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:

When I told the king I was going out disguised as a humble freeman, he was instantly excited by the novelty. I planned to travel around the country and learn about the lives of ordinary people. He was determined to join the adventure himself. Nothing would stop him. He would drop everything and come along. It was the best idea he had come across in many a day. He wanted to slip out the back and leave at once, but I showed him that wouldn’t work. You see, he was booked for the king’s evil. I mean, he was supposed to touch people to cure it. It wouldn’t be right to disappoint the audience. Besides, it would hardly delay us, since it was only a one-night stand. I also thought he ought to tell the queen he was going away. At that, his face clouded over and he looked sad. I was sorry I had mentioned it, 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.”

“You forget that Launcelot is here. And wherever Launcelot is, she pays no attention to when the king leaves or returns.”

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.

Of course, I changed the subject. Yes, Guenever was beautiful, that was true. But all in all, she was pretty careless about her behavior. I never interfered in these matters. They were none of my business. But I hated to see the way things were going, and I don’t mind saying that much. She often asked me, “Sir Boss, have you seen Sir Launcelot around?” But if she ever went looking anxiously for the king, I wasn’t around to see it.

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 $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 1,000,000. 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.

The arrangements for the king’s-evil business were very good, neat and respectable. The king sat under a ceremonial canopy, surrounded by a large group of clergy in full church robes. Marinel stood in a prominent place, dressed to stand out. He was a hermit of the quack-doctor kind, there to introduce the sick. People with scrofula lay or sat in a thick crowd across the spacious floor, all the way to the doors. A strong light fell on them. It looked just like a staged scene, though it wasn’t one. There were eight hundred sick people present. The work was slow, and it held no interest as a novelty for me because I had seen the ceremonies before. It soon became tedious, but propriety required me to stay through it. The doctor was there because such crowds always included many people who only imagined they were sick. Many others knew perfectly well they were healthy but wanted the undying honor of physical contact with a king. Still others pretended to be ill to get the coin that came with the touch. Until then, the coin had been a tiny gold piece worth about a third of a dollar. Consider how much that money would buy in that age and country, and how common scrofula was among those who were not dead. Then you will understand the annual appropriation for the king’s evil. It was that government’s River and Harbor bill, judging by its grip on the treasury and its opportunities for draining the surplus. So I had privately decided to touch the treasury itself for the king’s evil. A week before leaving Camelot on my adventures, I returned six-sevenths of the appropriation to the treasury. I ordered the other seventh made up into a larger sum of five-cent nickels. These were to be delivered to the head clerk of the King’s Evil Department. You see, a nickel would replace each gold coin and do its work. That might put some strain on the nickel, but I judged it could stand it. As a rule, I don’t approve of watering stock, but I thought it fair enough in this case. After all, the coin was just a gift. Of course, you can water a gift as much as you like, and I generally do. The country’s old gold and silver coins were generally of ancient and unknown origin, though some were Roman. They were badly shaped, and seldom any rounder than a moon a week past full. They had been hammered, not minted. They were so worn from use that their designs were as illegible as blisters, and looked like them. I judged that a sharp, bright new nickel would take the sting out of scrofula as well as a more valuable coin. It would have a first-rate likeness of the king on one side, Guenever on the other, and a wonderfully pious motto. I thought it would please the scrofulous fancy more, too, and I was right. This group of patients was the first to try the new coins, and they worked like a charm. The savings were remarkable. The figures will show you. We touched a little over 700 of the 800 patients. At the old rate, this would have cost the government about $240. At the new rate, we got through for about $35, saving over $200 in one stroke. To appreciate the full size of that stroke, consider these other figures. A national government’s annual expenses equal three days’ average wages from every person in the population. That counts every person as if he were a man. Take a nation of 60,000,000 people, where average wages are $2 a day. Three days’ wages from each person will provide $360,000,000 and pay the government’s expenses. In my day, in my own country, this money was collected through import duties. The citizen imagined that the foreign importer paid it, and that thought made him comfortable. In fact, the American people paid it. The cost was distributed among them so equally and precisely that the annual cost was the same for a man worth $100 million and a day laborer’s nursing baby. Each paid $6. Nothing could be more equal than that, I reckon. Well, Scotland and Ireland paid tribute to Arthur, and the combined populations of the British Islands came to just under 1,000,000. A mechanic’s average wage was 3 cents a day, when he paid for his own living expenses. By this rule, the national government’s expenses were $90,000 a year, or about $250 a day. So by replacing gold with nickels on a king’s-evil day, I hurt no one and dissatisfied no one. I pleased everyone involved and saved four-fifths of that day’s national expenses into the bargain. That saving would have been the equivalent of $800,000 in America in my day. In making the substitution, I had drawn on wisdom from a very distant source, my boyhood. A true statesman does not despise any wisdom, however humble its origin. As a boy, I had always saved my pennies and given buttons to the foreign missionary cause. The buttons would serve the ignorant savage as well as the coin, and the coin would serve me better than the buttons. Everyone was happy, and nobody was 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.

Marinel took the patients as they came. He examined each candidate. If a candidate didn’t qualify, he was turned away. If he did qualify, he was sent on to the king. A priest spoke the words, “They shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” Then the king stroked the ulcers as the reading continued. Finally, the patient graduated and got his nickel. The king himself hung it around the patient’s neck, and the patient was dismissed. Would you think that would cure anyone? It certainly did. Any silly ritual will cure a patient if his faith in it is strong enough. Near Astolat, there was a chapel where the Virgin had once appeared to a girl who herded geese nearby. The girl said so herself. They built the chapel on that spot and hung a picture of the event inside. You would think it dangerous for a sick person to go near that picture. On the contrary, thousands of lame and sick people came every year and prayed before it. They went away healthy and whole. Even healthy people could look at the picture and live. Of course, when I was told these things, I didn’t believe them. But when I went there and saw them, I had to give in. I saw the cures happen myself. They were real cures, beyond question. I saw cripples I had seen around Camelot for years on crutches. They arrived and prayed before the picture, then put down their crutches and walked away without a limp. Piles of crutches had been left there by such people as proof.

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.

In some places, people cured patients by working on their minds without saying a word to them. In others, experts gathered patients in a room, prayed over them, and appealed to their faith. The patients went away cured. If a king cannot cure the king’s-evil, you can be sure that the most valuable superstition supporting his throne has disappeared. That superstition is his subjects’ belief that their sovereign was appointed by God. In my youth, England’s monarchs had stopped touching people to cure the evil. But there was no reason for their lack of confidence. They could have cured it forty-nine times out of 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.

Well, the priest had been droning on for three hours, and the good king had been polishing the evidence. The sick were still pressing forward in crowds as large as ever, and I was getting unbearably bored. I was sitting by an open window, not far from the royal canopy. For the five hundredth time, a patient stepped forward to have his revolting sores stroked. Once again, the priest droned out the words: “they shall lay their hands on the sick.” Then a voice rang out from outside, clear as a trumpet. It enchanted my soul and brought thirteen worthless centuries tumbling down around my ears: “Camelot Weekly Hosannah and Literary Volcano! Latest eruption, only two cents, all about the big miracle in the Valley of Holiness!” Someone greater than kings had arrived: the newsboy. But in all that crowd, I alone knew what this mighty birth meant. I alone knew what this imperial magician had 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:

I dropped a nickel out the window and got my paper. The Adam-newsboy of the world went around the corner to get my change. He’s still around that corner. It was wonderful to see a newspaper again. But I felt a secret shock when I saw the first set of big headlines. I had lived so long in a clammy atmosphere of reverence, respect, and deference that the headlines sent a little shiver through me:

—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:

And so on, and so on. Yes, it was too loud. Once I would have enjoyed it and seen nothing unusual about it. But now it struck a discordant note. It was good Arkansas journalism, but this was not Arkansas. Besides, the next to last line was likely to offend the hermits and perhaps cost us their advertising. In fact, the whole paper had too light and flippant a tone. Clearly, I had changed a great deal without noticing it. I found myself bothered by cheeky little irreverences. Earlier in my life, those same remarks would have seemed perfectly proper and pleasantly witty. There were plenty of items like the following, and they made me uncomfortable:

LOCAL SMOKE AND CINDERS.

LOCAL SMOKE AND CINDERS.

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:

Of course, it was good enough journalism for a start. I knew that quite well, and yet it was somehow disappointing. I liked the “Court Circular” better. In fact, its simple, dignified respectfulness was distinctly refreshing after all those disgracefully familiar remarks. But even the circular could have been improved. I admit that, whatever you do, you cannot give a court circular an air of variety. Its facts are so profoundly monotonous that they defeat your most sincere efforts to make them sparkle and excite. The best way to manage it, in fact, the only sensible way, is to disguise the repeated facts by varying their form. Skin your fact each time and give it a new layer of words. This deceives the eye, and you think it is a new fact. It gives you the idea that the court is tremendously busy. This excites you, and you read the whole column with a good appetite. Perhaps you never notice that it is a barrel of soup made from a single bean. Clarence’s way was good. It was simple, dignified, direct, and businesslike. All I say is that 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.

Overall, though, I was very pleased with the paper. There were a few technical flaws here and there, but not enough to matter. Anyway, the proofreading was good enough by Arkansas standards, and better than needed in Arthur’s day and kingdom. As a rule, the grammar was faulty and the sentences were somewhat awkward. But I did not mind much. I often make the same mistakes myself, and you shouldn’t criticize others for faults you have yourself.

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:

I was so hungry for reading that I wanted to devour the whole newspaper in one meal. But I got only a few bites before I had to put it aside. The monks around me were bombarding me with eager questions: What is this curious thing? What is it for? Is it a handkerchief? A saddle blanket? Part of a shirt? What is it made of? How thin, delicate, and fragile it is, and how it rattles. Do you think it will last? Won’t the rain damage it? Is that writing on it, or just decoration? They suspected it was writing. Some of them knew how to read Latin and a little Greek, and they recognized some of the letters. But they couldn’t make sense of the writing as a whole. I explained it as simply as 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:

“It is a newspaper. I’ll explain what that is another time. It isn’t cloth. It’s made of paper. I’ll explain what paper is sometime. The lines on it are meant to be read. They aren’t written by hand, but printed. I’ll explain what printing is later. A thousand of these sheets have been made, all exactly like this one in every detail. You can’t tell them apart.” Then they all burst out with exclamations of surprise and admiration:

“A thousand! Verily a mighty work—a year’s work for many men.”

“A thousand! That is truly a mighty task. It would take many men a year to do it.”

“No—merely a day’s work for a man and a boy.”

“No, just a day’s work for a man and a boy.”

They crossed themselves, and whiffed out a protective prayer or two.

They crossed themselves and muttered a prayer or two for protection.

“Ah-h—a miracle, a wonder! Dark work of enchantment.”

“Ah, a miracle, a wonder! Dark magic at work.”

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.

I left it at that. Then I read aloud in a low voice to all who could crowd their shaven heads close enough to hear. I read part of the account of the miracle of the well’s restoration. All the while, they cried out in amazement and reverence: “Ah-h-h!” “How true!” “Amazing, amazing!” “These are the very events as they happened, with marvelous accuracy!” Could they hold this strange thing, feel it, and examine it? They would be very careful. Yes. So they took it, handling it as carefully and reverently as if it were a holy object from some supernatural place. They gently felt its texture and stroked its pleasant, smooth surface, letting their hands linger. Their eyes were fascinated as they studied the mysterious characters. How beautiful those bowed heads, those enchanted faces, those expressive eyes were to me! For wasn’t this my darling? And wasn’t all this silent wonder, interest, and reverence a most eloquent tribute and a spontaneous compliment to it? Then I knew how a mother feels when women, whether strangers or friends, take her new baby. They all eagerly gather around it and bow their heads over it in rapt adoration. For the moment, the rest of the universe disappears from their awareness, as if it did not exist. I knew how she feels. And I knew that no other fulfilled ambition, whether of a king, conqueror, or poet, ever reaches halfway to that serene, distant summit. None gives even 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.

For the rest of the session, my paper passed from group to group throughout the huge hall. I watched it happily the whole time. I sat motionless, filled with satisfaction and drunk with enjoyment. Yes, this was heaven. I was tasting it once, even if I might never taste it again.