to enable him to live in a hut in a wood for the rest of the
twelvemonth; he did his household work himself, and his little stock of
money sufficed to buy him food and clothes, and to meet his small
expenses. But Thoreau was indolent rather than simple; and what spoilt
his simplicity was that he was for ever hoping that he would be
observed and admired; he was for ever peeping out of the corner of his
eye, to see if inquisitive strangers were hovering about to observe the
hermit at his contemplation. If he had really loved simplicity best, he
would have lived his life and not troubled himself about what other
people thought of him; but instead of that he found his own simplicity
a deeply interesting and refreshing subject of contemplation. He was
for ever looking at himself in the glass, and describing to others the
rugged, sunbrowned, slovenly, solemn person that he saw there.

And then, too, it was easier for Thoreau to make money than it would be
for the ordinary artisan. When Thoreau wrote his famous maxim, "To
maintain oneself on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime," he did
not add that he was himself a man of remarkable mechanical gifts; he
made, when he was disposed, admirable pencils, he was an excellent
land-surveyor, and an author as well; moreover, he was a celibate by
nature. He would no doubt have found, if he had had a wife and
children, and no aptitude for skilled labour, that he would have had to
work as hard as any one else.

Thoreau had, too, a quality which is in itself an economical thing. He
did not care in the least for society. He said that he would rather
"keep bachelor's hall in hell than go to board in heaven." He was not a
sociable man, and sociability is in itself expensive. He had, it is
true, some devoted friends, but it seems that he would have done
anything for them except see them. He was a man of many virtues and no
vices, but he was most at his ease with faddists. Not that he avoided
his fellow-men; he was always ready to see people, to talk, to play
with children, but on the other hand society was not essential to him.
Yet, just and virtuous as he was, there was something radically
unamiable about him: "I love Henry," one of his friends said of him,
"but I cannot like him; and as for taking his arm I should as soon
think of taking the arm of an elm-tree." He was in fact an egotist with
strong fancies and preferences; and, though he was an ascetic by
preference, he cannot be c