WHAT IS MAN? AND OTHER ESSAYS OF MARK TWAIN

one reads about in books which tell of nigh attacks by Italians

and by French mobs: the growing roar of the oncoming crowd; the

arrival, with rain of stones and a crash of glass; the withdrawal

to rearrange plans–followed by a silence ominous, threatening,

and harder to bear than even the active siege and the noise. The

landlord and the two village policemen stood their ground, and at

last the mob was persuaded to go away and leave our Italians in

peace. Today four of the ringleaders have been sentenced to

heavy punishment of a public sort–and are become local heroes,

by consequence.

That is the very mistake which was at first made in the

Missourian village half a century ago. The mistake was repeated

and repeated–just as France is doing in these later months.

In our village we had our Ravochals, our Henrys, our

Vaillants; and in a humble way our Cesario–I hope I have spelled

this name wrong. Fifty years ago we passed through, in all

essentials, what France has been passing through during the past

two or three years, in the matter of periodical frights, horrors,

and shudderings.

In several details the parallels are quaintly exact. In

that day, for a man to speak out openly and proclaim himself an

enemy of negro slavery was simply to proclaim himself a madman.

For he was blaspheming against the holiest thing known to a

Missourian, and could NOT be in his right mind. For a man to

proclaim himself an anarchist in France, three years ago, was to

proclaim himself a madman–he could not be in his right mind.

Now the original first blasphemer against any institution

profoundly venerated by a community is quite sure to be in

earnest; his followers and imitators may be humbugs and self-

seekers, but he himself is sincere–his heart is in his protest.

Robert Hardy was our first ABOLITIONIST–awful name! He was

a journeyman cooper, and worked in the big cooper-shop belonging

to the great pork-packing establishment which was Marion City’s

chief pride and sole source of prosperity. He was a New-

Englander, a stranger. And, being a stranger, he was of course

regarded as an inferior person–for that has been human nature

from Adam down–and of course, also, he was made to feel

unwelcome, for this is the ancient law with man and the other

animals. Hardy was thirty years old, and a bachelor; pale, given

to reverie and reading. He was reserved, and seemed to prefer

the isolation which had fallen to his lot. He was treated to

many side remarks by his fellows, but as he did not resent them

it was decided that he was a coward.

All of a sudden he proclaimed himself an abolitionist–

straight out and publicly! He said that negro slavery was a

crime, an infamy. For a moment the town was paralyzed with

astonishment; then it broke into a fury of rage and swarmed

toward the cooper-shop to lynch Hardy. But the Methodist

minister made a powerful speech to them and stayed their hands.

He proved to them that Hardy was insane and not responsible for

his words; that no man COULD be sane and utter such words.

So Hardy was saved. Being insane, he was allowed to go on

talking. He was found to be good entertainment. Several nights

running he made abolition speeches in the open air, and all the

town flocked to hear and laugh. He implored them to believe him

sane and sincere, and have pity on the poor slaves, and take

measurements for the restoration of their stolen rights, or in no

long time blood would flow–blood, blood, rivers of blood!

It was great fun. But all of a sudden the aspect of things

changed. A slave came flying from Palmyra, the county-seat, a

few miles back, and was about to escape in a canoe to Illinois

and freedom in the dull twilight of the approaching dawn, when

the town constable seized him. Hardy happened along and tried to

rescue the negro; there was a struggle, and the constable did not

come out of it alive. Hardly crossed the river with the negro,

and then came back to give himself up. All this took time, for

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