LETTERS FROM 1866 TO 1872.
The principal sources of information concerning the period of early
manhood are the letters--a large number of these are happily
preserved--which he wrote to his aunt, Mrs. Harrild. In these letters,
which are naturally all about himself, his work, his hopes, and his
disappointments, he writes with perfect freedom and from his heart. It
is still a boyish heart, young and innocent. "I always feel dull," he
says, "when I leave you. I am happier with you than at home, because you
enter into my prospects with interest and are always kind.... I wish I
could have got something to do in the neighbourhood of Sydenham, which
would have enabled me to live with you."
The letters reveal a youth taken too soon from school, but passionately
fond of reading--of industry and application intense and unwearied; he
confesses his ambitions--they are for success; he knows that he has the
power of success within him; he tries for success continually, and is as
often beaten back, because, though this he cannot understand, in the way
he tries success is impossible for him. Let us run through this bundle
of letters.
One thing to him who reads the whole becomes immediately apparent,
though it is not so clear from the extracts alone. It is the
self-consciousness of the writer as regards style. That is because he is
intended by nature to become a writer. He thinks how he may put things
to the best advantage; he understands the importance of phrase; he wants
not only to say a thing, but to say it in a striking and uncommon
manner. Later on, when he has gotten a style to himself, he becomes more
familiar and chatty. Thus, for instance, the boy speaks of the great
organ at the Crystal Palace: "To me music is like a spring of fresh
water in the midst of the desert to a wearied Arab." He was genuinely
and truly fond of good music, and yet this phrase has in it a note of
unreality. Again, he is speaking of one of his aunt's friends, and says,
as if he was the author of "Evelina": "How is Mr. A.? I remember him as
a pleasant gentleman, anxious not to give trouble, and the result
is ..." and so forth. When one understands that these letters were
written by the immature writer, such little things, with which they
abound, are pleasing.
In March, 1866, he describes the commencement of his work on the _North
Wilts Herald_; he speaks of the kindness of his chief and the pleasant
nature of his work. In December of the same year he sends a story which
he wants his uncle to submit to a London magazine. In June, 1867, he
writes that he has completed his "History of Swindon" and its
neighbourhood. This probably appeared in the pages of his newspaper.
In the same year he says that he has finished a story called
"Malmesbury."
"Here I have no books--no old monkish records to assist
me--everything must be hunted out upon the spot. I visit every
place I have to refer to, copy inscriptions, listen to legends,
examine antiquities, measure this, estimate that; and a thousand
other employments essential to a correct account take up my time.
The walking I can do is something beyond belief. To give an
instance. There is a book published some twenty years ago founded
on a local legend. This I wanted, and have actually been to ten
different houses in search of it; that is, have had a good fifty
miles' walk, and as yet all in vain. However, I think I am on the
right scent now, and believe I shall get it.
"This neighbourhood is a mine for an antiquary. I was given to
understand at school that in ancient days Britain was a
waste--uninhabited, rude and savage. I find this is a mistake. I
see traces of former habitation, and former generations, in all
directions. There, Roman coins; here, British arrowheads, tumuli,
camps--in short, the country, if I may use the expression, seems
alive with the dead. I am inclined to believe that this part of
North Wilts, at least, was as thickly inhabited of yore as it is
now, the difference being only in the spots inhabited having been
exchanged for others more adapted to the wants of the times. I do
not believe these sweeping assertions as to the barbarous state of
our ancestors. The more I study the matter the more absurd and
unfounded appear the notions popularly received."
* * * * *
"The spiders have been more disturbed in the last few days than for
twelve months past. I detest this cruelty to spiders. I admire
these ingenious insects. One individual has taken possession of a
box of mine. This fellow I call Caesar Borgia, because he has such
an affection for blood. You will call him a monster, which is
praise, since his size shows the number of flies he has destroyed.
Why not keep a spider as well as a cat? They are both useful in
their way, and a spider has this advantage, that he will spin you a
web which will do instead of tapestry."
Between July 21st and September 2nd of this year he writes of a bad
illness which sent him to bed and kept him there, until he became as
thin as a skeleton. As soon as he was able to get out of bed he wrote to
his aunt; his eyes were weak, and he could read but little, which was a
dreadful privation for him. And he was most anxious lest he should lose
his post on the paper.
Later on he tells the good news that Mr. Piper will give him another
fortnight so that he may get a change of air and a visit to Sydenham.
He goes back to Swindon apparently strengthened and in his former health
and energy. Besides his journal work he reports himself engaged upon an
"Essay on Instinct." This is the first hint of his finding out his own
line, which, however, he would not really discover for a long time yet.
"The country," he says, little thinking what the country was going to do
for him, "is very quiet and monotonous. There is a sublime sameness in
Coate that reminds you of the stars that rise and set regularly just as
we go to bed down here."
His grandfather--old Iden of "Amaryllis"--died in April, 1868.
He speaks in June of his own uncertain prospects.
"My father," he says, "will neither tell me what he would like done or
anything else, so that I go my own way and ask nobody...." The letters
are full of the little familiar gossip concerning this person and that,
but he can never resist the temptation of telling his aunt--who "enters
into his prospects"--all that he is doing. He has now spent two months
over a novel--this young man thinks that two months is a prodigiously
long time to give to a novel. "I have taken great pains with it," he
says, "and flatter myself that I have produced a tale of a very
different class to those sensational stories I wrote some time ago. I
have attempted to make my story lifelike by delineating character rather
than by sensational incidents. My characters are many of them drawn from
life, and some of my incidents actually took place." This is taking a
step in the right direction. One wonders what this story was. But alas!
there were so many in those days, and the end of all was the same. And
yet the poor young author took such pains, such infinite pains, and all
to no purpose, for he was still groping blindly in the dark, feeling for
himself.
His health, however, gave way again. He tells his aunt that he has been
fainting in church; that he finds his work too exciting; that his
walking powers seem to have left him--everybody knows the symptoms when
a young man outgrows his strength; he would like some quiet place; such
a Haven of Repose or Castle of Indolence, for instance, as the Civil
Service. All young men yearn at times for some place where there will be
no work to do, and it speaks volumes for the happy administration of
this realm that every young man in his yearning fondly turns his eyes to
the Civil Service.
He has hopes, he says, of getting on to the reporting staff of the
_Daily News_, ignorant of the truth that a single year of work on a
great London paper would probably have finished him off for good.
Merciful, indeed, are the gods, who grant to mankind, of all their
prayers, so few.
In July he was prostrated by a terrible illness, aggravated by the great
heat of that summer. This illness threatened to turn into consumption--a
danger happily averted. But it was many months before he could sit up
and write to his aunt in pencil. He was at this time greatly under the
influence of religion, and his letters are full of a boyish, simple
piety. The hand of God is directing him, guiding him, punishing him. His
heart is soft in thinking over the many consolations which his prayers
have brought him, and of the increased benefit which he has derived from
reading the Bible. He has passed through, he confesses, a period of
scepticism, but that, he is happy to say, is now gone, never to return
again.
He is able to get out of bed at last; he can read a little, though his
eyes are weak; he can once more return to his old habits, and drinks his
tea again as sweet as he can make it; he is able presently to seize his
pen again. And then ... then ... is he not going to be a great author?
And who knows in what direction? ... then he begins a tragedy called
"Caesar Borgia; or, The King of Crime."
He is touched by the thoughtfulness of the cottagers. They have all
called to ask after him; they have brought him honey. He resolves to
cultivate the poor people more.
"After all," he says, with wisdom beyond his years, "books are dead;
they should not be our whole study. Too much study is selfish."
Unfortunately the letters of the year 1869 have not been preserved; but
we may very well understand that the lad spent that year in much the
same way as the year before and the year after. That is to say, he wrote
for his country paper; he reported; he collected local news; and he
devoted his spare time to the writing of stories which were never to see
the light, or, more unhappy still, to perish at their birth.
In the autumn of the year 1870 the letters begin again. He has now got
money enough to give himself a holiday. He is at Hastings, and he is
going across the water to Ostend. It is in September. The Prince
Imperial of France is in the place, and Jefferies hopes to see him.
There is a postscript with a characteristic touch: "I do not forget
A----. Her large and beautiful eyes have haunted me ever since our visit
to Worthing. Remember me to her, _but please do it privately; let no
one else know what I have said of her_. I hope to see her again."
Presently he did see the Prince, sitting at the window of his room in
the Marine Hotel. The adventures which followed were, he says in his
next letter, "almost beyond credibility."
You shall hear how wonderful they were. Lying in bed one night, a happy
thought occurred to him. He would write some verses on the exile of the
Prince.
"... No sooner thought than done. I composed them that night, and
wrote them out, and posted them the first thing next morning
(Thursday). You say I am always either too precipitate or too
procrastinating. At least, I lost no time in this. A day went by,
and on Easter day there came a note to me at the hotel, from the
aide-de-camp of the Prince, acknowledging the receipt of the
verses, and saying that the Prince had been much pleased with them.
You will admit this was about enough to turn a young author's head.
Not being _au fait_ in French, I took the note to a French lady
professor, and she translated it for me. I enclose the translation
for you. But does not S. learn French? If so, it would be good
practice for her to try and read the note. Please tell her to take
care of it, as it cannot be replaced, and will be of great value to
me in after-life. If I were seeking a place on a London paper the
production of that note would be a wonderful recommendation. Well,
the reception of that acknowledgment encouraged me, and on the
following morning I set to work and wrote a letter to the Prince,
communicating some rather important information which I had learnt
whilst connected with the press. The result was a second letter
from the aide-de-camp, this time dictated by the Empress Eugenie,
who had read my note. I send you this letter too, and must beg you
to carefully preserve it. I took it and had it translated by the
same French lady, Madame ----, and I enclose her translation. She
says that the expressions are very warm, and cannot be adequately
rendered into English. She says it would be impossible to write
more cordially in French than the Empress has done. Now came
another discovery. It came out in conversation with this French
lady that she had actually been to school with the Empress in her
youth; that they had played together, and been on picnics together.
Her husband was a sea-commander, and she showed me his belt, etc.
He served Napoleon when Napoleon was president, but protested
against the _coup d'etat_ of 1851, and they had then to leave
Paris. She had been unfortunate, and had now to earn her bread. She
still preserves her husband's coat-of-arms, etc. Then came another
discovery. It appeared that the equerries of the Empress (sixteen
in number), unable to speak English, had seen her advertisement and
came to her to act as interpreter. She did so. After a while it
crept out that these rascals were abusing their employer behind her
back, and even went the length of letting out private conversations
they had overheard in the Tuileries, and at the Marine Hotel. She
felt extremely indignant at this ungrateful conduct (for they are
well paid and have three months' wages in advance), and she should
like the Empress to know, but being so poor she could not call on
her old companion; indeed, her pride would not permit. These were
the men, she said, from whom the Prussians obtained intelligence;
and certainly they did act the part of spies. Other Frenchmen
resident here met them at an inn, and they there detailed to them
what they had learnt at the Marine Hotel. I persuaded her (she was
in a terrible way, indignant and angry) to write to my friend, the
aide-de-camp, and see him. She did so, and the consequence is that
a number of these fellows have been discharged. The Empress and the
Prince are still here, despite all paragraphs in the papers. They
drove out yesterday afternoon. I saw them...."
After this adventure Jefferies took the boat from Dover to Ostend. He
had more adventures on the journey:
"... It was a beautiful night, scarcely a breath of air, moonlight
and starlit, and a calm sea. Every little wave that broke against
the side flashed like lightning with the phosphoric light of the
zoophytes, and when at eleven the paddles began to move, great
circles of phosphoric light surrounded the vessel. I was on deck
all night, for instead of being four hours as advertised, the boat
was eight hours at sea. After we had been out about four hours the
sailors mistook a light on the horizon for Ostend, and steamed
towards it. Presently the light rose higher, and proved to be the
planet Venus, shining so brilliantly. At this moment an immense
bank of fog enveloped us, so thick that one could scarcely see from
one end of the ship to the other. The captain had lost his way, and
the paddles were stopped. After a short time there was the sound of
a cannon booming over the sea. Everyone rushed on deck, thinking of
war and ironclads; but it was the guns at Ostend, far away, firing
to direct ships into port through the fog. It was now found that we
had actually got about opposite Antwerp. So the ship was turned,
and we slowly crept back, afraid of running on shore. Then, after
an hour or two of this, we got into shallow water, and the lead was
heaved every minute. The steam-whistle was sounded, and the guns on
shore again fired. To our surprise, we had run past Ostend almost
as much the other way, thanks to the fog. Now I heard a bell
ringing on shore--the matin bell--and you cannot imagine how
strange that bell sounded. You must understand no shore was
visible. More firing and whistling, until people began to think we
should have to remain till the fog cleared. But I did not grumble;
rather, I was glad, for this delay gave me the opportunity of
seeing the sun, just as the fog cleared, rise at sea--an
indescribable sight:
'Then over the waste of water
The morning sun uprose,
Through the driving mist revealed,
Like the lifting of the Host
By incense clouds almost
Concealed.'
A boat finally came off and piloted us into harbour, which we
reached at seven o'clock Saturday morning--eight hours' passage.
Numbers were ill--the ladies, most dreadfully; I did not feel a
qualm. I went on by the next train at 9.30 to Brussels, and reached
it at one o'clock...."
Brussels, at this moment, was full of French people mad with grief and
excitement at the conduct of the war and the disasters of their
country. Jefferies does not appear, however, to have been much struck
with the terror and pity of the situation. It was his first experience
of foreign life, not counting his boyish escapade; his delight in the
hotel, the _table d'hote_, the wine, the brightness and apparent
happiness of the Brussels people--they do somehow seem younger and
happier than any other people in the world, except, perhaps, the
Marseillais--is very vividly expressed. The ladies dazzle him; he thinks
of "our London dowdies" and shudders; but alas! he cannot talk to them.
Then he goes back to Swindon, but not, for the present, to Coate. There
is trouble at home. His father has to be brought round gradually to look
at things from his son's point of view. Till that happy frame of mind
has been arrived at he cannot go home. But his mother visits him, and so
far as she is concerned all is well. He is out of work and has no
money--two shillings and threepence can hardly be called money.
Meantime, his mind is still excited by his recent experiences. He will
never be happy in the country again; he must find a place in London. It
is the kind aunt who fills his purse with a temporary supply.
The following letter relates the difficulties of finding work:
"... It is now four months since I last saw you, and during that
time I have unremittingly endeavoured to get money by all the fair
means I could think of. Scarcely a day has passed without making
some attempt, or without maturing some plan, and yet all of them,
as if by some kind of fate, have failed. I have written all sorts
of things. Very few were rejected, but none brought any return. I
have endeavoured to get employment, but there is none within reach.
My old place has been filled up for months, and I could not recover
it without resorting to unfair means, unless by some unforeseen
accident. The other two papers here are sufficiently supplied with
reporters, and though ready enough to receive my writings, don't
pay a farthing. There remains a paper at Marlborough to which I
applied. They were quite ready to employ me, but said that, as
their circulation at Swindon was very small, they could give but a
small price--quoting a sum which absolutely would not buy me a
dinner once a week. This was no good. Other papers further off
refused entirely. As for answering advertisements, or seeking
situations in other places, it was useless, from the following
circumstance. In the autumn a large London paper failed, and the
staff was thrown out. The consequence was, that the market became
overstocked with reporters, and all vacancies were speedily filled.
My next step was to try the London papers, especially the _Pall
Mall_, with which I have had more or less connection for years. As
I told you, three of the Dailies said if I were in town they could
give me plenty of work, but not regular employment. In other words,
one would employ me one day, another another, until an opening
occurred for regular work...."
There are other details showing that it was a terrible time of
tightness. Threatenings of county court for a debt of L2 10s.; personal
apparel falling to pieces; work offered by the _Pall Mall Gazette_ and
other papers if he would go up to London. But how? One must have enough
to pay for board and lodging for a week, at least; one must have enough
for the railway-fare; one must present a respectable appearance. And now
only a single halfpenny left! We have seen with sorrow how the young man
had been already reduced to two shillings and threepence. But this seems
affluence when we look at that solitary halfpenny. Only a halfpenny!
Why, the coin will buy absolutely nothing.
Yet in this, the darkest hour, when he had no money and could get no
work--when his own people had ceased to believe in him--he still
continued to believe in himself. That kind of belief is a wonderful
medicine in time of trouble. It is sovereign against low spirits,
carelessness, and inactivity--the chief evils which follow on
ill-success.
"... I have still the firmest belief in my ultimate good-fortune
and success. I believe in destiny. Not the fear of total
indigence--for my father threatens to turn me out of doors--nor
the fear of disgrace and imprisonment for debt, can shake my calm
indifference and belief in my good-fortune. Though I have but a
halfpenny to-day, to-morrow I shall be rich. Besides, though I have
had a severe cold, my health and strength are wonderful. Nothing
earthly can hurt me...."
The next letter was written in July of the same year, six months later.
"I am very busy," he says, "getting well known as a writer. Both Swindon
papers employ me; but I am chiefly occupied with my book. I work at it
almost night and day. I feel sure it will succeed. If it does not, I
know nothing that will, and I may as well at once give up the
profession."
I do not think there is anything in the world more full of pity and
interest than the spectacle of a clever young man struggling for
literary success. He knows, somehow he feels in his heart, that he has
the power. It is like a hidden spring which has to be found, or a secret
force which has to be set in motion, or a lamp which has to be set
alight. This young man was feeling after that secret force; he was
looking for that lamp. For eight long years he had been engaged in the
search after this most precious of all treasures. What was it like--the
noblest part of himself--that which would never die? Alas! he knew not.
He hardly knew as yet that it was noble at all. So his search carried
him continually farther from the thing which he would find.
On July 28 he writes a most joyful letter. He has achieved a feat which
was really remarkable; in fact, he has actually received a letter from
Mr. Disraeli himself on the subject of a work prepared by himself. It
will be observed that by a natural confusion he mixes up the success of
getting a letter from this statesman with the success of his book.
"... I told you that I had been bending all my energies to the
completion of a work. I completed it a short time since, and an
opportunity offering, I wrote to Disraeli, describing it, and
asking his opinion. You know he is considered the cleverest man in
England; that he is the head of the rich and powerful Conservative
Party; and that he is a celebrated and very successful author. His
reply came this morning:
'Grosvenor Gate.
'Dear Sir,
'The great pressure of public affairs at the present moment must
be my excuse for not sooner replying to your interesting letter,
which I did not like to leave to a secretary.
'I think the subject of your work of the highest interest, and I
should have confidence in its treatment from the letter which you
have done me the honour of addressing to me. I should recommend you
to forward your MS. to some eminent publisher whom interest and
experience would qualify to judge of it with impartiality.
'Believe me, dear sir,
'With every good wish,
'Your faithful servant,
'B. DISRAELI.'
"A recognition like this from so great an intellectual leader is a
richer reward to one's self than the applause of hundreds, or than
any money can possibly be. And it is a guarantee of success, even
in a money sense; for what publisher would not grasp at a work
commended by Disraeli? This is a day of triumph to me. In an
obscure country village, personally totally unknown, name never
heard of, without the least assistance from any living person,
alone and unaided, I have achieved the favourable opinion of the
man who stands highest in our age for intellectual power, who
represents the nobility, gentry, and clergy of the land, who is the
leader of half England. This, too, after enduring the sneers and
bitter taunts of so many for idleness and incapacity. Hard, indeed,
have I worked these many months since I last saw you, and at all
times it has been my intention--and looked forward to as a
reward--to write and tell you of my success. And at last--at last!
Write to me and tell me you rejoice, for without someone to rejoice
with you, success itself is cold and barren. My success is now
assured...."
A few days later he has to tell his aunt of another brilliant success of
the same shadowy character. He calls it a "singular stroke of good
fortune." One of the best publishing houses in London had promised to
consider his new novel--which of his new novels was it?--carefully.
"I cannot help thinking that their 'full consideration' is a very
promising phrase. I really do think that I am now upon the
threshold of success.... The idea of writing the book came to me by
a kind of inspiration, and not from study or thought. I am now
engaged upon a magazine article, which I think will meet the taste
of the public. Since finishing the book, I have written a play
which can either be published or acted, as circumstances prove most
propitious. I have also sketched out a short tale, founded on fact,
and have sent the MS. of a history of Swindon to the local paper,
and expect a fair sum for it. I am engaged to go to Gloucester next
week for a day--perhaps two--to report a trial. So that you see I
am not idle, and have my hands as full as they can hold."
Quite as full as they can hold; and all the time he is drifting further
and further from the haven where he would be. Yet his fortune lies at
his feet, if he will but stoop to pick it up. It lies in the hedges, and
in the fields, and woods; it lies upon the hillside. He can see it red
as gold, flashing with the splendid light of a million diamonds, if he
will open his eyes. But the time is not yet.
The firm of publishers declined, but in courteous and even flattering
terms, to publish the work in question. The author at once made up his
mind that the book was not "in their line," and sent the MS. to another
firm.
The second firm apparently declined the work; but in another month the
author writes triumphantly that Messrs. ---- are going to publish it.
Now nothing remains but to settle the price.
"I cannot help," he says, "feeling this a moment of great triumph, after
so much opposition from everyone. All my friends prophesied failure, and
when I refused to desist from endeavouring, grew angry with me, and
annoyed me as much as possible.... I will let you know as soon as we
have agreed upon the price, and, of course, I shall have the pleasure
of sending you some copies when it appears."
Alas! he was mistaken. There was much more than the remuneration to be
settled before the work was published; in fact, it never was published.
The last letter of the packet has no other date than May 7. From
internal evidence, however, it must have been written in the year 1873.
"I have just had a great disappointment. After keeping the
manuscript of my novel more than two months, Mr. ---- has written
to decline it. It really does seem like Sisyphus--just as one has
rolled the stone close to the top of the hill, down it goes again,
and all one's work has to be done over again. For some time after I
began literary work I did not care in the least about a failure,
because I had a perpetual spring of hope that the next would be
more fortunate. But now, after eight years of almost continual
failure, it is very hard indeed to make a fresh effort, because
there is no hope to sustain one's expectations. Still, although I
have lost hope entirely, I am more than ever _determined_ to
succeed, and shall never cease trying till I do.
"It seems so singular to me that, although publishers constantly
decline my works, yet if by any chance something that I have
written gets into print, everybody immediately admires it, so that
it does not seem that there is any want of ability. You remember
those letters in the _Times_? They were declined by one editor of a
much less important paper. The moment they were published everyone
admired them, and even the most adverse critics allowed that the
style and literary execution was good. I could show you a dozen
clippings from adverse newspapers to that effect. This is the
reflection that supports me under so many disappointments, because
it seems to say that it is through no fault of mine. Thinking over
this very deeply lately, and passing over in review the facts and
experience I have obtained during the last eight years, I have come
to the conclusion that it is no use for me to waste further time
in waiting for the decisions of publishers, but that I ought to set
to work and publish on my own account. What, then, shall I publish?
A novel costs some L60 or L80 at least. This I cannot possibly
afford; I have no friends who can afford it. I can borrow, it is
true, but that seems like putting a noose round your own neck for
some one else to hang you with. But then many authors have made a
name and even large sums of money by publishing very small
books...."
He goes on to show in his sanguine way how a little book is bound to
bring in a great profit.
He then adds:
"... Having tried, therefore, every other plan for succeeding, I
have at last determined to try this. Do you not think I am right?
It is only risking a few pounds--not like L60 or L80. The first
little book I have selected to issue is a compendium of reporting
experience for the use of learners. It is almost finished--all but
binding--and the first copy issued you shall see. It will be
published by J. Snow and Co., 2, Ivy Lane.
"Then with regard to Swindon. I have so enlarged my account of it,
and so enlarged the account of the Goddard family, that I have
determined to publish the work in two parts. First to issue the
Goddard part, by which means I shall not risk so much money, and
shall see how the thing takes. Besides, I know that the Goddards
would prefer it done in that way. I estimate the cost of the first
part at about L10; and as the manuscript has been completed and
lying idle for nearly three months, I should like to get it out at
once, but I do not like to give the order until I have the cash to
meet the bill.
"You have no idea of the wretched feeling produced by incessant
disappointment, and the long, long months of weary waiting for
decisions without the least hope...."