by Mark Twain
Something followed, now, which was grand to see. The crowd overflowed into the race-course and packed it full—there was no longer a fence-line visible; people poured, in a thousand streams from over the field and everywhere and joined this throng; they even seemed to spring up out of the ground; the mass grew and grew, there below us, and became more and more compact, till at last it was like a solid black island of humanity in a level green sea of grass; it was said that there were 50,000 persons aggregated there; they stood closer together than the bristles in a brush, for they touched shoulders; their faces were all visible, for one half of the multitude were pressing to the left and the other to the right, all trying to reach the same point, the gateway under our stand—they wanted a good look at the winning horse. A narrow crack was left in this vast multitude, and through this the racers moved in a walk, in single file—it was as if the half hidden horses were swimming through it. A cheer rolled continuously along abreast the winner, and only ceased when he passed under the grand stand and disappeared. I came curiously near winning four pairs of gloves on this memorable race; twelve horses ran, and if they had dashed up to the winning-post from the opposite direction the horse I betted on would have been in the lead.
The island of humanity began to crumble away at the edges; it melted off in grains, driblets, cakes and blocks, and floated across the plain toward a wide, yellow, empty gap in the forest; little by little the scattered wreck thickened and compacted itself into a broad raft, more than half a mile long, one of whose extremities filled up and hid the yellow gap in the woods, while the other end was joined to the still steadily crumbling and still mighty mass in the field. The wide gap had been yellow, before, it was black, now—an almost motionless black stream, for the distance was so great that it had the still look of inert matter, unless one watched it sharply and intently a while—then one detected that it was dimly alive all over with minute writing movements, much as if it were a bed of worms. It was hard to believe, after watching that place for an hour, and detecting no change in it, that it was not stationary matter, but matter which had been changed and renewed every second, during all that time; it seemed odd and unbelievable that swiftly moving carriages should make so steadfast and motionless a spectacle.
At the end of an hour the mass was still crumbling, the debris was still stretching unbroken across the plain, and the gap was as full and black as ever. We descended, then, and joined the monster caravan.
Some of the “turn-outs” were peculiar. I saw a family of four or five persons wedged neck-deep in a two-wheeled square box, like bottles in a basket, and this ugly and ridiculous cart was drawn by a pony the size of the average Newfoundland dog. There was one long vehicle, with seats running fore and aft, omnibus fashion, which was evidently a fine and costly affair, and it was filled with a very aristocratic company of ladies and gentlemen, if appearances go for anything; the horses were six in number, large and fine and glossy, and they bore outriders who wore a sort of Italian brigand costume, with a deal of fiery red and yellow in the elaborate trimmings. There were hundreds of private liveries, of course, but they were very subdued in tone—simple brown, or blue, or black, with metal buttons; even a “bug” on the coachman’s hat was rather a rarity. Central Park, on a field day, makes a much gaudier show, in the matter of liveries. I saw only one set of carriage servants with plush knee-breeches and powdered hair. Imagine all this sombre simplicity in a land where dukes and such still exist. Imagine it in a city where great nobles used to parade down street with trains of satin-clad servants reaching into the hundreds only a century or so ago.
One species of scenery was very common in our great procession, but not tiresome to the eye on that account. This was the solitary female. She was painted and powdered, she was upholstered regardless of expense—sometimes modestly, but usually the other way. She had her coachman and footman on the box, and another lackey behind her; she lolled back among her cushions in an almost reclining attitude, with her exposed satin-slippered foot resting on a silken pillow, and a complacent simper on her inane face; and from top-knot to toe she was looking what she was,—the true French Goddess of Liberty, hallowed by a thousand years of the nation’s respectful recognition. She was out in very numerous force indeed. The case could not well be otherwise, when one reflects that by the last census it appears that every Frenchman over 16 years old and under 116 has at least one wife to whom he has not been married. This occasions a good deal of what we call crime and the French call sociability.
When we passed under that noble monument the Arch of Triumph, our mighty caravan was an unbroken mass, clear down the broad avenue to the Place de la Concorde. It must have been a wonderful sight from the top of the Arch; that high perch was black with people. All down the avenue the wide side-walks and all the windows of the lofty lines of buildings were filled with the young and the old dressed in their Sunday best, to view the show.
THE DEVIL’S GATE
The curious names of towns and villages along the route woke many a memory that had nothing in the world to do with them. Among the rest the story of the Devil’s Gate. The miners near one of those sublime gorges which former earthquakes have cloven in the Sierra Nevadas, named the place with their usual felicity in that line. They called it by a Spanish name signifying Devil’s Gate. They never dreamed they were doing any harm. But a religious newspaper in San Francisco printed an editorial in which they were called to account—not in angry language, but in arguments and reasonings kindly put. They were admonished that it was not meet that men should honor the father of sin by naming after him the stupendous works of the Creator.
The miners called a meeting—nothing is done in California without calling a meeting about it. There must be a free, open, expression of opinion. In old times they always called a meeting, even when they were going to lynch a man who needed the most salutary and immediate hanging. The miners felt that they had innocently done a grave wrong in naming the gorge as they had. They wished to show the editor of the religious paper that they were not bad deliberately, and that in reality they were always ready to do as nearly right as they could and go to all reasonable lengths to earn the good opinion of worthy men. They discussed the matter in the meeting. They talked the subject over earnestly and feelingly, and then, by solemn and unanimous vote, they changed that name to—JEHOVAH’S GAP.
THE SNOW-SHOVELERS
A peaceful Sabbath morning in the elegant-residence end of a large New England town. Time, 8 a.m. A deep shroud of new-fallen snow covers everything. To the limit of sight down the white avenues, not a creature is stirring, no life is visible. There is no wind, not even a zephyr; the stillness is profound. Presently, in the distance a negro appears upon Mr. Morgan’s long frontage, and another one appears at the same time on Mr. Newton’s long frontage. They disturb the Sabbath hush with a couple of muffled scrapes of their snow-shovels. They look up and discover each other. For the next half hour they lean upon their shovels and converse at long range in powerful voices. Now and then they spit on their hands, but that is as far as their activities get.
ALECK. Hyo, Hank, is dat you?
HANK. Hellow, Ellick—dat you? Is you a shovelin’ for Misto Morgan?
ALECK. Dat’s it.
HANK. Who gwyne to shovel for old Misto Higginson?
ALECK. I dno. Tain’t me, dat’s sho’. Yah-yah-yah!
HANK. Me, too. Yah-yah-yah! Man got to git up mighty early in de mawnin’ to git me to shovel by de job, mind I tell you.
ALECK. Dat’s me—every time! Ef a man want his snow shoveled by de job, let him go git somebody else; I ain’t gwyne rassle round rackin my bones outer jint on no job, now you hear me!
HANK. No, sir! When you wants me to shovel snow, s’I, you’ll pay me by de hour, s’I; en it’s thutty cents, too, s’I, en don’t you fogit it! Yah-yah-yah!
ALECK. Dat’s it, dat’s it! Dem’s my senterments, en I gwyne to stick to ’em tell I bust. By de job! De ideear! Hit make me tired, dat kind er talk d
o. Say, Hank, is you ben down to de meet’n, las’ night?
HANK. No, I hain’t ben to no meet’n; I ain’t hear noth’n ’bout it. I uz to de nigger ball.
ALECK. No—wuz you? Why, I uz dah, too; I hain’t seed you. Whah wuz you?
HANK. Oh, jist a sloshin aroun’, same as usual, en havin’ a time. I uz dah plum tell it bust up—goin’ on daylight. What’s de meet’n you talkin ’bout?
ALECK. Dey uz two. One wuz de Anerkis’.
HANK. Anerkis?
ALECK. Yes. En de yuther one uz de Socialis’.
HANK. What’s dem—Anerkis en Socialis’?
ALECK. Why, hain’t you hear ’bout ’em? Whah you ben?—’sleep? Why, Hank, dey’s all de talk.
HANK. Is dat so? Huccum I ain’t hear noth’n ’bout ’em? But dis is de fust time, I clah to goodness. What do dey do, Elleck?
ALECK. Why, dey—dey—well, dey talk.
HANK. Is dat all?
ALECK. All, says you. Why, what you want ’em to do, Hank?—it’s politics.
HANK. Oh. I didn’t unstan’. Dat’s diffunt. Well, den, what’s de politics?
ALECK. Hit’s to have everybody git along ’dout work.
HANK. [Turned to stone in the act of spitting on his hands.] Git—along—widout—WORK? Why work is de nobles’ thing in dis worl’—I never hear sich dam foolishness!
ALECK. Dat’s jist what I say! De very words! You shet a man off fum workin’, s’I, en what’s de good er dat man? he ain’t no good, s’I.
HANK. Right you is. Hit’s de work dat make him healthy, hit’s de work dat keep him soun’. Ef a man’s too ornery to work en yearn his honest livin’, let him go en lay down en die, dern him, dem’s my senterments.
ALECK. Mine too,—wid de bark on. Why Hank, ef I didn’t work for my livin’ I’d feel dat low down dat I couldn’t look nobody in de face. But de Anerkis he say—
HANK. Dat’s it, dat’s it—what do de Anerkis say, Elleck?
ALECK. He say dey’s too much wealth stribited aroun’ mongst de yuther folks, en he gwyneter have some of it; en he ain’t gwyne work no mo’, nuther.
HANK. Well, ef dat don’t beat me! He gwyneter have some of it; how he gwyneter git it?
ALECK. Say he gwyneter take it.
HANK. Good lan’! Foce?
ALECK. Dat’s what he say; gwyne take it by foce.
HANK. Socialis’ want some too?
ALECK. Deed he do.
HANK. How he gwyne git it?
ALECK. ’Suasion.
HANK. How ’suasion?
ALECK. ’Leck all de Socialis’ gang to Congress en pass laws en divide up all de lan’ en truck mongst everybody so nobody ain’t bleeged to work no mo’.
HANK. Looky here, Elleck, hit make me sick; clah to goodness hit make me sick. What is dis worl’ a comin’ to, when de mos’ honorables’ thing in it—which is work—is gitt’n disrespectable?
ALECK. Dat’s de talk! When a man—when a hones’ hard-workin’ man—
[Discussion interrupted by the employers, who appear suddenly and put in a word.]
EMPLOYERS. If you two loafers can’t find anything better to do than lean on your tools and yell all day and disturb everybody, shoulder your shovels and pack out of this!
PROFESSOR MAHAFFY ON EQUALITY
THE EQUALITY OF MAN.
[PROF. MAHAFFY OF DUBLIN AT CHAUTAUQUA.]
In the preamble of your great declaration of rights appears, I believe, the statement that all men are equal in the sight of God. That statement was borrowed not from the scriptures, but from the speculations of the French revolutionists, whose opinion on the subject was to my mind of very small value. You are fond of talking of the equality of all men. The longer I read history, and the more I look around society the more I see profound inequalities in men. It is not true that every man is equal in the sight either of God or of men. What do you mean by God’s having a chosen people if that people have not enormous advantage over their neighbors? Is each man as handsome as his neighbor? Is each man as strong? Is each man as long-lived? Has each man lived in as good a climate? The differences among men are really enormous, and when you go into this question of primitive civilization and compare the natives who have received light from above and those who have not, you will agree with me that of all false platitudes that were ever circulated among a sane people none is more false than the usual adage about the equality of man. I suppose this is an awful heresy, but, at least, as long as I am in this country, I am a free man; so you will allow me to make a clean breast of it.
When Prof. Mahaffy set out to instruct the world about Greece, he began in a rational way: that is, by first instructing himself in his subject. Why would it not have been a good idea to take at least an infant course in American political ideas before setting out to tell Americans what they are? His mountain has been brought to bed of no “heresy,” awful or otherwise, in the above rather premature lying-in. He has misinterpreted a dogma of our Constitution—and ludicrously, if I may be so frank. No American believes that men are born physically equal; and it was not needed that a prophet should come from Dublin to explain, and argue out, and prove, with naive and quaint elaboration, the impossibility of a thing whose impossibility not even the American cats had yet questioned. If he had taken only a thousandth of the trouble to inform himself about us which he took to inform himself about the Greeks, he would have found that the American dogma, rightly translated, makes this assertion: that every man is of right born free—that is, without master or owner; and also, that every man is of right born his neighbor’s political equal—that is, possessed of every legal right and privilege which his neighbor enjoys, and not debarred from aspiring to any dignity to which his neighbor may attain. When a man accepts this rendering of that gospel, it is the same as proclaiming that he believes that whoever is born and lives in a country where he is denied a privilege accorded his neighbor—even though his neighbor be a king—is not a freeman; that when he consents to wear the stigma described by the word “subject,” he has merely consented to call himself a slave by a gentler epithet; and that where a king is, there is but one person in that nation who is not a slave. Professor Mahaffy was right when he observed that as long as he is in this country he is not a slave; and he might have added, without straining our ideas of the truth, that this is his first experience of the condition. For we gratefully believe, and do confidently claim, that this is now the only considerable country in the world where no slave exists. We get a good deal of instruction, first and last, from the strayed or stolen or mislaid European, and as a rule we have been able to get some sort of profit out of it, but this time we do seem to have got left on our base, as the Archbishop of Canterbury would say. If this present instructor is one of the “natives who have received light from above,” what must be the condition of those other natives “who have not”? Of course Chautauqua means well, but it will think twice before she runs this risk again. She gets off by luck, this time. But some day when she isn’t thinking she will import a teacher who knows his subject, and then it will cost her a thousand dollars.
MARK TWAIN
INTERVIEWING THE INTERVIEWER
I found the editor of the New York Sun throned in his sanctum. He had his brimless cap on—his thinking cap, he terms it, and well he may, for many an exquisite fancy has it hatched out in its time. He was steeped in meditation. He was arranging in his mind a series of those articles for his next day’s paper which have made the Sun famous in the land and a welcome visitor in every cultivated home circle upon the continent—interesting murders, with all the toothsome particulars; libels upon such men and women as have deserved the attention by being prominently blameless; aggravated cases of incest, with improving and elevating details; prize fights, elucidated with felicitously descriptive technicalities; elaborate histories of executions, assassinations and seductions; zealous defences of Reddy the Blacksmith and other persecuted patrons of the Sun who chance to stumble into misfortune. A high and noble thing i
t is to be the chief editor of a great metropolitan two-cent journal and mould the opinions of the washer-women and achieve the applause of the bone and sinew of the back streets and the cellars. And when that editor is gifted with that endowment which we term Genius, verily his position is almost godlike. I felt insignificant in the company of Charles A. Dana—and who wouldn’t?
