Muir talks because he can't help it, and his talk is good
literature; he writes only because he has to, on occasion; while
Mr. Burroughs writes because he can't help it, and talks when he
can't get out of it. Mr. Muir, the Wanderer, needs a continent
to roam in; while Mr. Burroughs, the Saunterer, needs only a
neighborhood or a farm. The Wanderer is content to scale mountains;
the Saunterer really climbs the mountain after he gets home, as he
makes it truly his own only by dreaming over it and writing about it.
The Wanderer finds writing irksome; the Saunterer is never so well
or so happy as when he can write; his food nourishes him better,
the atmosphere is sweeter, the days are brighter. The Wanderer has
gathered his harvest from wide fields, just for the gathering; he has
not threshed it out and put it into the bread of literature--only
a few loaves; the Saunterer has gathered his harvest from a rather
circumscribed field, but has threshed it out to the last sheaf; has
made many loaves; and it is because he himself so enjoys writing that
his readers find such joy and morning freshness in his books, his own
joy being communicated to his reader, as Mr. Muir's own enthusiasm
is communicated to his hearer. With Mr. Burroughs, if his field of
observation is closely gleaned, he turns aside into subjective fields
and philosophizes--a thing which Mr.
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