IT'S a world
of surprises. The king brooded;
this was natural. What would
he brood about, should
you say? Why, about the prodigious nature of his
fall, of course -- from the loftiest place in the world to
the lowest; from the most illustrious station in the
world to the obscurest; from the grandest vocation
among men to the basest. No, I take my oath that
the thing that graveled him most, to start with, was
not this, but the price he had fetched! He couldn't
seem to get over that seven dollars. Well, it stunned
me so, when I first found it out, that I couldn't believe
it; it didn't seem natural. But as soon as my mental
sight cleared and I got a right focus on it, I saw I was
mistaken; it WAS natural. For this reason: a king is
a mere artificiality, and so a king's feelings, like the
impulses of an automatic doll, are mere artificialities;
but as a man, he is a reality, and his feelings, as a
man, are real, not phantoms. It shames the average
man to be valued below his own estimate of his worth,
and the king certainly wasn't anything more than an
average man, if he was up that high.
Confound him,
he wearied me with arguments
to show that in
anything like a fair market he
would have fetched twenty-five
dollars, sure -- a thing which
was plainly nonsense, and full
or the baldest conceit; I wasn't
worth it myself. But it was tender
ground for me to argue on. In
fact, I had to simply shirk argument
and do the diplomatic instead.
I had to throw conscience aside,
and brazenly concede that he
ought to have brought twenty-five
dollars; whereas I was quite
well aware that in all the ages,
the world had never seen a king
that was worth half the money,
and during the next thirteen
centuries wouldn't see one that
was worth the fourth of it. Yes,
he tired me. If he began to talk
about the crops; or about the
recent weather; or about the
condition of politics; or about
dogs, or cats, or morals, or
theology -- no matter what --
I sighed, for I knew what was
coming; he was going to get out
of it a palliation of that tiresome
seven-dollar sale. Wherever we
halted where there was a crowd,
he would give me a look which
said plainly: "if that thing
could be tried over again now,
with this kind of folk, you would
see a different result." Well,
when he was first sold, it secretly
tickled me to see him go for
seven dollars; but before he
was done with his sweating and
worrying I wished he had fetched
a hundred. The thing never got
a chance to die, for every day,
at one place or another, possible
purchasers looked us over, and,
as often as any other way, their
comment on the king was something
like this:
"Here's a two-dollar-and-a-half
chump with a thirtydollar style.
Pity but style was marketable."
At last this sort of remark
produced an evil result. Our
owner was a practical person
and he perceived that this defect
must be mended if he hoped to
find a purchaser for the king.
So he went to work to take the
style out of his sacred majesty.
I could have given the man some
valuable advice, but I didn't;
you mustn't volunteer advice
to a slave-driver unless you
want to damage the cause you
are arguing for. I had found
it a sufficiently difficult job
to reduce the king's style to
a peasant's style, even when
he was a willing and anxious
pupil; now then, to undertake
to reduce the king's style to
a slave's style -- and by force
-- go to! it was a stately contract.
Never mind the details -- it
will save me trouble to let you
imagine them. I will only remark
that at the end of a week there
was plenty of evidence that lash
and club and fist had done their
work well; the king's body was
a sight to see -- and to weep
over; but his spirit? -- why,
it wasn't even phased. Even that
dull clod of a slave-driver was
able to see that there can be
such a thing as a slave who will
remain a man till he dies; whose
bones you can break, but whose
manhood you can't. This man found
that from his first effort down
to his latest, he couldn't ever
come within reach of the king,
but the king was ready to plunge
for him, and did it. So he gave
up at last, and left the king
in possession of his style unimpaired.
The fact is, the king was a good
deal more than a king, he was
a man; and when a man is a man,
you can't knock it out of him.
We had a rough time for a month,
tramping to and fro in the earth,
and suffering. And what Englishman
was the most interested in the
slavery question by that time?
His grace the king! Yes; from
being the most indifferent, he
was become the most interested.
He was become the bitterest hater
of the institution I had ever
heard talk. And so I ventured
to ask once more a question which
I had asked years before and
had gotten such a sharp answer
that I had not thought it prudent
to meddle in the matter further.
Would he abolish slavery?
His answer was as sharp as
before, but it was music this
time; I shouldn't ever wish to
hear pleasanter, though the profanity
was not good, being awkwardly
put together, and with the crash-word
almost in the middle instead
of at the end, where, of course,
it ought to have been.
I was ready and willing to
get free now; I hadn't wanted
to get free any sooner. No, I
cannot quite say that. I had
wanted to, but I had not been
willing to take desperate chances,
and had always dissuaded the
king from them. But now -- ah,
it was a new atmosphere! Liberty
would be worth any cost that
might be put upon it now. I set
about a plan, and was straightway
charmed with it. It would require
time, yes, and patience, too,
a great deal of both. One could
invent quicker ways, and fully
as sure ones; but none that would
be as picturesque as this; none
that could be made so dramatic.
And so I was not going to give
this one up. It might delay us
months, but no matter, I would
carry it out or break something.
Now and then we had an adventure.
One night we were overtaken by
a snow-storm while still a mile
from the village we were making
for. Almost instantly we were
shut up as in a fog, the driving
snow was so thick. You couldn't
see a thing, and we were soon
lost. The slave-driver lashed
us desperately, for he saw ruin
before him, but his lashings
only made matters worse, for
they drove us further from the
road and from likelihood of succor.
So we had to stop at last and
slump down in the snow where
we were. The storm continued
until toward midnight, then ceased.
By this time two of our feebler
men and three of our women were
dead, and others past moving
and threatened with death. Our
master was nearly beside himself.
He stirred up the living, and
made us stand, jump, slap ourselves,
to restore our circulation, and
he helped as well as he could
with his whip.
Now came a diversion. We heard
shrieks and yells, and soon a
woman came running and crying;
and seeing our group, she flung
herself into our midst and begged
for protection. A mob of people
came tearing after her, some
with torches, and they said she
was a witch who had caused several
cows to die by a strange disease,
and practiced her arts by help
of a devil in the form of a black
cat. This poor woman had been
stoned until she hardly looked
human, she was so battered and
bloody. The mob wanted to burn
her.
Well, now, what do you suppose
our master did? When we closed
around this poor creature to
shelter her, he saw his chance.
He said, burn her here, or they
shouldn't have her at all. Imagine
that! They were willing. They
fastened her to a post; they
brought wood and piled it about
her; they applied the torch while
she shrieked and pleaded and
strained her two young daughters
to her breast; and our brute,
with a heart solely for business,
lashed us into position about
the stake and warmed us into
life and commercial value by
the same fire which took away
the innocent life of that poor
harmless mother. That was the
sort of master we had. I took
HIS number. That snow-storm cost
him nine of his flock; and he
was more brutal to us than ever,
after that, for many days together,
he was so enraged over his loss.
We had adventures all along.
One day we ran into a procession.
And such a procession! All the
riffraff of the kingdom seemed
to be comprehended in it; and
all drunk at that. In the van
was a cart with a coffin in it,
and on the coffin sat a comely
young girl of about eighteen
suckling a baby, which she squeezed
to her breast in a passion of
love every little while, and
every little while wiped from
its face the tears which her
eyes rained down upon it; and
always the foolish little thing
smiled up at her, happy and content,
kneading her breast with its
dimpled fat hand, which she patted
and fondled right over her breaking
heart.
Men and women, boys and girls,
trotted along beside or after
the cart, hooting, shouting profane
and ribald remarks, singing snatches
of foul song, skipping, dancing
-- a very holiday of hellions,
a sickening sight. We had struck
a suburb of London, outside the
walls, and this was a sample
of one sort of London society.
Our master secured a good place
for us near the gallows. A priest
was in attendance, and he helped
the girl climb up, and said comforting
words to her, and made the under-sheriff
provide a stool for her. Then
he stood there by her on the
gallows, and for a moment looked
down upon the mass of upturned
faces at his feet, then out over
the solid pavement of heads that
stretched away on every side
occupying the vacancies far and
near, and then began to tell
the story of the case. And there
was pity in his voice -- how
seldom a sound that was in that
ignorant and savage land! I remember
every detail of what he said,
except the words he said it in;
and so I change it into my own
words:
"Law is intended
to mete out justice. Sometimes
it fails.
This cannot be helped. We can
only grieve, and be resigned,
and pray for the soul of him
who falls unfairly by the arm
of the law, and that his fellows
may be few. A law sends this
poor young thing to death --
and it is right. But another
law had placed her where she
must commit her crime or starve
with her child -- and before
God that law is responsible for
both her crime and her ignominious
death!
"A little while
ago this young thing, this
child of eighteen
years, was as happy a wife and
mother as any in England; and
her lips were blithe with song,
which is the native speech of
glad and innocent hearts. Her
young husband was as happy as
she; for he was doing his whole
duty, he worked early and late
at his handicraft, his bread
was honest bread well and fairly
earned, he was prospering, he
was furnishing shelter and sustenance
to his family, he was adding
his mite to the wealth of the
nation. By consent of a treacherous
law, instant destruction fell
upon this holy home and swept
it away! That young husband was
waylaid and impressed, and sent
to sea. The wife knew nothing
of it. She sought him everywhere,
she moved the hardest hearts
with the supplications of her
tears, the broken eloquence of
her despair. Weeks dragged by,
she watching, waiting, hoping,
her mind going slowly to wreck
under the burden of her misery.
Little by little all her small
possessions went for food. When
she could no longer pay her rent,
they turned her out of doors.
She begged, while she had strength;
when she was starving at last,
and her milk failing, she stole
a piece of linen cloth of the
value of a fourth part of a cent,
thinking to sell it and save
her child. But she was seen by
the owner of the cloth. She was
put in jail and brought to trial.
The man testified to the facts.
A plea was made for her, and
her sorrowful story was told
in her behalf. She spoke, too,
by permission, and said she did
steal the cloth, but that her
mind was so disordered of late
by trouble that when she was
overborne with hunger all acts,
criminal or other, swam meaningless
through her brain and she knew
nothing rightly, except that
she was so hungry! For a moment
all were touched, and there was
disposition to deal mercifully
with her, seeing that she was
so young and friendless, and
her case so piteous, and the
law that robbed her of her support
to blame as being the first and
only cause of her transgression;
but the prosecuting officer replied
that whereas these things were
all true, and most pitiful as
well, still there was much small
theft in these days, and mistimed
mercy here would be a danger
to property -- oh, my God, is
there no property in ruined homes,
and orphaned babes, and broken
hearts that British law holds
precious! -- and so he must require
sentence.
"When the judge
put on his black cap, the owner
of the stolen
linen rose trembling up, his
lip quivering, his face as gray
as ashes; and when the awful
words came, he cried out, 'Oh,
poor child, poor child, I did
not know it was death!' and fell
as a tree falls. When they lifted
him up his reason was gone; before
the sun was set, he had taken
his own life. A kindly man; a
man whose heart was right, at
bottom; add his murder to this
that is to be now done here;
and charge them both where they
belong -- to the rulers and the
bitter laws of Britain. The time
is come, my child; let me pray
over thee -- not FOR thee, dear
abused poor heart and innocent,
but for them that be guilty of
thy ruin and death, who need
it more."
After his prayer they put the
noose around the young girl's
neck, and they had great trouble
to adjust the knot under her
ear, because she was devouring
the baby all the time, wildly
kissing it, and snatching it
to her face and her breast, and
drenching it with tears, and
half moaning, half shrieking
all the while, and the baby crowing,
and laughing, and kicking its
feet with delight over what it
took for romp and play. Even
the hangman couldn't stand it,
but turned away. When all was
ready the priest gently pulled
and tugged and forced the child
out of the mother's arms, and
stepped quickly out of her reach;
but she clasped her hands, and
made a wild spring toward him,
with a shriek; but the rope --
and the under-sheriff -- held
her short. Then she went on her
knees and stretched out her hands
and cried:
"One more kiss
-- oh, my God, one more, one
more, -- it is
the dying that begs it!"
She got it; she almost smothered
the little thing. And when they
got it away again, she cried
out:
"Oh, my child,
my darling, it will die! It
has no home,
it has no father, no friend,
no mother --"
"It has them all!" said that
good priest. "All these will
I be to it till I die."
You should have seen her face
then! Gratitude? Lord, what do
you want with words to express
that? Words are only painted
fire; a look is the fire itself.
She gave that look, and carried
it away to the treasury of heaven,
where all things that are divine
belong.
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