io6 THE LIFE OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



metals into gold ; in these days whole townships are at 

 work transmuting gold and silver into pewter. All the 

 iron foundries, patent blasts, and Bessemer processes in 

 the world cannot equal the melting power of the pewter 

 tankard.'* 



Then there are three verses by Jefferies, called ' Noon- 

 tide in the Meadow/ to be quoted only to show how he 

 gives away all that he has for the mere form of verse : 



' Idly silent were the finches — 

 Finches fickle, fleeting, blithe ; 

 And the mower, man of inches, 

 Ceased to swing the sturdy scythe. 



' All the leafy oaks were slumb'rous ; 

 Slumb'rous e'en the honey-bee ; 

 And his larger brother, cumbrous, 

 Humming home with golden knee. 



' But the blackbird, king of hedgerows — 

 Hedgerows to my memory dear — 

 By the brook, where rush and sedge grows, 

 Sang his liquid love-notes clear.'f 



Altogether, it is an honest book ; true to the writer's 

 experience, wherever it is possible, and often of an 

 assured imaginative fidelity : yet a sad one to read, 

 because Jefferies has not had the luck to hit upon a matter 

 that will give full play to the best, and nothing but the 

 best, that is in him. But, like the other three novels, 

 this one must have temporarily satisfied and permanently 

 fortified that part of his nature which neither the agricul- 

 tural articles nor the books like ' Wild Life in a Southern 

 County ' could touch. 



* Greene Feme Farm. \ Ibid. 



