John Burroughs. It must have been about the year 1861 that the interest and curiosity of the present chronicler were quite aroused by some singularly fresh, and indeed appetizing, papers that appeared in the columns of a New York weekly journal. The woods, birds, hunting, trapping—in fact, out-door matters generally, including the dairy and farming—were their theme. They were signed "John Burroughs." Their locale was, apparently, a somewhat retired mountainous region west of the Hudson, at that time not pierced by a railway. These sketches—under the general heading, "From the Back Country"—not more gave promise than they were the earnest of literary talents for which the young, inexperienced writer has since won wide recognition. At the very first it was manifest that the field he had chosen—the transmutation of impressions and observations of Nature into literature—was individual; a field, so to speak, won by his own spurs. He was indebted to no one for his skill in the treatment of such subjects. The mantle of Thoreau had not fallen upon him—frequently, by his admirers, as that spotless and shining drapery has been addressed to his shoulders. It is true, both have been loving, conscientious observers of Nature in its higher, more poetic aspects; in each the naturalist being subordinate, though fidelity and accuracy make their writings valuable contributions to science; but between no two writers on a common theme are there wider differences in method and, particularly, in what may be called their temperament as regards their outlook. The voices of Nature, indeed, uttered in the ear of the Walden recluse more things than are dreamt of in the philosophy of the other. The outward world, after all, to Thoreau was but the wall upon which airy fingers wrote shining inscriptions of wondrous import; inscriptions which, it may be truly said—as making the worthiest appraisement of his superb genius—he succeeded to an appreciable extent in deciphering for the more devoted of his readers. Our living writer—while his feet are not more solidly planted upon the earth than were Thoreau's—does not sing:
I hear beyond the range of sound;
I see beyond the verge of sight;
nor does he hear in "rumors from an Æolian harp" that
There is a vale which none hath seen,
Where foot of man has never been.
But not the less does he see Nature through the medium of the imagination; see it as poet as well as naturalist. Mr. Burroughs was born in Roxbury, Delaware county, N. Y., April 3, 1837, and was nurtured in the hardy farming life of his" Back Country," with no literary or scholarly influences, it seems, in his surroundings—happily, we may be almost led to think. He had, at any rate, in the circumstances of the farm life to which he was born, a culture of peculiar advantage to him:
From a child [he says in a charming passage, now accessible to but few of his readers] I was familiar with the homely facts of the barn, and of cattle and horses; the sugar-making in the maple woods in early spring; the work of the corn field, hay-field, potato-field; the delicious fall months, with their pigeon and squirrel shootings; threshing of buckwheat, gathering of apples, and burning of fallows; in short, everything that smacked of or led to the open air and its exhilarations. I belonged, as I may say, to them; and my substance and taste, as they grew, assimilated them as truly as my body did its food. I loved a few books much; but I loved Nature, in all those material examples and subtle expressions, with a love passing that of all the books of the world.
The vocations of this rustic life, especially to one born upon the farm, rough though they be, need only the poet's eye to become embosomed in picturesqueness. Norwegian agricultural life, doubtless, is unmitigatedly prosaic to many of its followers; but how to those who use the eyes of Björnson? Our embryo author, after all, was not lacking in "early advantages." It was probably not his acquirements in these branches, however, that secured him a certificate from a rural school board; but he taught for one winter at the age of seventeen. It was only afterward that actual school life began with him. He left his native place, and attended seminaries in his State at Cooperstown and at Ashland. Leaving school, finally, he soon after married, when still quite young, Miss Ursula North, of Olive, Ulster county, and resumed teaching; which continued until 1864. At about that period he obtained a position in the Treasury Department, which he held until within a few years, and in which he was steadily promoted to positions of high trust and responsibility. He has been once sent on government business to Europe. He has resigned his position at Washington, but still has employment as government bank examiner. Some years ago he purchased a few acres lying on the west bank of the Hudson, in the town of Esopus, for a permanent residence, and built upon it, after designs resulting from his own amateur studies in architecture, a charmingly picturesque house of stone and timber-work, finished in native woods. Its windows command fine views of the noble river. Mr. Burroughs's first hook, it may not be generally known, — for it is understood to be out of print,—was a monograph entitled, Notes on Walt Whitman As Poet and Person (1867). Besides those early sketches referred to, he had, previous to the issue of this book, been publishing in the leading magazines some of those delightful papers which brought immediate recognition, and which, later, found place in his various collections. It appears, too, that, in the progress of his literary and mental development, he had passed through (shall we say?) the Emersonian shaft of colored light, which shot across his path as if from an illuminated oriel. It tinged his style and thought for a very brief period in those youthful days, as the same effulgence has that of so many keen intellects of a few decades past in early years of mental growth, and so often, too, for a much longer period than in this instance. He was quickly past the prismatic line; but a certain essay occurs to the present writer, written by him while under the intoxicating spell, which
possibly caused the Concord sage to experience a momentary chill of apprehension lest he should all along have been tilling a neighbor's field while supposing his own title-deeds to the soil beyond question. Reference, of course, is made only to the literary style. The essay alluded to, "Expression," was filled with vigorous thought, and was a remarkable effort, as is shown by the fact that it won warm commendations from Mr. Lowell, then editor of the Atlantic, in which magazine it was published. Of the book on Walt Whitman there is only space to say that it is compact of thought, and is remarkable as a virile, well sustained effort in a new field of criticism—an attempt, indeed, to base literary criticism on new rules and principles. It is, too, to a great extent a pioneer in its field; and preceded by years expressions from eminent sources elicited by that strange note, ringing from the tree-tops outside of the poetical aviary. The book takes extreme ground, but, whatever dissent be felt, no one can lay it down without a vivid impression of its force and originality. In the succession of excellent rural articles alluded to, which for a term of years have made their appearance in the magazines—particularly in the Atlantic, Scribner's, and Galaxy—the study of birds has been a specialty; but it has been very far from claiming a monopoly, or even making the author's attention to other objects seem in the least preoccupied. His treatment of all out-door subjects is fresh, and replete with fine touches of suggestiveness; it is his own view of what comes before his eyes—full (to borrow a term from the poet he so chivalrously defends) of his personalism. Withal, as the only sure basis of anything in literature with a hint, even, of permanence, every line is stamped with genuineness. There is not the shadow of second-hand impressions. Mr. Burroughs is one of the most devout lovers of Nature who has ever taken a reader's hand to lead him along his own flowery path. The sylvan saunterer of Selborne was not more generous, nor more conscientious, and was perhaps less genial and elastic in his tread. His "leash of keen senses" are fleet servitors, difficult to mislead or throw off the trail; such as few take into the chase. He has, from his youth, been the most persistent of "tramps," and has made, afoot and by boat, many a long tour. Almost every summer he explores a new field: now he is at a chain of trout-ponds in Catskill intervales; now following the halcyon into depths of northern Canada; and again winding through placid meadows and quiet farms in a rude boat on some tortuous creek. The delights of these have often been shared by his readers. The papers appearing in the magazines have been, from time to time, gathered into volumes, some of which have had successive editions. One pleasant feature of these collections is the [?]tous titles hit upon. Wake-Robin (1871) followed by Winter Sunshine (1876), which includes some very characteristic trans-Atlantic sketches; Birds and Poets (1877); and Locusts and Wild Honey (1879). As the title of Birds and Poets indicates, the volume is divided, between Nature and literature. The study of Walt Whitman poems is taken up anew and there is also an essay on Emerson, w[hich] for penetration and closeness of analysis, re[?] a remarkable depth of criticism. The r[?] who knows our author only in the field of N[ature?] cannot but be profoundly surprised and pressed by the power of this athletic critiq[ue?]
[Transcribist's note: Pieces of this document are missing, due to the falloff of words close to the bound magazine's gutter, during photocopying. These are marked with brackets]