The Prince and the Pauper - Mark Twain (read novel full .TXT) 📗

possessed his heart.

As the afternoon wasted away, the lad, wearied with his troubles, sank

gradually into a tranquil and healing slumber.

 

After a considerable time—he could not tell how long—his senses

struggled to a half-consciousness, and as he lay with closed eyes vaguely

wondering where he was and what had been happening, he noted a murmurous

sound, the sullen beating of rain upon the roof. A snug sense of comfort

stole over him, which was rudely broken, the next moment, by a chorus of

piping cackles and coarse laughter. It startled him disagreeably, and he

unmuffled his head to see whence this interruption proceeded. A grim and

unsightly picture met his eye. A bright fire was burning in the middle

of the floor, at the other end of the barn; and around it, and lit

weirdly up by the red glare, lolled and sprawled the motliest company of

tattered gutter-scum and ruffians, of both sexes, he had ever read or

dreamed of. There were huge stalwart men, brown with exposure, long-haired, and clothed in fantastic rags; there were middle-sized youths, of

truculent countenance, and similarly clad; there were blind mendicants,

with patched or bandaged eyes; crippled ones, with wooden legs and

crutches; diseased ones, with running sores peeping from ineffectual

wrappings; there was a villain-looking pedlar with his pack; a knife-grinder, a tinker, and a barber-surgeon, with the implements of their

trades; some of the females were hardly-grown girls, some were at prime,

some were old and wrinkled hags, and all were loud, brazen, foul-mouthed;

and all soiled and slatternly; there were three sore-faced babies; there

were a couple of starveling curs, with strings about their necks, whose

office was to lead the blind.

 

The night was come, the gang had just finished feasting, an orgy was

beginning; the can of liquor was passing from mouth to mouth. A general

cry broke forth—

 

“A song! a song from the Bat and Dick and Dot-and-go-One!”

 

One of the blind men got up, and made ready by casting aside the patches

that sheltered his excellent eyes, and the pathetic placard which recited

the cause of his calamity. Dot-and-go-One disencumbered himself of his

timber leg and took his place, upon sound and healthy limbs, beside his

fellow-rascal; then they roared out a rollicking ditty, and were

reinforced by the whole crew, at the end of each stanza, in a rousing

chorus. By the time the last stanza was reached, the half-drunken

enthusiasm had risen to such a pitch, that everybody joined in and sang

it clear through from the beginning, producing a volume of villainous

sound that made the rafters quake. These were the inspiring words:—

 

‘Bien Darkman’s then, Bouse Mort and Ken, The bien Coves bings awast, On

Chates to trine by Rome Coves dine For his long lib at last. Bing’d out

bien Morts and toure, and toure, Bing out of the Rome vile bine, And

toure the Cove that cloy’d your duds, Upon the Chates to trine.’ (From

‘The English Rogue.’ London, 1665.)

 

Conversation followed; not in the thieves’ dialect of the song, for that

was only used in talk when unfriendly ears might be listening. In the

course of it, it appeared that ‘John Hobbs’ was not altogether a new

recruit, but had trained in the gang at some former time. His later

history was called for, and when he said he had ‘accidentally’ killed a

man, considerable satisfaction was expressed; when he added that the man

was a priest, he was roundly applauded, and had to take a drink with

everybody. Old acquaintances welcomed him joyously, and new ones were

proud to shake him by the hand. He was asked why he had ‘tarried away so

many months.’ He answered—

 

“London is better than the country, and safer, these late years, the laws

be so bitter and so diligently enforced. An’ I had not had that

accident, I had stayed there. I had resolved to stay, and never more

venture country-wards—but the accident has ended that.”

 

He inquired how many persons the gang numbered now. The ‘ruffler,’ or

chief, answered—

 

“Five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapperdogeons and

maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts. {7} Most are

here, the rest are wandering eastward, along the winter lay. We follow at

dawn.”

 

“I do not see the Wen among the honest folk about me. Where may he be?”

 

“Poor lad, his diet is brimstone, now, and over hot for a delicate taste.

He was killed in a brawl, somewhere about midsummer.”

 

“I sorrow to hear that; the Wen was a capable man, and brave.”

 

“That was he, truly. Black Bess, his dell, is of us yet, but absent on

the eastward tramp; a fine lass, of nice ways and orderly conduct, none

ever seeing her drunk above four days in the seven.”

 

“She was ever strict—I remember it well—a goodly wench and worthy all

commendation. Her mother was more free and less particular; a

troublesome and ugly-tempered beldame, but furnished with a wit above the

common.”

 

“We lost her through it. Her gift of palmistry and other sorts of

fortune-telling begot for her at last a witch’s name and fame. The law

roasted her to death at a slow fire. It did touch me to a sort of

tenderness to see the gallant way she met her lot—cursing and reviling

all the crowd that gaped and gazed around her, whilst the flames licked

upward toward her face and catched her thin locks and crackled about her

old gray head—cursing them! why an’ thou should’st live a thousand years

thoud’st never hear so masterful a cursing. Alack, her art died with

her. There be base and weakling imitations left, but no true blasphemy.”

 

The Ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general

depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened outcasts

like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able to feel a

fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals and under

peculiarly favouring circumstances—as in cases like to this, for

instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no heir. However, a

deep drink all round soon restored the spirits of the mourners.

 

“Have any others of our friends fared hardly?” asked Hobbs.

 

“Some—yes. Particularly new comers—such as small husbandmen turned

shiftless and hungry upon the world because their farms were taken from

them to be changed to sheep ranges. They begged, and were whipped at the

cart’s tail, naked from the girdle up, till the blood ran; then set in

the stocks to be pelted; they begged again, were whipped again, and

deprived of an ear; they begged a third time—poor devils, what else

could they do?—and were branded on the cheek with a red-hot iron, then

sold for slaves; they ran away, were hunted down, and hanged. ‘Tis a

brief tale, and quickly told. Others of us have fared less hardly. Stand

forth, Yokel, Burns, and Hodge—show your adornments!”

 

These stood up and stripped away some of their rags, exposing their

backs, criss-crossed with ropy old welts left by the lash; one turned up

his hair and showed the place where a left ear had once been; another

showed a brand upon his shoulder—the letter V—and a mutilated ear; the

third said—

 

“I am Yokel, once a farmer and prosperous, with loving wife and kids—now

am I somewhat different in estate and calling; and the wife and kids are

gone; mayhap they are in heaven, mayhap in—in the other place—but the

kindly God be thanked, they bide no more in ENGLAND! My good old

blameless mother strove to earn bread by nursing the sick; one of these

died, the doctors knew not how, so my mother was burnt for a witch,

whilst my babes looked on and wailed. English law!—up, all, with your

cups!—now all together and with a cheer!—drink to the merciful English

law that delivered HER from the English hell! Thank you, mates, one and

all. I begged, from house to house—I and the wife—bearing with us the

hungry kids—but it was crime to be hungry in England—so they stripped

us and lashed us through three towns. Drink ye all again to the merciful

English law!—for its lash drank deep of my Mary’s blood and its blessed

deliverance came quick. She lies there, in the potter’s field, safe from

all harms. And the kids—well, whilst the law lashed me from town to

town, they starved. Drink, lads—only a drop—a drop to the poor kids,

that never did any creature harm. I begged again—begged, for a crust,

and got the stocks and lost an ear—see, here bides the stump; I begged

again, and here is the stump of the other to keep me minded of it. And

still I begged again, and was sold for a slave—here on my cheek under

this stain, if I washed it off, ye might see the red S the branding-iron

left there! A SLAVE! Do you understand that word? An English SLAVE!—

that is he that stands before ye. I have run from my master, and when I

am found—the heavy curse of heaven fall on the law of the land that hath

commanded it!—I shall hang!” {1}

 

A ringing voice came through the murky air—

 

“Thou shalt NOT!—and this day the end of that law is come!”

 

All turned, and saw the fantastic figure of the little King approaching

hurriedly; as it emerged into the light and was clearly revealed, a

general explosion of inquiries broke out—

 

“Who is it? WHAT is it? Who art thou, manikin?”

 

The boy stood unconfused in the midst of all those surprised and

questioning eyes, and answered with princely dignity—

 

“I am Edward, King of England.”

 

A wild burst of laughter followed, partly of derision and partly of

delight in the excellence of the joke. The King was stung. He said

sharply—

 

“Ye mannerless vagrants, is this your recognition of the royal boon I

have promised?”

 

He said more, with angry voice and excited gesture, but it was lost in a

whirlwind of laughter and mocking exclamations. ‘John Hobbs’ made

several attempts to make himself heard above the din, and at last

succeeded—saying—

 

“Mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad—mind him not—he

thinketh he IS the King.”

 

“I AM the King,” said Edward, turning toward him, “as thou shalt know to

thy cost, in good time. Thou hast confessed a murder—thou shalt swing

for it.”

 

“THOU’LT betray me?—THOU? An’ I get my hands upon thee—”

 

“Tut-tut!” said the burley Ruffler, interposing in time to save the King,

and emphasising this service by knocking Hobbs down with his fist, “hast

respect for neither Kings NOR Rufflers? An’ thou insult my presence so

again, I’ll hang thee up myself.” Then he said to his Majesty, “Thou

must make no threats against thy mates, lad; and thou must guard thy

tongue from saying evil of them elsewhere. BE King, if it please thy mad

humour, but be not harmful in it. Sink the title thou hast uttered—‘tis

treason; we be bad men in some few trifling ways, but none among us is so

base as to be traitor to his King; we be loving and loyal hearts, in that

regard. Note if I speak truth. Now—all together: ‘Long live Edward,

King of England!’”

 

“LONG LIVE EDWARD, KING OF ENGLAND!”

 

The response came with such a thundergust from the motley crew that the

crazy building vibrated to the sound. The little King’s face lighted

with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined his head, and said

with grave simplicity—

 

“I thank you, my good people.”

 

This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of merriment.

When something like quiet was presently