After having spent about six years in the wild Nor' West, as a servant
of the Hudson's Bay Fur Company, I found myself, one summer--at the
advanced age of twenty-two--in charge of an outpost on the uninhabited
northern shores of the gulf of St. Lawrence named Seven Islands. It was
a dreary, desolate spot; at that time far beyond the bounds of
civilisation. The gulf, just opposite the establishment, was about fifty
miles broad. The ships which passed up and down it were invisible, not
only on account of distance, but because of seven islands at the mouth
of the bay coming between them and the outpost. My next neighbour, in
command of a similar post up the gulf, was about seventy miles distant.
The nearest house down the gulf was about eighty miles off, and behind
us lay the virgin forests, with swamps, lakes, prairies, and mountains,
stretching away without break right across the continent to the Pacific
Ocean.
[Illustration: MR. BALLANTYNE'S HOUSE AT HARROW.]
The outpost--which, in virtue of a ship's carronade and a flagstaff, was
occasionally styled a "fort"--consisted of four wooden buildings. One of
these--the largest, with a verandah--was the Residency. There was an
offshoot in rear which served as a kitchen. The other houses were a
store for goods wherewith to carry on trade with the Indians, a stable,
and a workshop. The whole population of the establishment--indeed of the
surrounding district--consisted of myself and one man--also a horse! The
horse occupied the stable, I dwelt in the Residency, the rest of the
population lived in the kitchen.
There were, indeed, other five men belonging to the establishment, but
these did not affect its desolation, for they were away netting salmon
at a river about twenty miles distant at the time I write of.
My "Friday"--who was a French-Canadian--being cook, as well as
man-of-all-works, found a little occupation in attending to the duties
of his office, but the unfortunate Governor had nothing whatever to do
except await the arrival of Indians, who were not due at that time. The
horse was a bad one, without a saddle, and in possession of a pronounced
backbone. My "Friday" was not sociable. I had no books, no newspapers,
no magazines or literature of any kind, no game to shoot, no boat
wherewith to prosecute fishing in the bay, and no prospect of seeing any
one to speak to for weeks, if not months, to come. But I had pen and
ink, and, by great good fortune, was in possession of a blank paper book
fully an inch thick.
These, then, were the circumstances in which I began my first book.
When that book was finished, and, not long afterwards, submitted to
the--I need hardly say favourable--criticism of my mother, I had not the
most distant idea of taking to authorship as a profession. Even when a
printer-cousin, seeing the MS., offered to print it, and the well-known
Blackwood, of Edinburgh, seeing the book, offered to publish it--and did
publish it--my ambition was still so absolutely asleep that I did not
again put pen to paper in _that_ way for eight years thereafter,
although I might have been encouraged thereto by the fact that this
first book--named "Hudson's Bay"--besides being a commercial success,
received favourable notice from the press.
It was not until the year 1854 that my literary path was opened up. At
that time I was a partner in the late publishing firm of Constable & Co.
of Edinburgh. Happening one day to meet with the late William Nelson,
publisher, I was asked by him how I should like the idea of taking to
literature as a profession. My answer I forget. It must have been vague,
for I had never thought of the subject before.
"Well," said he, "what would you think of trying to write a story?"
Somewhat amused, I replied that I did not know what to think, but I
would try if he wished me to do so.
"Do so," said he, "and go to work at once"--or words to that effect.
I went to work at once, and wrote my first story or work of fiction. It
was published in 1855 under the name of "Snowflakes and Sunbeams; or,
The Young Furtraders." Afterwards the first part of the title was
dropped, and the book is now known as "The Young Furtraders." From that
day to this I have lived by making story-books for young folk.
[Illustration: THE HALL.]
From what I have said it will be seen that I have never aimed at the
achieving of this position, and I hope that it is not presumptuous in me
to think--and to derive much comfort from the thought--that God led me
into the particular path along which I have walked for so many years.
The scene of my first story was naturally laid in those backwoods with
which I was familiar, and the story itself was founded on the
adventures and experiences of myself and my companions. When a second
book was required of me, I stuck to the same regions, but changed the
locality. When casting about in my mind for a suitable subject, I
happened to meet with an old retired "Nor'wester" who had spent an
adventurous life in Rupert's Land. Among other duties he had been sent
to establish an outpost of the Hudson Bay Company at Ungava Bay, one of
the most dreary parts of a desolate region. On hearing what I wanted he
sat down and wrote a long narrative of his proceedings there, which he
placed at my disposal, and thus furnished me with the foundation of
"Ungava."
But now I had reached the end of my tether, and when a third story was
wanted I was compelled to seek new fields of adventure in the books of
travellers. Regarding the Southern seas as the most romantic part of the
world--after the backwoods!--I mentally and spiritually plunged into
those warm waters, and the dive resulted in the "Coral Island."
It now began to be borne in upon me that there was something not quite
satisfactory in describing, expatiating on, and energising in, regions
which one has never seen. For one thing, it was needful to be always
carefully on the watch to avoid falling into mistakes geographical,
topographical, natural-historical, and otherwise.
For instance, despite the utmost care of which I was capable while
studying up for the "Coral Island," I fell into a blunder through
ignorance in regard to a familiar fruit. I was under the impression that
cocoanuts grew on their trees in the same form as that in which they are
usually presented to us in grocers' windows--namely, about the size of a
large fist with three spots at one end. Learning from trustworthy books
that at a certain stage of development the nut contains a delicious
beverage like lemonade, I sent one of my heroes up a tree for a nut,
through the shell of which he bored a hole with a penknife. It was not
till long after the story was published that my own brother--who had
voyaged in Southern seas--wrote to draw my attention to the fact that
the cocoanut is nearly as large as a man's head, and its outer husk is
over an inch thick, so that no ordinary penknife could bore to its
interior! Of course I should have known this, and, perhaps, should be
ashamed of my ignorance, but, somehow, I'm not!
I admit that this was a slip, but such, and other slips, hardly justify
the remark that some people have not hesitated to make, namely, that I
have a tendency to draw the long bow. I feel almost sensitive on this
point, for I have always laboured to be true to nature and to fact even
in my wildest flights of fancy.
This reminds me of the remark made to myself once by a lady in reference
to this same "Coral Island." "There is one thing, Mr. Ballantyne," she
said, "which I really find it hard to believe. You make one of your
three boys dive into a clear pool, go to the bottom, and then, turning
on his back, look up and wink and laugh at the other two."
[Illustration: TROPHIES FROM MR. BALLANTYNE'S TRAVELS.]
"No, no, not '_laugh_,'" said I, remonstratively.
"Well, then, you make him smile."
"Ah, that is true, but there is a vast difference between laughing and
smiling under water. But is it not singular that you should doubt the
only incident in the story which I personally verified? I happened to be
in lodgings at the seaside while writing that story, and, after penning
the passage you refer to, I went down to the shore, pulled off my
clothes, dived to the bottom, turned on my back, and, looking up, I
smiled and winked."
The lady laughed, but I have never been quite sure, from the tone of
that laugh, whether it was a laugh of conviction or of unbelief. It is
not improbable that my fair friend's mental constitution may have been
somewhat similar to that of the old woman who declined to believe her
sailor-grandson when he told her he had seen flying-fish, but at once
recognised his veracity when he said he had seen the remains of
Pharaoh's chariot wheels on the shores of the Red Sea.
[Illustration: THE DINING ROOM.]
Recognising, then, the difficulties of my position, I formed the
resolution to visit--when possible--the scenes in which my stories were
laid; converse with the people who, under modification, were to form the
_dramatis personae_ of the tales, and, generally, to obtain information
in each case, as far as lay in my power, from the fountain head.
Thus, when about to begin "The Lifeboat," I went to Ramsgate, and, for
some time, was hand and glove with Jarman, the heroic coxswain of the
Ramsgate boat, a lion-like as well as lion-hearted man, who rescued
hundreds of lives from the fatal Goodwin Sands during his career. In
like manner, when getting up information for "The Lighthouse," I
obtained permission from the Commissioners of Northern Lights to visit
the Bell Rock Lighthouse, where I hobnobbed with the three keepers of
that celebrated pillar-in-the-sea for three weeks, and read Stevenson's
graphic account of the building of the structure in the library, or
visitors' room, just under the lantern. I was absolutely a prisoner
there during those three weeks, for no boats ever came near us, and it
need scarcely be said that ships kept well out of our way. By good
fortune there came on a pretty stiff gale at the time, and Stevenson's
thrilling narrative was read to the tune of whistling winds and roaring
seas, many of which latter sent the spray right up to the lantern and
caused the building, more than once, to quiver to its foundation.
[Illustration: THE STUDY.]
In order to do justice to "Fighting the Flames" I careered through the
streets of London on fire-engines, clad in a pea-jacket and a black
leather helmet of the Salvage Corps. This, to enable me to pass the
cordon of police without question--though not without recognition, as
was made apparent to me on one occasion at a fire by a fireman
whispering confidentially, "I know what _you_ are, sir, you're a
hamitoor!"
[Illustration: MR. R. M. BALLANTYNE.]
"Right you are," said I, and moved away in order to change the subject.
It was a glorious experience, by the way, this galloping on fire-engines
through the crowded streets. It had in it much of the excitement of the
chase--possibly that of war--with the noble end in view of saving
instead of destroying life! Such tearing along at headlong speed; such
wild roaring of the firemen to clear the way; such frantic dashing aside
of cabs, carts, 'buses, and pedestrians; such reckless courage on the
part of the men, and volcanic spoutings on the part of the fires! But I
must not linger. The memory of it is too enticing. "Deep Down" took me
to Cornwall, where, over two hundred fathoms beneath the green turf, and
more than half-a-mile out under the bed of the sea, I saw the sturdy
miners at work winning copper and tin from the solid rock, and acquired
some knowledge of their life, sufferings, and toils.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM.]
In the land of the Vikings I shot ptarmigan, caught salmon, and gathered
material for "Erling the Bold." A winter in Algiers made me familiar
with the "Pirate City." I enjoyed a fortnight with the hearty
inhabitants of the Gull Lightship off the Goodwin Sands; and went to
the Cape of Good Hope, and up into the interior of the Colony, to spy
out the land and hold intercourse with "The Settler and the
Savage"--although I am bound to confess that, with regard to the
latter, I talked to him only with mine eyes. I also went afloat for a
short time with the fishermen of the North Sea in order to be able to do
justice to "The Young Trawler."
To arrive still closer at the truth, and to avoid errors, I have always
endeavoured to submit my proof sheets, when possible, to experts and men
who knew the subjects well. Thus, Capt. Shaw, late chief of the London
Fire Brigade, kindly read the proofs of "Fighting the Flames," and
prevented my getting off the rails in matters of detail, and Sir Arthur
Blackwood, financial secretary to the General Post Office, obligingly
did me the same favour in regard to "Post Haste."
One other word in conclusion. Always, while writing--whatever might be
the subject of my story--I have been influenced by an undercurrent of
effort and desire to direct the minds and affections of my readers
towards the higher life.
_Trials And Troubles of an Artist._