A kind of suppressed murmur buzzed along the crowded room, which, subsiding into a dead silence, the Emperor Alexander rose, and addressing the guests in a few but well-chosen words in English, informed them he had received permission from their amiable and captivating hostess to propose a toast, and he took the opportunity with unqualified delight to give the health of 'the Prince Regent.' A perfect thunder of applause acknowledged this piece of gracious courtesy, and a 'hip! hip! hurrah!' which astonished the foreigners, shook the very roof. While the deafening shouts rose on every side, Mrs. Paul wrote a line with her pencil hastily on her card, and turning round gave it to a Cossack aide-de-camp of the emperor to deliver into Mr. Rooney's hands. Either from the excitement of the moment or his imperfect acquaintance with English, the unlucky Cossack turned for an explanation towards the first British officer near him, who happened to be O'Grady.

'What does this mean?' said he in French.

'Ah,' said Phil, looking at it, 'this is intended for that gentleman at the foot of the table. You see him yonder—he's laughing now. Come along, I'll pilot you towards him.'

Suspecting that O'Grady's politeness had some deeper motive than mere civility, I leaned over his shoulder and asked the reason of it.

'Look here,' said he, showing me the card as he spoke, on which was written the following words: 'Make the band play “God Save the King “; the emperor wishes it.'

'Come with us, Jack,' whispered O'Grady; 'we had better keep near the door.'

I followed them through the dense crowd, who were still cheering with all their might, and at last reached the end of the table, where Paul himself was amusing a select party of Tartar chiefs, Prussian colonels, Irish captains, and Hungarian nobles.

'Look here,' said Phil, showing me the card, which in his passage down the room he had contrived to alter, by rubbing out the first part and interpolating a passage of his own; making the whole run thus—

'Sing the “Cruiskeen Lawn”; the emperor wishes it.'

I had scarcely time to thrust my handkerchief to my mouth and prevent an outbreak of laughter, when I saw the Cossack officer present the card to Paul with a deep bow. Mr. Rooney read it—surveyed the bearer; read it again—rubbed his eyes, drew over a branch of wax-candles to inspect it better, and then, directing a look to the opposite extremity of the table, exchanged glances with his spouse, as if interrogating her intentions once more. A quick, sharp nod from Mrs. Paul decided the question thus tacitly asked; and Paul, clearing off a tumbler of sherry, muttered to himself, 'What the devil put the “Cruiskeen Lawn” into his Majesty's head I can't think; but I suppose there's no refusing.*