Most men have a hobby of some kind, and I am certainly no exception to
the general rule. Some love boating; some painting; others carving,
angling, walking, shooting, or one of a hundred other diversions. The
hobbies of noted men would fill a goodly volume--thus Tosti is fond of
upholstering; Gladstone of tree-felling; the Sultan of Turkey is an
amateur carpenter; the Shah of Persia photographs everything he can
aim his lens at; the late Lord R. Churchill collected the teeth of
criminals; H.R.H. the Princess of Wales has a passion for specimens of
lace; and so on.
Now I love none of these pursuits, but will confess at once that my
delight is _a good story_; something out of the usual rut of everyday
fiction; something fresh, stimulating, racy; and to gratify my hobby I
have been for many years a most voluminous reader.
No scientific works for me, thank you; no dreary, three-volume, society
novels; give me good, sterling works of _fiction_--neither namby-pamby
on the one hand, nor revoltingly realistic on the other--but sound,
entertaining, well-worked-out fiction.
Generally speaking, my experience of writers is disappointing. One soon
finds out their style of working, and after reading a short way into
a story, the _dénouement_ can frequently be correctly conjectured.
Some authors are aware of this, and purposely lead their readers upon
a wrong scent quite up to the penultimate chapter, and then suddenly
surprise them by reversing their preconceived idea of the final
disposition of the characters represented. This is extremely puzzling
to that section of lady readers who “just glance at the last chapter”
before wading through the volume, and must be extremely tantalizing to
them as well.
Now it so happens that I have little else to do in life but to obey my
own sweet will; no wife have I, and but few relations, and as to them,
I steadfastly believe there is a great deal of truth in the aphorism,
“relatives are best apart.” So strongly am I convinced of this, that I
foster a fondness for peregrinating, solitarily, over the length and
breadth of England, and even for making occasional incursions into
Scotland or Wales.
My income is small but ample--a cosy £500 a year--upon which I can
manage in comfort, especially as I have adopted a novel system of
living; novel, not because it has not been carried out to a certain
extent before, but because I have made a permanent institution of it;
I am a dweller in a caravan, not merely during the pleasant summer
months, but _à la_ gipsy, all the year round; and, what is more, I
thoroughly enjoy my solitary life on wheels. I have no rates or taxes
to pay, and if I have troublesome neighbours I move; in fact I am a
progressive man, I am _always_ on the move.
My horse and I get on admirably together: in the summer he sleeps in
meadow or lane, on heath or common, while I sling my hammock in my
roomy van; but in the winter I stable my steed at an inn, and, as for
myself, laugh as I hear the snow-laden wind rasping vainly at the
woodwork and windows of my domicile. I am snug and secure from any
weather that may assail me; and with my pipe, my dog, and my books, am
as comfortable and free as the Queen in her Castle at Windsor.
But all this is not my very particular _hobby_; it is simply my mode of
living, and a free, healthy, Bohemian life it is.
As I have before remarked, I have a fondness for a good story; and
I have a peculiar way of securing that article. I do not go to a
book-shelf, get down a volume, and read a cut-and-dried version of
some adventure or incident--frequently spoiled by the opinions of
the writer, thrust willy-nilly upon the unfortunate reader--but I go
straight to the fountain-head--to the hero or chief participator in the
scenes and adventures described--and so get my story first-hand, _vivâ
voce_, from the lips of the living narrator.
In disclosing how I succeed in this I must first make a confession;
then my _modus operandi_ will be at once plain.