Santayana on Emerson

Those who knew Emerson, or who stood so near to his time and to his circle that they caught some echo of his personal influence, did not judge him merely as a poet or philosopher, nor identify his efficacy with that of his writings. His friends and neighbors, the congregations he preached to in his younger days, the audiences that afterward listened to his lectures, all agreed in a veneration for his person that had nothing to do with their understanding or acceptance of his opinions. They flocked to him and listened to his word, not so much for the sake of its absolute meaning as for the atmosphere of candor, purity, and serenity that hung about it, as about a sort of sacred music. They felt themselves in the presence of a rare and beautiful spirit who was in communion with a higher world. More than the truth his teachings might express, they valued the sense it gave them of a truth that was inexpressible. They became aware, if we may say so, of the ultraviolet rays of his spectrum, of the inaudible highest notes of his gamut, too pure and thin for common ears.

The source of his power lay not in his doctrine, but in his temperament, and the rare quality of his wisdom was due less to his reason than to his imagination. Reality eluded him; he had neither diligence nor constancy enough to master and posses it; but his mind was open to all philosophical influences, from whatever quarter they might blow; the lessons of science and the hints of poetry worked themselves out in him to a free and personal religion. He differed from the plodding many, not in knowing things better, but in having more ways of knowing them. His grasp was not particularly firm, he was far from being like Plato or Aristotle, past master in the art and the science of life. But his mind was endowed with unusual plasticity, with unusual spontaneity and liberty of movement—It was a fairyland of thoughts and fancies. He was like a young god making experiences in creation: he blotched the work and always began again on a new and better plan. Every day he said , “Let there be light,” and every day the light was new. His sun, like that of Heraclitus, was different every morning. 

_{Emerson: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. by Milton Konvitz and Stephen Whicher. Prentice-Hall, N.J., 1962: 31-32.}