d; he refused to pay a tax to the State; he
ate no flesh, he drank no wine, he never knew the use of tobacco; and,
though a naturalist, he used neither trap nor gun. When asked at dinner
what dish he preferred, he answered, 'the nearest.'" So many negative
superiorities begin to smack a little of the prig. From his later works
he was in the habit of cutting out the humorous passages, under the
impression that they were beneath the dignity of his moral muse; and
there we see the prig stand public and confessed. It was "much easier,"
says Emerson acutely, much easier for Thoreau to say _no_ than _yes_;
and that is a characteristic which depicts the man. It is a useful
accomplishment to be able to say _no_, but surely it is the essence of
amiability to prefer to say _yes_ where it is possible. There is
something wanting in the man who does not hate himself whenever he is
constrained to say no. And there was a great deal wanting in this born
dissenter. He was almost shockingly devoid of weaknesses; he had not
enough of them to be truly polar with humanity; whether you call him
demi-god or demi-man, he was at least not altogether one of us, for he
was not touched with a feeling of our infirmities. The world's heroes
have room for all positive qualities, even those which are disreputable,
in the capacious theatre of their dispositions. Such can live many
lives; while a Thoreau can live but one, and that only with perpetual
foresight.

He was no ascetic, rather an Epicurean of the nobler sort; and he had
this one great merit, that he succeeded so far as to be happy. "I love
my fate to the core and rind," he wrote once; and even while he lay
dying, here is what he dictated (for it seems he was already too feeble
to control the pen): "You ask particularly after my health. I _suppose_
that I have not many months to live, but of course know nothing about
it. I may say that I am enjoying existence as much as ever, and regret
nothing." It is not given to all to bear so clear a testimony to the
sweetness of their fate, nor to any without courage and wisdom; for this
world in itself is but a painful and uneasy place of residence, and
lasting happiness, at least to the self-conscious, comes only from
within. Now Thoreau's content and ecstasy in living was, we may say,
like a plant that he had watered and tended with womanish solicitude;
for there is apt to be something unmanly, something almost dastardly, in
a life that does not move w