This appears in Mark Twain's Notebook, the collection of private jottings published posthumously in 1904. Late Twain, after the deaths of two daughters and most of his money, is a sharper and darker writer than the riverboat raconteur the public remembers. The line reads less like a joke and more like a rule.

Consensus is data, not conclusion. In any system where power shapes opinion, being aligned with the many should at minimum trigger a check. Not because the majority is always wrong, but because agreement tends to be manufactured before we notice the factory. Pause and reflect is the weakest possible instruction, which is what makes it survivable. He is not asking for rebellion. He is asking for a fifteen-second audit of why you believe what you believe.

Cats are chronic minority voters. They are the only one in the room opposed to the blender, the scented candle, the new houseguest, the third day of rearranged furniture. They are frequently ridiculed and frequently correct. History has a quiet habit of validating the small animal who said no first, while the majority kept saying this is fine.