Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - On the Hudson, Saturday, October 20
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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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