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--
[Illustration: A STUDY CORNER]
'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.
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 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 admire 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
language 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 from 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.
In conclusion, I will tell a moving tale, that it may be a warning to
young authors for ever. After my publishers declined to issue 'The
Witch's Head' in a six-shilling edition, I tried many others without
success, and at length in my folly signed an agreement with a firm since
deceased. Under this document the firm in question agreed to bring out
'Dawn' and 'The Witch's Head' in a two-shilling edition, and generously
to remunerate me with a third share in the profits realised, if any. In
return for this concession, I on my part undertook to allow the said
firm to republish any novel that I might write, for a period of five
years from the date of the agreement, in a two-shilling form, and on the
same third-profit terms. Of course, so soon as the success of 'King
Solomon's Mines' was established, I received a polite letter from the
publishers in question, asking when they might expect to republish that
romance at two shillings. Then the matter came under the consideration
of lawyers and other skilled persons, with the result that it appeared
that, if the Courts took a strict view of the agreement, ruin stared me
in the face, so far as my literary affairs were concerned. To begin
with, either by accident or design, this artful document was so worded
that, _primâ facie_, the contracting publisher had a right to place his
cheap edition on the market whenever it might please him to do so,
subject only to the payment of a third of the profit, to be assessed by
himself, which practically might have meant nothing at all. How could I
expect to dispose of work subject to such a legal 'servitude'? For five
long years I was a slave to the framer of the 'hanging' clause of the
agreement. Things looked black indeed, when, thanks to the diplomacy of
my agent, and to a fortunate change in the _personnel_ of the firm to
which I was bound, I avoided disaster. The fatal agreement was
cancelled, and in consideration of my release I undertook to write two
books upon a moderate royalty. Thus, then, did I escape out of bondage.
To be just, it was my own fault that I should ever have been sold into
it, but authors are proverbially guileless when they are anxious to
publish their books, and a piece of printed paper with a few additions
written in a neat hand looks innocent enough. Now no such misfortunes
need happen, for the Authors' Society is ready and anxious to protect
them from themselves and others, but in those days it did not exist.
[Illustration: THE FARM]
This is the history of how I drifted into the writing of books. If it
saves one beginner so inexperienced and unfriended as I was in those
days from putting his hand to a 'hanging' agreement under any
circumstances whatsoever, it will not have been set out in vain.
The advice that I give to would-be authors, if I may presume to offer
it, is to think for a long while before they enter at all upon a career
so hard and hazardous, but having entered on it, not to be easily cast
down. There are great virtues in perseverance, even though critics sneer
and publishers prove unkind.
'_HUDSON'S BAY_'
BY R. M. BALLANTYNE
Having been asked to give some account of the commencement of my
literary career, I begin by remarking that my first book was not a tale
or 'story-book,' but a free-and-easy record of personal adventure and
every-day life in those wild regions of North America which are known,
variously, as Rupert's Land--The Hudson's Bay Territory--The Nor' West,
and 'The Great Lone Land.'
[Illustration: WHERE I WROTE MY FIRST BOOK
(_A Sketch by the Author_)]
The record was never meant to see the light in the form of a book. It
was written solely for the eye of my mother, but, as it may be said that
it was the means of leading me ultimately into the path of my life-work,
and was penned under somewhat peculiar circumstances, it may not be out
of place to refer to it particularly here.
The circumstances were as follows:--
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.
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, five other 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.
[Illustration: drawing by Geo. Hutchinson
signed: R. M. Ballantyne]
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
anyone 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 Fur-traders.' Afterwards the first part of the title was
dropped, and the book is now known as 'The Young Fur-traders.' From that
day to this I have lived by making story-books for young folk.
[Illustration: MR. BALLANTYNE'S HOUSE AT HARROW[C]]
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's 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 a 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.
[Illustration: TROPHIES FROM MR. BALLANTYNE'S TRAVELS]
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.'
'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 verify? 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.
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 personæ_ of the tales, and, generally, to obtain
information in each case, as far as lay in my power, from the
fountain-head.
[Illustration: THE STUDY]
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 a 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.
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!'
'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: MR. R. M. BALLANTYNE]
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, Captain 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.
'_THE PREMIER AND THE PAINTER_'
BY I. ZANGWILL
As it is scarcely two years since my name (which, I hear, is a _nom de
plume_) appeared in print on the cover of a book, I may be suspected of
professional humour when I say I do not really know which was my first
book. Yet such is the fact. My literary career has been so queer that I
find it not easy to write my autobibliography.
'What is a pound?' asked Sir Robert Peel in an interrogative mood futile
as Pilate's. 'What is a book?' I ask, and the dictionary answers with
its usual dogmatic air, 'A collection of sheets of paper, or similar
material, blank, written, or printed, bound together.' At this rate my
first book would be that romance of school life in two volumes, which,
written in a couple of exercise books, circulated gratuitously in the
schoolroom, and pleased our youthful imaginations with teacher-baiting
tricks we had not the pluck to carry out in the actual. I shall always
remember this story because, after making the tour of the class, it was
returned to me with thanks and a new first page from which all my graces
of style had evaporated. Indignant inquiry discovered the criminal--he
admitted he had lost the page, and had rewritten it from memory. He
pleaded that it was better written (which in one sense was true), and
that none of the facts had been omitted.
This ill-treated tale was 'published' when I was ten, but an old
schoolfellow recently wrote to me reminding me of an earlier novel
written in an old account-book. Of this I have no recollection, but, as
he says he wrote it day by day at my dictation, I suppose he ought to
know. I am glad to find I had so early achieved the distinction of
keeping an amanuensis.
The dignity of print I achieved not much later, contributing verses and
virtuous essays to various juvenile organs. But it was not till I was
eighteen that I achieved a printed first book. The story of this first
book is peculiar; and, to tell it in approved story form, I must request
the reader to come back two years with me.
[Illustration: LOOKING FOR TOOLE]