spot. "The only fruit of much living," he observes, "is the
ability to do some slight thing better." But such was the
exactitude of his senses, so alive was he in every fibre,
that it seems as if the maxim should be changed in his case,
for he could do most things with unusual perfection. And
perhaps he had an approving eye to himself when he wrote:
"Though the youth at last grows indifferent, the laws of the
universe are not indifferent, BUT ARE FOR EVER ON THE SIDE OF
THE MOST SENSITIVE."


II.


Thoreau had decided, it would seem, from the very first to
lead a life of self-improvement: the needle did not tremble
as with richer natures, but pointed steadily north; and as he
saw duty and inclination in one, he turned all his strength
in that direction. He was met upon the threshold by a common
difficulty. In this world, in spite of its many agreeable
features, even the most sensitive must undergo some drudgery
to live. It is not possible to devote your time to study and
meditation without what are quaintly but happily denominated
private means; these absent, a man must contrive to earn his
bread by some service to the public such as the public cares
to pay him for; or, as Thoreau loved to put it, Apollo must
serve Admetus. This was to Thoreau even a sourer necessity
than it is to most; there was a love of freedom, a strain of
the wild man, in his nature, that rebelled with violence
against the yoke of custom; and he was so eager to cultivate