the soul's nature than the way of their disclosure. Emerson is
more interested in what he perceives than in his expression of
it. He is a creator whose intensity is consumed more with the
substance of his creation 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