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[Illustration]
THE EULOGY OF RICHARD JEFFERIES
BY
WALTER BESANT
'I hearing got, who had but ears,
And sight, who has but eyes before;
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.
THOREAU.
[Illustration]
_WITH A PORTRAIT_
London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1888
[_All rights reserved_]
TO THE
WIDOW AND THE TWO CHILDREN
OF
RICHARD JEFFERIES
I DEDICATE THIS MEMORIAL, IN THE EARNEST HOPE
THAT IT MAY NOT BE FOUND WHOLLY
UNWORTHY OF ITS SUBJECT.
PREFACE.
In the body of this work I have sufficiently explained the reasons why I
was entrusted with the task of writing this memoir of Richard Jefferies.
I have only here to express my thanks, first to the publishers, who have
given permission to quote from books by Jefferies issued by them,
namely: Messrs. Cassell and Co., Messrs. Chapman and Hall, Messrs.
Longman and Co., Messrs. Sampson Low and Co., Messrs. Smith and Elder,
and Messrs. Tinsley Brothers, and next, to all those who have entrusted
me with letters written by Jefferies, and have given permission to use
them. These are: Mrs. Harrild, of Sydenham, Mr. Charles Longman, Mr.
J.W. North, and Mr. C.P. Scott. I have also been provided with the
note-books filled with Jefferies' notes made in the fields. These have
enabled me to understand, and, I hope, to convey to others some
understanding of, the writer's methods. I call this book the "Eulogy" of
Richard Jefferies, because, in very truth, I can find nothing but
admiration, pure and unalloyed, for that later work of his, on which
will rest his fame and his abiding memory.
W.B.
UNITED UNIVERSITY CLUB,
_September, 1888_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
COATE FARM 1
CHAPTER II.
SIXTEEN TO TWENTY 49
CHAPTER III.
LETTERS FROM 1866 TO 1872 66
CHAPTER IV.
GLEAMS OF LIGHT 96
CHAPTER V.
FIRST YEARS OF SUCCESS 108
CHAPTER VI.
FICTION, EARLY AND LATE 145
CHAPTER VII.
IN FULL CAREER 163
CHAPTER VIII.
THE LONGMAN LETTERS 193
CHAPTER IX.
THE COUNTRY LIFE 214
CHAPTER X.
"THE STORY OF MY HEART" 269
CHAPTER XI.
THE CHILD WANDERS IN THE WOOD 301
CHAPTER XII.
CONCLUSION 327
* * * * *
APPENDIX I.
LIST OF JEFFERIES' WORKS 366
APPENDIX II.
LIST OF PAPERS STILL UNPUBLISHED 368
APPENDIX III.
LETTER TO THE "TIMES," NOVEMBER, 1872 370
THE
EULOGY
OF
RICHARD JEFFERIES.
CHAPTER I.
COATE FARM.
"Go," said the Voice which dismisses the soul on its way to inhabit an
earthly frame. "Go; thy lot shall be to speak of trees, from the cedar
even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall; and of beasts also,
and of fowls, and of fishes. All thy ways shall be ordered for thee, so
that thou shalt learn to speak of these things as no man ever spoke
before. Thou shalt rise into great honour among men. Many shall love to
hear thy voice above all the voices of those who speak. This is a great
gift. Thou shalt also enjoy the tender love of wife and children. Yet
the things which men most desire--riches, rank, independence, ease,
health, and long life--these are denied to thee. Thou shalt be always
poor; thou shalt live in humble places; the goad of necessity shall
continually prick thee to work when thou wouldst meditate; to write when
thou wouldst walk forth to observe. Thou shalt never be able to sit down
to rest; thou shalt be afflicted with grievous plaguy diseases; and thou
shalt die when little more than half the allotted life of man is past.
Go, therefore. Be happy with what is given, and lament not over what is
denied."
* * * * *
Richard Jefferies--christened John Richard, but he was always called by
his second name--was born on November 6, 1848, at the farmhouse of
Coate--you may pronounce it, if you please, in Wiltshire fashion--Caute.
The house stands on the road from Swindon to Marlborough, about two
miles and a half from the former place. It has now lost its old
picturesqueness, because the great heavy thatch which formerly served
for roof has been removed and replaced by slates. I know not whether any
gain in comfort has been achieved by this change, but the effect to
outward view has been to reduce what was once a beautiful old house to
meanness.
It consists of two rooms on the ground-floor, four on the first floor,
and two large garrets in the roof, one of which, as we shall see, has
memorable associations. The keeping-room of the family is remarkable for
its large square window, built out so as to afford a delightful retreat
for reading or working in the summer, or whenever it is not too cold to
sit away from the fireplace. The other room, called, I believe, the best
parlour, is larger, but it lacks the square window. In the days when the
Jefferies family lived here it seems to have been used as a kind of
store-room or lumber-room. At the back of the house is a kitchen
belonging to a much older house; it is a low room built solidly of stone
with timber rafters.
Beside the kitchen is a large modern room, which was used in Richard's
childhood as a chapel of ease, in which service was read every Sunday
for the hamlet of Coate.
Between the house and the road is a small flower-garden; at the side of
the house is a vegetable-garden, with two or three fruit-trees, and
beyond this an orchard. On the other side of the house are the farm
buildings. There seems to be little traffic up and down the road, and
the hamlet consists of nothing more than half a dozen labourers'
cottages.
"I remember," writes one who knew him in boyhood, "every little detail
of the house and grounds, even to the delicious scent of the musk
underneath the old bay window"--it still springs up afresh every summer
between the cobble stones--"the 'grind-stone' apple, the splendid
egg-plum which drooped over the roof, the little Siberian crabs, the
damsons--I could plant each spot with its own particular tree--the
drooping willow, the swing, the quaint little arbour, the
fuchsia-bushes, the hedge walks, the little arched gate leading into the
road, the delightful scent under the limes, the little bench by the
ha-ha looking towards Swindon and the setting sun. I am actually crying
over these delicious memories of my childhood; if ever I loved a spot of
this earth, it was Coate House. The scent of the sweet-briar takes me
there in a moment; the walnut-trees you recollect, and the old wooden
pump, where the villagers came for water; the hazel copse that my uncle
planted; the gateway that led to the reservoir; the sitting-room, with
its delightful square window; the porch, where the swallows used to
build year after year; and the kitchen, with its wide hearth and dark
window."
In "Amaryllis at the Fair" the scene is laid at Coate Farm. But, indeed,
as we shall see, Coate was never absent from Jefferies' mind for long.
Coate is not, I believe, a large farm. It had, however, been in the
possession of the family for many generations. Once--twice--it passed
out of their hands, and was afterwards recovered. It was finally lost
about twelve years ago. To belong to an old English yeoman stock is,
perhaps, good enough ancestry for anyone, though not, certainly,
"showy." Richard Jefferies was a veritable son of the soil: not
descended from those who have nothing to show but long centuries of
servitude, but with a long line behind him of independent farmers
occupying their own land. Field and forest lore were therefore his by
right of inheritance.
As for the country round about Coate, I suppose there is no district in
the world that has been more minutely examined, explored, and described.
Jefferies knew every inch of ground, every tree, every hedge. The land
which lies in a circle of ten miles' radius, the centre of which is
Coate Farm-house, belongs to the writings of Jefferies. He lived
elsewhere, but mostly he wrote of Coate. The "Gamekeeper at Home," the
"Amateur Poacher," "Wild Life in a Southern County," "Round about a
Great Estate," "Hodge and his Masters," are all written of this small
bit of Wiltshire. Nay, in "Wood Magic," in "Amaryllis at the Fair," in
"Green Ferne Farm," and in "Bevis," we are still either at Coate Farm
itself or on the hills around.
It is a country of downs. Two of them, within sight of the farmhouse,
are covered with the grassy mounds and trenches of ancient forts or
"castles." There are plantations here and there, and coppices, but the
general aspect of the country is treeless; it is also a dry country. In
winter there are water-courses which in summer are dry; yet it is not
without brooks. Jefferies shows ("Wild Life in a Southern County," p.
29) that in ancient and prehistoric time the whole country must have
been covered with forests, of which the most important survival is what
is now called Ashbourne Chase. For one who loved solitude and wanderings
among the hills, there could be hardly any part of England more
delightful. Within a reasonable walk from Coate are Barbury Hill,
Liddington Hill, and Ashbourne Chase; there are downs extending as far
as Marlborough, over which a man may walk all day long and meet no one.
It is a country, moreover, full of ancient monuments; besides the
strongholds of Liddington and Barbury, there are everywhere tumuli,
barrows, cromlechs, and stone circles. Wayland Smith's Forge is within
a walk to the east; another walk, somewhat longer, takes you to Avebury,
to Wan's Dyke, to the Grey Wethers of Marlborough, or the ancient forest
of Savernake. There are ancient memories or whispers of old wars and
prehistoric battles about this country. At Barbury the Britons made a
final stand against the Saxons, and were defeated with great slaughter.
Wanborough, now a village, was then an important centre where four Roman
roads met, so that the chieftain or king who had his seat at Wanborough
could communicate rapidly, and call up forces from Sarum, Silchester,
Winchester, and the Chilterns. All these things speak nothing to a boy
who is careless and incurious. But Richard Jefferies was a boy curious
and inquiring. He had, besides, friends who directed his attention to
the meaning of the ancient monuments within his reach, and taught him
something of the dim and shadowy history of the people who built them.
He loved to talk and think of them; in after-years he wrote a
book--"After London"--which was inspired by these early meditations
upon prehistoric Britain. He himself discovered--it is an archaeological
find of very considerable importance--how the garrisons of these
hill-top forts provided themselves with water. And as for his special
study of creatures and their ways, the wildness of the country is highly
favourable, both to their preservation and to opportunities for study.
Perhaps no other part of England was better for the development of his
genius than the Wiltshire Downs. Do you want to catch the feeling of the
air upon these downs? Remember the words which begin "Wild Life in a
Southern County."
"The most commanding down is crowned with the grassy mould and
trenches of an ancient earthwork, from whence there is a noble view
of hill and plain. The inner slope of the green fosse is inclined
at an angle pleasant to recline on, with the head just below the
edge, in the summer sunshine. A faint sound as of a sea heard in a
dream--a sibilant 'sish, sish'--passes along outside, dying away
and coming again as a fresh wave of the wind rushes through the
bennets and the dry grass. There is the happy hum of bees--who love
the hills--as they speed by laden with their golden harvest, a
drowsy warmth, and the delicious odour of wild thyme. Behind the
fosse sinks, and the rampart rises high and steep--two butterflies
are wheeling in uncertain flight over the summit. It is only
necessary to raise the head a little way, and the cool breeze
refreshes the cheek--cool at this height while the plains beneath
glow under the heat."
All day long the trains from Devon, Cornwall, Somerset and South Wales,
from Exeter, Bristol, Bath, Gloucester, and Oxford, run into Swindon and
stop there for ten minutes--every one of them--while the passengers get
out and crowd into the refreshment rooms.
Swindon to all these travellers is nothing at all but a
refreshment-room. It has no other association--nobody takes a ticket to
Swindon any more than to Crewe--it is the station where people have ten
minutes allowed for eating. As for any village, or town, of Swindon,
nobody has ever inquired whether there be such a place. Swindon is a
luncheon-bar; that is all. There is, however, more than a
refreshment-room at Swindon. First, there has grown up around the
station a new town of twenty thousand people, all employes of the Great
Western Railway, all engaged upon the works of the company. This is not
by any means a beautiful town, but it is not squalid; on the contrary,
it is clean, and looks prosperous and contented, with fewer
public-houses (but here one may be mistaken) than are generally found.
It is an industrial city--a city of the employed--skilled artisans,
skilled engineers, blacksmiths, foremen, and clerks. A mile south of
this new town--but there are houses nearly all the way--the old Swindon
stands upon a hill, occupying, most likely, the site of a British
fortress, such as that of Liddington or Barbury. It is a market town of
six or eight thousand people. Formerly there was a settlement of Dutch
in the place connected with the wool trade. They have long since gone,
but the houses which they built--picturesque old houses presenting two
gables to the street--remained after them. Of these nearly all are now
pulled down, so that there is little but red brick to look upon. In
fact, it would be difficult to find a town more devoid of beauty. They
have pulled down the old church, except the chancel: there was once an
old mill--Jefferies' grandfather was the tenant. That is also pulled
down, and there is a kind of square or _place_ where there is the corn
exchange: I think that there is nothing else to see.
On market-day, however, the town is full of crowd and bustle; at the
Goddard Arms you can choose between a hot dinner upstairs and a cold
lunch downstairs, and you will find both rooms filled with men who know
each other and are interested in lambing and other bucolic matters. The
streets are filled with drivers, sheep, and cattle; there is a horse
market; in the corn market the farmers, slow of speech, carry their
sample-bags in their hands; the carter, whip in hand, stands about on
the kerbstone; but in spite of the commotion no one is in a hurry. It is
the crowd alone which gives the feeling of busy life.
Looking from Swindon Hill, south and east and west, there stretches
away the great expanse of downs which nobody ever seems to visit; the
treasure-land of monuments built by a people passed away--not our
ancestors at all. This is the country over which the feet of Richard
Jefferies loved to roam, never weary of their wandering. On the slopes
of these green hills he has measured the ramparts of the ancient
fortress; lying on the turf, he has watched the hawk in the air; among
these fields he has sat for hours motionless and patient, until the
creatures thought him a statue and played their pranks before him
without fear. In these hedges he has peered and searched and watched; in
these woods and in these fields and on these hillsides he has seen in a
single evening's walk more things of wonder and beauty than one of us
poor purblind city creatures can discern in the whole of the six weeks
which we yearly give up to Nature and to fresh air. This corner of
England must be renamed. As Yorkshire hath its Craven, its Cleveland,
its Richmond, and its Holderness, so Wiltshire shall have its
Jefferies-land, lying in an irregular oval on whose circumference stand
Swindon, Barbury, Liddington, Ashbourne Chase and Wanborough.
Richard Jefferies was the second of five children, three sons and two
daughters. The eldest child, a daughter, was killed by a runaway horse
at the age of five. The Swindon people, who are reported to be
indifferent to the works of their native author, remember his family
very well. They seem to have possessed qualities or eccentricities which
cause them to be remembered. His grandfather, for instance, who is
without doubt the model for old Iden in "Amaryllis," was at the same
time a miller and a confectioner. The mill stood near the west end of
the old church; both mill and church are now pulled down. It was worked
for the tenant by his brother, a man still more eccentric than the
miller. The family seems to have inherited, from father to son, a
disposition of reserve, a love of solitude, and a habit of thinking for
themselves. No gregarious man, no man who loved to sit among his
fellows, could possibly have written even the shortest of Jefferies'
papers.
The household at Coate has been partly--but only partly--described in
"Amaryllis at the Fair." It consisted of his parents, himself, his next
brother, a year younger than himself, and a brother and sister much
younger. Farmer Iden, in "Amaryllis," is, in many characteristics, a
portrait of his father. Truly, it is not a portrait to shame any man;
and though the lines are strongly drawn, one hopes that the original,
who is still living, was not offended at a picture so striking and so
original. Jefferies has drawn for us the figure of a man full of wisdom
and thought, who speaks now in broad Wiltshire and now in clear, good
English; one who meditates aloud; one who roams about his fields
watching and remembering; one who brings to the planting of potatoes as
much thought and care as if he were writing an immortal poem; yet an
unpractical and unsuccessful man, who goes steadily and surely down-hill
while those who have not a tenth part of his wisdom and ability climb
upwards. A novelist, however, draws his portraits as best suits his
purpose; he arranges the lights to fall on this feature or on that; he
conceals some things and exaggerates others, so that even with the
picture of Farmer Iden before us, it would be rash to conclude that we
know the elder Jefferies. Some of the pictures, however, must be surely
drawn from the life. For instance, that of the farmer planting his
potatoes:
"Under the wall was a large patch recently dug, beside the patch a
grass path, and on the path a wheelbarrow. A man was busy putting
in potatoes; he wore the raggedest coat ever seen on a respectable
back. As the wind lifted the tails it was apparent that the lining
was loose and only hung by threads, the cuffs were worn through,
there was a hole beneath each arm, and on each shoulder the nap of
the cloth was gone; the colour, which had once been gray, was now a
mixture of several soils and numerous kinds of grit. The hat he had
on was no better; it might have been made of some hard pasteboard,
it was so bare.
"The way in which he was planting potatoes was wonderful; every
potato was placed at exactly the right distance apart, and a hole
made for it in the general trench; before it was set it was looked
at and turned over, and the thumb rubbed against it to be sure that
it was sound, and when finally put in, a little mould was
delicately adjusted round to keep it in its right position till the
whole row was buried. He carried the potatoes in his coat
pocket--those, that is, for the row--and took them out one by one;
had he been planting his own children he could not have been more
careful. The science, the skill, and the experience brought to this
potato-planting you would hardly credit; for all this care was
founded upon observation, and arose from very large abilities on
the part of the planter, though directed to so humble a purpose at
that moment."
This book also contains certain references to past family history which
show that there had been changes and chances with losses and gains. They
may be guessed from the following:
"'The daffodil was your great-uncle's favourite flower.'
"'Richard?' asked Amaryllis.
"'Richard,' repeated Iden. And Amaryllis, noting how handsome her
father's intellectual face looked, wandered in her mind from the
flower as he talked, and marvelled how he could be so rough
sometimes, and why he talked like the labourers, and wore a ragged
coat--he who was so full of wisdom in his other moods, and spoke,
and thought, and indeed acted as a perfect gentleman.
"'Richard's favourite flower,' he went on. 'He brought the
daffodils down from Luckett's; every one in the garden came from
there. He was always reading poetry, and writing, and sketching,
and yet he was such a capital man of business; no one could
understand that. He built the mill, and saved heaps of money; he
bought back the old place at Luckett's, which belonged to us before
Queen Elizabeth's days; indeed, he very nearly made up the fortunes
Nicholas and the rest of them got rid of. He was, indeed, a man.
And now it is all going again--faster than he made it.'"
Everybody knows the Dutch picture of the dinner at the farm--the
description of the leg of mutton. Was ever leg of mutton thus
glorified?
"That day they had a leg of mutton--a special occasion--a joint to
be looked on reverently. Mr. Iden had walked into the town to
choose it himself some days previously, and brought it home on foot
in a flag basket. The butcher would have sent it, and if not, there
were men on the farm who could have fetched it, but it was much too
important to be left to a second person. No one could do it right
but Mr. Iden himself. There was a good deal of reason in this
personal care of the meat, for it is a certain fact that unless you
do look after such things yourself, and that persistently, too, you
never get it first-rate. For this cause people in grand villas
scarcely ever have anything worth eating on their tables. Their
household expenses reach thousands yearly, and yet they rarely have
anything eatable, and their dinner-tables can never show meat,
vegetables, or fruit equal to Mr. Iden's. The meat was dark-brown,
as mutton should be, for if it is the least bit white it is sure to
be poor; the grain was short, and ate like bread and butter, firm,
and yet almost crumbling to the touch; it was full of juicy red
gravy, and cut pleasantly, the knife went through it nicely; you
can tell good meat directly you touch it with the knife. It was
cooked to a turn, and had been done at a wood fire on a hearth; no
oven taste, no taint of coal gas or carbon; the pure flame of wood
had browned it. Such emanations as there may be from burning logs
are odorous of the woodland, of the sunshine, of the fields and
fresh air; the wood simply gives out as it burns the sweetness it
has imbibed through its leaves from the atmosphere which floats
above grass and flowers. Essences of this order, if they do
penetrate the fibres of the meat, add to its flavour a delicate
aroma. Grass-fed meat, cooked at a wood fire, for me."
After the dinner, the great strong man with the massive head, who can
never make anything succeed, sits down to sleep alone beside the fire,
his head leaning where for thirty years it had daily leaned, against the
wainscot, so that there was now a round spot upon it, completely devoid
of varnish.
"That panel was in effect a cross on which a heart had been
tortured for the third of a century, that is, for the space of time
allotted to a generation.
"That mark upon the panel had still a further meaning; it
represented the unhappiness, the misfortunes, the Nemesis of two
hundred years. This family of Idens had endured already two hundred
years of unhappiness and discordance for no original fault of
theirs, simply because they had once been fortunate of old time,
and therefore they had to work out that hour of sunshine to the
utmost depths of shadow.
"The panel of the wainscot upon which that mark had been worn was
in effect a cross upon which a human heart had been tortured--and
thought can, indeed, torture--for a third of a century. For Iden
had learned to know himself, and despaired."
Then the man falls asleep, and Amaryllis steals in on tiptoe to find a
book. Then the wife, with a shawl round her shoulders, creeps outside
the house and looks in at the window--angry with her unpractical
husband.
"Slight sounds, faint rustlings, began to be audible among the
cinders in the fender. The dry cinders were pushed about by
something passing between them. After a while a brown mouse peered
out at the end of the fender under Iden's chair, looked round a
moment, and went back to the grate. In a minute he came again, and
ventured somewhat farther across the width of the white hearthstone
to the verge of the carpet. This advance was made step by step, but
on reaching the carpet the mouse rushed home to cover in one
run--like children at 'touch wood,' going out from a place of
safety very cautiously, returning swiftly. The next time another
mouse followed, and a third appeared at the other end of the
fender. By degrees they got under the table, and helped themselves
to the crumbs; one mounted a chair and reached the cloth, but soon
descended, afraid to stay there. Five or six mice were now busy at
their dinner.
"The sleeping man was as still and quiet as if carved.
"A mouse came to the foot, clad in a great rusty-hued iron-shod
boot--the foot that rested on the fender, for he had crossed his
knees. His ragged and dingy trouser, full of March dust, and
earth-stained by labour, was drawn up somewhat higher than the
boot. It took the mouse several trials to reach the trouser, but he
succeeded, and audaciously mounted to Iden's knee. Another quickly
followed, and there the pair of them feasted on the crumbs of bread
and cheese caught in the folds of his trousers.
"One great brown hand was in his pocket, close to them--a mighty
hand, beside which they were pigmies indeed in the land of the
giants. What would have been the value of their lives between a
finger and thumb that could crack a ripe and strong-shelled walnut?
"The size--the mass--the weight of his hand alone was as a hill
overshadowing them; his broad frame like the Alps; his head high
above as a vast rock that overhung the valley.
"His thumb-nail--widened by labour with spade and axe--his
thumb-nail would have covered either of the tiny creatures as his
shield covered Ajax.
"Yet the little things fed in perfect confidence. He was so still,
so _very_ still--quiescent--they feared him no more than they did
the wall; they could not hear his breathing.
"Had they been gifted with human intelligence, that very fact would
have excited their suspicions. Why so very, _very_ still? Strong
men, wearied by work, do not sleep quietly; they breathe heavily.
Even in firm sleep we move a little now and then, a limb trembles,
a muscle quivers, or stretches itself.
"But Iden was so still it was evident he was really wide awake and
restraining his breath, and exercising conscious command over his
muscles, that this scene might proceed undisturbed.
"Now the strangeness of the thing was in this way: Iden set traps
for mice in the cellar and the larder, and slew them there without
mercy. He picked up the trap, swung it round, opening the door at
the same instant, and the wretched captive was dashed to death upon
the stone flags of the floor. So he hated them and persecuted them
in one place, and fed them in another.
"From the merest thin slit, as it were, between his eyelids, Iden
watched the mice feed and run about his knees till, having eaten
every crumb, they descended his leg to the floor."
This portrait is not true in all its details. For instance, the elder
Jefferies had small and shapely hands and feet--not the massive hands
described in "Amaryllis."
Another slighter portrait of his father is found in "After London." It
is that of the Baron:
"As he pointed to the tree above, the muscles, as the limb moved,
displayed themselves in knots, at which the courtier himself could
not refrain from glancing. Those mighty arms, had they clasped him
about the waist, could have crushed his bending ribs. The heaviest
blow that he could have struck upon that broad chest would have
produced no more effect than a hollow sound; it would not even have
shaken that powerful frame.
"He felt the steel blue eyes, bright as the sky of midsummer,
glance into his very mind. The high forehead bare, for the Baron
had his hat in his hand, mocked at him in its humility. The Baron
bared his head in honour of the courtier's office and the Prince
who had sent him. The beard, though streaked with white, spoke
little of age; it rather indicated an abundant, a luxuriant
vitality."
And I have before me a letter which contains the following passage
concerning the elder Jefferies:
"The garden, the orchard, the hedges of the fields were always his
chief delight; he had planted many a tree round and about his farm.
Not a single bird that flew but he knew, and could tell its
history; if you walked with him, as Dick often did, and as I have
occasionally done, through the fields, and heard him
expatiate--quietly enough--on the trees and flowers, you would not
be surprised at the turn taken by his son's genius."
Thus, then, the boy was born; in an ancient farmhouse beautiful to look
upon, with beautiful fields and gardens round it; in the midst of a
most singular and interesting country, wilder than any other part of
England except the Peak and Dartmoor; encouraged by his father to
observe and to remember; taught by him to read the Book of Nature. What
better beginning could the boy have had? There wanted but one thing to
complete his happiness--a little more ease as regards money. I fear that
one of the earliest things the boy could remember must have been
connected with pecuniary embarrassment.
While still a child, four years of age, he was taken to live under the
charge of an aunt, Mrs. Harrild, at Sydenham. He stayed with her for
some years, going home to Coate every summer for a month. At Sydenham he
went to a preparatory school kept by a lady. He was then at the age of
seven, but he had learned to read long before. He does not seem to have
gained the character of precocity or exceptional cleverness at school,
but Mrs. Harrild remembers that he was always as a child reading and
drawing, and would amuse himself for hours at a time over some old
volume of "Punch," or the "Illustrated London News," or, indeed,
anything he could get. He had a splendid memory, was even so early a
great observer, and was always a most truthful child, strong in his
likes and dislikes. But he possessed a highly nervous and sensitive
temperament, was hasty and quick-tempered, impulsive, and, withal, very
reserved. All these qualities remained with Richard Jefferies to the
end; he was always reserved, always sensitive, always nervous, always
quick-tempered. In his case, indeed, the child was truly father to the
man. It is pleasant to record that he repaid the kindness of his aunt
with the affection of a son, keeping up a constant correspondence with
her. His letters, indeed, are sometimes like a diary of his life, as
will be seen from the extracts I shall presently make from them.
At the age of nine the boy went home for good. He was then sent to
school at Swindon.
A letter from which I have already quoted thus speaks of him at the age
of ten:
"There was a summer-house of conical shape in one corner paved with
'kidney' stones. This was used by the boys as a treasure-house,
where darts, bows and arrows, wooden swords, and other instruments
used in mimic warfare were kept. Two favourite pastimes were those
of living on a desert island, and of waging war with wild Indians.
Dick was of a masterful temperament, and though less strong than
several of us in a bodily sense, his force of will was such that we
had to succumb to whatever plans he chose to dictate, never
choosing to be second even in the most trivial thing. His temper
was not amiable, but there was always a gentleness about him which
saved him from the reproach of wishing to ride rough-shod over the
feelings of others. I do not recollect his ever joining in the
usual boy's sports--cricket or football--he preferred less
athletic, if more adventurous, means of enjoyment. He was a great
reader, and I remember a sunny parlour window, almost like a room,
where many books of adventure and fairy tales were read by him.
Close to his home was the 'Reservoir,' a prettily-situated lake
surrounded by trees, and with many romantic nooks on the banks.
Here we often used to go on exploring expeditions in quest of
curiosities or wild Indians."
Here we get at the origin of "Bevis." Those who have read that
romance--which, if it were better proportioned and shorter, would be the
most delightful boy's book in the world--will remember how the lads
played and made pretence upon the shores and waters of the lake. Now
they are travellers in the jungle of wild Africa; now they come upon a
crocodile; now they hear close by the roar of a lion; now they discern
traces of savages; now they go into hiding; now they discover a great
inland sea; now they build a hut and live upon a desert island. The man
at thirty-six recalls every day of his childhood, and makes a story out
of it for other children.
One of the things which he did was to make a canoe for himself with
which to explore the lake. To make a canoe would be beyond the powers of
most boys; but then most boys are brought up in a crowd, and can do
nothing except play cricket and football. The shaping of the canoe is
described in "After London":
"He had chosen the black poplar for the canoe because it was the
lightest wood, and would float best. To fell so large a tree had
been a great labour, for the axes were of poor quality, cut badly,
and often required sharpening. He could easily have ordered half a
dozen men to throw the tree, and they would have obeyed
immediately; but then the individuality and interest of the work
would have been lost. Unless he did it himself its importance and
value to him would have been diminished. It had now been down some
weeks, had been hewn into outward shape, and the larger part of the
interior slowly dug away with chisel and gouge.
"He had commenced while the hawthorn was just putting forth its
first spray, when the thickets and the trees were yet bare. Now the
May bloom scented the air, the forest was green, and his work
approached completion. There remained, indeed, but some final
shaping and rounding off, and the construction, or rather cutting
out, of a secret locker in the stern. This locker was nothing more
than a square aperture chiselled out like a mortise, entering not
from above, but parallel with the bottom, and was to be closed with
a tight-fitting piece of wood driven in by force of mallet.
"A little paint would then conceal the slight chinks, and the boat
might be examined in every possible way without any trace of this
hiding-place being observed. The canoe was some eleven feet long,
and nearly three feet in the beam; it tapered at either end, so
that it might be propelled backwards or forwards without turning,
and stem and stern (interchangeable definitions in this case) each
rose a few inches higher than the general gunwale. The sides were
about two inches thick, the bottom three, so that although dug out
from light wood, the canoe was rather heavy."
"As a boy," to quote again from the same letter, "he was no great
talker; but if we could get him in the humour, he would tell us racy and
blood-curdling romances. There was one particular spot on the Coate
road--many years ago a quarry, afterwards deserted--upon which he wove
many fancies, with murders and ghosts. Always, in going home after one
of our visits to the farm, we used to think we heard the clanking chains
or ringing hoof of the phantom horse careering after us, and we would
rush on in full flight from the fateful spot."
His principal companion in boyhood was his next brother, younger than
himself by one year only, but very different in manners, appearance, and
in tastes. He describes both himself and his brother in "After London."
Felix is himself; Oliver is his brother.
This is Felix:
"Independent and determined to the last degree, Felix ran any risk
rather than surrender that which he had found, and which he deemed
his own. This unbending independence and pride of spirit, together
with scarce-concealed contempt for others, had resulted in almost
isolating him from the youth of his own age, and had caused him to
be regarded with dislike by the elders. He was rarely, if ever,
asked to join the chase, and still more rarely invited to the
festivities and amusements provided in adjacent houses, or to the
grander entertainments of the higher nobles. Too quick to take
offence where none was really intended, he fancied that many bore
him ill-will who had scarcely given him a passing thought. He could
not forgive the coarse jokes uttered upon his personal appearance
by men of heavier build, who despised so slender a stripling.
"He would rather be alone than join their company, and would not
compete with them in any of their sports, so that, when his absence
from the arena was noticed, it was attributed to weakness or
cowardice. These imputations stung him deeply, driving him to brood
within himself."
And this is Oliver:
"Oliver's whole delight was in exercise and sport. The boldest
rider, the best swimmer, the best at leaping, at hurling the dart
or the heavy hammer, ever ready for tilt or tournament, his whole
life was spent with horse, sword, and lance. A year younger than
Felix, he was at least ten years physically older. He measured
several inches more round the chest; his massive shoulders and
immense arms, brown and hairy, his powerful limbs, tower-like neck,
and somewhat square jaw were the natural concomitants of enormous
physical strength.
"All the blood and bone and thew and sinew of the house seemed to
have fallen to his share; all the fiery, restless spirit and
defiant temper; all the utter recklessness and warrior's instinct.
He stood every inch a man, with dark, curling, short-cut hair,
brown cheek and Roman chin, trimmed moustache, brown eye, shaded by
long eyelashes and well-marked brows; every inch a natural king of
men. That very physical preponderance and animal beauty was perhaps
his bane, for his comrades were so many, and his love adventures so
innumerable, that they left him no time for serious ambition.
"Between the brothers there was the strangest mixture of affection
and repulsion. The elder smiled at the excitement and energy of the
younger; the younger openly despised the studious habits and
solitary life of the elder. In time of real trouble and difficulty
they would have been drawn together; as it was, there was little
communion; the one went his way, and the other his. There was
perhaps rather an inclination to detract from each other's
achievements than to praise them, a species of jealousy or envy
without personal dislike, if that can be understood. They were good
friends, and yet kept apart.
"Oliver made friends of all, and thwacked and banged his enemies
into respectful silence. Felix made friends of none, and was
equally despised by nominal friends and actual enemies. Oliver was
open and jovial; Felix reserved and contemptuous, or sarcastic in
manner. His slender frame, too tall for his width, was against him;
he could neither lift the weights nor undergo the muscular strain
readily borne by Oliver. It was easy to see that Felix, although
nominally the eldest, had not yet reached his full development. A
light complexion, fair hair and eyes, were also against him; where
Oliver made conquests, Felix was unregarded. He laughed, but
perhaps his secret pride was hurt."
After his return from Sydenham the boy, as I have said, went to school
for a year or two at Swindon. Then he presently began to read. He had
always delighted in books, especially in illustrated books; now he began
to read everything that he could get.
The boy who reads everything, the boy who takes out his younger brothers
and his cousins and makes them all pretend as he pleases, see what he
orders them to see, and shudder at his bidding and at the creatures of
his own imagination--what sort of future is in store for that boy? And
think of what his life might have become had he been forced into
clerkery or into trade: how crippled, miserable, and cramped! It is
indeed miserable to think of the thousands designed for a life of art,
of letters, of open air, or of science, wasted and thrown away in
labouring at the useless desk or the hateful counter.
This boy therefore read everything. Presently, when he had read all that
there was at Coate, and all that his grandfather had to lend him, he
began to borrow of everybody and to buy. It is perfectly wonderful, as
everybody knows, how a boy who never seems to get any money manages to
buy books. The fact is that all boys get money, but the boy who wants
books saves his pennies. For twopence you can very often pick up a book
that you want; for sixpence you can have a choice; a shilling will tempt
a second-hand bookseller to part with what seems a really valuable book;
half-a-crown--but such a boy never even sees a half-crown piece. Richard
Jefferies differed in one respect from most boys who read everything.
They live in the world of books; the outer world does not exist for
them; the birds sing, the lambs spring, the flowers blossom, but they
heed them not; they grow short-sighted over the small print; they become
more and more enamoured of phrase, captivated by words, charmed by
style, so that they forget the things around them. When they go abroad
they enact the fable of "Eyes and No Eyes," playing the less desirable
part. Jefferies, on the other hand, was preserved from this danger. His
father, the reserved and meditative man, took him into the fields and
turned over page after page with him of the book of Nature, expounding,
teaching, showing him how to use his eyes, and continually reading to
him out of that great book.
So a strange thing came to pass. Most of us who go away from our native
place forget it, or we only remember it from time to time; the memory
grows dim; when we go back we are astonished to find how much we have
forgotten, and how distorted are the memories which remain. Richard
Jefferies, however, who presently left Coate, never forgot the old
place. It remained with him--every tree, every field, every hill, every
patch of wild thyme--all through his life, clear and distinct, as if he
had left it but an hour before. In almost everything he wrote Coate is
in his mind. Even in his book of "Wild Life Round London" the reader
thinks sometimes that he is on the wild Wiltshire Downs, while the wind
whistles in his ears, and the lark is singing in the sky, and far, far
away the sheep-bells tinkle.
Why, in the very last paper which he ever wrote--it appeared in
_Longman's Magazine_ two months after his death--his memory goes back to
the hamlet where he was born. He recalls the cottage where John Brown
lived--you can see it still, close to Coate--as well as that where Job
lived who kept the shop and was always buying and selling; and of the
water-bailiff who looked after the great pond:
"There were one or two old boats, and he used to leave the oars
leaning against a wall at the side of the house. These oars looked
like fragments of a wreck, broken and irregular. The right-hand
scull was heavy as if made of ironwood, the blade broad and
spoon-shaped, so as to have a most powerful grip of the water. The
left-hand scull was light and slender, with a narrow blade like a
marrow-scoop; so when you had the punt, you had to pull very hard
with your left hand and gently with the right to get the forces
equal. The punt had a list of its own, and no matter how you rowed,
it would still make leeway. Those who did not know its character
were perpetually trying to get this crooked wake straight, and
consequently went round and round exactly like the whirligig
beetle. Those who knew used to let the leeway proceed a good way
and then alter it, so as to act in the other direction like an
elongated zigzag. These sculls the old fellow would bring you as if
they were great treasures, and watch you off in the punt as if he
was parting with his dearest. At that date it was no little matter
to coax him round to unchain his vessel. You had to take an
interest in the garden, in the baits, and the weather, and be very
humble; then perhaps he would tell you he did not want it for the
trimmers, or the withy, or the flags, and you might have it for an
hour as far as he could see; 'did not think my lord's steward would
come over that morning; of course, if he did you must come in,' and
so on; and if the stars were propitious, by-the-bye, the punt was
got afloat."
Then the writer--he was a dying man--sings his song of lament because
the past is past--and dead. All that is past, and that we shall never
see again, is dead. The brook that used to leap and run and chatter--it
is dead. The trees that used to put on new leaves every spring--they are
dead. All is dead and swept away, hamlet and cottage, hillside and
coppice, field and hedge.
"I think I have heard that the oaks are down. They may be standing
or down, it matters nothing to me; the leaves I last saw upon them
are gone for evermore, nor shall I ever see them come there again
ruddy in spring. I would not see them again even if I could; they
could never look again as they used to do. There are too many
memories there. The happiest days become the saddest afterwards;
let us never go back, lest we too die. There are no such oaks
anywhere else, none so tall and straight, and with such massive
heads, on which the sun used to shine as if on the globe of the
earth, one side in shadow, the other in bright light. How often I
have looked at oaks since, and yet have never been able to get the
same effect from them! Like an old author printed in other type,
the words are the same, but the sentiment is different. The brooks
have ceased to run. There is no music now at the old hatch where we
used to sit in danger of our lives, happy as kings, on the narrow
bar over the deep water. The barred pike that used to come up in
such numbers are no more among the flags. The perch used to drift
down the stream, and then bring up again. The sun shone there for a
very long time, and the water rippled and sang, and it always
seemed to me that I could feel the rippling and the singing and the
sparkling back through the centuries. The brook is dead, for when
man goes nature ends. I dare say there is water there still, but it
is not the brook; the brook is gone like John Brown's soul. There
used to be clouds over the fields, white clouds in blue summer
skies. I have lived a good deal on clouds; they have been meat to
me often; they bring something to the spirit which even the trees
do not. I see clouds now sometimes when the iron grip of hell
permits for a minute or two; they are very different clouds, and
speak differently. I long for some of the old clouds that had no
memories. There were nights in those times over those fields, not
darkness, but Night, full of glowing suns and glowing richness of
life that sprang up to meet them. The nights are there still; they
are everywhere, nothing local in the night; but it is not the Night
to me seen through the window."
Nobody believes him, he says. People ask him if such a village ever
existed--of course, it never existed. What beautiful picture ever really
existed save in the sunrise and in the sunset sky? Those living in the
place about which these wonderful things are written look at each other
in amazement, and ask what they mean. All this about Coate? Why, here
are only half a dozen cottages, mean and squalid, with thatched roofs;
and beyond the hedge are only fields with a great pond and bare hills
beyond. "No one else," says Jefferies, "seems to have seen the sparkle
on the brook, or heard the music at the hatch, or to have felt back
through the centuries; and when I try to describe these things to them
they look at me with stolid incredulity. No one seems to understand how
I got food from the clouds, nor what there was in the night, nor why it
is not so good to look out of window. They turn their faces away from
me, so that perhaps, after all, I was mistaken, and there never was any
such place, or any such meadows, and I was never there. And perhaps in
course of time I shall find out also, when I pass away physically, that
as a matter of fact there never was any earth." That, indeed, will be
the most curious discovery possible in the after-world. No earth--then
no Coate; no "Wild Life in a Southern County," and no "Gamekeeper at
Home," because there has never been any home for any gamekeeper.
I have dwelt at some length upon these early years of Jefferies' life
because they are all-important. They explain the whole of his
after-life; they show how the book of Nature was laid open to this man
in a way that it was never before presented to any man who had also the
divine gift of utterance, namely, by a man who, though steeped in the
wisdom of the field and forest--though he had read indeed in the
book--could not read it aloud for all to hear.
In order to read this book aright, one must live apart from one's
fellow-men and remain a stranger to their ambitions, ignorant of their
crooked ways, their bickerings, and their pleasures. One must have quick
and observant eyes, trained to watch and mark the infinite changes and
variations in Nature, day by day; one must go to Nature's school from
infancy in order to get this power. Nay; one must never cease to
exercise this power, or it will be lost; it must be continually
nourished and strengthened by being exercised. If one who has this power
should go to live in the city, his eyes would grow as sluggish and as
dim as ours; his ear would be blunted by the rolling of the carts, and
his mind disturbed by the rush and the activity of the crowd. Again, if
one who had this power should abandon the simple life, and should deaden
his senses with luxury, sloth, and vice, he would quickly lose it. He
_must_ live apart from men; all day long the sun must burn his cheek,
the wind must blow upon it, the rain must beat upon it; he must never be
out of reach of the fragrant wild flowers and the call and cry of the
birds. Of such men literature can show but two or three--Gilbert White,
Thoreau, and Jefferies--but the greatest of them all is Jefferies. No
one before him has so lived among the fields; no one has heard so
clearly the song of the flowers and the weeds and the blades of grass.
The million million blades of grass spoke to Jefferies as the Oak of
Dodona spoke through its thousand leaves. When he went home he sat down
and was inspired to translate that language, and to tell the world what
the grass says and sings to him who can hear.
He who met the great God Pan face to face fell down dead. Still, even in
these days, he who communes with the Sylvan Spirit presently dies to the
ways of men, while his senses are opened to see the hidden things of
hedge and meadow; while his soul is uplifted by the beauty and the
variety and the order of the world; by the wondrous lives of the
creatures, so full of peril, and so full of joy. Then, if he be
permitted to reveal these things, what can we who receive this
revelation give in exchange? What words of praise and gratitude can we
find in return for this unfolding of the Book of Fleeting Life?
As for us, we listened to the voice of this master for ten years; we
shall hear no more of his discourses; but the old ones remain; we can go
back to them again and again. It is the quality of truthful work that it
never grows old or stale; one can return to it again and again; there is
always something fresh in it, something new. In a great poem the lines
always bring some new thought to the mind; in great music, the harmonies
always call forth some fresh emotion, and inspire some new thought; in a
true book there is always some new truth to be discovered. If all the
rest of the literature of this day prove ephemeral and is doomed to
swift oblivion, the work of Jefferies shall not perish. Our fashions
change, and the things of which we write become old and pass away. But
the everlasting hills abide, and the meadows still lie green and
flowery, and the roses and wild honeysuckle still blossom in the hedge.
And those who have written of these are so few, and their words are so
precious, that they shall not pass away, so long as their tongue
endureth to be spoken and to be read.