On the following evening, which was the evening of March 5, Mr.
Burroughs entered fully into a discussion of Emerson, Thoreau and
Whitman. His conversation ran about as follows:
"Thoreau was somewhat eccentric and did not reach a large class of
people like Emerson, who always savored of youth, and stimulates all who
read him. Thoreau was original, however, and his books breathe the
breath of real things. Whitman was larger than Thoreau, and encompassed
the whole world, instead of a little nook of the woods like Walden
Pond. He used to breakfast with us on Sunday mornings when we lived in
Washington, and he never reached our house on time for meals. Mrs.
Burroughs would fret and worry and get hot while the breakfast would get
cold. One moment she would be at the door looking down the street,
another she would be fanning with her apron, wishing that man would come
on. Presently, Walt could be seen, and he would swing off the car,
whistling as if a week was before him in which to get to his breakfast.
To have him in our home was a great pleasure to us. He always brought
sunshine and a robust, vigorous nature. Once Mrs. Burroughs had prepared
an extra good meal, and Walt seemed to enjoy it more than usual. After
eating most heartily he smiled, saying: 'Mrs. Burroughs knows how to
appeal to the stomach as Mr. Burroughs does to the mind.' I often saw
him on the front of a horse car riding up the streets of Washington. Far
down the street, before I could see his face, his white beard and hair
could be seen distinctly. He usually rode with one foot upon the front
railing, and was with Peter Doyle, a popular cab driver, oftener than he
was with any one else. Doyle was a large Irishman with much native wit,
and was a favorite of Whitman's.
"The Atlantic is my favorite of American periodicals, and I like to see
my papers printed in it. It seems always to hold to a very high
standard of excellence. I remember well when the magazine was launched
in November of 1857. I was teaching at the time, and having purchased a
copy, in the town in which I was teaching, I returned home and remarked
to Mrs. Burroughs that I liked the new magazine very much and thought it
had come to stay. Somehow, the contents made me feel assured of its
success. I was married in September before the magazine appeared in
November. My first essay was printed in the Atlantic in November of
1860, three years after it had been launched. I was very proud, indeed,
when I had received the magazine and found my own work in print in it.
The essay was 'Expression' and was purely Emersonian. Now I knew it
would never do for me to keep this up, if I hoped for great success.
This essay was so like Emerson, that it fooled Lowell, the editor of the
Atlantic, and Mr. Hill, the Rhetorician, who quoted a line from it
giving Emerson as the author. (Here Mr. Burroughs laughed.) You know, it
was not customary to sign names to articles written for periodicals in
those days. I was so much worried about this Emersonian mask that I
resolved to lay it off. So I began to write of things that I knew about,
such as birds and flowers, the weather and all out-door Nature. I soon
found that I had hit upon my feet, that I had found my own.
"The title of my first book was 'Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and
Person,' and was published in 1867. Later I wrote a book on 'Whitman: A
Study.' Since I first turned attention to Whitman, he has never released
hold upon me. I found a more wholesome air in his than in any other
poetry, and when I met him and learned to love him, his attractive
personality strengthened my love for his writings. He is the one
mountain in our American Literary Landscape. There are some beautiful
hills.
"I don't seem to be in a mood to write poetry. One cannot write when he
thinks to do so. He must have a deep consciousness of his message, if he
would say something that will hold water. Probably I shall find my muse
again some day; I don't know.
"I have always been a lover of the farm. I am a man of the soil. I
enjoyed the smell of that manure as we passed up the road today. It
recalled my early days when I used to put it out on the farm. Anything
that savors of the farm and of farm life is pleasant to me. Nothing
makes me happier than my annual visits back to my old home in the
Catskills. When Mrs. Burroughs and I decided to buy a home and move away
from Washington, I could not decide just where would be best for us to
settle, so we thought to get near New York and at the same time as near
the old home as possible. We have enjoyed our life at Riverby very much,
and it is convenient in every way. We have a great many visitors, and
like to see them come.
"At this time America has no great writer, but many who use pretty
English. They seem to have no great message. Stedman wrote well, but his
essays always savored too much of the mid-night oil. They read as if the
best of his energy had been spent in something else, and the tired
mid-night hours turned to literary work. They are not fresh like
Lowell's essays. I do not think anything he wrote has lasting qualities,
with the possible exception of two or three poems. Aldrich wrote sweet
verse, but it is sweet in the sense that a peach or a plum is sweet. It
has no fast colors. Trowbridge is one of our best present-day writers,
and much of his work will be unknown to the next generation. He is a man
of attractive personality and exceptionally pleasing manners. Mrs.
Burroughs and I have, for a long time, enjoyed his friendship. As for my
own writings, I sometimes wonder just how they have affected people, and
what my life has meant. I have always hoped that some would be helped by
my books. A short time ago, I had a letter from a preacher in the upper
part of New York state, who had just finished a book on 'The Gospel of
Christ,' and he asked me if I would write a book on 'The Gospel of
Nature.' After I received the letter and began to think about the
matter, I was much perplexed as to whether there is a gospel of Nature.
I have since then written something along the line suggested, but I do
not know whether it will ever appear in print. It is always interesting
to have suggestions from any one about what I should write. Writing is
more a product of the soul than of the will.
"I once asked President Roosevelt what he would do when he left the
White House. He replied quickly: 'Oh, I'll find plenty to do. Don't
worry about that.' And he will find plenty to do. He is a man of intense
activity, and will always be happiest when he is busiest. I admit that
he takes large liberties as the executive of the nation, but he is a
natural leader and controller of men. When he sets his head to do a
thing, he keeps digging away till it is done. He is full of resources. I
have just received a letter from him consenting to be interviewed by my
friend, William Bayard Hale. Hale is a good man, and will give a most
reliable account of his visit to the White House."
John Burroughs, who is destined to be called "the good gray naturalist,"
is a man who enters freely into the life of those who admire him and his
writings. Recently it was my delight to read and discuss one of his
short poems, "The Return," with Mrs. Burroughs, and I could not resist
the temptation to remark that Mr. Burroughs must have been homesick for
the old place when he wrote it.
The wife said: "Yes; you have no idea how true that is! Mr. Burroughs
often goes back to his old home at Roxbury, up in the Catskills, and
walks over the farm and through the woods where he used to go when he
was a boy, and he always tells me how sad it makes him feel. I sometimes
think that he would like to live his life over, he has so many fond
memories and pleasant recollections of his early life."