for all the world, (with their gilding, emblazonings and trappings, their powdered coachmen, and footmen holding on behind, three in a row, with staves and cocked hats,) like the carriage of Cinderella in the nursery-book. And indeed, on a drawing-room day, the fair creatures within, in their ostrich-plumes, and lace, and diamonds, as revealed to vulgar eyes through the glass-windows, often seem to realize the fabulous beauty of Cinderella herself with their dazzling complexions and delicate airs. Not alone the vulgar, however, but many of the personal friends of the fair parties are viewing them, all the time, from the neighbouring balconies and shop-fronts. The levee attracts less of a crowd, and yet there was crowd enough, and very stupid was my approach to Pall-Mall. There—you wait till called in your turn, and meanwhile have time to look at the mounted trumpeters, pursuivants, and guards, in liveries of scarlet and gold, drawn up before the gates. At last, setting forward, you enter the court-yard, with as much of a flourish as your whip can make for you, and alight at the door of the Palace, making your way, first along a corridor, and then slowly up a grand stair-case, to the suite of apartments opened for the occasion. As you enter these apartments, you throw your card into a basket, and pass on amid files of yeomen of the guard, wearing the Tudor livery, and holding their halberds, and looking like old statues of wood or stone, or rather like the wax figures in a museum. When the time comes for you to enter the royal presence, you are met at the door of the throne-room by a gentleman in waiting, to whom you deliver your second card, that you may be properly announced. This card is handed to another official, and you are ushered through a file of ladies of honour towards her Majesty, who stands beneath a canopy, with Prince Albert at her side, the centre of the brilliant circle, and (as I am glad to say) making a truly royal appearance. Here your name is called out, and that of the party who presents you, and then—an American simply advances and bows to the Queen, repeats the salaam to her princely consort, and so retires backwards, not turning his heel upon the royal presence. A British subject goes through the more formidable ceremony of falling on one knee, and kissing the royal hand. Now it so happened that her Majesty—owing no doubt to my attire, which was the same as that of her own clerical subjects—evidently mistook me for one; and my gallantry was in consequence sorely put to the test,—for, advancing with great dignity, the Queen was just proffering her hand, and I was beginning to balance between the republicanism of my knee, and the courtesy of my heart, when the anxious official promptly repeated the form—“presented by the _American_ Minister.” Of course her Majesty took the hint, and most gracefully withdrew, with a courteous recognition and a pleasant smile, while I finished my democratic homage with as much