n than with the manner by which he shows it to others. Like
Petrarch he seems more a discoverer of Beauty than an imparter of it.
But these discoveries, these devotions to aims, these struggles toward
the absolute, do not these in themselves, impart something, if not all,
of their own unity and coherence--which is not received, as such, at
first, nor is foremost in their expression. It must be remembered that
"truth" was what Emerson was after--not strength of outline, or even
beauty except in so far as they might reveal themselves, naturally, in
his explorations towards the infinite. To think hard and deeply and to
say what is thought, regardless of consequences, may produce a first
impression, either of great translucence, or of great muddiness, but in
the latter there may be hidden possibilities. Some accuse Brahms'
orchestration of being muddy. This may be a good name for a first
impression of it. But if it should seem less so, he might not be saying
what he thought. The mud may be a form of sincerity which demands that
the heart be translated, rather than handed around through the pit. A
clearer scoring might have lowered the thought. Carlyle told Emerson
that some of his paragraphs didn't cohere. Emerson wrote by sentences
or phrases, rather than by logical sequence. His underlying plan of
work seems based on the large unity of a series of particular aspects
of a subject, rather than on the continuity of its expression. As
thoughts surge to his mind, he fills the heavens with them, crowds them
in, if necessary, but seldom arranges them, along the ground first.
Among class-room excuses for Emerson's imperfect coherence and lack of
unity, is one that remembers that his essays were made from lecture
notes. His habit, often in lecturing, was to compile his ideas as they
came to him on a general subject, in scattered notes, and when on the
platform, to trust to the mood of the occasion, to assemble them. This
seems a specious explanation, though true to fact. Vagueness, is at
times, an indication of nearness to a perfect truth. The definite glory
of Bernard of Cluny's Celestial City, is more beautiful than
true--probably. Orderly reason does not always have to be a visible
part of all great things. Logic may possibly require that unity means
something ascending in self-evident relation to the parts and to the
whole, with no ellipsis in the ascent. But reason may permit, even
demand an ellipsis, and genius may not need th