Unlike Thoreau,
who asserts that "you cannot have a deep sympathy with both man and
nature," and that "those qualities that bring you near to the one
estrange you from the other," Mr. Burroughs likes his kind; he is
doubtless the most accessible of all notable American writers,--a
fact which is perhaps a drawback to him in his literary work, his
submission to being hunted out often being taken advantage of, no
doubt, by persons who are in no real sense nature-lovers, but who
go to his retreat merely to see the hermit in hiding there.
After twelve years' acquaintance with his books I yielded to the
impulse, often felt before, to tell Mr. Burroughs what a joy his
writings had been to me. In answering my letter he said: "The
genuine responses that come to an author from his unknown readers,
judging from my own experience, are always very welcome. It is no
intrusion but rather an inspiration." A gracious invitation to make
him a visit came later.
The visit was made in the "month of tall weeds," in September,
1901. Arriving at West Park, the little station on the West Shore
Railway, I found Mr. Burroughs in waiting. The day was gray and
somewhat forbidding; not so the author's greeting; his almost
instant recognition and his quiet welcome made me feel that I had
always known him.
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