Mr. Irving was never a systematic collector of books, and his little library at Sunnyside might have disappointed those who would expect to see there rich shelves of choice editions, and a full array of all the favorite authors among whom such a writer would delight to revel.  Some rather antiquated tomes in Spanish,—­in different sets of Calderon and Cervantes, and of some modern French and German authors,—­a presentation-set of Cadell’s “Waverley,” as well as that more recent and elegant emanation from the classic press of Houghton,—­a moderate amount of home-tools for the “Life of Washington,” (rarer materials were consulted in the town-libraries and at Washington,)—­and the remainder of his books were evidently a hap-hazard collection, many coming from the authors, with their respects, and thus sometimes costing the recipient their full (intrinsic) value in writing a letter of acknowledgment.

The little apartment had, nevertheless, become somewhat overcrowded, and a suggestion for a general renovation and pruning seemed to be gladly accepted,—­so I went up and passed the night there for that purpose.  Mr. Irving, in his easy-chair in the sitting-room, after dinner, was quite content to have me range at large in the library and to let me discard all the “lumber” as I pleased; so I turned out some hundred volumes of un-classic superfluity, and then called him in from his nap to approve or veto my proceedings.  As he sat by, while I rapidly reported the candidates for exclusion, and he nodded assent, or as, here and there, he would interpose with “No, no, not that,” and an anecdote or reminiscence would come in as a reason against the dismissal of the book in my hand, I could not help suggesting the scene in Don Quixote’s library, when the priest and the barber entered upon their scrutiny of its contents.  Mr. Irving seemed to be highly amused with this pruning process, and his running commentary on my “estimates of value” in weighing his literary collections was richly entertaining.

Observing that his library-table was somewhat antiquated and inadequate, I persuaded him to let me make him a present of a new one, with the modern conveniences of drawers and snug corners for keeping his stray papers.  When I sent him such a one, my stipulation for the return of the old one as a present to me was pleasantly granted.  This relic was of no great intrinsic value; but, as he had written on this table many of his later works, including “Mahomet,” “Goldsmith,” “Wolfert’s Roost,” and “Washington,” I prize it, of course, as one of the most interesting mementos of Sunnyside.

As an illustration of habit, it may be added, that, some time after the new table had been installed, I was sitting with him in the library, when he searched long and fruitlessly for some paper which had been “so very carefully stowed away in some very safe drawer” that it was not to be found, and the search ended in a sort of half-humorous, half-earnest denunciation of all “modern conveniences";—­the simple old table, with its primitive facilities, was, after all, worth a dozen of these elegant contrivances for memory-saving and neatness.