Mr. Burroughs is one of the aposties [sic] after the quaint-conceited Toxophilus, his mission being that of awakening in people who are too much absorbed by their daily work a remembrance that they are living only half a life while they neglect the delightful rest of the country. And for those, also, who do not entirely immure themselves in town or village, he writes many charming, suggestive things. How few of us have eyes for the real life of the country when we do get away from our work! How few, indeed, of those who live on farms really see the country as it is! While they walk across the meadow, the small animals—birds and insects—hide themselves before their movements are discovered by unpracticed eyes, and so half the enjoyment of the walk is gone. But take this writer for guide, and every bush reveals a tenant. We must not be in a hurry. We cannot afford to race over the country-road with the firm purpose of doing so many miles, reaching such and such a place before dinner, but must know how to dawdle at the brook, lounge along the rail-fence, and by the purposelessness of our movements insinuate ourselves into the confidence of nature. This is what Thoreau did, and this is what Mr. Burroughs teaches us to do. To read his reflective, contemplative prose is to imagine a man who has nothing else to do but watch the pickerel lying like a slim green leaf near the weeds, or follow the aëronautic adventures of a spider on his sailing web. Mr. Burroughs is an apostle and chooses naturally an apostolic title for his new collection of essays. Are we not to consider him a modern John the Baptist, who finds in the wilderness hard and meager fare, it is true, but at the same time discovers in desert food unexpected delicacies, and learns meanwhile deeper lessons, and sees finer visions than fall to the lot of us well-fed, smug town-bodies?
Known chiefly as an observer of birds,—not, however, as a professed ornithologist,—Mr. Burroughs also extends his field to the bees and wild fruits, to trout-fishing and forest-camping. Yet he still has most to say about the birds. “Sharp-Eyes” is a delightful ramble of reminiscences about birds, and the pastoral essay on “Birds and Birds,” together with the little lounging talk headed “Bird’s-nesting,” speak for the favorite pursuit of the writer. “Is it Going to Rain?” deals with meteorology in the freshest, most unpedantic way, and yet reveals the fact that Mr. Burroughs is a student of books as well as an observer of nature. He understands the laws of storms as they have been formulated by professors and learned seamen, and adds this “book-l’arnin’” to the weather-wisdom of the Ulster County farmer.
An American of the Americans, Mr. Burroughs is not permitted to make literature or even forest-dwelling or farming his life work. He is an example of the fact that a greater amount of energy has to be expended in this country than in Europe in order to produce an equal result, for while in many ways competition abroad is greater than it is with us, it is harder for a man in America to secure the leisure which is absolutely required for perfection in the arts and sciences or literature. Perhaps the prizes are greater after he has reached eminence in any way, but certainly the beginnings here are more difficult. White of Selborne had but little to do besides attending to literature and his pleasant researches in fields and gardens. Thoreau made a hermit of himself at Walden Pond, and left the rest of the world—his own kindred, as well as everybody else—to shift for themselves as best they might. Not so with our observer of the secrets of the country. Although he is not confined at present to a city, such as London, his life is more like that of Charles Lamb. He is a business man, and every year of his life is compelled to go over dusty ledgers, and account for many thousand columns of closely set figures. Is it this dry work which makes him so thirsty for the sound of the wild birds and the streams? Is it the monotony of cash balances and double-entry book-keeping which makes his vision keener than that of the country people in general? It would be an odd contradiction if it should he found that his work has gained greatly in expressiveness and vigor because his natural longing to hold to the country-side has been repressed and centered on itself.
† Locusts and Wild Honey. By John Burroughs. Boston: Houghton, Osgood & Co.