CHAPTER XII. 



CONCLUSION. 



I THINK that I have never read, in all the sad 

 chronicles of hapless authors, anything more 

 pitiful than the history of the last years of 

 this life so short, yet so rich in its sheaves of 

 golden grain and piles of purple fruit. Every- 

 thing possible of long-continued torture, neces- 

 sity of work, poverty, anxiety, and hope of 

 recovery continually deferred, are crammed 

 into the miserable record which closes this 

 volume. 



Jefferies fell ill in December, 1881, five years 

 and a half before the end. He was attacked 

 by a disease for which an operation of a very 

 severe and painful nature is the only cure. It 

 is, however, one which, in the hands of a skil- 

 ful surgeon, is generally successful. Horrible 



