The Eulogy of Richard Jefferies

It happened unto me – by grace and special favour, I may call it – that in the course of my earthly pilgrimage I had for a great many years certain business transactions at regular short intervals with one who knew Jefferies well, because he married his only sister. The habit began, as soon as I learned that fact, of talking about Richard Jefferies as soon as our business was completed. Henceforward, therefore, week by week, I followed the fortunes of this man, and read not only his books and his papers, but learned his personal history, and heard what he was doing, and watched him curiously, unknown and unsuspected by himself. To be sure, his own people knew little, except in general terms, about his intentions or projects. It was not in Jefferies' nature to consult them. Another thing I knew not, because, with characteristic pride and reserve, he did not suffer even his brother-in-law or his sister to know it – viz., the terrible poverty of his later days.

I have never looked upon the face of Richard Jefferies. This, now that it is too late, is to me a deep and abiding sorrow. I always hoped some day to see him – there seemed so much time ahead – and to tell him, face to face, what one ought to tell such a man – it is a plain duty to tell this truth to such a man – how greatly I admired and valued his work, with what joy I received it, with what eagerness I expected it, what splendid qualities I found in it, what instruction and elevation of soul I derived from it. I have never even seen this man. I was not a friend of his – I was not even a casual acquaintance – and yet I am writing his life. Perhaps, in this strange way, by reading all that he wrote, by connecting his work continually with what I learned of his life and habits, and by learning, day by day, all the things which happened to him, I may have learned to know him more intimately even than some of those who rejoiced in being called his friends.

As for his personal habits, Jefferies was extremely simple and regular, even methodical. He breakfasted always at eight o'clock, often on nothing but dry toast and tea. After breakfast he went to his study, where he remained writing until half-past eleven. At that hour he always went out, whatever the weather and in all seasons, and walked until one o'clock. This morning walk was an absolute necessity for him. At one o'clock he returned and took an early dinner, which was his only substantial meal. His tastes were simple. He liked to have a plain roast or boiled joint, with abundance of vegetables, of which he was very fond, especially asparagus, sea-kale, and mushrooms. He would have preferred ale, but he found that light claret or burgundy suited him better, and therefore he drank daily a little of one or the other.

Dinner over, he read his daily paper, and slept for an hour by the fireside. Perhaps this after-dinner sleep may be taken as a sign of physical weakness. A young man of thirty ought not to want an hour's sleep in the middle of the day. At three o'clock he awoke, and went for another walk, coming home at half-past four. He thus walked for three hours every day, which, for a quick walker, gives a distance of twelve miles – a very good allowance of fresh air. Men of all kinds, who have to keep the brain in constant activity, have found that the active exercise of walking is more valuable than any other way of recreation in promoting a healthy activity of the brain. To talk with children is a rest; to visit picture-galleries changes the current of thought; to play lawn tennis diverts the brain; but to walk both rests the brain and stimulates it. Jefferies acquired the habit of noting down in his walks, and storing away, those thousands of little things which make his writings the despair of people who think themselves minute observers. He took tea at five, and then worked again in his study till half-past eight, when he commonly finished work for the day. In other words, he gave up five hours of the solid day to work. It is, I think, impossible for a man to carry on literary work of any but the humblest kind for more than five hours a day; three hours remained for exercise, and the rest for food, rest, and reading. He took a little supper at nine, of cold meat and bread, with a glass of claret, and then read or conversed until eleven, when he went to bed. He took tobacco very rarely.

He had not a large library, because the works which he most wished to procure were generally beyond his means. For instance, he was always desirous, but never able, to purchase Sowerby's "English Wild-Flowers." His favourite novelists were Scott and Charles Reade. The conjunction of these two names gives me singular pleasure, as to one who admires the great qualities of Reade. He also liked the works of Ouida and Miss Braddon. He never cared greatly for Charles Dickens. I think the reason why Dickens did not touch him was that the kind of lower middle-class life which Dickens knew so well, and loved to portray, belonged exclusively to the town, which Jefferies did not know, and not to the country, which he did. He was never tired of Goethe's "Faust," which was always new to him. He loved old ballads, and among the poets, Dryden's works were his favourite reading. In one thing he was imperious: the house must be kept quiet – absolutely quiet – while he was at work. Any household operations that made the least noise had to be postponed till he went out for his walk.

I have before me a great number of note-books filled with observations, remarks, ideas, hints, and suggestions of all kinds by him. He carried them about during his walks, and while he was always watching the infinite wealth and variety of Nature, the multitudinous forms of life, he was always noting down what he saw. To read these note-books is like reading an unclassified index to the works of Nature. And since they throw so much light upon his methods, and prove – if that wanted any proof – how careful he was to set down nothing that had not been noted and proved by himself, I have copied some few pages, which are here reproduced. Observe that these extracts are taken almost at random from two or three note-books. The writing is cramped, and in parts very difficult to make out.

"Oct. 16, 1878.– Wasp and very large blue-fly struggling, wrestling on leaf. In a few seconds wasp got the mastery, brought his tail round, and stung twice or thrice; then bit off the fly's proboscis, then the legs, then bit behind the head, then snipped off the wings, then fell off leaf, but flew with burden to the next, rolled the fly round, and literally devoured its intestines. Dropped off the leaf in its eager haste, got on third leaf, and continued till nothing was left but a small part of the body – the head had been snipped off before. This was one of those large black flies – a little blue underneath – not like meat flies, but bigger and squarer, that go to the ivy. Ivy in bloom close by, where, doubtless, the robber found his prey and seized it.

"While the other leaves fall, the thick foliage of the fir supports the leaves that have been wafted to it, so that the fir's branches are thickly sprinkled with other leaves."

"Surrey, Oct. 27.– Red-wings numerous, and good many fieldfares.

"Ivy, brown reddish leaves, and pale-green ribs."

"Oct. 29.– Saw hawk perched on telegraph line out of railway-carriage window. Train passed by within ten yards; hawk did not move.

"Street mist, London, not fog, but on clear day comes up about two-thirds the height of the houses."

"Nov. 3.– The horse-chestnut buds at end of boughs; tree quite bare of leaves; all sticky, colour of deep varnish, strongly adhesive. These showed on this tree very fully.

"Golden-crested wren, pair together Nov. 3; 'cheep-cheep' as they slipped about maple bush, and along and up oak bough; motions like the tree-climber up a bough; the crest triangular, point towards beak, spot of yellow on wing.

"Still day; the earth holds its breath."

"Nov. 11.– Gold-crested wren and tom-tit on furze clinging to the very spikes, and apparently busy on the tiny green buds now showing thickly on the prickles.

"The contemplation of the star, the sun, the tree raises the soul into a trance of inner sight of nature."

"Nov. 17.– Sycamore leaves – some few still on – spotted with intensely black spots an inch across. Willow buds showing."

"Nov. 23.– Oaks most beautiful in sun – elms nearly leafless, also beech and willow – but oaks still in full leaf, some light-brown, still trace of green, some brown, some buff, and tawny almost, save in background, toned by shadow, a trace of red. The elms hid them in summer; now the oaks stand out the most prominent objects everywhere, and are seen to be three times as numerous as expected."

"Nov. 25.– Thrushes singing again; a mild day after week or two cold."

"Dec. 23.– Red-wings came within a yard, Velt (?) came within ten, wood-pigeon the same. Weasel hunting hedge under snow; under-ground in ivy as busy as possible; good time for them."

"Jan. 6.– Very sharp frost, calm, some sun in morning, dull at noon."

"Jan. 7.– Frost, wind, dull."

"Jan. 8.– Frost light, strong N.E. wind."

"Jan. 9.– Frost light, some little snow, wind N.E., light."

"Jan. 10.– Very fine, sunny, N.E. wind, sharp frosty morning.

"Orange moss on old tiles on cattle-sheds and barns a beautiful colour; a picture."

"Feb. 7.– Larks soaring and singing the first time; one to an immense height; rain in morning, afternoon mild but a strong wind from west; catkins on hazel, and buds on some hazel-bushes; missel-thrush singing in copse; spring seems to have burst on us all at once; chaffinches pairing, or trying to; fighting."

"Feb. 8.– Numerous larks soaring; copse quite musical; now the dull clouds of six weeks have cleared away, we see the sun has got up quite high in the sky at noon."

"Feb. 12.– Rooks, five, wading into flood in meadow, almost up to their breasts; lark soaring and singing at half-past five, evening; light declining; partridges have paired.

"No blue geranium in Surrey that I have seen."

"Feb. 17.– Rooks busy at nests, jackdaws at steeple; sliding down with wings extended, 4.50, to gardens below at great speed."

"Feb. 20.– Ploughs at work again; have not seen them for three months almost."

"Feb. 21.– Snow three or four inches; broom bent down; the green stalks that stand up bent right down; afterwards bright sunshine for some hours, and then clouded again."

"Feb. 22.– Berries on wild ivy on birch-tree, round and fully-formed and plentiful; berries not formed on garden ivy."

"Feb. 27.– Snow on ground since morning of 21st; four wild ducks going over to east; first seen here for two years; larks fighting and singing over snow; thawing; snow disappeared during day; tomtit at birch-tree buds; pigeons still in large flocks."

"March 7.– Splendid day; warm sun, scarcely any wind; wood-pigeons calling in copse here."

"April 16.– Elms beginning to get green with leaf-buds; apple leaf-buds opening green."

"May 12.– A real May-day at last; warm, west wind, sunshine; birds singing as if hearts would burst; four or five blackbirds all in hearing at once; butterfly, small white, tipped with yellowish red; song of thrush more varied even than nightingale; if rare, people would go miles to hear it, never the same in same bird, and every bird different; fearless, too; operatic singer.

"More stitchwort; now common; it looks like ten petals, but is really five; the top of the petal divided, which gives the appearance; a delicate, beautiful white; leaves in pairs, pointed.

"Humble-bees do suck cowslips."

"May 14.– Lark singing beautifully in the still dark and clouded sky at a quarter to three o'clock in the morning; about twenty minutes afterwards the first thrush; thought I heard distant cuckoo – not sure; and ten minutes after that the copse by garden perfectly ringing with the music. A beautiful May morning; thoroughly English morning: southerly wind, warm light breeze, smart showers of warm rain, and intervals of brilliant sunshine; the leaves in copse beautiful delicate green, refreshed, cleaned, and a still more lovely green from the shower; behind them the blue sky, and above the bright sun; white detached clouds sailing past. That is the morning; afternoon more cloudy.

"More swifts later in evening. The first was flying low down against wind; seemed to progress from tip to tip of wing, alternately throwing himself along, now one tip downwards, now the other, like hand-over-hand swimming. Furze-chat, first in furze opposite, perched on high branch of furze above the golden blossom thick on that branch; a way of shaking wings while perched; 'chat-chat' low; head and part of neck black, white ring or band below, brownish general colour. Nightingale singing on elm-branch – a large, thick branch, projecting over the green by roadside – perched some twenty-five feet high. Yellow-hammer noticed a day or two ago perched on branch lengthwise, not across. Oaks: more oaks out. Ash: thought I saw one with the large black buds enlarged and lengthened, but not yet burst."

"May 18.– The white-throat feeds on the brink of the ditch, perching on fallen sticks or small bushes; there is then no appearance of a crest; afterwards he flies up to the topmost twig of the bush, or on a sapling tree, and immediately he begins to sing, and the feathers on the top of his head are all ruffled up, as if brushed the wrong way."

"May 20.– Coo of dove in copse first."

"May 21.– The flies teased in the lane to-day – the first time."

Such a man as Jefferies, with his necessities of fresh air and solitude, should have been adopted and tenderly nursed by some rich man; or he should have been piloted by some agent who would have transacted all his business for him, placed his articles in the most advantageous way, procured him the best price possible for his books, and relieved him from the trouble of haggling and bargaining – a necessary business to one who lives by his pen, but to one of his disposition an intolerable trouble. It would, again, one thinks, have proved a profitable speculation if some publisher had given him a small solid income in return for having all his work. Consider: for the truly beautiful papers on the country life which Jefferies wrote, there were the magazines in which they might first appear, both American and English, and there was the volume form afterwards. Would four hundred pounds a year – to Jefferies it would have seemed affluence – have been too much to pay for such a man? I think that from a commercial point of view, even including the year when he was too ill to do any work, it might have paid so to run Jefferies. As it was, he had no one to advise him. He drifted helplessly from publisher to publisher. His name stood high, and rose steadily higher, yet he made no more money by his books. The value of his work rose no higher – it even fell lower. This curious fact – that increase of fame should not bring increase of money – Jefferies did not and could not understand. It constantly irritated and annoyed him. He thought that he was being defrauded out of his just dues. On this point I will, however, speak again immediately.

The young couple remained at Swindon until February, 1877, when Jefferies thought himself justified in giving up his post on the North Wilts Herald, and in removing nearer London. But it must not be too near London. He must only be near in the sense of ready access by train. Therefore he took a house at Surbiton – it was at No. 2, Woodside. At this semi-rural place one is near to the river, the fields, and the woods. It is not altogether a desertion of the country. Jefferies could not leave the country altogether. It was necessary for him to breathe the fresh air of the turf and the fragrance of the newly-turned clods. He could not live, much less work, unless he did this. As for his work, that was daily suggested and stimulated by this continual communing with Nature. Poverty might prick him – it might make him uneasy for the moment – it never made him unhappy – but unless his brain was full to overflowing, he could not work. Out of the abundance of his heart his mouth spoke. It seems, indeed, futile to regret that such a man as this did not make a more practical advantage to himself out of his success. He could not. If a man cannot, he cannot. Just as in scientific observation there is a personal equation, so in the conduct of life there is a personal limitation. Some unknown force holds back a man when he has reached a certain point. The life of every man, rightly studied, shows his personal limitation. But without the whole life of a man spread out before us, it is not easy to understand where this personal limitation begins. There is no more to be said when this is once understood. It is a matter of personal limitation. Those kindly people who continually occupy themselves with the concerns of their neighbours, constantly go wrong because they do not understand the personal limitation. What we call fate is often another word for limitation. Why do I not write better English, and why have I not a nobler style, and why cannot I become the greatest writer who ever lived? Because I cannot rise above a certain level. If I am a wise man, I find out that level; I reach it, and am content therewith. Why did not Jefferies make himself rich with the opportunities he had? Because he could not. Because to grasp an opportunity and to turn it to his own material interest was a thing beyond his personal limitation. To seize Time by the forelock, though he go ever so slowly, is to some men impossible. For while they look on and hesitate, another steps in before them; or the world is looking on and observes the situation, ready to sneer and snigger, and there seems a kind of meanness in the act – very likely there is meanness; or to do so one must trample on one's neighbours; or one must desert one's habits of life, throw over all that one loves, and make a change of which the least that can be said is that it is certain to make one uncomfortable for the remainder of life.

Therefore, Jefferies suffered that forelock to be plucked by another, and continued to wander about the fields. He had now indeed attained the object of his ambition. He was not only a recognised and successful writer, but his work was also looked for and loved. Happy that author who knows that his work is expected before it is ready, and is loved when it appears. Henceforth he made no more mistakes. He understood by this time his personal limitation. His work, as well as his days, must be concerning the fields and the wild life. Year after year that work becomes more beautiful until the end. As for an income, it was mainly secured by his contributions to the magazines and journals. He wrote, during the last ten years of his life, for nearly all the magazines, but especially for Longman's. He also contributed to the Standard, the St. James's, the Pall Mall, the Graphic, the World, and other papers. Most of these articles he gathered together as soon as there were enough of them, and published them in a volume. In this way he made a little more out of them. He even contrived to save a little money. But his income was never very great.

The first five of the works on the country life were published by Messrs. Smith and Elder. These were the "Gamekeeper at Home," "Wild Life in a Southern County," "The Amateur Poacher," "Greene Ferne Farm," and "Round About a Great Estate." Then he did either a very foolish or a very unfortunate thing. He left Messrs. Smith and Elder, and for the rest of his life he went about continually changing his publisher, always in the hope of getting a better price for his volumes, and always chafing at the smallness of the pecuniary result. An author should never change his publisher, unless he is compelled to do so by the misfortune of starting with a shark, a thing which has happened unto many. The very fact of having all his works in the same hands greatly assists their sale. A reader who is delighted, for instance, with "Red Deer," and would wish to get other books by the same author, finds the name of Longmans on the back, but no list of those books published by Smith and Elder, Chatto and Windus, Cassell and Co., and Sampson Low and Co. I have myself found it very difficult to get a complete set of Jefferies' books. At the London Library, even, they do not possess a complete set. Then that reader lays down his book, and presently forgets his purpose. I suppose that there are very few, even of Jefferies' greatest admirers, who actually possess all his works.

He was, as I have already said, bitter against publishers for the small sums they offered him. He made the not uncommon mistake of supposing that, because the reviews spoke of his works in terms so laudatory, which, indeed, no reviewers could refrain from doing, the public were eagerly buying them. I have, myself, had perhaps an exceptional experience of authors, their grumblings, and their grievances, and I know that this confusion of thought – this unwarranted conclusion – is very widespread. An author, that is to say, reads a highly-complimentary review of his work, and looks for an immense and immediate demand in consequence for that work. Well, every good review helps a book, undoubtedly, but to a much smaller extent, from the pecuniary point of view, than is generally believed. The demand for a book is created in quite other ways; partly by the author's previous works, which, little by little, or, if he is lucky, at a single bound, create a clientèle of those who like his style; partly by the talk of people who tell each other what they have read, and recommend this or that book. Then, since most books are read from the circulating library, and that kind of personal recommendation, especially with a new writer, takes time, the libraries are able to get along with a comparatively small number of copies; in fact, an author may have a very considerable name, and yet make, even with the honourable houses, quite a small sum of money by any work. Again, this is not, one sorrowfully owns, a country which buys books. My compatriots will buy everything and anything, except books. They will lavish their money in every conceivable manner, except one – they never commit extravagances in buying books. For the greater part, the three-guinea subscription to the library is the whole of the family expenditure for the greatest, the only unfailing, delight that life has to offer them.

Again, in the case of Richard Jefferies, the demand for his books was confined to a comparatively small number of readers. I do not suppose that his work will ever be widely popular, and yet I am certain that his reputation will grow and increase. Of all modern writers, I know of none of whom one can predict with such absolute certainty that he will live. He will surely live. He draws, as no other writer has done, the actual life of rural England under Queen Victoria. For the very fidelity of these pictures alone he must live. No other writers, except Jefferies and Thomas Hardy, have been able to depict this life. And, what is even more, as the hills, and fields, and woods, and streams are ever with us, whether we are savages or civilized beings, whatever our manners, dress, fashions, laws or customs, the man who speaks with truth of these speaks for all time and for all mankind.

Yet he is not, and will never be, widely popular. There are many persons, presumably persons of culture, who cannot read Jefferies. A country parson – poor man! – observed to me in Swindon itself, that he hoped the biography of Richard Jefferies would not prove so dry as the works of Richard Jefferies. These, he said, with the cheerful dogmatism of his kind, were as dry as a stick, and impossible to read. Now, this good man was probably in some sort a scholar. He lives in the Jefferies county. All round him are the hills and downs described in these works. To us those hills and downs are now filled with life, beauty, and all kinds of delightful things, entirely through those very books. The good vicar finds them so dry that he cannot read them. Others there are who complain that Jefferies is always "cataloguing." One understands what is meant. To some of us the picture is always being improved by the addition of another blade of grass, another dead leaf, or the ear of a hare visible among the turnip-tops; others are fatigued by these little details. Jefferies is too full for them.