Now you are transported to the streets of fourteenth-century London. You stand at the upper window of a lofty timbered house, and from your coign of vantage see the ancient city donning its festive array. There is an air of rejoicing and there is a buzz of expectation everywhere. The houses of the wealthier citizens are hung with gay carpets, rich silks, and fine tapestry. Streamers are flying, garlanded poles are reared, and here and there you see trophies of arms—shields, helmets, breastplates, lances, swords, sheaves of arrows, maces, and battle-axes. Anon you hear the rattle of drum and the blare of trumpet as the City companies, clad in their liveries, take up the places assigned to them. Now a procession of clergy, habited in their richest vestments, winds by. Gay gallants in their blue or green tunics and hoods, their hose of diverse hues, and their _Cracow_ shoes with long, curving toes laced to the knee with silver chains, come and go, and lend colour and vivacity to the scene. Many a fair maiden in a gay kirtle gazes out of her casement with sparkling eyes, and hard by you see no less interested matrons, in all the bravery of their best attire. Now, afar off, you hear the huzzas of the crowd, and as you watch and wait nearer and nearer come the salvoes of applause. The cannon of the Tower roar out their welcome, trumpets sound, and bells clash from the steeples. Right royally does London greet those whom she delights to honour to-day. Ah! here come the archers, the pride of England, a goodly array of stalwart yeomen, bronzed and hardened by long campaigning on French fields. Look at them as they swagger along, conscious of their prowess, the rings of conquered knights on their horny hands, and the jewelled baldrics of French nobles across their shoulders. See how they bandy many a merry jest with the maidens on the causeway, and shout their jovial greetings to the citizens, who wave their caps and cheer wildly in response. There is not a lad in London who does not yearn to be an archer. With his six-foot bow in his hand and a sheaf of arrows at his belt, your archer envies neither knight nor king. He has won great fame, and his pouch is filled with rose nobles; and when these are gone, there are plenty more to be won in Poitou and Gascony. And if the Prince—God bless him!—has no more wars on hand, why, there are always the Free Companies ready and willing to welcome a stalwart bowman who can “clap in the clout” at fourscore yards, and use a bill right yeomanly when it comes to handstrokes.