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a background.”
“The partially cultivated country it is,” he says, “which has chiefly inspired, and will continue to inspire, the strains of poets such as compose the mass of any literature.”
“What is nature,” he elsewhere says, “unless there is a human life passing within it?
Many joys and many sorrows are the lights and shadows in which she shines most beautiful.”
This is the real and human
Thoreau, who often whimsically veiled himself, but was plainly enough seen by any careful observer.
That he was abrupt and repressive to bores and pedants, that he grudged his time to them and frequently withdrew himself, was as true of him as of
Wordsworth or
Tennyson.
If they were allowed their privacy, though in the heart of
England, an American who never left his own broad continent might at least be allowed his privilege of stepping out of doors.
The
Concord school-children never quarreled with this habit, for he took them out of doors with him and taught them where the best whortleberries grew.
His scholarship, like his observation of nature, was secondary to his function as poet and writer.
Into both he carried the element of whim; but his version of the “Prometheus bound” shows accuracy, and his study of birds and plants shows care.
It must be remembered that he antedated the modern school, classed