Kansas University Weekly.
91
Comment.
I once received thro' the mail an artistic pamphlet which artfully related the healing virtues of a certain patent medicine. After reading this pamphlet I felt convinced that, unknown to myself, I had been the victim of a number of deadly diseases for several years. I recalled in my past all the fatal symptoms that my book enumerated. I felt that was I a "horrible example" of the most deadly diseases known to medical science, and thought what a valuable specimen I would be for the dissecting table. But the next day I had forgotten where the "warning pains" ought to be, and to recall the symptoms, I had to refer to my book again. On second thought I concluded that a headache or a ringing in the ear portended no physical disaster, and concluded that if my diseases never troubled me any more than they did then, life would be well worth living.
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Last summer I read Max Nordau's Degeneration. I was surprised to find that my ear marks were those of a degenerate. I found that I showed symptoms of seven manias and numberless phobias. I was surprised at the enumeration of existing manias and phobias that the book contained. I found that what I had considered admiration of works of art was Erotomania. Then Nordau quoted from some of the authors that I admire, and said that only a degenerate could admire such a "crazy shower of whirling words;" here was another symptom. Degenerates are fond of brilliant red—still another, fond of perfume—still another. And so on thro' the whole book till I felt myself a magnificent specimen of the degenerate who live in "the reddened light of the Dusk of Nations." It was a new sensation—this consciousness of being a degenerate. It was somewhat exhilerating—somewhat regenerating. I felt less responsibility for my actions, for being a degenerate, I could not be expected to equal the virtues of a normal being. I began observing the ear marks of those about me, and found that degenerates were the rule. I felt
sorry that these degenerates were unconscious of their condition. They were missing an intellectual delight in not knowing that "over the earth the shadows are creeping with deepening gloom." I rejoiced in my degeneracy till the inveitable second thought came. I remembered that Nordau had said, "Zola's novels do not prove that things are badly managed in this world, but merely that Zoda's nervous system is out of order." On the other hand, might it not be true that Nordau's book does not prove that mankind is degenerate, but that Nordau's nervous system is out of order? So if being a degenerate does not trouble me any more than it does at present, I can live well content.
The Press.
How shall I speak thee, or thy power address,
Thou God of our idolatry, the Press?
By the religion, liberty, and laws
Exert their influence, and advance their cause;
By the worse plagues than Pharaoh's land befall.
Diffused, make earth the vestibule of hell:
Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wise,
Thou ever bubbling spring of endless lies,
Like Eden's dread probationary tree,
Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.
-Cowper.
It is probable that never have the good and evil qualities of the press been better summed up and in fewer words than in the above lines from Cowper. And it is somewhat remarkable that, notwithstanding the great advances which have been made by mankind in nearly every other direction, these words are almost as true and applicable now, at the end of the nineteenth century, as they were then at the end of the eighteenth. In fact the American daily press of our times is much worse than that of the eighteenth century ever was, and has not even the latter's redeeming features. It would take a bold champion to state that our religion, liberty, and laws are advanced by the press, while the contrary statement could easily be made. Yet we must remember that the contents of our papers are meant to satisfy the taste of the reader, and that, to reform the newspaper we must create a demand for better reading. R.R.P.