Nonsenseorship | Page 7

in oil.
But what is the situation? Observe these gentlemen and their kin
enjoying not only their bodily liberty but allowed to prosper on the
royalties derived from the sale of incendiary volumes designed to
destroy the principles upon which the integrity of the commonwealth
depends. The spectacle is one aggravating to an iconoclast. There is no
affront as distressing as the tolerance of one's enemies.
Mr. H. L. Mencken is, perhaps, the outstanding victim of this depravity
of indifference which more and more characterizes the enemy. Mr.
Mencken, hurling himself for ten years against the Bugaboo of
Puritanism--a fearless and wonderfully caparisoned Knight of Alarums,
Prince of Darkness, Evangel of Chaos--Mr. Mencken pauses for a
moment out of breath casting about slyly for fresher and deadlier
weapons and lo! the Bugaboo with a gentle smile reaches out and
embraces him and plants the kiss of love on both his cheeks, strokes his
hair wistfully, and invites him to sit on the front porch. Alas, poor
Mencken! It is the fate that awaits us all. Zarathustra in the

market-place feeding ground glass to the populace is gathered to the
bosom of the City Fathers and gleefully enrolled as a member of the
Guild.
This is no idle rhetoric. Dissent in the Republic has come upon hard
ways. Ten years ago the name of Mencken would have stood against
the world. Today no college freshman, no lowly professor, no charity
worker, or local alderman too puritanical to do him homage.
Whereupon the argument is that an era of enlightenment has set in, that
this same Mencken and his contemporary throat-cutters have
vanquished the Bugaboo, and that, as a result, a spirit of high
intellectual life prevails through the land. The proletaire have risen and
are thumbing their nose at the gods. Brander Matthews has sent in a
five years' subscription to the Little Review. The Comstocks overcome
with the vision of their ghastly complexes are appealing to Sigmund
Freud for advice and relief. But the argument is superficial. "Victory!"
cry the iconoclasts grinding their teeth at the absence of a foe.
But it is a victory that rankles in the soul. The foe is not vanquished but,
seemingly, bored to death has fallen asleep. It is, in any event, a
phenomenon. Many generalizations offer themselves as solace.
The first paradox of this phenomenon is that Puritanism, beaten to a
pulp by an ever-increasing herd of first, second, third, and fourth rate
iconoclasts, has triumphed completely in the legislatures of the country.
With every new volume exposing the gruesome mainsprings of the
national virtue, further taboos and restrictions crowd themselves into
the statute books.
In a sense it would seem as if the bete populaire, becoming
increasingly drunk with the consciousness of its own power, is elatedly
preoccupied in cutting off its own nose, tying itself up into knots, and
kicking itself in the rear, proclaiming simultaneously and in triumphant
tones, "Observe how powerful I am. I can pass laws making ipecac a
compulsory diet."
Whereupon the laws are passed and the noble masses with heroic

grimaces fall to devouring ipecac, to the confusion of all free-born
stomachs. In fact this species of ballot flagellatism, this diverting
pastime of hitting itself on the head with a stuffed club has gradually
elevated the body politic to the enviable position occupied by the
all-powerful king of Fernando Po. This mysterious being lives in the
lowest depths of the crater of Riabba. His power is in direct ratio to the
taboos which hem him in. Convinced that bathing is a crime against his
dignity, that sunlight is incompatible with his royal lineage; convinced
that his prestige is dependent upon a weekly three days' fast and a
cautious observation of the taboos against all variants of social
intercourse--piously convinced of these astounding things, the
all-powerful monarch of Fernando Po sits year in and year out
motionless on his throne in the lowest depths of the crater of Riabba,
awed by himself and overcome with the contemplation of his
all-powerfulness. We have here, I trust, an illuminating analogy.
The Republic, like this King of Fernando Po, imposes daily upon itself
new taboos, new rituals. Yet there is the phenomenon of its tolerance
toward the idol breakers. From the lowest depths of the crater of Riabba
in which he sits enthroned the monarch of the Laongos condemns to
death with a twitch of his brows all who seek to question the sanctity of
the taboos. But this other occupant of the crater of Riabba-our
Republic-raises gentle eyes to the idol wreckers, to the taboo destroyers.
An occasional, "tut tut" escapes him. And nothing more.
Whereupon the argument is that our monarch of the pit is an impotent
fellow. Again, a superficial deduction. For behold the censorships with
which he belabors