You want to see his bean-field, but know
you would be an intruder. He might even tell you to your face
that he was happiest the mornings when nobody called. He likes
to advise and berate, but at long range. Speaking of these two
writers, Whitman once said, "Outdoors taught Burroughs gentle
things about men--it had no such effect upon Thoreau."
Richard Jefferies appeals to lovers of nature and lovers of
literature as well. He has the poet's eye and is a sympathetic
spectator, but seldom gives one much to carry away. His
descriptions, musical as they are, barely escape being wearisome
at times. In his "Pageant of Summer" he babbles prettily of green
fields, but it is a long, long summer and one is hardly sorry to
see its close. In some of his writings he affects one unpleasantly,
gives an uncanny feeling; one divines the invalid as well as the
mystic back of them; there is a hectic flush, perhaps a neurotic
taint. Beautiful, yes, but not the beauty of health and sanity. It
is the same indescribable feeling I get in reading that pathetically
beautiful book, "The Road-Mender," by "Michael Fairless"--the gleam
of the White Gate is seen all along the Road, though the writer
strives so bravely to keep it hidden till it must open to let him
pass. One of the purest gems of Jefferies--"Hours of Spring"--has
a pathos and haunting melody of compelling poignancy.
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