for a prince; they were a positive success.  In the course of the evening we had speeches by Hallam and Lord Mahon for the historians; Campbell and Moore for the poets; Talfourd for the dramatists and the bar; Sir Roderick Murchison for the savans; Chevalier Bunsen and Baron Brunnow for the diplomatists; G. P. R. James for the novelists; the Bishop of Gloucester; Gally Knight, the antiquary; and a goodly sprinkling of peers, not famed as authors.  Edward Everett was present as American Minister; and Washington Irving (then on his way to Madrid in diplomatic capacity) represented American authors.  Such an array of speakers in a single evening is rare indeed, and it was an occasion long to be remembered.

The toasts and speeches were, of course, very precisely arranged beforehand, as etiquette requires, I suppose, being in the presence of “His Royal Highness,” yet most of them were animated and characteristic.  When “Washington Irving and American Literature” was propounded by the fugleman at the elbow of H.R.H., the cheering was vociferously hearty and cordial, and the interest and curiosity to see and hear Geoffrey Crayon seemed to be intense.  His name appeared to touch the finest chords of genial sympathy and good-will.  The other famous men of the evening had been listened to with respect and deference, but Mr. Irving’s name inspired genuine enthusiasm.  We had been listening to the learned Hallam, and the sparkling Moore,—­to the classic and fluent author of “Ion,” and to the “Bard of Hope,”—­to the historic and theologic diplomate from Prussia, and to the stately representative of the Czar.  A dozen well-prepared sentiments had been responded to in as many different speeches.  “The Mariners of England,” “And doth not a meeting like this make amends,” had been sung, to the evident satisfaction of the authors of those lyrics—­(Campbell, by-the-way, who was near my seat, had to be “regulated” in his speech by his friend and publisher, Moxon, lest H.R.H. should be scandalized).  And now everybody was on tiptoe for the author of “Bracebridge Hall.”  If his speech had been proportioned to the cheers which greeted him, it would have been the longest of the evening.  When, therefore, he simply said, in his modest, beseeching manner, “I beg to return you my very sincere thanks,” his brevity seemed almost ungracious to those who didn’t know that it was physically impossible for him to make a speech.  It was vexatious that routine had omitted from the list of speakers Mr. Everett, who was at Irving’s side; but, as diplomate, the Prussian and Russian had precedence, and as American author, Irving, of course, was the representative man.  An Englishman near me said to his neighbor,—­“Brief?” “Yes, but you can tell the gentleman in the very tone of his voice.”

In the hat-room I was amused to see “little Tom Moore” in the crowd, appealing, with mock-pathos, to Irving, as the biggest man, to pass his ticket, lest he should be demolished in the crush.  They left the hall together to encounter a heavy shower; and Moore, in his “Diary,” tells the following further incident.