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Updated: June 7, 2025
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.
And she afterwards confessed that she threw a little of this ungracious sentiment into her accent and manner; for her father being abroad, and the "body," as she irreverently termed the landed proprietor, "looking unco gleg and canty, she didna ken what he might be coming out wi' next."
He was declared to be the same "canty" fellow as ever, and, though he had risen greatly in the world, he was "not a bit set up." He found one of his old fellow workmen, Frank Beattie, become the principal innkeeper of the place. "What have you made of your mell and chisels?" asked Telford. "Oh!" replied Beattie, "they are all dispersed perhaps lost."
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!"
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 splendours 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.
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.
About his neck hung the order of the Garter, and several princely foreign orders; and wherever light fell upon him jewels responded with a blinding flash. O Tom Canty, born in a hovel, bred in the gutters of London, familiar with rags and dirt and misery, what a spectacle is this! We left John Canty dragging the rightful prince into Offal Court, with a noisy and delighted mob at his heels.
We may imagine that first little audience the "two good-mannered and agreeable children," drawing up in their little chairs by the fireside, hanging on every paragraph of the adventures of the wandering prince and Tom Canty, the pauper king, eager always for more. The story, at first, was not entirely understood by the reviewers. They did not believe it could be serious.
Now, then, speak. Where is thy mother? Where are thy sisters? They came not to the place appointed knowest thou whither they went?" The King answered sullenly "Trouble me not with these riddles. My mother is dead; my sisters are in the palace." The youth near by burst into a derisive laugh, and the King would have assaulted him, but Canty or Hobbs, as he now called himself prevented him, and said
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.
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