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 to talk.