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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Mark Twain

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The Dining Hall, with its lobby and organ-gallery, occupies the entire storey, which is 187 feet long, 51 feet wide, and 47 feet high; it is lit by nine large windows, filled with stained glass on the south side; and is, next to Westminster Hall, the noblest room in the metropolis.  Here the boys, now about 800 in number, dine; and here are held the ’Suppings in Public,’ to which visitors are admitted by tickets issued by the Treasurer and by the Governors of Christ’s Hospital.  The tables are laid with cheese in wooden bowls, beer in wooden piggins, poured from leathern jacks, and bread brought in large baskets.  The official company enter; the Lord Mayor, or President, takes his seat in a state chair made of oak from St. Catherine’s Church, by the Tower; a hymn is sung, accompanied by the organ; a ‘Grecian,’ or head boy, reads the prayers from the pulpit, silence being enforced by three drops of a wooden hammer.  After prayer the supper commences, and the visitors walk between the tables.  At its close the ’trade-boys’ take up the baskets, bowls, jacks, piggins, and candlesticks, and pass in procession, the bowing to the Governors being curiously formal.  This spectacle was witnessed by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in 1845.

 

The King warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said—“I would know thee—tell me thy story.  Thou hast a gallant way with thee, and a noble—art nobly born?”

 

In an instant several indignant hands were laid upon the boy; but in the same instant Tom Canty, in his regal vestments, made a swift step forward, and cried out in a ringing voice—

 

“I think the woman hath said true.  An’ my mother were in her place and gifted with the devil’s functions, she had not stayed a moment to call her storms and lay the whole land in ruins, if the saving of my forfeit life were the price she got!  It is argument that other mothers are made in like mould.  Thou art free, goodwife—thou and thy child—for I do think thee innocent.  Now thou’st nought to fear, being pardoned—pull off thy stockings!—an’ thou canst make me a storm, thou shalt be rich!”

 

“O noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman—but it giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so.  My brother there will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish when these fits be upon me.  A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food; then leave me to my sorrows.”

 

There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.

 

TOM presented himself before Aunt Polly, who was sitting by an open window in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bedroom, breakfast-room, dining-room, and library, combined. The balmy summer air, the restful quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees had had their effect, and she was nodding over her knitting—for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her lap. Her spectacles were propped up on her gray head for safety. She had thought that of course Tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered at seeing him place himself in her power again in this intrepid way. He said: “Mayn’t I go and play now, aunt?”

 

“I reckon I ain’t dressed fitten for a pirate,” said he, with a regretful pathos in his voice; “but I ain’t got none but these.”

 

At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk. In the course of it Aunt Polly said:

 

“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own business—she ’lowed she’d ’tend to de whitewashin’.”

 

“Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o’ sight yit? Don’t talk loud.”

 

The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up a while, five cents a game. Then they got tired of it, and allowed they would “lay out a campaign,” as they called it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. One bill said, “The celebrated Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris,” would “lecture on the Science of Phrenology” at such and such a place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission, and “furnish charts of character at twenty-five cents apiece.” The duke said that was him. In another bill he was the “world-renowned Shakespearian tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane, London.” In other bills he had a lot of other names and done other wonderful things, like finding water and gold with a “divining-rod,” “dissipating witch spells,” and so on. By and by he says:

 

“My very words, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin’—pass that-air sasser o’ m’lasses, won’t ye?—I was a-sayin’ to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how did they git that grindstone in there, s’I. Without help, mind you—’thout help! that’s wher ’tis. Don’t tell me, s’I; there wuz help, s’I; ’n’ ther’ wuz a plenty help, too, s’I; ther’s ben a dozen a-helpin’ that nigger, ’n’ I lay I’d skin every last nigger on this place but I’d find out who done it, s’I; ’n’ moreover, s’I—”

 

“Not where I hid it I reckon it won’t,” I says.

 

“Yes—regular. His pew’s right over opposite ourn—on t’other side the pulpit.”

 

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