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 ANCIEN REGIME and of the Church,
and made of 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 figureheads, 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.
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