The Stranger's History

by Mark Twain

　　I am an American. I was born and reared in Hartford, in the State of Connecticut -- anyway, just overthe river, in the country. So I am a Yankee of theYankees -- and practical; yes, and nearly barren ofsentiment, I suppose -- or poetry, in other words. Myfather was a blacksmith, my uncle was a horse doctor,and I was both, along at first. Then I went over tothe great arms factory and learned my real trade;learned all there was to it; learned to make everything: guns, revolvers, cannon, boilers, engines, allsorts of labor-saving machinery. Why, I could makeanything a body wanted -- anything in the world, itdidn't make any difference what; and if there wasn'tany quick new-fangled way to make a thing, I couldinvent one -- and do it as easy as rolling off a log. Ibecame head superintendent; had a couple of thousand men under me.Well, a man like that is a man that is full of fight --that goes without saying. With a couple of thousandrough men under one, one has plenty of that sort ofamusement. I had, anyway. At last I met my match,and I got my dose. It was during a misunderstandingconducted with crowbars with a fellow we used to callHercules. He laid me out with a crusher alongsidethe head that made everything crack, and seemed tospring every joint in my skull and made it overlap itsneighbor. Then the world went out in darkness, andI didn't feel anything more, and didn't know anythingat all -- at least for a while.When I came to again, I was sitting under an oaktree, on the grass, with a whole beautiful and broadcountry landscape all to myself -- nearly. Not entirely; for there was a fellow on a horse, looking downat me -- a fellow fresh out of a picture-book. He wasin old-time iron armor from head to heel, with ahelmet on his head the shape of a nail-keg with slitsin it; and he had a shield, and a sword, and a prodigious spear; and his horse had armor on, too, and asteel horn projecting from his forehead, and gorgeousred and green silk trappings that hung down all aroundhim like a bedquilt, nearly to the ground."Fair sir, will ye just?" said this fellow."Will I which?""Will ye try a passage of arms for land or lady orfor --""What are you giving me?" I said. "Get alongback to your circus, or I'll report you."Now what does this man do but fall back a coupleof hundred yards and then come rushing at me as hardas he could tear, with his nail-keg bent down nearly tohis horse's neck and his long spear pointed straightahead. I saw he meant business, so I was up the treewhen he arrived.He allowed that I was his property, the captive ofhis spear. There was argument on his side -- and thebulk of the advantage -- so I judged it best to humorhim. We fixed up an agreement whereby I was to gowith him and he was not to hurt me. I came down,and we started away, I walking by the side of hishorse. We marched comfortably along, through gladesand over brooks which I could not remember to haveseen before -- which puzzled me and made me wonder-- and yet we did not come to any circus or sign ofa circus. So I gave up the idea of a circus, and concluded he was from an asylum. But we never came toan asylum -- so I was up a stump, as you may say. Iasked him how far we were from Hartford. He saidhe had never heard of the place; which I took to be alie, but allowed it to go at that. At the end of anhour we saw a far-away town sleeping in a valley by awinding river; and beyond it on a hill, a vast grayfortress, with towers and turrets, the first I had everseen out of a picture."Bridgeport?" said I, pointing."Camelot," said he.My stranger had been showing signs of sleepiness.He caught himself nodding, now, and smiled one ofthose pathetic, obsolete smiles of his, and said:"I find I can't go on; but come with me, I've gotit all written out, and you can read it if you like."In his chamber, he said: "First, I kept a journal;then by and by, after years, I took the journal andturned it into a book. How long ago that was!"He handed me his manuscript, and pointed out theplace where I should begin:"Begin here -- I've already told you what goes before." He was steeped in drowsiness by this time.As I went out at his door I heard him murmur sleepily: "Give you good den, fair sir."I sat down by my fire and examined my treasure.The first part of it -- the great bulk of it -- was parchment, and yellow with age. I scanned a leaf particularly and saw that it was a palimpsest. Under the olddim writing of the Yankee historian appeared traces ofa penmanship which was older and dimmer still --Latin words and sentences: fragments from old monkish legends, evidently. I turned to the place indicatedby my stranger and began to read -- as follows: