The Story of My Heart, 1883

CHAPTER I: THE STORY OF MY HEART [published Oct. 1883] 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. ... 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 fountains 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 [Liddington] 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 carried away the sense of oppression.... I began to breathe a new air and to have a fresher aspiration. ... 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.

19 September 2026

 REFLECTIONS is the title Richard Jefferies gave to his undated thoughts (purchased by Samuel Looker on two sheets of paper) written in his own hand. It is likely that Jefferies wrote the following whilst living in the bleak cottage called 'The Downs' in Crowborough (Sussex). The family lived there from July 1885 to November 1886.


 Oil painting of 'The Downs' by Cyril Wright, July 1976 with owner Delcy Field-Buss at the gate.
Dedication plaque above front door.

As I was starting out it came on to spot raining and being susceptible to moisture (not as a drinking but a rheumatic way) I had to go back and put on my coat. When my boy came to me with a pitiful story of an injury to his tricycle and might he take it to the blacksmiths and get it repaired? At the foot of the steps I met the post­man with a letter that had to be answered and while I was scrawling it a friend arrived.

After we had been in this twelve-month we found that it was too much exposed—the wind came round the corner furiously; the upper rooms were uninhabitable from cold; basement cold. Just when I wanted money most in order to move, the oldest firm in the trade stopped payment--there were assets but it would require 12 months to realise. A tremendous jerk of the elephant. A capital appointment was offered to me but, as I could not move, I could not take it.

Nothing runs like the express—that is the least part of the journey—the real travelling is in the starting and the end: eternal worries to start, all directions, and the one thing forgotten. At the end the cob, dirty, enters the wrong road, refuses to go further, bribery, got a man to show the way, find a box dropped off half a mile back, weary, rheumatic twinges and shaken.