We have digressions on Boodh, on Anacreon, (with translations hardly so good as Cowley,) on Persius, on Friendship, and we know not what. Mr. Thoreau becomes so absorbed in these discussions, that he seems, as it were, to catch a crab, and disappears from his seat at the bow-oar. . . . as it is, they are out of proportion and out of place, and mar our Merrimacking dreadfully.
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