Multimedia Mania/abacus-multimedia-mania.iso/dp/0140/01406.txt

Text File | 1993-07-27 | 8KB | 144 lines

$Unique_ID{bob01406}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{Life On The Mississippi
Chapter XLVI}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Twain, Mark}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{sir
south
walter
north
now
southern
war

}
$Date{1917}
$Log{}
Title:       Life On The Mississippi
Author:      Twain, Mark
Date:        1917

Chapter XLVI

Enchantments And Enchanters

     The largest annual event in New Orleans is a something which we arrived
too late to sample - the Mardi-Gras festivities.  I saw the procession of the
Mystic Crew of Comus there, twenty-four years ago - with knights and nobles
and so on, clothed in silken and golden Paris- made gorgeousnesses, planned
and bought for that single night's use; and in their train all manner of
giants, dwarfs, monstrosities, and other diverting grotesquerie - a startling
and wonderful sort of show, as it filed solemnly and silently down the street
in the light of its smoking and flickering torches; but it is said that in
these latter days the spectacle is mightily augmented, as to cost, splendor,
and variety. There is a chief personage - "Rex"; and if I remember rightly,
neither this king nor any of his great following of subordinates is known to
any outsider.  All these people are gentlemen of position and consequence; and
it is a proud thing to belong to the organization; so the mystery in which
they hide their personality is merely for romance's sake, and not on account
of the police.

     Mardi-Gras is of course a relic of the French and Spanish occupation; but
I judge that the religious feature has been pretty well knocked out of it now.
Sir Walter has got the advantage of the gentlemen of the cowl and rosary, and
he will stay.  His medieval business, supplemented by the monsters and the
oddities, and the pleasant creatures from fairy-land, is finer to look at than
the poor fantastic inventions and performances of the reveling rabble of the
priest's day, and serves quite as well, perhaps, to emphasize the day and
admonish men that the grace-line between the worldly season and the holy one
is reached.

     This Mardi-Gras pageant was the exclusive possession of New Orleans until
recently.  But now it has spread to Memphis and St. Louis and Baltimore.  It
has probably reached its limit.  It is a thing which could hardly exist in the
practical North; would certainly last but a very brief time; as brief a time
as it would last in London.  For the soul of it is the romantic, not the funny
and the grotesque.  Take away the romantic mysteries, the kings and knights
and big-sounding titles, and Mardi-Gras would die, down there in the South.
The very feature that keeps it alive in the South - girly-girly romance -
would kill it in the North or in London.  Puck and Punch, and the press
universal, would fall upon it and make merciless fun of it, and its first
exhibition would be also its last.

     Against the crimes of the French Revolution and of Bonaparte may be set
two compensating benefactions: the Revolution broke the chains of the ancient
regime and of the Church, and made a nation of abject slaves a nation of
freemen; and Bonaparte instituted the setting of merit above birth, and also
so completely stripped the divinity from royalty that, whereas crowned heads
in Europe were gods before, they are only men since, and can never be gods
again, but only figure-heads, and answerable for their acts like common clay.
Such benefactions as these compensate the temporary harm which Bonaparte and
the Revolution did, and leave the world in debt to them for these great and
permanent services to liberty, humanity, and progress.

     Then comes Sir Walter Scott with his enchantments, and by his single
might checks this wave of progress, and even turns it back; sets the world in
love with dreams and phantoms; with decayed and swinish forms of religion;
with decayed and degraded systems of government; with the sillinesses and
emptinesses, sham grandeurs, sham gauds, and sham chivalries of a brainless
and worthless long-vanished society.  He did measureless harm; more real and
lasting harm, perhaps, than any other individual that ever wrote.  Most of the
world has now outlived good part of these harms, though by no means all of
them; but in our South they flourish pretty forcefully still.  Not so
forcefully as half a generation ago, perhaps, but still forcefully.  There,
the genuine and wholesome civilization of the nineteenth century is curiously
confused and commingled with the Walter Scott Middle-Age sham civilization,
and so you have practical common sense, progressive ideas, and progressive
works, mixed up with the duel, the inflated speech, and the jejune romanticism
of an absurd past that is dead, and out of charity ought to be buried. But for
the Sir Walter disease, the character of the Southerner - or Southron,
according to Sir Walter's starchier way of phrasing it - would be wholly
modern, in place of modern and medieval mixed, and the South would be fully a
generation further advanced than it is.  It was Sir Walter that made every
gentleman in the South a major or a colonel, or a general or a judge, before
the war; and it was he, also, that made these gentlemen value these bogus
decorations.  For it was he that created rank and caste down there, and also
reverence for rank and caste, and pride and pleasure in them.  Enough is laid
on slavery, without fathering upon it these creations and contributions of Sir
Walter.

     Sir Walter had so large a hand in making Southern character, as it
existed before the war, that he is in great measure responsible for the war.
It seems a little harsh toward a dead man to say that we never should have had
any war but for Sir Walter; and yet something of a plausible argument might,
perhaps, be made in support of that wild proposition.  The Southerner of the
American Revolution owned slaves; so did the Southerner of the Civil War; but
the former resembles the latter as an Englishman resembles a Frenchman.  The
change of character can be traced rather more easily to Sir Walter's influence
than to that of any other thing or person.

     One may observe, by one or two signs, how deeply that influence
penetrated, and how strongly it holds.  If one take up a Northern or Southern
literary periodical of forty or fifty years ago, he will find it filled with
wordy, windy, flowery "eloquence," romanticism, sentimentality - all imitated
from Sir Walter, and sufficiently badly done, too - innocent travesties of his
style and methods, in fact.  This sort of literature being the fashion in both
sections of the country, there was opportunity for the fairest competition;
and as a consequence, the South was able to show as many well-known literary
names, proportioned to population, as the North could.

     But a change has come, and there is no opportunity now for a fair
competition between North and South.  For the North has thrown out that old
inflated style, whereas the Southern writer still clings to it - clings to it
and has a restricted market for his wares, as a consequence. There is as much
literary talent in the South, now, as ever there was, of course; but its work
can gain but slight currency under present conditions; the authors write for
the past, not the present; they use obsolete forms and a dead language.  But
when a Southerner of genius writes modern English, his book goes upon crutches
no longer, but upon wings; and they carry it swiftly all about America and
England, and through the great English reprint publishing-houses of Germany -
as witness the experience of Mr. Cable and "Uncle Remus," two of the very few
Southern authors who do not write in the Southern style.  Instead of three or
four widely known literary names, the South ought to have a dozen or two - and
will have them when Sir Walter's time is out.

     A curious exemplification of the power of a single book for good or harm
is shown in the effects wrought by Don Quixote and those wrought by Ivanhoe.
The first swept the world's admiration for the medieval chivalry silliness out
of existence; and the other restored it.  As far as our South is concerned,
the good work done by Cervantes is pretty nearly a dead letter, so effectually
has Scott's pernicious work undermined it.