I
The longing of a full, sensuous nature for fairer dreams of beauty than
come within its ken; the delight of a passionate soul in the riotous
wealth of the Earth, the luxuriant prodigality of the Earth; the
hysterical joy of the invalid in the splendid sanity of the
sunlight--these are the sentiments that well up from the writings of
Richard Jefferies.
By comparison with him, Thoreau's Earth-worship seems quite a stolid
affair, and even Borrow's frank enjoyment of the open air has a strangely
apathetic touch about it.
No doubt he felt more keenly than did the Hermit of Walden, or the
Norfolk giant, but it was not so much passionate intensity as nervous
susceptibility. He had the sensitive quivering nerves of the neurotic
which respond to the slightest stimulus. Of all the "Children of the
Open Air" Jefferies was the most sensitive; but for all that I would not
say that he felt more deeply than Thoreau, Borrow, or Stevenson.
Some people are especially susceptible by constitution to pain or
pleasure, but it would be rash to assume hastily that on this account
they have more deeply emotional natures. That they express their
feelings more readily is no guarantee that they feel more deeply.
In other words, there is a difference between susceptibility and passion.
Whether a man has passion--be it of love or hate--can be judged only by
his general attitude towards his fellow-beings, and by the stability of
the emotion.
Now Jefferies certainly had keener sympathies with humankind than
Thoreau, and these sympathies intensified as the years rolled by. Few
men have espoused more warmly the cause of the agricultural labourer.
Perhaps Hodge has never experienced a kinder advocate than Jefferies. To
accuse him of superficiality of emotion would be unfair; for he was a man
with much natural tenderness in his disposition.
All that I wish to protest against is the assumption made by some that
because he has written so feelingly about Hodge, because he has shown so
quick a response to the beauties of the natural world, he was therefore
gifted with a deep nature, as has been claimed for him by some of his
admirers.
One of the characteristics that differentiates the Vagabond writer from
his fellows is, I think, a lack of passion--always excepting a passion
for the earth, a quality lacking human significance. In their human
sympathies they vary: but in no case, not even with Whitman, as I hope to
show in my next paper, is there a _passion_ for humankind. There may be
curiosity about certain types, as with Borrow and Stevenson; a delight in
simple natures, as with Thoreau; a broad, genial comradeship with all and
sundry, as in the case of Whitman; but never do you find depth,
intensity.
Jefferies then presents to my mind all the characteristics of the
Vagabond, his many graces and charms, his notable deficiencies,
especially the absence of emotional stability. This trait is, of course,
more pronounced in some Vagabonds than in others; but it belongs to his
inmost being. Eager, curious, adventurous; tasting this experience and
that; his emotions share with his intellect in a chronic restless
transition. More easily felt than defined is the lack of permanence in
his nature; his emotions flame fitfully and in gusts, rather than with
steady persistence. Finally, despite the tenderness and kindliness he
can show, the egotistic elements absorb too much of his nature. A great
egotist can never be a great lover.
This may seem a singularly ungracious prelude to a consideration of
Richard Jefferies; but whatever it may seem it is quite consistent with a
hearty admiration for his genius, and a warm appreciation of the man.
Passion he had of a kind, but it was the rapt, self-centred passion of
the mystic.
He interests us both as an artist and as a thinker. It will be useful,
therefore, to keep these points of view as separate as possible in
studying his writings.