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First published in 1883, "The Story of My Heart" is a book by English nature writer Richard Jefferies. It is often described as a "spiritual autobiography", within which Jefferies envisions the English countryside as a utopia. This book is highly recommended for those with an interest in transcendental literature, and it is not to be missed by fans and collectors of Jefferies' seminal work. John Richard Jefferies (1848 - 1887) was an English nature writer. He is famous for his exceptional depictions of English country life in his natural history books, essays, and novels. Most of his major works were inspired by his early life spent on a small farm in Wiltshire, England. Other notable works by this author include: "The Story of My Heart (1883), an exposition of his experience of the world, and "After London" (1885), an fantastic example of classic science fiction. Many vintage books such as this are becoming increasingly scarce and expensive. We are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with a specially commissioned new biography of the author.

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Nature

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Publié par	Read Books Ltd.
Date de parution	05 décembre 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781473346833
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE STORY OF MY HEART
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
BY
RICHARD JEFFERIES

Copyright © 2016 Read Books Ltd.
This book is copyright and may not be
reproduced or copied in any way without
the express permission of the publisher in writing
British Library C ataloguing-in-Publicatio n Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Contents
Richard Jefferies
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII

Richard Jefferies
John Richard Jefferies was born on 6 November, 1818, in the small town of Coate, Wiltshire, England. He is best known as a nature writer, depicting English rural life in a sympathetic and poetic manner. The son of a struggling farmer and one of four children, he had great reverence for the natural world from an early age. By the age of nine, Jefferies went shooting and fishing with his father and with a taste for adventure he fashioned his own canoe to paddle out into the local reservoir. These escapades could go too far however; at the age of sixteen, Jefferies and his cousin, James Cox, travelled to France, with the aim of walking to Russia. On discovering their French to be insufficient, they attempted to sail to America, but were forced to return as their tickets did not include the cost of food. Having settled down as a young man, Jefferies worked for several local newspapers, contributing frequent articles on local history. It was around this time that he contracted tuberculosis though, the disease that would eventually kill him. Jefferies pursued a career as a writer with relish and had his first novel The Scarlet Shawl , published in 1874. The same year he married Jessie Baden, the daughter of a local farmer, with whom he had two children. With his new family, Jefferies moved to the outskirts of London and established himself firmly as a great English nature writer. His first success was The Gamekeeper at Home (1878), as well as a series of distinguished articles for the Pall Mall Gazette . During this time in London Jefferies honed his literary skills, producing his most famous works; The Bevis Books (1881-2) which depicted a small boy’s interaction with a host of anthropomorphic characters, and his adventures in the countryside. When Jefferies was forced to move to Brighton, convalescing from a spell of illness caused by the undiagnosed tuberculosis, he wrote the extraordinary autobiography, The Story of My Heart (1883) . An outpouring of thoughts and feelings, he described the work as ‘absolutely and unflinchingly true.’ Jefferies went on to publish After London (1885), a post-apocalyptic fictional account of an abandoned England, reverted back to nature with a few survivors leading a quasi-medieval existence. In his final years, due to declining health, Jefferies was unable to write any significant publications and consequently struggled with poverty. He was helped by the Royal Literary Fund , which bequeathed a grant of one hundred pounds, enabling the author to move to Goring, Sussex - a small town by the sea. Jefferies died there, of tuberculosis and fatigue, on 14 August 1887. He is buried in Broadwater and Worthing Cemetery.

CHAPTER I
THE story of my heart commences seventeen years ago. In the glow of youth there were times every now and then when I felt the necessity of a strong inspiration of soul-thought. My heart was dusty, parched for want of the rain of deep feeling; my mind arid and dry, for there is a dust which settles on the heart as well as that which falls on a ledge. It is injurious to the mind as well as to the body to be always in one place and always surrounded by the same circumstances. A species of thick clothing slowly grows about the mind, the pores are choked, little habits become a part of existence, and by degrees the mind is inclosed in a husk. When this began to form I felt eager to escape from it, to throw off the heavy clothing, to drink deeply once more at the fresh foundations of life. An inspiration—a long deep breath of the pure air of thought—could alone give health to the heart.
There is a hill to which I used to resort at such periods. The labour of walking three miles to it, all the while gradually ascending, seemed to clear my blood of the heaviness accumulated at home. On a warm summer day the slow continued rise required continual effort, which caried away the sense of oppression. The familiar everyday scene was soon out of sight; I came to other trees, meadows, and fields; I began to breathe a new air and to have a fresher aspiration. I restrained my soul till reached the sward of the hill; psyche, the soul that longed to be loose. I would write psyche always instead of soul to avoid meanings which have become attached to the word soul, but it is awkward to do so. Clumsy indeed are all words the moment the wooden stage of commonplace life is left. I restrained psyche, my soul, till I reached and put my foot on the grass at the beginning of the green hill itself.
Moving up the sweet short turf, at every step my heart seemed to obtain a wider horizon of feeling; with every inhalation of rich pure air, a deeper desire. The very light of the sun was whiter and more brilliant here. By the time I had reached the summit I had entirely forgotten the petty circumstances and the annoyances of existence. I felt myself, myself. There was an intrenchment on the summit, and going down into the fosse I walked round it slowly to recover breath. On the south-western side there was a spot where the outer bank had partially slipped, leaving a gap. There the view was over a broad plain, beautiful with wheat, and inclosed by a perfect amphitheatre of green hills. Through these hills there was one narrow groove, or pass, southwards, where the white clouds seemed to close in the horizon. Woods hid the scattered hamlets and farmhouses, so that I was quite alone.
I was utterly alone with the sun and the earth. Lying down on the grass, I spoke in my soul to the earth, the sun, the air, and the distant sea far beyond sight. I thought of the earth's firmness—I felt it bear me up: through the grassy couch there came an influence as if I could feel the great earth speaking to me. I thought of the wandering air—its pureness, which is its beauty; the air touched me and gave me something of itself. I spoke to the sea: though so far, in my mind I saw it, green at the rim of the earth and blue in deeper ocean; I desired to have its strength, its mystery and glory. Then I addressed the sun, desiring the soul equivalent of his light and brilliance, his endurance and unwearied race. I turned to the blue heaven over, gazing into its depth, inhaling its exquisite colour and sweetness. The rich blue of the unattainable flower of the sky drew my soul towards it, and there it rested, I for pure colour is rest of heart. By all these I prayed; I felt an emotion of the soul beyond all definition; prayer is a puny thing to it, and the word is a rude sign to the feeling, but I know no other.
By the blue heaven, by the rolling sun bursting through untrodden space, a new ocean of ether every day unveiled. By the fresh and wandering air encompassing the world; by the sea sounding on the shore—the green sea white-flecked at the margin and the deep ocean; by the strong earth under me. Then, returning, I prayed by the sweet thyme, whose little flowers I touched with my hand; by the slender grass; by the crumble of dry chalky earth I took up and let fall through my fingers. Touching the crumble of earth, the blade of grass, the thyme flower, breathing the earth-encircling air, thinking of the sea and the sky, holding out my hand for the sunbeams to touch it, prone on the sward in token of deep reverence, thus I prayed that I might touch to the unutterable existence infinitely higher than deity.
With all the intensity of feeling which exalted me, all the intense communion I held with the earth, the sun and sky, the stars hidden by the light, with the ocean—in no manner can the thrilling depth of these feelings be written—with these I prayed, as if they were the keys of an instrument, of an organ, with which I swelled forth the note of my soul, redoubling my own voice by their power. The great sun burning with light; the strong earth, dear earth; the warm sky; the pure air; the thought of ocean; the inexpressible beauty of all filled me with a rapture, an ecstasy, and inflatus. With this inflatus, too, I prayed. Next to myself I came and recalled myself, my bodily existence. I held out my hand, the sunlight gleamed on the skin and the iridescent nails; I recalled the mystery and beauty of the flesh. I thought of the mind with which I could see the ocean sixty miles distant, and gather to myself its glory. I thought of my inner existence, that consciousness which is called the soul. These, that is, myself—I threw into the balance to weight the prayer the heavier. My strength of body, mind and soul, I flung into it; I but forth my strength; I wrestled and laboured, and toiled in might of prayer. The prayer, this soul-emotion was in itself-not for an object-it was a passion. I hid my face in the grass, I was wholly prostrated, I lost myself in the wrestle, I was rapt and carried away.
Becoming calmer, I returned to myself and thought, reclining in rapt thought, full of aspiration, steeped to the lips of my soul in desire. I did not then define, or analyses, or understand this. I see now that what I laboured for was soul-life, more soul-nature, to be exalted, to be full of soul-learning. Finally I rose, walked half a mile or so along the summit of the hill eastwards, to soothe myself and come to the common ways of life again. Had any shepherd accidentally seen me lying on the turf, he would only have thought that I w