I had hinted to one of my guests that Mr. Irving was sometimes “caught napping” even at the dinner-table, so that such an event should not occasion surprise.  The conversation proved so interesting that I had almost claimed a victory, when, lo! a slight lull in the talk disclosed the fact that our respected guest was nodding.  I believe it was a habit with him, for many years, thus to take “forty winks” at the dinner-table.  Still, the conversation of that evening was a rich treat, and my English friends frequently thanked me afterwards for the opportunity of meeting “the man of all others whom they desired to know.”

The term of Mr. Irving’s contract with his Philadelphia publishers expired in 1843, and, for five years, his works remained in statu quo, no American publisher appearing to think them of sufficient importance to propose definitely for a new edition.  Surprising as this fact appears now, it is actually true that Mr. Irving began to think his works had “rusted out” and were “defunct,”—­for nobody offered to reproduce them.  Being, in 1848, again settled in Now York, and apparently able to render suitable business-attention to the enterprise, I ambitiously proposed an arrangement to publish Irving’s Works.  My suggestion was made in a brief note, written on the impulse of the moment; but (what was more remarkable) it was promptly accepted without the change of a single figure or a single stipulation.  It is sufficient to remark, that the number of volumes since printed of these works (including the later ones) amounts to about eight hundred thousand.

The relations of friendship—­I cannot say intimacy—­to which this arrangement admitted me were such as any man might have enjoyed with proud satisfaction.  I had always too much earnest respect for Mr. Irving ever to claim familiar intimacy with him.  He was a man who would unconsciously and quietly command deferential regard and consideration; for in all his ways and words there was the atmosphere of true refinement.  He was emphatically a gentleman, in the best sense of that word.  Never forbidding or morose, he was at times (indeed always, when quite well) full of genial humor,—­sometimes overflowing with fun.  But I need not, here at least, attempt to sum up his characteristics.

That “Sunnyside” home was too inviting to those who were privileged there to allow any proper opportunity for a visit to pass unimproved.  Indeed, it became so attractive to strangers and lion-hunters, that some of those whose entree was quite legitimate and acceptable refrained, especially during the last two years, from adding to the heavy tax which casual visitors began to levy upon the quiet hours of the host.  Ten years ago, when Mr. Irving was in his best estate of health and spirits, when his mood was of the sunniest, and Wolfert’s Roost was in the spring-time of its charms, it was my fortune to pass a few days there with my wife.  Mr. Irving himself