Toward mid-day, the more experienced eye, or better-ordered glass of the port-admiral at Leith, descried the smoke of the assisting steam-boats. Up went the royal standard; every gun of every ship in the roads told the tidings; and instantly the echoes of cliff and castle rang to the shouts of an hundred thousand joyous voices. All was bustle and scramble. Heralds marshalling here, clans mustering there, and people crowding everywhere; while the royal squadron, now aided by a gentle but favourable breeze, stood majestically toward the roads, where it anchored about two o’clock. Anon the water was peopled with loyalty; the splendour of dresses and of flags dazzled the eye; and the swell of all sorts of noises deafened the ear. The equilibrium of the clouds was unsettled; and, just as preparations were making for the landing, rain fell in torrents. Lest so much finery should be spoiled in the first scene of the drama, the grand ceremony was postponed till the next morning. The king, in the mean time, received at the hands of Sir Walter Scott, a St. Andrew’s cross, the gift of some ladies of Scotland, whose names (prudently perhaps) never were distinctly published. Nearly at the same time with this, came a messenger of another description. He told that the Marquis of Londonderry was no more; and thus, even the royal joy was not wholly unmingled. Still the king showed himself to his aquatic visitors in the most courteous manner; and, perhaps, the two events were the better borne that they came together. Thus the Athens had another night for preparation; and, as it was not a night of fear, that preparation went on with increased activity and spirit. She had now seen the king; and but a night was to elapse, ere the gratification was to be mutual, by the king seeing her. On his part, indeed, it should have been greatest, as she had given herself most trouble, and would continue longest to feel the cost. CHAPTER III. THE ATHENS RECEIVES THE KING, AND IS JOYOUS. All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry, While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram ’bout her reechy neck, Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows, Are smother’d up, leads fill’d, and ridges horsed, With variable complexions; all agreeing In earnestness to see him: seld’-shewn flamens Do press among the popular throngs, and puff To win a vulgar station: our veil’d dames Commit the war of white and damask, in Their nicely-gawded cheeks, to the wanton spoil Of Phœbus’ burning kisses; such a pother, As if that whatsoever god, who leads him, Were slily crept into his human powers, And gave him graceful posture.--SHAKSPEARE.