The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (novel24 txt) 📕

break away and a shaft of sunshine cleaves the mellow atmosphere, and

drifts slowly along the ranks of ladies; and every rank it touches flames

into a dazzling splendour of many-coloured fires, and we tingle to our

finger-tips with the electric thrill that is shot through us by the

surprise and the beauty of the spectacle! Presently a special envoy from

some distant corner of the Orient, marching with the general body of

foreign ambassadors, crosses this bar of sunshine, and we catch our

breath, the glory that streams and flashes and palpitates about him is so

overpowering; for he is crusted from head to heel with gems, and his

slightest movement showers a dancing radiance all around him.

Let us change the tense for convenience. The time drifted along—one

hour—two hours—two hours and a half; then the deep booming of artillery

told that the King and his grand procession had arrived at last; so the

waiting multitude rejoiced. All knew that a further delay must follow,

for the King must be prepared and robed for the solemn ceremony; but this

delay would be pleasantly occupied by the assembling of the peers of the

realm in their stately robes. These were conducted ceremoniously to

their seats, and their coronets placed conveniently at hand; and

meanwhile the multitude in the galleries were alive with interest, for

most of them were beholding for the first time, dukes, earls, and barons,

whose names had been historical for five hundred years. When all were

finally seated, the spectacle from the galleries and all coigns of

vantage was complete; a gorgeous one to look upon and to remember.

Now the robed and mitred great heads of the church, and their attendants,

filed in upon the platform and took their appointed places; these were

followed by the Lord Protector and other great officials, and these again

by a steel-clad detachment of the Guard.

There was a waiting pause; then, at a signal, a triumphant peal of music

burst forth, and Tom Canty, clothed in a long robe of cloth of gold,

appeared at a door, and stepped upon the platform. The entire multitude

rose, and the ceremony of the Recognition ensued.

Then a noble anthem swept the Abbey with its rich waves of sound; and

thus heralded and welcomed, Tom Canty was conducted to the throne. The

ancient ceremonies went on, with impressive solemnity, whilst the

audience gazed; and as they drew nearer and nearer to completion, Tom

Canty grew pale, and still paler, and a deep and steadily deepening woe

and despondency settled down upon his spirits and upon his remorseful

heart.

At last the final act was at hand. The Archbishop of Canterbury lifted

up the crown of England from its cushion and held it out over the

trembling mock-King’s head. In the same instant a rainbow-radiance

flashed along the spacious transept; for with one impulse every

individual in the great concourse of nobles lifted a coronet and poised

it over his or her head—and paused in that attitude.

A deep hush pervaded the Abbey. At this impressive moment, a startling

apparition intruded upon the scene—an apparition observed by none in the

absorbed multitude, until it suddenly appeared, moving up the great

central aisle. It was a boy, bareheaded, ill shod, and clothed in coarse

plebeian garments that were falling to rags. He raised his hand with a

solemnity which ill comported with his soiled and sorry aspect, and

delivered this note of warning—

“I forbid you to set the crown of England upon that forfeited head. I am

the King!”

In an instant several indignant hands were laid upon the boy; but in the

same instant Tom Canty, in his regal vestments, made a swift step

forward, and cried out in a ringing voice—

“Loose him and forbear! He IS the King!”

A sort of panic of astonishment swept the assemblage, and they partly

rose in their places and stared in a bewildered way at one another and at

the chief figures in this scene, like persons who wondered whether they

were awake and in their senses, or asleep and dreaming. The Lord

Protector was as amazed as the rest, but quickly recovered himself, and

exclaimed in a voice of authority—

“Mind not his Majesty, his malady is upon him again—seize the vagabond!”

He would have been obeyed, but the mock-King stamped his foot and cried

out—

“On your peril! Touch him not, he is the King!”

The hands were withheld; a paralysis fell upon the house; no one moved,

no one spoke; indeed, no one knew how to act or what to say, in so

strange and surprising an emergency. While all minds were struggling to

right themselves, the boy still moved steadily forward, with high port

and confident mien; he had never halted from the beginning; and while the

tangled minds still floundered helplessly, he stepped upon the platform,

and the mock-King ran with a glad face to meet him; and fell on his knees

before him and said—

“Oh, my lord the King, let poor Tom Canty be first to swear fealty to

thee, and say, ‘Put on thy crown and enter into thine own again!’”

The Lord Protector’s eye fell sternly upon the new-comer’s face; but

straightway the sternness vanished away, and gave place to an expression

of wondering surprise. This thing happened also to the other great

officers. They glanced at each other, and retreated a step by a common

and unconscious impulse. The thought in each mind was the same: “What a

strange resemblance!”

The Lord Protector reflected a moment or two in perplexity, then he said,

with grave respectfulness—

“By your favour, sir, I desire to ask certain questions which—”

“I will answer them, my lord.”

The Duke asked him many questions about the Court, the late King, the

prince, the princesses—the boy answered them correctly and without

hesitating. He described the rooms of state in the palace, the late

King’s apartments, and those of the Prince of Wales.

It was strange; it was wonderful; yes, it was unaccountable—so all said

that heard it. The tide was beginning to turn, and Tom Canty’s hopes to

run high, when the Lord Protector shook his head and said—

“It is true it is most wonderful—but it is no more than our lord the

King likewise can do.” This remark, and this reference to himself as

still the King, saddened Tom Canty, and he felt his hopes crumbling from

under him. “These are not PROOFS,” added the Protector.

The tide was turning very fast now, very fast indeed—but in the wrong

direction; it was leaving poor Tom Canty stranded on the throne, and

sweeping the other out to sea. The Lord Protector communed with himself

—shook his head—the thought forced itself upon him, “It is perilous to

the State and to us all, to entertain so fateful a riddle as this; it

could divide the nation and undermine the throne.” He turned and said—

“Sir Thomas, arrest this—No, hold!” His face lighted, and he confronted

the ragged candidate with this question—

“Where lieth the Great Seal? Answer me this truly, and the riddle is

unriddled; for only he that was Prince of Wales CAN so answer! On so

trivial a thing hang a throne and a dynasty!”

It was a lucky thought, a happy thought. That it was so considered by

the great officials was manifested by the silent applause that shot from

eye to eye around their circle in the form of bright approving glances.

Yes, none but the true prince could dissolve the stubborn mystery of the

vanished Great Seal—this forlorn little impostor had been taught his

lesson well, but here his teachings must fail, for his teacher himself

could not answer THAT question—ah, very good, very good indeed; now we

shall be rid of this troublesome and perilous business in short order!

And so they nodded invisibly and smiled inwardly with satisfaction, and

looked to see this foolish lad stricken with a palsy of guilty confusion.

How surprised they were, then, to see nothing of the sort happen—how

they marvelled to hear him answer up promptly, in a confident and

untroubled voice, and say—

“There is nought in this riddle that is difficult.” Then, without so

much as a by-your-leave to anybody, he turned and gave this command, with

the easy manner of one accustomed to doing such things: “My Lord St.

John, go you to my private cabinet in the palace—for none knoweth the

place better than you—and, close down to the floor, in the left corner

remotest from the door that opens from the antechamber, you shall find

in the wall a brazen nail-head; press upon it and a little jewel-closet

will fly open which not even you do know of—no, nor any sould else in

all the world but me and the trusty artisan that did contrive it for me.

The first thing that falleth under your eye will be the Great Seal—fetch

it hither.”

All the company wondered at this speech, and wondered still more to see

the little mendicant pick out this peer without hesitancy or apparent

fear of mistake, and call him by name with such a placidly convincing air

of having known him all his life. The peer was almost surprised into

obeying. He even made a movement as if to go, but quickly recovered his

tranquil attitude and confessed his blunder with a blush. Tom Canty

turned upon him and said, sharply—

“Why dost thou hesitate? Hast not heard the King’s command? Go!”

The Lord St. John made a deep obeisance—and it was observed that it was

a significantly cautious and non-committal one, it not being delivered at

either of the kings, but at the neutral ground about half-way between the

two—and took his leave.

Now began a movement of the gorgeous particles of that official group

which was slow, scarcely perceptible, and yet steady and persistent—a

movement such as is observed in a kaleidoscope that is turned slowly,

whereby the components of one splendid cluster fall away and join

themselves to another—a movement which, little by little, in the present

case, dissolved the glittering crowd that stood about Tom Canty and

clustered it together again in the neighbourhood of the new-comer. Tom

Canty stood almost alone. Now ensued a brief season of deep suspense and

waiting—during which even the few faint hearts still remaining near Tom

Canty gradually scraped together courage enough to glide, one by one,

over to the majority. So at last Tom Canty, in his royal robes and

jewels, stood wholly alone and isolated from the world, a conspicuous

figure, occupying an eloquent vacancy.

Now the Lord St. John was seen returning. As he advanced up the mid-aisle the interest was so intense that the low murmur of conversation in

the great assemblage died out and was succeeded by a profound hush, a

breathless stillness, through which his footfalls pulsed with a dull and

distant sound. Every eye was fastened upon him as he moved along. He

reached the platform, paused a moment, then moved toward Tom Canty with a

deep obeisance, and said—

“Sire, the Seal is not there!”

A mob does not melt away from the presence of a plague-patient with more

haste than the band of pallid and terrified courtiers melted away from

the presence of the shabby little claimant of the Crown. In a moment he

stood all alone, without friend or supporter, a target upon which was

concentrated a bitter fire of scornful and angry looks. The Lord

Protector called out fiercely—

“Cast the beggar into the street, and scourge him through the town—the

paltry knave is worth no more consideration!”

Officers of the guard sprang forward to obey, but Tom Canty