He was leader of the
revels when the slaves gathered at night in front of the huts and made a
joy of captivity and sang hymns which sounded like profane music hall
songs, and songs with an unction now lost to the world, even as
Shakespeare's fools are lost--that gallant company who ran a thread of
tragedy through all their jesting.
Great things had been prophesied for this youth in the days when he sat
upon an empty treacle barrel with a long willow rod in his hand, a cocked
hat on his head, a sword at his side--a real sword once belonging to a
little Bonaparte--and fiddlers and banjoists beneath him. His father on
such occasions called him Young King Cole.
All had changed, and many things had happened, as we shall see. But one
thing was clear--this was no wild man from the west. He had claims to be
considered, and he was considered. People watched him as he went down over
the esplanade and into quiet streets. The little occurrence at the dinner
table had set him upon a train of thoughts which he had tried to avoid for
many years. On principle he would not dwell on the past. There was no
corrosion, he said to himself, like the memory of an ugly deed. But the
experiences of the last few days had tended to throw him into the past,
and for once he gave himself up to it.
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