JOHN BURROUGHS i 7 i 



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 lie 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. 



