The Prince and the Pauper

In the ancient, crowded city of London, on a chilly autumn day, nearly 500 years ago, two baby boys were born, who looked so much alike, they might have been carved from the very same block of marble. But while one was welcomed with the ringing of church bells, the firing of cannons, and the cheering of an entire kingdom, the other arrived in a dark, drafty room, where nobody wanted him at all. This story comes to us from the literary tradition of the United States, written by the great American author Mark Twain in the late 19th century. Yet, like a ship crossing the wide Atlantic, it carries us back in time to the foggy, cobblestone streets of Old England, during the reign of the Tudor kings. It is a story that has been told in many ways over the years, but at its heart, it remains a tale of two lives turned upside down by a single daring choice. The first boy was named Edward Tudor, the Prince of Wales. He lived in Westminster Palace, surrounded by walls of thick stone, tapestries of rich crimson silk, and more servants than he could count. When he woke in the morning, one servant handed him his shirt, another buckled his shoes, and a third poured his water. He was never allowed to run down the long corridors, never allowed to get dirty, and never allowed to play with other children. He was a prisoner of his own high birth, watched constantly by guards and tutors who reminded him every hour of the heavy crown he would one day wear. The second boy was named Tom Canty. He lived in a wretched, smelling alleyway called Awful Court, not far from the muddy banks of the River Thames. Tom's home was a single, decaying room on the third floor of a house that seemed to lean sideways with age. He slept on a pile of dirty straw in the corner, sharing the floor with his mother, his twin sisters, Nan and Bet, and his father, John Canty. John Canty was a thief and a bully, a man with a voice like gravel and a hand that was always ready to strike. He expected Tom to go out into the streets every day to beg for pennies, and if Tom came home empty-handed, he was beaten and sent to bed without even a crust of moldy bread. Yet, despite the hunger and the bruises, Tom was not entirely unhappy. In the very same tenement house, lived an old defrocked priest named Father Andrew. Father Andrew was a kind soul, who had saved a few precious books from the ruins of his old church. In the quiet hours of the evening, when the rest of London was asleep, the old priest taught Tom how to read and write. He taught him a little Latin too, and told him magnificent sweeping stories of brave knights, golden castles, and noble princes who ruled with justice and mercy. These stories became Tom's escape. When the rain poured through the holes in the roof, and his stomach growled with hunger, Tom would close his eyes and pretend he was a prince. He practiced speaking with a slow, courtly dignity. He walked with his head held high, pretending his ragged coat was a velvet robe. Soon, the other children of Awful Court began to notice. They called him Prince Tom in jest, but they also began to bring their arguments to him, marveling at how fairly he settled their disputes. Still, Tom's greatest wish was to see a real prince, just once with his own eyes. One cold winter morning, Tom wandered far from his usual haunts, his bare feet blue with the frost. He found himself outside the grand gates of Westminster Palace. Peering through the gilded iron bars, he saw a sight that made his breath catch in his throat. There, on the manicured lawns, stood a boy of his own age. The boy wore a doublet of shimmering red satin, slashed with gold thread, a small sword in a jeweled scabbard at his hip, and a cap of blue velvet, adorned with a curling white…

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