Prejudices, fourth series

In Short

This volume is a collection of essays and aphorisms that take aim at the sacred cows of American society—the politician, the husbandman, the clergyman, and the moralist. With a caustic wit that spares no one, the writer exposes the disconnect between the ideals of democracy and the reality of a dull, conformist electorate. It has endured as a primary artifact of American dissent, capturing a period when the intellectual elite felt increasingly alienated from the country’s burgeoning puritanical impulses, particularly regarding Prohibition and cultural homogeneity.

The Story

The narrative arc of the book is not one of characters moving through a plot, but of a mind traversing the American landscape, mapping its intellectual and moral deficits. The journey begins with a sharp critique of the "American Anglo-Saxon," a figure the author views as a rigid, unthinking type, fundamentally resistant to original thought and prone to mass hysteria. From there, the argument shifts to the "husbandman"—the American farmer. Rather than a romanticized figure of pastoral virtue, the farmer is presented as the pampered darling of Congress, a political totem whose supposed suffering drives a legislative machine dedicated to state-sponsored pandering.

As the scope expands, the focus turns to "High and Ghostly Matters." Here, the author dismantles religious certainty, proposing that if the universe is indeed designed, its inconsistent and often botched execution suggests not an omnipotent deity, but a chaotic committee of gods. This leads naturally to an interrogation of the clergy, whom the author treats not as men of God, but as professional performers of a role. The transition from the divine to the mundane brings the reader to "Justice Under Democracy" and "Reflections on Human Monogamy." The legal system is portrayed as a tool for the powerful to bypass constitutional protections, while the institution of marriage is examined as a "rat-trap" defined by farce and social pretense rather than the romantic idealism of the poets.

The middle section of the book deepens the critique by focusing on the "Politician." The author envisions a political landscape stripped of its moral posturing—a space where candidates are recognized not as saints or villains, but as "go-getters" competing for power. This leads into the "Methodist Desert," a scathing look at the moralizing influence of religious fervor on public policy. The author argues that American life is being suffocated by reformers who, under the banner of "Service," have turned governance into a profitable, intrusive industry of moral regulation.

The final movement of the book moves from the political to the aesthetic. The author discusses the "nature of art," arguing that true creative genius is often hampered by the crushing weight of domesticity and social expectation. He reflects on the struggle for a realistic aesthetic in literature, celebrating figures like Theodore Dreiser who, through sheer tenacity, forced American letters to confront the truth of the human condition. The book concludes by reiterating the necessity of the "first-rate man," a rare, independent thinker who serves as the only buffer against the encroaching tide of proletarian mediocrity and the stifling, conformist grip of American institutions.

How It Unfolds

The critique of the American type The opening essays establish the thesis that Americans are fundamentally uniform in their thought and reactions. This rigidity is presented as a barrier to any real cultural or intellectual progress.

The political farce The focus shifts to the legislative process, exposing the hypocrisy of politicians who cater to specific interest groups. These sections argue that the primary function of government has become the maintenance of false, comforting delusions.

The breakdown of morality The text interrogates religion and the domestic sphere, casting doubt on both the sincerity of the clergy and the romantic stability of marriage. These chapters move from the cosmic to the personal, finding the same level of performance and pretense in both.

The rise of the new reformer The middle chapters analyze the transition of reform from a private sacrifice to a lucrative, state-sponsored profession. This "Service" industry is identified as the primary source of modern bureaucratic tyranny.

The defense of the artist The book concludes by examining the necessity of art and the struggle for realism in a country hostile to it. The focus on individual genius serves as a final, defiant counter-argument to the pervasive spirit of mass conformity.

The People

The book is populated by types rather than individuals, though historical figures are used as shorthand for specific traits. The "husbandman" stands as the primary victim-beneficiary of the political system, a figure whose supposed nobility excuses legislative excess. The "politician" emerges as a generic villain, a "chautauqua orator" or "porch-climber" who trades in "buncombe" rather than truth.

The "clergyman" is treated as a professional actor, one whose public persona of piety is a carefully crafted mask that conceals a mundane reality. Opposed to these figures is the "first-rate man"—a rare, independent intellect who occupies the fringes of society. This individual is the only person capable of genuine creation, but he is constantly endangered by the "lower orders" and the pressure to conform. Theodore Dreiser is the most prominent example of this ideal, appearing as a "granitic" force who refused to be broken by the literary "schoolmarms" who demanded he write with more sentimentality and less truth. The author himself acts as the skeptical observer, the "critic" who stands outside the fray, documenting the absurdities of the age with a mixture of amusement and despair.

In Its Own Voice

Describing the disconnect between the reality of the universe and the claims of the religious, the author notes:

The world is not actually well run; it is very badly run, and no Huxley was needed to labor the obvious fact.

In a reflection on the hypocrisy of the state and the legal system, the author observes:

It is, indeed, so bad that a large number of Federal judges refuse absolutely to employ it.

Regarding the necessity of a more honest approach to public life, the author argues:

Buncombe would be adjourned.

What It's Really About

The central theme is the incompatibility of a free, critical mind with the machinery of a democratic society that prizes comfort, conformity, and moral performance. The book asks whether a society that insists on labeling its politicians, farmers, and clergymen as saints can ever produce a culture that is truly civilized or honest. The questions underneath the prose are: can art survive in a climate of moral censorship? Does democracy inevitably descend into the rule of the mediocre? The text is a relentless interrogation of the American character, suggesting that the "American Tradition" is one of self-deception and that the path to a higher civilization requires the abandonment of the "false labels" and "bugaboos" that hold the populace in a state of intellectual childhood.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the biting, unsentimental prose of a cultural polemicist will find much to admire here. This is a book for those who value intellectual independence and are not easily offended by the dismantling of traditional virtues. It feels like a bracing, cold shower of skepticism—an antidote to the over-earnest, performative nature of modern discourse.

However, the reader should be prepared for the author's period-specific prejudices. The prose is thick with the social attitudes of the 1920s, and his dismissive, often cruel, language regarding different classes and races—referring to the rural population as "yokels" or "savages"—reflects the elitist worldview of his time. He makes no attempt to be egalitarian; he is an unabashed champion of a "first-rate" aristocracy of intellect that views the "common man" with deep suspicion. If you can set aside the occasionally jarring tone of early twentieth-century elitism, you will find a master of the essay form. His sentences are precise, rhythmic, and devastatingly effective. What stays with you is not his specific political prescriptions, which are often intentionally hyperbolic, but his ability to puncture the pomposity of public life—a skill that remains as relevant today as it was a century ago.