JOHN BURROUGHS 171 



are mutually dependent, inseparably one ; but 

 the writer is most faithful to the form when he is 

 most careful of the matter. It makes a vast dif- 

 ference whether his interest is absorbed by what 

 he has to say, or by the possible ways he may say 

 it. If Mr. Burroughs writes in his shirt-sleeves, 

 as a recent critic says he does, it is because he 

 goes about his writing as he goes about his vine- 

 yarding for grapes, for thoughts, and not to 

 see how pretty he can make a paragraph look, 

 or into what fantastic form he can train a vine. 

 The vine is lovely in itself, if it bear fruit. 



And so is language. Take Mr. Burroughs's man- 

 ner in any of its moods : its store of single, suffi- 

 cient words, for instance, especially the homely, 

 rugged words and idioms, and the flavor they 

 give, is second to the work they do ; or take his 

 use of figures when he speaks of De Quin- 

 cey's " discursive, roundabout style, herding his 

 thoughts as a collie dog herds sheep," and 

 unexpected, vivid, apt as they are, they are even 

 more effective. One is often caught up by the 

 poetry of these essays and borne aloft, but never 

 on a gale of words ; the lift and sweep are genu- 

 ine emotion and thought. 



