The Prince and the Pauper
“My God!” groaned the Protector as he reined his horse backward to his
post, “the omen was pregnant with prophecy. He is gone mad again!”
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