Chapter XXXII. Coronation Day.
Let us go backward a few hours, and place ourselves in
Westminster Abbey, at four o'clock in the morning of this
memorable Coronation Day. We are not without company; for
although it is still night, we find the torch-lighted
galleries already filling up with people who are well
content to sit still and wait seven or eight hours till the
time shall come for them to see what they may not hope to
see twice in their lives—the coronation of a King. Yes,
London and Westminster have been astir ever since the
warning guns boomed at three o'clock, and already crowds of
untitled rich folk who have bought the privilege of trying
to find sitting-room in the galleries are flocking in at the
entrances reserved for their sort.
The hours drag along tediously enough. All stir has
ceased for some time, for every gallery has long ago been
packed. We may sit, now, and look and think at our leisure.
We have glimpses, here and there and yonder, through the
dim cathedral twilight, of portions of many galleries and
balconies, wedged full with other people, the other portions
of these galleries and balconies being cut off from sight by
intervening pillars and architectural projections. We have
in view the whole of the great north transept—empty, and
waiting for England's privileged ones. We see also the
ample area or platform, carpeted with rich stuffs, whereon
the throne stands. The throne occupies the centre of the
platform, and is raised above it upon an elevation of four
steps. Within the seat of the throne is enclosed a rough
flat rock—the stone of Scone—which many generations of
Scottish kings sat on to be crowned, and so it in time
became holy enough to answer a like purpose for English
monarchs. Both the throne and its footstool are covered
with cloth of gold.
Stillness reigns, the torches blink dully, the time drags
heavily. But at last the lagging daylight asserts itself,
the torches are extinguished, and a mellow radiance suffuses
the great spaces. All features of the noble building are
distinct now, but soft and dreamy, for the sun is lightly
veiled with clouds.
At seven o'clock the first break in the drowsy monotony
occurs; for on the stroke of this hour the first peeress
enters the transept, clothed like Solomon for splendour, and
is conducted to her appointed place by an official clad in
satins and velvets, whilst a duplicate of him gathers up the
lady's long train, follows after, and, when the lady is
seated, arranges the train across her lap for her. He then
places her footstool according to her desire, after which he
puts her coronet where it will be convenient to her hand
when the time for the simultaneous coroneting of the nobles
shall arrive.
By this time the peeresses are flowing in in a glittering stream, and
the satin-clad officials are flitting and glinting
everywhere, seating them and making them comfortable. The
scene is animated enough now. There is stir and life, and
shifting colour everywhere. After a time, quiet reigns
again; for the peeresses are all come and are all in their
places, a solid acre or such a matter, of human flowers,
resplendent in variegated colours, and frosted like a Milky
Way with diamonds. There are all ages here: brown,
wrinkled, white-haired dowagers who are able to go back, and
still back, down the stream of time, and recall the crowning
of Richard III. and the troublous days of that old forgotten
age; and there are handsome middle-aged dames; and lovely
and gracious young matrons; and gentle and beautiful young
girls, with beaming eyes and fresh complexions, who may
possibly put on their jewelled coronets awkwardly when the
great time comes; for the matter will be new to them, and
their excitement will be a sore hindrance. Still, this may
not happen, for the hair of all these ladies has been
arranged with a special view to the swift and successful
lodging of the crown in its place when the signal comes.
We have seen that this massed array of peeresses is sown
thick with diamonds, and we also see that it is a marvellous
spectacle—but now we are about to be astonished in earnest.
About nine, the clouds suddenly 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 ante-chamber, 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 soul 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 waved them off and said—
"Back! Whoso touches him perils his life!"
The Lord Protector was perplexed in the last degree. He
said to the Lord St. John—
"Searched you well?—but it boots not to ask that. It
doth seem passing strange. Little things, trifles, slip out
of one's ken, and one does not think it matter for surprise;
but how so bulky a thing as the Seal of England can vanish
away and no man be able to get track of it again—a massy
golden disk—"
Tom Canty, with beaming eyes, sprang forward and shouted—
"Hold, that is enough! Was it round?—and thick?—and had
it letters and devices graved upon it?—yes? Oh, NOW I know
what this Great Seal is that there's been such worry and
pother about. An' ye had described it to me, ye could have
had it three weeks ago. Right well I know where it lies;
but it was not I that put it there—first."
"Who, then, my liege?" asked the Lord Protector.
"He that stands there—the rightful King of England. And
he shall tell you himself where it lies—then you will
believe he knew it of his own knowledge. Bethink thee, my
King—spur thy memory—it was the last, the very LAST thing
thou didst that day before thou didst rush forth from the
palace, clothed in my rags, to punish the soldier that
insulted me."
A silence ensued, undisturbed by a movement or a whisper, and all eyes
were fixed upon the new-comer, who stood, with bent head and
corrugated brow, groping in his memory among a thronging
multitude of valueless recollections for one single little
elusive fact, which, found, would seat him upon a
throne—unfound, would leave him as he was, for good and
all—a pauper and an outcast. Moment after moment passed—the
moments built themselves into minutes—still the boy
struggled silently on, and gave no sign. But at last he
heaved a sigh, shook his head slowly, and said, with a
trembling lip and in a despondent voice—
"I call the scene back—all of it—but the Seal hath no
place in it." He paused, then looked up, and said with
gentle dignity, "My lords and gentlemen, if ye will rob your
rightful sovereign of his own for lack of this evidence
which he is not able to furnish, I may not stay ye, being
powerless. But—"
"Oh, folly, oh, madness, my King!" cried Tom Canty, in a
panic, "wait!—think! Do not give up!—the cause is not lost!
Nor SHALL be, neither! List to what I say—follow every
word—I am going to bring that morning back again, every hap
just as it happened. We talked—I told you of my sisters,
Nan and Bet—ah, yes, you remember that; and about mine old
grandam—and the rough games of the lads of Offal Court—yes,
you remember these things also; very well, follow me still,
you shall recall everything. You gave me food and drink,
and did with princely courtesy send away the servants, so
that my low breeding might not shame me before them—ah, yes,
this also you remember."
As Tom checked off his details, and the other boy nodded
his head in recognition of them, the great audience and the
officials stared in puzzled wonderment; the tale sounded
like true history, yet how could this impossible conjunction
between a prince and a beggar-boy have come about? Never
was a company of people so perplexed, so interested, and so
stupefied, before.
"For a jest, my prince, we did exchange garments. Then
we stood before a mirror; and so alike were we that both
said it seemed as if there had been no change made—yes, you
remember that. Then you noticed that the soldier had hurt
my hand—look! here it is, I cannot yet even write with it,
the fingers are so stiff. At this your Highness sprang up,
vowing vengeance upon that soldier, and ran towards the
door—you passed a table—that thing you call the Seal lay on
that table—you snatched it up and looked eagerly about, as
if for a place to hide it—your eye caught sight of—"
"There, 'tis sufficient!—and the good God be thanked!"
exclaimed the ragged claimant, in a mighty excitement. "Go,
my good St. John—in an arm-piece of the Milanese armour that
hangs on the wall, thou'lt find the Seal!"
"Right, my King! right!" cried Tom Canty; "NOW the
sceptre of England is thine own; and it were better for him
that would dispute it that he had been born dumb! Go, my
Lord St. John, give thy feet wings!"
The whole assemblage was on its feet now, and well-nigh
out of its mind with uneasiness, apprehension, and consuming
excitement. On the floor and on the platform a deafening
buzz of frantic conversation burst forth, and for some time
nobody knew anything or heard anything or was interested in
anything but what his neighbour was shouting into his ear,
or he was shouting into his neighbour's ear. Time—nobody
knew how much of it—swept by unheeded and unnoted. At last
a sudden hush fell upon the house, and in the same moment
St. John appeared upon the platform, and held the Great Seal
aloft in his hand. Then such a shout went up—
"Long live the true King!"
For five minutes the air quaked with shouts and the crash of musical
instruments, and was white with a storm of waving
handkerchiefs; and through it all a ragged lad, the most
conspicuous figure in England, stood, flushed and happy and
proud, in the centre of the spacious platform, with the
great vassals of the kingdom kneeling around him.
Then all rose, and Tom Canty cried out—
"Now, O my King, take these regal garments back, and give
poor Tom, thy servant, his shreds and remnants again."
The Lord Protector spoke up—
"Let the small varlet be stripped and flung into the
Tower."
But the new King, the true King, said—
"I will not have it so. But for him I had not got my
crown again—none shall lay a hand upon him to harm him. And
as for thee, my good uncle, my Lord Protector, this conduct
of thine is not grateful toward this poor lad, for I hear he
hath made thee a duke"—the Protector blushed—"yet he was not
a king; wherefore what is thy fine title worth now?
To-morrow you shall sue to me, THROUGH HIM, for its
confirmation, else no duke, but a simple earl, shalt thou
remain."
Under this rebuke, his Grace the Duke of Somerset retired
a little from the front for the moment. The King turned to
Tom, and said kindly—"My poor boy, how was it that you could
remember where I hid the Seal when I could not remember it
myself?"
"Ah, my King, that was easy, since I used it divers
days."
"Used it—yet could not explain where it was?"
"I did not know it was THAT they wanted. They did not
describe it, your Majesty."
"Then how used you it?"
The red blood began to steal up into Tom's cheeks, and he
dropped his eyes and was silent.
"Speak up, good lad, and fear nothing," said the King.
"How used you the Great Seal of England?"
Tom stammered a moment, in a pathetic confusion, then got
it out—
"To crack nuts with!"
Poor child, the avalanche of laughter that greeted this nearly swept
him off his feet. But if a doubt remained in any mind that
Tom Canty was not the King of England and familiar with the
august appurtenances of royalty, this reply disposed of it
utterly.
Meantime the sumptuous robe of state had been removed
from Tom's shoulders to the King's, whose rags were
effectually hidden from sight under it. Then the coronation
ceremonies were resumed; the true King was anointed and the
crown set upon his head, whilst cannon thundered the news to
the city, and all London seemed to rock with applause.
Chapter XXXIII. Edward as King.
Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got into
the riot on London Bridge—he was more so when he got out of
it. He had but little money when he got in, none at all
when he got out. The pickpockets had stripped him of his
last farthing.
But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a soldier, he
did not go at his task in a random way, but set to work,
first of all, to arrange his campaign.
What would the boy naturally do? Where would he
naturally go? Well—argued Miles—he would naturally go to his
former haunts, for that is the instinct of unsound minds,
when homeless and forsaken, as well as of sound ones.
Whereabouts were his former haunts? His rags, taken
together with the low villain who seemed to know him and who
even claimed to be his father, indicated that his home was
in one or another of the poorest and meanest districts of
London. Would the search for him be difficult, or long?
No, it was likely to be easy and brief. He would not hunt
for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in the centre of a
big crowd or a little one, sooner or later, he should find
his poor little friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be
entertaining itself with pestering and aggravating the boy,
who would be proclaiming himself King, as usual. Then Miles
Hendon would cripple some of those people, and carry off his
little ward, and comfort and cheer him with loving words,
and the two would never be separated any more.
So Miles started on his quest. Hour after hour he
tramped through back alleys and squalid streets, seeking
groups and crowds, and finding no end of them, but never any
sign of the boy. This greatly surprised him, but did not
discourage him. To his notion, there was nothing the matter
with his plan of campaign; the only miscalculation about it
was that the campaign was becoming a lengthy one, whereas he
had expected it to be short.
When daylight arrived, at last, he had made many a mile,
and canvassed many a crowd, but the only result was that he
was tolerably tired, rather hungry and very sleepy. He
wanted some breakfast, but there was no way to get it. To
beg for it did not occur to him; as to pawning his sword, he
would as soon have thought of parting with his honour; he
could spare some of his clothes—yes, but one could as easily
find a customer for a disease as for such clothes.
At noon he was still tramping—among the rabble which
followed after the royal procession, now; for he argued that
this regal display would attract his little lunatic
powerfully. He followed the pageant through all its devious
windings about London, and all the way to Westminster and
the Abbey. He drifted here and there amongst the multitudes
that were massed in the vicinity for a weary long time,
baffled and perplexed, and finally wandered off, thinking,
and trying to contrive some way to better his plan of
campaign. By-and-by, when he came to himself out of his
musings, he discovered that the town was far behind him and
that the day was growing old. He was near the river, and in
the country; it was a region of fine rural seats—not the
sort of district to welcome clothes like his.
It was not at all cold; so he stretched himself on the ground in the
lee of a hedge to rest and think. Drowsiness presently
began to settle upon his senses; the faint and far-off boom
of cannon was wafted to his ear, and he said to himself,
"The new King is crowned," and straightway fell asleep. He
had not slept or rested, before, for more than thirty hours.
He did not wake again until near the middle of the next
morning.
He got up, lame, stiff, and half famished, washed himself
in the river, stayed his stomach with a pint or two of
water, and trudged off toward Westminster, grumbling at
himself for having wasted so much time. Hunger helped him
to a new plan, now; he would try to get speech with old Sir
Humphrey Marlow and borrow a few marks, and—but that was
enough of a plan for the present; it would be time enough to
enlarge it when this first stage should be accomplished.
Toward eleven o'clock he approached the palace; and
although a host of showy people were about him, moving in
the same direction, he was not inconspicuous—his costume
took care of that. He watched these people's faces
narrowly, hoping to find a charitable one whose possessor
might be willing to carry his name to the old lieutenant—as
to trying to get into the palace himself, that was simply
out of the question.
Presently our whipping-boy passed him, then wheeled about
and scanned his figure well, saying to himself, "An' that is
not the very vagabond his Majesty is in such a worry about,
then am I an ass—though belike I was that before. He
answereth the description to a rag—that God should make two
such would be to cheapen miracles by wasteful repetition. I
would I could contrive an excuse to speak with him."
Miles Hendon saved him the trouble; for he turned about,
then, as a man generally will when somebody mesmerises him
by gazing hard at him from behind; and observing a strong
interest in the boy's eyes, he stepped toward him and said—
"You have just come out from the palace; do you belong
there?"
"Yes, your worship."
"Know you Sir Humphrey Marlow?"
The boy started, and said to himself, "Lord! mine old
departed father!" Then he answered aloud, "Right well, your
worship."
"Good—is he within?"
"Yes," said the boy; and added, to himself, "within his
grave."
"Might I crave your favour to carry my name to him, and
say I beg to say a word in his ear?"
"I will despatch the business right willingly, fair sir."
"Then say Miles Hendon, son of Sir Richard, is here
without—I shall be greatly bounden to you, my good lad."
The boy looked disappointed. "The King did not name him
so," he said to himself; "but it mattereth not, this is his
twin brother, and can give his Majesty news of t'other
Sir-Odds-and-Ends, I warrant." So he said to Miles, "Step
in there a moment, good sir, and wait till I bring you
word."
Hendon retired to the place indicated—it was a recess
sunk in the palace wall, with a stone bench in it—a shelter
for sentinels in bad weather. He had hardly seated himself
when some halberdiers, in charge of an officer, passed by.
The officer saw him, halted his men, and commanded Hendon
to come forth. He obeyed, and was promptly arrested as a
suspicious character prowling within the precincts of the
palace. Things began to look ugly. Poor Miles was going to
explain, but the officer roughly silenced him, and ordered
his men to disarm him and search him.
"God of his mercy grant that they find somewhat," said poor Miles; "I
have searched enow, and failed, yet is my need greater than
theirs."
Nothing was found but a document. The officer tore it
open, and Hendon smiled when he recognised the 'pot-hooks'
made by his lost little friend that black day at Hendon
Hall. The officer's face grew dark as he read the English
paragraph, and Miles blenched to the opposite colour as he
listened.
"Another new claimant of the Crown!" cried the officer.
"Verily they breed like rabbits, to-day. Seize the rascal,
men, and see ye keep him fast whilst I convey this precious
paper within and send it to the King."
He hurried away, leaving the prisoner in the grip of the
halberdiers.
"Now is my evil luck ended at last," muttered Hendon,
"for I shall dangle at a rope's end for a certainty, by
reason of that bit of writing. And what will become of my
poor lad!—ah, only the good God knoweth."
By-and-by he saw the officer coming again, in a great
hurry; so he plucked his courage together, purposing to meet
his trouble as became a man. The officer ordered the men to
loose the prisoner and return his sword to him; then bowed
respectfully, and said—
"Please you, sir, to follow me."
Hendon followed, saying to himself, "An' I were not
travelling to death and judgment, and so must needs
economise in sin, I would throttle this knave for his mock
courtesy."
The two traversed a populous court, and arrived at the
grand entrance of the palace, where the officer, with
another bow, delivered Hendon into the hands of a gorgeous
official, who received him with profound respect and led him
forward through a great hall, lined on both sides with rows
of splendid flunkeys (who made reverential obeisance as the
two passed along, but fell into death-throes of silent
laughter at our stately scarecrow the moment his back was
turned), and up a broad staircase, among flocks of fine
folk, and finally conducted him into a vast room, clove a
passage for him through the assembled nobility of England,
then made a bow, reminded him to take his hat off, and left
him standing in the middle of the room, a mark for all eyes,
for plenty of indignant frowns, and for a sufficiency of
amused and derisive smiles.
Miles Hendon was entirely bewildered. There sat the
young King, under a canopy of state, five steps away, with
his head bent down and aside, speaking with a sort of human
bird of paradise—a duke, maybe. Hendon observed to himself
that it was hard enough to be sentenced to death in the full
vigour of life, without having this peculiarly public
humiliation added. He wished the King would hurry about
it—some of the gaudy people near by were becoming pretty
offensive. At this moment the King raised his head
slightly, and Hendon caught a good view of his face. The
sight nearly took his breath away!—He stood gazing at the
fair young face like one transfixed; then presently
ejaculated—
"Lo, the Lord of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows on his
throne!"
He muttered some broken sentences, still gazing and
marvelling; then turned his eyes around and about, scanning
the gorgeous throng and the splendid saloon, murmuring, "But
these are REAL—verily these are REAL—surely it is not a
dream."
He stared at the King again—and thought, "IS it a dream .
. . or IS he the veritable Sovereign of England, and not the
friendless poor Tom o' Bedlam I took him for—who shall solve
me this riddle?"
A sudden idea flashed in his eye, and he strode to the
wall, gathered up a chair, brought it back, planted it on
the floor, and sat down in it!
A buzz of indignation broke out, a rough hand was laid upon him and a
voice exclaimed—
"Up, thou mannerless clown! would'st sit in the presence
of the King?"
The disturbance attracted his Majesty's attention, who
stretched forth his hand and cried out—
"Touch him not, it is his right!"
The throng fell back, stupefied. The King went on—
"Learn ye all, ladies, lords, and gentlemen, that this is
my trusty and well-beloved servant, Miles Hendon, who
interposed his good sword and saved his prince from bodily
harm and possible death—and for this he is a knight, by the
King's voice. Also learn, that for a higher service, in
that he saved his sovereign stripes and shame, taking these
upon himself, he is a peer of England, Earl of Kent, and
shall have gold and lands meet for the dignity. More—the
privilege which he hath just exercised is his by royal
grant; for we have ordained that the chiefs of his line
shall have and hold the right to sit in the presence of the
Majesty of England henceforth, age after age, so long as the
crown shall endure. Molest him not."
Two persons, who, through delay, had only arrived from
the country during this morning, and had now been in this
room only five minutes, stood listening to these words and
looking at the King, then at the scarecrow, then at the King
again, in a sort of torpid bewilderment. These were Sir
Hugh and the Lady Edith. But the new Earl did not see them.
He was still staring at the monarch, in a dazed way, and
muttering—
"Oh, body o' me! THIS my pauper! This my lunatic! This
is he whom _I_ would show what grandeur was, in my house of
seventy rooms and seven-and-twenty servants! This is he who
had never known aught but rags for raiment, kicks for
comfort, and offal for diet! This is he whom _I_ adopted
and would make respectable! Would God I had a bag to hide my
head in!"
Then his manners suddenly came back to him, and he
dropped upon his knees, with his hands between the King's,
and swore allegiance and did homage for his lands and
titles. Then he rose and stood respectfully aside, a mark
still for all eyes—and much envy, too.
Now the King discovered Sir Hugh, and spoke out with
wrathful voice and kindling eye—
"Strip this robber of his false show and stolen estates,
and put him under lock and key till I have need of him."
The late Sir Hugh was led away.
There was a stir at the other end of the room, now; the assemblage fell
apart, and Tom Canty, quaintly but richly clothed, marched
down, between these living walls, preceded by an usher. He
knelt before the King, who said—
"I have learned the story of these past few weeks, and am
well pleased with thee. Thou hast governed the realm with
right royal gentleness and mercy. Thou hast found thy
mother and thy sisters again? Good; they shall be cared
for—and thy father shall hang, if thou desire it and the law
consent. Know, all ye that hear my voice, that from this
day, they that abide in the shelter of Christ's Hospital and
share the King's bounty shall have their minds and hearts
fed, as well as their baser parts; and this boy shall dwell
there, and hold the chief place in its honourable body of
governors, during life. And for that he hath been a king,
it is meet that other than common observance shall be his
due; wherefore note this his dress of state, for by it he
shall be known, and none shall copy it; and wheresoever he
shall come, it shall remind the people that he hath been
royal, in his time, and none shall deny him his due of
reverence or fail to give him salutation. He hath the
throne's protection, he hath the crown's support, he shall
be known and called by the honourable title of the King's
Ward."
The proud and happy Tom Canty rose and kissed the King's hand, and was
conducted from the presence. He did not waste any time, but
flew to his mother, to tell her and Nan and Bet all about it
and get them to help him enjoy the great news. {1}
Conclusion. Justice and retribution.
When the mysteries were all cleared up, it came out, by
confession of Hugh Hendon, that his wife had repudiated
Miles by his command, that day at Hendon Hall—a command
assisted and supported by the perfectly trustworthy promise
that if she did not deny that he was Miles Hendon, and stand
firmly to it, he would have her life; whereupon she said,
"Take it!"—she did not value it—and she would not repudiate
Miles; then the husband said he would spare her life but
have Miles assassinated! This was a different matter; so
she gave her word and kept it.
Hugh was not prosecuted for his threats or for stealing
his brother's estates and title, because the wife and
brother would not testify against him—and the former would
not have been allowed to do it, even if she had wanted to.
Hugh deserted his wife and went over to the continent,
where he presently died; and by-and-by the Earl of Kent
married his relict. There were grand times and rejoicings at
Hendon village when the couple paid their first visit to the
Hall.
Tom Canty's father was never heard of again.
The King sought out the farmer who had been branded and
sold as a slave, and reclaimed him from his evil life with
the Ruffler's gang, and put him in the way of a comfortable
livelihood.
He also took that old lawyer out of prison and remitted
his fine. He provided good homes for the daughters of the
two Baptist women whom he saw burned at the stake, and
roundly punished the official who laid the undeserved
stripes upon Miles Hendon's back.
He saved from the gallows the boy who had captured the
stray falcon, and also the woman who had stolen a remnant of
cloth from a weaver; but he was too late to save the man who
had been convicted of killing a deer in the royal forest.
He showed favour to the justice who had pitied him when
he was supposed to have stolen a pig, and he had the
gratification of seeing him grow in the public esteem and
become a great and honoured man.
As long as the King lived he was fond of telling the
story of his adventures, all through, from the hour that the
sentinel cuffed him away from the palace gate till the final
midnight when he deftly mixed himself into a gang of
hurrying workmen and so slipped into the Abbey and climbed
up and hid himself in the Confessor's tomb, and then slept
so long, next day, that he came within one of missing the
Coronation altogether. He said that the frequent rehearsing
of the precious lesson kept him strong in his purpose to
make its teachings yield benefits to his people; and so,
whilst his life was spared he should continue to tell the
story, and thus keep its sorrowful spectacles fresh in his
memory and the springs of pity replenished in his heart.
Miles Hendon and Tom Canty were favourites of the King,
all through his brief reign, and his sincere mourners when
he died. The good Earl of Kent had too much sense to abuse
his peculiar privilege; but he exercised it twice after the
instance we have seen of it before he was called from this
world—once at the accession of Queen Mary, and once at the
accession of Queen Elizabeth. A descendant of his exercised
it at the accession of James I. Before this one's son chose
to use the privilege, near a quarter of a century had
elapsed, and the 'privilege of the Kents' had faded out of
most people's memories; so, when the Kent of that day
appeared before Charles I. and his court and sat down in the
sovereign's presence to assert and perpetuate the right of
his house, there was a fine stir indeed! But the matter was
soon explained, and the right confirmed. The last Earl of
the line fell in the wars of the Commonwealth fighting for
the King, and the odd privilege ended with him.
Tom Canty lived to be a very old man, a handsome,
white-haired old fellow, of grave and benignant aspect. As
long as he lasted he was honoured; and he was also
reverenced, for his striking and peculiar costume kept the
people reminded that 'in his time he had been royal;' so,
wherever he appeared the crowd fell apart, making way for
him, and whispering, one to another, "Doff thy hat, it is
the King's Ward!"—and so they saluted, and got his kindly
smile in return—and they valued it, too, for his was an
honourable history.
Yes, King Edward VI. lived only a few years, poor boy,
but he lived them worthily. More than once, when some great
dignitary, some gilded vassal of the crown, made argument
against his leniency, and urged that some law which he was
bent upon amending was gentle enough for its purpose, and
wrought no suffering or oppression which any one need
mightily mind, the young King turned the mournful eloquence
of his great compassionate eyes upon him and answered—
"What dost THOU know of suffering and oppression? I and
my people know, but not thou."
The reign of Edward VI. was a singularly merciful one for
those harsh times. Now that we are taking leave of him, let
us try to keep this in our minds, to his credit.
FOOTNOTES AND TWAIN'S NOTES
{1} For Mark Twain's note see below under the relevant
chapter heading.
{2} He refers to the order of baronets, or baronettes;
the barones minores, as distinct from the parliamentary
barons—not, it need hardly be said, to the baronets of later
creation.
{3} The lords of Kingsale, descendants of De Courcy,
still enjoy this curious privilege.
{4} Hume.
{5} Ib.
{6} Leigh Hunt's 'The Town,' p.408, quotation from an
early tourist.
{7} Canting terms for various kinds of thieves, beggars
and vagabonds, and their female companions.
{8} From 'The English Rogue.' London, 1665.
{9} Hume's England.
{10} See Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and
False, p. 11.
NOTE 1, Chapter IV. Christ's Hospital Costume.
It is most reasonable to regard the dress as copied from
the costume of the citizens of London of that period, when
long blue coats were the common habit of apprentices and
serving-men, and yellow stockings were generally worn; the
coat fits closely to the body, but has loose sleeves, and
beneath is worn a sleeveless yellow under-coat; around the
waist is a red leathern girdle; a clerical band around the
neck, and a small flat black cap, about the size of a
saucer, completes the costume.—Timbs' Curiosities of London.
NOTE 2, Chapter IV.
It appears that Christ's Hospital was not originally
founded as a SCHOOL; its object was to rescue children from
the streets, to shelter, feed, clothe them.—Timbs'
Curiosities of London.
NOTE 3, Chapter V. The Duke of Norfolk's Condemnation
commanded.
The King was now approaching fast towards his end; and
fearing lest Norfolk should escape him, he sent a message to
the Commons, by which he desired them to hasten the Bill, on
pretence that Norfolk enjoyed the dignity of Earl Marshal,
and it was necessary to appoint another, who might officiate
at the ensuing ceremony of installing his son Prince of
Wales.—Hume's History of England, vol. iii. p. 307.
NOTE 4, Chapter VII.
It was not till the end of this reign (Henry VIII.) that
any salads, carrots, turnips, or other edible roots were
produced in England. The little of these vegetables that
was used was formerly imported from Holland and Flanders.
Queen Catherine, when she wanted a salad, was obliged to
despatch a messenger thither on purpose.—Hume's History of
England, vol. iii. p. 314.
NOTE 5, Chapter VIII. Attainder of Norfolk.
The House of Peers, without examining the prisoner,
without trial or evidence, passed a Bill of Attainder
against him and sent it down to the Commons . . . The
obsequious Commons obeyed his (the King's) directions; and
the King, having affixed the Royal assent to the Bill by
commissioners, issued orders for the execution of Norfolk on
the morning of January 29 (the next day).—Hume's History of
England, vol iii. p 306.
NOTE 6, Chapter X. The Loving-cup.
The loving-cup, and the peculiar ceremonies observed in
drinking from it, are older than English history. It is
thought that both are Danish importations. As far back as
knowledge goes, the loving-cup has always been drunk at
English banquets. Tradition explains the ceremonies in this
way. In the rude ancient times it was deemed a wise
precaution to have both hands of both drinkers employed,
lest while the pledger pledged his love and fidelity to the
pledgee, the pledgee take that opportunity to slip a dirk
into him!
NOTE 7, Chapter XI. The Duke of Norfolk's narrow Escape.
Had Henry VIII. survived a few hours longer, his order
for the duke's execution would have been carried into
effect. 'But news being carried to the Tower that the King
himself had expired that night, the lieutenant deferred
obeying the warrant; and it was not thought advisable by the
Council to begin a new reign by the death of the greatest
nobleman in the kingdom, who had been condemned by a
sentence so unjust and tyrannical.'—Hume's History of
England, vol. iii, p. 307.
NOTE 8, Chapter XIV. The Whipping-boy.
James I. and Charles II. had whipping-boys, when they
were little fellows, to take their punishment for them when
they fell short in their lessons; so I have ventured to
furnish my small prince with one, for my own purposes.
NOTES to Chapter XV.
Character of Hertford.
The young King discovered an extreme attachment to his
uncle, who was, in the main, a man of moderation and
probity.—Hume's History of England, vol. iii, p324.
But if he (the Protector) gave offence by assuming too
much state, he deserves great praise on account of the laws
passed this session, by which the rigour of former statutes
was much mitigated, and some security given to the freedom
of the constitution. All laws were repealed which extended
the crime of treason beyond the statute of the twenty-fifth
of Edward III.; all laws enacted during the late reign
extending the crime of felony; all the former laws against
Lollardy or heresy, together with the statute of the Six
Articles. None were to be accused for words, but within a
month after they were spoken. By these repeals several of
the most rigorous laws that ever had passed in England were
annulled; and some dawn, both of civil and religious
liberty, began to appear to the people. A repeal also
passed of that law, the destruction of all laws, by which
the King's proclamation was made of equal force with a
statute. —Ibid. vol. iii. p. 339.
Boiling to Death.
In the reign of Henry VIII. poisoners were, by Act of
Parliament, condemned to be BOILED TO DEATH. This Act was
repealed in the following reign.
In Germany, even in the seventeenth century, this
horrible punishment was inflicted on coiners and
counterfeiters. Taylor, the Water Poet, describes an
execution he witnessed in Hamburg in 1616. The judgment
pronounced against a coiner of false money was that he
should 'BE BOILED TO DEATH IN OIL; not thrown into the
vessel at once, but with a pulley or rope to be hanged under
the armpits, and then let down into the oil BY DEGREES;
first the feet, and next the legs, and so to boil his flesh
from his bones alive.'—Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws,
True and False, p. 13.
The Famous Stocking Case.
A woman and her daughter, NINE YEARS OLD, were hanged in
Huntingdon for selling their souls to the devil, and raising
a storm by pulling off their stockings!—Dr. J. Hammond
Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p. 20.
NOTE 10, Chapter XVII. Enslaving.
So young a King and so ignorant a peasant were likely to
make mistakes; and this is an instance in point. This
peasant was suffering from this law BY ANTICIPATION; the
King was venting his indignation against a law which was not
yet in existence; for this hideous statute was to have birth
in this little King's OWN REIGN. However, we know, from the
humanity of his character, that it could never have been
suggested by him.
NOTES to Chapter XXIII. Death for Trifling Larcenies.
When Connecticut and New Haven were framing their first
codes, larceny above the value of twelve pence was a capital
crime in England—as it had been since the time of Henry
I.—Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p.
17.
The curious old book called The English Rogue makes the
limit thirteen pence ha'penny: death being the portion of
any who steal a thing 'above the value of thirteen pence
ha'penny.'
NOTES to Chapter XXVII.
From many descriptions of larceny the law expressly took
away the benefit of clergy: to steal a horse, or a HAWK, or
woollen cloth from the weaver, was a hanging matter. So it
was to kill a deer from the King's forest, or to export
sheep from the kingdom.—Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws,
True and False, p.13.
William Prynne, a learned barrister, was sentenced (long
after Edward VI.'s time) to lose both his ears in the
pillory, to degradation from the bar, a fine of 3,000
pounds, and imprisonment for life. Three years afterwards
he gave new offence to Laud by publishing a pamphlet against
the hierarchy. He was again prosecuted, and was sentenced
to lose WHAT REMAINED OF HIS EARS, to pay a fine of 5,000
pounds, to be BRANDED ON BOTH HIS CHEEKS with the letters S.
L. (for Seditious Libeller), and to remain in prison for
life. The severity of this sentence was equalled by the
savage rigour of its execution.—Ibid. p. 12.
NOTES to Chapter XXXIII.
Christ's Hospital, or Bluecoat School, 'the noblest
institution in the world.'
The ground on which the Priory of the Grey Friars stood
was conferred by Henry VIII. on the Corporation of London
(who caused the institution there of a home for poor boys
and girls). Subsequently, Edward VI. caused the old Priory
to be properly repaired, and founded within it that noble
establishment called the Bluecoat School, or Christ's
Hospital, for the EDUCATION and maintenance of orphans and
the children of indigent persons . . . Edward would not let
him (Bishop Ridley) depart till the letter was written (to
the Lord Mayor), and then charged him to deliver it himself,
and signify his special request and commandment that no time
might be lost in proposing what was convenient, and
apprising him of the proceedings. The work was zealously
undertaken, Ridley himself engaging in it; and the result
was the founding of Christ's Hospital for the education of
poor children. (The King endowed several other charities at
the same time.) "Lord God," said he, "I yield Thee most
hearty thanks that Thou hast given me life thus long to
finish this work to the glory of Thy name!" That innocent
and most exemplary life was drawing rapidly to its close,
and in a few days he rendered up his spirit to his Creator,
praying God to defend the realm from Papistry.—J. Heneage
Jesse's London: its Celebrated Characters and Places.
In the Great Hall hangs a large picture of King Edward
VI. seated on his throne, in a scarlet and ermined robe,
holding the sceptre in his left hand, and presenting with
the other the Charter to the kneeling Lord Mayor. By his
side stands the Chancellor, holding the seals, and next to
him are other officers of state. Bishop Ridley kneels
before him with uplifted hands, as if supplicating a
blessing on the event; whilst the Aldermen, etc., with the
Lord Mayor, kneel on both sides, occupying the middle ground
of the picture; and lastly, in front, are a double row of
boys on one side and girls on the other, from the master and
matron down to the boy and girl who have stepped forward
from their respective rows, and kneel with raised hands
before the King.—Timbs' Curiosities of London, p. 98.
Christ's Hospital, by ancient custom, possesses the
privilege of addressing the Sovereign on the occasion of his
or her coming into the City to partake of the hospitality of
the Corporation of London.—Ibid.
The Dining Hall, with its lobby and organ-gallery,
occupies the entire storey, which is 187 feet long, 51 feet
wide, and 47 feet high; it is lit by nine large windows,
filled with stained glass on the south side; and is, next to
Westminster Hall, the noblest room in the metropolis. Here
the boys, now about 800 in number, dine; and here are held
the 'Suppings in Public,' to which visitors are admitted by
tickets issued by the Treasurer and by the Governors of
Christ's Hospital. The tables are laid with cheese in
wooden bowls, beer in wooden piggins, poured from leathern
jacks, and bread brought in large baskets. The official
company enter; the Lord Mayor, or President, takes his seat
in a state chair made of oak from St. Catherine's Church, by
the Tower; a hymn is sung, accompanied by the organ; a
'Grecian,' or head boy, reads the prayers from the pulpit,
silence being enforced by three drops of a wooden hammer.
After prayer the supper commences, and the visitors walk
between the tables. At its close the 'trade-boys' take up
the baskets, bowls, jacks, piggins, and candlesticks, and
pass in procession, the bowing to the Governors being
curiously formal. This spectacle was witnessed by Queen
Victoria and Prince Albert in 1845.
Among the more eminent Bluecoat boys are Joshua Barnes,
editor of Anacreon and Euripides; Jeremiah Markland, the
eminent critic, particularly in Greek Literature; Camden,
the antiquary; Bishop Stillingfleet; Samuel Richardson, the
novelist; Thomas Mitchell, the translator of Aristophanes;
Thomas Barnes, many years editor of the London Times;
Coleridge, Charles Lamb, and Leigh Hunt.
No boy is admitted before he is seven years old, or after
he is nine; and no boy can remain in the school after he is
fifteen, King's boys and 'Grecians' alone excepted. There
are about 500 Governors, at the head of whom are the
Sovereign and the Prince of Wales. The qualification for a
Governor is payment of 500 pounds.—Ibid.
GENERAL NOTE.
One hears much about the 'hideous Blue Laws of
Connecticut,' and is accustomed to shudder piously when they
are mentioned. There are people in America—and even in
England!—who imagine that they were a very monument of
malignity, pitilessness, and inhumanity; whereas in reality
they were about the first SWEEPING DEPARTURE FROM JUDICIAL
ATROCITY which the 'civilised' world had seen. This humane
and kindly Blue Law Code, of two hundred and forty years
ago, stands all by itself, with ages of bloody law on the
further side of it, and a century and three-quarters of
bloody English law on THIS side of it.
There has never been a time—under the Blue Laws or any
other—when above FOURTEEN crimes were punishable by death in
Connecticut. But in England, within the memory of men who
are still hale in body and mind, TWO HUNDRED AND
TWENTY-THREE crimes were punishable by death! {10} These
facts are worth knowing—and worth thinking about, too.
