“We are wiser in many ways than our savage ancestors; we are wiser
than the savages of to-day,” said the Curmudgeon Philosopher, with the
air of one making a great concession; “yet for every folly or vice of
uncivilized man I can show you a corresponding one among ourselves.
In the matter of religions, for example, and of religious rites and
observances, we have, mixed in with our better faiths, vestiges of all
the primitive superstitions that have marked the childhood of the race.
Vestiges, did I say? Why, sir, in many instances we have the veritable
thing itself in all the vigor of its perennial prime.”
The Reporter ventured to express a conviction that a crude and
primitive religion could have no devotees among so enlightened and
cultivated a people as ours.
“Sir,” thundered the Adversary of Presumption, turning a delicate
purple, “races are like individuals; along with the vices and
virtues of maturity they have those of infancy. No people ever is
sufficiently civilized and enlightened to have laid aside any of its
early superstitions and absurdities. To these it adds better things. It
overwrites its primitive ideas with ideas less crude and reasonless;
but nothing has been effaced. The latest text of the palimpsest is
most in evidence, but all is there and, to a keen enough observation,
legible. Did you never see a whole concourse of moderns uncover to a
flag?”
The Reporter confessed that those whom he had seen performing this
religious rite were mostly moderns.
“They will say when detected,” continued the oracle, “that what they
uncover to is not the flag, but the sentiment that it represents. If
ingenious enough, the idolater would make the same defence. So would
the shagpated chap that prostrates himself before the sacred moogoo
tree.
“What’s that—a flag is a symbol? Why, yes, ‘symbol’ is the name we
choose to give to objects which we know to have no real sanctity, yet,
either from hereditary instinct or other unreasoning impulse, cannot
forbear to revere. The word is also used to denote a mere ‘survival,’
an object that once had a useful purpose, but now exists only because
of our habit of having it. Be pleased to look down into that burial
place.”
The Curmudgeon Philosopher’s dwelling had characteristically been
chosen because of its contiguity to a cemetery.
“Note the number of ‘dummy’ urns surmounting the monuments. Centuries
ago, when cremation was the rule, as it seems likely to be again,
those would have been true urns, holding ashes of the dead. We have
inherited the tendency to have them, but as they have now no utility we
spare ourselves the trouble of accounting for them by saying they are
symbolic—whereby the fashion is exalted to a high dignity.
“I assume your familiarity with the word ‘fetish.’ It is spelled two
ways and pronounced four; I pronounce it as I was taught at my mother’s
knee.”
By way of accentuating the fact that he had had a mother he affected
a rudimentary tenderness of tone and expression which in a case of
doubtful identity would have assisted in distinguishing him as a pirate
of the Spanish Main.
The Reporter asked what fetish worship might have the hardihood to be.
“Fetish worship,” replied the Curmudgeon Philosopher, “is the most
primitive of religions. It is the form that belief in the supernatural
takes in our lowest stage of intellectual development—the adoration of
material objects. A stone or a tree supposed to possess supernatural
powers of good or evil, or to have some peculiar sanctity, is a fetish.
Idolatry and the worship of living things are not uncommonly confounded
with fetish worship, but in reality are another and higher form of
religion, belonging to a more advanced culture.”
“You have seen the proposal to transport Plymouth Rock about the
country for a show? It is in the morning papers, one of which I had the
bad luck to pick up while at breakfast. Hate the morning papers!”
The Timorous Reporter signified his regret.
“I hope it will not be done,” continued the Curmudgeon Philosopher,
ignoring the apology. “In the first place, the Rock is devoid of
authenticity. It is indubitably a rock, and it is at Plymouth,
but its connection with the landing of the Pilgrims was supplied
by imagination. That is all right; by imagination we demonstrate
our superiority to the novelists. Historians and scientists are
credentialed by imagination; through imagination the philosopher
attains to a knowledge of the meaning and message of things. Without
imagination we should be as the magazine poets that perish.”
With obvious satisfaction in his character of cynic the Curmudgeon
Philosopher again mitigated the austerity of his countenance—this time
by something that may have been honestly intended as a smile.
“We have seen bands of children taught to march about a cracked bell,
throw flowers upon it, sing hymns to it. When it stopped in the several
cities that it was carried through on a triumphal car the populace
turned out to worship it. It was supplied with a ‘guard of honor.’
Bands played appropriate music before it, and mayors ‘delivered
eulogies.’ No popular hero or august sovereign could be accorded a more
obsequious homage than this lifeless piece of cracked metal—nay, its
progress is more like that of a Grecian god. This was fetishism, pure
and undefiled.
“If this new project is carried out the people that worshiped a bell
will worship a stone. True, the stone weighs several tons.”
Proud of his generosity in making so great a concession, the Curmudgeon
Philosopher looked over the top of his spectacles for the applause that
came not to his hope.
“Sir,” he concluded, his great fist falling like a thunderbolt upon the
table at which he stood, “we are Pottawattomies!”