"The title of my first book was 'Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person,' and was published in 1867. Later I wrote a book on 'Whitman: A Study.' Since I first turned attention to Whitman, he has never released hold upon me. I found a more wholesome air in his than in any other poetry, and when I met him and learned to love him, his attractive personality strengthened my love for his writings. He is the one mountain in our American Literary Landscape. There are some beautiful hills.
"I don't seem to be in a mood to write poetry. One cannot write when he thinks to do so. He must have a deep consciousness of his message, if he would say something that will hold water. Probably I shall find my muse again some day; I don't know.
"I have always been a lover of the farm. I am a man of the soil. I enjoyed the smell of that manure as we passed up the road today. It recalled my early days when I used to put it out on the farm. Anything that savors of the farm and of farm life is pleasant to me. Nothing makes me happier than my annual visits back to my old home in the Catskills. When Mrs. Burroughs and I decided to buy a home and move away from Washington, I could not decide just where would be best for us to settle, so we thought to get near New York and at the same time as near the old home as possible. We have enjoyed our life at Riverby very much, and it is convenient in every way. We have a great many visitors, and like to see them come.
"At this time America has no great writer, but many who use pretty English. They seem to have no great message. Stedman wrote well, but his essays always savored too much of the mid-night oil. They read as if the best of his energy had been spent in something else, and the tired mid-night hours turned to literary work. They are not fresh like Lowell's essays. I do not think anything he wrote has lasting qualities, with the possible exception of two or three poems. Aldrich wrote sweet verse, but it is sweet in the sense that a peach or a plum is sweet. It has no fast colors. Trowbridge is one of our best present-day writers, and much of his work will be unknown to the next generation. He is a man of attractive personality and exceptionally pleasing manners. Mrs. Burroughs and I have, for a long time, enjoyed his friendship. As for my own writings, I sometimes wonder just how they have affected people, and what my life has meant. I have always hoped that some would be helped by my books. A short time ago, I had a letter from a preacher in the upper part of New York state, who had just finished a book on 'The Gospel of Christ,' and he asked me if I would write a book on 'The Gospel of Nature.' After I received the letter and began to think about the matter, I was much perplexed as to whether there is a gospel of Nature. I have since then written something along the line suggested, but I do not know whether it will ever appear in print. It is always interesting to have suggestions from any one about what I should write. Writing is more a product of the soul than of the will.
"I once asked President Roosevelt what he would do when he left the White House. He replied quickly: 'Oh, I'll find plenty to do. Don't worry about that.' And he will find plenty to do. He is a man of intense activity, and will always be happiest when he is busiest. I admit that he takes large liberties as the executive of the nation, but he is a natural leader and controller of men. When he sets his head to do a thing, he keeps digging away till it is done. He is full of resources. I have just received a letter from him consenting to be interviewed by my friend, William Bayard Hale. Hale is a good man, and will give a most reliable account of his visit to the White House."
John Burroughs, who is destined to be called "the good gray naturalist," is a man who enters freely into the life of those who admire him and his writings. Recently it was my delight to read and discuss one of his short poems, "The Return," with Mrs. Burroughs, and I could not resist the temptation to remark that Mr. Burroughs must have been homesick for the old place when he wrote it.
The wife said: "Yes; you have no idea how true that is! Mr. Burroughs often goes back to his old home at Roxbury, up in the Catskills, and walks over the farm and through the woods where he used to go when he was a boy, and he always tells me how sad it makes him feel. I sometimes think that he would like to live his life over, he has so many fond memories and pleasant recollections of his early life."
The Return
He sought the old scenes with eager feet,
The scenes he had known as a boy,
"Oh, for a draught of those fountains sweet,
And a taste of that vanished joy!"
He roamed the fields, he wooed the streams,
His schoolboy paths essayed to trace;
The orchard ways recalled his dreams,
The hills were like his mother's face.