In the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day, in the second
quarter of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor family of the
name of Canty, who did not want him. On the same day another English
child was born to a rich family of the name of Tudor, who did want him.
All England wanted him, too. England had so longed for him, and hoped
for him, and prayed God for him, that, now that he was really come, the
people went nearly mad for joy. Mere acquaintances hugged and kissed
each other and cried. Everybody took a holiday, and high and low, rich
and poor, feasted and danced and sang, and got very mellow; and they
kept this up for days and nights together. By day, London was a sight to
see, with gay banners waving from every balcony and housetop, and
splendid pageants marching along. By night it was again a sight to see,
with its great bonfires at every corner, and its troops of revelers
making merry around them. There was no talk in all England but of the
new baby, Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, who lay lapped in silks and
satins, unconscious of all this fuss, and not knowing that great lords
and ladies were tending him and watching over him—and not caring,
either. But there was no talk about the other baby, Tom Canty, lapped in
his poor rags, except among the family of paupers whom he had just come
to trouble with his presence.
THE CANTY HOME
The house which Tom’s father lived in was up a foul little pocket called
Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane. It was small, decayed, and rickety,
but it was packed full of wretchedly poor families. Canty’s tribe
occupied a room on the third floor. The mother and father had a sort of
bedstead in the corner; but Tom, his grandmother, and his two sisters,
Bet and Nan, were not restricted—they had all the floor to themselves,
and might sleep where they chose. There were the remains of a blanket or
two, and some bundles of ancient and dirty straw, but these could not
rightly be called beds, for they were not organized; they were kicked
into a general pile mornings, and selections made from the mass at
night, for service.
LONDON BRIDGE
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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