A primitive forest, druidical, solitary, and savage--not ten visitors
a year--broken rocks everywhere, shade overhead, thick underfoot with
leaves--a just palpable wild and delicate aroma.
"Not ten visitors a year" may have been true when Whitman described
the place, but we know it is different now. Troops of Vassar girls
come to visit the hermit of Slabsides, and are taken to these falls;
nature-lovers, and those who only think themselves nature-lovers,
come from far and near; Burroughs clubs, boys' schools, girls'
schools, pedestrians, cyclists, artists, authors, reporters,
poets,--young and old, renowned and obscure,--from April till November
seek out this lover of nature, who is a lover of human nature as
well, who gives himself and his time generously to those who find
him. When the friends of Socrates asked him where they should bury
him, he said: "You may bury me if you can /find/ me." Not all who
seek John Burroughs really find him; he does not mix well with every
newcomer; one must either have something of Mr. Burroughs's own
cast of mind, or else be of a temperament capable of genuine sympathy
with him, in order to find the real man. He withdraws into his
shell before persons of uncongenial temperament; to such he can
never really speak--they see Slabsides, but they don't see Burroughs.
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