Part 2
In the year 1863, he went to Washington apparently to join the army, but somehow never did. Instead of this, he received an appointment in the Treasury, as a guardian of a vault, to count the money that went in or came out. During this time he had many leisure moments which he put to good account writing his nature sketches that make up his first nature book, _Wake Robin_. Before he had been in the National Capital a great while he became acquainted with the poet Walt Whitman, and immediately fell in with him. Whitman's poetry was not new to Burroughs who had already developed a taste for it. The man Whitman seemed to be an embodiment of the poetry, _Leaves of Grass_, and Burroughs was so greatly moved by a study of the man that he soon began making notes of this study which resulted in his first book--_Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person_ (1867). This little volume is one of the best, raciest and freshest books on Whitman, and certainly is as readable as Burroughs' later book on _Whitman: A Study_, (1896).
To any man, who would rise in the world, one thing must become evident; he must know that the idle moments must be the busiest of all. On this basis Burroughs worked. While at his work in the Treasury, he recalled his many experiences in the Western Catskills, and wrote these experiences. His Sundays and Holidays were spent in the woods around the National Capital that he may each season increase his knowledge about natural history. The Atlantic Monthly began to publish his nature papers about 1864, the year after he reached Washington, and has continued to do so at regular intervals ever since. In fact at the present time that periodical has three of Burroughs' essays yet unpublished. _Wake Robin_, a collection of these early nature sketches and his first book on out-door themes, was published in 1871, just four years after the little book on Whitman came from the press. Perhaps we have no more readable book on bird life than this volume of nature sketches, which won for the writer immediate and complete success.
Mr. Joel Benton formally introduced Burroughs to American literary people in the old Scribner's Monthly in 1876 while his third volume, _Winter Sunshine_ (1875), was fresh in the mind of the public. In this timely article Mr. Benton claims: "What first strikes me in Mr. Burroughs's work, even above its well-acquired style, is the unqualified weight of conscience it exhibits. There is no posturing for effect; an admiration he does not have he never mimics. We find in him, therefore, a perfectly healthy and hearty flavor. Apparently, he does not put his pen to paper hastily, or until he is filled with his subject. What has been aptly termed the secondary, or final stage of thought, has with him full play.... A natural observer of things, he summons all the facts, near or remote--there is no side-light too small--and, when the material is all in, it seems to undergo a long incubation in his mind; or shows at least that reflection has done its perfect and many-sided work. Under his careful treatment and keen eye for the picturesque, the details get the proper artistic distribution and stand forth in poetic guise. The essay, when it appears, comes to us freighted with 'the latest news' from the meadows and the woods, and bears the unmistakable imprint of authenticity." This is a good testimonial from a good source, especially since it is the first public utterance of an opinion by an authority, on the quality of Burroughs' literary work. In a recent letter, Mr. Benton writes: "I did not say Burroughs was made by me, or that he remembers the priority of my article, but that I had the privilege and honor of being the first to write about him." This paper, I am sure, renewed his hopes for literary distinction and fame, and perhaps encouraged him to greater efforts.
In _Birds and Poets_ (1877), we find our nature student measuring other men's observations by his own deductions. He is beginning to branch out in literature and note nature references in the poets and now and then calls them to taw for stepping beyond the bounds of truth. Here we find Burroughs as much of a student of literature as he is of nature, and as delightful in his literary references as one could desire. Ten years after his appointment, he tired of his clerkship in the Treasury, as he resigned in 1872 to become receiver for a broken bank in Middletown, New York. Pretty soon after leaving Washington, he was made bank examiner for the Eastern part of New York State, which position he held till 1885. Since this last date he has depended entirely on literature and on a small farm for a livelihood. He purchased a place up the Hudson river at West Park about 1873 and began immediately to build a stone mansion which he named Riverby, and in which he has lived since its completion. But stone houses did not prove best suited for his literary work and he built a small bark covered study only a few yards from Riverby in which he has done most of his literary work. The most active period of his literary career was when he settled at West Park. Mention has already been made of _Birds and Poets_ (1877). The magazines are full of his essays at this time and the volumes come thick in the blast: _Locust and Wild Honey_ (1879), _Pepacton and Other Sketches_ (1881), _Fresh_ _Fields_ (1884), _Signs and Seasons_ (1886). The increased revenue from his books and literary work, supplemented by his little grape farm, enabled him to resign as Bank examiner in 1885, as above suggested, and he has never held office of any kind since. It was about at the age of fifty that Mr. Burroughs seems to have developed a considerable consciousness of literature as an art, as a consequence of which we find him beginning to write papers on literary criticism and _Indoor Studies_ (1889). From this time on his nature books are written in a different key, just as interesting but not quite as enthusiastic, and in most of them a touch of nature philosophy. In 1886 there appeared in the Popular Science Monthly an essay by him under the caption, _Science and Theology_, which showed pretty clearly the deeper currents of his mind. This paper was followed by others of its kind for several years until they were collected into a volume, _The Light of Day_, Religious Discussions and Criticism from the Naturalist's Point of View (1900). Studies on such themes are the logical outcome of the growth and development of a mind like that of Burroughs', and in the present case the papers are accompanied with that "unqualified weight of conscience" referred to in Mr. Benton's article and are valuable discussions on themes that never grow old.
Again we find him delighting himself and the reading public on his out-door observations around _Riverby_ (1894), his stone house by the Hudson, in the preface to which he expresses the belief that this is to be his last volume of out-door essays. _Whitman: A Study_ (1896), and _Literary Values_ (1902), are books for the critic and are fully up to the standard in that field of activity. This book on Whitman is claimed by many scholars to be the best criticism of Whitman yet published. It is a strong defense of the "Good Gray Poet" and his literary method. Beginning with the year 1900, and perhaps a little earlier, there developed a great demand from the public for a larger crop of nature books and a great many of our good writers, seeing this demand, began to try to fill it whether they were naturalists or not, and the consequence was that a great many fake nature stories got before the reading public. This, of course, bore heavily on Mr. Burroughs' mind who had lived so long with nature trying to understand her ways and laws, who in 1903 issued his protest against this practice in a strong article, "Real and Sham Natural History," in the March Atlantic Monthly of that year. This paper brought forth a warfare between the two schools of nature study in America, the romantic school and the scientific or the sane or sober school, which did not end till about 1908, and in fact, a little fruit of the controversy still crops out here and there in magazines and papers. In this controversy Burroughs won the battle of his life. The main point at issue was: Do animals have reason to any degree in the sense that man has reason? Burroughs claimed that they do not, and the romantic school claimed that they do, and to prove the claim hatched up a great many fairy tales about the animals and declared that these statements were made from observations under their own eyes. Before it was over, Burroughs had won the strong support of Mr. Frank M. Chapman, the ornithologist; Dr. Wm. M. Wheeler, W. F. Ganong, and Mr. Roosevelt, then the President of the United States, together with a great many other distinguished naturalists.
It was natural and fitting that Burroughs should be the first one to come to the rescue of popular natural history, when it seemed to be falling into the hands of romancers, as he was and is the dean of American nature writers and is our best authority on the behavior of animals under natural conditions. The result of this controversy was the publication of _Ways of Nature_ (1905), containing all the papers which were the outcome of the currents of thought and inquiry that the controversy set going in his mind. The volume contains many fine illustrations of his claims and is a complete answer to the many attacks made upon him by his enemies in this controversy.
At the urgent request of his many friends he collected in a volume and published his poems, _Bird and Bough_ (1906), which for perfect cadence and simple sweetness have not been surpassed by any of our minor poems. In 1903, he went west with President Roosevelt and spent the month of April in Yellowstone Park studying natural history with him. The President surprised Mr. Burroughs in his broad knowledge and enthusiastic study of nature. The little volume, _Camping and Tramping with Roosevelt_ (1907), contains an account of this trip and brings out Mr. Roosevelt's strong points as a naturalist. During the last few years his philosophy has been ripening and a great deal of his energy has been spent in working out natural philosophy rather than natural history, though he has never gotten away from the latter. His last volume of essays, _Leaf and Tendril_ (1908), contains a resume of his studies along this line and are, perhaps, the most readable of all of his late books. Another volume of papers is now in the hands of the printers, which will likely appear in print next spring (1912).
The names and dates of appearance of his many volumes are as follows, and mark the evolution of his mind:
1867--Notes on Walt Whitman, as Poet and Person. 1871--Wake Robin. 1875--Winter Sunshine. 1877--Birds and Poets. 1879--Locusts and Wild Honey. 1881--Pepacton and Other Sketches. 1884--Fresh Fields. 1886--Signs and Seasons. 1889--Indoor Studies. 1894--Riverby. 1896--Whitman: A Study. 1900--The Light of Day. 1902--Literary Values. 1902--John James Audubon, A Biography. 1904--Far and Near. 1905--Ways of Nature. 1906--Bird and Bough. 1907--Camping and Tramping with Roosevelt. 1908--Leaf and Tendril.
This does not include a great many papers that were never printed in book form, nor many of his books and parts of them edited by other writers. This list is a good account of a life well spent, and treats of almost all phases of our American natural history. In the main, Mr. Burroughs has been a stay-at-home pretty much all his life, though he has been about some. In 1872, he was sent to England, and returned there of his own accord in the eighties. An account of these visits will be found in the two volumes, _Winter Sunshine_ and _Fresh Fields_. From Alaska, 1899, and the island of Jamaica, 1902, he brought back material for most of the volume, _Far and Near_. In recent years he has visited the Golden West and Honolulu, an account of which we shall doubtless see in his volume now in press. The best part of all his travels is undoubtedly his return to the simple life at West Park and Roxbury, New York. His little bark covered study near by Riverby, where he has done so much of his writing, was his first love up to a few years ago. At present, his Roxbury summer home, Woodchuck Lodge, seems to be his place of greatest interest. In either place, he can lounge about as he sees fit and feel at ease, as he can no where else.
Wherever he goes he continues writing in his ripe old age, and only last summer (1911), completed eight new essays while on an extended stay at Woodchuck Lodge. In the morning, from eight till twelve, he does his best work, and in the afternoon he rambles around the old place of his birth and among his neighbors. In the preparation of the above eight essays, he writes: "I lost eight pounds of flesh which I do not expect to regain." He is now beginning to "serenely fold his hands and wait" for the inevitable end, though the chances are he will live many years and win many battles against Nature Fakers and put many awkward students of nature in the paths of righteous observation. Strong and healthy, he can climb fences, ascend mountain heights with very little fatigue. Writing of his experiences with a party of friends in California, March, 1911, he says: "During the mountain climbing the other day, I set the pace and tired them all out. Mr. Brown, of the Dial, is sixty-six, but he had to stop and eat a sandwich and have some coffee before the top was reached." Not many of the school of literary men to which he belongs are now living. But what does he say to this: "The forces that destroy us are going their appointed ways, and if they turned out or made an exception on our account, the very foundations of the universe would be impeached." If needs be, I am sure he can boldly and fearlessly,
"Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach _the end_, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams,"
and if needs be, I am as well persuaded that he can for another score of years, teach the world how to observe nature. He is optimistic and has always been, because he has always found plenty to do. His friends enjoy each victory he makes, and are glad to see so much interest center about his name as the years roll by.
AROUND SLABSIDES AND THE DEN
It was a cloudy day in December when I made my first trip up the Hudson River to the home of John Burroughs, and how well I recall the invitation into the Den. On opening the door I stood face to face with the object of my pilgrimage, the distinguished naturalist, a man of low stature, rather small frame, a well formed head and sharp eyes, and much younger in appearance than his photographs would indicate. His hair is white, but he can read without glasses and see birds better with the natural eye than I can. He had on a brown jersey wool coat or jacket, beneath which was a vest and trousers of spotted brown and dark to match, all of which were well set to his body and limbs. His shoes were of cloth and rubber with rubber bottoms. When he walked out he put on a short gray overcoat, a small crushed brown or gray hat, and arctic overshoes. His general appearance would not indicate that you were with John Burroughs, but if you got a clear view of his face and eye, you could not mistake him for an ordinary man.
West Park, the little station on the West Shore branch of the New York Central and Hudson River R. R., is a small village with not more than a hundred houses, and is quiet and almost puts one in a dreaming mood, when he thinks of being in the land of the great Literary Naturalist, who drew the most of his neighbors there. The Burroughs home, popularly known as Riverby, is in perfect keeping with the nature of the man. Hidden from the street behind a number of evergreens, it presents rather a secluded appearance, and is a part _of_ nature rather than apart _from_ nature. The house seems as if it sprang up from the soil, the lower half not yet above the ground. About twenty-five or thirty yards from the house is the study, which is pre-eminently the place of interest to the visitor. On entering this cozy little den--I found Mr. Burroughs reading Evolution and Ethics, by Huxley, and upon remarking that I noted what he was reading, his reply was that he had thought of writing something along that line and he wished to see what had already been said. "Right at this time," he said, "my mind is rather in a chaotic condition. I am not sure just what I shall hit upon next. I cannot definitely plan out my writing; but rather write when the mood comes on. I feel that I want to write on a particular subject and just get about it."
When I expressed my appreciation of his great service in the way of interpreting nature, and reducing life from the conventional to the simple, he remarked at once: "I have never run after false gods, but have always tried to get at the truth of things, and let come of it what may. I do not believe in hiding the truth. Whatever I have accomplished in the way of writing, I attribute to this fact." This led me to ask him about "Real and Sham Natural History" (an essay written by him that appeared in the March Atlantic, 1903). He leant back in his chair and after a wholesome laugh, "Yes, I found it necessary to say something about the tendency of men like Thompson and Long who were taking advantage of their skill as writers and their popularity, to fool the people with those nature myths. If they had not advertised them as truth, it would have been all right. But when I saw that they persisted in teaching that the stories were true to nature, I could not stand it any longer. I just had to expose them! I could not rest till I had told the people that such stories were false!" Here Mr. Burroughs grew quite spirited, and his very manner indicated his lack of patience with those who make an effort to falsify nature. "I do not think that Long will ever forgive me for telling on him, but Seton Thompson is quite different. He seems to be all right and has shown me much courtesy at two or three dinners in New York. His wife, however, seems to have been hurt worse than Thompson himself. She is a little shy of me yet. I trust however that she will soon be all right. I have dined with them and she treated me very nicely."
"Are these the only two that were offended by the article?" I asked. "What do you think of Miss Blanchon?"
"She is a very pleasing writer, and writes rather for the younger readers. She is generally reliable--never says a thing that she is not convinced is true. I have been out with her and she has a very keen eye. She reads nature well. I think she is a genuine nature student."
"I note that in the preface to your little volume of poems, some one could forgive you everything but your poetry. Who was so unkind to you?"
After talking at length about the polemical essay, it interested me very much to hear Mr. Burroughs say that after all the article was probably of passing importance only and had likely served its purpose, so let it drop. He had seen good evidence of the fruit it had borne.
Already it had become evident that he was worried about this false spirit among certain unreliable writers, and soon he began to tell me of his new article soon to appear in Outing (and which did appear in the February number, 1907). He had no patience with these Fake writers, and did not see any reason for the editors to allow themselves to be duped in such a manner. I shall not forget the expression he used in portraying his efforts to deal with such writers. "I just 'spank' them good for telling such lies. I have no patience with such writers, who doubtless are trying to follow in the steps of Long, and I cannot content myself to remain silent. If they did not vow that such stories were actual observations, I could forgive them. But here is where the danger comes." At times he showed his impatience, then he would tell one of these unbelievable stories, and burst into wholesome laughter. "Nothing but lies," he said. "A bigger lie was never told."
After I had been gone for an hour to walk around the little West Shore station, I returned to the "Study" and found Mr. Burroughs cutting wood for his study fire. I said to him: "You still enjoy cutting your wood, do you?" "Yes," he says, "I find some daily exercise aside from my walks, necessary in order for me to keep my health. I feel better when I take my daily exercise."
"What kind of wood is this you use?"
"Beech."
When we had taken the wood to the study, the time had come for us to journey over the mountains to Slabsides, and that was what I was eager to do. For I was anxious to see the far-famed cabin in the woods. As we followed the beaten pathway up the rugged mountain side, Mr. Burroughs appeared perfectly at ease, and would tell of the famous visitors who had come along the same path with him to Slabsides.
Nothing pleased him more than to speak of his high appreciation of President Roosevelt, and of the day the President and Mrs. Roosevelt spent at Riverby and Slabsides.
"They came right along this path with me that warm August day in 1903. The President was full of life, and would jump and sport along the mountain path as a child would do. I am very much impressed with him as a man."
"Do you remember the incident that occurred between you and the Chicago editor, where he spoke of you going to the Park to teach the President Natural History, in reply to which you state that President Roosevelt knew more western Natural History than four John Burroughs rolled into one?" "Yes, and I believe he does with reference to that big game in the west. You see he lived out west a great deal and has a very keen eye. Where did you see that?"
"How did you enjoy your stay in the Park with the President?"
"Oh! I had a very pleasant time except I got quite tired often and it was cold out there. The ground was covered with snow all the time."
Directly we were beyond the loftiest part of the mountains in a roadway, and with all the anticipation of an enthusiast, I said, "What clearing is that in the distance? Is that Slabsides on the right there? O, I shall never forget this moment!"
Mr. Burroughs answered in a very quiet way: "Yes, there is the little house called Slabsides, which you have heard so much about, and the clearing beyond is my famous celery farm."