SUCCESS
However much cause I may have at some future date to complain of
severe criticism, I have certainly no complaint up to the present
against any connected with the making of books. Some half a dozen
lines of work were submitted to publishers, and three times I received
letters with a view to publication, which, of course, failed through
the want of friends to assist me. Knowing how rough and unequal the
work was, and that critics could find--if so inclined--plenty to
justify extreme severity, has undeceived me as to my former
unreasonable opinion, that critics were more prone to cavil than to
praise. I would like it to be understood that I say this without
bidding for any future indulgence; for I am thankful to any man who
will show me my faults, and am always open to advice.
As I have said, the first notice appeared in a leading daily paper, a
full column, in which I saw myself described, a rough sketch of the
ups and downs of my life, in short telling sentences, with quotations
from my work. The effect of this was almost instantaneous, for
correspondence immediately followed. Letters came by every post. Of
course, all my thoughts had been concentrated on the reading world, so
that I was much surprised when two young men came to the house and
requested a photo for an illustrated paper. I could not oblige them at
that moment, but with a heart overflowing with gratitude was persuaded
to accompany them at once to the nearest photographer, now that
interest was at its high point. "Now," said one of these young men,
when I was on my way with them, delighted with this mission--"now, if
you could give me a few lines on the war in the East, to go with your
photograph, it would be of much greater interest to the public." Not
caring to blow the froth off my mind in this indifferent manner, and
feeling too conscientious to take advantage of public interest by
writing in such haste, which, to tell the truth, appeared a difficult
task--I quickly turned the subject to other matters, thinking he would
soon forget his request. But it was of no use; for, every other step
or two, he wanted to be informed whether I was concentrating my mind
on the war. At last, being under the impression that my natural
reserve and feeble attempts at conversation would lead him to believe
that something was being done in that direction, I made a great effort
to become voluble, and, I believe, succeeded until the photograph was
taken. When I left him, his last question was--"What about the war?"
The next morning, after the last mentioned episode, being Sunday, I
was enjoying a stroll through the city, which is so very quiet on this
one morning of the week; and was thinking of nothing else but my own
affairs, more especially of the photo that was soon to appear. The
street was forsaken, with the exception--yes, there they were: two men
with a camera, and both of them looking my way, anxiously awaiting my
approach. "This," I said to myself, "is fame with a vengeance." I felt
a little mortification at being expected to undergo this operation in
the public streets. One of these photographers quickly stepped forward
to meet me, and, smiling blandly, requested me kindly to stand for a
moment where I was. It certainly shocked and mortified me more to
learn that they desired to photograph an old fashioned dwelling of
brick and mortar, and that they considered my presence as no adornment
to the front.
A few days after this first review, a critic of fine literature, who
had interested himself privately on my behalf, sent a notice to a
weekly literary paper; and it was the respect due to this man's name
that drew the attention of some other papers of good standing, for
their representatives mentioned this man's name with every respect,
knowing, at the same time, that he would not waste his hours on what
was absolutely worthless.
What kind hearted correspondents I had, and what offers they made,
what questions they asked! and all of them received grateful
answers--with one exception. This gentleman, who did not require a
book, presumably being more interested in the strange conditions under
which I had lived and worked, offered me a pleasant home in the
country, where I could cultivate my talents surrounded with a little
more comfort and quieter scenes. The letter was long, delightful,
poetical, and worked warmly on my imagination, sentence for sentence;
until the last sentence came like a douche of cold water on a warm
body--"Of course," finished this gentleman, "it is necessary to supply
me with strict references as to honesty and respectability." Where was
I to get these? after having failed to get a library form signed,
which would entitle me to borrow books. No doubt the manager of the
Farmhouse would have willingly done the latter, as was afterwards done
by him, but I was then under the impression that the keeper of a
lodging house was ineligible for such a purpose, knowing this to have
been the case elsewhere. Where could I obtain these references, seeing
that I knew no one who would take the responsibility of doing such a
petty kindness as signing a library form? This gentleman's letter, I
need scarcely say, remained unanswered, for which, I believe, none
will blame me.
Several other letters were received, which I found extremely difficult
to answer. One addressed me familiarly in rhyme, beginning--"Dear
brother poet, brother Will;" and went on to propose that we two should
take a firm stand together, side by side, to the everlasting benefit
of poetry and posterity.
Another had written verse, and would be glad to find a publisher, and
another could, and would, do me many a good turn, if I felt inclined
to correct his work, and to add lines here and there as needed. Not
for a moment would I hold these people to ridicule, but it brought to
mind that I was without a publisher for my own work, and I believed,
in all sincerity, that better work than mine might go begging, as it
often had.
In the main my correspondents were kind, sympathetic and sensible,
making genuine offers of assistance, for which I thanked them with all
my heart, but thought myself now beyond the necessity of accepting
them.
As a matter of fact, no one man in a common lodging house is supposed
to be regarded with any special favour. The common kitchen is his
library, his dining room and his parlour, and better accommodation
cannot be expected at the low price of fourpence per night. We are all
equal, without a question of what a man's past may have been, or what
his future is likely to realise. Any man who puts on superior airs is
invariably subjected to this sarcastic enquiry--"How much do you pay?"
or the incontrovertible remark that one man's fourpence is as good as
another's. The Manager has to use great tact in not indulging in too
long a conversation with one particular man, and a lodger must not
jeopardise his popularity by an overweening anxiety to exchange
civilities, or to repose confidence in those who are in authority; for
these lodgers are in general distrustful and suspicious. If a fish
porter--a good number of these men were here--was warned after any
misconduct, he would turn to one of his pals and say--"Billingsgate, I
see, is not favoured in this place." And if a paper-seller--of which
there were about an equal number--was called to account in the same
way, his remark would be that had he been a fish porter the misconduct
would have been overlooked. Such was the state of feeling in the
Farmhouse, although the caretaker, time after time, almost daily,
reiterated the remark that one man was as good as another, and that no
distinction was made between the two classes. Knowing this state of
feeling, and the child-like distrust and jealousy of these honest
fellows, it was no wonder that I felt a little awkward at the change
of circumstances; for, after all, I was still a lodger, and paying no
more than them for the same conveniences. In spite of this, I don't
believe I suffered the least in popularity when the Manager,
determined that I should not suffer any longer for want of privacy to
pursue my aims, threw open his own private rooms for my convenience.
And, every time I took advantage of his kindness, the Manager's wife
would take advantage of this by supplying a hot dinner or tea, as the
hour might be, so that my studies might not be interrupted, or food
postponed through an anxiety to perform a certain task.
The Manager was astonished at my success, and, after he had read
several notices, it certainly must have made him bitter against those
whom he had approached on my behalf. "Yes," he said, "I must confess
to failure, in your case, and I am left wondering as to what kind of
cases these people consider worthy of assistance." The man, being in a
subordinate position, dare not openly speak his thoughts, or appear to
force the hands of those rich visitors, but he certainly lost no
opportunity in showing some honest Irish blood in his references to
the Charity Organisation. "Miss So and So has been here," said he, one
morning; "and I lost no time in relating your experience with the
Charity Organisation. She was very much offended and shocked, and she
has now gone there to seek some explanation." "As for that," I
answered, knowing these people had all the power to make good their
own case, and that I would not be called upon to sift the false from
the true--"As for that, this lady will return satisfied, as you will
see." The Manager did not altogether believe this, saying that he
thought the lady in question was not a blind believer in anything, and
had an unusual amount of common sense. She certainly did return
satisfied, saying that she thought they were justified in their
conduct, to a certain extent. On being questioned by the Manager, who
claimed it justice that the truth should be known, she said that she
dare not make public the sayings and doings of the Society. I am now
giving my experiences honestly and truthfully, and thought for
thought, if not word for word, as they happened. As a man whose
ambition above all other things is to impress every one favourably, I
have come to the conclusion that my work has been praised far more
than its worth, owing to having met the writers of some of those
articles, and impressing them in a simple, honest way. I am writing
these experiences with a full knowledge of human nature, knowing that
many people will remark: "Take no heed of that man, for he has not a
good word for any one or anything;" but, as far as my knowledge and
experience goes it is the truth, and, if that seems false and
sensational, it is no fault of mine. Certainly I have led a worthless,
wandering and lazy life, with, in my early days, a strong dislike to
continued labour, and incapacitated from the same in later years. No
person seemed inclined to start me on the road to fame, but, as soon
as I had made an audacious step or two, I was taken up, passed quickly
on from stage to stage, and given free rides farther than I expected.