Mob Vs Man in Huckleberry Finn and To Kill a Mockingbird

Huck Finn and Scout Finch are two of the most memorable and endearing storytellers in American literature. One of the reasons they offer such fresh perspectives on the world is that they are still at the age when wiping their hands on the tablecloth is a forgivable offense. In other words, the fact that they are only partially “civilized” not only gives them an outside perspective on the community, adulthood, and social conventions, but also allows them to criticize their findings with a certain level of immunity.

While the two stories have a lot of thematic overlap (i.e. rambunctious pre-teen storytellers struggling with racism and social conditioning), one of the most interesting points of comparison is their depiction of the mob mentality, which is inherently tied to the broader general social behavior that Huck and Scout are actively resisting. In Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, a lynch mob develops in response to the shooting of a good-natured drunk. Gathering makeshift weapons and clothes lines, a faceless and leaderless mob huddles in the front yard of the shooter, Colonel Sherburn, who then proceeds to do… absolutely nothing.

Looking out over the crowd, Sherburn laughs and comments that “one MAN IS safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind, as long as it’s daylight and you’re not after him.” Sherburn then explains that a mob is a) the “most pitiful” thing on earth, b) only succeeds if at least one real “man” is present, and c) “BELOW compassion” with no man to lead it. With the spell broken, the crowd scatters like cockroaches, including Huck (although he insists “he could have stayed if [he] wanted”).

Instead of appealing to the individual humanity of his townspeople, Sherburn uses the fact that they are a crowd against them; by reminding all the members that his power is borrowed from their numbers, Sherburn becomes the strongest person present by default. And because the mob lacks so much as an individual figurehead to look to for direction (or use as a psychological scapegoat), everyone realizes their own cowardice (not to mention culpability) in the matter.

To Kill a Mockingbird offers a very different account of mob psychology. Scout Finch’s father, Atticus, has a run-in of his own after agreeing to defend a black man in court in 1930s Alabama. Expecting trouble one particular night, Atticus stands guard for his client outside the jail gate and he’s not too surprised when four cars pull up full of angry men. Though he stands his ground, Scout and Jem unexpectedly burst onto the scene before we get a chance to see if Atticus prevails.

Scanning the familiar face of Mr. Cunningham in the crowd, Scout tries to strike up friendly conversation the way only a seven-year-old can, but because his overtures are so mind-blowing they’re out of line. , everyone is stunned silent. Scanning her brain for topics, Scout tries to talk about Mr. Cunningham’s legal problems, as well as his son (who was “very nice” about the fact that Scout “hit him once”) before finally getting him to talk. I talked. Remembering at last the fact that he is a father, a family friend, and a human being, Mr. Cunningham comes to his senses, acknowledges Scout’s greetings, and tells the mob to end the night.

Unlike the Sherburn mob, the Atticus mob disbands when he is reminded that it is not just an anonymous group; each man in it is the father, brother, uncle, son, husband, friend, etc. someone, just like Atticus Finch himself. Also, the fact that her alleged victim’s daughter not only can’t conceive of what they intend to do, but she also wants to make friends is an initial splash on all her faces.

However, if you don’t have a lovable seven-year-old on hand, simply calling everyone a coward will work just fine, too.