The Little Lame Prince [28]
buzzing about the curtains of the bed being the only audible sound.
"Is that the King?" whispered Prince Dolor.
"Yes," replied the bird.
He had been angry--furiously angry-- ever since he knew how his uncle had taken the crown, and sent him, a poor little helpless child, to be shut up for life, just as if he had been dead. Many times the boy had felt as if, king as he was, he should like to strike him, this great, strong, wicked man.
Why, you might as well have struck a baby! How helpless he lay, with his eyes shut, and his idle hands folded: they had no more work to do, bad or good.
"What is the matter with him?" asked the Prince.
"He is dead," said the Magpie, with a croak.
No, there was not the least use in being angry with him now. On the contrary, the Prince felt almost sorry for him, except that he looked so peaceful with all his cares at rest. And this was being dead? So even kings died?
"Well, well, he hadn't an easy life, folk say, for all his grandeur. Perhaps he is glad it is over. Good-by, your Majesty."
With another cheerful tap of her beak, Mistress Mag shut down the little door in the tiles, and Prince Dolor's first and last sight of his uncle was ended.
He sat in the center of his traveling-cloak, silent and thoughtful.
"What shall we do now?" said the magpie. "There's nothing much more to be done with his majesty, except a fine funeral, which I shall certainly go and see. All the world will. He interested the world exceedingly when he was alive, and he ought to do it now he's dead--just once more. And since he can't hear me, I may as well say that, on the whole, his majesty is much better dead than alive--if we can only get somebody in his place. There'll be such a row in the city presently. Suppose we float up again and see it all--at a safe distance, though. It will be such fun!"
"What will be fun?"
"A revolution."
Whether anybody except a magpie would have called it "fun" I don't know, but it certainly was a remarkable scene.
As soon as the cathedral bell began to toll and the minute-guns to fire, announcing to the kingdom that it was without a king, the people gathered in crowds, stopping at street corners to talk together. The murmur now and then rose into a shout, and the shout into a roar. When Prince Dolor, quietly floating in upper air, caught the sound of their different and opposite cries, it seemed to him as if the whole city had gone mad together.
"Long live the king!" "The king is dead-- down with the king!" "Down with the crown, and the king too!" "Hurrah for the republic!" "Hurrah for no government at all!"
Such were the shouts which traveled up to the traveling-cloak. And then began--oh, what a scene!
When you children are grown men and women --or before--you will hear and read in books about what are called revolutions--earnestly I trust that neither I nor you may ever see one. But they have happened, and may happen again, in other countries besides Nomansland, when wicked kings have helped to make their people wicked too, or out of an unrighteous nation have sprung rulers equally bad; or, without either of these causes, when a restless country has fancied any change better than no change at all.
For me, I don't like changes, unless pretty sure that they are for good. And how good can come out of absolute evil--the horrible evil that went on this night under Prince Dolor's very eyes--soldiers shooting down people by hundreds in the streets, scaffolds erected, and heads dropping off--houses burned, and women and children murdered--this is more than I can understand.
But all these things you will find in history, my children, and must by and by judge for yourselves the right and wrong of them, as far as anybody ever can judge.
Prince Dolor saw it all. Things happened so fast one after another that they quite confused his faculties.
"Oh, let me go home," he cried at last, stopping his ears and shutting his eyes; "only let me go home!" for even his lonely tower seemed home, and its dreariness and silence absolute paradise after
"Is that the King?" whispered Prince Dolor.
"Yes," replied the bird.
He had been angry--furiously angry-- ever since he knew how his uncle had taken the crown, and sent him, a poor little helpless child, to be shut up for life, just as if he had been dead. Many times the boy had felt as if, king as he was, he should like to strike him, this great, strong, wicked man.
Why, you might as well have struck a baby! How helpless he lay, with his eyes shut, and his idle hands folded: they had no more work to do, bad or good.
"What is the matter with him?" asked the Prince.
"He is dead," said the Magpie, with a croak.
No, there was not the least use in being angry with him now. On the contrary, the Prince felt almost sorry for him, except that he looked so peaceful with all his cares at rest. And this was being dead? So even kings died?
"Well, well, he hadn't an easy life, folk say, for all his grandeur. Perhaps he is glad it is over. Good-by, your Majesty."
With another cheerful tap of her beak, Mistress Mag shut down the little door in the tiles, and Prince Dolor's first and last sight of his uncle was ended.
He sat in the center of his traveling-cloak, silent and thoughtful.
"What shall we do now?" said the magpie. "There's nothing much more to be done with his majesty, except a fine funeral, which I shall certainly go and see. All the world will. He interested the world exceedingly when he was alive, and he ought to do it now he's dead--just once more. And since he can't hear me, I may as well say that, on the whole, his majesty is much better dead than alive--if we can only get somebody in his place. There'll be such a row in the city presently. Suppose we float up again and see it all--at a safe distance, though. It will be such fun!"
"What will be fun?"
"A revolution."
Whether anybody except a magpie would have called it "fun" I don't know, but it certainly was a remarkable scene.
As soon as the cathedral bell began to toll and the minute-guns to fire, announcing to the kingdom that it was without a king, the people gathered in crowds, stopping at street corners to talk together. The murmur now and then rose into a shout, and the shout into a roar. When Prince Dolor, quietly floating in upper air, caught the sound of their different and opposite cries, it seemed to him as if the whole city had gone mad together.
"Long live the king!" "The king is dead-- down with the king!" "Down with the crown, and the king too!" "Hurrah for the republic!" "Hurrah for no government at all!"
Such were the shouts which traveled up to the traveling-cloak. And then began--oh, what a scene!
When you children are grown men and women --or before--you will hear and read in books about what are called revolutions--earnestly I trust that neither I nor you may ever see one. But they have happened, and may happen again, in other countries besides Nomansland, when wicked kings have helped to make their people wicked too, or out of an unrighteous nation have sprung rulers equally bad; or, without either of these causes, when a restless country has fancied any change better than no change at all.
For me, I don't like changes, unless pretty sure that they are for good. And how good can come out of absolute evil--the horrible evil that went on this night under Prince Dolor's very eyes--soldiers shooting down people by hundreds in the streets, scaffolds erected, and heads dropping off--houses burned, and women and children murdered--this is more than I can understand.
But all these things you will find in history, my children, and must by and by judge for yourselves the right and wrong of them, as far as anybody ever can judge.
Prince Dolor saw it all. Things happened so fast one after another that they quite confused his faculties.
"Oh, let me go home," he cried at last, stopping his ears and shutting his eyes; "only let me go home!" for even his lonely tower seemed home, and its dreariness and silence absolute paradise after