His Virtue.
I love to think of Jefferies as a kind of literary Leatherstocking. His
style, his mental qualities, the field he worked in, the chase he
followed, were peculiar to himself, and as he was without a rival, so was
he without a second. Reduced to its simplest expression, his was a mind
compact of observation and of memory. He writes as one who watches
always, who sees everything, who forgets nothing. As his lot was cast in
country places, among wood and pasturage and corn, by coverts teeming
with game and quick with insect life, and as withal he had the hunter's
patience and quick-sightedness, his faculty of looking and listening and
of noting and remembering, his readiness of deduction and insistence of
pursuit--there entered gradually into his mind a greater quantity of
natural England, her leaves and flowers, her winds and skies, her wild
things and tame, her beauties and humours and discomforts, than was ever,
perhaps, the possession of writing Briton. This property he conveyed to
his countrymen in a series of books of singular freshness and interest.
The style is too formal and sober, the English seldom other than homely
and sufficient; there is overmuch of the reporter and nothing like enough
of the artist, the note of imagination, the right creative faculty. But
they are remarkable books. It is not safe to try and be beforehand with
posterity, but in the case of such works as the _Gamekeeper_ and _Wild
Life_ and with such a precedent as that established by the _Natural
History of Selborne_ such anticipation seems more tempting and less
hazardous than usual. One has only to think of some mediaeval Jefferies
attached to the staff of Robin Hood, and writing about Needwood and
Charnwood as his descendant wrote about the South Downs, to imagine an
historical document of priceless value and inexhaustible interest. And
in years to be, when the whole island is one vast congeries of streets,
and the fox has gone down to the bustard and the dodo, and outside
museums of comparative anatomy the weasel is not and the badger has
ceased from the face of the earth, it is not doubtful that the
_Gamekeeper_ and _Wild Life_ and the _Poacher_--epitomising, as they
will, the rural England of certain centuries before--will be serving as
material and authority for historical descriptions, historical novels,
historical epics, historical pictures, and will be honoured as the most
useful stuff of their kind in being.
His Limitation.
In those first books of his Jefferies compels attention by sheer
freshness of matter; he is brimful of new facts and original and
pertinent observation, and that every one is vaguely familiar with and
interested in the objects he is handling and explaining serves but to
heighten his attractiveness. There are so many who but know of hares
disguised as soup, of ants as a people on whose houses it is not good to
sit down, of partridges as a motive of bread sauce! And Jefferies,
retailing in plain, useful English the thousand and one curious facts
that make up life for these creatures and their kind--Jefferies walking
the wood, or tracking the brook, or mapping out the big tree--is some one
to be heeded with gratitude. He is the Scandalous Chronicler of the
warren and the rookery, the newsmonger and intelligencer of creeping
things, and things that fly, and things that run; and his confidences,
unique in quality and type, have the novelty and force of personal
revelations. In dealing with men and women, he surrendered most of his
advantage and lost the best part of his charm. The theme is old, the
matter well worn, the subject common to us all; and most of us care
nothing for a few facts more or less unless they be romantically
conveyed. Reality is but the beginning, the raw material, of art; and it
is by the artist's aid and countenance that we are used to make
acquaintance with our fellows, be they generals in cocked hats or
mechanics in fustian. Now Jefferies was not an artist, and so beside his
stoats and hares, his pike, his rabbits, and his moles, his men and women
are of little moment. You seem to have heard of them and to far better
purpose from others; you have had their author's facts presented
elsewhere, and that in picturesque conjunction with the great eternal
interests of passion and emotion. To be aware of such a difference is to
resent it; and accordingly to read is to know that Jefferies would have
done well to leave Hodge and Hodge's masters alone and keep to his beasts
and birds and fishes.
The General.
Is it not plain as the nose on your face that his admirers admire him
injudiciously? It is true, for instance, that he is in a sense, 'too
full' (the phrase is Mr. Besant's) for the generality of readers. But it
is also true that he is not nearly full enough: that they look for
conclusions while he is bent upon giving them only details: that they
clamour for a breath of inspiration while he is bent upon emptying his
note-book in decent English; that they persist in demanding a motive, a
leading idea, a justification, while he with knowledge crammed is fixed
in his resolve to tell them no more than that there are milestones on the
Dover Road, or that there are so many nails of so many shapes and so many
colours in the pig-sty at the back of Coate Farm. They prefer 'their
geraniums in the conservatory.' They refuse, in any case, to call a
'picture' that which is only a long-drawn sequence of statements. They
are naturally inartistic, but they have the tradition of a long and
speaking series of artistic results, and instinctively they decline to
recognise as art the work of one who was plainly the reverse of an
artist. The artist is he who knows how to select and to inspire the
results of his selection. Jefferies could do neither. He was a reporter
of genius; and he never got beyond reporting. To the average reader he
is wanting in the great essentials of excitement: he is prodigal of
facts, and he contrives to set none down so as to make one believe in it
for longer than the instant of perusal. From his work the passionate
human quality is not less absent than the capacity of selection and the
gift of inspiration, and all the enthusiasm of all the enthusiasts of an
enthusiastic age will not make him and his work acceptable to the
aforesaid average reader. In letters he is as the ideal British water-
colourist in paint: the care of both is not art but facts, and again
facts, and facts ever. You consider their work; you cannot see the wood
for the trees; and you are fain to conclude that themselves were so much
interested in the trees they did not even know the wood was there.
Last Words.
To come to an end with the man:--his range was very limited, and within
that range his activity was excessive; yet the consequences of his
enormous effort were--and are--a trifle disappointing. He thought, poor
fellow! that he had the world in his hand and the public at his feet;
whereas, the truth to tell, he had only the empire of a kind of back
garden and the lordship of (as Mr. Besant has told us) some forty
thousand out of a hundred millions of readers. You know that he suffered
greatly; you know too that to the last he worked and battled on as became
an honest, much-enduring, self-admiring man: as you know that in death he
snatched a kind of victory, and departed this life with dignity as one
'good at many things,' who had at last 'attained to be at rest.' You
know, in a word, that he took his part in the general struggle for
existence, and manfully did his best; and it is with something like a
pang that you find his biographer insisting on the merits of the feat,
and quoting approvingly the sentimentalists who gathered about his death-
bed. To make eloquence about heroism is not the way to breed heroes; and
it may be that Jefferies, had his last environment been less fluent and
sonorous, would now seem something more heroic than he does.