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 sixsevenths of the
appropriation into the treasury
a week before starting from Camelot
on my adventures, and ordered
that the other seventh be inflated
into fivecent 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 $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-WORKS CORKED!
----
BRER MERLIN WORKS HIS ARTS, BUT GETS
LEFT?
----
But the Boss scores on his first Innings!
----
The Miraculous Well Uncorked amid
awful outbursts of
INFERNAL FIRE AND SMOKE
ATHUNDER!
----
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 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 mext month on a search f8r Sir
Sagramour le Desirous. It is in com-
and of the renowned Knight of the Red
Lawns, assissted by Sir Persant of Inde,
who is compete9t. intelligent, courte-
ous, and in every way a brick, and fur-
tHer assisted by Sir Palamides the Sara-
cen, who is no huckleberry hinself.
This is no pic-nic, these boys mean
busine&s.
The readers of the Hosannah will re-
gret to learn that the hadndsome and
popular Sir Charolais of Gaul, who dur-
ing his four weeks' stay at the Bull and
Halibut, this city, has won every heart
by his polished manners and elegant
cPnversation, 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 efficient 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 thought-
ful Lord High Stew d of the Palace's
Third Assistant V t for several sau-
ceTs of ice crEam a quality calculated
to make the ey of the recipients hu-
mid 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 Board-
ing 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 ut-
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:
COURT CIRCULAR.
On Monday, the king rode in the park.
" Tuesday, " " "
" Wendesday " " "
" 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 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. |