heatres with exemplary regularity.
Of his life in Paris there are only the meagrest 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
theatre, 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, base 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.

This first sojourn abroad was not immediately fruitful in a literary
way, and need not further detain us. It was the irresolute pilgrimage of
a man who had not yet received his vocation. Everywhere he was received
in t