in which nearly every reform idea was law; Fourierist communities were their secular counterpart. In the Mormon church, furthermore, one could see a synthesis of all three methods. Each system, though, was motivated by the need that pietists felt to follow the Biblical teaching: “Be ye perfect even as your Father in heaven is perfect” (Matt. 5:48). This injunction was interpreted to signify that ethical perfection was possible and desirable and that pietists should attempt to enlist every person in their holy crusade. The personality of the believer was thus made to bear the responsibility for his religious behavior instead of, say, his intellectual resources or his social background.

Three popular millennial theories supported pietist activities by giving them a coherency and a sense of direction. Why some form of millennial interpretation was employed by religious thinkers of the period is a question that is answered by noting that Puritan divines found apocalyptic warnings to be effective media for Calvinist theology. Since the time of Jonathan Edwards many preachers employed this technique. Hence, American Protestants were accustomed to this approach. The resurgence of millennial interest in Britain (1790-1830) also influenced the climate of opinion in the United States. The annotations to Bibles printed in England, Biblical reference works, and English periodicals reflected the concerns of theologians who saw the French Revolution and its consequences as “signs of the times” of the second coming. Postmillennialists maintained that a thousand-year “golden age” would soon be ushered in and that Christ would return at the end of this time to judge the world. Premillennialists, or adventists, reversed this sequence of events. Chiliasts synthesized the two views; according to chiliast belief the return of the Messiah was near, “even at the door”, and when this happened Christ would dwell among men for the entire thousand years of the millennium.

The optimism that pervaded expanding American society during the heady days of the 1830’s explains the predominance of postmillennialist influence at the time. And it was during this decade that American religionists discovered, in the process of a radical re-evaluation of the Bible, a number of ideas for the regeneration of society. Postmillennialist reformers began advocating several ideas which, if implemented, would help to build the Kingdom of God. They conceived their task to be that of changing the social environment by changing people. They believed that it was their responsibility to work to change society. These reformers usually were clergymen; but sometimes they could [Page 18] also be teachers, journalists, or politicians. But whatever their profession, the reformers sought to use their spiritual energies to carry out a mission which God seemed to have called them to. Reform causes, thus, were diverse. Some reformers worked to construct organizations that would create a world government to bring about world peace. Some reformers were more concerned with the issue of securing freedom for Negro slaves. Other reformers championed women’s suffrage, labor unions, consumer cooperatives, public education, humane treatment of criminals, or fought against vices like prostitution or excessive alcohol consumption. The nineteenth-century reformers drew their ideas from Biblical sources. And in many instances reformers advocated several causes simultaneously. A person could, for example, be an abolitionist and also a member of a trades union or temperance society. Finally, such reforms were invariably justified in terms of prophetic Biblical statements.

In an essay dated 1835, Edward Beecher discussed the implications of prophecy. The millennial world that he foresaw would come about when social abuses and corruptions of religious teachings were abolished. Men motivated by the desire to pattern their lives upon Christ’s teachings would cause this transformation. Christ’s intentions, Beecher said, were that his disciples should devote themselves to the common cause of religious unity. People should “love holiness as seen in each other.” “If men loved God and the public good as they ought they would feel no shame to confess sins and errors, but the reverse.” In other words Beecher was saying that it is ethically wrong to put the satisfaction of one’s own ego before service to others. And he maintained that religious faith is not only a private affair between God and the individual but is also a public matter. In order for leaders to carry out their responsibilities effectively, they must be willing to acknowledge errors. Beecher was clear about that. The structure of nineteenth-century Protestant denominations could not, however, accommodate this insight. There were other insights which also were neglected.

Another contributor to the magazine that Beecher wrote for was Horace Bushnell. In an article entitled “Spiritual Economy of Revivals of Religion”, Bushnell argued that God acts historically in analogy to the seasons. Religious behavior and beliefs are always undergoing change. Perhaps the “laws of development of God’s work”, Bushnell intimates, should lead people to expect spiritual regeneration from unexpected sources.

Postmillennial enthusiasm was dealt a crushing blow, however, by the catastrophic depression of 1837. Economic collapse in that year caused widespread human suffering as hundreds of thousands of workers were thrown out of jobs. And—here is the contention that explains much of what follows— the depression caused a massive transformation of popular sentiment toward the world. By 1839, after enduring two years of joblessness and suffering through a falling standard of living, people began to doubt their old certainties. By 1839 Americans had become pessimists.

Before 1839 the message of William Miller that men should “prepare for the return of Christ” had found only limited support in backwoods New England. After 1839 that message began to find a response among the masses of the disaffected. The magnitude of the depression demanded a remedy which was as encompassing as the difficulties people were experiencing. Universal reform, not piecemeal reform, was needed, and of the several schemes for such a transformation which were formulated before 1840 the Millerite platform seemed most appropriate.

During the years 1816-1818, Miller formulated his advent doctrine. Christ would return, Miller was convinced, “about 1843”. Jesus would “come down out of the clouds” any time from the spring of 1843 to the spring of 1844. Miller assumed that the calendar then in use among the American Jewish community was the one used by Hebrews in the time of Christ. He came to his prediction by examining prophecies in the Bible, especially the 8th chapter of Daniel [Page 19] and the 14th chapter of Revelation. Other crucial passages were found in Matthew 24, Luke 12, and John 14.

Miller’s theory originally served merely to solve his own psychological dilemmas, as similar premillennialist ideas had resolved the problems of other religionists. In Miller’s case prophecy seemed to unify the Bible and, consequently, enabled him to accept that book as the inspired word of the Lord. As a young man Miller was influenced by the deist contention that reason could solve human problems. But, as he matured, he came to the conclusion that a life of reason was unsatisfactory because it was an incomplete life. Yet he was still convinced that reason was indispensable. Thus, the discovery that calculating dates from prophetic references in the Bible was a rational process inspired Miller with a deep, pietistic faith. Several other people also made similar discoveries in the early nineteenth century.

Almost simultaneously with Miller’s coming to his conclusion, a European named Joseph Wolff conceived an advent theory, although the date in this case was 1847. Wolff then started on a missionary career to spread the millennial teaching throughout the world. Wolff’s knowledge of oriental languages enabled him to preach and discuss theology with Turks, Arabs, and Persians on his journeys through the Near East. In 1837 Wolff visited the United States and, in December, spoke before a joint session of the Congress. Harriet Livermore had preached the advent to this same body in 1832 and by 1839 was attracting attention for her sojourn in Jerusalem to await Christ’s return. Interest in the second coming on the part of many people is illustrated by such examples, and this interest was soon exploited by Miller and his coterie.

In November 1839 Joshua V. Himes, the pastor of the Chardon Street Chapel in Boston, first heard the prophet Miller lecture. Himes’ association with William Lloyd Garrison and the fact that his church was used for meetings of the latter’s anti-slavery and non-resistance societies (as well as by other radical groups) explains his importance. Moreover, as Himes became increasingly involved with the Millerites, his executive abilities helped to structure what became a growing movement. Miller’s own talks in Boston in 1840 demonstrated both the sincerity of what turned out to be his reform-minded philosophy and the appeal of premillennial ideas. Before the year was out a number of reform advocates joined the cause. Himes arranged for the publication of a Millerite newspaper, the Signs of the Times, which would function as a semi-official organ of the movement and publicize advent teachings to its readers.

By October 1840 the Millerites called the first of a number of “general conferences”. At these meetings Millerite doctrine was articulated and plans for action were decided upon. At the second conference, June 15, 1841, the Millerite leadership agreed to form Second Advent associations wherever the movement flourished in order to direct millennial enthusiasm in an effective manner. The printing and distribution of “Second Advent Libraries” was also proposed and, subsequently, carried out. As a result of the twelfth conference, also held in Boston, in 1842, Millerite methods became refined as the conferees approved the circulation of 500 copies of a colorful prophetic chart which depicted the visions found in Daniel and Revelation. That assembly also determined to spread the faith by initiating camp meetings.

Millerite Influence

As thousands joined the movement, Millerite influence multiplied. Millerite newspapers were started in Philadelphia, New York, Montreal, and Rochester, among other places, in connection with adventist evangelical campaigns. Charles Fitch brought the advent movement to the West during 1842 and, probably through the intervention of his friend, Finney, spoke before audiences at Oberlin College. From 50,000 to 100,000 people joined the movement during the period of its great expansion, 1842-1843; perhaps [Page 20] the majority of this number were recruited by Millerite itinerants—including Himes and Miller—in upstate New York. The use of a huge tent, seating 4,000 spectators, reputed to be the biggest in America at that time, was an additional factor in Millerite successes. But not only did the movement grow—so did its opposition.

Orthodox ministers criticized Millerite theology from their pulpits and the press derided the movement by heaping ridicule upon obvious targets in popular advent beliefs. “Millerism” was held to be responsible for breakups of marriages and for causing insanity among its adherents. Himes was accused of defrauding the public, stealing money for his private consumption. And, during periods of heightened expectation of the second coming, the story that the Millerites were preparing, if not wearing, “ascension robes” was circulated. One could supposedly see Millerites gathered on hilltops, conspicuous in their white robes, awaiting the end of the world. The only thing wrong with this accusation, of course, is that it was totally false.

More serious than anti-Millerite humor, however, was the undoubted fact that hundreds of adventists were being denied fellowship by their churches. This problem was severe in Boston since there was no means to accommodate the crowds of the curious that flocked to Millerite meetings. It was then that the decision to construct a nine-sided tabernacle was reached. At length, the idea of seceding from the Protestant denominations was conceived, and, after Fitch published his noteworthy sermon, “Come Out of Her, My People” on July 26, 1843, thousands of Millerites throughout the United States, sometimes entire congregations, followed the call. Babylon was now understood to refer to the entire body of the traditional church. Sometimes, too, Millerites articulated resentments against their antagonists. While neither theme was predominant, adventists could display nativist, anti-Catholic feelings, and even anti-capitalist sentiments. The ante-bellum, capitalist system protected both wage slavery and Negro slavery, some Millerites noted.

When Christ returned, however, the corruptions of the present age would be obliterated. And the advent, it was certain, was close at hand. As the millennial year approached several dates seemed propitious for local groups of Millerites and, in succession, April 23, 1843, December 31, 1843, Easter, 1844, and March 21, 1844, were regarded as favorable times for the second coming. However, the position of Miller, Himes, and other leaders remained unaltered: no specific date could be regarded as more likely than any other. Disclaimers to this effect were circulated in the Millerite press.

Finally, though, the Hebrew year that Miller had predicted would be the last year of the old dispensation ended. Jesus had not come back. Miller’s followers found themselves in an uncomfortable situation. Their insistence that the prophet’s prophecies were correct and the opposition that their proselytizing evoked had served to divorce the Millerites from normal society. When Miller released a statement in May, 1844, admitting his mistaken calculations, the adventists were open to further ridicule and, consequently, were further isolated. But their feelings of uncertainty and frustration prepared the adventists to receive any plausible theory or explanation that accounted for the apparent failure. To admit that they were wrong would have been disastrous, since the Millerites had staked their identity on Miller’s distinctive doctrine.

At this point—the summer of 1844— Samuel S. Snow came to the rescue. Snow wanted to find out what had gone wrong and had in his investigations arrived at a significant conclusion. First, he said, the rabbinical calendar on which the original prediction was based was not the calendar in use in ancient Palestine. The method of reckoning time still in use by the Karaite Jewish sect was the system used by the Hebrews who lived during the period of the Roman Empire. According to the Karaite calendar the Jewish ecclesiastical year would not end until [Page 21] the Autumn of 1844. In particular, Snow maintained, October 22 was the time signified for the advent itself to occur. Although Miller and Himes at first rejected Snow’s date, as they had rejected previous attempts to do the same thing, their cautious approach now failed to restrain other Millerites. Beginning with Joseph Bates, all the prominent adventists came to agree with Snow’s prognostication.

The Millerite cause, which had seemed to be on the verge of dying out as spring turned into summer, now revived as summer turned into fall. Millerite preachers redoubled their efforts. New adventist newspapers were started and a virtual flood of premillennial publications poured out of the Millerite presses. Some of this literature was sent throughout the world, as copies of pamphlets and books and charts were forwarded to Constantinople, Jerusalem, an unspecified location in Persia, and elsewhere. The Millerite movement penetrated into Canada and into what were then remote sections of the United States: places like Elgin, Illinois, and Little Rock, Arkansas. Eccentric behavior, in spite of the excitement that the adventists experienced, was exceedingly rare and confined to individuals. Meetings were held continuously in the final days before the last day, but this simply reflected concern about the impending event, Christ’s return.

When the evening of October 21 did arrive, many Millerites made their final preparations. Some held services in their churches, others gathered together in homes in the company of friends. And then they began their vigil. Throughout the night, then during the morning and afternoon of the next day, October 22, the Millerites waited. And they waited during that night, also, as each hour went by. But when it became dawn on October 23, the Millerites were faced with the undeniable failure of their beliefs to come true. What followed for the adventists was anguish. And not only were their hopes shattered; in many instances Millerite communities were persecuted by non-Millerite mobs.

After the Great Disappointment

AT THIS JUNCTURE the narrative becomes complex, however, because the “Great Disappointment” of October 22 would, it soon became clear, come to mean different things to different people. There were no precedents to revert to which were worth reverting to. There were no alternative courses of action to be taken in case of error. How could there be? That would have indicated insincerity about their convictions. As a result the Millerite movement broke into factions although, to be sure, not into the same factions that the members originally adhered to before becoming adventists. A small group began to advocate the belief that Joseph Turner proposed after October 22, to wit, that Christ had spiritually returned. The Turnerites, as they were called, also believed, however, that they, and no one else, were saved. Hiram Edson had another answer to the Millerite problem. After the disappointment, Edson had a “vision” in which he saw Jesus, in the clouds, entering and setting out to cleanse an inner sanctum in heaven. To Edson, and those who accepted his account of things, the Millerite prophecies were intended to pertain to events in the sky, not down on Earth. Another group began to celebrate the sabbath on Saturday, the seventh day of the week, to return to the Biblical teaching on the subject. This did nor explain anything, but it did assuage latent guilt-feelings of pietist adventists who perhaps reasoned that this error on their part was somehow connected with the October 22 fiasco.

A body of Millerites in Portland, Maine, came to the conclusion that Ellen G. Harmon (more famous by her later, married, name of Ellen G. White) had received the “gift of prophecy” that the apostle Paul had written about. The prophecies she began delivering after December, 1844, seemed to indicate that God was concerned with his adventist children. All of these groups published newspapers or tracts to explain their position. Joseph Bates, who can either be described as the most open-minded or the [Page 22] most gullible Millerite in the movement, accepted the views of Edson, the seventh-day communities, and Ellen Harmon, and was then instrumental in bringing these parties together after 1845. By 1860 they became known as the Seventh-Day Adventist church and in 1863 a denominational organization was formed. The Seventh-Day people, however, were then an obvious minority among Millerite devotees and remained so until the late nineteenth century.

In April, 1845, a conference attended by representatives of the majority position within the adventist cause met at Albany, New York, to decide upon future plans. Himes and Miller, as well as figures like Elon Galusha, supported the Albany meeting. The Albany conferees admitted that they had espoused the wrong time for the advent to occur but said that their contention that Christ would return (“in the flesh,” one is tempted to say) was definitely not mistaken. This argument, it should be noted, repudiated the Seventh-Day position which confessed error as to the event which was to have happened. The Albany conference did much to resurrect the enthusiasm of the Millerites, and Miller himself tried to stir his followers into renewed action by referring them to other predictions for the date of the second coming, notably 1847. The prophet died on December 20, 1849, without seeing his dream materialize. But others looked forward to some date in 1850, then 1853-54, as likely times for the millennium to begin. When 1854 also failed to produce the results that the Millerites had been looking for, the Millerite press ceased to print additional date forecasts. Adventists now started to concern themselves with finding a way to relate themselves to the world as it is (as it was then). This called for a painstaking search of the Bible.

During this process of adjustment the adventists who derived their traditions from the Albany meeting also began to form into denominations. The Church of God was a merger of several small church bodies. Also there were some adventists who felt, even though they had been disappointed several times, that they should live in a constant state of crisis and be constantly prepared for the second coming. This group comprised the nucleus for the Evangelical Adventist church, which eventually, however, died out. The one Millerite denomination that still survives today and which continues to uphold many of the original ideas of the movement is the Advent Christian church, founded in 1860.

Undoubtedly one of the things which has contributed to the success of the Advent Christians was their adoption, before becoming institutionalized, of the doctrine of conditional mortality. George Storrs, an abolitionist who had converted to the Millerite cause in 1842, had expounded the conditionalist argument at the time of his conversion. Storrs received little enthusiasm for and some opposition to his views at the time, but by the 1850’s the situation had become altered. Adventists proved willing to listen to what Storrs had to say, and what Storrs had to say was revolutionary.

Nowhere does the Bible express the notion that God delights in punishing sinners by tormenting them eternally in a place called hell. According to Storrs, the orthodox Christian view of God is a heresy of the first order, making the deity into a cruel demon who “gets even” with human beings by causing them to endure sufferings without his ever showing mercy. How could a loving God do such a thing? Storrs’ answer was that God could not.

Instead of consigning people to the Devil (who does not exist) and to the flames of hell (a fictitious place), God has arranged things so that at death the wicked perish. This is the “conditional” factor of human mortality. On the condition that men are saved, Storrs argued, they attain immortal life. If they refuse salvation, they cease to exist, they perish. To perish, after all, is the meaning of the word “death”.

To support his contention Storrs mentioned dozens of Bible texts. John 3:16, for example, contains more than the oft-quoted [Page 23] opening phrase. “God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son” is the only part of the statement that Christians seem to pay any attention to; but it continues, “that whosoever believeth on Him, might not perish, but have everlasting life.” Christ came to bring life to those who would be his disciples, Storrs said. If someone refuses such a blessing, the verse makes it plain that he or she will perish. It says nothing about eternal punishment in hell.

Furthermore, Storts went on, the term “salvation”, derived from the word “save”, carries a false connotation. Referring to the then recently translated “Peshito Syriac Version of the New Testament”, reputed to be based on the earliest rendition of that book, Storrs noted that “save” and its derivations were originally rendered by the term “life” and derivations of the same word. Where the King James Bible reads Christ the “Savior” it should read Christ the “Life-Giver.” Instead of translating Acts 2:21 as “Whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be saved”, one should read it as “Whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall live.”

When the trumpet sounds at the last judgment, Christ shall reign on a regenerated Earth with his saints. According to Storrs, the advent was the event which would begin the Kingdom of God. The world would not end in destruction but would be purified; a new age would begin. In a remarkable statement Storrs said:

The revelation that God has seen fit to make to men has always been gradual and progressive: all was not revealed at once; and what has been communicated as prophecy, has had a gradual and progressive development.

The Adventist denominations rapidly accepted the doctrine of conditional mortality during the decade before the Civil War. They did so, in large part, because the economic depression had ended, because the disappointments were behind them, and because, as a result of those developments, the Millerites found their pessimism ebbing. Gradually the Adventists recovered a sense of hope and, when they had become optimists again, Storrs’ ideas exerted a profound appeal. This appeal was due to the similarities of conditionalism to the postmillennialist point of view. And this appeal was also due to the fact that Adventists were pietists. As such, they did not stop changing their theology when modification was called for. Just as Miller himself began his career opposed to abolition but ended it as a conductor on the underground railroad, just as Bates became an advocate of one reform cause after another, and just as Storrs interpreted the world optimistically at first, only to become disillusioned when the abolitionist movement declined around 1840, only to rediscover hope for the future afterward, so too, the Millerites underwent many transformations. In the end the mainstream Adventists were able to employ conditionalism as a vehicle for re-entering the life of American society, even though they continued to hold to such radical beliefs as pacifism.

What should be clear to the reader is that the Millerites were not a mass of eccentrics whose behavior entertained their contemporaries. Instead one should regard them as serious rivals to the established religious order of the nineteenth century in the United States. To call the Millerites reformers, fundamentalists, or radicals, however, is to misunderstand them. The Millerites were pietists with a revolutionary cause. [Page 24] [Page 25]

[Page 26]

[Page 27]27

Summer’s Bay

(For Anfesia Shapsnikoff)

a Over a cliff of stone

Above an ocean of silence

Against the silence of walls and burials

Through light that seemed impenetrable

To the trail along the beach

To the city of one street

The gulls drift

crying crying,

Ivory upon their wings

Wings the color of frost

Flakes of ash on their snowy breasts.

The sun like a halo of clarity rising,

The sea blood-stained, sealion and seal,

Fowl’s flesh now rose and salmon: out of nothing

The day is blown towards us.

b Islands

between sea and ocean

Aleutian Islands

split circle of vanished people

mountainous bow of storms

belt of emeralds

like the eagle’s curved flight above you

carved eyebrow on the death mask

arc of long Winter.

c After months of Winter

never the gray fading into black or umber

never igniting into flame

pale stones beneath gray water

ships blue-gray at anchor

an orange buoy blazing once

smoke gray fog locking the harbor:

the dryness of one color shading the spectrum exhausted me.

Along the trail at the bay’s end

I found sleeping shoots of rye pale green sunken under

the white yellow slender stems and blades of broken Autumn;

they will sleep until Summer.

In the winding streams on the floor of the valley

fresh-water seaweed darkened, its color withdrawn into the bank.

(Continued)

[Page 28]

Then under an overgrowth of Empetrum and blond hairs

its roots stock between stones and beneath stones

heavier roots twisting were ferns thick and stubby

growing into fans as the day broadened into morning:

the ferns green all Winter.

Winter surrendered one green emblem.

Beside the bleached leaves of wild strawberries

the green flames smouldered.

Here in the fist of Winter

I could remember

the shattered history of these islands.

On the side of the rock.

On the volcano.

d That fury which from birth is soft,

Never angered into violence,

Shook the sea of these islands,

Sent creation’s terrible passion

Confusing the split stock,

Mold, the delicate breeding of spiders,

Centuries of steam and rock,

An age of vegetation.

Against the sea’s lisp all the evening was singing.

The islands lay like a bracelet abandoned in the sun.

Do you remember the slow dance of your beginning?

How you came here and prospered?

[Page 29]

at last,

out of deep water

plundering with their eyes the dangerous shore

the fur hunters, Russian,

sheer sea walls

there the fall of the eagle was straight down,

then at cliff’s point

they coasted, now in the Bay cast anchor

onto the lips of the valley.

Roof of valleys.

Belly of volcanoes.

Then amid cries and money, a century, you were swept

down the dark aorta into the furious sun.

Sea’s end river’s end

slaughter and sickness pressed you into silence.

Andrew, Old Man,

you sent your daughter in the close of Winter

after what ferns

for healing?

Sergie, Old Man, Old Man,

out of the valley and shore,

what ferns

what roots and tendrils

did you take?

Bring down from your glacial peak, Makushin,

what you had hidden in your heights,

among the scent of orchids,

down rough torrents to the village,

bring what preserved you against slaughter and invasion

to a town of old men with strangers for children.

Let a brilliant redness cover the sky

“like the coming of a new civilization”

with laws, Old Man, it is a new day.

The door of your room is closing.

(Continued)

[Page 30]

A closed door makes the house smaller.

Haul down the door!

Throw open the window!

Let the quiet of the eagle high in flight,

Let the grave crashing of magnificent wings,

Let your silence, your history, answer

your children’s call. Call!

All sing or dance in silence but

continue

continue

Pass on

Pass on

to son and daughter

what you shared with the islands

your blood to their blood

yellow eye of the sturgeon

taut sinew of sealion

grass woven baskets as fine as cloth.

Old Man, Old Man, go silent and

All the fires will be out.

All the fires

the fight

the pride

the calm of your eye as the sea

rages against you.

Eagle.

Aleutian.

Side of the rock.

Moss side of the rock.

Volcano.

e Memory moves us

to look; now see

weeds on the surface

in the ocean thin pins of fish.

The water here at valley’s end

at Summer’s Bay

shallow as the palm of your hand

is filled with light.

Raymond L. Hudson

Hue-Phu Bai, Vietnam

[Page 31]

The Cultural Encounter Between Indian and White

By MARY DAHM

THE NATIVE CANADIAN has been greatly misunderstood and generally accepted by the non-Indian community as a second-class citizen. The challenge confronting both Indians and non-Indians is to recognize that the Indian is not merely a brown-faced white man and that he cannot be expected to conform to white cultural patterns in order to participate fully in, contribute to, and be accepted by the Canadian community. The white Canadian must recognize the fact that the Indian has a valid and unique cultural heritage dating back to pre-European contact times. Understanding of the present day Indian will in part derive from a knowledge and appreciation of traditional Indian culture —of its organization, values, patterns of social, political, and religious life, which vary in many respects from both seventeenth century European culture and twentieth century Canadian society.

Throughout the historical period, two types of injustice have been committed against the Indians. On the one hand, misunderstanding and unjust behavior has resulted from basic ignorance of traditional Indian culture on the part of fundamentally well-motivated non-Indians—from their unawareness of the nature of the Indians’ relationship to his natural environment and to his fellow tribesmen. On the other hand, more deliberate acts of injustice have resulted from non-Indian efforts to exploit the Indian economically, to impose an alien European culture, religion, and system of values on the traditional Indian way of life, and from a persistent refusal to recognize the inherent validity and value of Indian culture.

This article is not intended to be an anthropological dissertation on the Canadian Indian situation—past or present. Its purpose is only to point out some of the cultural differences between Indian and non-Indian peoples and to illustrate a few of the injustices which have occurred during the period of historical interaction between these two cultures. The subsequent comments attempt to be suggestive, not exhaustive, and it is hoped that they will indicate the urgent need for more accurate and unbiased research, understanding and appreciation of the Indian peoples both by the general Canadian public and particularly by administrative personnel dealing directly with the aboriginal Canadians.

Diversity Among Indian Cultures

THE CANADIAN INDIANS traditionally did not and do not today constitute a single homogeneous cultural group. The original North Americans were divided into hundreds of population units loosely organized into tribes. These groups displayed a great diversity in language, modes of subsistence, complexity of social organization, and patterns of religious, ceremonial, and artistic expression. Therefore it is simplistic to assume a uniformity of traditional Indian culture. Nevertheless, [Page 32] several fundamental cultural elements were characteristic of all the indigenous tribes. Remaining aware of regional and subcultural variation, we will attempt to illustrate some of these common cultural patterns. Naturally many statements are too general to be universally accurate or equally applicable to all tribes.

When the first Europeans discovered the vast land now called Canada, it was already inhabited by some 220,000 people, occupying a territory stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from the Great Lakes to the Arctic coast. These peoples, mistakenly called Indians, were loosely organized into groups or tribes, most of which were more or less migratory, moving their settlements and temporary dwellings as the seasonal fluctuations in food supply required. The tribes spoke different languages and dialects which corresponded closely with the geographical regions they inhabited. The difficulties of inter-tribal communication arising from the existence of some eleven different linguistic stocks, was overcome in part by the existence of a sign language among the Plains people, by the use of interpreters, and by a shared trade jargon which had developed by the advent of the fur trade. Despite language differences, similar cultural elements diffused among tribes inhabiting a wide geographical area.

The social and political organization of the Canadian aborigines ranged in complexity from the small, loosely organized bands of the more migratory groups such as the Algonkian of the Eastern woodlands and the sub-arctic and arctic Eskimo, which occasionally amalgamated into temporary tribal communities for seasonal ceremonies, to the highly organized and hierarchically stratified tribes of the North West Coast.

In all cases, however, the fundamental social unit was the biological family, which often included the extended kin group. Kinsmen frequently came together for mutual support, to cooperate in hunting and fishing endeavors, to share the results of the hunt, thereby providing all members of the band with a portion of the food supply. They also assembled at certain times to exchange gifts and for ceremonial and social occasions.

Behavior Patterns: Respect for Age

THE QUALITY of interpersonal relationships in the traditional family and band characterizes the Indian to the present day. Each kin group member soon learns, as a small child, his place and function within the group, and the various patterns of expected behavior towards his relatives. For example, he may learn that his behavior towards one cousin who is an experienced hunter must be different from that towards another who is an untried boy. By a white man, both boys would simply be regarded as young Indian men to be treated in a similar fashion.

Seniority generally brings with it respect and authority. The tribal elders were generally not cast off as economically useless beings, but rather were consulted in important matters and were respected for their experience and wisdom. Dr. D’Arcy McNickle uses an excellent illustration of this characteristic. A party of Mennonites trekking from Pennsylvania to Ohio became lost in the mountains. After several days the missionary in charge asked a young Indian in the group if he knew the trails through the hills. He replied that he did. “Then why haven’t you told us this before instead of letting us go astray?” The young Indian said: “Well the guides you are using are older Indians. It wasn’t my job to tell them they were going astray.” Asked if he would show them the way, the Indian replied: “Not unless they ask me. It is not fitting for a young Indian to tell his elders what to do.”

[Page 33]

[Page 34]

Behavior Patterns: Non-Interference

INDIANS SHOW MUCH RESPECT for other individuals and do not engage in aggressive behavior patterns commonly characteristic of white men, such as advice-giving, suggesting, asking personal, probing questions, all of which they regard as interference and a serious violation of an individual’s rights. In unfamiliar situations the Indian tends to be silent and observe until he knows precisely what is expected of him, while the non-Indian generally attempts to cope with the situation by initiating conversation or activity in order to find his bearings.

In intercultural meetings between Indian and non-Indian, misunderstandings frequently arise. The white man observes the Indian’s silence and withdrawal and concludes he is ignorant, hostile, or merely too apathetic to communicate. The Indian, on the other hand, regards the aggressive (although probably well motivated) overtures of the white man as rude, and a serious violation of respect for the individual. Wax and Thomas have described the Indian norm of non-interference in interpersonal relationships. They discuss the pattern of interpersonal coercion common among whites, such as influencing others to do what one wants, coaxing, advice-giving, etc.

The Indian defines all of the above behavior, from the gentlest manipulation to the most egregious meddling, as outside the area of proper action. From earliest childhood he is trained to regard absolute non-interference in interpersonal relations as decent or normal and to react to even the mildest coercion in these areas with bewilderment, disgust, and fear.

A profound respect for the interests, occupations, and responsibilities of other human beings begins to show itself even in the very young Indian child. We have, for example, conversed with Indian parents for hours, while half a dozen children played around us, and, not once did they address a word to us. . . .

We have asked a number of Indians how it is that even very young children do not bother older people. We are usually told something like this: “When I think about it, I see you’re right. We never did bother grown-up people when I was a kid. It’s funny I can’t remember that anybody said anything to us about it. We just didn’t do it.

The norm of non-interference needs to be understood before real inter-cultural communication can result.

Behavior Patterns: Non-Verbal Communication

MUCH COMMUNICATION in traditional and contemporary Indian culture is non-verbal. Indians tend to “know intuitively” the feelings and moods of their fellows. From an early age, the child is trained to be highly sensitive in inter-personal relationships. Moral and social training involves relatively little direct verbal communication. Wax and Thomas make the following comments from their observations of contemporary Indian communities:

According to our observations, Sioux and other Indians begin to train their children to be highly sensitive social beings long before they can talk and, perhaps, even before the age when white infants are subjected to oral and anal frustrations. Here we again agree with Lee in the view that Indian training in social sensitivity and in respect for others begins at birth, and, apparently, is reinforced with every interpersonal experience.

. . . when an Indian gives anyone, child or [Page 35] adult, his attention, he gives all of it. Thus, when he is interacting with an adult, the child is not only treated with the warmth and indulgence noted by so many observers, but he is given an attention that is absolute. As we have already noted, this intense concentration on the emotional and intellectual overtones of a personal relationship also characterizes adult interaction. Thus, there is really no such thing as a casual or dilatory conversation between Indians. If they are not en rapport they are worlds apart; if they are giving their attention, they use every sense to the utmost.

The non-Indian is relatively insensitive to these subtle levels of communication. He emphasizes verbal communication. When he is confronted by the “silence” characteristic of the Indian, he feels awkward and embarrassed and seems driven to chatter, to fill the void with conversation or merely noise. He remains unaware that Indians share much on the silent, non-verbal level. Similarly, the Indian may well feel frustrated, annoyed, or perplexed at the constant apparently meaningless activity and conversation characteristic of the white man.

Community Leadership vs. Individualism

OFTEN leadership in the traditional family, band, or tribe was practically nominal— some member, because of his courage, excellent character, or success in hunting, gained temporary pre-eminence. In theory all band members were equal, and the leader was granted few privileges. On the North West Coast, however, where society was more highly structured and stratified, hereditary leadership and succession prevailed.

Some tribes manifested probably the truest democratic elements in an elected governing council, one of whose members acted as chief. Their decisions, arrived at through communal consultation, affected the activities of the entire group, such as hunting or warfare. The group decision prevailed over the will or opinion of a single ambitious individual. In tribes lacking chiefs or an executive council, law and order was maintained by the force of public opinion. No written legal codes existed, but the tribal rules and taboos were passed down from generation to generation by word of mouth and were taught to the young by both direct and more subtle means of socialization. Violation of the moral or social norms which were felt to endanger the community would become the concern of the entire tribe, which used such means as persuasion, physical force, or ostracism to control or punish the offender. Total ostracism from such a closely knit and vital group was a serious deterrent to the individual. Less serious breaches of taboo or mores were dealt with by the immediate kin group.

The communal nature of traditional Indian life suggested above stands in stark contrast to the European tradition of rigorous individualism with its emphasis on private ownership, personal initiative, and individual conscience as a prime guide to moral behavior. One can anticipate the types of misunderstandings which have resulted from the meeting of such diverse cultural patterns.

Coordination of Indian Life with Nature

THE EARLY SETTLERS did not comprehend the attitude and relationship of the Indian to his natural environment. To the white man, nature is a thing to be conquered and controlled. The Indian felt at one with nature and its inhabitants. He had no concept of private ownership of land and resources. Tribes inhabited large territories and took care not to encroach on the hunting grounds of neighboring tribes. If the land “belonged” to anyone, then it belonged to the entire band, whose members shared its fishing places, game, and life and plant resources. [Page 36] An Indian no more believed he had a private personal claim to the land and its resources than a white man today feels he has a right to own the air he breathes.

The Indian fished, hunted, gathered, and in some cases cultivated, primarily for subsistence. He rarely killed more game than was necessary to supply immediate needs and future requirements. He preserved food in various ways to carry him over the lean winter months. Some inter-tribal exchange existed to supply groups with resources they lacked in their own area, but little surplus was purposely cultivated specifically for commercial trade. The European, oriented to a monetary system of economic exchange, profit and loss, concluded the Indian lacked some basic drive for acquisitiveness or condemned him as being merely lazy by nature.

The Indian adjusted his economic and social life to the seasonal cycles of nature— the fruition of flora and the prime seasons for fur trapping, hunting game, or catching fish. He did not lack a sense of time as is commonly supposed—he merely operated on a different concept of time from the present white, urban system of eight-hour days and seven-day weeks which is necessary to the functioning of a highly industrial economy. Here again, through ignorance of Indian cultural patterns, the Indians’ behavior has been condemned as irresponsible, lazy, and unreliable when judged by white standards of punctuality.

The Indian Had a Religious Society

INDIAN RELIGION formed an integral part of daily existence. The Indian sensed power, beyond the control of human agents, in the rivers, sky, sun, seasonal changes—the entire universe that surrounded him and supplied his needs. The individual had a rich spiritual life. Through prayer, fasting, and particularly the vision quest he sought to commune with the Great Spirit he sensed surrounded him. His religion was more concerned with the intuitive and feeling aspect of the individual than with the intellectual nature of man. When he spoke of his relationship to the spiritual world, he spoke more in concrete images than in abstraCt theological concepts.

The community had a ceremonial life which varied from tribe to tribe. Ceremonies were performed to invoke good fortune in hunting and other endeavors. Prohibitions such as forbidding fishing or hunting in certain seasons were rigorously observed and often functioned to enable various species to reach maturity and reproduce before their numbers were depleted by man.

Indian religion was inspired by the same divine source as other religions. Indian culture was founded on a moral order, which regulated interpersonal relationships as well as man’s relationship to the natural and spiritual realm. It was a culture which also found expression in music, dance, art, and an abundant oral tradition.

The traditional beliefs underwent considerable re-interpretation under the impact of white civilization. Christian elements were incorporated into the Indian belief system. Indian religious practices were judged and rejected by the European invaders. Traders and trappers scorned and disregarded the ancient taboos observed by Indians for centuries. The early missionaries and settlers derided or condemned their dreams and visions as foolish illusions or traffic with the devil. After contact with the European settlers, conditions radically changed for the Indian. The white man, who had firearms and other material elements of Western civilization, seemed now to wield more control over the Indians’ world than the ancient spiritual forces of the universe.

Violations of Indian Rights: Deliberate and Involuntary

THE ORIGINAL COLONIZERS were hospitably greeted and assisted by the Indian peoples. As they invaded this land in increasing numbers, they attempted to acquire more and more land from the Indians for their own [Page 37] use. The Indian placed no monetary value on the land and therefore conceived of the exchange more in terms of sharing or trading rather than purchase. The European legalized these transactions in the form of the “treaty”, the intent and nature of which was not initially understood by the Indian. By the time he became aware of his losses, he had been ruled off of lands which he forcibly or willingly ceded to the white man. In subsequent times he resisted ceding his land, submitting only under duress.

The gross increase in hunting, trapping, and fishing, which was stimulated by European trade and the introduction of firearms, and which was no longer subject to traditional restrictions, rapidly depleted the rich natural resources. The demand for beaver pelts made the Indian rich for a brief period of time, but by 1797 the northland was denuded of beaver and the Indian faced poverty.

The introduction of guns and horses had a similar effect on the Plains. Jenness reports that by 1879 the once plenteous herds of buffalo had disappeared, “and the Indians, dying of starvation, had to accept unreservedly the conditions laid down by the white man.”

Indian life became entangled with the European economic system. The Indian was confined to increasingly narrower reserves. The natural food supply was no longer adequate to maintain his traditional pattern of subsistence. He acquired the desire for many elements of white material culture, and his former self-subsistence was replaced by dependence on European trading stores to provide the necessities of life.

Many of the traders’ economic dealings with the Indians consisted of deliberate exploitation of his hunting abilities, his knowledge of the natural resources, and his ignorance of European culture. Treaties whose implications were not necessarily fully understood by the Indian were solemnly agreed to, only to be subsequently dishonored and broken by the white men. Throughout history the trust of the Indian has been so often breached that it is small wonder he now regards white policies and proposals with suspicion and resistance.

White settlers brought with them two plagues. The first were diseases to which the Indian totally lacked immunity. The deadliest of these was smallpox, which greatly reduced the native population; typhus and other diseases took a further toll. The second was alcohol, a force almost equally destructive to Indian culture. Alcohol was little known to Indians in prehistoric times, and they had neither physical tolerance nor knowledge of its use.

Whiskey and brandy destroyed the self-respect of the Indians, weakened every family and tribal tie, and made them, willing or unwilling, the slaves of the trading-posts where liquor was dispensed to them by the keg. Even the fur traders recognized its evils and gladly supported the government when it finally prohibited [Page 38] all sale to the Indians under penalty of a heavy fine.

Disease and alcohol demoralized and destroyed the Indians just when they needed all their energy and courage to cope with the new conditions that suddenly came into existence around them. The old order changed completely with the coming of the Europeans.

Validity of Indian Religion and Customs Denied

THE TRADERS regarded the customs of the Indians with contempt. They valued only the pelts he brought which increased their own profit. The missionaries also viewed the customs, values, and beliefs of the Indian as uncivilized and pagan. They misunderstood the spiritual life of the Indians and condemned their practices as superstitions. Traditional faith was crushed under the highly organized, proselytizing onslaught of Christianity. In many cases, the motivation of the white missionary was good. Nevertheless, the Indian was rejected as a spiritual human being; he required conversion to some sect of Christianity in order to be accepted as a child of God. Ironically, however, the Jesuit priests noted that in many cases the moral and social behavior of the pagan Indians far surpassed that prevalent in civilized Christian France.

In 1701 . . . a Jesuit priest, working with the Hurons had this comment: “These people seek a reputation for liberality and generosity. They give away their property freely and very seldom ask any return. If they suspect anyone seeks to accomplish an evil deed, they do not restrain him with threats, but with gifts. From the same desire for harmony comes the ready assent to whatever one teaches them. Nevertheless, they hold tenaciously to their native beliefs or superstitions and on that account are more difficult to instruct.”

The denial of the validity of the Indian religion and culture and the persistent passion to convert, “civilize”, and educate the “heathen” constitute cardinal injustices committed against the Indian by the Christian church.

George Catlin, an artist who travelled extensively among the Indians in the 1830’s, made this declaration:

I have heard it said by some very good men, and some who have been preaching the Christian religion amongst them, that they have no religion—that all their zeal in their worship of the Great Spirit was but the foolish excess of ignorant superstition—that their humble devotions and supplications to the Sun and the Moon, where many of them suppose that the Great Spirit resides, were but the absurd rantings of idolatry. To such opinions as these I never yet gave answer, nor drew other instant inferences from them, than, that from the bottom of my heart, I pitied the persons who gave them.

I fearlessly assert to the world (and I defy contradiction), that the North American Indian is everywhere, in his native state, a highly moral and religious being, endowed by his Maker with an intuitive knowledge of some great Author of his being, and the Universe; in dread of whose displeasure he constantly lives, with the apprehension before him, of a future state, where he expects to be rewarded or punished according to the merits he has gained or forfeited in this world. . . .

Morality and virtue, I venture to say, the civilised world need not undertake to teach them; . . .

Of their extraordinary modes and sincerity of worship, I speak with equal confidence; and although I am compelled to pity them for their ignorance, I am bound to say that I never saw any other people of any colour, who spend so much of their lives in humbling themselves before, and worshipping the Great Spirit, as some of these tribes do, nor any whom I [Page 39] would not as soon suspect of insincerity and hypocrisy.

In 1805, Red Jacket stated the following on behalf of the Indians in a reply to Missionary Cram at Buffalo, New York:

Brother, continue to listen. You say that you are sent to instruct us how to worship the Great Spirit agreeably to His mind, and if we do not take hold of the religion which you White people teach, we shall be unhappy hereafter; you say that you are right, and we are lost; how do we know this to be true? We understand that your religion is written in a book; if it was intended for us as well as you, why has not the Great Spirit given it to us, and not only to us, but why did He not give to our forefathers the knowledge of that book, with the means of understanding it rightly? We only know what you tell us about it; how shall we know when to believe, being so often deceived by the White people?

Brother, you say there is but one way to worship and serve the Great Spirit; if there is but one religion, why do you White people differ so much about it? Why not all agree, as you can all read the book?

Brother, we do not understand these things; we are told that your religion was given to your forefathers, and has been handed down from father to son. We also have a religion which was given to our forefathers and has been handed down to us, their children. We worship that way. It teaches us to be thankful for all the favours we receive, and to be united; we never quarrel about religion.

Brother, the Great Spirit has made us all; but He has made a great difference between His White and Red children; He has given us a different complexion and different customs; to you He has given the arts; to these He has not opened our eyes; we know these things to be true. Since He has made so great a difference between us in other things, why may we not conclude that He has given us a different religion according to our understanding? The Great Spirit does right; He knows what is best for his children; we are satisfied.

Brother, we do not wish to destroy your religion, or take it from you. We want only to enjoy our own.

Misrepresentation of Indian Culture and Role in History Continues

THE FINAL POINT which I will mention is the deliberate misrepresentation of Indian culture and of the role of the Indian in North American history. Until recently, most mass media portrayed the Indian as a red savage, the arch-enemy of the settlers, who lurked behind hills waiting to attack defenseless wagon trains of pioneers, to scalp the men and abduct the innocent women and children. In its crudest form, Hollywood productions have advanced the stereotype of the ruthless, cunning, war-like savage, clad in feathers, brandishing a tomahawk, and engaging primarily in frenzied war dances.

More subtle and insidious falsifications of the Indian’s role in history have been perpetuated in both elementary and more sophisticated text books which portray the historical interaction between the two peoples from an ethnocentric and biased viewpoint. These accounts tend to stress negative facts of Indian life and, generally, completely ignore the positive contributions of the Indian to the development of this country.

The early settlers were welcomed by the natives of this land. Their tutelage enabled the pioneers to adapt and exist in the new and harsh environment. The settler, accustomed to a mild climate, roadways, and wheeled vehicles, was able to penetrate this land by adopting the methods of travel developed by the Indian—the toboggan, the canoe, and the dog-sled in the Arctic. It was the Indian, Jenness reports, who “taught the [Page 40] settlers woodcraft and the habits of the strange game with which the forests abounded. They manned the canoes of the explorers and fur traders, served as guides and hunters through the wilderness, and showed them the trails and the canoe routes. Many of our highways in Ontario follow the routes of ancient trails, and our railroads cross the mountains over passes first used and pointed out by the Indians. They and their half-breed descendants have always been the mainstay of the fur trade, which, expanding rapidly into the remotest corners of the Dominion, led to the discovery of fertile lands and mineral wealth, with subsequent colonization and development. We may safely say that large tracts of the Dominion would either be little known to-day, or entirely unknown, if the country had not been inhabited at the time of its discovery.”

The Indian diet also enabled the settler to survive in Canada; Indian maize grew where European wheat would not; beans, pumpkins, and squash, which were originally cultivated by the Indians, have become important foods of the non-Indian world.

The disregard and falsification of the cultural and spiritual legacy of the Indians, on the part of historians, educators, and policymakers has contributed to the impoverishment not only of the Indian people but to non-Indian civilization as well.

Ignorance of the cultural heritage of the Indian peoples has served to sever the Indian from his past. Since the arrival of the white man, the whole social and economic organization of his traditional culture has been radically altered and replaced with a dominating, alien culture. The Indian has been confined to reserve lands, many of which provide a substandard level of living. It is forgotten that the Indian is a product of a valid cultural heritage, however much it may differ from twentieth century urban life.

The prevalence of a negative stereotype of the Indian perpetuates the white man’s view of the Indian as a second-class citizen. Many whites, whether or not they have ever had direct contact with Indians, have a mental picture or stereotype of the “average Indian” which includes such characteristics as laziness, sloth, drunkenness, irresponsibility, ignorance, lack of foresight, poor squalid living conditions, etc. Frederick D. G. Dallyn conducted a study of attitudes towards Indians and people of Indian descent in 1959 and 1960 in Portage la Prairie and Selkirk, Manitoba. His purpose was to find out to what extent prejudice existed in these towns and what stereotypes had been accepted. His results indicate the presence of prejudice. He concludes:

In effect, the findings indicate that there is still a strong response to stereotypes about Indians; that they are dirty, lazy, unreliable, without skills and so on. But the positive thing about the survey is that the Indian has a right to equal education, equal job opportunities and a status in the community alongside non-Indians, and that the right is recognized.

The Indian himself, after being told by the non-Indian world in words and action that he is unequal, accepts this definition of himself and begins to conform to the white man’s expectations. He associates his own “Indianness” with shame rather than appreciation or pride. Recently, however, some individuals and groups (both Indians and non-Indians) have attempted to break this vicious circle and are asserting the nobility of Indian culture and demanding the rights which have been so long denied.

The acceptance of the Indian by the Canadian community for what he is as an individual, and for what he can become, is essential. Education and fundamental changes in prejudicial attitudes and discriminatory behavior are necessary to bring about this end and to enable the Indian Canadian to enjoy his God-given right.

[Page 41]

Indian Bahá’ís of Bolivia

By GREGORY C. DAHL

THERE ARE MANY GROUPS in the world which claim to be universal, to champion some cause or idea which has meaning and relevance for all men, and which seek to include all mankind within their ranks. Such are, for instance, the many political movements of the world and the various philosophies and religions. Their claim to universality is generally based, in doctrine or in fact, upon an appeal to uniformity among their membership—some commonly shared trait or view. “If all men would accept our standards and goals,” they say, “we would have a peaceful and harmonious world.” Peaceful, perhaps, but unexciting as well. More immediately, however, such systems exclude all who do not conform, and they are in opposition to other similar groups likewise striving for world hegemony. Thus we find movements which seek to unify succeeding only in creating further schisms, and we find a growing disillusion, particularly among the uncommitted younger generations, with institutionalized movements in any form.

In this environment it is particularly striking to encounter a group—the world-wide followers of the Bahá’í Faith—who believe that unity cannot ultimately rest on uniformity, no matter how compelling or all-inclusive, but that it must rest rather on an appreciation of and love for the diversity in the human race. They assert that by turning individually to God, recognizing the beauty of His creation in all things, and striving personally to become more fulfilled human beings through the application of His Teachings to daily life, men can come together in a unity which transcends yet encourages individuality. The forces of conflict which inevitably arise when diverse kinds of people come together must be countered, Bahá’ís believe, with stronger forces of personal love and social justice. Religion, especially when young and vital, is uniquely suited to assist in this process, in that it can transform the hearts of individual men while providing standards of justice by which society as a whole may be ordered. Because the essential and motivating spirit of religion can die away, however, it is renewed in every age by God through a new Messenger, so that its unifying force may again bring men together. The Bahá’í Faith, Bahá’ís believe, is the newest statement of Divine Purpose, the newest addition to a progressive revelation, and carries a spiritual dynamic capable of unifying the entire globe.

A claim of this magnitude naturally elicits a highly critical response. What makes Bahá’ís think that their Faith, more than other world movements, represents something beyond the mere imposition of one set of class- and culture-bound standards on other peoples, successful as those standards might be in one particular social or economic context? True, Bahá’ís can quote impressive statistics of international growth, but this does not in itself prove their assertion. Is their religion really succeeding in encompassing in some meaningful way the incredible cultural and social diversity—even autonomy —which exists in our fragmented world, without eliminating ethnic differences and qualities after the pattern of the onward march of “Western Civilization”?

To resolve this question for myself, I went to Bolivia for a summer to visit and live with the Indian Bahá’ís there, who number many thousands, and to experience personally what the Bahá’í Faith means to some of the economically most impoverished people of this hemisphere. I should like to share with [Page 42] the reader here a few of my observations.

View of the village of Jankohuyo, where most of the people are Bahá’ís. Building on the right, in enclosure, is the Bahá’í School.

Life in Bolivia

BEFORE ATTEMPTING TO DESCRIBE the Bahá’ís of Bolivia and their role in a world Bahá’í community, some general discussion of the condition of the country as a whole, and especially its Indian population, is in order. Bolivia is the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere. Large, sparsely populated, and economically backward, it is over eight times the size of New York State, but has less than one quarter the population— about three and three-quarters million. About two-thirds of these people live on the arid, high altiplano (elevation 11,000 feet and above), which covers less than half the country, and lies to the west and south. To the north and east lie vast expanses of low and very fertile land, ranging from savanna to rain forest, which are almost entirely unsettled. Some 60 or 70 percent of the population are indigenous Quechua- or Aymara-speaking Indians, descendents of the Incas, who continue to exist on a subsistence level in the most primitive manner as farmers and herders, scattered throughout the hills and mountains of the altiplano. The remaining 30 or 40 percent of the population is mestizo, except for perhaps 10 percent white, and most of these are to be found in the few cities of the country, where Spanish is generally spoken. (Ten percent of the population of Bolivia lives in La Paz.)

Perhaps the most striking thing about Bolivia for a North American is the extreme poverty, not just of one class of society but of the country itself. The La Paz airport—the highest commercial airport in the world, at more than 12,000 feet elevation—is a mere stretch of dirt; and the traveller’s later experiences in the country serve only to reinforce this first impression. In one city where I stayed—Oruro—the city water supply was turned on only a few hours a day, in the early morning; and in another—Potosí—the electricity was cut off each evening. But these are minor inconveniences relative to the hardship [Page 43] of life or travel in a country with only two major paved roads (and these hardly deserving of the name), in which medical facilities for the common people are practically nonexistent, and in which communication and mail service are inefficient and unreliable. With a nearly complete lack of social overhead capital—the marvelous systems of transportation, sanitation, and communication which we take so much for granted in this country—Bolivia has not yet begun the long climb toward becoming a modern industrial state.

Teacher with pupils in front of Bahá’í school in the village of Jankarachi.

The Campesinos

AND YET IT IS NOT about the cities of Bolivia, or the economic tasks which it faces, that I wish to write. It is rather about the country people or campesinos—the rural-dwelling Indians who live in myriads of tiny villages scattered throughout the mighty Andes. For these are the real treasure of Bolivia; and it is among these simple but pure-hearted people that thousands have declared their belief in Bahá’u’lláh.

Living in almost total isolation, the campesino ekes a subsistence living out of the high and rugged mountains. His environment is one of spectacular grandeur: great peaks cut by steep river canyons, thousands of feet below; or vast ranges separated by hilly valleys, miles wide. It is an environment of space, in which distances are great, men are few, and transportation is entirely by foot. (Even foot travel ceases in the rainy season in some areas, when the rivers become raging torrents and cannot be forded.) Here man is dwarfed into insignificance in the face of the natural forces about him; and these forces have been none too kind. The land is barren, the climate dry and cold. There are no trees as far as the eye can see—only rocks and clumps of dry grass. Nature has provided little upon which to subsist.

So the campesino tills the dry soil with a wooden plow—one of his most precious possessions—drawn by oxen. His staple food is the potato, itself indigenous to this region; this is supplemented with some wheat and corn, an occasional egg from one of his [Page 44] skinny chickens, and perhaps a little dried meat. But there is nothing green in his diet, and you will frequently find him chewing coca leaves (rich in cocaine), which he has purchased in the nearest town, to ward off hunger.

His house is usually a tiny, rectangular or circular but of adobe (clay cast into bricks), with a thatch roof supported by crooked pieces of wood strapped together. There is only one opening—a small door—which is the only source of light for the interior. For cooking, and to ward off the cold, brush and sheep dung are burned, producing a thick smoke which in time coats the interior of the house with a dense soot. Little attempt is made at cleanliness; water is so scarce in most areas that many people have never bathed in their lives. There are no furnishings in the houses, and all activities take place on the dirt floor, which is covered here and there with sheep or llama skins, the home of enormous numbers of fleas. Disease, of course, is always threatening here, and the life expectancy is probably not much over thirty years—for those who survive birth.

For his clothing, the campesino maintains a herd of sheep or llamas—as many as the terrain will support—from which the wool is taken to be hand spun and woven into garments, such as the typical dress and manta, or cloak, of the women, and the pants, shirt, poncho and chulo (woolen headpiece) of the men. In addition, adults usually have sandals made from rubber tires, like the huaraches of Mexico, though children generally go barefoot. Hats, which are made on the coast, are also a great favorite. But, to withstand the often sub-freezing temperatures at this altitude, such scant clothing hardly seems adequate.

Contact with the outside world is limited to an occasional trip into the nearest provincial center, generally a few days’ or weeks’ walk away. Here some produce can be sold or traded for chicha (an alcoholic drink made from corn), coca leaves, or perhaps a new hat or cooking utensil, or a safety pin. The provincial center is generally dominated by the secretary of the sindicato, the local political organization. The secretario makes and enforces justice as he sees fit, by means of his personal police force. Since much of the activity of the town revolves around the selling of chicha and coca leaves and the activities of the sindicato (often involving semi-religious, drunken fiestas), there are constant pressures on the campesino to cooperate and conform. Should he choose not to, he is scorned and often severely persecuted; and being meek and inward by nature, he is not well equipped to withstand this treatment. Murder, rape, and pillage have, in the past, been common means of bringing him into line with the wishes of the local boss.

The national government has seemingly done little more for the campesino—although not, perhaps, for lack of will, but for lack of resources. In those more fortunate areas where there is a government school, two years of education are typically offered. However, by government regulation instruction must be in Spanish, which the Indian children do not understand; and often the school teacher is less interested in teaching the children than in political activities and fiestas, since his job is a politically appointed one. So illiteracy in rural areas remains at over 90 percent.

Thus life continues, as it has always continued, and change itself is unknown and resisted. In one village I visited, a Bahá’í school teacher had built himself a much superior dwelling, with flagstone floor, a chimney, a window, and even a beautiful garden in front, all constructed from materials available in the natural environment. For five years he had lived in this house; and yet, when I asked the people why they did not institute the same easy improvements in their own homes, they seemed surprised at the suggestion. This is probably one of the greatest American misconceptions about extreme poverty in other countries. There are still areas of the world where the desire for progress has not yet reached, where the “demonstration effect” economists talk about has not yet made its mark. In these areas men [Page 45] are not discontented, because their basic view of life lacks the very concept of change. Hope, and therefore initiative, having long since been lost, are hard to regain.

The Role of the Bahá’í Faith

IN SUCH A STATIC SOCIETY, what is the role of the Bahá’í Faith? How does it change the campesino’s expectations within his own society, and his relations with outsiders?

First, belief in Bahá’u’lláh and membership in the Bahá’í Faith changes the campesino’s conception of himself. Ever since the Spanish conquest, his race has been exploited and looked down upon. He has consistently been told by those better off than himself that he is inferior. Even the missionaries, who preach brotherly love and unity in the Church, often betray their feelings of disgust at his primitive way of life or lack of hygiene. The Indians, being meek and humble by nature, do not fight or argue in return; they blandly accept their fate. In the few instances when they have organized themselves for resistance or self-assertion, they have been forcefully put down. Long-suffering in this state has sapped their self-esteem.

As Bahá’ís, however, they come to consider themselves members of a dynamic world family, in which they have an important part to play. They are no longer in any sense “second class citizens”, at least as far as the Bahá’ís are concerned; rather, we believe (and they understand that their fellow-Bahá’ís around the world believe) that they have much to contribute. In a world community in which human values are prized more than material wealth, the deep humanity and selflessness of the campesino are treasured qualities. Young Indian Bahá’ís (see picture) who have received education in the cities, and who by the same token have become accustomed to greater comforts and a more exciting environment than their rural counterparts, unhesitatingly give up all they have to become teachers, in many cases without pay, in Bahá’í village schools, or to travel on foot month after month visiting more isolated centers. Through such service they achieve a self-esteem which no amount of prejudice encountered in the Bolivian cities can rob from them; and they earn the respect and admiration of their coreligionists around the globe. They become citizens of the world even before they are fully accepted as citizens of their own country.

Linked with this process of reaffirmation of themselves and their culture, however, is a simultaneous process of profound change. The Bahá’í Faith, while valuing detachment from worldly possessions, does not teach the Indian that his poverty and social position are good for him and must therefore remain unchanged; rather, a concerted campaign is launched to help him begin the long process of self-development. Bahá’ís believe that all men must be educated, so that they can make individual spiritual progress (reason and religion are seen as interdependent) and can contribute to an ever-advancing civilization. Thus the building of schools takes on great importance, and Bahá’í schools will be found in isolated places around the globe—the mountains of Bolivia being no exception (see photographs). Through these first steps toward change, the Bahá’í Indians are beginning to see ahead of them a new horizon of progress for their people and service to mankind which did not exist before.

As to their relations with foreigners, here, too, great changes have taken place. And this brings me back to the subject I introduced and the question I posed at the beginning of this article. I had heard, before my departure for South America, that it was actually dangerous to travel in rural Bolivia. Two North American technicians had supposedly been killed there recently. Certainly the Indians, with their history of being mistreated and exploited, had no particular reason to be friendly to unknown outsiders. I also expected difficulties in communication, since my knowledge of Spanish was only nominal. From anthropology I had learned of the gulf between cultures, and I was prepared to undergo “cultural shock”.

Upon arrival, however, I found the problems [Page 46] of communication and the cultural barriers many times more difficult than I had expected. The Indians, I soon discovered, did not speak Spanish, except for a few, so an Indian translator was always necessary; and generally both he and I had trouble with our common language (Spanish). But far more difficult than the physical language barrier was the personality barrier. The campesinos are generally shy and uncommunicative even in the best of circumstances. When confronted with a foreigner dressed in attire they have never seen before (jacket and boots) and sporting a camera, they behave somewhat as we might in the presence of a combination king and man from Mars. Unfortunately, this shyness characterized the translators, too, reducing verbal interchanges to a minimum.

But I soon discovered that verbal communication was not necessary, nor was any effort to prove myself a “friend”. And there was certainly no danger—at least among the Bahá’ís. Upon arrival in a village, on foot, with the translator-guide, the word “Bahá’í” was sufficient to send the people scurrying to prepare something for us to eat and to spread the news of our arrival. People would start appearing, greeting us with their customary touch on the shoulder and a quiet, heartfelt “hermano Bahá’í” (“Bahá’í brother”). Nothing more would be said, but their love and appreciation would be expressed in boundless hospitality and great warmth. One of our hosts, a man recently widowed, when innocently asked by us for some tea or hot water (it had been a cold, dry, six-mile hike to this village), immediately fetched one of his most highly prized possessions—a bundle of sugar—and used its contents to sweeten our beverage. Again and again it was brought home to me how, working from a basic sense of trust which was only the most fundamental expression of the fact that we were all Bahá’ís, these campesinos and I could feel a deep sense of sharing, of communication, and of working together, even though there was no verbal interchange by which to communicate these feelings. Although I stayed in each place only a short time, and it was not possible to get to know deeply any of my hosts as individuals, nevertheless I felt, upon leaving each place, that I was leaving close lifelong friends. Such was the strength of immediate identification and the depth of mutual appreciation established instantly between these Indian Bahá’ís and myself (and a greater contrast in backgrounds, personalities, and expectations would be hard to find, I think, on this planet).

This, then, is the type of unity Bahá’ís value and promote throughout the world, a unity based upon the common allegiance of Bahá’ís everywhere to the teachings and administrative institutions of Bahá’u’lláh, and yet predicated on and encouraging diversity. It is a highly dynamic unity, not a static uniformity, and as such it is constantly presenting challenges to Bahá’ís and expanding their world vision. Each cultural, national, class, or religious group included within its sphere makes its contribution. To the American Indian, perhaps, falls the task of showing the rest of the world how best to follow Bahá’u’lláh’s injunction:

O Son of Dust!

Verily I say unto thee: Of all men the most negligent is he that disputeth idly and seeketh to advance himself over his brother. Say, O brethren! Let deeds, not words, be your adorning.

[Page 47]

LIVING IN A KALEIDOSCOPE WORLD

Introduction

By Pamela Ringwood

This story is told by Mrs. Rani Mahomet, a Maori lady, herself the product of a mixed marriage and married to an Indian. It is about the ways in which she learned to bridge various cultures in a world that no longer offers clear-cut decisions or stability, but rather kaleidoscopic colors and movement.

The Maoris, whom Shoghi Effendi, Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, described as a “noble race”, met the European invasion of New Zealand on terms of equality, and the Treaty of Waitangi was concluded in 1840 as the result of wars and negotiation. The legal effect of this arrangement was somewhat dubious, but, with some skirmishes, it allowed Maori and Pakeha (European) to live in peace.

The Maoris are Polynesians, thought to have had their origins in the Society Islands and showing in their legends and their interests a great affinity for the sea and boats. They are a fine, upstanding people with rare gifts which facilitate consultation. They prize greatly the quality of “te aroha” or “love”, probably more exactly “loving-kindness”, in their relationships with others—a quality seen at its best in their community efforts.

Village dwellers when the Pakehas came, the Maoris had major adjustments to make and knowingly made them, trying to absorb the Pakeha culture as well as retain their own. In the struggle the Maori culture came to be neglected and for various reasons the race suffered a decline, as they were decimated in numbers and reduced in self-esteem.

There is now arising among the Maori people, possibly out of the struggles of the village or country Maoris to adjust to the town life to which so many of them have been forced, a spirit of independence and self-assertion. They are demanding that their voice be heard in matters which concern them and that paternalism give way to acceptance. Discrimination, where it exists, is relatively subtle and usually is the same as that against the lower socio-economic classes of white people, and it does not represent a systematic or consistent policy of race persecution. Like other disadvantaged classes such as women or the handicapped (e.g., in professional or vocational situations), the Maori is often simply not presented with equivalent opportunities. Or in the case of education, the background of his parents very often makes him less aware of the opportunities open to him.

Two things, to my mind, make the Maori very impressive; and they, as much as the late date of the settlement of New Zealand, probably have contributed to the equality of Maori and Pakeha. One is the Maori’s cultural broadmindedness and adaptability. The other is his entrenched and pervasive sense of humor. A day-long seminar on racial discrimination, sponsored by the United Nations Association and largely chaired by Maori spokesmen, did not degenerate into a catalog of wrongs and persecutions simply because of these qualities which give the Maori the ability to see and tolerate other points of view. They are truly a “noble race”.

Story

By Mrs. Rani Mahomet

THIS IS THE STORY of myself, Rani Mahomet. I was born in Auckland and from there went to Rotorua. My mother was of the Te Arawa tribe. Our subtribe is Nga te pikiao, tribe of the ascending cloud. We live about eighteen miles out of Rotorua. I went to the Maori school for about three years. It was not compulsory like it is now. When we were supposed to go to school, my brother and I used to go swimming instead.

We could tell the time by our shadows. When it was three o’clock, we knew, and we [Page 48] went home. The school was two miles away. I went to all the schools around Rotorua—a week here and there—so I’m known all around Rotorua, maybe a week here, two weeks there. When we went to the school, we could not (were unable to) speak English. We were slapped at school because we could not speak English. That is why I did not like school.

My mother, she got this blue paper (about our playing wag from school). When I got it, sometimes I tore it up. She did not know till then we were not going to school, because we left home at the right times and came home with the mail and the news.

When we played wag from school, we ate what we had. In the lake there was crayfish (kakahi), and from the fresh water koura— like tiny crayfish—and kanga pirau. Kanga pirau is like a porridge; corn was put in a bag in fresh water till it could ferment. Then it was taken off the cob. If it was not rotten enough, it would be peeled off and mashed up. It smells awful, but the taste is lovely. Then we had our Maori bread, paraua Rewena, made from Maori yeast. It has the potato water, and rises all night as it ferments. That was the diet; our teeth were good and did not have one filling. We did not use toothpaste; we used konga, which is embers or ashes. We would clean the teeth and spit the ashes out with water.

We lived in a Maori house. It was made with raupo, like a thick raffia, and strong. There was no floor, just the hard ground, but there were mats. Not mats as they are now, but like them. They were made of flax. The ground floor was hard. We used to mix it with manure, and it made a ground so hard that you could sweep it. It was not dirty. There was no water; we had to carry water from the lake some hundreds of yards away. There was no bathroom; we used to swim in the lake. We would be there all day.

Our home consisted of my mother, stepfather, myself, and my stepbrother. My mother used to go to a lot of meetings in a horse and gig and two horses and double gig (a buggy), something like the Queen’s carriage. When she went to the meeting, my brother and I used to hang over the rod. My mother did not know we were there. We wanted to go with her. My mother was a leader and used to give the speeches. Women cannot give the speeches at the marae (only men can speak there), but among many groups she was the leader and she would give the speeches then.

Then the women would bring me a chair. They said it was for the little Pakeha, because I was fair. I said to my mother, I want to sit down there on the mat. My [Page 49] mother would say, “That’s my daughter”, so they would know I was Maori.

The Maori old people know. There is white magic and black magic. My mother practiced white magic. She was much wanted and travelled all over New Zealand. She was a great faith healer and Ratana was also.

Say, if some one does not like me, he puts a curse on me but my mother would make it better. She would talk to them. She spoke in a different voice at night. I would listen and get scared. I would ask her, “What were you talking about last night?” She would tell me.

The old ones ask me if I have any of my mother’s power in me. I say, “Why am I so good at magic?” One night she sent me and my brother into the bush to look for my aunty. It was pitch black. She told us where to look. Her eyes were big—aunty was not well; some one had put black magic on her. My mother talked to the devil, and my aunty became well. They call it “Mahi Makatu”.

Maoris can see without eyes. They can go anywhere in the bush. When my brother went pig hunting, he would cut this branch. There is a way to cut it and mark it; my [Page 50] brother was taught this. When she is doing magic, my mother curses a lot to the devil. She swears at him in Maori, then she prays to the Arahera angels. It goes on all night. Then she gets a handkerchief, a white handkerchief, and puts money in it—1d, 3d, 1/2d— and puts them in the hollow of a tree, still cursing devils and calling on angels. I wanted it to buy ice cream but was told never to touch it, it was tapu. I did not after that. It was a sacred word and I would never do it. My mother had a different look on her face while in this and would do it like in a trance. She was a good faith healer and would fight the work of the bad ones. She travelled very much with this.

We had an uncle who was very strict. Every month he used to talk to my brother. The leaders did this; they talked to the men for a chief to come up. They wanted a boy who would show qualities of leadership. They taught them. I just had to sit. My uncle yelled at my brother, so he would not get frightened and so he could become a chief.

When there was a tangi (funeral or mourning ceremony), it was the job of my brother and myself to take a pig, a bag of kumeras or potatoes, because we had all our own gardens. I was taught how to plant kumeras and how to store them underground for winter. We used to take the food and pig on a sledge. As soon as they killed the pig—we could hear him squealing—we would take the bladder for a football. It was ours because we had taken the pig.

At a place called Waiohewa at Te Ngai (Rotorua) we used to run horses. We swam the horses out to an island. I would be in a canoe, not a boat, my brother would be at the other end, and we would have to hold the horses. When one would get tired, we would change. There were times when we would be stuck on the island for a couple of days. We could see a change in the weather by the ripple on the lake. My mother taught us to know the weather. We would see this ripple and go for our life. My mother would be on the lake shore directing us. When we were on the island we would live on cherries and boiled te kanaka, a Maori peanut. We would sleep under the trees. We did have a Maori house there but were frightened as it was up in the hills. We were frightened because there was a burial ground there. We would not move from the spot on the shore for two or three days.

My brother and I used to move around a lot. We used to walk along the road picking cherries and planting stalks and selling them for a shilling or sixpence along the road. Then we would go anywhere, just where we would like—my brother and me. Anyone would give us a lift. We would go to Uncle Bob’s place at Rotoati. We would go to school one day a week and go to swim in the lake. Then we came from Rotoiti to Kititere —out of Rotorua—and we used to stay there and live on fruit. We knew how to get food from the ground. We used to dig. We knew what berries to eat; there were some you could not eat.

Then, when I became nine or ten, my mother knew I was not getting the education and she sent me to Hawkes Bay to my sister’s to school. We used to ride on horses. We would just catch them, no bridles or saddles. When I saw Europeans, I used to get frightened. All I remembered of what they said was “pretty”, and I would tell my mother, “A Pakeha called me pretty.” She said then, “Oh, he’s a bad man.” I used to run. I was frightened. My father was a European, but his way was more Maori. He died when I was young. My teacher was a European, but I could not understand what he was saying because he spoke English. He growled at me because I did not speak English and kept me in. When we had to say “Present, sir”, I got so scared I used to stutter.

Then I was at Hawkes Bay. I was on a farm and never went to school there; I helped on the farm. I learnt to speak broken English. My elder sister had a big farm and they entertained a lot. They had a big home—billiard rooms. I used to learn to play billiards at night. The boys, they taught me.

They sold that farm and my elder sister [Page 51] went to another farm. I was sixteen and came back to Auckland to Aunty. One of my uncles was a minister, not a minister with the collar. He was not a church man, but he had a hall at Albert Street and all the Maoris came. They belonged to Ringatu (Maori religion), only with people on the East Coast. He would give a sermon. He would tie a white handkerchief and put it on my head as I had no hat. I would not wear a hat as it was not a church.

In Auckland they picked a husband for me. For three days they came and talked and talked, but I did not know he was picked for me. They said that a husband was picked for me. Three days the discussion was going on. and then my uncle agreed. It was left for me to decide. I got up and said it was my uncle’s wish; I was not twenty-one. Those people (fiancé’s relatives) wanted me to live with them so I would have a child. If I did not have a child, they would be disgraced. I said I would not until I was twenty-one. There was only one other, a Maori woman, who stood up for me. She said not to blame me as I am half Pakeha. Three of my girlfriends had husbands picked for them and were not happy. She said if I do not love this man, do not do this. She told me to get away. I would have married this chap to please my uncle (my mother’s brother). What could I do? I said, “Yes.”

When I was nineteen, I went to Christchurch, and that’s where I met my husband. I was asked by my boss to help entertain an Australian. He wanted me to go to the films. I had never gone out like this; always we went with a crowd. He wrote back to me from Australia. Before he met me, he had heard about me for three months. He taught me to speak English. We got married in Australia. We did not get married here because of my fiancé.

All the papers in Australia said, “Maori marries Indian”. (Mr. Mahomet was an Australian of Indian extraction.) My uncle said, when he saw the papers here, that at least I had married someone of color and, if I had children, I must give them Maori names.

Then I had to change all my customs. There were a lot of Maori customs—you cannot speak or sit cross-legged in front of elders; you must be very quiet. I had to change from old Maori customs to Indian. There were different food and customs. I did it so they would not think all Maoris silly. I learnt the language and the customs. I learnt the Moslem customs. Do not eat pork; the food was different, everything was different. I would be in tears. I was an innocent little girl going all the way to Sydney (Australia) and I was frightened.

I lived in Gladesville (Australia), and then my daughter was born the next year. I teamed with my husband doing an Indian act. I was the only woman in the world to do an Indian act—gully gully magic. To do this I had to learn their broken English, and we did a trip. My husband wrote an article for the Readers’ Digest in 1946 on how he met me and we did the act. We were in the Tivoli circuit and entertained Governor Generals in Australia and New Zealand. Father did a lot of work in England but not me. They wanted us to go to Africa but he would not because of the color bar.

It took me three years to learn one trick, before I could perform it in public. When we did the two-hour act at Ingleburn, the troops presented arms to us which was a great honor. I wanted to wave but my husband explained to me that we should not. He had been a soldier. My husband was very clever at everything he did. He had an act at four years. When he was eighteen, he put his age up to twenty-one to fight for his country— there was a lot of white feathers then, different feeling. He went away for three and a half years. The war was terrible. They would be in mud. He came back gassed. He took off his mask to have a look and got gassed. He was discharged, and the army said they would give him his tools. So he said he wanted an evening suit and makeup but they wouldn’t give him this. So he said go to the devil.

He composed all the songs and he taught me how to be a magician. The worst part I [Page 52] found was to finish off the act by bowing. He followed Ella Shiels on the stage and got the same applause. For a change, I taught him to do a haka and six Maori songs for the stage.

As a child my mother wanted to teach me to do the handicraft work, such as taniko work, all hand done; she was the best of our tribe. But me, being so lazy at that stage, my mother would say, in Maori, a kunei koe ka patua ai, then I would cry, before she gave me a smack, then I was let off. I am sorry to this day, that I did not learn all from her, because I feel ashamed at times, because my mother, her name is still remembered by the older folks, who are alive today. And my stepbrother Ngana, all that was taught to him is forgotten. I’m sure our forefathers will turn in their graves, if they knew how times have changed, for the Maoris.

It’s out in the country now, that’s where the real Maori is, there.

Conclusion

Statement by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá

From the same God all creation sprang into existence, and He is the one goal towards which everything in nature yearns. How varied and diverse they are in species, yet with one sole origin. All differences that appear are those of outward form and color. This diversity of type is apparent throughout the whole of nature. Behold a beautiful garden fall of flowers, shrubs and trees. Each flower has a different charm, a peculiar beauty, its own delicious perfume and beautiful color. The trees too, how varied are they in size, in growth, in foliage—and what different fruits they bear!

So it is with humanity. It is made up of many races, and its people are of different color—white, black, yellow, brown and red —but they all come from the same God. The garden which is pleasing to the eye and which makes the heart glad, is the garden in which are growing side by side flowers of every hue, form and perfume and the joyous contrast of color is what makes for charm and beauty. Thus should it be among the children of men! The diversity in the human family should he the cause of love and harmony, as it is in music where many different notes blend together in the making of a perfect chord. Bahá’u’lláh has drawn the circle of Unity. He has made a design for the uniting of all the peoples and the gathering of them all under the shelter of the tent of Universal Unity.

Search diligently for the truth and make all men your friends.

[Page 53]

Education: Looking Ahead

A review of George B. Leonard’s Education and Ecstasy (New York: Delacorte Press, 1969), 239 pages

By ARTHUR L. DAHL

THIS IS A BLOCKBUSTER of a book. The author clearly has revolutionary intent and hopes that if key people read it and are convinced by his reasoning, the process of change in the field of education will be markedly accelerated.

Early in his career as a staff writer for Look, George Leonard’s natural interests were aroused by assignments on educational subjects. Later, as senior editor and ultimately West Coast editorial manager, he had close and sympathetic context with many of the pioneers and innovators in the school world. From 1966 to early 1969, as vice president of Esalen Institute of Big Sur, California, he participated in an exciting experimental venture that psychologist Abraham Maslow has called “probably the most important educational institute in the world.”

As he studied the field, Leonard became conscious of serious deficiencies, both philosophically and procedurally, in today’s educational process. Over the years he evolved strong convictions concerning the metamorphosis education must undergo if it is to catch up with the profound restructuring of society brought about by modern technology which will go even further as we approach a cybernetic civilization. This book is a summing up of what he has learned and thought during this period.

Fundamental to his position is a conviction that at heart human beings enjoy learning, that in fact “learning itself is life’s ultimate purpose.” When this perfectly natural impulse is not constricted and distorted, it can be “sheer delight . . . education devoid of the ecstatic moment is a mere shadow of education.”

But in his eyes our modern school system stands condemned of a major crime against the human race: the suffocation of the natural joy of learning. More attention and energy is devoted to the control and discipline of students than to what they are taught and how they respond to it. This attitude warps and blocks the learning process from the time a child is small. As a result, in spite of huge expenditures for education, we are realizing only a tiny fraction of the possible development of the human potential.

Leonard points out that the premises behind modern education are contradicted time and time again by recent scientific studies which he describes with great lucidity. These suggest major breakthroughs in understanding our bodies, our minds, and their interrelationship. But we have failed to reflect this new knowledge in the learning process and are hardly aware that the classroom and to some extent the teacher have become obsolete as the centers of the educational system.

In an imaginative set of chapters Leonard describes a possible elementary school of the year 2001, where most of the subjects now taught through high school are learned between ages 3 and 6, and where the students control their progress and direction in a total learning environment involving advanced use of computers, teaching machines, and various types of scientific equipment, always directed by human educators. Then, when our minds begin to boggle and we fear that Leonard’s imagination has carried him too far, he challenges us by stating that everything in this description is technically known and possible right now.

He particularly stresses the different role [Page 54] education must play when the cybernetic society has become a reality, when we must no longer study for a job or profession, but rather to enhance our qualities as human beings. Under these conditions, it will be essential to regard learning as a source of joy and ecstasy, and education will be highly valued and considered central to our lives.

But Leonard does not absolve us from the responsibility for reforming education today just because the cybernetic society lies somewhere in the indefinite future. He believes that we are in a crisis of teaching; that in a fast changing world education has resisted change more than any other major segment of our human endeavor; and that no longer can this be tolerated. He is convinced that a few well directed efforts can bring about great changes; that leverage can be applied with great effect to this area.

Specifically, he believes that foundation or government support for six truly experimental educational institutions will have a huge impact on the trend of teaching in the next few years. He describes the value of existing pioneering ventures such as the Fifteenth Street School in New York (a classic example of successful free learning at the lower school level), Synanon (which expanded treatment of drug addicts to the development of a new life environment for all people seeking to restructure their relationships with others) and Esalen Institute (which has been the mecca and spawning ground for pioneers in the rapidly expanding areas of sensitivity training, encounter groups, and gestalt psychology). His narrative of an interracial encounter group of Esalen is memorable. With so many dynamic new concepts coming to the fore, the establishment of a few more places where they can be applied and tested will both stimulate experimentation and single out the effective new ideas so they can be accepted in the mainstream of learning.

In answer to this fervent and eloquent plea for rapid change in teaching, as a Bahá’í I can only shout “Bravo! I agree.” Bahá’u’lláh placed education in a central position as one of the major social goals of this age. He stressed that education should be universal, that it should be made freely available to both sexes and to people in all walks of life and every part of the world. The essentiality of an excellent education for every person on the globe is a key component of the World Order of Bahá’u’lláh—that seemingly utopian unified society of the future that Bahá’ís believe is thoroughly attainable because the blueprint comes from God and because the will to achieve it is deep in the hearts of countless people who have been quickened by the grandeur and beauty of Bahá’u’lláh’s vision.

Therefore I concur in George Leonard’s objectives, to the extent that these seem likely to improve the quality of education, and look forward wholeheartedly to their fulfillment. In one area only do I feel his view of the subject is constricted. As a humanist, he looks to man alone for a solution to the world’s problems, including educational deficiencies. Our answers are to to come from a reshaping of the school system and a full release of the deep urges of all people to learn.

From a Bahá’í standpoint, it appears that Leonard overlooks a powerful ally in his quest. God Himself is our foremost educator, and down through the ages, through the Founders of the great religions, such as Krishna, Buddha, Zoroaster, Moses, Christ, Muḥammad, and now Bahá’u’lláh, He has given mankind those insights and principles of life which have directed much of the forward progress of civilizations and channeled the evolution of social structures to the point where we find ourselves today.

Bahá’u’lláh’s teachings offer an added hope for the achievement of George Leonard’s goals, because He furnishes not only a special motivation to strive for excellence in education but also the hope of reducing those causes of divisiveness in society, particularly racial prejudice, excessive nationalism, and religious schisms, which have impeded a large-scale, unified attack on the whole educational problem.

[Page 55] George Leonard is in the forefront of those who ate conscious of the rapid strides that are being made on many levels today to expand the reach of the human potential. It is an exciting awareness, and he conveys it brilliantly. His philosophy will not appeal to those who believe that we must continue to use a repressive approach in patternng our lives. But for those who not only accept the inevitability but also the joyousness of change, he builds a strong case.

[Page 56]

Authors & Artists

MARGARET Y. JACKSON is on the faculty of the English Department at the District of Columbia Teachers College. She has written a number of articles in literary criticism.

BILLY ROJAS has been published in WORLD ORDER twice. He will spend the coming academic year at the University of Massachusetts on a doctoral program in Futuristics.

RAYMOND L. HUDSON, after receiving his B.A. in Philosophy from the University of Washington, became a first- and second-grade teacher in Unalaska, in the Aleutian Islands, where he served for three years. He is now in the Army and has recently returned from Viet Nam.

MARY DAHMS began to study and write about the Canadian Indians when she was still an undergraduate social anthropology major at the University of Toronto. Since graduating (with honors) in 1968, she has worked in the Department of Indian Affairs.

GREGORY C. DAHL, a recent graduate of Harvard (cum laude in engineering) , has already become a seasoned traveler: Scandinavia in the summer of 1966, Bolivia in the summer of 1967, Europe and Israel last year. In 1965 he taught in a summer day school for black children in Conyers, Georgia. He plans to study Development Economics at Harvard Graduate School, if he is not drafted first.

PAMELA RINGWOOD, who contributed two articles to WORLD ORDER when she was still in Australia, is now living in Auckland, New Zealand, where she continues her career as a lawyer and has made interesting and rewarding friendships among Maoris.

ARTHUR L. DAHL, who helped launch WORLD ORDER by contributing “A Pattern for Future Society” (Vol. 1, No. 1), is a prominent California investment counselor and patron of the arts. He has demonstrated his active interest in education by serving as a trustee of several educational institutions. For many years Mr. Dahl was a member of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States.

ART CREDITS: P. 5, photo by Jay Conrader; pp. 7 and 15, drawings by Sando Berger; pp. 26 and 28, drawings by Mark Fennessy; p. 33, photo of a painting by Franklin Kahn; pp. 42 and 43, photos by Gregory C. Dahl; p. 48, photo by Natalie DiBuono; p. 52, drawing by Constance Conrader; p. 55, photo by Jay Conrader; back cover, drawing by Sando Berger.

JAY CONRADER, a freelance writer and photographer, teamed up with his wife, Constance, to produce the beautifully illustrated article “Flowers and Insects” in the spring issue of WORLD ORDER. Mrs. Conrader is a librarian, writer, and illustrator.

SANDO BERGER was introduced in the summer issue of WORLD ORDER. A Rumanian by birth, Mt. Berger entered the United States in 1941 and has spent most of his time since then developing his versatile artistic talents and exhibiting his sculpture, water colors, oils, and pen and ink sketches. Recently he had an extended one-man show at the Mascagna D’Italia Galleries in Los Angeles.

MARK FENNESSY was a Scholar of the House in Sculpture and Drawing when he graduated with honors from Yale University in 1967. For two years after his graduation he travelled across the United States and sketched.

FRANKLIN KAHN, a Navajo Indian, is a commercial artist and a member of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States.

NATALIE DIBUONO is the Assistant Public Information Officer of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States.

[Page 57]

MURIEL MICHELS—In Memoriam

The Editors of WORLD ORDER note with saddened spirits the death on July 9, 1969 of Mrs. Muriel Michels, a clearly prized, former co-worker. Her passing in San Francisco followed her husband’s by a mere 10 months. Beth played a significant part in the revival of the magazine in 1966, Monroe providing the expert direction for the production and business management of the magazine, and Muriel taking care of the subscriptions and day-to-day book-keeping. She was really the spirit behind Monroe. Together they blended a positive influence; they spurred and encouraged their colleagues on the Editorial Board for almost two years. Muriel’s unstinting service to WORLD ORDER was distinguished by the quality of unrelenting devotion that characterized her membership in the Bahá’í Faith for many years.