The Prince and the Pauper
O Tom Canty, born in a hovel, bred in the gutters of London,
familiar with rags and dirt and misery, what a spectacle is this!
The Prince in
the toils.
We left John Canty dragging the rightful prince into Offal
Court, with a noisy and delighted mob at his heels. There was but one
person in it who offered a pleading word for the captive, and he was not
heeded; he was hardly even heard, so great was the turmoil. The Prince
continued to struggle for freedom, and to rage against the treatment he was
suffering, until John Canty lost what little patience was left in him, and
raised his oaken cudgel in a sudden fury over the Prince's head. The
single pleader for the lad sprang to stop the man's arm, and the blow descended
upon his own wrist. Canty roared out—
"Thou'lt meddle, wilt thou? Then have thy
reward."
His cudgel crashed down upon the meddler's head: there
was a groan, a dim form sank to the ground among the feet of the crowd, and the
next moment it lay there in the dark alone. The mob pressed on, their
enjoyment nothing disturbed by this episode.
Presently the Prince found himself in John Canty's abode,
with the door closed against the outsiders. By the vague light of a
tallow candle which was thrust into a bottle, he made out the main features of
the loathsome den, and also the occupants of it. Two frowsy girls and a
middle-aged woman cowered against the wall in one corner, with the aspect of
animals habituated to harsh usage, and expecting and dreading it now. From
another corner stole a withered hag with streaming grey hair and malignant
eyes. John Canty said to this one—
"Tarry! There's fine mummeries here. Mar
them not till thou'st enjoyed them: then let thy hand be heavy as thou
wilt. Stand forth, lad. Now say thy foolery again, an thou'st not
forgot it. Name thy name. Who art thou?"
The insulted blood mounted to the little prince's cheek once
more, and he lifted a steady and indignant gaze to the man's face and said—
"'Tis but ill-breeding in such as thou to command me to
speak. I tell thee now, as I told thee before, I am Edward, Prince of
Wales, and none other."
The stunning surprise of this reply nailed the hag's feet to
the floor where she stood, and almost took her breath. She stared at the
Prince in stupid amazement, which so amused her ruffianly son, that he burst
into a roar of laughter. But the effect upon Tom Canty's mother and
sisters was different. Their dread of bodily injury gave way at once to
distress of a different sort. They ran forward with woe and dismay in
their faces, exclaiming—
"Oh, poor Tom, poor lad!"
The mother fell on her knees before the Prince, put her
hands upon his shoulders, and gazed yearningly into his face through her rising
tears. Then she said—
"Oh, my poor boy! Thy foolish reading hath
wrought its woeful work at last, and ta'en thy wit away. Ah! why did'st
thou cleave to it when I so warned thee 'gainst it? Thou'st broke thy
mother's heart."
The Prince looked into her face, and said gently—
"Thy son is well, and hath not lost his wits, good
dame. Comfort thee: let me to the palace where he is, and straightway
will the King my father restore him to thee."
"The King thy father! Oh, my child! unsay these
words that be freighted with death for thee, and ruin for all that be near to
thee. Shake of this gruesome dream. Call back thy poor wandering
memory. Look upon me. Am not I thy mother that bore thee, and loveth
thee?"
The Prince shook his head and reluctantly said—
"God knoweth I am loth to grieve thy heart; but truly
have I never looked upon thy face before."
The woman sank back to a sitting posture on the floor, and,
covering her eyes with her hands, gave way to heart-broken sobs and wailings.
"Let the show go on!" shouted Canty.
"What, Nan!—what, Bet! mannerless wenches! will ye stand in the Prince's
presence? Upon your knees, ye pauper scum, and do him reverence!"
He followed this with another horse-laugh. The girls
began to plead timidly for their brother; and Nan said—
"An thou wilt but let him to bed, father, rest and
sleep will heal his madness: prithee, do."
"Do, father," said Bet; "he is more worn than
is his wont. To-morrow will he be himself again, and will beg with
diligence, and come not empty home again."
This remark sobered the father's joviality, and brought his
mind to business. He turned angrily upon the Prince, and said—