Visiting London shortly after the “Life of Mahomet” was prepared for the press, I arranged with Mr. Murray, on the author’s behalf, for an English edition of “Mahomet,” “Goldsmith,” etc., and took a request from Mr. Irving to his old friend Leslie, that he would make a true sketch of the venerable Diedrich Knickerbocker.  Mr. Irving insisted that the great historian of the Manhattoes was not the vulgar old fellow they would keep putting on the omnibuses and ice-carts; but that, though quaint and old-fashioned, he was still of gentle blood.  Leslie’s sketches, however, (he made two,) did not hit the mark exactly; Mr. Irving liked Darley’s better.

Among the briefer visits to Sunnyside which I had the good-fortune to enjoy was one with the estimable compiler of the “Dictionary of Authors.”  Mr. Irving’s amiable and hospitable nature prompted him always to welcome visitors so kindly, that no one, however dull, and however uncertain his claims, would fail to be pleased with his visit.  But when the genial host was in good health and in his best moods, and the visitor had any magnetism in his composition, when he found, in short, a kindred spirit, his talk was of the choicest.  Of Sir Walter Scott, especially, he would tell us much that was interesting.  Probably no two writers ever appreciated each other more heartily than Scott and Irving.  The sterling good sense, and quiet, yet rich humor of Scott, as well as his literary tastes and wonderful fund of legendary lore, would find no more intelligent and discriminating admirer than Irving; while the rollicking fun of the veritable Diedrich and the delicate fancy and pathos of Crayon were doubtless unaffectedly enjoyed by the great Scotsman.  I wish I could tell you accurately one-half of the anecdotes which were so pleasantly related during those various brief visits at “the Cottage”; but I did not go there to take notes, and it is wicked to spoil good stories by misquotation.  One story, however, I may venture to repeat.

You remember how the author of the “Pleasures of Hope” was once hospitably entertained by worthy people, under the supposition that he was the excellent missionary Campbell, just returned from Africa,—­and how the massive man of state, Daniel Webster, had repeated occasion, in England, to disclaim honors meant for Noah, the man of words.  Mr. Irving told, with great glee, a little story against himself, illustrating these uncertainties of distant fame.  Making a small purchase at a shop in England, not long after his second or third work had given currency to his name, he gave his address ("Mr. Irving, Number,” etc.) for the parcel to be sent to his lodgings.  The salesman’s face brightened:  “Is it possible,” said he, “that I have the pleasure of serving Mr. Irving?” The question, and the manner of it, indicated profound respect and admiration.  A modest and smiling acknowledgment was inevitable.  A few more remarks indicated still more deferential interest on the part of the