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he does not make it, he sings it, and in his song
we find that overflowing sentiment which makes the
heart swell and thought spread its wings.
Waldo Emerson, a philosopher rather than a poet, yet
poetic in his prose philosophical essays, strikes me
as a new and peculiar character, the most unusual
of the three. He appears to me like an American
Thorild,[1] who by his own powerful nature would
transform the world, seeking law and inspiration
within his own breast alone. Strong and pure, calm
and self-collected, but fantastical withal, he sends
out from his transcendental viewpoint aphorisms on
nature and history, on God (whom he does not regard
as a personal God, but as a superior soul in harmony
with laws), and on men, criticising them and their
works from the ideal of the highest truth and highest
beauty. "The world," says Emerson, "has not seen
a man," and he looks forward with longing to that
man, the man of the new world, in whose advent he
believes. What this new individual shall really be,
and what he is to do, is somewhat indefinite; but he
must be true and beautiful in the highest sense of the
term; and further, I suspect, he must be very handsome
and tall of stature, if he is to find favor with
Emerson, who is himself, they say, a man of singular
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