Emerson was an idealist in the Platonic sense of the word, a spiritualist as opposed to a materialist.  He believes, he says, “as the wise Spenser teaches,” that the soul makes its own body.  This, of course, involves the doctrine of preexistence; a doctrine older than Spenser, older than Plato or Pythagoras, having its cradle in India, fighting its way down through Greek philosophers and Christian fathers and German professors, to our own time, when it has found Pierre Leroux, Edward Beecher, and Brigham Young among its numerous advocates.  Each has his fancies on the subject.  The geography of an undiscovered country and the soundings of an ocean that has never been sailed over may belong to romance and poetry, but they do not belong to the realm of knowledge.

That the organ of the mind brings with it inherited aptitudes is a simple matter of observation.  That it inherits truths is a different proposition.  The eye does not bring landscapes into the world on its retina,—­why should the brain bring thoughts?  Poetry settles such questions very simply by saying it is so.

The poet in Emerson never accurately differentiated itself from the philosopher.  He speaks of Wordsworth’s Ode on the Intimations of Immortality as the high-water mark of the poetry of this century.  It sometimes seems as if he had accepted the lofty rhapsodies of this noble Ode as working truths.

     “Not in entire forgetfulness,
      And not in utter nakedness,
  But trailing clouds of glory do we come
      From God, who is our home.”

In accordance with this statement of a divine inheritance from a preexisting state, the poet addresses the infant:—­

“Mighty prophet!  Seer blest! 
On whom those truths do rest
Which we are toiling all our lives to find.”—­

These are beautiful fancies, but the philosopher will naturally ask the poet what are the truths which the child has lost between its cradle and the age of eight years, at which Wordsworth finds the little girl of
  whom he speaks in the lines,—­

             “A simple child—­
    That lightly draws its breath
  And feels its life in every limb,—­
    What should it know of death?”

What should it, sure enough, or of any other of those great truths which Time with its lessons, and the hardening of the pulpy brain can alone render appreciable to the consciousness?  Undoubtedly every brain has its own set of moulds ready to shape all material of thought into its own individual set of patterns.  If the mind comes into consciousness with a good set of moulds derived by “traduction,” as Dryden called it, from a good ancestry, it may be all very well to give the counsel to the youth to plant himself on his instincts.  But the individual to whom this counsel is given probably has dangerous as well as wholesome instincts.  He has also a great deal besides the instincts to be considered.  His instincts