Emerson hungered for the quintessence of things, their last
concentrated, intensified meanings, for the pith and marrow of men and
events, and not for their body and bulk. He wanted the ottar of roses
and not a rose garden, the diamond and not a mountain of carbon. This
bent gives a peculiar beauty and stimulus to his writings, while at
the same time it makes the reader crave a little more body and
substance. The succulent leaf and stalk of certain garden vegetables
is better to one's liking than the more pungent seed. If Emerson
could only have given us the essence of Father Taylor's copious,
eloquent, flesh-and-blood discourses, how it would have delighted us!
or if he could only have got the silver out of Alcott's bewitching
moonshine--that would have been worth while!
But why wish Emerson had been some other than he was? He was at least
the quintessence of New England Puritanism, its last and deepest
meaning and result, lifted into the regions of ethics and æsthetics.