“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.
THE YANKEE AND THE KING TRAVEL INCOGNITO
