Anthropomania

THE purpose expressed in the constitution of Massachusetts to form “a government of laws and not of men ” is but a single facet of the democratic ideal. Democracy’s aim is an entire social system in which the average man shall be swayed by ideas, not personalities. What are the surface indications of progress, and what is the real outlook ?

The writer vividly remembers his shock, as a very young man, when a fellow tourist at the English Lakes, — an English Unitarian of good parts and wide culture, —upon mention happening to be made of Edinburgh Castle, dashed from high level of discourse upon historical and literary associations down to a cockney rhapsody over the magnificent view he had had of the Prince and Princess of Wales, when they chanced to be visiting the castle at the same time as himself. With years of mental discretion there has come a tolerance for the companion’s point of view. There are few Britons who have declined a peerage; usually an Englishman of genius will regard the social overtures of a lord as, at least, those of an equal. Albeit our cultured Unitarian was pleased with the rattle and tickled with a straw of snobbishness, his attitude signified British social solidarity. And the influence of that society, based upon an aristocracy which is constantly recruited from the best, has been potent both as an inspiration and a steadying restraint.

Indulgent acceptance of European snobbishness becomes the easier in view of the wide interest bestowed on our own mushroom “400,” and, indeed, on any person who oilers the slightest pretext for notoriety. Take up almost any periodical, American or English, and you will find names, names, names; faces, faces, faces. There are many publications that enjoy wide circulation wholly through catering to the hunger for personalities, and this often without pruriency or scandal-mongering. Persons of unusual gifts and staying power are kept standing in type. Any individual who, by accident or unusual opportunity, is connected with an event of note, is trumpeted and thrown upon the screen; and, as in earlier stages of civilization a man’s family were put to death with him in punishment for his crime, now they share his day of snapshot glory, even to the babe in arms.

There is a sense in which the verse —

is true. The individual of the present day is drawn into social and industrial combinations, and the tiny screw loses its identity in the vast machine. There is another and a deeper sense in which the very reverse is the truth. In earlier stages of development, the individual has the identity of the drop in the bucket. The tribe, the family, are everything; aggressive individuality is frowned upon; change is abhorred. The most minute acts of life are regulated by rule, departure from which is a sacrilege. Lafcadio Hearn has graphically depicted the survival of this stage of evolution in Japan down almost into the present era.

Under our system of industrialism, there go with the stress of competition, and the magnitude and complexity of institutions, a constantly increasing independence and variety of personal existence, and institutions themselves are created and directed by individuals called to their stations by natural selection. Individual genius, whether as inventor, organizer, or executive, is the most important factor in modern life, and the gaping interest in any personality emerging, no matter how fortuitously, from the ruck, in one sense is an aggravation of legitimate outwatch for new leaders.

The trait that we shall term “anthropomania,” however, crops out in many different forms, and is displayed in the attitude toward men of genius, as well as toward the random hero of the hour.

The case of an enthusiastic but inexpert philatelist who paid eighty dollars for a canceled postage-stamp, only to learn that it was a forgery, illustrates what Walt Whitman has called “the mania for owning things.” Purchases of spurious works of celebrated artists represent this crude craving with the admixture of anthropomania. It would of course be affectation for a connoisseur to claim that no part of his satisfaction is derived from the great names signed to the canvases in his gallery. There is a not illegitimate element of pleasure in having as one’s own a collection of works upon which a consensus of skilled judgment has set the seal of approval.

On the other hand, famous names, as names, become a commercial asset because of the passion of owning anything that is conventionally desirable, whether it happen to have intrinsic worth, or be merely the object of a passing fad. Utter philistines will pay goodly sums for paintings for which in their hearts they care less than for the blue-ribbon collies acquired from similar motives. There is generated in the popular mind an interest in celebrated artists independent of the quality of their work; and this not only leads to the forgery of “ Innesses ” and “Wyants ” and “Murphys,” but diverts attention from pictures without the sign-manual of fame, but whose merit might render them delights of homes that cannot afford masterpieces. Exaggeration of the personal element, therefore, interferes with the spread of æsthetic appreciation, and delays the “arrival” of men of genuine gifts.

The condition of the dramatic art in America displays the effect of anthropomania in very aggravated form. Thirty years ago there were constantly performing in the city of New York, two theatrical stock companies, either of which would nowadays pass for an exceptionally brilliant “all-star” cast, and there were other regularly attached companies only less capable. The rise of the baleful “star system ” has changed all this. The player, not the play, is the thing, evoking an endless series of one-character pieces, without literary quality, and often framed merely as an expression of the star’s eccentricities. The aim of the average actor is not to develop versatile ability, but to display some mannerism which will make a “hit” and serve as a basis for stellar aspirations. Women reeking with notoriety from the divorce court, men who have been victors in the prize ring, and with no other qualifications, have gone upon the stage and — to the shame of the public, more than their own — have drawn their crowds. The abuse has been carried so far that, fortunately, signs of reaction are appearing.

Over-devotion to biographical literature is a significant symptom. The everyday facts of the lives of celebrated men appeal to one with much the same kind of interest as table-talk about friends and neighbors; and inveterate addiction to biography is a dangerous form of anthropomania, because its victim may cherish the delusion that he is necessarily “improving his mind.”

The utilitarian advantage of biographical study is much exaggerated. The assumption that the best preparation for grasping success is closely to scan successful careers, is groundless, because men prevail, not through imitation, but in proportion to their originality. The general lesson from almost any triumphant life is that its liver knew himself and knew his opportunity when he saw it.

It is, of course, true that a comparatively insignificant event may afford hints for thought, and that all biographies have value as a supplement to the study of mankind by observation. Many biographical works are indispensable as sidelights of history. The story of the lives of literary men may be essential for critical estimate of their works. Conceding all this, and even more, on the score of legitimate “cakes and ale,” it must still be said that educated people permit biography to absorb a disproportionate share of the time that can be devoted to literature, impelled by the same appetite that leads the masses to consume sensational “write-ups” in the newspapers.

One could view with more complacency the sea of faces in periodicals, on bill-boards, and painted on the rockribbed hills, if more discrimination were shown in the use of personalities. We know that, at its present stage, democracy is so indifferent to abstractions that the Referendum has made practically no progress among us. It is impossible in the average community to obtain an intelligent, or even a numerically large, vote upon constitutional amendments that are submitted to the people. Popular interest remains languid even as to grave measures of reform until they are championed by a striking human figure, such as that of Mr. Jerome, who, in his campaign for reëlection as district-attorney of the City of New York, so fired the imagination that he accomplished a miracle of discriminative suffrage.

It is proper to laud the hero in connection with his cause, but why should he also be used as an advertising factotum ? A line of commendation from the President of the United States, though he were as illiterate as Andrew Jackson, or as brimming with health as Theodore Roosevelt, would make the fortune of any book of poems, or any patent medicine. Prominent men as retail trade-marks, with occasional interspersions of vaudeville actresses in the same capacity, constitute one of the most obtrusive American features. In England, the royal family and noble lords and ladies serve as sponsors for ales and chow-chow and lingerie. Here, the commercial strain is largely upon our statesmen, and the horror of it may well give a sensitive man pause upon the threshold of a public career.

Bagehot has said that “a constitutional statesman is in general a man of common opinions and uncommon abilities.” It might be suggested that the reason for drumming in eminent politicians as exemplars of opinion on works of literature or art, is that they represent average appreciation, and, therefore, are persuasive decoys for patronage. The motive on the part of the masses who are impressed, however, is not a distaste for anything save commonplace guides, but rather an application of the fanciful assumption pervading Carlyle’s lectures on hero worship, that any great man has in him the potentiality of all kinds of greatness.

Even when the human figure does symbolize an idea, it is grasped only in the rough, often with adventitious elements derived from his personality; and the symbol himself becomes the spoiled child of the tendency that heroized him.

Andrew Jackson unquestionably embodied a great social and political principle. He represented in the concrete the philosophical democracy of Jefferson, which, in the period of half a century, had permeated the popular mind. Democracy was the inevitable phase of social evolution, as it meant the leveling of artificial privilege and the widening of the area of competition and natural selection. The masses, however, carried the principle to absurd lengths of radicalism. As a substantial policy there was developed the greatest curse of American politics after slavery — “the spoils system,” or democracy run mad. It is unjust, as is frequently done, to saddle upon Jackson the brunt of responsibility for the prostitution of the civil service. Utterances of his previous to the period of his presidency have been quoted in which he condemned the practice of rewarding party service with public office. His way to become the exponent of the popular clamor was, however, smoothed by his peculiar blend of personal passion with public conscientiousness, and his devout conviction that John Quincy Adams, who had appointed many of the removed incumbents, came to the executive chair through a corrupt bargain. This consideration, indeed, counted with the rank and file, but more fundamental was the conviction that a permanent office-holding class was inconsistent with and a menace to democracy; that an equality of opportunity in the scramble for place was simple justice.

On the surface the “ Jeffersonian simplicity” lapsed into the “Jacksonian vulgarity,” and there arose a deliberate cult of blue jeans and bad manners.

Extremes met, and the exemplar of democracy in its most fanatical form became a czar. The multitude made him its fetish and worshiped his very infirmities. Standing for the conception of general equality, he could actually do whatever he chose, without marring his idolhood. Several of the important policies he fathered have stood the test of history, but among our most offensive traditions are the excesses of his absolutism, dramatically culminating in the resolution that his imperious will forced through the Senate in 1837, to expunge from its journal a censure previously passed upon him.

Notwithstanding differences in birth, breeding, and education, the resemblance in character and temperament between President Jackson and President Roosevelt is very strong, and the popular attitude toward the later is much the same as toward the earlier “metrical instrument of public opinion.”

Again, an elemental democratic sentiment found its human exemplar. After an agitation extending over more than a quarter of a century against the enslaving power of corporate wealth, the masses of the people, enlightened to the situation and dangerously in earnest, have made it clear that aggregations of capital — whatever their form — shall be controlled by law. Mr. Roosevelt, in genuine sympathy with the culminating crusade, has preached its doctrines, always fervently, sometimes fanatically. In the mind’s eye of the people, he has come to stand for the movement itself, and no one since Jackson has enjoyed a more unshakable popular grip.

Again, the excesses of an impulsive, autocratic nature have been hailed as virtues by public sentiment that could grasp the policy of controlling the corporations and “ trusts ” only generally and vaguely. Not being a profound constitutional lawyer, he has advanced not a few utopian measures of relief. “ Old Hickery ” never did a more grotesquely outrageous thing than President Roosevelt’s arrogation of the right to rebuke judges of federal courts for rendering decisions that did not agree with his ideas of propriety. This is the phase of “Rooseveltism” which history will probably most severely condemn; in its degree it calls for the same kind of criticism which Carl Schurz passed upon Jackson: —

“His autocratic nature saw only the end he was bent upon accomplishing, and he employed whatever means appeared available for putting down all obstacles in his path. Honestly believing his ends to be right, he felt as if no means that would serve them could be wrong. He never understood that, if constitutional government is to be preserved, the legality of the means used must be looked upon as no less important than the rightfulness of the ends pursued.”

Popular infatuation made it the easier for Mr. Roosevelt to indulge the defect of his qualities — to sacrifice dignity, and impair the weight of his influence, by posing as universal oracle and next friend of all the world.

In one episode of Theodore Roosevelt’s life, anthropomania, in displaying its own tendency for evil, demonstrated his essential sanity and moral soundness. Mr. Roosevelt has known many legitimately proud moments, and none greater than the evening of election day in 1904, when, being assured of enthusiastic choice by the people to an office originally attained through accident, he announced that he should consider the period he had already served as the equivalent of a first elective term and would not be a candidate for renomination. This was following the precedent set by Washington, not in letter, but according to its broad spirit. Mr. Roosevelt’s popularity grew during his second term, which was no sooner started than demands began to be heard for the retraction of his pledge. This spirit waxed so strong that in the end he held the nomination for the succession in the hollow of his hand, and was compelled to great firmness in saving himself from his friends. Nothing will contribute more to rendering his official life illustrious than the circumstances of his leaving it. And popular idolatry was directed toward inducing a gentleman to break his word of honor, and pass into history as a servile lover of place, instead of as an inspirer of lofty political ideals.

The present effort to point out some of the salient manifestations of anthropomania is offered not in any spirit of pessimism.

Carl Schurz, treating of Jackson’s aggrandizement of the executive department, uses the following language, and again a similar criticism in its degree would apply to Mr. Roosevelt, with the difference that his usurpatory disposition was directed against the Judiciary, rather than Congress: —

“ But if a President of the United States ever should conceive such a scheme (of setting up a personal despotism), he would probably resort to the same tactics which Jackson employed. He would assume the character of the sole representative of all the people; he would tell the people that their laws, their rights, their liberties, were endangered by the unscrupulous usurpations of the other constituted authorities; he would try to excite popular distrust and resentment, especially against the legislative bodies; he would exhibit himself unjustly and cruelly persecuted by those bodies for having vigilantly and fearlessly watched over the rights and interests of the people; he would assure the people that he would protect them if they would stand by him in his struggle with the conspirators, and so forth. These are the true Napoleonic tactics, in part employed by the first, and followed to the letter by the second, usurper of that name,”

The imputation of “Cæsarism,” or of imperfect loyalty to republican institutions, either to Jackson or to Roosevelt, would, however, be absurd. They, no less than Lincoln and Cleveland, were sincere public moralists and sincere patriots. Mere Boulangerism is an American impossibility. Our hero-worship needs a discriminating curb, not to be set radically right.

Our text was taken from the constitution of Massachusetts, and the Bay State has preëminently lived up to its own precept. There, the separation of national, state, and local issues, with independent voting, has been quite substantially accomplished. Massachusetts, more than most states, has withstood democratic zealotism. It is one of the very few states that did not substitute an elective for an appointive judiciary. Its roll of governors, United States senators and judges, is almost unbrokenly one of especial fitness as well as exalted character.

New York, whose political history strongly contrasts with that of Massachusetts, has, during recent years, given many indications of progress toward government by ideas, and none has been more convincing than the indorsement by its people of the administration of Governor Hughes. He was nominated, with some misgivings concerning his “taking qualities,” as the exponent of legal control of public corporations. A strong justification of democratic faith has been offered by his success in this direction, — notably in compelling the passage of the law creating the Public Service Commissions, — with the correlative circumstance that he vetoed an arbitrary attack on corporations, in the so-called “Two-Cent-Fare Bill,” without any inroad upon his popularity.

The tangible accomplishments of Governor Hughes were largely confined to the first year of his term, the only conspicuous reform during his second year being the repeal of the “Racing Bill.” The adoption of this anti-betting law by a recalcitrant legislature, will, however, in connection with the series of important statutes for the control of corporations, have an abiding influence, because it accentuated the policy which Governor Hughes has uniformly pursued. He was adversely criticised by many who had simply the success of the particular measure at heart, for not offering personal inducements which would have brought comparatively easy success. But his consistent action in appealing solely to thoughtfulness and to the moral sense, and so indirectly coercing the legislature, has led to a striking triumph of popular reason.

Sedulously ignoring the emotional, and avoiding the spectacular, the force of circumstances has nevertheless rendered Governor Hughes an imposing figure. He has, moreover, under the exigencies of the situation, and being a clever, versatile man, developed “magnetic” attributes. He has become an effective popular orator, with qualities of grace, pungency, and humor, adding to the earnest force of the man behind the words. It may safely be said, however, that into his success no element of anthropomania has entered, and his career as governor, like the career of Mr. Cleveland before him, constitutes an important contribution to the advancement of the Massachusetts idea.

On the national scale, it is significant of the subsidence of anthropomania that there was no serious movement to make the hero of Manila Bay the candidate of either of the great parties for the presidency. It is also highly significant that, while Mr. Roosevelt retains his hold of the popular heart, criticism of his grave faults has constantly grown more widespread and telling; and this because of the greater diffusion of higher education to-day than in the time of Jackson.

But, although much may be expected in America through incidental effects of diffused culture, it is believed that young persons should further be directly admonished that the proper study of mankind is not man. The primary interest of mankind should be in ideas, principles, tendencies, with man only as incidental and illustrative. The overshadowing importance of the human figure is a survival of the anthropomorphism of savage and barbarous stages, of the abject heroworship of the ages of absolute monarchy and militarism. While a certain vigilance for the recognition of genius and leadership is not to be discouraged, the absorbing interest in personalities is unsuited to democratic conditions. It should be deliberately restrained, not only as to the living, but as to the dead.

In his paper on John Milton, Mr. Augustine Birrell, after describing the poet’s personal habits, which included smoking a pipe before going to bed, remarks, “It is pleasant to remember that one pipe of tobacco. It consecrates your own.” One would be indeed a surly purist not to relish this touch of genial humanness, and it has been endeavored throughout the present article to avoid that very roundhead fanaticism, which Mr. Birrell, for all his reverential sympathy, cannot help showing characterized the great, blind bard. In a different spirit, however, it may be recalled that in the exhibit of the United States Department of Justice, at the Chicago Exposition of 1903, there were solemnly installed, among famous documents and archives, an ancient shaving brush and cup, said to have been used by John Marshall. The monument of the great Chief Justice is all about us, in a constitution that was made to “march,” in a “ paper-theorem” transmuted into a living government. Circumspice ! To treasure the dilapidated toilet articles of such a man is puerile absurdity of relicworship.

Americans laugh contemptuously at the parade of statues of kings and princelets in European cities, but, under the enterprise of ancestor-worship with a political “ pull,” we shall soon have to pluck the beam from our own eye. In the streets and squares of New York are statues of men who in the perspective of history are little removed from nonentity; and the same is true of other American cities. If this abuse of public commemoration be suffered to continue, in fear of outbreaks of righteous iconoclasm, there may well be inscribed on many a pedestal: “Cursed be he who moves my graven image.”

With perfect respect for the opinions of those who differ from him, the writer ventures to suggest that the Hall of Fame, inaugurated at one of the universities of New York, is servilely imitative of traditional shrines of the Old World, and that it is not soundly educative, either for students or for the public. You cannot measure fame with a yard-stick. Rightful title to niches in the pantheon will always be a question of opinion, and of opinion shifting with the lapse of time. Already childish bickerings have arisen over the bestowal of the tangible crowns of im mortality. The memory and achievements of our greatest men need no such ukase in order for proper appreciation. The real effect of the institution is to sanction and intensify anthropomania.