“’Your name is up and may go
       From Toledo to Madrid.’”

Irving passed five years in England.  Once recognized by the literary world, whatever was best in the society of letters and of fashion was open to him.  He was a welcome guest in the best London houses, where he met the foremost literary personages of the time, and established most cordial relations with many of them; not to speak of statesmen, soldiers, and men and women of fashion, there were the elder D’Israeli, Southey, Campbell, Hallam, Gifford, Milman, Foscolo, Rogers, Scott, and Belzoni fresh from his Egyptian explorations.  In Irving’s letters this old society passes in review:  Murray’s drawing-rooms; the amusing blue-stocking coteries of fashion of which Lady Caroline Lamb was a promoter; the Countess of Besborough’s, at whose house the Duke could be seen; the Wimbledon country seat of Lord and Lady Spence; Belzoni, a giant of six feet five, the center of a group of eager auditors of the Egyptian marvels; Hallam, affable and unpretending, and a copious talker; Gifford, a small, shriveled, deformed man of sixty, with something of a humped back, eyes that diverge, and a large mouth, reclining on a sofa, propped up by cushions, with none of the petulance that you would expect from his Review, but a mild, simple, unassuming man,—­he it is who prunes the contributions and takes the sting out of them (one would like to have seen them before the sting was taken out); and Scott, the right honest-hearted, entering into the passing scene with the hearty enjoyment of a child, to whom literature seems a sport rather than a labor or ambition, an author void of all the petulance, egotism, and peculiarities of the craft.  We have Moore’s authority for saying that the literary dinner described in the “Tales of a Traveller,” whimsical as it seems and pervaded by the conventional notion of the relations of publishers and authors, had a personal foundation.  Irving’s satire of both has always the old-time Grub Street flavor, or at least the reminiscent tone, which is, by the way, quite characteristic of nearly everything that he wrote about England.  He was always a little in the past tense.  Buckthorne’s advice to his friend is, never to be eloquent to an author except in praise of his own works, or, what is nearly as acceptable, in disparagement of the work of his contemporaries.  “If ever he speaks favorably of the productions of a particular friend, dissent boldly from him; pronounce his friend to be a blockhead; never fear his being vexed.  Much as people speak of the irritability of authors, I never found one to take offense at such contradictions.  No, no, sir, authors are particularly candid in admitting the faults of their friends.”  At the dinner Buckthorne explains the geographical boundaries in the land of literature:  you may judge tolerably well of an author’s popularity by the wine his bookseller gives him.  “An author crosses the port line about the third edition, and gets into