SIXTEEN TO TWENTY.
At the age of sixteen, Richard Jefferies had an adventure--almost the
only adventure of his quiet life. It was an adventure which could only
happen to a youth of strong imagination, capable of seeing no
difficulties or dangers, and refusing to accept the word "impossible."
At this time he was a long and loose-limbed lad, regarded by his own
family as at least an uncommon youth and a subject of anxiety as to his
future, a boy who talked eagerly of things far beyond the limits of the
farm, who was self-willed and masterful, whose ideas astonished and even
irritated those whose thoughts were accustomed to move in a narrow,
unchanging groove. He was also a boy, as we have seen, who had the
power of imposing his own imagination upon others, even those of
sluggish temperament--as Don Quixote overpowered the slow brain of
Sancho Panza.
Richard Jefferies then, at the age of sixteen, conceived a magnificent
scheme, the like of which never before entered a boy's brain. Above all
things he wanted to see foreign countries. He therefore proposed to
another lad nothing less than to undertake a walk through the whole of
Europe, as far as Moscow and back again. The project was discussed and
debated long and seriously. At last it was referred to the decision of
the dog as to an oracle. In this way: if the dog wagged his tail within
a certain time, they would go; if the dog's tail remained quiet, it
should be taken as a warning or premonition against the journey.
Reliance should never, as a matter of fact, be placed in the oracle of
the dog's tail; but this the lads were too young to understand. The tail
wagged. The boys ran away. It was on November 11, in the year 1864. Now,
here, certain details of the story are wanting. The novelist is never
happy unless the whole machinery of his tale is clear in his own mind.
And I confess that I know not how the two boys raised the money with
which to pay their preliminary expenses. You may support yourself, as
Oliver Goldsmith did, by a flute or a fiddle, you may depend upon the
benefactions of unknown kind hearts in a strange land, but the steamship
company and the railway company must be always paid beforehand. Where
did the passage-money come from? Nay, as you will learn presently, there
must have been quite a large bag of money to start with. Where did it
come from? The other boy--the unknown--the _innominatus_--doubtless
found that bag of gold.
They got to Dover and they crossed the Channel, and they actually began
their journey. But I know not how far they got, nor how long a time,
exactly, they spent in France--about a week, it would seem. They very
quickly, however, made the humiliating discovery that they could not
understand a word that was said to them, nor could they, save by signs,
make themselves understood. Therefore they relinquished the idea of
walking to Moscow, and reluctantly returned. But they would not go
home; perhaps, because they were still athirst for adventure; perhaps,
because they were ashamed. They then saw an advertisement in a newspaper
which fired their imaginations again. The advertiser undertook, for an
absurdly small sum, to take them across to New York. The amount named
was just within the compass of their money. They resolved to see America
instead of Russia; they called at the agent's office and paid their
fares. Their tickets took them free to Liverpool, whither they repaired.
Unfortunately, when they reached Liverpool, they learned that the
tickets did not include bedding of any kind, or provisions, so that if
they went on board they would certainly be frozen and starved. What was
to be done? They had no more money. They could not get their money
returned. They were helpless. They resolved therefore to give up the
whole project, and to go home again. Jefferies undertook to pawn their
watches in order to get the money for the railway ticket. His appearance
and manner, for some reason or other--pawning being doubtless a new
thing with him--roused so much suspicion in the mind of the pawnbroker
that he actually gave the lad into custody. Happily, the superintendent
of police believed his story--probably a telegram to Swindon
strengthened his faith; he himself advanced them the money, keeping the
watches as security, and sent them home after an expedition which lasted
a fortnight altogether. There is no doubt as to the facts of the case.
The boys did actually start, with intent to march all the way across
Europe as far as Russia and back again. But how they began, how they
raised the money to pay the preliminary expenses, wants more light.
Also, there is no record as to their reception after they got home
again. One suspects somehow that on this occasion the fatted calf was
allowed to go on growing.
It must have been about this time that the lad began to have his bookish
learning remarked and respected, if not encouraged. One of the upper
rooms of the farmhouse--the other was the cheese-room--was set apart for
him alone. Here he had his books, his table, his desk, and his bed.
This room was sacred. Here he read; here he spent all his leisure time
in reading. He read during this period an immense quantity. Shakespeare,
Chaucer, Scott, Byron, Dryden, Voltaire, Goethe--he was never tired of
reading Faust--and it is said, but I think it must have been in
translation, that he read most of the Greek and Latin masters. It is
evident from his writings that he had read a great deal, yet he lacks
the touch of the trained scholar. That cannot be attained by solitary
and desultory reading, however omnivorous. His chief literary adviser in
those days was Mr. William Morris, of Swindon, proprietor and editor of
the _North Wilts Advertiser_. Mr. Morris is himself the author of
several works, among others a "History of Swindon," and, as becomes a
literary man with such surroundings, he is a well-known local antiquary.
Mr. Morris allowed the boy, who was at school with his own son, the run
of his own library; he lent him books, and he talked with him on
subjects which, one can easily understand, were not topics of
conversation at Coate. Afterwards, when Jefferies had already become
reporter for the local press, it was the perusal of a descriptive paper
by Mr. Morris, on the "Lakes of Killarney," which decided the lad upon
seriously attempting the literary career.
What inclined the lad to become a journalist? First of all, the narrow
family circumstances prevented his being brought up to one of the
ordinary professions: he might have become a clerk; he might have gone
to London, where he had friends in the printing business; he might have
emigrated, as his brother afterwards did; he might have gone into some
kind of trade. As for farming, he had no taste for it; the idea of
becoming a farmer never seems to have occurred to him as possible. But
he could not bear the indoor life; to be chained all day long to a desk
would have been intolerable to him; it would have killed him; he needed
such a life as would give him a great deal of time in the open air. Such
he found in journalism. His friend, Mr. Morris, gave him the first start
by printing for him certain sketches and descriptive papers. And he had
the courage to learn shorthand.
He had already before this begun to write.
"I remember"--I quote from a letter which has already furnished
information about these early days--"that he once showed his brother a
roll of manuscript which he said 'meant money' some day." It was
necessary in that house to think of money first.
I wonder what that manuscript was. Perhaps poetry--a clever lad's first
attempt at verse; there is never a clever lad who does not try his hand
at verse. Perhaps it was a story--we shall see that he wrote many
stories. At that time his handwriting was so bad that when he began to
feed the press, the compositors bought him a copybook and a penholder
and begged him to use it. He did use it, and his handwriting presently
became legible at least, but it remained to the end a bad handwriting.
His note-books especially are very hard to read.
He was left by his father perfectly free and uncontrolled. He was
allowed to do what he pleased or what he could find to do. This liberty
of action made him self-reliant. It also, perhaps, increased his habit
of solitude and reserve. In those days he used to draw a great deal,
and is said to have acquired considerable power in pen-and-ink sketches,
but I have never seen any of them.
At this period he was careless as to his dress and appearance; he
suffered his hair to grow long until it reached his coat collar. "This,"
says one who knew him then, "with his bent form and long, rapid stride,
made him an object of wonder in the town of Swindon. But he was
perfectly unconscious of this, or indifferent to it."
Later on, he understood better the necessity of paying attention to
personal appearance, and in his advice to the young journalist he points
out that he should be quietly but well dressed, and that he should study
genial manners.
In appearance Richard Jefferies was very tall--over six feet. He was
always thin. At the age of seventeen his friends feared that he would go
into a decline, which was happily averted--perhaps through his love for
the open air. His hair was dark-brown; his beard was brown, with a shade
of auburn; his forehead both high and broad; his features strongly
marked; his nose long, clear, and straight; his lower lip thick; his
eyebrows distinguished by the meditative droop; his complexion was fair,
with very little colour. The most remarkable feature in his face was his
large and clear blue eye; it was so full that it ought to have been
short-sighted, yet his sight was far as well as keen. His face was full
of thought; he walked with somewhat noiseless tread and a rapid stride.
He never carried an umbrella or wore a great-coat, nor, except in very
cold weather, did he wear gloves. He had great powers of endurance in
walking, but his physical strength was never great. In manner, as has
been already stated, he was always reserved; at this time so much so as
to appear morose to those who knew him but slightly. He made few
friends. Indeed, all through life he made fewer friends than any other
man. This was really because, for choice, he always lived as much in the
country as possible, and partly because he had no sympathy with the
ordinary pursuits of men. Such a man as Richard Jefferies could never be
clubable. What would he talk about at the club? The theatre? He never
went there. Literature of the day? He seldom read it. Politics? He
belonged to the people, and cursed either party. That once said, he had
nothing more to say. Art? He had ideas of his own on painting, and they
were unconventional. Gossip and scandal? He never heard any. Wine? He
knew nothing about wine. Yet to those whom he knew and trusted he was
neither reserved nor morose. An eremite would be driven mad by chatter
if he left his hermitage and came back to his native town; so this
roamer among the hills could not endure the profitless talk of man,
while Nature was willing to break her silence for him alone among the
hills and in the woods.
He became, then, a journalist. It is a profession which leaves large
gaps in the day, and sometimes whole days of leisure. The work, to such
a lad as Jefferies, was easy; he had to attend meetings and report them;
to write descriptive papers; to furnish and dress up paragraphs of news;
to look about the town and pick up everything that was said or done; to
attend the police courts, inquests, county courts, auctions, markets,
and everything. The life of a country journalist is busy, but it is in
great measure an out-door life.
Although Mr. Morris was his first literary friend and adviser, Jefferies
was never attached to his paper as reporter. Perhaps there was no
vacancy at the time. He obtained work on the _North Wilts Herald_, and
afterwards became in addition the Swindon correspondent of the _Wilts
and Gloucestershire Standard_, published at Cirencester. The editor of
the _North Wilts Herald_ was a Mr. Piper, who died two years ago. Of him
Jefferies always spoke with the greatest respect, calling him his old
master. But in what sense he himself was a pupil I know not. Nor can I
gather that Jefferies, who acquired his literary style much later, and
after, as will be seen, the production of much work which has deservedly
fallen into oblivion, learned anything as a writer from anybody. In the
line which he afterwards struck out for himself--that of observations of
nature--his master, as regards the subject-matter, was his father; as
regards his style he had no master.
He filled these posts and occupied himself in this kind of work between
the years 1865 and 1877.
But he did other things as well, showing that he never intended to sit
down in ignoble obscurity as the reporter of a country newspaper.
I have before me a little book called "Reporting, Editing, and
Authorship," published without date at Swindon, and by John Snow and
Co., Ivy Lane, London. I think it appeared in the year 1872, when he was
in his twenty-fourth year. It is, however, the work of a very young man;
the kind of work at which you must not laugh, although it amuses you,
because it is so very much in earnest, and at the same time so very
elementary. You see before you in these pages the ideal
reporter--Jefferies was always zealous to do everything that he had to
do as well as it could be done. It is divided into three chapters, but
the latter two are vague and tentative, compared with the first. The
little book should have been called, "He would be an Author."
"Let the aspirant," he says, "begin with acquiring a special knowledge
of his own district. The power and habit of doing this may subsequently
stand him in good stead as a war-correspondent. Let him next study the
trade and industries peculiar to the place. If he is able to write of
these graphically, he will acquire a certain connection and good-will
among the masters. He will strengthen himself if he contributes papers
upon these subjects to the daily papers or to the magazines; thus he
will grow to be regarded as a representative man. Next, he should study
everywhere the topography, antiquities, traditions, and general
characteristics of the country wherever he goes; he should visit the
churches, and write about them. He may go on to write a local history,
or he may take a local tradition and weave a story round about
it--things which local papers readily publish. Afterwards he may write
more important tales for country newspapers, and so by easy stages rise
to the grandeur of writing tales for the monthly magazines." Observe
that so far the ambition of the writer is wholly in the direction of
novels.
One piece of advice contrasts strongly with the description of him given
by his cousin. He has found out that eccentricity of appearance and
manner does not advance a man. Therefore he writes:
"A good personal manner greatly conduces to the success of the
reporter. He should be pleasant and genial, but not loud: inquiring
without being inquisitive: bold, but not presumptuous: and above
all respectful. The reporter should be able to talk on all subjects
with all men. He should dress well, because it obtains him
immediate attention: but should be careful to avoid anything
'horsey' or fast. The more gentlemanly his appearance and tone, the
better he will be received."
The chapter on Editing gives a tolerably complete account of the conduct
of a country-town newspaper. The chapter on Authorship is daring,
because the writer as yet knew nothing whatever of the subject. Among
other mistakes is the very common one of supposing that a young man can
help himself on by publishing at his own expense a manuscript which all
the respectable publishing houses have refused. He himself subsequently
acted upon this mistake, and lost his money without in the least
advancing his reputation. The young writer can seldom be made to
understand that all publishers are continually on the look-out for good
work; that good work is almost certain (though mistakes have been made)
to be taken up by the first publisher to whom it is offered; that if it
is refused by good Houses, the reason is that it is not good work, and
that paying for publication will not turn bad work into good. Jefferies
concludes his little book by so shocking a charge against the general
public that it shall be quoted just to show what this country lad of
nineteen or twenty thought was the right and knowing thing to say about
them:
"The public will read any commonplace clap-trap if only a
well-known name be attached to it. Hence any amount of expenditure
is justified with this object. It is better at once to realize the
fact, however unpleasant it may be to the taste, and instead of
trying to win the good-will of the public by laborious work, treat
literature as a trade, which, like other trades, requires an
immense amount of advertising."
This is Jefferies' own ideal of a journalist. In March, 1866, being then
eighteen years of age, he began his work on the _North Wilts Herald_.