“The whole and the worst the pessimist can say is far beneath the least particle of the truth, so immense is the misery of man.” He will also declare, “There lives on in me an impenetrable belief, thought burning like the sun, that there is yet something to be found, something real, something to give each separate personality sunshine and flowers in its own existence now.” It is a mistake to attach much importance to Jefferies’ attempts to systematize his views on life. He lacked the power of co-ordinating his impressions, and is at his best when giving free play to the instinctive life within him. No Vagabond writer can excel him in the expression of feeling; and yet perhaps no writer is less able than he to account for, to give a rational explanation of his feelings. He is rarely satisfactory when he begins to explain. Thoreau’s lines about himself seem to me peculiarly applicable to Jefferies:— “I am a parcel of vain strivings tied By a chance bond together, Dangling this way and that, their links Were made so loose and wide Methinks For milder weather. “A bunch of violets without their roots And sorrel intermixed, Encircled by a wisp of straw Once coiled about their shoots, The law By which I’m fixed. “Some tender buds were left upon my stem In mimicry of life, But ah, the children will not know Till Time has withered them, The woe With which they’re rife.” Jefferies was a brave man, with a rare supply of resolution and patience. His life was one long struggle against overwhelming odds. “Three great giants,” as he puts it—“disease, despair, and poverty.” Not only was his physical health against him, but his very idiosyncrasies all conspired to hinder his success. His pride and reserve would not permit him to take help from his friends. He even shrank from their sympathy. His years of isolation, voluntary isolation, put him out of touch with human society. His socialistic tendencies never made him social. His was a kind of abstract humanitarianism. A man may feel tenderly, sympathize towards humanity, yet shrink from human beings. Misanthropy did not inspire him; he did not dislike his fellow-men; it was simply that they bewildered and puzzled him; he could not get on with them. So it will be seen that he had not the consolation some men take in the sympathy and co-operation of their fellows. After all, this is more a defect of temperament than a fault of character, and he had to pay the penalty. Realizing this, it is impossible to withhold admiration for the pluck and courage of the man. As a lover of Nature, and an artist in prose, he needs no encomium to-day. In his eloquent “Eulogy” Sir Walter Besant gave fitting expression to the debt of gratitude we owe this poet-naturalist—this passionate interpreter of English country life.