Yes, we do so love our little distinctions!
And then we loftily scoff at a Prince for enjoying
his larger ones; forgetting that if we only had his
chance—ah! “Senator” is
not a legitimate title. A Senator has no more
right to be addressed by it than have you or I; but,
in the several state capitals and in Washington, there
are five thousand Senators who take very kindly to
that fiction, and who purr gratefully when you call
them by it —which you may do quite unrebuked.
Then those same Senators smile at the self-constructed
majors and generals and judges of the South!
Indeed, we do love our distinctions, get them how
we may. And we work them for all they are worth.
In prayer we call ourselves “worms of the dust,”
but it is only on a sort of tacit understanding that
the remark shall not be taken at par. We
—worms of the dust! Oh, no, we are
not that. Except in fact; and we do not deal
much in fact when we are contemplating ourselves.
As a race, we do certainly love a lord—let
him be Croker, or a duke, or a prize-fighter, or whatever
other personage shall chance to be the head of our
group. Many years ago, I saw a greasy youth in
overalls standing by the Herald office, with
an expectant look in his face. Soon a large man
passed out, and gave him a pat on the shoulder.
That was what the boy was waiting for—the
large man’s notice. The pat made him proud
and happy, and the exultation inside of him shone
out through his eyes; and his mates were there to see
the pat and envy it and wish they could have that
glory. The boy belonged down cellar in the press-room,
the large man was king of the upper floors, foreman
of the composing-room. The light in the boy’s
face was worship, the foreman was his lord, head of
his group. The pat was an accolade. It
was as precious to the boy as it would have been if
he had been an aristocrat’s son and the accolade
had been delivered by his sovereign with a sword.
The quintessence of the honor was all there; there
was no difference in values; in truth there was no
difference present except an artificial one —clothes.
All the human race loves a lord—that is,
loves to look upon or be noticed by the possessor
of Power or Conspicuousness; and sometimes animals,
born to better things and higher ideals, descend to
man’s level in this matter. In the Jardin
des Plantes I have see a cat that was so vain of being
the personal friend of an elephant that I was ashamed
of her.
Monday.—This new creature with the long
hair is a good deal in the way. It is always
hanging around and following me about. I don’t
like this; I am not used to company. I wish it
would stay with the other animals. . . . Cloudy
today, wind in the east; think we shall have rain.
. . . We? Where did I get that word
—the new creature uses it.
