THOREAU. 207 



was converting us back to a state of nature " so elo 

 quently," as Voltaire said of Rousseau, "that he almost 

 persuaded us to go on all fours," while the wiser fates 

 were making it possible for us to walk erect for the first 

 time. Had he conversed more with his fellows, his 

 sympathies would have widened with the assurance that 

 his peculiar genius had more appreciation, and his writ 

 ings a larger circle of readers, or at least a warmer one/ 

 than he dreamed of. We have the highest testimony * 

 to the natural sweetness, sincerity, and nobleness of his 

 temper, and in his books an equally irrefragable one to 

 the rare quality of his mind. He was not a strong 

 thinker, but a sensitive feeler. Yet his mind strikes us 

 as cold and wintry in its purity. A light snow has 

 fallen everywhere in which he seems to come on the 

 track of the shier sensations that would elsewhere leave 

 no trace. We think greater compression would have done 

 more for his fame. A feeling of sameness comes over us 

 as we read so much. Trifles are recorded with an over- 

 minute punctuality and conscientiousness of detail. He 

 records the state of his personal thermometer thirteen 

 times a day. We cannot help thinking sometimes of the 

 man who 



" Watches, starves, freezes, and sweats 

 To learn but catechisms and alphabets 

 Of unconcerning things, matters of fact," 



and sometimes of the saying of the Persian poet, that 

 " when the owl would boast, he boasts of catching mice 

 at the edge of a hole." We could readily part with 

 some of his affectations. It was well enough for Py 

 thagoras to ,say, once for all, "When I was Euphorbus 

 at the siege of Troy " ; not so well for Thoreau to trav 

 esty it into " When I was a shepherd on the plains of 



* Mr. Emerson, in the Biographical Sketch prefixed to the " Excur 

 sions." 



