At Guildhall

           Theroyalbarge,attendedbyitsgorgeousfleet,tookitsstatelywaydowntheThamesthroughthewildernessofilluminatedboats.Theairwasladenwithmusic;theriverbankswereberuffledwithjoy-flames;thedistantcitylayinasoftluminousglowfromitscountlessinvisiblebonfires;aboveitrosemanyaslenderspireintothesky,incrustedwithsparklinglights,whereforeintheirremotenesstheyseemedlikejewelledlancesthrustaloft;asthefleetsweptalong,itwasgreetedfromthebankswithacontinuoushoarseroarofcheersandtheceaselessflashandboomofartillery.

           ToTomCanty,halfburiedinhissilkencushions,thesesoundsandthisspectaclewereawonderunspeakablysublimeandastonishing.Tohislittlefriendsathisside,thePrincessElizabethandtheLadyJaneGrey,theywerenothing.

           ArrivedattheDowgate,thefleetwastowedupthelimpidWalbrook(whosechannelhasnowbeenfortwocenturiesburiedoutofsightunderacresofbuildings)toBucklersbury,pasthousesandunderbridgespopulouswithmerry-makersandbrilliantlylighted,andatlastcametoahaltinabasinwherenowisBargeYard,inthecentreoftheancientcityofLondon.Tomdisembarked,andheandhisgallantprocessioncrossedCheapsideandmadeashortmarchthroughtheOldJewryandBasinghallStreettotheGuildhall.