MR. EMERSON AS A POET. I hold it of little matter Whether your jewel be of pure water, But whether it dazzle me with light. EMERSON. Charm is the glory which makes Song of the poet divine. MATTHEW ARNOLD. ANDOR says, in his "Imaginary Conversations," that "a rib of Shakespeare would have made Milton-the same portion of Milton, all poets born ever since." born ever since." Something of this largeness and intensity-this su premacy of genius-belongs to Emerson. So dense and pervading is his peculiar and individual force, it might, if properly distributed, be made to equip and light a literary constellation. We must go back to Shakespeare and Milton, among English names, to find an equally enormous endowment. If it does not stream in versatility, it towers in commanding altitude.* Among his contemporaries we may name, to be sure, notable men of a more composite order— but no personality at once so compact, so essence-like, so opulent, so strong. While his power is well authenticated in one direction by all who are competent to speak of it, it is curious, and not quite explicable, that the current literary criticism conspires to go so completely around his poetry. It leaves it, indeed, in almost * Dr. Bartol says: "If Shakespeare or Goethe be the Mont Blanc, Emerson is a neighboring Aiguille of lesser breadth, but well-nigh equal height." solitary neglect-surrounds it as if, among the high products of literary expression in this century, it alone should be reserved as an island for silence. Let us admit at the outset, if you will, that the fortitude of his strain as Matthew Arnold says of the verses of Epictetus-" is for the strong, for the few; even for them the spiritual atmosphere with which it surrounds them is bleak and gray"—and that "The solemn peaks but to the stars are known, But to the stars and the cold lunar beams; Alone the sun arises, and alone Spring the great streams." But the best minds concede the brilliancy of Emerson's thought, and find delight in its acuteness and depth. They accept his power in prose,—and this prose, unmatchable and radiant, is itself better poetry than the verses of many reputable singers. They do not refuse to rate him |