Tom Canty, splendidly arrayed, mounted a prancing war-steed, whose rich trappings almost reached to the ground; his ‘uncle,’ the Lord Protector Somerset, similarly mounted, took place in his rear; the King’s Guard formed in single ranks on either side, clad in burnished armour; after the Protector followed a seemingly interminable procession of resplendent nobles attended by their vassals; after these came the lord mayor and the aldermanic body, in crimson velvet robes, and with their gold chains across their breasts; and after these the officers and members of all the guilds of London, in rich raiment, and bearing the showy banners of the several corporations.  Also in the procession, as a special guard of honour through the city, was the Ancient and Honourable Artillery Company—­an organisation already three hundred years old at that time, and the only military body in England possessing the privilege (which it still possesses in our day) of holding itself independent of the commands of Parliament.  It was a brilliant spectacle, and was hailed with acclamations all along the line, as it took its stately way through the packed multitudes of citizens.  The chronicler says, ’The King, as he entered the city, was received by the people with prayers, welcomings, cries, and tender words, and all signs which argue an earnest love of subjects toward their sovereign; and the King, by holding up his glad countenance to such as stood afar off, and most tender language to those that stood nigh his Grace, showed himself no less thankful to receive the people’s goodwill than they to offer it.  To all that wished him well, he gave thanks.  To such as bade “God save his Grace,” he said in return, “God save you all!” and added that “he thanked them with all his heart.”  Wonderfully transported were the people with the loving answers and gestures of their King.’

In Fenchurch Street a ‘fair child, in costly apparel,’ stood on a stage to welcome his Majesty to the city.  The last verse of his greeting was in these words—­

’Welcome, O King! as much as hearts can think; Welcome, again, as much as tongue can tell,—­Welcome to joyous tongues, and hearts that will not shrink:  God thee preserve, we pray, and wish thee ever well.’

The people burst forth in a glad shout, repeating with one voice what the child had said.  Tom Canty gazed abroad over the surging sea of eager faces, and his heart swelled with exultation; and he felt that the one thing worth living for in this world was to be a king, and a nation’s idol.  Presently he caught sight, at a distance, of a couple of his ragged Offal Court comrades—­one of them the lord high admiral in his late mimic court, the other the first lord of the bedchamber in the same pretentious fiction; and his pride swelled higher than ever.  Oh, if they could only recognise him now!  What unspeakable glory it would be, if they could recognise him, and realise that the derided mock king