A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 5. by Mark Twain (affordable ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Barker the bellows-mender is
hoMe again, and looks much improved
by his vacation round-up among the out-
lying 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:

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 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.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 5., by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)