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 himself.

Censorship, almost extinct in the restriction of the national
literature, thrives in every other field. Censorships abound. Food,