A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court by Mark Twain (my reading book .TXT) 📕

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 headlines. 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-Morkscorked!

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

Sir Launceloʇ met up with old King ∀grivance 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 mext mgnth on a search f8r Sir Sagramour le Desirous. It is in comand of the renowned Knight of the Red Lawns, assissted by Sir Persant of Inde, who is compete9t. intelligent, courteous, and in every ʍav a brick, and further assisted by Sir Palamides the Saracen, who is no huckleberry hinself. This is no pic-nic, these boys mean busine&s.

The readers of the Hosannah will regret to learn that the hadndsome and popular Sir Charolais of Gaul, who during his four weeks’ stay at the Bull and Halibut, this city, has won every heart by his polished manners and elegant c¶nversation, 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 ┴uesday on the borders of the Plain of Enchantment was in the hands of the ever affable and eᴉɟɟcient 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 Stew d of the Palace’s Third Assistant V t for several sauce†s of ice crEam a quality calculated to make the ey of the recipients humid with grt ude; 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 Irene 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 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 businesslike; all I say is, it was not the best way:

Court Circular.

On Monday, the ʞing rode in the park ” Tuesday, ” ” ” ” Wendesday ” ” ” ” Thursday ” ” ” ” Friday, ” ” ” ” Saturday ” ” ” ” Sunday, ” ” ”

However, take the paper by and large, I was vastly pleased with it. Little