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Mark
Twain - A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court
Chapter 26
THE FIRST NEWSPAPER
WHEN I told the king I was going out disguised as a petty freeman
to scour the country and familiarize myself with the humbler life
of the people, he was all afire with the novelty of the thing in a
minute, and was bound to take a chance in the adventure himself --
nothing should stop him -- he would drop everything and go along --
it was the prettiest idea he had run across for many a day. He wanted
to glide out the back way and start at once; but I showed him that
that wouldn't answer. You see, he was billed for the king's-evil --
to touch for it, I mean -- and it wouldn't be right to disappoint
the house and it wouldn't make a delay worth considering, anyway,
it was only a one-night stand. And I thought he ought to tell the
queen he was going away. He clouded up at that and looked sad. I was
sorry I had spoken, especially when he said mournfully:
"Thou forgettest that Launcelot is here; and where Launcelot
is, she noteth not the going forth of the king, nor what day he returneth."
Of course, I changed the Subject. Yes, Guenever was beautiful, it
is true, but take her all around she was pretty slack. I never meddled
in these matters, they weren't my affair, but I did hate to see the
way things were going on, and I don't mind saying that much. Many's
the time she had asked me, "Sir Boss, hast seen Sir Launcelot
about?" but if ever she went fretting around for the king I didn't
happen to be around at the time.
There was a very good lay-out for the king's-evil business -- very
tidy and creditable. The king sat under a canopy of state; about him
were clustered a large body of the clergy in full canonicals. Conspicuous,
both for location and personal outfit, stood Marinel, a hermit of
the quack-doctor species, to introduce the sick. All abroad over the
spacious floor, and clear down to the doors, in a thick jumble, lay
or sat the scrofulous, under a strong light. It was as good as a tableau;
in fact, it had all the look of being gotten up for that, though it
wasn't. There were eight hundred sick people present. The work was
slow; it lacked the interest of novelty for me, because I had seen
the ceremonies before; the thing soon became tedious, but the proprieties
required me to stick it out. The doctor was there for the reason that
in all such crowds there were many people who only imagined something
was the matter with them, and many who were consciously sound but
wanted the immortal honor of fleshly contact with a king, and yet
others who pretended to illness in order to get the piece of coin
that went with the touch. Up to this time this coin had been a wee
little gold piece worth about a third of a dollar. When you consider
how much that amount of money would buy, in that age and country,
and how usual it was to be scrofulous, when not dead, you would understand
that the annual king's-evil appropriation was just the River and Harbor
bill of that government for the grip it took on the treasury and the
chance it afforded for skinning the surplus. So I had privately concluded
to touch the treasury itself for the king's-evil. I covered six-sevenths
of the appropriation into the treasury a week before starting from
Camelot on my adventures, and ordered that the other seventh be inflated
into five-cent nickels and delivered into the hands of the head clerk
of the King's Evil Department; a nickel to take the place of each
gold coin, you see, and do its work for it. It might strain the nickel
some, but I judged it could stand it. As a rule, I do not approve
of watering stock, but I considered it square enough in this case,
for it was just a gift, anyway. Of course, you can water a gift as
much as you want to; and I generally do. The old gold and silver coins
of the country were of ancient and unknown origin, as a rule, but
some of them were Roman; they were ill-shapen, and seldom rounder
than a moon that is a week past the full; they were hammered, not
minted, and they were so worn with use that the devices upon them
were as illegible as blisters, and looked like them. I judged that
a sharp, bright new nickel, with a first-rate likeness of the king
on one side of it and Guenever on the other, and a blooming pious
motto, would take the tuck out of scrofula as handy as a nobler coin
and please the scrofulous fancy more; and I was right. This batch
was the first it was tried on, and it worked to a charm. The saving
in expense was a notable economy. You will see that by these figures:
We touched a trifle over 700 of the 800 patients; at former rates,
this would have cost the government about $240; at the new rate we
pulled through for about
'Hast seen Sir Launcelot about?'
$35, thus saving upward of $200 at one swoop. To appreciate the
full magnitude of this stroke, consider these other figures: the annual
expenses of a national government amount to the equivalent of a contribution
of three days' average wages of every individual of the population,
counting every individual as if he were a man. If you take a nation
of 60,000,000, where average wages are $2 per day, three days' wages
taken from each individual will provide $360,000,000 and pay the government's
expenses. In my day, in my own country, this money was collected from
imposts, and the citizen imagined that the foreign importer paid it,
and it made him comfortable to think so; whereas, in fact, it was
paid by the American people, and was so equally and exactly distributed
among them that the annual cost to the 100-millionaire and the annual
cost to the sucking child of the day-laborer was precisely the same
-- each paid $6. Nothing could be equaler than that, I reckon. Well,
Scotland and Ireland were tributary to Arthur, and the united populations
of the British Islands amounted to something less than 1,OOO,OOO.
A mechanic's average wage was 3 cents a day, when he paid his own
keep. By this rule the national government's expenses were $90,000
a year, or about $250 a day. Thus, by the substitution of nickels
for gold on a king's-evil day, I not only injured no one, dissatisfied
no one, but pleased all concerned and saved four-fifths of that day's
national expense into the bargain -- a saving which would have been
the equivalent of $800,000 in my day in America. In making this substitution
I had drawn upon the wisdom of a very remote source -- the wisdom
of my boyhood -- for the true statesman does not despise any wisdom,
howsoever lowly may be its origin: in my boyhood I had always saved
my pennies and contributed buttons to the foreign missionary cause.
The buttons would answer the ignorant savage as well as the coin,
the coin would answer me better than the buttons; all hands were happy
and nobody hurt.
Marinel took the patients as they came. He examined the candidate;
if he couldn't qualify he was warned off; if he could he was passed
along to the king. A priest pronounced the words, "They shall
lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover." Then the
king stroked the ulcers, while the reading continued; finally, the
patient graduated and got his nickel -- the king hanging it around
his neck himself -- and was dismissed. Would you think that that would
cure? It certainly did. Any mummery will cure if the patient's faith
is strong in it. Up by Astolat there was a chapel where the Virgin
had once appeared to a girl who used to herd geese around there --
the girl said so herself -- and they built the chapel upon that spot
and hung a picture in it representing the occurrence -- a picture
which you would think it dangerous for a sick person to approach;
whereas, on the contrary, thousands of the lame and the sick came
and prayed before it every year and went away whole and sound; and
even the well could look upon it and live. Of course, when I was told
these things I did not believe them; but when I went there and saw
them I had to succumb. I saw the cures effected myself; and they were
real cures and not questionable. I saw cripples whom I had seen around
Camelot for years on crutches, arrive and pray before that picture,
and put down their crutches and walk off without a limp.
There were piles of crutches there which had been left by such people
as a testimony.
In other places people operated on a patient's mind, without saying
a word to him, and cured him. In others, experts assembled patients
in a room and prayed over them, and appealed to their faith, and those
patients went away cured. Wherever you find a king who can't cure
the king's-evil you can be sure that the most valuable superstition
that supports his throne -- the subject's belief in the divine appointment
of his sovereign -- has passed away. In my youth the monarchs of England
had ceased to touch for the evil, but there was no occasion for this
diffidence: they could have cured it forty-nine times in fifty.
Well, when the priest had been droning for three hours, and the
good king polishing the evidences, and the sick were still pressing
forward as plenty as ever, I got to feeling intolerably bored. I was
sitting by an open window not far from the canopy of state. For the
five hundredth time a patient stood forward to have his repulsivenesses
stroked; again those words were being droned out: "they shall
lay their hands on the sick" -- when outside there rang clear
as a clarion a note that enchanted my soul and tumbled thirteen worthless
centuries about my ears: "Camelot Weekly Hosannah and Literary
Volcano! -- latest irruption -- only two cents -- all about the big
miracle in the Valley of Holiness!" One greater than kings had
arrived -- the newsboy. But I was the only person in all that throng
who knew the meaning of this mighty birth, and what this imperial
magician was come into the world to do.
I dropped a nickel out of the window and got my paper; the Adam-newsboy
of the world went around the corner to get my change; is around the
corner yet. It was delicious to see a newspaper again, yet I was conscious
of a secret shock when my eye fell upon the first batch of display
head-lines. I had lived in a clammy atmosphere of reverence, respect,
deference, so long that they sent a quivery little cold wave through
me:
HIGH TIMES IN THE VALLEY
OF HOLINESS!
-- -- -
THE WATER-MORKS CORKED!
-- -- -
BRER MERLIN WORKS HIS ARTS, BUT GETS
LEFT?
-- -- -
But t he Boss scores on his first Innings!
-- -- -
The Miraculous Well Uncorked amid
awful outbursts of
INFERNAL FIRE AND SMOKE
ANDTHUNDER!
-- -- -
THE BUZZARD-ROOST ASTONISHED!
-- -- -
UNPARALLELED REJOIBINGS!
-- -- -
-- and so on, and so on. Yes, it was too loud. Once I could have enjoyed
it and seen nothing out of the way about it, but now its note was
discordant. It was good Arkansas journalism, but this was not Arkansas.
Moreover, the next to the last line was calculated to give offense
to the hermits, and perhaps lose us their advertising. Indeed, there
was too lightsome a tone of flippancy all through the paper. It was
plain I had undergone a considerable change without noticing it. I
found myself unpleasantly affected by pert little irreverencies which
would have seemed but proper and airy graces of speech at an earlier
period of my life. There was an abundance of the following breed of
items, and they discomforted me:
Local Smoke and Cinders
Local Smoke and Cinders.
Sir Launcelot met up with old King Agrivance of Ireland unexpectedly
last weok over on the moor south of Sir Balmoral le Merveilleuse's
hog dasture. The widow has been notified.
Expedition No. 3 will start adout the first of nextmgnth on a search
f8r Sir Sagramour le Desirous. It is in command of the renowned Knight
of the Red Lawns, assisted by Sir Persant of Inde, who is compete9t.
intelligent, courteous, and in every mav a brick, and furtHer assisted
by Sir Palamides the Saracen, who is no huckleberry himself. This
is no pic-nic, these boys mean busine&s.
The readers of the Hosannah will regret to learn that the handsome
and popular Sir Charolais of Gaul, who during his four weeks' stay
at the Bull and Halibut, thiscity, has won every heart by his polished
manners and elegant cnversation, will pull out to-day for home. Give
us another call, Charley!
The bdsiness end of the funeral of the late Sir Dalliance the duke's
son of Cornwall, killed in an encounter with the Giant of the Knotted
Bludgeon last Tuesday on the borders of the Plain of Enchantment was
in the hands of the ever affable and eiffcient Mumble, prince of un3ertakers,
then whom there exists none by whom it were a more satisfying pleasure
to have the last sad offices performed. Give him a trial.
The cordial thanks of the Hosannah office are due, from editor down
to devil, to the ever courteous and thoughtful Lord High Steward of
the Palace's Thrid Assistant V t for several sauces of ice crEam a
quality calculated to make the ey of the recipients humid with gratitude;
and it done it. When this administration wants to chalk up a desirable
name for early promotion, the Hosannah would like a chance to sudgest.
The Demoiselle Krene Dewlap, of South Astolat, is visiting her uncle,
the popular host of the Cattlemen's Boarding Ho&se, Liver Lane,
this city.
Young Barker the bellows-mender is hoMe again, and looks much improved
by his vacation round-up among the outlying smithies. See his ad.
Of course it was good enough journalism for a beginning; I knew
that quite well, and yet it was somehow disappointing. The "Court
Circular" pleased me better; indeed, its simple and dignified
respectfulness was a distinct refreshment to me after all those disgraceful
familiarities. But even it could have been improved. Do what one may,
there is no getting an air of variety into a court circular, I acknowledge
that. There is a profound monotonousness about its facts that baffles
and defeats one's sincerest efforts to make them sparkle and enthuse.
The best way to manage -- in fact, the only sensible way -- is to
disguise repetitiousness of fact under variety of form: skin your
fact each time and lay on a new cuticle of words. It deceives the
eye; you think it is a new fact; it gives you the idea that the court
is carrying on like everything; this excites you, and you drain the
whole column, with a good appetite, and perhaps never notice that
it's a barrel of soup made out of a single bean. Clarence's way was
good, it was simple, it was dignified, it was direct and business-like;
all I say is, it was not the best way:
COURT CIRCULAR.
On Monday, the king rode in the park.
" Tuesday, " " "
" Wednesday " " "
" Thursday " " "
" Friday, " " "
" SaTurday " " "
" Sunday, " " "
However, take the paper by and large, I was vastly pleased with it.
Little crudities of a mechanical sort were observable here and there,
but there were not enough of them to amount to anything, and it was
good enough Arkansas proof-reading, anyhow, and better than was needed
in Arthur's day and realm. As a rule, the grammar was leaky and the
construction more or less lame; but I did not much mind these things.
They are common defects of my own, and one mustn't criticise other
people on grounds where he can't stand perpendicular himself.
I was hungry enough for literature to want to take down the whole
paper at this one meal, but I got only a few bites, and then had to
postpone, because the monks around me besieged me so with eager questions:
What is this curious thing? What is it for? Is it a handkerchief?
-- saddle blanket? -- part of a shirt? What is it made of? How thin
it is, and how dainty and frail; and how it rattles. Will it wear,
do you think, and won't the rain injure it? Is it writing that appears
on it, or is it only ornamentation? They suspected it was writing,
because those among them who knew how to read Latin and had a smattering
of Greek, recognized some of the letters, but they could make nothing
out of the result as a whole. I put my information in the simplest
form I could:
"It is a public journal; I will explain what that is, another
time. It is not cloth, it is made of paper; some time I will explain
what paper is. The lines on it are reading matter; and not written
by hand, but printed; by and by I will explain what printing is. A
thousand of these sheets have been made, all exactly like this, in
every minute detail -- they can't
Solid Comfort be told apart." Then they all broke out with exclamations
of surprise and admiration:
"A thousand! Verily a mighty work -- a year's work for many
men."
"No -- merely a day's work for a man and a boy."
They crossed themselves, and whiffed out a protective prayer or
two.
"Ah-h -- a miracle, a wonder! Dark work of enchantment."
I let it go at that. Then I read in a low voice, to as many as could
crowd their shaven heads within hearing distance, part of the account
of the miracle of the restoration of the well, and was accompanied
by astonished and reverent ejaculations all through: "Ah-h-h!"
"How true!" "Amazing, amazing!" "These be
the very haps as they happened, in marvelous exactness!" And
might they take this strange thing in their hands, and feel of it
and examine it? -- they would be very careful. Yes. So they took it,
handling it as cautiously and devoutly as if it had been some holy
thing come from some supernatural region; and gently felt of its texture,
caressed its pleasant smooth surface with lingering touch, and scanned
the mysterious characters with fascinated eyes. These grouped bent
heads, these charmed faces, these speaking eyes -- how beautiful to
me! For was not this my darling, and was not all this mute wonder
and interest and homage a most eloquent tribute and unforced compliment
to it? I knew, then, how a mother feels when women, whether strangers
or friends, take her new baby, and close themselves about it with
one eager impulse, and bend their heads over it in a tranced adoration
that makes all the rest of the universe vanish out of their consciousness
and be as if it were not, for that time. I knew how she feels, and
that there is no other satisfied ambition, whether of king, conqueror,
or poet, that ever reaches half-way to that serene far summit or yields
half so divine a contentment.
During all the rest of the seance my paper traveled from group to
group all up and down and about that huge hall, and my happy eye was
upon it always, and I sat motionless, steeped in satisfaction, drunk
with enjoyment. Yes, this was heaven; I was tasting it once, if I
might never taste it more.
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