It was a dreary journey, and they were a long time shaking off the
octopus-like tentacles of the great city, that reached further and
further into the country each year, as if it lived on consuming the
green fields. Morris walked ahead with the boy on his back, and his wife
followed. Neither spoke, and the sick lad did not complain. As they were
nearing a village, the boy's head sunk on his father's shoulder. The
mother quickened her pace, and came up to them, stroking the head of her
sleeping son. Suddenly, she uttered a smothered cry and took the boy in
her arms.
"What's the matter?" asked Morris, turning round.
She did not answer, but sat by the roadside with the boy on her lap,
swaying her body to and fro over him, moaning as she did so. Morris
needed no answer. He stood on the road with hardening face, and looked
down on his wife and child without speaking.
The kindly villagers arranged the little funeral, and when it was over
Jack Morris and his wife stood again on the road.
"Jack, dear," she pleaded, "don't go back to that horrible place. We
belong to the country, and the city is so hard and cruel."
"I'm going back. You can do as you like." Then, relenting a little, he
added, "I haven't brought much luck to you, my girl."
[Illustration: "IT WAS A GLORIOUS VICTORY."]
She knew her husband was a stubborn man, and set in his way, so,
unprotesting, she followed him in, as she had followed him out,
stumbling many times, for often her eyes did not see the road. And so
they returned to their empty rooms.
Jack Morris went to look for work at the Red Lion. There he met that
genial comrade, Joe Hollends, who had been reformed, and who had
backslid twice since Jack had foregathered with him before. It is but
fair to Joe to admit that he had never been optimistic about his own
reclamation, but, being an obliging man, even when he was sober, he was
willing to give the Social League every chance. Jack was deeply grieved
at the death of his son, although he had said no word to his wife that
would show it. It therefore took more liquor than usual to bring him up
to the point of good comradeship that reigned at the Red Lion. When he
and Joe left the tavern that night it would have taken an expert to tell
which was the more inebriated. They were both in good fighting trim, and
both were in the humour for a row. The police, who had reckoned on Joe
alone, suddenly found a new element in the fight that not only upset
their calculations but themselves as well. It was a glorious victory,
and, as both fled down a side street, Morris urged Hollends to come
along, for the representatives of law and order have the habit of
getting reinforcements which often turn a victory into a most
ignominious defeat.
"I can't," panted Hollends. "The beggars have hurt me."
"Come along. I know a place where we are safe."
Drunk as he was, Jack succeeded in finding the hole in the wall that
allowed him to enter a vacant spot behind the box factory. There
Hollends lay down with a groan, and there Morris sank beside him in a
drunken sleep. The police were at last revenged, and finally.
When the grey daylight brought Morris to a dazed sense of where he was,
he found his companion dead beside him. He had a vague fear that he
would be tried for murder, but it was not so. From the moment that
Hollends, in his fall, struck his head on the kerb, the Providence which
looks after the drunken deserted him.
But the inquest accomplished one good object. It attracted the attention
of the Social League to Jack Morris, and they are now endeavouring to
reclaim him.
Whether they succeed or not, he was a man that was certainly once worth
saving.
[Illustration]
MY FIRST BOOK.
DAWN.
BY H. RIDER HAGGARD.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. AND B. HUTCHINSON.
PHOTOGRAPHS BY MESSRS. FRADELLE AND YOUNG.
I think that it was in an article by a fellow-scribe, where, doubtless
more in sorrow than in anger, that gentleman exposed the worthlessness
of the productions of sundry of his brother authors, in which I read
that whatever success I had met with as a writer of fiction was due to
my literary friends and "nepotic criticism." This is scarcely the case,
since when I began to write I do not think that I knew a single creature
who had published books--blue books alone excepted. Nobody was ever more
outside the ring, or less acquainted with the art of "rolling logs,"
than the humble individual who pens these lines. But the reader shall
judge for himself.
[Illustration: THE FRONT GARDEN.]
To begin at the beginning: My very first attempt at imaginative writing
was made while I was a boy at school. One of the masters promised a
prize to that youth who should best describe on paper any incident, real
or imaginary. I entered the lists, and selected the scene at an
operation in a hospital as my subject. The fact that I had never seen an
operation, nor crossed the doors of a hospital, did not deter me from
this bold endeavour, which, however, was justified by its success. I was
declared to have won in the competition, though, probably through the
forgetfulness of the master, I remember that I never received the
promised prize. My next literary effort, written in 1876, was an account
of a Zulu war dance, which I witnessed when I was on the staff of the
Governor of Natal. It was published in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and
very kindly noticed in various papers. A year later I wrote another
article, entitled "A Visit to the Chief Secocoeni," which appeared in
_Macmillan_, and very nearly got me into trouble. I was then serving on
the staff of Sir Theophilus Shepstone, and the article, signed with my
initials, reached South Africa in its printed form shortly after the
annexation of the Transvaal. Young men with a pen in their hands are
proverbially indiscreet, and in this instance I was no exception. In the
course of my article I had described the Transvaal Boer at home with a
fidelity that should be avoided by members of a diplomatic mission, and
had even gone the length of saying that most of the Dutch women were
"fat." Needless to say, my remarks were translated into the Africander
papers, and somewhat extensively read, especially by the ladies in
question and their male relatives; nor did the editors of those papers
forbear to comment on them in leading articles. Shortly afterwards,
there was a great and stormy meeting of Boers at Pretoria. As matters
began to look serious, somebody ventured among them to ascertain the
exciting cause, and returned with the pleasing intelligence that they
were all talking of what the Englishman had written about the physical
proportions of their womenkind and domestic habits, and threatening to
take up arms to avenge it. Of my feelings on learning this news I will
not discourse, but they were uncomfortable, to say the least of it.
Happily, in the end, the gathering broke up without bloodshed, but when
the late Sir Bartle Frere came to Pretoria, some months afterwards, he
administered to me a sound and well-deserved lecture on my indiscretion.
I excused myself by saying that I had set down nothing which was not
strictly true, and he replied to the effect that therein lay my fault. I
quite agree with him; indeed, there is little doubt but that these bald
statements of fact as to the stoutness of the Transvaal "fraus," and the
lack of cleanliness in their homes, went near to precipitating a result
that, as it chanced, was postponed for several years. Well, it is all
done with now, and I take this opportunity of apologising to such of the
ladies in question as may still be in the land of life.
[Illustration: THE BACK GARDEN.]
This unfortunate experience cooled my literary ardour, yet, as it
chanced, when some five years later I again took up my pen, it was in
connection with African affairs. These pages are no place for politics,
but I must allude to them in explanation. It will be remembered that the
Transvaal was annexed by Great Britain in 1877. In 1881 the Boers rose
in rebellion and administered several thrashings to our troops, whereon
the Government of this country came suddenly to the conclusion that a
wrong had been done to the victors, and subject to some paper
restrictions, gave them back their independence. As it chanced, at the
time I was living on some African property belonging to me in the centre
of the operations, and so disgusted was I, in common with thousands of
others, at the turn which matters had taken, that I shook the dust of
South Africa off my feet and returned to England. Now, the first impulse
of an aggrieved Englishman is to write to the _Times_, and if I remember
right I took this course, but my letter not being inserted, I enlarged
upon the idea and composed a book called "Cetewayo and his White
Neighbours." This semi-political work, or rather history, was very
carefully constructed from the records of some six years' experience,
and by the help of a shelf full of blue books that stare me in the face
as I write these words; and the fact that it still goes on selling seems
to show that it has some value in the eyes of students of South African
politics. But when I had written my book I was confronted by a
difficulty which I had not anticipated, being utterly without experience
in such affairs--that of finding somebody willing to publish it. I
remember that I purchased a copy of the _Athenæum_, and selecting the
names of various firms at hazard, wrote to them offering to submit my
manuscript, but, strange to say, none of them seemed anxious to peruse
it. At last--how I do not recollect--it came into the hands of Messrs.
Trübner, who, after consideration, wrote to say that they were willing
to bring it out on the half profit system, provided that I paid down
fifty pounds towards the cost of production. I did not at all like the
idea of parting with the fifty pounds, but I believed in my book, and
was anxious to put my views on the Transvaal rebellion and other African
questions before the world. So I consented to the terms, and in due
course Cetewayo was published in a neat green binding. Somewhat to my
astonishment, it proved a success from a literary point of view. It was
not largely purchased--indeed, that fifty pounds took several years on
its return journey to my pocket, but it was favourably, and in some
instances almost enthusiastically, reviewed, especially in the colonial
papers.
[Illustration: MR. RIDER HAGGARD AND DAUGHTERS.]
About this time the face of a girl whom I saw in a church at Norwood
gave me the idea of writing a novel. The face was so perfectly
beautiful, and at the same time so refined, that I felt I could fit a
story to it which should be worthy of a heroine similarly endowed. When
next I saw Mr. Trübner I consulted him on the subject.
"You can write--it is certain that you can write. Yes, do it, and I will
get the book published for you," he answered.
Thus encouraged I set to work. How to compose a novel I knew not, so I
wrote straight on, trusting to the light of nature to guide me. My main
object was to produce the picture of a woman perfect in mind and body,
and to show her character ripening and growing spiritual, under the
pressure of various afflictions. Of course, there is a vast gulf between
a novice's aspiration and his attainment, and I do not contend that
Angela as she appears in "Dawn" fulfils this ideal; also, such a person
in real life might, and probably would, be a bore--
"Something too bright and good
For human nature's daily food."
[Illustration: THE HALL.]
Still, this was the end I aimed at. Indeed, before I had done with her,
I became so deeply attached to my heroine that, in a literary sense, I
have never quite got over it. I worked very hard at this novel during
the next six months or so, but at length it was finished and despatched
to Mr. Trübner, who, as his firm did not deal in this class of book,
submitted it to five or six of the best publishers of fiction. One and
all they declined it, so that by degrees it became clear to me that I
might as well have saved my labour. Mr. Trübner, however, had confidence
in my work, and submitted the manuscript to Mr. John Cordy Jeaffreson
for report; and here I may pause to say that I think there is more
kindness in the hearts of literary men than is common in the world. It
is not a pleasant task, in the face of repeated failure, again and again
to attempt the adventure of persuading brother publishers to undertake
the maiden effort of an unknown man. Still less pleasant is it, as I can
vouch from experience, to wade through a lengthy and not particularly
legible manuscript, and write an elaborate opinion thereon for the
benefit of a stranger. Yet Mr. Trübner and Mr. Jeaffreson did these
things for me without fee or reward. Mr. Jeaffreson's report I have lost
or mislaid, but I remember its purport well. It was to the effect that
there was a great deal of power in the novel, but that it required to be
entirely re-written. The first part he thought so good that he advised
me to expand it, and the unhappy ending he could not agree with. If I
killed the heroine, it would kill the book, he said. He may have been
right, but I still hold to my first conception, according to which
Angela was doomed to an early and pathetic end, as the fittest crown to
her career. That the story needed re-writing there is no doubt, but I
believe that it would have been better as a work of art if I had dealt
with it on the old lines, especially as the expansion of the beginning,
in accordance with the advice of my kindly critic, took the tale back
through the history of another generation--always a most dangerous
experiment. Still, I did as I was told, not presuming to set up a
judgment of my own in the matter. If I had worked hard at the first
draft of the novel, I worked much harder at the second, especially as I
could not give all my leisure to it, being engaged at the time in
reading for the Bar. So hard did I work that at length my eyesight gave
out, and I was obliged to complete the last hundred sheets in a darkened
room. But let my eyes ache as they might, I would not give up till it
was finished, within about three months from the date of its
commencement. Recently, I went through this book to prepare it for a new
edition, chiefly in order to cut out some of the mysticism and tall
writing, for which it is too remarkable, and was pleased to find that it
still interested me. But if a writer may be allowed to criticise his own
work, it is two books, not one. Also, the hero is a very poor creature.
Evidently I was too much occupied with my heroines to give much thought
to him; moreover, women are so much easier and more interesting to write
about, for whereas no two of them are alike, in modern men, or rather,
in young men of the middle and upper classes, there is a paralysing
sameness. As a candid friend once said to me, "There is nothing manly
about that chap, Arthur"--he is the hero--"except his bull-dog!" With
Angela herself I am still in love; only she ought to have died, which,
on the whole, would have been a better fate than being married to
Arthur, more especially if he was anything like the illustrator's
conception of him.
In its new shape "Dawn" was submitted to Messrs. Hurst and Blackett, and
at once accepted by that firm. Why it was called "Dawn" I am not now
quite clear, but I think it was because I could find no other title
acceptable to the publishers. The discovery of suitable titles is a more
difficult matter than people who do not write romances would suppose,
most of the good ones having been used already and copyrighted. In due
course the novel was published in three fat volumes, and a pretty green
cover, and I sat down to await events. At the best I did not expect to
win a fortune out of it, as if every one of the five hundred copies
printed were sold, I could only make fifty pounds under my
agreement--not an extravagant reward for a great deal of labour. As a
matter of fact, but four hundred and fifty sold, so the net proceeds of
the venture amounted to ten pounds only, and forty surplus copies of the
book, which I bored my friends by presenting to them. But as the
copyright of the work reverted to me at the expiration of a year, I
cannot grumble at this result. The reader may think that it was
mercenary of me to consider my first book from this financial point of
view, but to be frank, though the story interested me much in its
writing, and I had a sneaking belief in its merits, it never occurred to
me that I, an utterly inexperienced beginner, could hope to make any
mark in competition with the many brilliant writers of fiction who were
already before the public. Therefore, so far as I was concerned, any
reward in the way of literary reputation seemed to be beyond my reach.
[Illustration: MR. RIDER HAGGARD'S STUDY.]
It was on the occasion of the publication of this novel that I made my
first and last attempt to "roll a log," with somewhat amusing results.
Almost the only person of influence whom I knew in the world of letters
was the editor of a certain society paper. I had not seen him for ten
years, but at this crisis I ventured to recall myself to his memory, and
to ask him, not for a favourable notice, but that the book should be
reviewed in his journal. He acceded to my prayer; it was reviewed, but
after a fashion for which I did not bargain. This little incident taught
me a lesson, and the moral of it is: never trouble an editor about your
immortal works; he can so easily be even with you. I commend it to all
literary tyros. Even if you are in a position to command "puffs," the
public will find you out in the second edition, and revenge itself upon
your next book. Here is a story that illustrates the accuracy of this
statement; it came to me on good authority, and I believe it to be true.
A good many years ago, the relation of an editor of a great paper
published a novel. It was a bad novel, but a desperate effort was made
to force it upon the public, and in many of the leading journals
appeared notices so laudatory that readers fell into the trap, and the
book went through several editions. Encouraged by success, the writer
published a second book, but the public had found her out, and it fell
flat. Being a person of resource, she brought out a third work under a
_nom de plume_, which, as at first, was accorded an enthusiastic
reception by previous arrangement, and forced into circulation. A fourth
followed under the same name, but again the public had found her out,
and her career as a novelist came to an end.
[Illustration: "CURIOS."]
To return to the fate of "Dawn." In most quarters it met with the usual
reception of a first novel by an unknown man. Some of the reviewers
sneered at it, and some "slated" it, and made merry over the
misprints--a cheap form of wit that saves those who practise it the
trouble of going into the merits of a book. Two very good notices fell
to its lot, however, in the _Times_ and in the _Morning Post_, the first
of these speaking about the novel in terms of which any amateur writer
might feel proud, though, unfortunately, it appeared too late to be of
much service. Also, I discovered that the story had interested a great
many readers, and none of them more than the late Mr. Trübner, through
whose kind offices it came to be published, who, I was told, paid me the
strange compliment of continuing its perusal till within a few hours of
his death, a sad event that the enemy might say was hastened thereby. In
this connection I remember that the first hint I received that my story
was popular with the ordinary reading public, whatever reviewers might
say of it, came from the lips of a young lady, a chance visitor at my
house, whose name I have forgotten. Seeing the book lying on the table,
she took a volume up, saying--
"Oh, have you read 'Dawn'? It is a first-rate novel, I have just
finished it." Somebody explained, and the subject dropped, but I was not
a little gratified by the unintended compliment.
[Illustration: A STUDY CORNER.]
These facts encouraged me, and I wrote a second novel--"The Witch's
Head." This book I endeavoured to publish serially by posting the MS. to
the editors of various magazines for their consideration. But in those
days there were no literary agents or Authors' Societies to help young
writers with their experience and advice, and the bulky manuscript
always came back to my hand like a boomerang, till at length I wearied
of the attempt. Of course I sent it to the wrong people; afterwards the
editor of a leading monthly told me that he would have been delighted to
run the book had it fallen into the hands of his firm. In the end, as in
the case of "Dawn," I published "The Witch's Head" in three volumes. Its
reception astonished me, for I did not think so well of the book as I
had done of its predecessor. In that view, by the way, the public has
borne out my judgment, for to this day three copies of "Dawn" are
absorbed for every two of "The Witch's Head," a proportion that has
never varied since the two works appeared in one volume form.
"The Witch's Head" was very well reviewed; indeed, in one or two cases,
the notices were almost enthusiastic, most of all when they dealt with
the African part of the book, which I had inserted as padding, the fight
between Jeremy and the Boer giant being singled out for especial praise.
Whatever it may lack, one merit this novel has, however, that was
overlooked by all the reviewers. Omitting the fictitious incidents
introduced for the purposes of the story, it contains an accurate
account of the great disaster inflicted upon our troops by the Zulus at
Isandhlwana. I was in the country at the time of the massacre, and heard
its story from the lips of survivors, also, in writing of it, I studied
the official reports in the blue books and the minutes of the Court
Martial.
[Illustration: MR. RIDER HAGGARD.]
"The Witch's Head" attained the dignity of being pirated in America, and
in England went out of print in a few weeks, but no argument that I
could use would induce my publishers to re-issue it in a one-volume
edition. The risk was too great, they said. Then it was I came to the
conclusion that I would abandon the making of books. The work was very
hard, and when put to the test of experience the glamour that surrounds
this occupation vanished. I did not care much for the publicity it
involved, and, like most young authors, I failed to appreciate being
sneered at by anonymous critics who happened not to care for what I
wrote, and whom I had no opportunity of answering. It is true that then,
as now, I liked the work for its own sake. Indeed, I have always thought
that literature would be a charming profession if its conditions allowed
of the depositing of manuscripts, when completed, in a drawer, there to
languish in obscurity, or of their private publication only. But I could
not afford myself these luxuries. I was too modest to hope for any
renown worth having, and for the rest the game seemed scarcely worth the
candle. I had published a history and two novels. On the history I had
lost fifty pounds, on the first novel I had made ten pounds, and on the
second fifty; net profit on the three, ten pounds, which in the case of
a man with other occupations and duties did not appear to be an adequate
return for the labour involved. But I was not destined to escape thus
from the toils of romance. One day I chanced to read a clever article in
favour of boys' books, and it occurred to me that I might be able to do
as well as others in that line. I was working at the Bar at the time,
but in my spare evenings, more for amusement than from any other reason,
I entered on the literary adventure that ended in the appearance of
"King Solomon's Mines." This romance has proved very successful,
although three firms, including my own publishers, refused even to
consider it. But as it can scarcely be called one of my first books, I
shall not speak of it here.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM.]