and lived with her parents in a little cottage on White Island where her
father was the keeper of the lighthouse. She grew to womanhood in the
companionship of the rocks, the spray of the ocean, the seaweeds, the
shells and the miniature wild life she discovered among them, the tiny
wild flowers which her sharp young eyes could find in the most secret
crannies, and the marigolds, "rich in color as barbaric gold," which she
early learned to cultivate in "a scrap of garden literally not more than
a yard square." She shouted a friendly greeting to the noisy gulls and
kittiwakes that fluttered overhead, chased the sandpipers along the
gravelly beach, made friends and neighbors of the crabs, the sea-spiders
and land-spiders, the sea-urchins, the grasshoppers and crickets, and
set in motion armies of sandhoppers, that jumped away like tiny
kangaroos when she lifted the stranded seaweed. And then the birds came
to see her. The swallows gathered fearlessly upon the window-sills and
built their nests in the eaves, seeming to know that the loving eyes
watching their movements could mean no evil. Now and then a bobolink, an
oriole, or a scarlet tanager would be seen. The song sparrows came in
flocks to be fed every morning. With them, at times, came robins and
blackbirds, and occasionally yellowbirds and kingbirds. Sometimes, in
hazy weather, they would fly against the glass of the lighthouse with
fatal results. "Many a May morning," says Mrs. Thaxter, "have I wandered
about the rock at the foot of the tower mourning over a little apron
brimful of sparrows, swallows, thrushes, robins, fire-winged blackbirds,
many-colored yellowbirds, nuthatches, catbirds, even the purple finch
and scarlet tanager and golden oriole, and many more beside--enough to
break the heart of a small child to think of."
It is no wonder that such a sympathetic soul could even summon the birds
to keep her company--as she frequently did with the loons. "I learned to
imitate their different cries; they are wonderful! At one time the loon
language was so familiar that I could almost always summon a
considerable flock by going down to the water and assuming the
neighborly and conversational tone which they generally use: after
calling a few minutes, first a far-off voice responded, then other
voices answered him, and when this was kept up a while, half a dozen
birds would come sailing in. It was the most delightful little party
imaginable; so comical were they that it was impossible not to laugh
aloud."
To her love of birds and flowers, Mrs. Thaxter added a love of the sea
itself, finding delight equally in the sparkle of the calm waves of
summer or the wild beating of the surf in winter. She developed a
marvelous ear for the music of the sea--something akin to that which
enables John Burroughs to name a bird correctly from its notes, even
when the songster is trying to imitate the call of another bird as the
little impostors sometimes do. She says: "Who shall describe that
wonderful voice of the sea among the rocks, to me the most suggestive of
all the sounds in nature? Each island, every isolated rock, has its own
peculiar note, and ears made delicate by listening, in great and
frequent peril, can distinguish the bearings of each in a dense fog."
Equally well did she know humanity. The daily life of the fishermen, the
kind and quantity of the fish they caught, the adventures they
experienced, the stories they told, the hardships they endured, the
little domestic tragedies that now and then took place in their humble
cottages, the sufferings from illness or accident, were all matters of
everyday knowledge to her and enlisted her profound sympathy.
Everything in nature appealed to her--the sea and sky, the sunrise and
the sunset, the winds and storms, the birds and flowers, the butterflies
and insects, the sea-shells and kelp, the fishes and all the lower forms
of life--all were objects of careful observation in which she took
delight; and to these must be added a deep interest in humanity,
particularly of the kind which she met in fishermen's cottages, where
her good common sense and knowledge of simple remedies enabled her to
render, again and again, a service in time of need when no other
assistance could be obtained.
Such was the unique character whose spirit dominates the islands even
to-day,--a lover of nature worthy to stand with Gilbert White, Thoreau,
or Burroughs, a poet, an artist, a friendly neighbor, and a womanly
woman.
It was a part of our good fortune to have the actual guidance in our
tour of the islands of the only surviving brother of Mrs. Thaxter, Mr.
Oscar Laighton. In his little motor boat he took us to the tiny island
known as Londoners, where for many winters he was the sole inhabitant.
Although advancing years have now made it inexpedient for him to live in
solitude, the little cottage still remains ready for occupancy at any
moment. We stepped inside expecting to see, in so desolate a spot, only
such rude furnishings as might be found in some mountain cabin or
hunter's lodge. To our astonishment we found it a veritable little
bower, a model of neatness and order, and every room, including the
kitchen, filled with well-chosen pictures and books, as though some
dainty fairy, of literary tastes, had planned it for her permanent
abode. Among the highly prized ornaments were many pieces of china,
painted by Mrs. Thaxter. To our minds, the most valuable article in the
house--valuable because of the lesson it teaches--is a typewritten card,
hanging conspicuously over the kitchen stove, with this cordial greeting
to the uninvited guest:--
"Welcome to any one entering this house in shipwreck or trouble. You
will find matches in the box on the mantel. The key to the wood-house
is in this box. Start a fire in the stove and make yourself
comfortable. There are some cans of food on shelf in the pantry.
Blankets will be found in the chamber on lower floor. There is a dory
ready to launch in the boat-house."
Three times have shipwrecked men entered the house and taken advantage
of this kindly welcome.
Our next visit was to White Island, where, after much difficulty in
getting ashore, we climbed to the top of the lighthouse. This is a very
different structure from the old wooden building of Celia Thaxter's
childhood and only a small part of the original dwelling remains. But
the landing is very much as she describes it. "Two long and very solid
timbers about three feet apart are laid from the boat-house to low-water
mark, and between those timbers the boat's bow must be accurately
steered.... Safely lodged in the slip, as it is called, she is drawn up
into the boat-house by a capstan, and fastened securely." Our boat was
not drawn up, and we had to walk up the steep, slippery planks--with
what success I shall not attempt to describe. Here, at night, the little
Celia used to sit, with a lantern at her feet, waiting in the darkness,
without fear, for the arrival of her father's boat, knowing that the
"little star was watched for, and that the safety of the boat depended
in a great measure upon it."
Haley's Island, or "Smutty Nose," as it was long ago dubbed by the
sailors because of its long projecting point of black rocks, lies
between Appledore and Star Island. Of the two houses now remaining, one
is the original cottage of Samuel Haley, an energetic and useful
citizen, who once owned the island. Nearby fourteen rude and neglected
graves tell a pathetic tale. The Spanish ship Sagunto was wrecked on
Smutty Nose, during a severe snowstorm on a January night. The
shipwrecked sailors saw the light in Haley's cottage and crept toward
it, benumbed with cold and overcome with the horror and fatigue of their
experience. Two reached the stone wall in front of the house, but were
too weak to climb over, and their bodies were discovered the next
morning, frozen to the stones. Twelve other bodies were found scattered
about the island. How gladly the old man would have given these poor
sailors the warmth and comfort of his home could he have known the
tragedy that was happening while he slept soundly only a few yards away!
Star Island, once the site of the village of Gosport, was in early days
the most important of the group. Before the Revolution a settlement of
from three to six hundred people carried on the fisheries of the island,
catching yearly three or four thousand quintals of fish. All this
business is now a thing of the past. The great shoals of mackerel and
herring, from which the islands took their name, have
disappeared--driven away or killed by the steam trawlers. The old
families departed long since, and new ones have never come to take their
places, save a few lobster fishermen, who with difficulty eke out a bare
living. A quaint little church of stone is perched upon the highest
rocks of Star Island, but I fear the attendance is small, even in the
summer time.
We found our way back to Appledore, content to spend the remaining days
of our visit on this the largest and most inviting of the group.
"A common island, you will say;
But stay a moment; only climb
Up to the highest rock of the isle,
Stand there alone for a little while,
And with gentle approaches it grows sublime,
Dilating slowly as you win
A sense from the silence to take it in."
Lowell was right. The greatest charm of the islands is felt when you
stand on "the highest rock of the isle," looking out upon the ever
sparkling sea that stretches
"Eastward as far as the eye can see--
Still Eastward, eastward, endlessly";
and feeling the restful quietude of the spot. I fancy Celia Thaxter
stood upon this rock when she sang--
"O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soar
Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave
The sad, caressing murmur of the wave
That breaks in tender music on the shore."
[Illustration: APPLEDORE]
VIII
A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS
VIII
A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS
"Oh, everybody here calls him Uncle John," was the quick reply to one of
my queries of the man who drove me to the country house of John
Burroughs, near Roxbury, New York. He had been saying many pleasant
things about the distinguished naturalist, dwelling particularly upon
his kind heart and genial nature. I noticed that he never referred to
him as "Dr." Burroughs, nor "Mr." Burroughs, nor even as "Burroughs,"
but always as "John" or "good old John," or most often, "Uncle John." So
I asked by what name the people called him, and the answer seemed to me
the most sincere compliment that could have been paid.
When a man has received many honorary degrees which the great
universities have felt proud to confer, it is an indication that those
most competent to judge have appreciated his intellectual attainments or
public services, or both. When the people of his native village bestow
upon him the title of "Uncle," it is an indication that the achievement
of fame has not eclipsed the lovable qualities in his character nor
dimmed the affectionate regard of the neighbors who have learned to
know him as a man. There is a certain friendliness implied in the title
of "Uncle," while it also suggests respect. If you live in a small town
you call everybody by his first name. But one of your number becomes
famous. To call him "John" seems too familiar. It implies that you do
not properly appreciate his attainments. To call him "Mister" or
"Doctor" seems to make a stranger of him, and you would not for the
world admit that he is not still your friend. "Uncle" is often a happy
compromise, particularly if he still retains the neighborly qualities of
his less distinguished years.
I do not know that the people of Roxbury ever followed this line of
reasoning, but it does seem quite appropriate that they should call
their most distinguished fellow citizen "Uncle John." He was born on a
farm near this little village in the Catskills on the 3d of April, 1837,
in the very time of the return of the birds. Perhaps this is why he is
so fond of them and particularly of Robin Redbreast, that fine
old-fashioned democrat, who is one of his prime favorites. He spent his
boyhood here, and now, in the fullness of his years, quietly returns
each summer to the old familiar haunts, living the same simple life as
of yore, except that the pen is now his tool instead of the farming
implements.
The little red schoolhouse, where Burroughs and Jay Gould went to school
together, may still be seen in the valley, standing in the open country
with one of those rounded hilltops in the background which form the
characteristic feature of the Catskills. Near by is the Gould
birthplace, now a comfortable-looking farmhouse, glistening with a fresh
coat of white paint. "Take away the porch and the back extension, and
the top story and the paint," said my driver, "and you will have the
original 'birthplace.'" He said that when he first began the livery
business in Roxbury many people came to see the birthplace of Jay Gould,
but no one mentioned Burroughs. Now it is just the other way, and the
number of visitors increases yearly, all anxious to see the home of the
famous philosopher. Yet these two men, one of whom seems to have
belonged to the generations of the past while the other is a part of the
ever-living present, were boys together in the same schoolhouse more
than sixty years ago.
As my conveyance drew up to the door, Mr. Burroughs came out with a
hearty welcome. He was alone, for during the summer, when he retires to
this place for work, he prefers to do his own housekeeping in his own
way. "I am a good cook," said he, "but a poor housekeeper." I did not
agree with the latter part of the statement, for as I looked around I
thought he had about all he needed and everything was clean. Moreover,
things were where he could get at them, and from a man's point of view
what better housekeeping could anybody want?
The house which he now occupies is a plain-looking farmhouse, built in
1869 by Mr. Burroughs's elder brother. Its most distinctive feature is
the rustic porch, a recent addition, which serves the purposes of
living-room, library, and bedroom. Mr. Burroughs is a believer in fresh
air and during the summer likes to sleep out of doors. He has a rustic
table, covered with favorite books. When he is not at work, he likes to
sit on the porch and enjoy what he calls "the peace of the hills."
Across the road there is a field, broad and long and crossed by numerous
stone walls. In the distance are the hills of his well-loved Catskills,
their smoothly undulating lines giving a sense of repose. At the right
of the house I noticed a small patch of green corn, in front of which
were some rambling cucumber vines. In the rear and at the left were a
few old apple trees, and farther back, capping the summit of a ridge, a
fine grove of trees, standing in orderly array, like an army ready for
action. Mr. Burroughs has named the place, in characteristic fashion,
"Woodchuck Lodge," "because," he said, "I can sit here and count the
woodchucks, sometimes eight or ten at a time."
[Illustration: JOHN BURROUGHS AT WOODCHUCK LODGE]
Not wishing to interfere with his plans, I expressed the hope that I was
not interrupting him, when he quickly replied, "O, my work for to-day
is all done. I rise at six and usually do all my writing before noon."
"You are like Sir Walter Scott, then," said I, "who always began early
and, as he said, 'broke the neck of the day's work' before the family
came down to breakfast and was 'his own man before noon.'" "Ah, he was a
wonderful man," replied Mr. Burroughs. Then, after a pause and with a
little sigh--"I wish I could invest these hills with romance as he did
the hills of Scotland." "But you _have_ invested them with romance," I
said, "although of a different kind." "Yes," he replied, with
brightening eyes, "with the romance of humanity and of nature, the only
kind to which they are entitled."
I could not help thinking how wonderfully like Wordsworth this seemed.
The romance of humanity and nature! Is it not this, which, since
Wordsworth's time, has given a new charm to the hills and valleys of
Westmoreland and Cumberland, causing every visitor to seek the
dwelling-places of the poet? And are not those who spend their summers
in the Catskills finding a new delight in those beautiful mountains
because of the spell which John Burroughs has thrown upon them?
Wordsworth wrote the history of his own mind and called it "The
Prelude," intending it to be but the introduction to a greater poem to
be entitled "The Recluse," which should be a broad presentation of his
views on Man, Nature, and Society. "The Excursion" was to be the second
part, but the third was never written. He conceived that this great work
would be like a Gothic church, the main body of which would be
represented by "The Recluse," while "The Prelude" would be but the
ante-chapel. All his other poems, when properly arranged, would then be
"likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses,
ordinarily included in those edifices."
Burroughs is far too modest to compare his writings to a cathedral, but
he has nevertheless, like Wordsworth, written himself into nearly all of
them. Following the English poet's simile in a modified form, we may
think of the product of his pen, not as a cathedral, but as a mansion of
many rooms, each furnished with beautiful simplicity and charming taste
to represent some different phase of the author's mind, and each
equipped, so to speak, with a mirror, possessing all the magic but
without the unpleasant duty of the one in Hawthorne's tale, so arranged
as to reflect the very soul of its builder with perfect fidelity.
So sincere is Burroughs that you feel certain he is constantly revealing
his true self. Therefore, when he praises Wordsworth as the English poet
who has touched him more closely than any other, you begin to realize
the bond of sympathy. When he says that Wordsworth's poetry has the
character of "a message, special and personal to a comparatively small
circle of readers," you know that he is one of the few who have taken
the message to heart.
Wordsworth's love of Nature was of the same kind as the American poet's.
"Nature," says Burroughs, "is not to be praised or patronized. You
cannot go to her and describe her; she must speak through your heart.
The woods and fields must melt into your mind, dissolved by your love
for them. Did they not melt into Wordsworth's mind? They colored all his
thoughts; the solitude of those green, rocky Westmoreland fells broods
over every page. He does not tell us how beautiful he finds Nature, and
how much he enjoys her; he makes us share his enjoyment." Substitute
Burroughs for Wordsworth, and Catskill for Westmoreland, and you have in
this passage a fine statement of the reason why John Burroughs is
winning the gratitude of more and more people every year.
Wordsworth thought of Nature as an all-pervading Presence, something
mysterious and sublime, a supreme Being,--
"The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being."
Burroughs does not rise to such ethereal heights, but recognizes that
the passion for Nature is "a form of, or closely related to, our
religious instincts." He lives closer to Nature than Wordsworth ever
did. His knowledge of her secrets is far deeper and more intimate. He is
a naturalist and scientist, as well as a man of poetic temperament. He
has a trained eye that sees what others would miss. "There is a great
deal of byplay going on in the life of Nature about us," he says, "a
great deal of variation and outcropping of individual traits, that we
entirely miss unless we have our eyes and ears open."
Probably no other man has a keener ear for the music of the birds. He
possesses that "special gift of grace," to use his own expression, that
enables one to hear the bird-songs. Not only can he distinguish the
various species by their songs, but he instantly recognizes a new note.
He once detected a robin, singing with great spirit and accuracy the
song of the brown thrasher, and on another occasion followed a thrush
for a long time because he recognized three or four notes of a popular
air which the bird had probably learned from some whistling shepherd
boy. He loves to put words into the mouths of the birds to fit their
songs and to fancy conversations between husband and wife upon their
nest. The sensitiveness of his ear for bird-music is wonderfully
illustrated in his story of a new song which he heard on Slide Mountain
in the Catskills. "The moment I heard it, I said, 'There is a new bird,
a new thrush,' for the quality of all the thrush songs is the same. A
moment more and I knew it was Bicknell's thrush. The song is in a minor
key, finer, more attenuated, and more under the breath than that of any
other thrush. It seemed as if the bird was blowing into a delicate,
slender, golden tube, so fine and yet so flute-like and resonant the
song appeared. At times it was like a musical whisper of great sweetness
and power." I do not believe that Wordsworth or any other poet, however
passionate his love of Nature, ever heard such a bird-song or could
describe its qualities with so keen a discernment.
Mr. Burroughs made me think of Wordsworth again when, as we sat looking
over toward the Catskills, he explained his residence at Woodchuck Lodge
by referring to his enjoyment of the open country and the peace and
quiet of the scene. For, says Wordsworth,--
"What want we? Have we not perpetual streams,
Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields
And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds
And thickets full of songsters, and the voice
Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound
Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,
Admonishing the man who walks below
Of solitude and silence in the sky?"
After an hour of pleasant conversation my host arose, saying he would
build his fire and we would have our dinner. In due course we sat down
to a repast that would have gladdened the heart of General Grant
himself. The old veteran, as many will remember, after his return from a
tour of triumph around the world, in which he had been banqueted by
kings and emperors, dukes, millionaires, and public societies, once
slipped into a farmer's kitchen for a dinner of corned beef and cabbage,
declaring that he was glad to get something good to eat. Our meal did
not consist of corned beef and cabbage, but of corn cakes, made of fresh
green corn plucked not a couple of yards from the kitchen door and baked
on a griddle by one of the foremost literary men of America. There were
other good things, plenty of them, but those delicious cakes with maple
syrup of the genuine kind exactly "touched the spot," as old-fashioned
folks used to say. Mine host must have noticed the unusual demands upon
his crop of corn and marveled to see the rapid disappearance of the
cakes, but he did not seem displeased. On the contrary, as he brought
in, time after time, a fresh pile of the steaming flapjacks, his face
beamed with the smile that betokens genuine hospitality. Our
conversation at table was mostly on politics, in which Mr. Burroughs
takes keen interest and upon which he is a man of decided convictions;
but this is a subject which he must be allowed to elucidate in his own
way.
[Illustration: JOHN BURROUGHS AT WORK]
After dinner, Mr. Burroughs laughingly remarked that his study was
the barn, and we walked up the road to visit it. "I cannot bear to be
cramped by the four walls of a room," said he, "so I have moved out to
the barn. I enjoy it greatly. The birds and the small animals come to
see me every day and often sit and talk with me. The woodchucks and
chipmunks, the blue jays and the hawks, all look in at me while I am at
work. A red squirrel often squats on the stone wall and scolds me, and
the other day an old gray rabbit came. He sat there twisting his nose
like this" (here Mr. Burroughs twisted his own nose in comical fashion),
"and seemed to be saying saying--
'By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes.'"
Arrived at the barn, Mr. Burroughs seated himself at his "desk." With
twinkling eyes he explained that it was an old hen-coop. The inside was
stuffed with hay to keep his feet warm, and if the weather happens to be
chilly, he wears a blanket over his shoulders. A market-basket contains
his manuscript and a few books complete the equipment. The desk is just
inside the wide-open doors of the barn, and he sits with his face to the
light. "There is a broad outlook from a barn door," said he, smilingly.