| | |
WHEN Tom Canty awoke the next morning, the air was heavy with a
thunderous murmur; all the distances were charged with it. It was
music to him; for it meant that the English world was out in its
strength to give loyal welcome to the great day.
Presently Tom found himself once more the chief figure in a
wonderful floating pageant on the Thames; for by ancient custom the
'recognition procession' through London must start from the Tower, and
he was bound thither.
When he arrived there, the sides of the venerable fortress
seemed suddenly rent in a thousand places, and from every rent
leaped a red tongue of flame and a white gush of smoke; a deafening
explosion followed, which drowned the shoutings of the multitude,
and made the ground tremble; the flame-jets, the smoke, and the
explosions were repeated over and over again with marvelous
celerity, so that in a few moments the old Tower disappeared in the
vast fog of its own smoke, all but the very top of the tall pile
called the White Tower; this, with its banners, stood out above the
dense bank of vapor as a mountain peak projects above a cloud-rack.
Tom Canty, splendidly arrayed, mounted a prancing war-steed, whose
rich trappings almost reached to the ground; his 'uncle,' the Lord
Protector Somerset, similarly mounted, took place in his rear; the
King's Guard formed in single ranks on either side, clad in
burnished armor; after the Protector followed a seemingly interminable
procession of resplendent nobles attended by their vassals; after
these came the lord mayor and the aldermanic body, in crimson velvet
robes, and with their gold chains across their breasts; and after
these the officers and members of all the guilds of London, in rich
raiment, and bearing the showy banners of the several corporations.
Also in the procession, as a special guard of honor through the
city, was the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company- an organization
already three hundred years old at that time, and the only military
body in England possessing the privilege (which it still possesses
in our day) of holding itself independent of the commands of
Parliament. It was a brilliant spectacle, and was hailed with
acclamations all along the line, as it took its stately way through
the packed multitudes of citizens. The chronicler says, 'The king,
as he entered the city, was received by the people with prayers,
welcomings, cries, and tender words, and all signs which argue an
earnest love of subjects toward their sovereign; and the king, by
holding up his glad countenance to such as stood afar off, and most
tender language to those that stood nigh his Grace, showed himself
no less thankful to receive the people's good will than they to
offer it. To all that wished him well, he gave thanks. To such as bade
"God save his Grace," he said in return, "God save you all!" and added
that "he thanked them with all his heart." Wonderfully transported
were the people with the loving answers and gestures of their king.'
In Fenchurch Street a 'fair child, in costly apparel,' stood on
a stage to welcome his majesty to the city. The last verse of his
greeting was in these words:
Welcome, O King! as much as hearts can think;
Welcome again, as much as tongue can tell-
Welcome to joyous tongues, and hearts that will not shrink;
God thee preserve, we pray, and wish thee ever well.
The people burst forth in a glad shout, repeating with one voice
what the child had said. Tom Canty gazed abroad over the surging sea
of eager faces, and his heart swelled with exultation; and he felt
that the one thing worth living for in this world was to be a king,
and a nation's idol. Presently he caught sight, at a distance, of a
couple of his ragged Offal Court comrades- one of them the lord high
admiral in his late mimic court, the other the first lord of the
bedchamber in the same pretentious fiction; and his pride swelled
higher than ever. Oh, if they could only recognize him now! What
unspeakable glory it would be, if they could recognize him, and
realize that the derided mock king of the slums and back alleys was
become a real king, with illustrious dukes and princes for his
humble menials, and the English world at his feet! But he had to
deny himself, and choke down his desire, for such a recognition
might cost more than it would come to; so he turned away his head, and
left the two soiled lads to go on with their shoutings and glad
adulations, unsuspicious of whom it was they were lavishing them upon.
Every now and then rose the cry, 'A largess! a largess!' and Tom
responded by scattering a handful of bright new coins abroad for the
multitude to scramble for.
The chronicler says, 'At the upper end of Gracechurch Street,
before the sign of the Eagle, the city had erected a gorgeous arch,
beneath which was a stage, which stretched from one side of the street
to the other. This was a historical pageant, representing the king's
immediate progenitors. There sat Elizabeth of York in the midst of
an immense white rose, whose petals formed elaborate furbelows
around her; by her side was Henry VII, issuing out of a vast red rose,
disposed in the same manner; the hands of the royal pair were locked
together, and the wedding-ring ostentatiously displayed. From the
red and white roses proceeded a stem, which reached up to a second
stage, occupied by Henry VIII, issuing from a red-and-white rose, with
the effigy of the new king's mother, Jane Seymour, represented by
his side. One branch sprang from this pair, which mounted to a third
stage, where sat the effigy of Edward VI himself, enthroned in royal
majesty; and the whole pageant was framed with wreaths of roses, red
and white.'
This quaint and gaudy spectacle so wrought upon the rejoicing
people, that their acclamations utterly smothered the small voice of
the child whose business it was to explain the thing in eulogistic
rhymes. But Tom Canty was not sorry; for this loyal uproar was sweeter
music to him than any poetry, no matter what its quality might be.
Whithersoever Tom turned his happy young face, the people recognized
the exactness of his effigy's likeness to himself, the flesh-and-blood
counterpart; and new whirlwinds of applause burst forth.
The great pageant moved on, and still on, under one triumphal arch
after another, and past a bewildering succession of spectacular and
symbolical tableaux, each of which typified and exalted some virtue,
or talent, or merit, of the little king's. 'Throughout the whole of
Cheapside, from every penthouse and window, hung banners and
streamers; and the richest carpets, stuffs, and cloth-of-gold
tapestried the streets- specimens of the great wealth of the stores
within; and the splendor of this thoroughfare was equaled in the other
streets, and in some even surpassed.'
'And all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome me- me!'
murmured Tom Canty.
The mock king's cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes were
flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of pleasure. At this point,
just as he was raising his hand to fling another rich largess, he
caught sight of a pale, astounded face which was strained forward
out of the second rank of the crowd, its intense eyes riveted upon
him, A sickening consternation struck through him; he recognized his
mother! and up flew his hand, palm outward, before his eyes- that
old involuntary gesture, born of a forgotten episode, and
perpetuated by habit. In an instant more she had torn her way out of
the press, and past the guards, and was at his side. She embraced
his leg, she covered it with kisses, she cried, 'O, my child, my
darling!' lifting toward him a face that was transfigured with joy and
love. The same instant an officer of the King's Guard snatched her
away with a curse, and sent her reeling back whence she came with a
vigorous impulse from his strong arm. The words 'I do not know you,
woman!' were falling from Tom Canty's lips when this piteous thing
occurred; but it smote him to the heart to see her treated so; and
as she turned for a last glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was
swallowing her from his sight, she seemed so wounded, so
broken-hearted, that a shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to
ashes, and withered his stolen royalty. His grandeurs were stricken
valueless; they seemed to fall away from him like rotten rags.
The procession moved on, and still on, through ever-augmenting
splendors and ever-augmenting tempests of welcome; but to Tom Canty
they were as if they had not been. He neither saw nor heard. Royalty
had lost its grace and sweetness; its pomps were become a reproach.
Remorse was eating his heart out. He said, 'Would God I were free of
my captivity!'
He had unconsciously dropped back into the phraseology of the
first days of his compulsory greatness.
The shining pageant still went winding like a radiant and
interminable serpent down the crooked lanes of the quaint old city,
and through the huzzaing hosts; but still the king rode with bowed
head and vacant eyes, seeing only his mother's face and that wounded
look in it.
'Largess, largess!' The cry fell upon an unheeding ear.
'Long live Edward of England!' It seemed as if the earth shook
with the explosion; but there was no response from the king. He
heard it only as one hears the thunder of the surf when it is blown to
the ear out of a great distance, for it was smothered under another
sound which was still nearer, in his own breast, in his accusing
conscience- a voice which kept repeating those shameful words, 'I do
not know you, woman!'
The words smote upon the king's soul as the strokes of a funeral
bell smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when they remind him of
secret treacheries suffered at his hands by him that is gone.
New glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders, new
marvels, sprung into view; the pent clamors of waiting batteries
were released; new raptures poured from the throats of the waiting
multitudes; but the king gave no sign, and the accusing voice that
went moaning through his comfortless breast was all the sound he
heard.
By and by the gladness in the faces of the populace changed a
little, and became touched with a something like solicitude or
anxiety; an abatement in the volume of applause was observable too.
The Lord Protector was quick to notice these things; he was as quick
to detect the cause. He spurred to the king's side, bent low in his
saddle, uncovered, and said:
'My liege, it is an ill time for dreaming. The people observe
thy downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take it for an omen.
Be advised; unveil the sun of royalty, and let it shine upon these
boding vapors, and disperse them. Lift up thy face, and smile upon the
people.'
So saying, the duke scattered a handful of coins to right and
left, then retired to his place. The mock king did mechanically as
he had been bidden. His smile had no heart in it, but few eyes were
near enough or sharp enough to detect that. The noddings of his plumed
head as he saluted his subjects were full of grace and graciousness;
the largess which he delivered from his hand was royally liberal; so
the people's anxiety vanished, and the acclamations burst forth
again in as mighty a volume as before.
Still once more, a little before the progress was ended, the
duke was obliged to ride forward, and make remonstrance. He whispered:
'O dread sovereign! shake off these fatal humors; the eyes of
the world are upon thee.' Then he added with sharp annoyance,
'Perdition catch that crazy pauper! 'twas she that hath disturbed your
Highness.'
The gorgeous figure turned a lusterless eye upon the duke, and
said in a dead voice:
'She was my mother!'
'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!'
|
