Prince and the Pauper (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Mark Twain

  “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 nevermore venture countrywards—but the accident had ended that.”

  He inquired how many persons the gang numbered now. The “Ruffler,” or chief, answered:

  “Five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapper-dogeons and maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts.† 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, said I?—cursing them! why an thou shouldst live a thousand years thou’dst 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 favoring 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 other of our friends fared hardly?” asked Hobbs.

  “Some—yes. Particularly new-comers—such as small husband-men 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, crisscrossed 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 burned 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 ye 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!”ah

  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 burly Ruffler, interposing in time to save the king, and emphasizing 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 humor, 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 thunder-gust 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 AM EDWARD, KING OF ENGLAND”

  “I thank you, my good people.”

  This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of merriment. When something like quiet was presently come again, the Ruffler said, firmly, but with an accent of good nature:

  “Drop it, boy, ’tis not wise, nor well. Humor thy fancy, if thou must, but choose some other title.”

  A tinker shrieked out a suggestion:

  “Foo-foo the First, king of the Mooncalves!”

  The title “took” at once, every throat responded, and a roaring shout went up, of:

  “Long live Foo-foo the First, king of the Mooncalves!” followed by hootings, catcalls, and peals of laughter.

  “Hale him forth, and crown him!”


  “Robe him!”

  “Scepter him!”

  “Throne him!”

  These and twenty other cries broke out at once; and almost before the poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned with a tin basin, robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a barrel, and sceptered with the tinker’s soldering-iron. Then all flung themselves upon their knees about him and sent up a chorus of ironical wailings, and mocking supplications, while they swabbed their eyes with their soiled and ragged sleeves and aprons:

  “Be gracious to us, O sweet king!”

  “Trample not upon thy beseeching worms, O noble majesty!”

  “Pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!”

  “Cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, O flaming sun of sovereignty!”

  “Sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat the dirt and be ennobled!”

  “Deign to spit upon us, O sire, that our children’s children may tell of thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy forever!”

  But the humorous tinker made the “hit” of the evening and carried off the honors. Kneeling, he pretended to kiss the king’s foot, and was indignantly spurned; whereupon he went about begging for a rag to paste over the place upon his face which had been touched by the foot, saying it must be preserved from contact with the vulgar air, and that he should make his fortune by going on the highway and exposing it to view at the rate of a hundred shillings a sight. He made himself so killingly funny that he was the envy and admiration of the whole mangy rabble.

  Tears of shame and indignation stood in the little monarch’s eyes; and the thought in his heart was, “Had I offered them a deep wrong they could not be more cruel—yet have I proffered naught but to do them a kindness—and it is thus they use me for it!”

  XVIII

  The Prince with the Tramps

  The troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward on their march. There was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground under foot, and a winter chill in the air. All gaiety was gone from the company; some were sullen and silent, some were irritable and petulant, none were gentle-humored, all were thirsty.

  The Ruffler put “Jack” in Hugo’s charge, with some brief instructions, and commanded John Canty to keep away from him and let him alone; he also warned Hugo not to be too rough with the lad.

  After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted somewhat. The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to improve. They grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to chaff each other and insult passengers along the highway. This showed that they were awaking to an appreciation of life and its joys once more. The dread in which their sort was held was apparent in the fact that everybody gave them the road, and took their ribald insolences meekly, without venturing to talk back. They snatched linen from the hedges, occasionally, in full view of the owners, who made no protest, but only seemed grateful that they did not take the hedges, too.

  By and by they invaded a small farm-house and made themselves at home while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder clean to furnish a breakfast for them. They chucked the housewife and her daughters under the chin while receiving the food from their hands, and made coarse jests about them, accompanied with insulting epithets and bursts of horse-laughter. They threw bones and vegetables at the farmer and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and applauded uproariously when a good hit was made. They ended by buttering the head of one of the daughters who resented some of their familiarities. When they took their leave they threatened to come back and burn the house over the heads of the family if any report of their doings got to the ears of the authorities.

  About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a halt behind a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village. An hour was allowed for rest, then the crew scattered themselves abroad to enter the village at different points to ply their various trades. “Jack” was sent with Hugo. They wandered hither and thither for some time, Hugo watching for opportunities to do a stroke of business but finding none—so he finally said:

  “I see naught to steal; it is a paltry place. Wherefore we will beg.”

  “We, forsooth!ai Follow thy trade—it befits thee. But I will not beg.”

  “Thou’lt not beg!” exclaimed Hugo, eying the king with surprise. “Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?”

  “What dost thou mean?”

  “Mean? Hast thou not begged the streets of London all thy life?”

  “I? Thou idiot!”

  “Spare thy compliments—thy stock will last the longer. Thy father says thou hast begged all thy days. Mayhap he lied. Peradventure you will even make so bold as to say he lied,” scoffed Hugo.

  “Him you call my father? Yes, he lied.”

  “Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it for thy amusement, not thy hurt. An I tell him this, he will scorch thee finely for it.”

  “Save thyself the trouble. I will tell him.”

  “I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire thy judgment. Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life, without going out of one’s way to invite them. But a truce to these matters; I believe your father. I doubt not he can lie; I doubt not he doth lie, upon occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no occasion here. A wise man does not waste so good a commodity as lying for naught. But come; sith it is thy humor to give over begging, wherewithal shall we busy ourselves? With robbing kitchens?”

  The king said, impatiently:

  “Have done with this folly—you weary me!”

  Hugo replied, with temper:

  “Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it. But I will tell you what you will do. You will play decoy whilst I beg. Refuse, an you think you may venture!”

  The king was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo said, interrupting:

  “Peace! Here comes one with a kindly face. Now will I fall down in a fit. When the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and fall upon your knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as if all the devils of misery were in your belly, and say, ‘Oh, sir, it is my poor afflicted brother, and we be friendless; o’ God’s name cast through your merciful eyes one pitiful look upon a sick, forsaken, and most miserable wretch; bestow one little penny out of thy riches upon one smitten of God and ready to perish!’—and mind you, keep you on wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his penny, else shall you rue it.”

  Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes, and reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand, down he sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and wallow in the dirt, in seeming agony.

  “O dear, O dear!” cried the benevolent stranger. “Oh, poor soul, poor soul, how he doth suffer! There—let me help thee up.”

  “O, noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman—but it giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so. My brother there will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish when these fits be upon me. A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food; then leave me to my sorrows.”

  “A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature”—and he fumbled in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out. “There, poor lad, take them, and most welcome. Now come hither, my boy, and help me carry thy stricken brother to yon house, where—”

  “I am not his brother,” said the king, interrupting.

  “What! not his brother?”

  “Oh, hear him!” groaned Hugo, then privately ground his teeth. “He denies his own brother—and he with one foot in the grave!”

  “Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother. For shame!—and he scarce able to move hand or foot. If he is not thy brother, who is he, then?”

  “A beggar and a thief! He has got your money and has picked your pocket likewise. An thou wouldst do a healing miracle, lay thy staff over his shoulders and trust Providence for the rest.”

  But Hug
o did not tarry for the miracle. In a moment he was up and off like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the hue and cry lustily as he went. The king, breathing deep gratitude to Heaven for his own release, fled in the opposite direction and did not slacken his pace until he was out of harm’s reach. He took the first road that offered, and soon put the village behind him. He hurried along, as briskly as he could, during several hours, keeping a nervous watch over his shoulder for pursuit; but his fears left him at last, and a grateful sense of security took their place. He recognized now that he was hungry; and also very tired. So he halted at a farmhouse; but when he was about to speak, he was cut short and driven rudely away. His clothes were against him.

  He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put himself in the way of light treatment no more. But hunger is pride’s master; so as the evening drew near, he made an attempt at another farm-house; but here he fared worse than before; for he was called hard names and was promised arrest as a vagrant except he moved on promptly.

  The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore monarch labored slowly on. He was obliged to keep moving, for every time he sat down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone with the cold. All his sensations and experiences, as he moved through the solemn gloom and the empty vastness of the night, were new and strange to him. At intervals he heard voices approach, pass by, and fade into silence; and as he saw nothing more of the bodies they belonged to than a sort of formless drifting blur, there was something spectral and uncanny about it all that made him shudder. Occasionally he caught the twinkle of a light—always far away, apparently—almost in another world; if he heard the tinkle of a sheep’s bell, it was vague, distant, indistinct; the muffled lowing of the herds floated to him on the night wind in vanishing cadences, a mournful sound; now and then came the complaining howl of a dog over viewless expanses of field and forest; all sounds were remote; they made the little king feel that all life and activity were far removed from him, and that he stood solitary, companionless, in the center of a measureless solitude.