We all claim John Burroughs as our friend. He is inextricably blended
with our love for the birds and the flowers, and for all out of doors;
but he is much more to us than a charming writer of books about nature,
and we welcome familiar glimpses of him as one welcomes anything which
brings him in closer touch with a friend.
A clever essayist, in speaking of the "obituary method of appreciation,"
says that we feel a slight sense of impropriety and insecurity in
contemporary plaudits. "Wait till he is well dead, and four or five
decades of daisies have bloomed over him, says the world; then, if
there is any virtue in his works, we will tag and label them and confer
immortality upon him." But Mr. Burroughs has not had to wait till the
daisies cover him to be appreciated. A multitude of his readers has
sought him out and walked amid the daisies with him, listened with him
to the birds, and gained countless delightful associations with all
these things through this personal relation with the author; and
these friends in particular will, I trust, welcome some "contemporary
plaudits."
As a man, and as a writer, Mr. Burroughs has been in the public eye for
many years. At the age of twenty-three he had an article printed in the
"Atlantic Monthly," and in 1910 that journal celebrated the fiftieth
anniversary of his contributions to its columns. Early in his career he
received marked recognition from able critics, and gratifying responses
from readers. It is rare in the history of an author that his books
after fifty years of writing have the freshness, lucidity, and charm
that Mr. Burroughs's later books have. A critic in 1876 speaks of his
"quiet, believing style, free from passion or the glitter of rhetoric,
and giving one the sense of simple eyesight"; and now, concerning one
of his later books, "Time and Change," Mr. Brander Matthews writes: "In
these pellucid pages--so easy to read because they are the result of
hard thinking--he brings home to us what is the real meaning of the
discoveries and the theories of the scientists.... He brings to bear
his searching scientific curiosity and his sympathetic interpreting
imagination.... All of them models of the essay at its best--easy,
unpedantic, and unfailingly interesting."
From school-children all over the United States, from nearly every
civilized country on the globe, from homes of the humble and of the
wealthy, from the scholar in his study, from the clergyman, the
lawyer, the physician, the business man, the farmer, the raftsman, the
sportsman, from the invalid shut in from the great outdoors (but, thanks
to our friend, not shut _out_ from outdoor blessings), have come for
many years heartfelt letters attesting the wholesome and widespread
influence of his works.
President Roosevelt a few years ago, in dedicating one of his books to
"Dear Oom John," voiced the popular feeling: "It is a good thing for our
people that you have lived, and surely no man can wish to have more said
of him."
Some years ago, the New York "Globe," on announcing a new book by Mr.
Burroughs, said, "It has been the lot of few writers of this country or
of any country to gain such good will and personal esteem as for many
years have been freely given to John Burroughs." If we ask why this is
so, we find it answered by Whitman, who, in conversation with a friend,
said, "John is one of the true hearts--one of the true hearts--warm,
sure, firm."
Mr. Burroughs has been much visited, much "appreciated," much rhymed
about, much painted, modeled, and photographed, and--much loved.
Because he has been so much loved, and because his influence has been so
far-reaching, it has seemed to me that a book which gives familiar and
intimate glimpses of him will be welcomed by the legion who call him
friend. The exceptional opportunities I have enjoyed for many years past
of observing him encourage me in the undertaking.
The readers of Mr. Burroughs crave the personal relation with him. Just
as they want to own his books, instead of merely taking them from the
public libraries, so they want to meet the man, take him by the hand,
look into his eyes, hear his voice, and learn, if possible, what it
is that has given him his unfailing joy in life, his serenity, his
comprehensive and loving insight into the life of the universe. They
feel, too, a sense of deep gratitude to one who has shown them how
divine is the soil under foot--veritable star-dust from the gardens of
the Eternal. He has made us feel at one with the whole cosmos, not only
with bird and tree, and rock and flower, but also with the elemental
forces, the powers which are friendly or unfriendly according as we put
ourselves in right or wrong relations with them. He has shown us the
divine in the common and the near at hand; that heaven lies about us
here in this world; that the glorious and the miraculous are not to be
sought afar off, but are here and now; and that love of the earth-mother
is, in the truest sense, love of the divine: "The babe in the womb
is not nearer its mother than are we to the invisible, sustaining,
mothering powers of the universe, and to its spiritual entities, every
moment of our lives." One who speaks thus of the things of such import
to every human soul is bound to win responses; he deals with things that
come home to us all. We want to know him.
Although retiring in habit, naturally seeking seclusion, Mr. Burroughs
is not allowed overindulgence in this tendency. One may with truth
describe him as a contemporary described Edward FitzGerald--"an
eccentric man of genius who took more pains to avoid fame than others
do to seek it." And yet he is no recluse. When disciples seek out the
hermit in hiding behind the vines at Slabsides, they find a genial
welcome, a simple, homely hospitality; find that the author merits the
Indian name given him by a clever friend--"Man-not-afraid-of-company."
The simplicity and gentleness of this author and his strong interest in
people endear him to the reader; we feel these qualities in his writings
long before meeting him--a certain urbanity, a tolerant insight and
sympathy, and a quiet humor. These draw us to him. Perhaps after
cherishing his writings for years, cherishing also a confident feeling
that we shall know him some day, we obey a sudden impulse, write to him
about a bird or a flower, ask help concerning a puzzling natural-history
question, tell him what a solace "Waiting" is, what a joy his books have
been; possibly we write some verses to him, or express appreciation
for an essay that has enlarged our vision and opened up a new world of
thought. Perhaps we go to see him at Slabsides, or in the Catskills, as
the case may be; perhaps in some unexpected way he comes to us--stops in
the same town where we live, visits the college where we are studying,
or we encounter him in our travels. In whatever way the personal
relation comes about, we, one and all, share this feeling: he is no
longer merely the favorite author, he is _our friend_ John Burroughs.
I question whether there is any other modern writer so approachable, or
one we so desire to approach. He has so written himself into his books
that we know him before meeting him; we are charmed with his directness
and genuineness, and eager to claim the companionship his pages seem to
offer. Because of his own unaffected self, our artificialities drop away
when we are with him; we want to be and say and do the genuine, simple
thing; to be our best selves; and one who brings out this in us is sure
to win our love.
(Illustration of Slabsides. From a photograph by Charles S. Olcott)
Mr. Burroughs seems to have much in common with Edward FitzGerald; we
may say of him as has been said of the translator of the "Rubaiyat":
"Perhaps some worship is given him... on account of his own refusal of
worship for things unworthy, or even for things merely conventional."
Like FitzGerald, too, our friend is a lover of solitude; like him he
shuns cities, gets his exhilaration from the common life about him; is
inactive, easy-going, a loiterer and saunterer through life; and could
say of himself as FitzGerald said, on describing his own uneventful days
in the country: "Such is life, and I believe I have got hold of a good
end of it." Another point of resemblance: the American dreamer is like
his English brother in his extreme sensitiveness--he cannot bear to
inflict or experience pain. "I lack the heroic fibre," he is wont to
say. FitzGerald acknowledged this also, and, commenting on his own
over-sensitiveness and tendency to melancholy, said, "It is well if the
sensibility that makes us fearful of ourselves is diverted to become
a case of sympathy and interest with nature and mankind." That this
sensibility in Mr. Burroughs has been so diverted, all who are familiar
with his widespread influence on our national life and literature will
agree.
In a bright descriptive article written a few years ago, Miss Isabel
Moore dispels some preconceived and erroneous notions about Mr.
Burroughs, and shows him as he is--a man keenly alive to the human
nature and life around him. "The boys and girls buzzed about him," she
says, "as bees about some peculiarly delectable blossom. He walked with
them, talked with them, entranced them... the most absolutely human
person I have ever met--a born comrade, if there ever was one; in daily
life a delightful acquaintance as well as a philosopher and poet and
naturalist, and a few other things." She describes him riding with a lot
of young people on a billowy load of hay; going to a ball-game, at which
no boy there enjoyed the contest more, or was better informed as to the
points of the game. "Verily," she says, "he has what Bjornson called
'the child in the heart.'"
It is the "child in the heart," and, in a way, the "child" in his books,
that accounts for his wide appeal. He often says he can never think of
his books as _works_, because so much play went into the making of them.
He has gone out of doors in a holiday spirit, has had a good time, has
never lost the boy's relish for his outings, and has been so blessed
with the gift of expression that his own delight is communicated to his
reader.
And always it is the man behind the book that makes the widest appeal.
In 1912, a Western architect, in correspondence with the writer
concerning recent essays of Mr. Burroughs, said:--
I have had much pleasure and soul-help in reading and re-reading "The
Summit of the Years." In this, and in "All's Well with the World," is
mirrored the very soul of the gentlest, the most lovable man-character I
have ever come across in literature or life....To me all his books, from
"Wake-Robin" to "Time and Change," radiate the most joyous optimism....
During the past month I have devoted my evenings to re-reading
(them).... He has always meant a great deal more to me than merely
intellectual pleasure, and, next to Walt Whitman, has helped me to keep
my life as nearly open to the influences of outdoors and the stars as
may be in a dweller in a large town.
As I write, a letter comes from a Kansas youth, now a graduate student
at Yale, expressing the hope that he can see Mr. Burroughs at Slabsides
in April: "There is nothing I want to say--but for a while I would like
to be near him. He is my great good teacher and friend.... As you know,
he is more to me than Harvard or Yale. He is the biggest, simplest, and
serenest man I have met in all the East."
I suppose there is no literary landmark in America that has had a more
far-reaching influence than Slabsides. Flocks of youths and maidens from
many schools and colleges have, for the past fifteen years, climbed the
hill to the rustic cabin in all the gayety and enthusiasm of their young
lives. But they have seen more than the picturesque retreat of a
living author; they have received a salutary impression made by the
unostentatious life of a man who has made a profound impression on his
day who has made a profound impression on his day and age; they have
gone their separate ways with an awakened sense of the comradeship it
is possible to have with nature, and with an ennobling affection for the
one who has made them aware of it. And this affection goes with them
to whatever place on the globe their destinies carry them. It is
transmitted to their children; it becomes a very real part of their
lives.
"My dear John Burroughs--Everybody's dear John Burroughs," a friend
writes him from London, recounting her amusing experiences in the study
of English birds. And it is "Everybody's dear John Burroughs" who stands
in the wide doorway at Slabsides and gives his callers a quiet, cordial
welcome. And when the day is ended, and the visitor goes his way down
the hill, he carries in his heart a new treasure--the surety that he has
found a comrade.
Having had the privilege for the past twelve years of helping Mr.
Burroughs with his correspondence, I have been particularly interested
in the spontaneous responses which have come to him from his young
readers, not only in America, but from Europe, New Zealand, Australia.
Confident of his interest, they are boon companions from the start. They
describe their own environment, give glimpses of the wild life about
them, come to him with their natural-history difficulties; in short,
write as to a friend of whose tolerant sympathy they feel assured. In
fact, this is true of all his correspondents. They get on easy footing
at once. They send him birds, flowers, and insects to identify;
sometimes live animals and birds--skylarks have been sent from England,
which he liberated on the Hudson, hoping to persuade them to become
acclimated; "St. John's Bread," or locust pods, have come to him from
the Holy. Land; pressed flowers and ferns from the Himalayas, from
Africa, from Haleakala.
Many correspondents are considerate enough not to ask for an answer,
realizing the countless demands of this nature made upon a man like
Mr. Burroughs; others boldly ask, not only for a reply, but for a
photograph, an autograph, his favorite poem written in his own hand, a
list of favorite books, his views on capital punishment, on universal
peace, on immortality; some naively ask for a sketch of his life, or a
character sketch of his wife with details of their home life, and how
they spend their time; a few modestly hope he will write a poem to them
personally, all for their very own. A man of forty-five is tired of the
hardware business, lives in the country, sees Mr. Burroughs's essays
in the "Country Calendar," and asks him to "learn" him to "rite for the
press."
Some readers take him to task for his opinions, some point out
errors, or too sweeping statements (for he does sometimes make them);
occasionally one suggests other topics for him to write about; others
labor to bring him back into orthodox paths; hundreds write of what
a comfort "Waiting" has been; and there are countless requests for
permission to visit Slabsides, as well as invitations to the homes of
his readers.
Many send him verses, a few the manuscripts of entire books, asking for
criticism. (And when he does give criticism, he gives it "unsweetened,"
being too honest to praise a thing unless in his eyes it merits praise.)
Numerous are the requests that he write introductions to books; that he
address certain women's clubs; that he visit a school, or a nature-study
club, or go from Dan to Beersheba to hold Burroughs Days--each writer,
as a rule, urging his claim as something very special, to which a deaf
ear should not be turned. Not all his correspondents are as considerate
as the little girl who was especially eager to learn his attitude toward
snakes, and who, after writing a pretty letter, ended thus: "Inclosed
you will find a stamp, for I know it must be fearfully expensive and
inconvenient to be a celebrity."
Occasionally he is a little severe with a correspondent, especially if
one makes a preposterous statement, or draws absurd conclusions from
faulty observations. But he is always fair. The following letter
explains itself:--
Your first note concerning my cat and hog story made me as mad as a
hornet, which my reply showed. Your second note has changed me into a
lamb, as nearly as a fellow of seventy-five can become one....
I have read, I think, every book you ever wrote, and do not let any
production of yours escape me; and I have a little pile of framed copies
of your inimitable "My Own" to diffuse among people at Christmas; and
all these your writings make me wonder and shed metaphorical tears to
think that you are such a heretic about reason in animals. But even
Homer nods; and it is said Roosevelt has moments of silence. S. C. B.
The questions his readers propound are sometimes very amusing. A
physician of thirty years' practice asks in all seriousness how often
the lions bring forth their young, and whether it is true that there
is a relation between the years in which they breed and the increased
productivity of human beings. One correspondent begs Mr. Burroughs to
tell him how he and his wife and Theodore Roosevelt fold their hands
(as though the last-named ever folded his), declaring he can read their
characters with surprising accuracy if this information is forthcoming.
In this instance, I think, Mr. Burroughs folded his hands serenely,
leaving his correspondent waiting for the valued data.
The reader will doubtless be interested to see the kind of letter the
children sometimes get from their friend. I am fortunate in having one
written in 1887 to a rhetoric class in Fulton, New York, and one in
1911, written to children in the New York City schools, both of which I
will quote:--