The Prince and the Pauper

In the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day in the second quarter of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor family of the name of Canty, who did not want him. On the same day another English child was born to a rich family of the name of Tudor, who did want him. All England wanted him too. England had so longed for him, and hoped for him, and prayed God for him, that, now that he was really come, the people went nearly mad for joy. Mere acquaintances hugged and kissed each other and cried. Everybody took a holiday, and high and low, rich and poor, feasted and danced and sang, and got very mellow; and they kept this up for days and nights together. By day, London was a sight to see, with gay banners waving from every balcony and housetop, and splendid pageants marching along. By night, it was again a sight to see, with its great bonfires at every corner, and its troops of revellers making merry around them. There was no talk in all England but of the new baby, Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, who lay lapped in silks and satins, unconscious of all this fuss, and not knowing that great lords and ladies were tending him and watching over him⁠—and not caring, either.

“Oh, prithee, say no more, ’tis glorious! If that I could but clothe me in raiment like to thine, and strip my feet, and revel in the mud once, just once, with none to rebuke me or forbid, meseemeth I could forego the crown!”

“And if that I could clothe me once, sweet sir, as thou art clad⁠—just once⁠—”

“Oho, would’st like it? Then so shall it be. Doff thy rags, and don these splendors, lad! It is a brief happiness, but will be not less keen for that. We will have it while we may, and change again before any come to molest.”

A few minutes later the little Prince of Wales was garlanded with Tom’s fluttering odds and ends, and the little Prince of Pauperdom was tricked out in the gaudy plumage of royalty. The two went and stood side by side before a great mirror, and lo, a miracle: there did not seem to have been any change made! They stared at each other, then at the glass, then at each other again. At last the puzzled princeling said⁠—

“What dost thou make of this?”

“Ah, good your worship, require me not to answer. It is not meet that one of my degree should utter the thing.”

Tom said with genuine anguish⁠—

“I crave your indulgence: my nose itcheth cruelly. What is the custom and usage in this emergence? Prithee, speed, for ’tis but a little time that I can bear it.”

None smiled; but all were sore perplexed, and looked one to the other in deep tribulation for counsel. But behold, here was a dead wall, and nothing in English history to tell how to get over it. The Master of Ceremonies was not present: there was no one who felt safe to venture upon this uncharted sea, or risk the attempt to solve this solemn problem. Alas! there was no Hereditary Scratcher. Meantime the tears had overflowed their banks, and begun to trickle down Tom’s cheeks. His twitching nose was pleading more urgently than ever for relief. At last nature broke down the barriers of etiquette: Tom lifted up an inward prayer for pardon if he was doing wrong, and brought relief to the burdened hearts of his court by scratching his nose himself.

His meal being ended, a lord came and held before him a broad, shallow, golden dish with fragrant rosewater in it, to cleanse his mouth and fingers with; and my lord the Hereditary Diaperer stood by with a napkin for his use. Tom gazed at the dish a puzzled moment or two, then raised it to his lips, and gravely took a draught. Then he returned it to the waiting lord, and said⁠—

“Nay, it likes me not, my lord: it hath a pretty flavor, but it wanteth strength.”

This new eccentricity of the prince’s ruined mind made all the hearts about him ache; but the sad sight moved none to merriment.

“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 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.

The old man, still pacing back and forth, ceased to speak aloud, and began to mutter. The king seized this opportunity to state his case; and he did it with an eloquence inspired by uneasiness and apprehension. But the hermit went on muttering, and gave no heed. And still muttering, he approached the king and said impressively⁠—

“Sh! I will tell you a secret!” He bent down to impart it, but checked himself, and assumed a listening attitude. After a moment or two he went on tiptoe to the window-opening, put his head out, and peered around in the gloaming, then came tiptoeing back again, put his face close down to the king’s, and whispered⁠—

“I am an archangel!”