By Geoege E. Daetnell. 



I. 



THE BUST. 



il^^HEN, some five years ago, all that was mortal of Richard 

 ^ 'P JefFeries was borne through the softly-falling rain to that 

 last resting-place which he had chosen for himself, not in the dismal 

 over-crowded burial ground at Goring, but amidst the grass and 

 flowers of sunnier Broadwater, it was given him to find in death a 

 wider recognition than life had ever brought him. The long hard 

 struggle for bare existence was over at last : the cup in which so 

 much that was bitter had been mingled was drunk to the dregs. 

 Fame he had certainly had, and that in no small measure — but it 

 came with empty hands: friends— but they were either powerless 

 to help, or knew little of his extremity. And now, when it was 

 too late, the world began at last to realise what it had lost in him, 

 and to express it in various ways, practical and otherwise. Of Mr. 

 Eesant's generously appreciative Eidogi/ we shall have much to say 

 hereafter, but we must first speak of the latest and by no means 

 the least proof of the feelings with which Jefferies is now regarded, 

 the fine bust by Miss Thomas which has recently been placed in the 

 north transept of Salisbury Cathedral. 



Love of country should have its local as well as its national de- 

 velopment. It is well to be proud of our empire and the great men 

 to whom she has given birth. It is well also to be proud of our 

 native county and her share in them, however small it be. Our 

 Wiltshire Worthies may not have played as famous a part on the 

 world's stage as their neighbours of Devon and Somerset, but that 

 is no reason why their names should be without honour among us. 

 And so — though in life his best years were spent elsewhere— though 



