ART. VII.-Essays. By R. W. EMERSON. Nature, an Essay, Orations, &c. &c.

THE reputation enjoyed by that "transatlantic thinker," whose name we have set forth in the heading to these remarks, suggests matter for grave reflection. When we find an essayist of this description, who seems to be "a setter forth of new gods," belauded alike by Tory and Radical organs, by "Blackwood" and "the Westminster," by the friends of order and disorder-when we find his works reproduced in every possible form, and at the most tempting prices, proving the wide circulation they must enjoy amongst the English public generally-we feel that we too should not leave them disregarded, that we should bestow something more than the mere incidental notice on them which we have hitherto found occasion to indite. We are credibly informed that these essays find many readers and admirers amongst the youth of our universities. Here is a more special "moving cause for our examination into this theme,-the "rationale" of what we may well call the Emerson mania. We shall discuss a few of the leading tenets of the Emersonian philosophy, as calmly and dispassionately as we may; and, if we give offence to the idolaters of this "transatlantic star," we can only say that truth is too serious a matter to be trifled with, and that we hold ourselves bound, in this instance, to speak out plainly. To plunge, then, “in medias res,"

"'Tis true, 'tis pity; pity 'tis, 'tis true!"

But men in this age, ay, and women too, grow weary of truth and reason: sober sense offends, and unity annoys them; they long for a concert of harmonious discords to wake them from their drowsy lethargy. To the mental palate, thus diseased, novelty is the chief provocative. A new cook comes, and mingles poison with his sauces. What then? The flavour is pungent, and a moral evil may often be an intellectual pleasure.

Some reflection of this nature is needed to re-assure us when we see men and women, whom we have believed sensible and amiable, hailing the glare of such a treacherous marshlight as the American paradox-master before us, as though it were the advent of a new and brilliant star. Mingled considerations oppress us in treating such a theme: on the one hand, our knowledge of the great mischief wrought in so many cases by this mighty phrasemonger

would urge severest ridicule as the first of duties; on the other, there is really such an amount of showy cleverness, of external brilliancy, and, now and then, of even happy audacity, about this quasi-philosopher, that we feel we should not do him justice, nor have any chance of reducing him to his rightful level in the estimation of his rapt admirers, did we not testify our sense of those merits which, in some degree, excuse their adoration, and which cannot fail to strike the most prejudiced observer.

True it is, that when a man throws forth thoughts at random, as Emerson does, without the smallest regard to self-consistency or reality, he cannot fail, here and there, to light on a quarter, or a half truth, or perhaps even on a whole one. Let a man possessed of a competent knowledge of counter-point sit many hours at a piano, forcing the chords into endless combinations, now and then a happy musical idea can scarcely fail to flit across the air; small praise to the strummer! The man of higher taste and nobler imagination would far rather abide under the imputation of barrenness, than afflict his own soul and senses by the production of the false, the common, and the vile. There is a certain order of wealth that is near akin to poverty.

What shall we think of his philosophy, who can seriously tell us, "With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do?" Order is divine disorder is a blot, an error, an absurdity. How, then, shall we esteem his wisdom, who boasts, "I unsettle all things. No facts are to me sacred; none are profane; I simply experiment, an endless seeker, with no past at my back?" Unconnectedly does this writer jerk forth his sayings; here is a perception, there a second, there a third; make the most of them! only ask not for sequence or completeness! And yet a myriad waves apart will make but one wide and desolate swamp; blend half of these in one, and a broad lake spreads forth, to mirror the azure skies, and refresh the eye with beauty.

Nevertheless, despite this vagueness and seeming boundlessness of thought, we soon learn that the philosophy of Mr. Emerson (if we may so call it) is restricted within a system's narrow limits, as well as that of his neighbours; there is no logic in his form of utterance, certainly, but by-and-by we begin to perceive that he is trading on a small stock of positive ideas, though he casts them into so many incongruous shapes, and is at so little pains to reconcile one with the other. We find that this essayist has a science, a morality, a religion of his own, and that, with all his pretensions to indefinite catholicity, he tests all things (as from the infirmity of man's nature he must needs do) by this special standard.

The one cardinal error of Emerson is to take the unit for the mass, the individual for the universal, the ego for Deity. With all

his contempt for those more sensible thinkers than himself, who have assented to a revealed scheme as truth absolute, and hold all other truths in subordination to that master-principle, he yet constantly, nay, continuously, assumes that human nature and the world are what he sees them to be, and can be nothing beyond this. He confounds relative with absolute existence. He seems to fancy the stars are not, until we behold them. Because to us, and for us, individually, things only are as we receive them, he conceives that fact and truth are dependent upon our perceptions. He regards man as a constantly inspired "revealer of the absolute; we use, in a degree, his own cant, to render ourselves acceptable to any of his deluded admirers, who may possibly be found amongst the readers of this article. He fancies that what he calls "the over-soul," or universal reason, is potentially common to all, but actually possessed only by those who are inspired; and these he regards as the infallible teachers of humanity.

Nevertheless, let it not be supposed that the errors of Emerson are those of Carlyle; that the former is only an imitator and disciple of the latter. Emerson, though less brilliant, and perhaps less genial, certainly endowed with less descriptive or dramatic power, is the better thinker of the twain: though here, if ever, is the place to say "bad is the best!" Carlyle, however, inculcates the worship of genius; Emerson denounces all adoration save that of self: Carlyle is by nature a mental slave; and Emerson the embodiment of self-glorification. The one commands us to kneel in the dust before force, whether displayed for good or evil, as being in its essence divine; the other forbids us to set the most glorious actions, the most mighty works, above, or even on an equality with, our own private notions of them. Which of these creeds is more mischievous, it were difficult to say: the cant of either is disagreeable; but we should say that that of the idolworshipper was the more odious, that of the self-idolater the more absurd. When the man, whom we know to place no faith in the bare existence of his God, echoes with rapturous and servile adulation the scriptural phrases of the Puritanic world, because emblematic to him of a real trust of some kind, which he is unable to share, we cannot but feel disgust; but we laugh outright at the comic self-sufficiency of that teacher who cries with a sober face and earnest voice, "If I see a trait, my children will see it after me, and, in course of time, all mankind-for my perception of it is as much a fact as the sun.

But should we not, perhaps, go more steadily to work, and say a few words--a very few, on each of the first twelve Essays in the volume before us, leaving "Nature," and "Addresses," and "Orations," for some future occasion, or rather altogether on

one side? For, in truth, owing to the small number (already hinted at) of Mr. Emerson's real notions (we will not say, ideas), the careful consideration of a single page, taken at random from his writings, would almost exhaust the theme. But let us proceed in order due.

First, then, our author discourses on "History," in which discourse his aim is to set forth his one great principle, that each man must assume his superiority to present, past, and future, subject these to his own nature, and receive or reject them without the slightest regard for authority, or apparently any external testimony whatever. And here let us remark, how very acceptable such teaching must have been, must still be, to weak, silly, half-formed youths, and all other inferior natures, which have too much vanity to know true honest pride, and would gladly think their own small "self" the epitome, nay, the circle, of the universe. Mr. Emerson says it is so. Hear him! (let us pass over the blasphemy of his motto!) "There is one mind common to all individual men." How satisfactory! Nay, more: "He that is once admitted to the right of reason is made a freeman of the whole estate." Is this not sufficiently explicit ? Know, then, "What Plato has thought, he may think; what a saint has felt, he may feel; what at any time has befallen any man, he can understand. Who hath access to this universal mind is a party to all that is or can be done; for this is the only and sovereign agent." Very intelligible, and very reasonable, no doubt; and, above all, conducive to modesty. But this is only "the starting;" our American warms with his theme: “A man,” that is, each man, "is the whole encyclopædia of facts." What a pleasing conviction! Youth behind the counter, rejoice for thou art All, and the All is in thee. Thou hast been wont to consider thyself a learner: know that the teachers of all ages shall come and bow down themselves before thee! "The moon" is in "the turnip" at last. How intoxicating must be this draught of self-delusive nectar to the imagination of many an honest boy!

Mr. Emerson simply puts out of question the great facts, that human perceptions of the Infinite must be finite at best, and that two of the greatest, and highest, and deepest sources of our conviction are authority and reverence. Nine-tenths of our material knowledge even we must take on trust: we cannot prove all things for ourselves. How, then, should we be entitled to conclude that our individual perceptions of moral and religious truth must be higher, and clearer, and more worthy than those of genius and of holiness? True it is, that to us, finally, our own sense of things must be the nearest and most important, though it

follows not, as Mr. Emerson assumes, that things are, because we think we see them. But, then, how is this sense formed which is to be our ultimate guide? The stanchest stickler for private judgment cannot reasonably affirm, that this should not be modified by those external aids which are here so unceremoniously rejected, or rather seemingly forgotten. Truth, Mr. Emerson, is not dependent upon perception. The great is great, the beautiful is beautiful, whether you or we see it or not. We may exclude the glorious sunshine, by absolutely closing our eyes to its beams; but we cannot force the daylight to fade because we blind ourselves.

Why should we make account of time, or of magnitude, or of form?-the soul knows them not!" Really! but the soul does know them; and if yours is ignorant, good "essayist," confined to the contemplation of your own ego, be assured that you are nothing but an isolated straw, driven to and fro by the breeze, without any fixed place in the wide world of spirits! History is, indeed, only of interest in as far as it speaks to the soul; but, if it does not speak to it, it follows not that history is barren, but more probably, that the soul is shallow, and "dead in life.'

It were endless to comment on all the self-contradictions of this writer; but it is amusing to find one who refers all things back to the individual ego, assuming that the human mind could not devise the form of a cherub, nor of a scroll to abut a tower, until it had seen some cloud or snowdrift, suggestive of these forms. The combinations of the imagination are endless; they may, they will, find their counterparts in nature; but they need not be stolen from it, though little minds will always conceive them so to be.

The atheism of the writer peeps out pretty broadly, where he commends the "Prometheus Bound," as emblematic of man's natural opposition to pure Theism, "his self-defence against this untruth," "a discontent with the believed fact, that a God exists." Very pretty, Mr. Emerson; very pretty, indeed; and well-meaning young men study you with reverence, and young ladies dote upon you-poor innocents! Finally, "History shall walk incarnate in every wise and just man;" in every selftrusting philosopher, in every Emerson, in fine, or Emersonian ! And, when we have once ascertained this fact, why not shut up our books, and begin to live history ourselves? After all, we are we, and all is in us. There is no resisting such arguments. We cannot wonder that simple souls should be fascinated and overpowered. But we would say to all that have thus been led astray, (and would that our voice could reach them!) return to