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 where wiping one’s 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 community, adulthood, and social conventions, but also allows them to criticize your findings with a certain level of immunity.
While the two stories have plenty of thematic overlaps (i.e. boisterous tween narrators battling racism and social conditioning), one of the more interesting points of comparison is their portrayal 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 a shooting by a good-natured drunk. Gathering makeshift weapons and clotheslines, a faceless and leaderless crowd amassed in the front yard of the shooter, Colonel Sherburn, who then proceeds to do…absolutely nothing.
Looking out over the crowd, Sherburn laughs, commenting that “a MAN IS safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind, as long as it’s daylight and you’re not behind 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) “UNDER compassion” without any man leading it. With the spell broken, the crowd scatters like roaches, including Huck (although he insists that he “could have stayed if [he] wanted to”).
Rather than appeal to the individual humanity of his townspeople, Sherburn uses the fact that they are a crowd against him; 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 is so lacking as an individual figurehead to seek direction from (or use as a psychological scapegoat), everyone realizes their own cowardice (not to mention guilt) in the matter.
To Kill a Mockingbird offers a very different account of mob psychology. Scout Finch’s father, Atticus, has his own run-in 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 isn’t 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 of friendship are so mind-boggling they’re out of character. , everyone is stunned into silence. 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 Scout “hitting him once”) before finally getting him to I talked. Finally remembering 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 Sherburn’s mob, 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 the daughter of her alleged victim not only can’t conceive of what they intend to do, but she also wants to make friends is an initial splash of water in all her faces.
However, in the event that you don’t have an adorable seven-year-old on hand, simply calling everyone a coward will also work well.