supposed him a relative of General Washington.  This mistake is offset by another that occurred later, after Irving had attained some celebrity in England.  An English lady passing through an Italian gallery with her daughter stopped before a bust of Washington.  The daughter said, “Mother, who was Washington?” “Why, my dear, don’t you know?” was the astonished reply.  “He wrote the ‘Sketch-Book.’” It was at the house of Baron von Humboldt, the Prussian minister, that Irving first met Madame de Stael, who was then enjoying the celebrity of “Delphine.”  He was impressed with her strength of mind, and somewhat astounded at the amazing flow of her conversation, and the question upon question with which she plied him.

In May the wanderer was in Paris, and remained there four months, studying French and frequenting the theaters with exemplary regularity.  Of his life in Paris there are only the meagerest reports, and he records no observations upon political affairs.  The town fascinated him more than any other in Europe; he notes that the city is rapidly beautifying under the emperor, that the people seem gay and happy, and ’Vive la bagatelle!’ is again the burden of their song.  His excuse for remissness in correspondence was, “I am a young man and in Paris.”

By way of the Netherlands he reached London in October, and remained in England till January.  The attraction in London seems to have been the theater, where he saw John Kemble, Cooke, and Mrs. Siddons.  Kemble’s acting seemed to him too studied and over-labored; he had the disadvantage of a voice lacking rich bass tones.  Whatever he did was judiciously conceived and perfectly executed; it satisfied the head, but rarely touched the heart.  Only in the part of Zanga was the young critic completely overpowered by his acting,—­Kemble seemed to have forgotten himself.  Cooke, who had less range than Kemble, completely satisfied Irving as Iago.  Of Mrs. Siddons, who was then old, he scarcely dares to give his impressions lest he should be thought extravagant.  “Her looks,” he says, “her voice; her gestures, delighted me.  She penetrated in a moment to my heart.  She froze and melted it by turns; a glance of her eye, a start, an exclamation, thrilled through my whole frame.  The more I see her, the more I admire her.  I hardly breathe while she is on the stage.  She works up my feelings till I am like a mere child.”  Some years later, after the publication of the “Sketch-Book,” in a London assembly Irving was presented to the tragedy queen, who had left the stage, but had not laid aside its stately manner.  She looked at him a moment, and then in a deep-toned voice slowly enunciated, “You’ve made me weep.”  The author was so disconcerted that he said not a word, and retreated in confusion.  After the publication of “Bracebridge Hall” he met her in company again, and was persuaded to go through the ordeal of another presentation.  The stately woman fixed her eyes on him as before, and slowly said, “You ’ve made me weep again.”  This time the bashful author acquitted himself with more honor.