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