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.
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