—That unlovely object, the tramp, has been so courageously abused in the newspapers and in private conversation that there seems a kind of compensation for him in the arrival of two books largely devoted to singing the praises of the ideal tramp. Mr. Burroughs1 is an old friend who has proved his right to be listened to when he comes to tell us what he has found within eye-shot and ear-shot, and Mr. Barron,2 who is a more humorous vagabond, shows himself to be a good companion for a walk, though he displays a little more self-consciousness in his vagrancy. Of the two, Mr. Burroughs is the better poet, Mr. Barron the better dog. We hasten to explain that we use this word in no disrespectful sense, but because we can think of no more faithful illustration of that sudden start into the bushes, untiring nosing about, and industrious hunt, which Mr. Barren keeps up; he trots along with his amiable little epigrams, suddenly discovers a subject in “small caps,” and goes off with fresh enthusiasm to explore its mysteries.
Mr. Burroughs’s poetic faculty has given us a fine picture in the opening passage of his chapter, The Exhilarations of the Road. “Occasionally,” he writes, “on the sidewalk, amid the dapper, swiftly-moving, high-heeled boots and gaiters, I catch a glimpse of the naked human foot. Nimbly it scuffs along; the toes spread, the sides flatten, the heel protrudes; it grasps the curbing, or bends to the form of the uneven surfaces, a thing sensuous and alive, that seems to take cognizance of whatever it touches or passes. How primitive and uncivil it looks in such company,—a real barbarian in the parlor. We are so unused to the human anatomy, to simple, unadorned nature, that it looks a little repulsive; but it is beautiful, for all that. Though it be a black foot and an unwashed foot, it shall he exalted. It is a thing of life amid leather, a free spirit amid cramped, a wild bird amid caged, an athlete amid consumptives. It is the symbol of my order, the Order of Walkers.” The better half of Winter Sunshine is taken up with observations upon nature and human nature under the titles, Winter Sunshine, Exhilarations of the Road, The Snow-Walkers, The Fox, A March Chronicle, and The Apple, while the remainder of the volume is given to the author’s experience on a short trip to England and France. We like Mr. Burroughs best when he stays at home, and he seems himself, for all his enjoyment abroad, to be heartily glad to be among the scenes which he owns by virtue of a thorough use of them. His habits of observation and his cheerful temper make his record of foreign travel distinct and enjoyable, albeit it is hard, in a book, to go to Europe with a man who discovers the familiar over again; but we know no better companion for the road at home. He steps out with a freedom and cheerfulness which make one sincerely ashamed of one’s querulous in-door habits. The writing is honest and to the point, delightfully free from an obtrusive effectiveness, yet sharp enough to keep one’s wits on the alert; no light success in the treatment of subjects which are usually too highly charged with literary affectation.
Mr. Barron’s method is more discursive, and he explains that the papers which make up his volume were brief contributions to a local journal. His book loses something of sustained effect from this cause. One is constantly starting off with him on short walks, and misses the long tramps and swinging gait which characterize Mr. Burroughs’s book. Something of the same spirit, the same enthusiasm for fresh air, pervades both writers, but with Mr. Barron the airing of his own views is so agreeable to himself, and by no means displeasing to his readers, that one is likely to come home from a walk with him less ready to report what he saw than what Mr. Barron said it was. Mr. Barron’s circuit is a small one, and he is entirely content with it. “If you confine yourself,” he says, “to walks of twelve miles in every direction from your home, you have a field of observation comprising four hundred and fifty-two square miles,” and in much less compass he finds plenty of food for observation and thought. To use his own expression, as soon as he takes to his legs, his brain begins to grow luminous and to sparkle, and accordingly there is a rapid succession of bright sparks of thought which go out almost as fast as they come. Nevertheless the book is the production of a humorist who does not affect his pleasure in the simple and homely, and we cordially commend it to any one who prefers wild fruit to cultivated.
Both hooks have an interest as literary descendants of Thoreau’s writings. Mr. Barron frankly confesses, in his preface, to having been attended on his walks by Thoreau s ghost, and it is pleasant to find either that the ghost has improved in manners and is of a more cheerful cast of mind than formerly, or that Mr. Barron with his aggressive good nature has actually got the better of his comrade. Doubtless neither writer would have written just as he does except for Thoreau’s influence, but they both show plainly that their out-door life and vagrancy have a positive connection with doorsteps, and seem none the less, but rather better, fitted for human companionship because of their experiments with solitude.