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Chapter 4


Chapter IV. The Prince's troubles begin.

After hours of persistent pursuit and persecution, the little
prince was at last deserted by the rabble and left to himself.  As
long as he had been able to rage against the mob, and threaten it
royally, and royally utter commands that were good stuff to laugh
at, he was very entertaining; but when weariness finally forced
him to be silent, he was no longer of use to his tormentors, and
they sought amusement elsewhere.  He looked about him, now, but
could not recognise the locality.  He was within the city of
London--that was all he knew.  He moved on, aimlessly, and in a
little while the houses thinned, and the passers-by were
infrequent.  He bathed his bleeding feet in the brook which flowed
then where Farringdon Street now is; rested a few moments, then
passed on, and presently came upon a great space with only a few
scattered houses in it, and a prodigious church.  He recognised
this church.  Scaffoldings were about, everywhere, and swarms of
workmen; for it was undergoing elaborate repairs.  The prince took
heart at once--he felt that his troubles were at an end, now.  He
said to himself, "It is the ancient Grey Friars' Church, which the
king my father hath taken from the monks and given for a home for
ever for poor and forsaken children, and new-named it Christ's
Church.  Right gladly will they serve the son of him who hath done
so generously by them--and the more that that son is himself as
poor and as forlorn as any that be sheltered here this day, or
ever shall be."

He was soon in the midst of a crowd of boys who were running,
jumping, playing at ball and leap-frog, and otherwise disporting
themselves, and right noisily, too.  They were all dressed alike,
and in the fashion which in that day prevailed among serving-men
and 'prentices{1}--that is to say, each had on the crown of his
head a flat black cap about the size of a saucer, which was not
useful as a covering, it being of such scanty dimensions, neither
was it ornamental; from beneath it the hair fell, unparted, to the
middle of the forehead, and was cropped straight around; a
clerical band at the neck; a blue gown that fitted closely and
hung as low as the knees or lower; full sleeves; a broad red belt;
bright yellow stockings, gartered above the knees; low shoes with
large metal buckles.  It was a sufficiently ugly costume.

The boys stopped their play and flocked about the prince, who said
with native dignity--

"Good lads, say to your master that Edward Prince of Wales
desireth speech with him."

A great shout went up at this, and one rude fellow said--

"Marry, art thou his grace's messenger, beggar?"

The prince's face flushed with anger, and his ready hand flew to
his hip, but there was nothing there.  There was a storm of
laughter, and one boy said--

"Didst mark that?  He fancied he had a sword--belike he is the
prince himself."

This sally brought more laughter.  Poor Edward drew himself up
proudly and said--

"I am the prince; and it ill beseemeth you that feed upon the king
my father's bounty to use me so."

This was vastly enjoyed, as the laughter testified.  The youth who
had first spoken, shouted to his comrades--

"Ho, swine, slaves, pensioners of his grace's princely father,
where be your manners?  Down on your marrow bones, all of ye, and
do reverence to his kingly port and royal rags!"

With boisterous mirth they dropped upon their knees in a body and
did mock homage to their prey.  The prince spurned the nearest boy
with his foot, and said fiercely--

"Take thou that, till the morrow come and I build thee a gibbet!"

Ah, but this was not a joke--this was going beyond fun.  The
laughter ceased on the instant, and fury took its place.  A dozen
shouted--

"Hale him forth!  To the horse-pond, to the horse-pond!  Where be
the dogs?  Ho, there, Lion! ho, Fangs!"

Then followed such a thing as England had never seen before--the
sacred person of the heir to the throne rudely buffeted by
plebeian hands, and set upon and torn by dogs.

As night drew to a close that day, the prince found himself far
down in the close-built portion of the city.  His body was
bruised, his hands were bleeding, and his rags were all besmirched
with mud.  He wandered on and on, and grew more and more
bewildered, and so tired and faint he could hardly drag one foot
after the other.  He had ceased to ask questions of anyone, since
they brought him only insult instead of information.  He kept
muttering to himself, "Offal Court--that is the name; if I can but
find it before my strength is wholly spent and I drop, then am I
saved--for his people will take me to the palace and prove that I
am none of theirs, but the true prince, and I shall have mine own
again."  And now and then his mind reverted to his treatment by
those rude Christ's Hospital boys, and he said, "When I am king,
they shall not have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out
of books; for a full belly is little worth where the mind is
starved, and the heart.  I will keep this diligently in my
remembrance, that this day's lesson be not lost upon me, and my
people suffer thereby; for learning softeneth the heart and
breedeth gentleness and charity. {1}

The lights began to twinkle, it came on to rain, the wind rose,
and a raw and gusty night set in.  The houseless prince, the
homeless heir to the throne of England, still moved on, drifting
deeper into the maze of squalid alleys where the swarming hives of
poverty and misery were massed together.

Suddenly a great drunken ruffian collared him and said--

"Out to this time of night again, and hast not brought a farthing
home, I warrant me!  If it be so, an' I do not break all the bones
in thy lean body, then am I not John Canty, but some other."

The prince twisted himself loose, unconsciously brushed his
profaned shoulder, and eagerly said--

"Oh, art HIS father, truly?  Sweet heaven grant it be so--then
wilt thou fetch him away and restore me!"

"HIS father?  I know not what thou mean'st; I but know I am THY
father, as thou shalt soon have cause to--"

"Oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!--I am worn, I am wounded, I
can bear no more.  Take me to the king my father, and he will make
thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams.  Believe me, man, believe
me!--I speak no lie, but only the truth!--put forth thy hand and
save me!  I am indeed the Prince of Wales!"

The man stared down, stupefied, upon the lad, then shook his head
and muttered--

"Gone stark mad as any Tom o' Bedlam!"--then collared him once
more, and said with a coarse laugh and an oath, "But mad or no
mad, I and thy Gammer Canty will soon find where the soft places
in thy bones lie, or I'm no true man!"

With this he dragged the frantic and struggling prince away, and
disappeared up a front court followed by a delighted and noisy
swarm of human vermin.


Mark Twain