Book making is mixed up, more or less, with difficulties. It is
sometimes disappointing; often amusing; occasionally lucrative;
frequently expensive, and always interesting--at least to the maker.
Of course I do not refer to that sort of book making which is connected
with the too prevalent and disgraceful practice of gambling, but to the
making of literary books--especially story-books for the young.
For over eight-and-thirty years I have had the pleasure of making such
books and of gathering the material for them in many and distant lands.
During that period a considerable number of the juvenile public have
accepted me as one of their guides in the world of Fiction, and through
many scenes in the wildest and most out-of-the-way regions of our
wonderful world.
Surely, then, it is not presumptuous in me to suppose--at least to
hope--that a rambling account of some of the curious incidents which
have occurred, now and then, in connection with my book making, will
interest the young people of the present day. Indeed I entertain a hope
that some even of the old boys and girls who condescended to follow me
in the days gone by may perchance derive some amusement, if not profit,
from a perusal of these reminiscences.
The shadows of life are lengthening, and, for me, that night, "in which
no man can work," may not be far off. Before it is too late, and while
yet the flame of the lamp burns with sufficient clearness, I would fain
have a personal chat with those for whom, by God's blessing, I have been
permitted to cater so long.
But fear not, dear reader, that I shall inflict on you a complete
autobiography. It is only the great ones of the earth who are entitled
to claim attention to the record of birth and parentage and school-days,
etcetera. To trace my ancestry back through "the Conquerors" to Adam,
would be presumptuous as well as impossible. Nevertheless, for the sake
of aspirants to literary fame, it may be worth while to tell here how
one of the rank and file of the moderately successful Brotherhood was
led to Authorship as a profession and how he followed it out.
I say "led" advisedly, because I made no effort whatever to adopt this
line of life, and never even dreamed of it as a possibility until I was
over twenty-eight years of age.
Let me commence, then, by at once taking a header into the middle of
that period when God--all unknown to, and unrecognised by, myself--was
furnishing me with some of the material and weapons for the future
battle of life.
One day my dear father was reading in the newspapers some account of the
discoveries of Dease and Simpson in the neighbourhood of the famous
North-west Passage. Looking at me over his spectacles with the
perplexed air of a man who has an idle son of sixteen to start in the
race of life, he said--
"How would you like to go into the service of the Hudson's Bay Company
and discover the North-west Passage?"--or words to that effect.
"All right, father," said I--or something of that sort.
I was at that age, and in that frame of mind, which regards difficulties
with consummate presumption and profound inexperience. If the discovery
of the North-pole had been suggested, or the South-pole, or any other
terrestrial pole that happened to exist at the time, I was quite ready
to "rush in" where even a Franklin might "fear to tread!"
This incident was but a slight one, yet it was the little hinge on which
turned my future career.
We had a relation--I won't say what, because distant relationships,
especially if complicated, are utterly beyond my mental grasp--who was
high up in the service of the Hudson's Bay Fur Company. Through Iain I
became a clerk in the service with a salary of 20 pounds for the first
year. Having been born without a silver spoon in my mouth, I regarded
this as an adequate, though not a princely, provision.
In due time I found myself in the heart of that vast North American
wilderness which is variously known as Rupert's Land, the Territories of
the Hudson's Bay Company, and the Great Nor'west, many hundreds of miles
north of the outmost verge of Canadian civilisation.
I am not learned in the matter of statistics, but if a rough guess may
be allowed, I should say that the population of some of the regions in
which I and my few fellow-clerks vegetated might have been about fifty
to the hundred square miles--with uninhabited regions around. Of course
we had no libraries, magazines, or newspapers out there. Indeed we had
almost no books at all, only a stray file or two of American newspapers,
one of which made me acquainted with some of the works of Dickens and of
Lever. While in those northern wilds I also met--as with dear old
friends--some stray copies of _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_, and the
_Penny Magazine_.
We had a mail twice in the year--once by the Hudson's Bay ship in
summer, and once through the trackless wilderness by sledge and
snow-shoe in winter. It will easily be understood that surroundings of
such a nature did not suggest or encourage a literary career. My
comrades and I spent the greater part of our time in fur-trading with
the Red Indians; doing a little office-work, and in much canoeing,
boating, fishing, shooting, wishing, and skylarking. It was a "jolly"
life, no doubt, while it lasted, but not elevating!
We did not drink. Happily there was nothing alcoholic to be had out
there for love or money. But we smoked, more or less consumedly,
morning, noon, and night. Before breakfast the smoking began; after
supper it went on; far into the night it continued. Some of us even
went to sleep with the pipes in our mouths and dropped them on our
pillows. Being of such an immature age, I laboured under the not
uncommon delusion that to smoke looked manly, and therefore did my best
to accommodate myself to my surroundings, but I failed signally, having
been gifted with a blessed incapacity for tobacco-smoking. This
afflicted me somewhat at the time, but ever since I have been
unmistakably thankful.
But this is wandering. To return.
With a winter of eight months' duration and temperature sometimes at 50
below zero of Fahrenheit, little to do and nothing particular to think
of, time occasionally hung heavy on our hands. With a view to lighten
it a little, I began to write long and elaborate letters to a loving
mother whom I had left behind me in Scotland. The fact that these
letters could be despatched only twice in the year was immaterial.
Whenever I felt a touch of home-sickness, and at frequent intervals, I
got out my sheet of the largest-sized narrow-ruled imperial paper--I
think it was called "imperial"--and entered into spiritual intercourse
with "Home." To this long-letter writing I attribute whatever small
amount of facility in composition I may have acquired. Yet not the
faintest idea of story-writing crossed the clear sky of my unliterary
imagination. I am not conscious of having had, at that time, a love for
writing in any form--very much the reverse!
Of course I passed through a highly romantic period of life--most youths
do so--and while in that condition I made a desperate attempt to tackle
a poem. Most youths do that also! The first two lines ran thus:--
"Close by the shores of Hudson's Bay,
Where Arctic winters--stern and grey--"
I must have gloated long over this couplet, for it was indelibly stamped
upon my memory, and is as fresh to-day as when the lines were penned.
This my first literary effort was carried to somewhere about the middle
of the first canto. It stuck there--I am thankful to say--and, like the
smoking, never went further.
Rupert's Land, at that time, was little known and very seldom visited by
outsiders. During several years I wandered to and fro in it, meeting
with a few savages, fewer white men--servants of the Company--and
becoming acquainted with modes of life and thought in what has been
aptly styled "The Great Lone Land." Hearing so seldom from or of the
outside world, things pertaining to it grew dim and shadowy, and began
to lose interest. In these circumstances, if it had not been that I
knew full well my mother's soul was ready to receive any amount of
out-pourings of which I was capable, I should have almost forgotten how
to use the pen.
It was in circumstances such as I have described that I began my first
book, but it was not a story-book, and I had no idea that it would ever
become a printed book at all. It was merely a free-and-easy record of
personal adventure and every-day life, written, like all else that I
penned, solely for the uncritical eye of that long-suffering and too
indulgent mother!
I had reached the advanced age of twenty-two at the time, and had been
sent to take charge of an outpost, on the uninhabited northern shores of
the gulf of Saint Lawrence, named Seven Islands. It was a dreary,
desolate, little-known spot, at that time. 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, if I remember rightly, 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, 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-work, 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.
When, two or three years after, a printer-cousin, seeing the manuscript,
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 Thomas
Constable and Company 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 at all.
"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.
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 my companions and myself. When a second book was
required of me, I stuck to the same regions, but changed the locality.
While 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, a tale of Eskimo-Land_.
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 cocoa-nuts 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, suggestive of a monkey's face, 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 and drank the "lemonade"! 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
cocoa-nut is nearly as large as a man's head, and its outer husk 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 fact, and to nature,
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, Peterkin did 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.
Recognising, then, the difficulties of my position, I formed the
resolution always 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
visitor's room, just under the lantern. I was absolutely a prisoner
there during those three weeks, for boats seldom visited the rock, 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 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.
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, from which
resulted _The Floating Light_; 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 subject 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_.
In conclusion, there are some things that I shrink from flaunting in the
eyes of the public. Personal religion is one of these. Nevertheless,
there are a few words which I feel constrained to write before closing
this chapter.
During all the six years that I spent in Rupert's Land I was "without
God." He was around me and within me, guarding me, bestowing upon me
the physical and mental health by which alone I could fully enjoy a life
in the wilderness, and furnishing me with much of the material that was
to serve as my stock-in-trade during my subsequent career; yet--I
confess it with shame--I did not recognise or think of, or care for,
Him. It was not until after I had returned home that He opened my eyes
to see myself a lost soul, and Jesus Christ--"God with us"--an
all-sufficient Redeemer, able and willing to save me from sin, as He is
to save all sinners--even the chief.
More than this I will not say. Less I could not say, without being
unfaithful to my Creator.