Not the least impressive of those who stood by, smiling, was the figure of the tall Colonel, his hat off for once, and pride written on his face.  Oh, that his dear wife might have lived to see this!

What was said in that historic interview with a future Sovereign of England, far from his royal palaces, on Democratic sawdust, with an American Beauty across a board counter, was immediately recorded by the Colonel, together with an exact description of his Royal Highness’s blue coat, and light, flowing pantaloons, and yellow waist-coat, and colored kids; even the Prince’s habit of stroking his mustache did not escape the watchful eye.  It is said that his Grace of Newcastle smiled twice at Miss Virginia’s retorts, and Lord Lyons, the British Minister, has more than two to his credit.  But suddenly a strange thing happened.  Miss Virginia in the very midst of a sentence paused, and then stopped.  Her eyes had strayed from the Royal Countenance, and were fixed upon a point in the row of heads outside the promenade.  Her sentence was completed—­with some confusion.  Perhaps it is no wonder that my Lord Renfrew, whose intuitions are quick, remarked that he had already remained too long, thus depriving the booth of the custom it otherwise should have had.  This was a graceful speech, and a kingly.  Followed by his retinue and the prominent citizens, he moved on.  And it was remarked by keen observers that his Honor the Mayor had taken hold once more of the Prince’s elbow, who divided his talk with Colonel Carver.

Dear Colonel Carvel!  What a true American of the old type you were.  You, nor the Mayor, nor the rest of the grave and elderly gentlemen were not blinded by the light of a royal Presence.  You saw in him only an amiable and lovable young man, who was to succeed the most virtuous and lovable of sovereigns, Victoria.  You, Colonel Carvel, were not one to cringe to royalty.  Out of respect for the just and lenient Sovereign, his mother, you did honor to the Prince.  But you did not remind him, as you might have, that your ancestors fought for the King at Marston Moor, and that your grandfather was once an intimate of Charles James Fox.  But what shall we say of Mr. Cluyme, and of a few others whose wealth alone enabled them to be Directors of the Fair?  Miss Isabel Cluyme was duly presented, in proper form, to his Royal Highness.  Her father owned a “peerage,” and had been abroad likewise.  He made no such bull as the Colonel.  And while the celebrated conversation of which we have spoken was in progress, Mr. Cluyme stood back and blushed for his countryman, and smiled apologetically at the few gentlemen of the royal suite who glanced his way.