those last
months. "I do not fear death," said he, "but I would like to go down
with all sail set." The thoughts of the gradual loss of his faculties
haunted him with curious insistency. He conceived a dislike for his
own room, could not bear to be alone, and hung with pathetic eagerness
to the companionship of the few whom he held dearest. His fear was
groundless. To the end his mind remained clear; and on the 29th of
November, 1859, he "went down with all sail set."

VI

THE MAN HIMSELF

One is tempted to ask himself, in concluding a review of this man's
life and work, what it was that he peculiarly stood for; what new kind
of excellence he brought into being, and how far it survived him.
Oddly enough, the accident of his birthplace is made at once his chief
merit, and the subtle derogation of that merit; he is the first
distinguished name in American letters, and he is "the American
Addison." From the outset one who wishes to study his work is hampered
by the fact of place. One must be always considering solemnly,
"Although he was an American, he succeeded in doing this," or,
"Because he was an American, he might have done that," till one is
fairly inclined to wish that his English parents had not happened to
marry and settle in New York. As a matter of fact, there are few
writers against whom the point of nationality may be pushed with less
pertinence.

It is plain that earlier American writing interests us only in a local
and guarded sense. The critical microscope discovers certain merits;
but the least shifting of the eye-piece throws the object out of
field. We value what these men wrote because of what they did as
Americans, or stood for in American life. Of Irving and a few later
writers this is not true. And our regard for them may lead us to
suspect that from the literary point of view, it is better to be great
than American; or at least that there is no formula to express the
ratio between a writer's Americanism and his literary power. The
historian esteems a flavor of nationality in literature; to the lover
of pure letters, it is only a superior sort of local color. Irving's
distinction is that he was the first prophet of pure letters in
America. This is to speak thickly; and it will not help matters
greatly to say that the mark of pure letters is style. The application
of that foggy term to such a writer as Irving is likely to be
particularly unfair; it has not been spared him. He has had mor