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felt this who met him。 He has therefore not died； as some men die； the
remote impersonal sort； but he is yet thrillingly alive in every page of
his books。 The quantity of his literature is not great； but the quality
is very surprising； and surprising first of all as equality。 From the
beginning to the end he wrote one man； of course in his successive
consciousnesses。 Perhaps every one does this； but his work gives the
impression of an uncommon continuity； in spite of its being the effect of
a later and an earlier impulse so very marked as to have made the later
an astonishing revelation to those who thought they knew him。
IX。
It is not for me in such a paper as this to attempt any judgment of his
work。 I have loved it； as I loved him； with a sense of its limitations
which is by no means a censure of its excellences。 He was not a man who
cared to transcend； he liked bounds； he liked horizons； the constancy of
shores。 If he put to sea； he kept in sight of land； like the ancient
navigators。 He did not discover new continents； and I will own that I；
for my part； should not have liked to sail with Columbus。 I think one
can safely affirm that as great and as useful men stayed behind； and
found an America of the mind without stirring from their thresholds。
End