CHAPTER XIII

AMERICAN RIDICULE

        In America ridicule has taken the turn towards blunt humor. This is largely due to the absence of revered traditions, fixed customs, unalterable habits and, above all, to the absence of intolerance so characteristic of American life.

        Mark Twain ridicules Congress as fools and associates Jesus with broken pitchers, with miraculous gathering of water in mantles, with the schoolmaster, the birch, and whippings.

        In another place Mark Twain ridicules the Biblical stories and the hypocritical interest in Biblical subjects as well as the credulity, the gullibility of the religious public. Mark Twain travels in Palestine and is shown the center of the earth and the tomb of Adam! His comments are not exactly inspired by reverence and piety.

        Benjamin Franklin, with his true Yankee humor, tells of a sectarian who modestly claims:

       It had pleased God to enlighten our minds so as to see that some doctrines which were esteemed truths were errors, and that others which we had esteemed errors were real truths. From time to time he has pleased to afford us further light, and our principles have been improving and our errors diminishing. This modesty in a sect is perhaps a single instance in the history of mankind, every other sect supposing itself in possession of all truths, and those which differ are so far in the wrong; like a man traveling in foggy weather, those at some distance before him on the road he sees wrapped up in the fog as well as those behind him, and also the people in the fields on each side, but near him all appears clear, though, in truth, he is as much in the fog as any of them.

        In a comic way Benjamin Franklin holds up to ridicule the sermons of his countrymen:

        We had for a chaplain a zealous Presbyterian minister, Mr. Beatty, who complained to me that the men (soldiers) did not generally attend his prayers and exhortations. When they enlisted, they were promised, besides pay and provisions, a gill of rum a day, which was punctually served out to them, one half in the morning, and the other half in the evening; and I observed they were as punctual in attending to receive it; upon which I said to Mr. Beatty: "It is, perhaps, below the dignity of your profession to act as steward of the rum, but if you were to deal it out and only just after prayers, you would have them all about you." He liked the thought, undertook the task, and, with the help of a few hands to measure out the liquor, executed it to satisfaction and never were prayers more generally and more punctually attended; so that I thought this method preferable to the punishment inflicted by some military laws for non-attendance on divine service.

     We offer two more examples of Franklin's ridicule on the sharp, unscrupulous bargain driving of the unctuous quaker, pious puritan, and his sanctimonious countrymen:

       In going through the Indian country to carry a message from our governor to the council at Onondaga, he (Conrad Weiser) called at the habitation of Canassetego, an old acquaintance, who embraced him, spread furs for him, some boiled beans and venison and mixed some rum and water for his drink. When he was well refreshed and had lit his pipe, Canassetego began to converse with him; asked him how he had fared the many years since they had seen each other, whence he then came, what occasioned his journey, etc. Conrad answered all his questions, and when the discourse had begun to flag the Indian, to continue it, said:

      "Conrad, you have lived long among the white people and know something of their customs. I have been sometimes at Albany, and have observed that once in seven days they shut up their shops and assemble all in the great house. Tell me what it is for. What do they do there?" "They meet there," “says Conrad, "to hear and learn good things." "I do not doubt," says the Indian, "that they tell you so―they have told me the same; but I doubt the truth of what they say, and I will tell you my reasons. I went lately to Albany to sell my skins and buy blankets, knives, powder, rum, etc. You know I used generally to deal with Hans Hanson, but I was a little inclined this time to try some other merchants. However, I called first upon Hans and asked him what he would give for beaver.

        He said he could not give any more than four shillings a pound; ‘But,' says he, ‘I cannot talk on business now: this is the day when we meet together to learn good things, and I am going to meeting.' So I thought to myself, ‘Since I cannot do any business to-day, I may as well go to the meeting, too,' and I went with him. There stood up a man in black and began to talk to the people very angrily. I did not understand what he said; but, perceiving that he looked much at me and at Hanson, I imagined he was angry at seeing me there; so I went out, sat down near the house, struck fire and lit my pipe, waiting till the meeting should break up. I thought, too, that the man had mentioned something of beaver, and I suspected it might be the subject of their meeting. So when they came out I accosted my merchant,―'Well, Hans,' says I, ‘I hope you have agreed to give more than four shillings a pound.' ‘No,' says he; ‘I cannot give more than three shillings and sixpence.' Then I spoke to several dealers, but they all sang the same song―three and sixpence―three and sixpence. This made it clear to me that my suspicion was right; and that, whatever they pretended of meeting to learn good things, the real purpose was to consult how to cheat Indians in the price of beaver. Consider but a little, Conrad, and you must be of my opinion. If they met so often to learn good things, they would certainly have learned some before this time. But they are still ignorant. You know our practice. If a white man in traveling through our country enters one of our cabins, we all treat him as I treat you: we dry him if he is wet; we warm him if he is cold and give him meat and drink that he may allay his thirst and hunger; and we spread soft furs for him to rest and sleep on. We demand nothing in return.   But if I go into a white man's house at Albany and ask for victuals and drink, they say: ‘Where is your money?' and if I have none they say: `Get out, you Indian dog!' You see they have not learned those little good things that we need no meetings to be instructed in, because our mothers taught them to us when we were children; and therefore it is impossible their meetings should be, as they say, for any such purpose or have any such effect: they are only to contrive the cheating of Indians in the price of beaver."

        The following story is in the true Franklin style on the dogmatic, authoritative faith of missionaries as well as on their self-contentment and conceit:

        A Swedish minister having assembled the chiefs of the Susquehanna Indians made a sermon to them, acquainting them with the principal historical facts on which our religion is founded―such as the fall of our first parents by eating an apple, the coming of Christ to repair the mise his miracles and sufferings, etc.

        When he had finish an Indian orator stood up to thank him. "What you have told us," says he, "is all very good. It is indeed bad eat apples. It is better to make them all into cider. We are much obliged by your kindness in coming so far tell us those things which you have heard from your mothers. In return, I will tell you some of those we have heard from ours. In the beginning, our fathers had only the flesh of animals to subsist on, and, if their hunting was unsuccessful, they were starving. Two of our hunters having killed a deer made a fire in the woods to broil some parts of it. When they were about to satisfy their hunger, they beheld a beautiful young woman descend from the clouds and seat herself an that hill which you see yonder among the Blue Mountains. They said to each other: ‘It is a spirit that perhaps has smelt our broili venison and wishes to eat of it; let us offer some to he They presented her with the tongue, she was pleased with the taste, of it and said: `Your kindness shall be rewarded; come to this place after thirteen moons, and you will something that will be of great benefit in nourishing you; and your children to the latest generations: They did so, and to their surprise found plants they had never seen fore, but which from that ancient time have been cultivat among us to our great advantage. Where her right hand had touched the ground they found maize; where her left hand had touched it they found kidney-beans." The good missionary, disgusted with this idle tale, said: "What delivered to you were sacred truths; but what you tell me is mere fable, fiction, and falsehood." The Indian, offended, replied: "My brother, it seems your friends have not done you justice in your education; they have not well instruct you in the rules of common civility. You saw that we, who understand and practice those rules, believed all your stories; why do you refuse to believe ours?"

        The comments of the Indian on Sunday services and the story about the missionary are in the true Socratic vein of irony and ridicule.

       Possibly no one can so well appreciate the characteristic faults and comic traits of a nation as the best representatives of the nation itself.

        Washington Irving, now the classic in all American schools, saw clearly through the business aptitudes of his countrymen. In his story "The Devil and Tom Walker," Tom's wife tried to drive s bargain with the devil, but she had the worst of it. Tom and the devil began to haggle over terms. Finally the devil proposed to Tom to turn usurer, to form a kind of money trust, a form of trust which has of late become so powerful in the land. Tom was eager to start into business at once. He promised to charge rates double of what the very devil would ask, to extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive merchants into bankruptcy and generally to drive them to the devil.

        These overreaching Yankee dealings which have recently given rise to all the forms of trusts and monopolies which, like a nightmare, weigh so heavily on the heart of the people and have a mortal grip on the very life of the nation, are comically foreshadowed in the burlesque on the sharp business dealings of the early American itinerant speculators, the ancestors of our modern king financiers, oil magnates, steel princes and coal barons who now, like rulers of old, claim the privilege of divine authority.

        We may take the following passage by Goodrich: "Have you got Young's Night Thoughts?" "Plenty."

        "Let me see one."

        Here I showed Mr. Fleecer the book.

        "This is not the right kind," said he, "I want that edition that's got the picter at the beginning of a gal walken out by starlight, called 'Contemplation."' I handed by customer another copy,―he then went on, "Aye, this is a That are picter there, is a very material p'int, Doctor. The young fellers down in Kentucky think it's a walloping kind of story, you know, about some gal that's in love. They look at that title-page, and see, ‘Night Thoughts, by Alexander Young.' Well, that seems as if it meant something queer. So they look to the frontispiece, and see a female all wrapped up in a cloak, goen out very sly, with nothing under heaven but the stars to see what she's about. ‘Hush hush,' I say, and look round as if afeard that somebody would hear us. And then I shut up the book, and put it into my chist, and deliberately lock the lid. Then the feller becomes rampacious. He begs, and wheedles, and flatters and at last he swears. I shake my head. Finally he takes out a five-dollar bill; I slip it into my pocket and tell him not to let anybody know who sold it to him, and not to take off the brown paper kiver till he gets shut up tight in his own room. I then say, 'Good-day, Mister,' and clear out like chain lightning, for the next county."

        "You seem to be pleased with your recollection Fleecer."

        "Well, I can't help snickering when I think of them fellers. Why, Bleech, I sold more than tew hundred of them Night Thoughts, for five dollars apiece, in Kentucky last winter and all the fellers bought 'em under the idea that 'twas some queer story, too good to be altogether decent."

        "So you cheated 'em, ha?"

        "I cheated 'em? Not I, indeed! If they were cheated at all, they cheated themselves, I guess. I didn't tell 'em' no lie. Couldn't they see for themselves ? Haven't they got eyes? Why, what should a feller du? They come smellin’ about like rats arter cheese, and ax me if I haint got some rowdy books: I show 'em the ‘Sky Lark' and 'Peregrine Pickle,’ and so on, but they want something better. Well, now, as I told you afore, I'm a deacon's son, and I don't like to sell ‘Tom Paine,' and ‘Volney's Ruins,' and that sort o' thing. So thinks I to myself―I'll play them sparks a Yankee trick. They want some rowdy books, and I'll sell 'em something pious. In this way they get some good, and in course of providence, they may be convarted. Well, the first one I tried, it worked like ginger. He bought the book at a tavern. Arter he'd got it he couldn't hardly wait, he was so fairse to read it. So he went into a room, and I peeped through the key hole. He began at the title-page, and then he looked at the figger of Miss Contemplation walking forth among the stars. I could see his mouth water. Then he turned to the first part, and begun to read. I heerd him as plain as Doctor Belcher's sarmon; it went pretty much like this,

        (Reads)

The Complaint. Night I'―

        "'Good―that's natural,' says he.

        (Reads)

‘On Life, Death, and Immortality.'―

        "’Whew! I suppose it's some feller in love, and is going to cut his throat.'

        (Reads)

        ‘Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep!

        He, like the world, his ready visit pays,

        When fortune smiles,’―

        "'That's all gammon!'

        (Reads)

        ‘Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne,'―

        "'What in nater is the fellow at?'

        (Reads)

        ‘The bell strikes one; we take no note of time,'―

        "Why, that's exactly what the parson said in his sarmon last Sunday!"'

        He turns over several pages. (Reads)

        ‘Night II. On Time, Death and Friendship.

                ‘When the cock crowed, he wept,! ―

        "'By Saint Peter, I'm gummed! That d―d Yankee peddler has sold me a psalm-book, or something of the kind, and made me believe it was a rowdy. The infernal hypocrite! And so I've paid five dollars for a psalm-book Well, it's a good joke, and the fellow desarves his money for his ingenuity.  He, he, he! ho, ho, ho! I must laugh; tho' I'm as mad as a snapping-turtle. Zachary! If I could get his nose betwixt my thumb and finger, I'd make him sing every line in the book to a tune of my own. To sell me a psalm-book!―the canting, whining, blue-light peddler! Fire and brimstone! It makes me sweat to think on't. And he did it so sly, too―the wooden-nutmeg rascal I wish I could catch him!'

        "By this time, I thought it best to make myself scarce. I had paid my bill, and my horse and wagon were all ready; for I had calculated upon a bit of a breeze. I mounted my box, and having axed the landlord the way to Lexington, I took the opposite direction to throw my psalm-book friend off the scent, in case he was inclined for a chase; so I pursued my journey and got clear. I met the fellow about six months arter, at Nashville; I was going to ax him if he had a psalm-book to part with, but he looked so plaguey hard at me, that I cocked my beaver over my right eye, and squinted with my left and walked on.  Sen then, I haint seen him."

        Bret Harte humorously pictures the rude life of the American West, the shrewdness of the Yankee, and the sharp way his countryman makes use of publicity, craving for sensationalism, advertisement, and shallow curiosity about worthless trifles and gossip.

        One cannot help viewing in a ludicrous light the passion that has seized so uncontrollably on the mind of the mind of the American, the passion for sensation, news, trifling newspaper gossip, insatiate love of notoriety, and unshakable faith in the great utility of advertisement. The advertising spirit is in the land and the people worship it with all their heart and with all their soul. One even reads "scientific" researches by American scientists on the subject of advertisement! More than half the value of American goods consists in the immense waste spent on the crying out their virtues. This holds true not only of commercial lines, but also of political, moral, and religious. The American public is like one vast howling mob in which every one tries to outdo and outbawl his neighbor. The nation is a vast multitude obsessed by the demoniacal spirit of advertisement, notoriety, curiosity, small gossip, and sensationalism, while really important news and live facts are omitted, ignored, and suppressed by the advertising spirit of money and large business interests.

        In his story, "An Apostle of the Tules," Bret Harte shows that under the cloak of religious revival there are only animality, brutality, and degradation. He shows in the revivalist, Brother Silas, the dull, emotional, hysterical, sickly, and inferior type of mind, saturated by the spirit of mediocre self-contentment, vanity, and conceit. Where we should expect a spiritual expression we only find a "stolid face, heavy, animal, and unintelligent." Nero expounding the truths of Christianity, the gladiator punctuating the Sermon on the Mount with a sword in his hand, the prize-fighter holding revival meetings and illustrating Christian humility by boxing matches and prize fights, these are in accord with American revival meetings. In this story Bret Harte shows the inferior under the garb of the superior and hence the derisive laughter.

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