The Last Harvest — Edition Insights

Emerson's Journals Under Scrutiny

Burroughs devotes the opening essay to a close reading of Emerson's journals, which he studied eagerly in his later years. He describes Emerson as "the Concord Sage" and acknowledges his potent influence, yet he does not shy from identifying flaws. The language here is measured: Burroughs "could discern flies in the Emersonian amber," a metaphor that suggests both preservation and imperfection. He notes that Emerson's journals contain "whole pages of the Latin names of the common weeds and flowers," a detail that reveals Burroughs's interest in the raw material of literary observation. He contrasts this with Emerson's more polished public works, implying that the journals are a workshop rather than a finished product.

Thoreau's Journal as a Drag-Net

In the essay on Thoreau, Burroughs employs a striking image: Thoreau's journal is "a drag-net that nothing escapes." He argues that the journal's "human interest is slight" and its "natural history interest slight also," yet he acknowledges that enthusiasts will welcome every entry. Burroughs quotes Thoreau's remark that facts should be "the frame to my pictures," but he contends that only rarely do Thoreau's facts achieve significance. He points to a felicitous line about the birch having "so handsome an instep" as an exception. The critique is balanced by Burroughs's admission that he loves truth more than Thoreau, a statement that frames his analysis as affectionate rather than hostile.

The Fever of Expression

Burroughs characterizes Thoreau's compulsion to write as a "fever of expression" that raged "in his blood." He observes that Thoreau "went to Walden for subject-matter for his pen" and was always "keyed up to the writing pitch." This physiological language—fever, blood, pitch—suggests an almost involuntary drive. Burroughs notes that Thoreau wrote in all conditions: "by day and night, in cold and heat, in storm and sunshine." The detail that Thoreau once substituted birch-bark for a forgotten notebook underscores his relentless need to record. Burroughs implies that this intensity, while productive, sometimes overwhelmed the quality of the observations.

The Pride of Scholarship

Burroughs detects in Thoreau a "pride of scholarship" that manifests in his liberal use of Latin names and quotations from obscure authors. He writes that Thoreau "loved to see the pages of his Journal sprinkled with the Latin names of the plants and animals" and that a common weed "with a long Latin name acquired new dignity." This attention to linguistic detail reveals Burroughs's own sensitivity to diction. He also notes Thoreau's fondness for "Latin quotations and allusions to old and little known authors," linking this to a "Gospel of the Wild." The phrase suggests that Thoreau saw scholarly display as part of his naturalist's identity, a point Burroughs presents with a mixture of admiration and gentle irony.

Burroughs writes from a position of long experience, and his judgments carry the weight of a lifetime of reading and observation. Readers approaching The Last Harvest will find a writer who is both a devoted student and a candid critic, unafraid to measure his literary heroes against his own exacting standards. The essays reward attention to Burroughs's own diction—his metaphors, his pacing, his willingness to qualify. They offer not a final verdict but an ongoing conversation with the past.

Reading Burroughs on Thoreau’s patient watching reminds me of autumns at my grandfather’s table, pencil in hand, trying to catch light on paper. I felt that same quiet hush in Turns about Town — A Closer Reading, where noticing becomes a kind of prayer. Old books ask us to slow down, and I remember obeying.