3 1822019580323
 
 BRARY) 
 
 VERSITYOF
 
 31822019580323
 
 MY FIRST BOOK
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 LONDON
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 THE EXPERIENCES' OF 
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 JAMES PAYN 
 
 W. CLARK RUSSELL 
 
 GRANT ALLEN 
 
 HALL CAINE 
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS 
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 A. CONAN DOYLE 
 
 M. E. BRADDON 
 
 F. W. ROBINSON 
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 R. M. BALLANTYNE 
 I. ZANGWILL 
 MORLEY ROBERTS 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 MARIE CORELLI 
 JEROME K. JEROME 
 JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 BRET HARTE 
 
 Q.' 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 JEROME K. JEROME 
 
 A NEW EDITION, WITH 185 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS 
 1897
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY JEROME K. JEROME 
 
 PLEASE, sir,' he said, 'could you tell me the 
 right time ? ' 
 
 ' Twenty minutes to eight,' I replied, looking at 
 my watch. 
 
 ' Oh,' he remarked. Then added for my informa- 
 tion after a pause : ' I haven't got to be in till half-past 
 eight.' 
 
 After that we fell back into our former silence, and 
 sat watching the murky twilight, he at his end of the 
 park seat, I at mine. 
 
 ' And do you live far away ? ' I asked, lest, he having 
 miscalculated, the short legs might be hard put to it. 
 
 4 Oh no, only over there,' he answered, indicating 
 with a sweep of his arm the northern half of London 
 where it lay darkening behind the chimney-fringed 
 horizon ; ' I often come and sit here.' 
 
 It seemed an odd pastime for so very small a 
 citizen. ' And what makes you like to come and sit 
 here ? ' I said.
 
 viii MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know,' he replied, ' I think.' 
 
 4 And what do you think about ? ' 
 
 4 Oh oh, lots of things.' 
 
 He inspected me shyly out of the corner of his eye, 
 but, satisfied apparently by the scrutiny, he sidled up 
 a little nearer. 
 
 ' Mama does not like this evening time/ he con- 
 fided to me ; ' it always makes her cry. But then,' he 
 went on to explain, ' Mama has had a lot of trouble, 
 and that makes anyone feel different about things, you 
 know.' 
 
 I agreed that this was so. 4 And do you like this 
 evening time ? ' I enquired. 
 
 4 Yes,' he answered ; * don't you ?' 
 
 4 Yes, I like it too,' I admitted. ' But tell me why 
 you like it, then I will tell you why I like it.' 
 
 4 Oh,' he replied, 4 things come to you.' 
 
 4 What things ? ' I asked. 
 
 Again his critical eye passed over me, and it raised 
 me in my own conceit to find that again the inspection 
 contented him, he evidently feeling satisfied that here 
 was a man to whom another gentleman might speak 
 openly and without reserve. 
 
 He wriggled sideways, slipping his hands beneath 
 him and sitting on them. 
 
 4 Oh, fancies,' he explained ; 4 I'm going to be an 
 author when I grow up, and write books.'
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 Then I knew why it was that the sight of his little 
 figure had drawn me out of my path to sit beside him, 
 and why the little serious face had seemed so familiar 
 to me, as of some one I had once known long ago. 
 
 So we talked of books and bookmen. He told me 
 how, having been born on the fourteenth of February, 
 his name had come to be Valentine, though privileged 
 parties, as for example Aunt Emma, and Mr. Dawson, 
 and Cousin Naomi, had shortened it to Val, and 
 Mama would sometimes call him Pickaniny, but that 
 was only when they were quite alone. In return I 
 confided to him my name, and discovered that he had 
 never heard it, which pained me for the moment, until 
 I found that of all my confreres, excepting only Mr. 
 Stevenson, he was equally ignorant, he having lived 
 with the heroes and the heroines of the past, the new 
 man and the new woman, the new pathos and the 
 new humour being alike unknown to him. 
 
 Scott and Dumas and Victor Hugo were his 
 favourites. ' Gulliver's Travels,' ' Robinson Crusoe/ 
 'Don Quixote,' and the 'Arabian Nights,' he knew 
 almost by heart, and these we discussed, exchanging 
 many pleasant and profitable ideas upon the same. 
 But the psychological novel, I gathered, was not to his 
 taste. He liked ' real stories,' he told me, naively 
 unconscious of the satire, ' where people did things.' 
 
 ' I used to read silly stuff once,' he confessed
 
 x MY FIJtST BOOK 
 
 humbly, ' Indian tales and that sort of thing, you 
 know, but Mama said I'd never be able to write if I 
 read that rubbish.' 
 
 ' So you gave it up,' I concluded for him. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered. But a little sigh of regret, I 
 thought, escaped him at the same time. 
 
 ' And what do you read now ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' I'm reading Marlowe's plays and De Ouincey's 
 Confessions (he called him Quinsy) just now,' was his 
 reply. 
 
 ' And do you understand them ? ' I queried. 
 
 ' Fairly well,' he answered. Then added more 
 hopefully, ' Mama says I'll get to like them better as 
 I go on.' 
 
 ' I want to learn to write very, very well indeed,' 
 he suddenly added after a long pause, his little earnest 
 face growing still more serious, ' then I'll be able to 
 earn heaps of money.' 
 
 It rose to my lips to answer him that it was not 
 always the books written very, very well that brought 
 in the biggest heaps of money ; that if heaps of money 
 were his chiefest hope he would be better advised to 
 devote his energies to the glorious art of self-advertise- 
 ment and the gentle craft of making friends upon the 
 Press. But something about the almost baby face 
 beside me, fringed by the gathering shadows, silenced 
 my middle-aged cynicism. Involuntarily my gaze
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 followed his across the strip of foot- worn grass, across 
 the dismal-looking patch of ornamental water, beyond 
 the haze of tangled trees, beyond the distant row of 
 stuccoed houses, and, arrived there with him, I noticed 
 many men and women clothed in the garments of all 
 ages and all lands, men and women who had written 
 very, very well indeed and who notwithstanding had 
 earned heaps of money, the hire worthy of the labourer, 
 and who were not ashamed ; men and women who 
 had written true words which the common people had 
 read gladly ; men and women who had been raised to 
 lasting fame upon the plaudits of their day ; and before 
 the silent faces of these, made beautiful by Time, the 
 little bitter sneers I had counted truth rang foolish in 
 my heart, so that I returned with my young friend to 
 our green seat beside the foot-worn grass, feeling by no 
 means so sure as when I had started which of us twain 
 were the better fitted to teach wisdom to the other. 
 
 ' And what would you do, Valentine, with heaps 
 of money ? ' I asked. 
 
 Again for a moment his old shyness of me returned. 
 Perhaps it was not quite a legitimate question from a 
 friend of such recent standing. But his frankness 
 wrestled with his reserve and once more conquered. 
 
 ' Mama need not do any work^then,' he answered. 
 ' She isn't really strong enough for it, you know,' he 
 explained, 'and I'd buy back the big house where she
 
 xii M\ FIRST BOOK 
 
 used to live when she was a little girl, and take her 
 back to live in the country the country air is so much 
 better for her, you know and Aunt Emma, too.' 
 
 But I confess that as regards Aunt Emma his tone 
 was not enthusiastic. 
 
 I spoke to him less dogmatically than I might 
 have done a few minutes previously, and I trust not 
 discouragingly of the trials and troubles of the literary 
 career, and of the difficulties and disappointments 
 awaiting the literary aspirant, but my croakings terri- 
 fied him not. 
 
 ' Mama says that every work worth doing is diffi- 
 cult,' he replied, ' and that it doesn't matter what 
 career we choose there are difficulties and disappoint- 
 ments to be overcome, and that I must work very 
 hard and say to myself " I will succeed," and then in 
 the end, you know, I shall.' 
 
 ' Though of course it may be a long time,' he added 
 cheerfully. 
 
 Only one thing in the slightest daunted him, and 
 that was the weakness of his spelling. 
 
 ' And I suppose,' he asked, ' you must spell very 
 well indeed to be an author.' 
 
 I explained to him, however, that this failing was 
 generally met by a little judicious indistinctness of 
 caligraphy, and all obstacles thus removed, the busi- 
 ness of a literary gent seemed to him an exceptionally 
 pleasant and joyous one.
 
 INTRODUCTION xii 
 
 ' Mama says it is a noble calling,' he confided to 
 me, 'and that anyone ought to be very proud and 
 glad to be able to write books, because they give 
 people happiness and make them forget things, and 
 that one ought to be awfully good if one's going to be 
 an author, so as to be worthy to help and teach others.' 
 
 ' And do you try to be awfully good, Valentine ? ' I 
 enquired. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered ; ' but it's awfully hard, you 
 know. I don't think anybody could ever be quite good 
 until,' he corrected himself, ' they were grown up.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' he added with a little sigh, ' it's easy 
 for grown-up people to be good.' 
 
 It was my turn to glance suspiciously at him, this 
 time wondering if the seeds of satire could have taken 
 root already in that tiny brain. But his eyes met 
 mine without flinching, and I was not loath to drift 
 away from the point. 
 
 ' And what else does your Mama say about litera- 
 ture, Valentine ? ' I asked. For the strangeness of it 
 was that, though I kept repeating under my breath 
 ' Copy-book maxims, copy-book maxims,' hoping by 
 such shibboleth to protect myself from their influence, 
 the words yet stirred within me old childish thoughts 
 and sentiments that I, in my cleverness, had long 
 since learnt to laugh at, and had thought forgotten. I, 
 with my years of knowledge and experience behind 
 me, seemed for the nonce to be sitting with Valentine
 
 xiv MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 at the feet of this unseen lady, listening, as I again 
 told myself, to ' copy-book maxims ' and finding in 
 them in spite of myself a certain element of truth, a 
 certain amount of helpfulness, an unpleasant suggestion 
 of reproach. 
 
 He tucked his hands underneath him, as before, 
 and sat swinging his short legs. 
 
 'Oh oh lots of things,' he answered vaguely. 
 
 ' Yes ? ' I persisted. 
 
 ' Oh, that he repeated it slowly, recalling it 
 word for word as he went on, ' that he who can write 
 a great book is greater than a king ; that a good book 
 is better than a good sermon ; that the gift of being 
 able to write is given to anybody in trust, and that an 
 author should never forget that he is God's servant.' 
 
 I thought of the chatter of the clubs, and could not 
 avoid a smile. But the next moment something 
 moved me to take his hand in mine, and, turning his 
 little solemn face towards mine, to say : 
 
 ' If ever there comes a time, little man, when you 
 are tempted to laugh at your mother's old-fashioned 
 notions and such a time may come remember that 
 an older man than you once told you he would that he 
 had always kept them in his heart, he would have done 
 better work.' 
 
 Then growing frightened at my own earnestness, 
 as we men do, deeming it, God knows why, something
 
 INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 to be ashamed of, I laughed away his answering ques- 
 tions, and led the conversation back to himself. 
 
 ' And have you ever tried writing anything ? ' I 
 asked him. 
 
 Of course he had, what need to question ! And it 
 was, strange to say, a story about a little boy who 
 lived with his mother and aunt, and who went to 
 school. 
 
 ' It is sort of,' he explained, ' sort of auto bio 
 graphical, r you know.' 
 
 ' And what does Mama think of it ? ' was my next 
 question, after we had discussed the advantages of 
 drawing upon one's own personal experiences for one's 
 material. 
 
 ' Mama thinks it is very clever in parts,' he told me. 
 
 ' You read it to her ? ' I suggested. 
 
 ' Yes,' he acknowledged, ' in the evening, when 
 she's working, and Aunt Emma isn't there.' 
 
 The room rose up before me, I could see the 
 sweet-faced lady in her chair beside the fire, her white 
 hands moving to and from the pile of sewing by her 
 side, the little flushed face of the lad bending over his 
 pages written in sprawling schoolboy hand. I saw 
 the love light in her eyes as every now and then she 
 stole a covert glance across at him, I heard his childish 
 treble rising and falling, as his small finger moved 
 slowly down the sheet.
 
 xvi MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 Suddenly it said, a little more distinctly : 
 
 ' Please, sir, could you tell me the time ? ' 
 
 'Just over the quarter, Valentine,' I answered, 
 waking up and looking at my watch. 
 
 He rose and held out his hand. 
 
 ' I didn't know it was so late,' he said, ' I must go 
 now.' 
 
 But as our hands met another question occurred to 
 him. 
 
 ' Oh,' he exclaimed, ' you said you'd tell me why 
 you liked to come and sit here of an evening, like I do. 
 Why?' 
 
 ' So I did, Valentine,' I replied, 'but I've changed 
 my mind. When you are a big man, as old as I am, 
 you come and sit here and you'll know. But it isn't 
 so pleasant a reason as yours, Valentine, and you 
 wouldn't understand it. Good-night.' 
 
 He raised his cap with an old-fashioned courtesy 
 and trotted off, looking however a little puzzled. Some 
 distance down the path, he turned and waved his hand 
 to me, and I watched him disappear into the twilight. 
 
 I sat on for a while, thinking many thoughts, until 
 across the rising mist there rang a hoarse, harsh cry, 
 ' All out, All out,' and slowly I moved homeward.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. BY WALTER BESANT .... 3 
 THE FAMILY SCAPEGRACE. BY JAMES PAYN . . . .15 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE ' GROSVENOR.' Bv W. CLARK 
 
 RUSSELL 29 
 
 PHYSIOLOGICAL /ESTHETICS AND PHILISTIA. BY GRANT 
 
 ALLEN ............ 43 
 
 THE SHADOW OF A CRIME. BY HALL CAINE . . . . 53 
 THE SOCIAL KALEIDOSCOPE. BY GEORGE R. SIMS ... 75 
 DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES. BY RUDYARD KIPLING . . . 91 
 
 JUVENILIA. BY A. CONAN DOYLE 99 
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT. BY M. E. BRADDON . . . 109 
 THE HOUSE OF ELMORE. BY F. W. ROBINSON . . . .123 
 
 DAWN. BY H. RIDER HAGGARD . . .* 135 
 
 HUDSON'S BAY. BY R. M. BALLANTYNE 151 
 
 THE PREMIER AND THE PAINTER. BY I. ZANGWILL . . 163 
 THE WESTERN AVERNUS. BY MORLEY ROBERTS . . .181 
 A LIFE'S ATONEMENT. BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY . . . 193 
 A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. BY MARIE CORELLI 206
 
 xviii MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ON THE STAGE AND OFF. BY JEROME K. JEROME . . . 221 
 
 CAVALRY LIFE. BY ' JOHN STRANGE WINTER ' (MRS. ARTHUR 
 
 STANNARD) ........... 239 
 
 CALIFORNIAN VERSE. BY BRET HARTE 257 
 
 DEAD MAN'S ROCK. BY ' Q.' 269 
 
 UNDERTONES AND IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. 
 
 BY ROBERT BUCHANAN 283 
 
 TREASURE ISLAND. BY ROBERT Louis STEVENSON . . .297
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 JEROME K. JEEOME ........ Frontispiece 
 
 WALTER BESANT 2 
 
 JAMES RICE 5 
 
 JULIA 7 
 
 MR. BESANT'S STUDY 9 
 
 THE OYSTER SHOP .......... 12 
 
 A BOOK PLATE 13 
 
 A WICKED SISTER .......... 16 
 
 JAMES PAYN 17 
 
 IT 'TOOK OFF' FROM HIS SHOULDER ....... 18 
 
 MR. PAYN'S STUDY 19 
 
 COUNT GOTSUCHAKOFF 21 
 
 WOULD YOU MIND JUST READING A BIT OF IT?' 22 
 
 THE SERVANT CAME TO PUT COALS ON THE FIRE .... 23 
 
 MR. PAYN'S OFFICE AT WATERLOO PLACE 24 
 
 KILLED BY LIONS 25 
 
 CLARK RUSSELI 28 
 
 CLARK RUSSELL AS A MIDSHIPMAN OF SEVENTEEN . . . 29 
 
 I WAS A CHILD OF THIRTEEN 30 
 
 NEATBY 31 
 
 ANCHORED IN THE DOWNS 32 
 
 SOME OF THE CREW . 33 
 
 THE MAGISTRATES . . 34 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE ' GROSVENOR ' 35 
 
 MRS. CLARK RUSSELL 37 
 
 THE BOATSWAIN OF THE < GROSVENOR ' 38 
 
 THE ' HOUGOUMONT ' 39
 
 xx MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 PAGE 
 
 POOR JACK ! 40 
 
 GRANT ALLEN 4 2 
 
 FICTION 44 
 
 SCIENCE 45 
 
 ANDREW CHATTO 49 
 
 A SHELF IN THE STUDY 50 
 
 THANK YOU, SIR' ........... 51 
 
 I LEFT IT ............ 54 
 
 HALL CAINE ............ 55 
 
 MY MS. WENT SPRAWLING OVER THE TABLE 56 
 
 DERWENTWATER 57 
 
 STY HEAD PASS 58 
 
 WASTWATER FROM STY HEAD PASS 59 
 
 THE HORSE BROKE AWAY ......... 60 
 
 SOMETHING STRAPPED ON ITS BACK . . . . . . . 61 
 
 THE CASTLE ROCK, ST. JOHN'S VALE ....... 62 
 
 THIRLMERE ............ 63 
 
 ROSSETTI WALKING TO AND FRO ........ 64 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 65 
 
 MR. HALL CAINE IN HIS STUDY ........ 68 
 
 MRS. HALL CAINE 69 
 
 COMING UP IN THE TRAIN 71 
 
 12 CLARENCE TERRACE 75 
 
 THE HALL 76 
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS 77 
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS ........... 78 
 
 THE ' SOCIAL KALEIDOSCOPE ' 79 
 
 THE SNUGGERY 80 
 
 MR. SIMS'S 'LITTLE DAWG ' 81 
 
 THE DINING-ROOM 82 
 
 THE LIBRARY 83 
 
 ' SIR HUGO' ............ 84 
 
 THE BALCONY 85 
 
 ' BEAUTY,' AN OLD FAVOURITE, TWENTY YEARS OLD .... 86 
 
 THE DRAWING-ROOM 87
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xxi 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 TAUST UP TO DATE' 88 
 
 MR. SIMS'S DINNER PARTY 89 
 
 THE NEWSPAPER FILES 91 
 
 ' YOUR POTERY VERY GOOD, SIR ; JUST COMING PROPER LENGTH TO-DAY.' 92 
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING ........... 93 
 
 SUNG TO THE BANJOES ROUND CAMP FIRES 96 
 
 DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES 97 
 
 A. CONAN DOYLE ........... 98 
 
 I WAS Six 99 
 
 ON THE PRAIRIES AND THE OCEANS ....... 100 
 
 MY DEBUT AS A STORY-TELLER ........ 101 
 
 ' WITH THE EDITOR'S COMPLIMENTS' ....... 102 
 
 'HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT YOU?' IOJ 
 
 ' MRS. THURSTON'S LITTLE BOY WANTS TO SEE YOU, DOCTOR ' . . 105 
 
 MR. ANDREW LANG .......... 107 
 
 LlCHKIELD HOUSE, RICHMOND IIO 
 
 THE HALL in 
 
 THE DINING-ROOM . . . . . . . . . .112 
 
 THE DRAWING-ROOM . . . . . . . . . . 113 
 
 THE EVENING-ROOM 115 
 
 THE SMOKING-ROOM 116 
 
 THE LIBRARY 117 
 
 Miss BRADDON'S FAVOURITE MARE. . . . . . . . 119 
 
 THE ORANGERY 120 
 
 Miss BRADDON'S COTTAGE AT LYNDHURST 121 
 
 Miss BRADDON'S INKSTAND 122 
 
 AT TWENTY 124 
 
 F. W ROBINSON 125 
 
 ELMORE HOUSE . . . . . . . . . . . 126 
 
 AT THIRTY . . . . . . . . . . .127 
 
 MR. ROBINSON'S LIBRARY 128 
 
 THE GARDEN 129 
 
 THE DRAWING-ROOM 13 
 
 AT FORTY . . 131 
 
 MR. ROBINSON AT WORK i3 2
 
 xxii MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 PAGE 
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD . . . . . . . . . -134 
 
 THE FRONT GARDEN 135 
 
 MR. RIDER HAGGARD AND HIS DAUGHTERS 137 
 
 THE HALL 139 
 
 MR. RIDER HAGGARD'S STUDY 141 
 
 SOME CURIOS 143 
 
 A STUDY CORNER .......... 145 
 
 MR. RIDER HAGGARD .......... 147 
 
 THE FARM 149 
 
 WHERE I WROTE MY FIRST BOOK . . . . . . . . 151 
 
 R. M. BALLANTYNE 153 
 
 MR. BALLANTYNE'S HOUSE AT HARROW 155 
 
 TROPHIES FROM MR. BALLANTYNE'S TRAVELS 157 
 
 THE ST;IDY 159 
 
 MR. R. M. BALLANTYNE 161 
 
 LOOKING FOR TOOLE 164 
 
 I. ZANGWILL ........... 165 
 
 I SAT DOWN AND WROTE SOMETHING l66 
 
 ARTHUR GODDARD 167 
 
 IT WAS HAWKED ABOUT THE STREETS l68 
 
 A POLICEMAN TOLD HIM TO GET DOWN ...... 169 
 
 SUCH STUFF AS LITTLE BOYS SCRIBBLE UPON WALLS . . . . 171 
 
 LIFE IN BETHNAL GREEN 173 
 
 WE SENT IT ROUND ........... 175 
 
 MR. ZANGWILL AT WORK . . . . . . . . -177 
 
 EDITING A COMIC TAPER 178 
 
 A FAME LESS WIDESPREAD THAN A PRIZEFIGHTER'S .... 179 
 
 MR. MORLEY ROBERTS 180 
 
 BEFORE THE MAST 181 
 
 I MARRIED THEM ALL OFF AT THE END . . . . . . 182 
 
 AN AMERICAN SAW-MILL WHERE MR. ROBERTS -WORKED . . . 183 
 
 DEFYING THE UNIVERSE 185 
 
 COWBOY ROBERTS 186 
 
 THE VERY PRAIRIE DOGS TAUGHT ME 187 
 
 THE CALIFORNIA COAST RANGE 189
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xxiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BY THE CAMP FIRE 190 
 
 D. CHRISTIE MURRAY 192 
 
 I HANDED HIM TWO CHAPTERS ........ 194 
 
 I SENT ALL MY PEOPLE INTO A COAL-MINE 195 
 
 THEY INVESTED HIM WITH THE MEDAL 197 
 
 CONSULTING OLD ALMANACS 199 
 
 SHE DREW FROM IT A BROWN-PAPER PARCEL . .... 2OI 
 
 IF THERE HAD BEEN NO ' DAVID COPPERFIELI) ' .... 2O2 
 
 THE STOCK WAS TRANSFERRED ........ 203. 
 
 SOME NOVELS ........... 204 
 
 THE DRAWING-ROOM .......... 209 
 
 THE LIBRARY 211 
 
 THE STUDY 213 
 
 FACSIMILE OF MARIE CORELLI'S MS. AS PREPARED FOR THE PRESS . 217 
 
 MY FIRST-BORN ........... 222 
 
 JEROME K. JEROME .......... 223 
 
 HE AND YOU HAD TO CARRY LlSA WEBER ACROSS THE STAGE' . . 226 
 
 THAT BRILLIANT IDEA 227 
 
 I HATED THE DISMAL LITTLE ' SLAVEY ' . . . . . . . 230 
 
 THE STUDY 231 
 
 I AM REMEMBERING 234 
 
 MR. JEROME K. JEROME 237 
 
 THREE SOLDIERS AND A PIG ......... 239 
 
 JOHN STRANGE WINTER 241 
 
 MR. ARTHUR STANNARD 243 
 
 THE FIRM' CONSIDERING ......... 246 
 
 HE SQUINTED ! 247 
 
 Miss STANNARD 248 
 
 THE TWINS' BOOTLES AND BETTY ....... 249 
 
 LONG-LEGGED SOLDIERS 251 
 
 CAVALRY LIFE 253 
 
 I TOOK UP THE ' SATURDAY REVIEW ' 255 
 
 BRET HARTE 256 
 
 WE SETTLED TO OUR WORK 258 
 
 A CIRCULATION IT HAD NEVER KNOWN BEFORE 259
 
 xxiv MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ' CONSIDER THEM AT YOUR SERVICE ' . . . . . . . 261 
 
 I WAS INWARDLY RELIEVED ......... 263 
 
 THE BOOK SOLD TREMENDOUSLY 265 
 
 A. T. QUILLER COUCH 268 
 
 <Q.' JUNIOR. ........... 269 
 
 'THE HAVEN,' FOWEY 273 
 
 MR. AND MRS. QUILLER COUCH 275 
 
 FOWEY GRAMMAR SCHOOL CREW AND MR. QUILLER COUCH . . 277 
 
 THE OLD STUDY 279 
 
 MR. AND MRS. QUILLER COUCH IN A CANADIAN CANOE . . . 281 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 285 
 
 MR. BUCHANAN'S HOUSE 287 
 
 THE STUDY 291 
 
 MR. ROHERT BUCHANAN AND HIS FAVOURITE DOG . . . . 295 
 
 ROBERT Louis STEVENSON 299 
 
 MR. STEVENSON'S HOUSE IN SAMOA 301 
 
 MRS. R. L. STEVENSON 305 
 
 STEVSNSON TELLING 'YARNS' 307

 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 'READY MONEY MORTIBOY' 
 BY WALTER BESANT 
 
 OT the very first. That, after 
 causing its writer labour in- 
 finite, hope exaggerated, and 
 disappointment dire, was con- 
 signed, while still in manuscript, 
 to the flames. My little ex- 
 perience, however, with this 
 work of Art, which never saw 
 the light, may help others to 
 believe, what is so constantly 
 denied, that publishers do con- 
 sider MSS. sent to them. My 
 MS. was sent anonymously, 
 
 without any introduction, through a friend. It was not 
 only read and refused but it was read very conscientiously 
 and right through. So much was proved by the reader's 
 opinion, which not only showed the reasons good and suf- 
 ficient reasons why he could not recommend the manuscript 
 to be published, but also contained, indirectly, certain hints 
 and suggestions, which opened up new ideas as to the Art of
 
 4 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 Fiction, and helped to put a strayed sheep in the right way. 
 Now it is quite obvious that what was done for me must be 
 constantly and consistently done for others. My very first 
 novel, therefore, was read and refused. Would that candidates 
 for literary honours could be made to understand that refusal 
 is too often the very best thing that can happen to them ! 
 But the gods sometimes punish man by granting his prayers. 
 How heavy may be the burden laid upon the writer by his 
 first work ! If anyone, for instance, should light upon the 
 first novels written by Richard Jefferies, he will understand 
 the weight of that burden. 
 
 My first MS., therefore, was destined to get burned or 
 somehow destroyed. For some years it lay in a corner say, 
 sprawled in a corner occupying much space. At dusk I 
 used to see a strange, wobbling, amorphous creature in that 
 corner among those papers. His body seemed not made for 
 his limbs, nor did these agree with each other, and his head 
 was out of proportion to the rest of him. He sat upon the 
 pile of papers, and he wept, wringing his hands. ' Alas ! ' he 
 said : ' Not another like me. Don't make another like me. 
 I could not endure another like myself Finally, the crea- 
 ture's reproaches grew intolerable ; so I threw the bundle of 
 papers behind the fire, and he vanished. One had discovered 
 by this time that for the making even of a tolerable novel it is 
 necessary to leave off copying other people, to observe on your 
 own account, to study realities, to get out of the conventional 
 groove, to rely upon one or other of the great emotions of 
 human nature, and to try to hold the reader by dramatic pre- 
 sentation rather than by talk. I do not say that this discovery 
 came all at once, but it came gradually, and it proved valuable. 
 
 One more point. A second assertion is continually being 
 heard concerning editors. It is said that they do not read 
 contributions offered to them. When editors publicly adver- 
 tise that they do not invite contributions, or that they will 
 not return contributions, it is reasonable to suppose that they
 
 6 MY FIST BOOK 
 
 do not read them. Well, you have heard my first experience 
 with a publisher. Hear next an experience with editors. It 
 is, first, to the fact that contributions are read by editors that 
 I owe my introduction to James Rice and my subsequent 
 collaboration with him. It was, next, to an unsolicited con- 
 tribution that I owed a connection of many years with a 
 certain monthly magazine. It was, lastly, through an un- 
 solicited contribution that I became and continued for some 
 time a writer of leading articles for a great London daily. 
 Therefore, when I hear that editors will not read contribu- 
 tions, I ask if things have changed in twenty years and why ? 
 I sent a paper, then, unasked, and without introduction, 
 to the editor of Once a Week. The editor read it, accepted 
 it, and sent it to the press. Immediately afterwards he left 
 the journal because it was sold to Rice, then a young man, 
 not long from Cambridge, and just called to the Bar. He 
 became editor as well as proprietor. The former editor 
 forgot to tell his successor anything about my article. Rice, 
 finding it in type, and not knowing who had written it, 
 inserted it shortly after he took over the journal, so that the 
 first notice that I received that the paper was accepted was 
 when I saw it in the magazine, bristling with printer's errors. 
 Of course I wrote indignantly to the editor. I received a 
 courteous reply begging me to call. I did so, and the matter 
 was explained. Then for a year or two I continued to send 
 things to Once a Week. But the paper was anything but 
 prosperous. Indeed, I believe there was never any time 
 during its existence of twenty years when it could be called 
 prosperous. After three years of gallant struggle, Rice con- 
 cluded to give it up. He sold the paper. He would never 
 confess how much he lost over it ; but the ambition to 
 become proprietor and editor of a popular weekly existed no 
 longer in his bosom, and he was wont to grow thoughtful in 
 after years when this episode was recalled to his memory. 
 During this period, however, I saw a great deal of the
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 \ 
 
 management, and was admitted behind the scenes, and saw 
 several remarkable and interesting people. For instance, 
 there was a certain literary hack, a pure and simple hack, who 
 was engaged at a salary to furnish so many 
 columns a week to order. He was clever, 
 something of a scholar, something of a poet, 
 and could write a very readable paper on 
 almost any subject. In fact, 
 he was not in the least proud, 
 and would under- 
 take anything that 
 was proposed. It 
 was not his duty 
 to suggest, nor did 
 he show the least 
 interest in his 
 work, nor had he 
 the least desire to 
 write better or to 
 advance himself. In most cases, 
 I believe, he simply ' conveyed ' 
 the matter ; and if the thing was 
 found out, he would be the first 
 to deplore that he had ' forgotten 
 the quotes.' He was a thirsty 
 soul ; he had no enthusiasm ex- 
 cept for drink ; he lived, in fact, 
 only for drink ; in order to get 
 more money for drink he lived in one squalid room, and 
 went in rags. One day he dismissed himself after an incident 
 over which we may drop a veil. Some time after it was 
 reported that he was attempting the stage as a pantomime 
 super. But fate fell upon him ; he became ill ; he was carried 
 to a hospital ; and pneumonia opened for him the gates of 
 the other world. He was made for better things. 
 
 JULIA
 
 8 
 
 Again, it was in the editor's small back room that I made 
 the acquaintance of a young lady named Julia, whose 
 biography I afterwards related. She was a bookbinder's 
 accountant all the day, and in the evening she was a figurante 
 at one of the theatres. I think she was not a very pretty 
 girl, but she had good eyes of the soft, sad kind, which seem 
 to belong to those destined to die young ; and in the evening, 
 when she was dressed, she looked very well indeed, and was 
 placed in the front. 
 
 To the editor's office came in multitudes seedy and 
 poverty-stricken literary men ; there were not, twenty-four 
 years ago, so many literary women as at present, but there 
 were many more seedy literary men, because in those days 
 the great doors of journalism were neither so wide nor so 
 wide open as they are now. Every one, I remember, wanted 
 to write a series of articles. Each in turn proposed a series 
 as if it was a new and striking idea. A certain airy, rollick- 
 ing, red-nosed person, who had once walked the hospitals, 
 proposed, I remember, to ' catch science on the Wing on 
 the Wing, sir ' in a series of articles ; a heavy, conscientious 
 person, also red-nosed, proposed, in a series of articles, to set 
 the world right in Economics ; an irresponsible, fluttering, 
 elderly gentleman, with a white waistcoat and a red nose, 
 thought that a series of articles on say the Vestries of our 
 Native Land, would prove enormously popular ; if not the 
 . Vestries, then the Question of Education, or of Emigration, 
 or or something else. The main point with all was not 
 the subject, but the series. As it happened, nobody ever was 
 allowed to contribute a series at all. Then there were the 
 people who sent up articles, and especially the poor ladies who 
 were on the point of starving. Would the editor only only 
 take their article ? Heavens ! what has become of all these 
 ladies ? It was twenty-four years ago ; these particular ladies 
 must have perished long since ; but there are more and more 
 and more still starving, as every editor knows full well.
 
 WALTER BESANT 9 
 
 Sometimes, sitting in that sanctum, I looked through 
 their MSS. for them. Sometimes the writers called in person, 
 and the editor had to see them, and if they were women, they 
 
 MR. BESANT'S STUDY 
 
 went away crying, though he was always as kind as possible. 
 Poor things ! Yet what could one do ? Their stuff was too 
 too terrible. 
 
 Another word as to the contributions. In most cases a
 
 io MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 glance at the first page was sufficient. The MS. was self- 
 condemned. ' Oh ! ' says the contributor ; ' if the editor 
 would only tell me what is wrong, I would alter it.' Dear 
 contributor, no editor has time for teaching. You must send 
 him the paper complete, finished, and ready for press ; else it 
 either goes back or lies on the shelf. When Rice handed 
 over the paper to his successor, there were piles of MSS. 
 lying on all the shelves. Where are those MSS. now ? To 
 be sure, I do not believe there was one among them all worth 
 having. 
 
 Rice wrote a novel by himself, for his own paper. It was 
 a work which he did not reproduce, because there were certain 
 chapters which he wished to re-write. He was always going 
 to re-write these chapters, but never did, and the work remains 
 still in the columns of Once a Week, where it may be hunted 
 out by those who are curious. One day, when he was 
 lamenting the haste with which he had been compelled to 
 send off a certain instalment, he told me that he had an idea 
 of another novel, which seemed to him not only possible, but 
 hopeful. He proposed that we should take up this idea 
 together, work it out, if it approved itself to me as it did to 
 him, and write a novel upon it. together. 
 
 His idea, in the first crude form, was simple so simple 
 that I wonder it had never occurred to anybody before. The 
 prodigal son was to come home again apparently repentant 
 really with the single intention of feigning repentance and 
 getting what he could out of the old man and then going back 
 to his old companions. That was the first germ. 
 
 When we came to hammer this out together, a great many 
 modifications became necessary. The profligate, stained with 
 vice, the companion of scoundrels, his conscience hardened 
 and battered and reckless, had yet left, hitherto undiscovered, 
 some human weakness. By this weakness he had to be led 
 back to the better life. Perhaps you have read the story, 
 dear reader. One may say without boasting that it attracted
 
 WALTER BESANT n 
 
 some attention from the outset. I even believe that it gave 
 an upward turn a last gasp to the circulation of the dying 
 paper. 
 
 When to anticipate a little the time came for publish- 
 ing it, we were faced with the fact that a new and anonymous 
 novel is naturally regarded with doubt by publishers. Nothing 
 seems more risky than such a venture. On the other hand, 
 we were perfectly satisfied that there was no risk in our novel 
 at all. This, of course, we had found out, not only from the 
 assurances of Vanity, but also from the reception the work 
 had met with during its progress through the magazine. 
 Therefore, we had it printed and bound at our own expense, 
 and we placed the book, ready for publication, in the hands 
 of Mr. William Tinsley. We so arranged the business that 
 the printer's bill was not due till the first returns came from 
 the publisher. By this artful plan we avoided paying any- 
 thing at all. We had only printed a modest edition of 600, 
 and these all went off, leaving, of course, a very encouraging 
 margin. The cheap edition was sold to Henry S. King & 
 Co. for a period of five years. Then the novel was purchased 
 outright by Chatto & Windus, who still continue to publish 
 it and, I believe, to sell it. As things go, a novelist has 
 reason to be satisfied with an immortality which stretches 
 beyond the twenty-first year. 
 
 In another place I am continually exhorting young writers 
 never to pay for production. It may be said that I broke 
 my own rule. 
 
 But it will be observed that this case was not one in which 
 production was ' paid for,' in the ordinary sense of the term 
 it was one of publication on commission of a book concerning 
 which, we were quite certain, there was neither doubt nor 
 risk. And this is a very good way indeed to publish, pro- 
 vided you have such a book, and provided your publisher will 
 push the book with as much vigour as his own. 
 
 Now, since the origin of the story cannot be claimed as 
 my own, I may be allowed to express an opinion upon it.
 
 i 2 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 The profligate, with his dreadful past behind him, dragging 
 him down ; the low woman whom he has married ; the gambler, 
 his associate ; the memory of robbery and of prison ; and 
 with the new influences around him the girl he loves, pure 
 and sweet, and innocent ; the boy whom he picks out of the 
 gutter ; the wreck of his old father form together a group 
 which I have always thought to be commanding, strong, 
 
 attractive, interesting, much beyond any in the ordinary run 
 of fiction. The central figure, which, I repeat, is not my own, 
 but my partner's initial conception, has been imitated since 
 in fiction and on the stage which shows how strong he is. 
 I do not venture to give an opinion upon the actual present- 
 ment or working out of that story. No doubt it might have 
 been better told. But I wish I was five-and-twenty years
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 younger, sitting once more in that dingy little office where we 
 wrangled over this headstrong hero of ours, and had to sup- 
 press so many oh ! so very many of the rows and troubles 
 and fights into which he fell even after he became respectable. 
 The office was handy for Rule's and oysters. We would ad- 
 journ for the ' delicious mollusc,' and then go back again to 
 the editor's room to resume the wrangle. Here we would be 
 
 WALTER'S ES ANT. AVA 
 
 A BOOK PLATE 
 
 interrupted by Julia, who brought the bookbinder's account ; 
 or by the interesting but thirsty hack, who brought his copy, 
 and with it an aroma of rum ; or by the airy gentleman who 
 wanted to catch science on the Wing, sir on the Wing ; or 
 by the Economic man ; or by the irresponsible man, ready for 
 anything. In the evening we would dine together, or go to a 
 theatre, or sit in my chambers and play cards before resuming
 
 i 4 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 the wrangle we used to take an hour of Vingt-un, by way of 
 relaxation. And always during that period, whatever we 
 did, wherever we went, Dick Mortiboy sat between us. Dear 
 old Dick grew quiet towards the end. The wrangling was 
 finished. The inevitable was before him ; he must pay for 
 the past. Love could not be his, nor honour, such as comes 
 to most men, nor the quiet vie de famille, which is all that life 
 really has to give worth having. His cousin Frank might 
 have love and honour. For him Dick's brave eyes looked 
 straight before he had no illusions ; for him, the end that 
 belongs to the nineteenth-century ruffler, the man of the 
 West, the sportsman and the gambler, the only end the 
 bullet from the revolver of his accomplice, was certain and 
 inevitable. So it ended. Dick died. The novel was 
 finished. 
 
 Dick died ; our friend died ; he had his faults but he 
 was Dick ; and he died. And alas ! his history was all told 
 and done with ; the manuscript finished ; the last wrangle 
 over ; the fatal word, the melancholy word, Finis, written 
 below the last line.
 
 'THE FAMILY SCAPEGRACE' 
 BY JAMES PAYN 
 
 HAD written a great many short 
 stories and articles in all sorts 
 of publications, from Eliza Cook's 
 Journal to the Westminster 
 Reviezv, before I ventured upon 
 writing a novel ; and the appear- 
 ance of them I have since had 
 cause to regret Not at all 
 because they were ' immature,' 
 and still less because I am 
 ashamed of them on the con- 
 trary, I still think them rather 
 good but because the majority 
 
 of them were not made the most of from a literary point of 
 view, and also went very cheap. As a friend observed to me, 
 who was much my senior, and whose advice was therefore 
 treated with contempt, ' You are like an extravagant cook, 
 who wastes too much material on a single dish.' The entries 
 of the story-teller his early and tentative essays in Fiction 
 if he has really any turn for his calling, are generally open 
 to this criticism. Later on, he becomes more economical 
 (sometimes, indeed, a good deal too much so, because, alas ! 
 there is so little in the cupboard), and has a much finer sense 
 of proportion.
 
 i6 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 I don't know how many years I went on writing narra- 
 tives of school and college life, and spinning short stories, like 
 a literary spider, out of my own interior, but I don't remember 
 that it was ever borne in upon me that the reservoir could 
 hardly hold out for ever, and that it was time to be doing 
 something on a more permanent and extended scale. The 
 cause of that act of prudence and sagacity was owing mainly 
 
 to a travelling menagerie. I 
 had had in my mind, for 
 some time, to write a sort 
 of autobiography (of which 
 character first novels almost 
 |^ always consist, or at least 
 /I* .. xia *, . ' partake), but had in truth 
 
 *! | ^^2 
 
 abstained from doing so on 
 the not unreasonable ground 
 that my life had been wholly 
 destitute of incidents of 
 public interest. True, I had 
 mended that matter by the 
 wholly gratuitous invention 
 of a cheerless home and a 
 wicked sister, but I had 
 hitherto found nothing more 
 attractive to descant upon than my own 
 domestic wrongs. Even if they had existed, 
 it was doubtful whether they would have 
 aroused public indignation, and I mis- 
 trusted my powers of making them exist. What I wanted 
 was a dramatic situation or two (a ' plot,' the evolution of 
 which by no means comes by nature, though the germ is 
 often an inspiration, was at that time beyond me), and 
 especially the opportunity of observation. 
 
 My own slender experiences were used up, and imagina- 
 tion had no material to work upon ; one can't blow even glass 
 
 A WICKED SISTER
 
 i8 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 
 out of nothing at all. Just in the nick of time arrived in 
 Edinburgh, where I was then editing CJiambers's Journal, 
 Tickeracandua, ' the African Lion Tamer.' At that time 
 (though I have seen a great deal of them since) lions were 
 entirely out of my line, and also tamers ; but this gentleman 
 was a most attractive specimen of his class. Handsome, 
 frank, and intelligent, he took my fancy from the first, 
 and we became great friends. ' His 
 actual height,' says my notebook, ' could 
 scarcely have been less than six feet 
 two, while it was artificially increased 
 by a circlet of cock's feathers set in a 
 coronet, which the majority of enrap- 
 tured beholders believed to be of virgin 
 gold. A leopard skin, worn after the 
 fashion of a Scotch plaid, set off a jerkin 
 of green leather, while his legs were 
 encased in huge jack boots.' This, of 
 course, was his performing dress, and I 
 used to wonder how the leopards (with 
 whom he had a great deal to do) liked 
 his wearing their relative's cast-off cloth- 
 ing. In the 'leopard-hunt' (twice a 
 day) these animals raced over him as he 
 stood erect, and each, as it 'took off' 
 from his shoulder, left its mark there 
 with its claws. He was so good as 
 to show me his shoulder, which looked 
 as if he had been profusely vaccinated 
 A much more dangerous, if less painful, 
 experience was his daily (and nightly) doings with the lions. 
 There were two of them, with a lioness of an uncertain temper, 
 who jumped through hoops at his imperious bidding with 
 many a growl and snarl of remonstrance. 
 
 ' Are you never afraid ? ' I once asked him tentatively. 
 
 IT 'TOOK OFF* FROM HIS 
 SHOULDER 
 
 in the wrong place.
 
 JAMES PAYN 19 
 
 ' If I was,' he answered, quietly, but not contemptuously, 
 1 I might count myself from that moment a dead man. Then, 
 you see, I have my whip.' It was a carter's whip, good to 
 keep off a dog, but scarcely a lion. ' The handle is loaded,' 
 he explained, ' and I know exactly where to hit 'em with it, if 
 
 MR. PAYN'S STUDY 
 
 the worst comes to the worst.' If I remember right, it was 
 the tip of the nose. 
 
 His conversation was delightful, and he often honoured 
 me with his company at supper, when the toils and perils of 
 the day were o'er. Upon the whole, though I have since 
 known many other eminent persons, he has left a more marked 
 impression on me than any of them, and it is no wonder that 
 in those youthful days he influenced my imagination. His
 
 20 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 autobiography, without his having the least suspicion of the 
 appropriation, became in fact my autobiography, as may be read 
 (if there is anybody who has not enjoyed that treat) in ' The 
 Family Scapegrace.' But, as my predecessors in the field of 
 Fiction were wont to exclaim, ' I am anticipating.' 
 
 Another official connected with the menagerie gave daily 
 lectures upon the animals, so curiously dry and grave that 
 they filled me with admiration ; he was like an embodiment 
 of the answers to ' Hangnail's Questions.' Whatever suspicions 
 Tickeracandua may have subsequently entertained of me, I 
 am quite sure that ' Mr. Mopes ' would no more have seen 
 himself in the portrait I drew of him than would the animals 
 under his charge, if their attention had been drawn to them, 
 have recognised their counterfeit presentments outside the 
 show. I also became acquainted with the Earthman and 
 Earthwoman, the slaughterman of the establishment, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Tredgold (its proprietors), and other individuals seldom 
 met with in ordinary society. 
 
 The adventures of ' Richard Arbour ' were, therefore, cut 
 out for me in a most convenient and unexpected fashion, but 
 I had the intelligence to perceive that though the interest 
 they might excite would be dramatic enough, they would be 
 in danger of dealing too much with the animal world to 
 interest adult readers ; nor would the narrative have made an 
 attractive book for boys, since I felt it would be too full of 
 fun (for my spirits were very high in those days) to suit 
 juvenile tastes. I knew little of the world, but had seen 
 much of boys (though I had never belonged to the species), 
 and was well aware that, except as regards practical jokes, the 
 boy is not gifted with humour. I accordingly looked about me 
 for some dramatic material of a wholly different kind, and 
 eventually found it in the person of Count Gotsuchakoff. 
 
 It was a mistake to call such a sombre and serious indi- 
 vidual by so ludicrous a name, but it was a characteristic one. 
 My disposition was at that time lively (not to say frivolous),
 
 JAMES PAYN 
 
 and the atmosphere I usually lived in was one of mirth, but, 
 as often happens, it had another side to it, which was melan- 
 choly almost to melodrama. In after years I found this to be 
 the case in an infinitely greater story-teller, who, while he 
 delighted all the world with humour and pathos, in reality 
 nourished a taste for the weird and terrible, which, though its 
 ghastly face but very rarely showed itself in his writings, was 
 the favourite topic of his familiar and confidential talk. 
 Tickeracandua himself was not dearer 
 to me than the Count, who was almost 
 entirely the offspring of my own in- 
 vention ; and though I have since seen 
 in Nihilist novels a good many gentle- 
 men of the same type, I venture to 
 think that, slightly as he is sketched, 
 he will bear comparison with the best 
 of them. The conception of his long 
 years of enforced silence, and even of 
 the terrible moment in which he 
 forgot that he was dumb, owed its 
 origin, if I remember right, to a 
 child's game that was popular in our 
 nursery. It consisted in resisting the 
 temptation to laugh, and the resolu- 
 tion to reply in tones of gravity when 
 such questions as ' Have you heard 
 the Emperor of Morocco is dead ? ' 
 were put. The adaptation of it, in 
 
 the substitution of speech for laughter, suddenly suggested 
 itself, like any other happy thought. 
 
 Instead of writing straight ahead, as the fancy prompted, 
 which, in my less ambitious attempts at Fiction (like all 
 young writers) I had hitherto done, I had all these materials 
 pretty well arranged in my mind before sitting down to write 
 my first book. It was, after all, only a string of adventures, 
 
 COUNT GOTSUCHAKOFF
 
 22 
 
 but it is still, and I think deservedly, a popular book. The 
 question with its author, however, was how, when it was 
 finished, he was to get it published. I took it to my friend, 
 Robert Chambers, and asked for 
 his opinion about it. He looked 
 at the manuscript, which was cer- 
 tainly not in such good hand- 
 
 
 ' WOULD YOU MIND JUST READING 
 A BIT OF IT ?' 
 
 writing as his own, and observed 
 slyly 
 
 ' Would you mind just read- 
 ing a bit of it? ' 
 
 I had never done such a thing before, nor have I since, 
 and the proposal was a little staggering, not to my amour 
 propre, but to my natural modesty. Moreover, I mistrusted 
 my ability to do justice to it, remembering what the poet has 
 said about reading one's own productions : 
 
 The chariot wheels jar in the gates through which we drive 
 them forth. 
 
 However, I started with it, and notwithstanding that we were 
 subjected to 'jars' (one by the servant, who came to put 
 coals on the fire, just at a crisis, and made me at heart a 
 murderer), the specimen was pronounced satisfactory.
 
 JAMES PAVN 
 
 2 3 
 
 grace came out in 
 remember whether it 
 
 ' I think it will suit nicely for the Journal; said my friend, 
 which I think were the pleasantest words I ever heard from 
 the mouth of man. I might have taken them, indeed, as a 
 good omen ; for though I have since written more novels than 
 I can count, I have never failed to secure serial publication 
 for every one of them. ' This gentleman's novels are suitable 
 enough for serial publication,' once wrote a critic of them, 
 intending to be very particularly disagreeable, but it aroused 
 no emotion in my breast warmer than gratitude. 
 
 So ' The Family Scape- 
 Chambers's Journal. I do not 
 had any effect upon its circu- 
 lation, but it was well spoken 
 of, and there was at least one 
 person in the world who thought 
 it a masterpiece. The difficulty, 
 which no one but a young and 
 unknown writer can estimate, 
 was to get a publisher to share 
 in this belief. For many years 
 afterwards I published my 
 books anonymously (i.e., 'by 
 the author ' of so and so), and 
 many a humorous interview I 
 had with various denizens of 
 Paternoster Row, to whom I 
 (very strongly) recommended them, by proxy. ' If I were 
 speaking to the author,' they said, ' it would be unpleasant 
 to say this (that, and the other of a deprecatory character), 
 but with you we can be quite frank.' And they were some- 
 times very frank ; and, though I didn't much like it at the 
 time, their candour (when I had sold the book tolerably well) 
 tickled me afterwards immensely. For persons who have 
 enjoyed this experience, mere literary criticism has hence- 
 forth no terrors. 
 
 THE SERVANT CAME TO PUT 
 COALS ON THE FIRE
 
 24 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 ' The Family Scapegrace,' however, had appeared under 
 my own name, so that concealment was out of the question ; 
 it was in one volume, a form of publication which, at that 
 time at all events (though I see they now affirm the 
 contrary), was unpopular with the libraries, and I was quite 
 an unknown novelist. Under these circumstances, I have 
 
 MR. PAYN'S OFFICE AT WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 never forgotten the kindness of Mr. Douglas (of the firm of 
 Edmonston & Douglas), who gave me fifty pounds for the 
 first edition of the book by which enterprise he lost his 
 money. There were many reasons for it, no doubt, though 
 the story has since done well enough, but I think the chief 
 of them was the alteration of the title to ' Richard Arbour,' 
 which, contrary to the wishes both of myself and my
 
 JAMES PAYN 25 
 
 publisher, was insisted upon by a leading librarian. It is 
 difficult, nowadays, to guess his reason, but people were more 
 
 KILLED BY LIONS 
 
 ' square- toed ' in those times, and I fancy he thought his highly 
 respectable customers would scent something Bohemian, if
 
 26 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 not absolutely scampish, in a Scapegrace. A mere name is 
 not an attractive title for a book ; though many books so 
 called such as ' Martin Chuzzlewit ' and ' Robinson Crusoe ' 
 have become immensely popular, they owed nothing to 
 their baptism ; and certainly ' Richard Arbour ' prospered 
 better when he got rid of his rather commonplace name. 
 
 A rather curious incident took place with respect to this 
 book, which annoyed me greatly at the time, because I was 
 quite unacquainted with the queer crotchets and imaginary 
 grievances that would-be literary persons often take into their 
 heads. Somebody wrote to complain that he had written 
 (not published) a story upon the same lines, and even 
 incidents, as ' The Family Scapegrace,' just before its ap- 
 pearance in the columns of Chambers' s Journal, and the 
 delicate inference he drew was that, whether in my capacity 
 of editor or otherwise, I must have somehow got hold of it. 
 He gave the exact date of the conclusion of his own com- 
 position, which was prior to the commencement of my story 
 in the Journal. 
 
 Conscious of innocence, but troubled by so disagreeable 
 an imputation, I laid the matter before Robert Chambers. 
 
 ' You are not so versed in the ways of this class of person 
 as I am,' he said, smiling ; ' but since he has been so in- 
 judicious as to give a date, I think we can put him out of 
 court. I am one of those methodical individuals who keep a 
 diary.' And on reference to it, he found that I had read him 
 my story long before that of my traducer, according to his 
 own account, had left his hands. 
 
 It was a small matter, but proved a useful lesson to me, 
 for there is a great deal of imposture of this kind going on in 
 the literary world ; sometimes, as perhaps in this case, the 
 result of mere egotistic fancy, but also sometimes begotten by 
 the desire to levy blackmail. 
 
 The above, so far as I can remember them, are the cir- 
 cumstances under which I published my first novel. I am
 
 JAMES PAYN 27 
 
 sorry to add that poor Tickeracandua, to whom it owed so 
 much, subsequently met the very fate in reality which I had 
 assigned to him in fiction ; though as good a fellow as many 
 I have met out of a show, he came to the same end as ' Don't 
 Care' did in the nursery story, and was 'eaten (or at all 
 events killed) by lions.'
 
 7
 
 ' THE WRECK OF THE GROSVENOR " ' 
 BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 
 
 AM complimented by an 
 invitation to tell what I 
 can recollect of the 
 writing, publication, and 
 reception of the earliest of 
 my sea books, ' The Wreck 
 of the " Grosvenor." : 
 I approach the subject 
 with diffidence, and ask 
 the reader to forgive me 
 if he thinks or finds me 
 unduly egotistical. 'John 
 Holdsworth : Chief Mate/ 
 preceded ' The Wreck of 
 the " Grosvenor." ' I do 
 not regard that story as 
 a novel of the sea. I was 
 reluctant and timid in 
 
 dealing with ocean topics when the scheme of that tale came 
 into my head ; I contented myself with pulling off my shoes 
 and socks and walking about ankle deep into the ripples. 
 But in the ' Grosvenor ' I went to sea like a man ; I signed 
 articles aboard her as second mate ; I had ruffians for ship- 
 mates, and the stench of the harness-cask was the animating 
 
 CLARK RUSSELL AS A MIDSHIPMAN OF 
 SEVENTEEN
 
 3 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 influence of the narrative. It is the first sea book I ever 
 wrote, in the sense, I mean, that its successors are sea books : 
 what I have to say, therefore, agreeably to the plan of these 
 personal contributions, will refer to it. 
 
 And first, I must write a few words 
 about my own experience as a sailor. 
 I went to sea in the year 1858, when 
 I was a child of thirteen years and a 
 few -months old. My first ship was a 
 well-known Australian liner, the ' Dun- 
 can Dunbar,' commanded by an old salt, 
 named Neatby, who will always be 
 memorable to me for his habit of wear- 
 ing the tall chimney-pot hat of the 
 London streets in all weathers and 
 parallels, whether in the roasting calms 
 of the Equator, or in the snow-darkened 
 hurricanes of the Horn. I went to sea 
 as a ' midshipman,' as it is termed, 
 though I never could persuade myself 
 that a lad in the Merchant Service, no 
 matter how heavy might be the premium 
 his friends paid for him, has a right to 
 a title of grade or rating that belongs 
 essentially and peculiarly to the Royal 
 Navy. I signed for a shilling a month, 
 and with the rest of us (there were ten) 
 was called ' young gentleman ' ; but we 
 were put to work which an able seaman 
 would have been within his rights in 
 
 refusing, as being what is called ' boys' ' duty. I need not be 
 particular. Enough that the discipline was as rough as 
 though we had been lads in the forecastle, with a huge boat- 
 swain and brutal boatswain's mates to look after us. We paid 
 ten guineas each as a contribution to some imagination of a 
 
 I WAS A CHILD OF 
 THIRTEEN
 
 W. CLARK RUSSELL 
 
 3 1 
 
 stock of eatables for the midshipmen's berth ; but my memory 
 carries no more than a few tins of preserved potatoes, a great 
 number of bottles of pickles, and a cask of exceedingly moist 
 sugar. Therefore, we were thrown upon the ship's provisions, 
 and I very soon became intimately acquainted with the 
 quality and nature of the stores served out to forecastle 
 hands. 
 
 I made, but not after the 
 manner of Gulliver, several 
 voyages into remote nations 
 of the world, and in the eight 
 years I was at sea I picked up 
 enough knowledge to qualify 
 me to give the public a few 
 new ideas about the ocean 
 life. Yet when the scribbling 
 mania possessed me it was 
 long before I could summon 
 courage to write about the 
 sea and sailors. I asked my- 
 self, Who is interested in the 
 Merchant Service ? What 
 public shall I find to listen 
 to me ? Those who read 
 novels want stories about love 
 and elopements, abductions, NEATBY 
 
 and the several violations of 
 
 the sanctities of domestic life. The great mass of readers 
 those who support the circulating libraries are ladies. 
 Will it be possible to interest ladies in forecastle life and in 
 the prosaics of the cabin ? 
 
 Then, again, I was frightened by the Writer for Boys. 
 He was very much at sea. I never picked up a book of his 
 without lighting upon some hideous act of piracy, some 
 astounding and unparalleled shipwreck, some marvellous
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 island of treasure. This writer, of a clan numerous as 
 Wordsworth's ' little lot of stars,' warned me off and affrighted 
 
 me. His paper ship had so long 
 and successfully filled the public 
 eye that I shrank from launch- 
 ing anything real, anything with 
 strakes and treenails, anything 
 with running rigging so leading 
 that a sailor would exactly know 
 what to let go when the order 
 was given. In plain English, I 
 judged that the sea story 
 had been irremediably de- 
 pressed, and rendered wholly 
 
 ridiculous by the strenuous 
 periodic and Christmas la- 
 bours of the Writer for Boys. 
 Had he not sunk even 
 Marryat and Michael Scott, 
 who, because they wrote about 
 the sea, were compelled in 
 due course by the publishers 
 to address themselves exclusively to boys ! The late George 
 Cupples a man of fine genius in the course of a letter to 
 
 ANCHORED IN THE DOWNS
 
 W. CLARK RUSSELL 
 
 33 
 
 me, complained warmly of being made to figure as ' Captain ' 
 George Cupples upon the title-page of his admirable work, 
 ' The Green Hand.' He assured me that he was no captain. 
 and that his name thus written was merely a bookseller's 
 dodge to recommend his story to boys. 
 
 And, still, I would sometimes think that if I would but 
 take heart and go afloat in imagination, under the old red 
 flag, I should find within the circle of the horizon such 
 materials for a book as might recommend it, at all events on 
 the score of freshness. Only two writers had dealt with the 
 mercantile side of the ocean life Dana, the author of ' Two 
 
 SOME OF THE CREW 
 
 Years before the Mast,' and Herman Melville, both of them, 
 it is needless to say, Americans. I could not recollect a 
 book, written by an Englishman, relating, as a work of fic- 
 tion, to shipboard life on the high seas under the flag of the 
 Merchant Service. I excluded the Writer for Boys. I could 
 recall no author who, himself a practical seaman, one who 
 had slept with sailors, eaten with them, gone aloft with them, 
 and suffered with them, had produced a book, a novel call 
 it what you will wholly based on what I may term the inner 
 life of the forecastle and the cabin. 
 
 It chanced one day that a big ship, with a mastheaded 
 
 D
 
 34 
 
 FIRST BOOK 
 
 colour, telling of trouble on board, let go her anchor in the 
 Downs. I then lived in a town which overlooks those 
 waters. The crew of the ship had mutinied : they had carried 
 the vessel halfway down Channel, when, discovering by that 
 time what sort of provisions had been shipped for them, they 
 forced the master to shift his helm for the inwards course. 
 The crew of thirteen or fourteen hairy, queerly attired fellows, 
 in Scotch caps, divers-coloured shirts, dungaree breeches 
 stuffed into half Wellingtons, were brought before the magis- 
 trates. The bench consisted of an old sea captain, who had 
 lost a ship in his day through the ill conduct of his crew, and 
 
 THE MAGISTRATES 
 
 whose hatred of the forecastle hand was strong and peculiar ; 
 a parson, who knew about as much of the sea as his wife ; a 
 medical practitioner, and a schoolmaster. I was present, and 
 listened to the men's evidence, and I also heard the captain's 
 story. Samples of the food were produced. A person with 
 whom I had some acquaintance found me an opportunity to 
 examine and taste samples of the forecastle provisions of the 
 ship whose crew had mutinied. Nothing more atrociously 
 nasty could be found amongst the neglected putrid sweepings 
 of a butcher's back premises. Nothing viler in the shape of 
 food ever set a famished mongrel hiccoughing. Nevertheless,
 
 W. CLARK JtUSSELL 
 
 35 
 
 this crew of thirteen or fourteen men, for refusing to sail in 
 the vessel unless fresh forecastle stores were shipped, were 
 sent to gaol for terms ranging from three to six weeks. 
 
 Some time earlier than this there had been legislation 
 
 o 
 
 helpful to the seaman through the humane and impassioned 
 struggles of Mr. Samuel Plimsoll. The crazy, rotten- old 
 coaster had been knocked into staves. The avaricious owner 
 had been compelled to load with some regard to the safety of 
 sailors. But I could not help thinking that the shore-going 
 
 ^-^^2^5 
 
 *(. 
 
 .,. 
 
 THE WRECK OF. THE * GROSVENOR 
 
 menace of the sailor's life did not lie merely in overloaded 
 ships, and in crazy, porous hulls. Mutinies were incessantly 
 happening in consequence of the loathsome food shipped for 
 sailors' use, and many disasters attended these outbreaks. 
 When I came away from the magistrates' court, after hearing 
 the men sentenced, I found my mind full of that crew's 
 grievance. I reflected upon what Mr. Plimsoll had done, and 
 how much of the hidden parts of the sea life remained to be 
 exposed to the public eye, to the advantage of the sailor, 
 providing the subject should be dealt with by one who had
 
 36 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 himself suffered, and very well understood what he sat down 
 to write about. This put into my head the idea of the tale 
 which I afterwards called ' The Wreck of the " Grosvenor." ' 
 I said to myself, I'll found a story on a mutiny at sea, occa- 
 sioned entirely by the shipment of bad provisions for the 
 crew. No writer has as yet touched this ugly feature of the 
 life. Dana is silent. Herman Melville merely drops a joke 
 or two as he rolls out of the caboose with a cube of salt horse 
 in his hand. It has never been made a serious canvas of. 
 And yet deeper tragedies lie in the stinking harness-cask than 
 in the started butt. There are wilder and bloodier possibilities 
 in a barrel of rotten pork, and in a cask of worm-riddled 
 ship's bread, than in a whole passage of shifting cargoes, and 
 in a long round voyage of deadweight that sinks to the wash- 
 streak. 
 
 But if I was to find a public I must make my book a 
 romance. I must import the machinery of the petticoat. 
 The pannikin of rum I proposed to offer must be palatable 
 enough to tempt the lips of the ladies to sip it. My pub- 
 lisher would want a market, and if Messrs. Mudie and Smith 
 would have none of me I should write in vain ; for assuredly 
 I was not going to find a public among sailors. Sailors don't 
 read : a good many of them can't read. Those who can have 
 little leisure, and they do not care to fill up their spare hours 
 with yarns of a calling which eighty out of every hundred of 
 them loathe. So I schemed out a nautical romance and went 
 to work, and in two months and a week I finished the story 
 of ' The Wreck of the " Grosvenor." ' 
 
 Whilst I was writing it an eminent publisher, a gentleman 
 whose friendship I had been happy in possessing for many 
 years, asked me to let him have a sea story. I think he had 
 been looking into ' John Houldsworth : Chief Mate,' which 
 some months before this time had been received with much 
 kindness by the reviewers. I sent him the manuscript of 
 ' The Wreck of the " Grosvenor." ' One of his readers was a
 
 IV. CLARK RUSSELL 
 
 37 
 
 lady, and to this lady my friend the publisher forwarded the 
 manuscript, with a request for a report on its merits. Now to 
 send the manuscript of a sea book to a woman ! To submit 
 a narrative abounding in marine terms, thunder-charged with 
 the bully- in-our-alley passions of the forecastle, throbbing 
 with suppressed oaths, clamorous with rolling oceans, the like 
 of which no female would ever 
 dream of leaving her bunk to be- 
 hold to submit all this, and how 
 much more, to a lady for an 
 opinion on its merits ! Of course/ 
 the poor woman barely under- 
 stood a third of what she looked 
 at, and as, obviously, she couldn't 
 quite collect the meaning of the 
 remainder, she pronounced 
 against the whole. She called it 
 a ' catalogue of ship's furniture,' 
 and the manuscript came back 
 to me. I never regret this. I 
 do not believe that this sea book 
 would ever have cut a figure in 
 my old and esteemed friend's list. 
 Publishers are well known by the 
 public for the sorts of intellectual 
 wares they severally deal in. If 
 I desired a charming story about 
 flirtation, divorce, inconvenient 
 husbands, the state of the soul 
 
 when it has flown out of the body, the passions of the female 
 heart whilst it still beats hot in the breast, I should turn to 
 my friend's list, well assured of handsome satisfaction. But 
 I don't think I could read a sea book published by him. I 
 should suspect the marine qualities of a Jack who had run 
 foul of, and got smothered up in, a whole wardrobe of female 
 
 MRS. CLARK RUSSELL
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 apparel, grinning with a scarcely sunburnt face through the 
 horse-collar of a crinoline, the deep sea roll of his gait hampered 
 and destroyed by the clinging folds of a flannel petticoat. 
 
 Be this as it may, I sent the manuscript of ' The Wreck 
 of the " Grosvenor " ' to my old friend Edward Marston, of the 
 firm of Sampson Low & Co. The firm offered me fifty 
 pounds for it ; I took the money and signed the agreement, 
 in which I disposed of all rights. Do I murmur over the 
 
 recollection of this fifty pounds 
 which, with another ten pounds 
 kindly sent to me by Mr. Marston 
 as the whole of, or a part of, a 
 cheque received from Messrs. Har- 
 per & Brothers, was all I ever got 
 for this sea book ? Certainly not. 
 The transaction was absolutely 
 fair, and what leaning there was 
 was in my favour. The book was 
 an experiment ; it was published 
 anonymously ; it might have fallen 
 dead. Happily for publisher and 
 author, the book made its way. 
 I believe it was immediately suc- 
 cessful in America, [and that its 
 reception there somewhat in- 
 fluenced inquiry here. American 
 
 critics who try to vex me say that my books never would 
 have been read in this country but for what was said of them 
 in the States, and for the publicity provided for them there 
 by the twenty-cent editions. How far this is true I don't 
 kftow ; but certainly the Yankees are handsomer and prompter 
 in their recognition of what pleases them than we are on our 
 side. What they like they raise a great cry over, and the 
 note of so mighty a concourse, I don't doubt, fetches an echo 
 out of distances below the horizon. 
 
 THE BOATSWAIN OF THE 
 'GROSVENOR'
 
 W. CLARK RUSSELL 
 
 39 
 
 It is many years now since ' The Wreck of the " Grosvenor'" 
 was written, and I do not very clearly recollect its reception 
 in this country. I believe it speedily went into a second 
 edition. But before we talk of an edition seriously we must 
 first learn the number of copies which make it. Since this 
 was written, my friend, Mr. R. B. Marston, of the firm of 
 Sampson Low & Co., has been good enough to look into 
 
 THE ' HOUGOUMONT ' 
 
 the sales of ' The Wreck of the " Grosvenor," ' and he informs 
 me that down to 1891 there had been sold 34,950 copies. 
 One of the most cordial welcomes the story received was 
 from Vanity Fair. I supposed that the review was written 
 by the editor, Mr. Thomas Gibson Bowles, until I learnt 
 
 1 In this ship, the ' Hougoumont,' I served three years. She was a transport, 
 and was in the China war, 1860-1. Her burden was about 1,000 tons. This 
 picture represents her as a sheer hulk employed in the construction of the Forth 
 Bridge. I saw her towing down Channel in this state in 1889 she drew abreast 
 of my house at Deal and I could have wept to witness my old floating home in 
 so miserable a condition. C. R.
 
 40 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 that the late Mr. James Runciman was the author. The 
 critics on the whole were generous. They thought the book 
 fresh. They judged that it was an original piece of work 
 wrought largely out of the personal experiences of the writer. 
 One gentleman, indeed, said that he had crossed the Channel 
 on several occasions between Boulogne and Folkestone, but 
 had never witnessed such seas as I described ; and another 
 that he had frequently travelled to Plymouth on the Great 
 
 I'OOR JACK ! 
 
 Western Railway in company with sailors, but had never met 
 such seamen as the forecastle hands I depicted. The book 
 is considered my best this, perhaps, because it was my first, 
 and its reputation lies in the memory and impression of its 
 freshness. It is far from being my best. Were it my property 
 I would re-write it. I had quitted the sea some years when 
 I wrote the story, and here and there my memory played me 
 false ; that is to say, in the direction of certain minute techni- 
 calities and in accounts of the internal discipline of the ship.
 
 W. CLARK RUSSELL 41 
 
 Yet, on the whole, the blunders are few considering how very 
 complicated a fabric a vessel is, and how ceaselessly one needs 
 to go on living the life of the sea to hold all parts of it clear 
 to the sight of the mind. Professionally, the influence of the 
 book has been small. I have heard that it made one ship- 
 owner sorry and rather virtuous, and that for some time his 
 harness-casks went their voyages fairly sweet. He is, how- 
 ever, but a solitary figure, the lonesome Crusoe of my little 
 principality of fancy. As a piece of literature, ' The Wreck 
 of the " Grosvenor " ' has been occasionally imitated. Mr. 
 Plimsoll, I understand, has lately been dealing with the 
 subject of sailors' food. I heartily wish success to his efforts.
 

 
 43 
 
 PHYSIOLOGICAL ^ESTHETICS' AND 
 'PHILISTIA' 
 
 BY GRANT ALLEN 
 
 THE story of my first book is a good deal mixed, and, 
 like many other stones, cannot be fully understood 
 without some previous allusion to what historians call ' the 
 causes which led to it.' For my first book was not my first 
 novel, and it is the latter, I take it, not the former, that an 
 expectant world, as represented by the readers of this volume, 
 is anxious to hear about. I first blossomed into print with 
 'Physiological Esthetics' in 1877 the title alone will be 
 enough for most people and it was not till seven years later 
 that I wrote and published my earliest long work of fiction, 
 which I called ' Philistia.' I wasn't born a novelist, I was 
 only made one. Philosophy and science were the first loves 
 of my youth. I dropped into romance as many men drop 
 into drink, or opium-eating, or other bad practices, not of 
 native perversity, but by pure force of circumstances. And 
 this is how fate (or an enterprising publisher) turned me from 
 an innocent and impecunious naturalist into a devotee of the 
 muse of shilling shockers. 
 
 When I left Oxford in 1870, with a decent degree and 
 nothing much else in particular to brag about, I took perforce 
 to that refuge of the destitute, the trade of schoolmaster. To 
 teach Latin and Greek verse at Brighton College, Chelten- 
 ham College, Reading Grammar School, successively, was the
 
 44 
 
 extremely uncongenial task imposed upon me by the chances 
 of the universe. But in 1873, Providence, disguised as the 
 Colonial Office, sent me out in charge of a new Government 
 College at Spanish Town, Jamaica. I had always been 
 psychological, and in the space and leisure of the lazy 
 Tropics I began to excogitate by slow degrees various 
 expansive works on the science of mind, the greater number 
 
 of which still remain unwritten. 
 Returning to England in '76 I found 
 myself out of work, and so com- 
 mitted to paper some of my views 
 on the origin of the higher pleasure 
 we derive from natural or artistic 
 products ; and I called my book 
 ' Physiological ^Esthetics.' It was 
 not my very first attempt at litera- 
 ture ; already I had produced about 
 a hundred or more magazine articles 
 on various philosophical and scien- 
 tific subjects, every one of which I 
 sent to the editors of leading re- 
 views, and every one of which was 
 punctually ' Declined with thanks,' 
 or committed without even that 
 polite formality to the editorial waste 
 paper basket. Nothing daunted by 
 failure, however, I wrote on and on, 
 
 and made up my mind, in my interval of forced idleness, to 
 print a book of my own at all hazards. 
 
 I wrote ' Physiological ^Esthetics ' in lodgings at Oxford. 
 When it was finished and carefully revised, I offered it to 
 Messrs. Henry S. King & Co., who were then leading pub- 
 lishers of philosophical literature. Mr. Kegan Paul, their 
 reader, reported doubtfully of the work. It was not likely 
 to pay, he said, but it contained good matter, and the firm 
 
 t 1 
 
 FICTION
 
 GRANT ALLEN 
 
 45 
 
 would print it for me on the usual commission. I was by no 
 means rich for fear of exaggeration I am stating the case 
 mildly but I believed somehow in 'Physiological /Esthetics.' 
 I was young then, and I hope the court of public opinion 
 will extend to me, on that ground, the indulgence usually 
 shown to juvenile offenders. But I happened to possess a 
 little money just at that moment, granted me as compensation 
 for the abolition of my office in Jamaica. Messrs. King 
 reported that the cost of production 
 (that mysterious entity so obnoxious 
 to the soul of the Society of Authors) 
 would amount to about a hundred 
 guineas. A hundred guineas was a 
 lot of money then ; but, being young, 
 I risked it. It was better than if I 
 had taken it to Monte Carlo, anyway. 
 So I wrote to Mr. Paul with heedless 
 haste to publish away right off, and 
 he published away right off accord- 
 ingly. When the bill came in, it was, 
 if I recollect aright, somewhere about 
 12O/. I paid it without a mur- 
 mur ; I got my money's worth. 
 The book appeared in a stately ' 
 green cover, with my name in 
 front, and looked very philo- 
 sophical, and learned, and psy- 
 chological. 
 
 Poor ' Physiological /Esthetics ' had a very hard fate. 
 When I come to look back upon the circumstances calmly and 
 dispassionately now, I'm not entirely surprised at its unhappy 
 end. It was a good book in its way, to be sure, though it's 
 me that says it as oughtn't to say it, and it pleased the few 
 who cared to read it ; but it wasn't the sort of literature the 
 public wanted. The public, you know, doesn't hanker after 
 
 SCIENCK
 
 46 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 philosophy. Darwin, and Herbert Spencer, and the Editor 
 of Mind, and people of that sort, tried my work and liked it ; 
 in point of fact, my poor little venture gained me at once, an 
 unknown man, the friendship of not a few whose friendship 
 was worth having. But financially, ' Physiological ^Esthetics' 
 was a dead failure ; it wasn't the sort of work to sell briskly 
 at the bookstalls. Mr. Smith would have none of it. The 
 reviews, indeed, were, almost without exception, favourable ; 
 the volume went off well for a treatise of its kind that is to 
 say, we got rid of nearly 300 copies ; but even so, it left a 
 deficit of some forty or fifty .pounds to the bad against me. 
 Finally, the remaining stock fell a victim to the flames in 
 Mr. Kegan Paul's historical fire, when many another stout 
 volume perished : and that was the end of my magnum opus. 
 Peace to its ashes ! Mr. Paul gave me 1 5/. as compensation 
 for loss sustained, and I believe I came out some 3O/. a loser 
 by this, my first serious literary venture. In all these matters, 
 however, I speak from memory alone, and it is possible I 
 may be slightly wrong in my figures. 
 
 But though ' Physiological ^Esthetics ' was a financial 
 failure, it paid me in the end, both scientifically and com- 
 mercially. Not only did it bring me into immediate contact 
 with several among the leaders of thought in London, but 
 it also made my name known in a very modest way, and 
 induced editors those arbiters of literary fate to give a 
 second glance at my unfortunate manuscripts. Almost im- 
 mediately after its appearance, Leslie Stephen (I omit the 
 Mr., honoris causa) accepted two papers of mine for pub- 
 lication in the Cornhill. ' Carving a Cocoanut ' was the first, 
 and it brought me in twelve guineas. That was the very 
 first money I earned in literature. I had been out of work 
 for months, the abolition of my post in Jamaica having 
 thrown me on my beam-ends, and I was overjoyed at so 
 much wealth poured suddenly in upon me. Other magazine 
 articles followed in due course, and before long I was earning
 
 GRANT ALLEN 47 
 
 a modest a very modest and precarious income, yet 
 enough to support myself and my family. Moreover, Sir 
 William Hunter, who was then engaged on his gigantic 
 ' Gazetteer of India,' gave me steady employment in his office 
 at Edinburgh, and I wrote with my own hand the greater 
 part of the articles on the North- West Provinces, the Punjaub, 
 and Sind, in those twelve big volumes. 
 
 Meanwhile, I was hard at work in my leisure moments 
 (for I have sometimes some moments which I regard as 
 leisure) on another ambitious scientific work, which I called 
 ' The Colour-Sense.' This book I published on the half- 
 profits system with Triibner. Compared with my first un- 
 happy venture, ' The Colour-Sense ' might be counted a dis- 
 tinct success. It brought me in, during the course of about 
 ten years, something like 25/. or 3O/. As it only took me 
 eighteen months to write, and involved little more than five 
 or six thousand references, this result may be regarded as 
 very fair pay for an educated man's time and labour. I 
 have sometimes been reproached by thoughtless critics for 
 deserting the noble pursuit of science in favour of fiction and 
 filthy lucre. If those critics think twenty pounds a year 
 a sufficient income for a scientific writer to support himself 
 and a growing family upon well, they are perfectly at 
 liberty to devote their own pens to the instruction of their 
 kind without the slightest remonstrance or interference on 
 my part. 
 
 I won't detail in full the history of my various inter- 
 mediate books, most of which were published first as news- 
 paper articles, and afterwards collected and put forth on a 
 small royalty. Time is short, and art is long, so I'll get on 
 at once to my first novel. I drifted into fiction by the 
 sheerest accident. My friend, Mr. Chatto, most generous of 
 men, was one of my earliest and staunchest literary sup- 
 porters. From the outset of my journalistic days, he printed 
 my articles in Belgravia and the Gentleman's Magazine with
 
 48 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 touching fidelity ; and I take this opportunity of saying in 
 public that to his kindness and sympathy I owe as much as 
 to anyone in England. Some people will have it there is no 
 such thing as ' generosity ' in publishers. I beg leave to differ 
 from them. I know the commercial value of literary work 
 as well as any man, and I venture to say that both from 
 Mr. Chatto and from Mr. Arrowsmith, of Bristol, I have met, 
 time and again, with what I cannot help describing as most 
 generous treatment. One day it happened that I wanted to 
 write a scientific article on the impossibility of knowing 
 one had seen a ghost, even if one saw one. For convenience 
 sake, and to make the moral clearer, I threw the argument 
 into narrative form, but without the slightest intention 
 of writing a story. It was published in Belgravia under 
 the title of ' Our Scientific Observations on a Ghost,' and 
 was reprinted later in my little volume of ' Strange 
 Stories.' A little while after, to my immense surprise, 
 Mr. Chatto wrote to ask me whether I could supply him 
 with another story, like the last I had written, for the 
 Belgravia Annual. I was rather taken aback at this singular 
 request, as I hadn't the slightest idea I could do anything at 
 all in the way of fiction. Still, like a good journalist, I never 
 refuse an order of any sort ; so I sat down at once and wrote 
 a tale about a mummy on the ghastliest and most approved 
 Christmas number pattern. Strange to say, Mr. Chatto again 
 printed it, and, what was still more remarkable, asked for more 
 of the same description. From that time forth, I went on 
 producing short stories for Belgravia ; but I hardly took them 
 seriously, being immersed at the time in biological study. I 
 looked upon my own pretensions in the way of fiction as an 
 amiable fad of my kind friend Chatto ; and not to prejudice 
 any little scientific reputation I might happen to have earned, 
 I published them all under the carefully veiled pseudonym of 
 ' J. Arbuthnot Wilson.' 
 
 I would probably never have gone any further on my
 
 GRANT ALLEN 
 
 49 
 
 downward path had it not been for the accidental intervention 
 of another believer in my powers as a story-writer. I had 
 sent to Belgravia a little tale about a Chinaman, entitled 
 ' Mr. Chung,' and written perhaps rather more seriously and 
 carefully than my previous efforts. This happened to attract 
 the attention of Mr. James Payn.,who had then just succeeded 
 to the editorship of the Cornhill. I had been a constant 
 contributor to the Cornhill 
 under Leslie Stephen's man- 
 agement, and by a singular 
 coincidence I received almost 
 at the same time two letters 
 from Mr. Payn, one of them 
 addressed to me in my own 
 name, and regretting that he 
 would probably be unable to 
 insert my scientific papers in 
 his magazine in future ; the 
 other, sent through Chatto 
 & Windus to the imagi- 
 nary J. Arbuthnot Wilson, 
 and asking for a short story 
 somewhat in the style of my 
 ' admirable Mr. Chung.' 
 
 Encouraged by the dis- 
 covery that so good a judge 
 
 of fiction thought well of my humble efforts at story-writing, I 
 sat down at once and produced two pieces for the CornJiill. 
 One was ' The Reverend John Creedy ' a tale of a black 
 parson who reverted to savagery which has perhaps attracted 
 more attention than any other of my short stories. The 
 other, which I myself immensely prefer, was ' The Curate of 
 Churnside.' Both were so well noticed that I began to think 
 seriously of fiction as an alternative subject. In the course 
 of the next year I wrote several more sketches of the same 
 
 E
 
 50 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 sort, which were published, either anonymously or still under 
 the pseudonym, in the Cornhill, Longmans', The Gentleman's, 
 and Belgravia. If I recollect aright, the first suggestion to 
 collect and reprint them all in a single volume came from 
 Mr. Chatto. They were published as ' Strange Stories,' under 
 my own name, and I thus, for the first time, acknowledged 
 my desertion of my earliest loves science and philosophy 
 for the less profound but more lucrative pursuit of literature. 
 
 A SHELF IN THE STUDY 
 
 ' Strange Stories ' was well received and well reviewed. 
 Its reception gave me confidence for future ventures. Acting 
 upon James Payn's advice, I set to work seriously upon a 
 three-volume novel. My first idea was to call it ' Born out 
 of Due Time,' as it narrated the struggles of a Socialist 
 thinker a century in front of his generation ; but, at Mr. 
 Chatto's suggestion, the title was afterwards changed to 
 ' Philistia.' I desired, if possible, to run it through the 
 Cornhill, and Mr. Payn promised to take it into his most 
 favourable consideration for that purpose. However, when
 
 the unfinished manuscript was submitted in due time to his 
 editorial eye, he rightly objected that it was far too socialistic 
 for the tastes of his public. He said it would rather repel 
 than attract readers. I was disappointed at the time. I see 
 now that, as an editor, he was perfectly right ; I was giving 
 the public what I felt and thought and believed myself, not 
 what the public felt and thought and wanted. The education 
 
 ' THANK YOU, SIR 1 
 
 of an English novelist consists entirely in learning to sub- 
 ordinate all his own ideas and tastes and opinions to the 
 wishes and beliefs of the inexorable British matron. 
 
 Mr. Chatto, however, was prepared to accept the undoubted 
 risk of publishing ' Philistia.' Only, to meet his views, the 
 dfrto&ment was altered. In the original version, the hero 
 came to a bad end, as a hero in real life who is in advance of
 
 52 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 his age, and consistent and honest, must always do. But the 
 British matron, it seems, likes her novels to ' end well ' ; so I 
 married him off instead, and made him live happily ever 
 afterward. Mr. Chatto gave me a lump sum down for serial 
 rights and copyright, and ran ' Philistia ' through the pages 
 of The Gentleman's. When it finally appeared in book form, 
 it obtained on the whole more praise than blame, and, as it 
 paid a great deal better than scientific journalism, it decided 
 me that my rdle in life henceforth must be that of a novelist. 
 And a novelist I now am, good, bad, or indifferent. 
 
 If anybody gathers, however, from this simple narrative, 
 that my upward path from obscurity to a very modest 
 modicum of popularity and success was a smooth and easy 
 one, he is immensely mistaken. I had a ten years' hard 
 struggle for bread, into the details of which I don't care to 
 enter. It left me broken in health and spirit, with all the 
 vitality and vivacity crushed out of me. I suppose the object 
 of this series of papers is to warn off ingenuous and aspiring 
 youth from the hardest worked and worst paid of the profes- 
 sions. If so, I would say earnestly to the ingenuous and 
 aspiring ' Brain for brain, in no market can you sell your 
 abilities to such poor advantage. Don't take to literature if 
 you've capital enough in hand to buy a good broom, and 
 energy enough to annex a vacant crossing.'
 
 53 
 
 ' THE SHADOW OF A CRIME' 
 BY HALL CAINE 
 
 I CANNOT follow Mr. Besant with any pitiful story of 
 rejection at the hands of publishers. If refusal is quite 
 the best thing that can happen to the candidate for literary 
 honours, my fate has not been favourable. No tale of mine 
 has yet passed from publishing house to publishing house. 
 Except the first of the series, my stones have been accepted 
 before they have been read. In two or three instances they 
 have been bought before they have been written. It has 
 occurred to me, as to others, to have two or three publishers 
 offering terms for the same book. I have even been offered 
 half payment in hand on account of a book which I could 
 not hope to write for years, and might never write at all. 
 Thus the most helpful confession which the more or less suc- 
 cessful man of letters can make for the comfort and cheer of 
 his younger and less fortunate brethren, it is out of my power 
 to offer. 
 
 But I reflect that this is true of my literary experiences 
 in the character of a novelist only. I had an earlier and 
 semi-subterranean career that was very different. At eighteen 
 I wrote a poem of a mystical sort, which was printed (not at 
 my own risk) and published under a pseudonym. Happily, 
 no man will ever identify me behind the romantic name 
 wherein I hid my own. Only one literary man knew my 
 secret. That was George Gilfillan, and he is dead. Then
 
 54 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 at twenty I wrote an autobiography for another person, 
 and was paid ten pounds for it. These were really my 
 first books, and I grow quite hot when I think of them. At 
 five-and-twenty I came up to London with the manuscript of 
 a critical work, which I had written while at Liverpool. 
 Somebody had recommended that I should submit it to a 
 certain great publishing house, and I took it in person. At 
 the door of the office I was told to write my own name, and 
 the name of the person whom I wished to see, and to state 
 the nature of my business. I did so, and the boy who took 
 
 my message brought back word 
 that I might leave my manu- 
 script for consideration. It 
 seemed to me that somebody 
 might have seen me for a 
 minute, but I had expected too 
 much. The manuscript was 
 carefully tied up in brown paper, 
 and so I left it. 
 
 After waiting three torturing 
 weeks for the decision of the 
 publishers, I made bold to call 
 again. At the same little box 
 at the door of the office I had once more to fill up the same 
 little document. The boy took it in, and I was left to sit on 
 his table, to look at the desk which he had been whittling 
 away with his penknife, to wait and to tremble. After a time 
 I heard a footstep returning. I thought it might be the pub- 
 lisher or the editor of the house. It was the boy back again. 
 He had a pile of loose sheets of white paper in his hands. 
 They were the sheets of my book. ' The editor's compli- 
 ments, sir, and thank you,' said the boy, and my manuscript 
 went sprawling over the table. I gathered it up, tucked it as 
 deep as possible into the darkness, under the wings of my 
 Inverness cape, and went downstairs ashamed, humiliated, 
 
 I LEFT IT
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 crushed, and broken-spirited. Not quite that, either, for I 
 remember that, as I got to the fresh air at the door, my gorge 
 rose within me, and I cried in my heart, ' By God ! you shall 
 -' and something proud and vain. 
 
 I dare say it was all right and proper and in good order. 
 The book was afterwards published, and I think it sold well. 
 I hardly know whether I ought to say that the editor should 
 have shown me more courtesy. It was all a part of the 
 anarchy of things which Mr. Hardy considers the rule of 
 life. But the sequel is worth telling. That editor became 
 
 my personal friend. He is dead, 
 and he was a good and able man. 
 Of course he remembered nothing 
 of this incident, and I never 
 poisoned one hour of our inter- 
 course by telling him how, when 
 1 was young and a word of cheer 
 would have buoyed me up, he 
 made me drink the waters of 
 Marah. And three times since 
 that day the publishing house I 
 speak of has come to me with 
 the request that I should write a 
 book for them. I have never 
 been able to do so, but I have 
 outgrown my bitterness, and, of course, I show no malice. 
 Indeed, I have now the best reasons for wishing the great 
 enterprise well. But if literary confessions are worth any- 
 thing, this one may perhaps be a seed that will somewhere 
 find grateful soil. Keep a good heart, even if you have to 
 knock in vain at many doors, and kick about the backstairs 
 of the house of letters. There is room enough inside. 
 
 I wrote and edited sundry things during my first years in 
 London, but not until I had published a story did I feel that 
 I had so much as touched the consciousness of the public. 
 
 MY MS. WENT SPRAWLING OVER 
 THE TABLE
 
 HALL CAINE 
 
 57 
 
 Hence, my first novel may very properly be regarded as my 
 first book, and if I have no tale to tell of heart-broken im- 
 pediments in getting it published, I have something to say of 
 the difficulty of getting it written. The novel is called ' The 
 Shadow of a Crime,' but title it had none until it was finished, 
 and a friend christened it. I cannot remember when the 
 story was begun, because I cannot recall a time when the 
 idea of it did not exist in my mind. Something of the same 
 kind is true of every tale I have ever written or shall ever 
 
 DERWENTWATER 
 
 write. I think it must 
 be in the nature of imagina- 
 tion that an imaginative idea 
 does not spring into being, that it has no 
 spontaneous generation, but, as a germi- 
 nating conception, a shadow of a vision, 
 always comes floating from somewhere out of the back 
 chambers of memory. You are waiting for the central 
 thought that shall link together incidents that you have 
 gleaned from among the stubble of many fields, for the 
 motif that shall put life and meaning into the characters that 
 you have gathered and grouped, and one morning, as you 
 awake, just at that moment when you are between the land 
 of light and the mists of sleep, and as your mind is grappling 
 back for the vanishing form of some delicious dream, a dim
 
 5 8 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 but familiar ghost of an idea comes up unbidden for the hun- 
 dredth time, and you say to yourself, with surprise at your 
 own stupidity, ' That's it ! ' 
 
 The idea of my first novel moved about me in this way 
 for many years before I recognised it. As usually happens, 
 it came in the shape of a story. 1 think it was, in actual 
 fact, first of all, a tale of a grandfather. My mother's 
 
 STY HEAD PASS 
 
 father was a Cumberland man, and he was full of the lore of 
 the hills and dales. One of the oldest legends of the Lake 
 mountains tells of the time of the plague. The people were 
 afraid to go to market, afraid to meet at church, and afraid to 
 pass on the highway. When any lonely body was ill, the 
 nearest neighbour left meat and drink at the door of the 
 afflicted house, and knocked and ran away. In these days, 
 a widow with two sons lived in one of the darkest of the
 
 HALL CA1NE 
 
 59 
 
 valleys. The younger son died, and the body had to be 
 carried over the mountains to be buried. Its course lay 
 across Sty Head Pass, a bleak and ' brant ' place, where the 
 winds are often high. The eldest son, a strong-hearted lad, 
 undertook the duty. He strapped the coffin on to the back 
 of a young horse, and they started away. The day was wild, 
 and on the top of the pass, where the path dips into Wastdale, 
 between the breast of Great Gable and the heights of Scawfell, 
 the wind rose to a gale. The horse was terrified. It broke 
 
 WASTWATER FROM STY HEAD PASS 
 
 away and galloped over the fells, carrying its burden with it. 
 The lad followed and searched for it, but in vain, and he 
 had to go home at last, unsatisfied. 
 
 This was in the spring, and nearly all the summer through 
 the surviving son of the widow was out on the mountains, 
 trying to recover the runaway horse, but never once did he 
 catch sight of it, though sometimes, as he turned homeward 
 at night, he thought he heard, in the gathering darkness, 
 above the sough of the wind, the horse's neigh. Then winter
 
 6o 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 came, and the mother died. Once more the dead body had 
 to be carried over the fells for burial, and once again the coffin 
 was strapped on the back of a horse. It was an old mare 
 that was chosen this time, the mother of the young one that 
 had been lost. The snow lay deep on the pass, and from the 
 
 
 THE HORSE BROKE AWAY 
 
 cliffs of the Scawfell pikes it hung in great toppling masses. 
 All went well with the little funeral party until they came to 
 the top of the pass, and though the day was dead calm the 
 son held the rein with a hand that was like a vice. But just 
 as the mare reached the spot where the wind had frightened
 
 HALL CAINE 
 
 61 
 
 the young horse, there was a terrific noise. An immense 
 body of the snow had parted at that instant from the beetling 
 heights overhead, and rushed down into the valley with the 
 movement as of a mighty earthquake, and the deafening 
 
 ? 
 
 SOMETHING STRAPPED ON ITS BACK 
 
 sound as of a peal of thunder. The dale echoed and re- 
 echoed from side to side, and from height to height. The old 
 mare was affrighted ; she reared, leapt, flung her master away, 
 and galloped off. When they had recovered from their con- 
 sternation, the funeral party gave chase, and at length, down
 
 62 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 in a hollow place, they thought they saw what they were in 
 search of. It was a horse with something strapped on its 
 back. When they came up with it they found it was the 
 young horse, with the coffin of the younger son. They led it 
 away and buried the body that it had carried so long, but the 
 old mare they never recovered, and the body of the mother 
 never found sepulchre. 
 
 Such was the legend, sufficiently terrible, and even ghastly, 
 which was the germ of my first novel. Its fascination for 
 me lay in its shadow and suggestion of the supernatural. I 
 thought it had all ^rtft^are^ the grip of a ghost story 
 
 without ever ^dnKiBraiin passing out of the world 
 
 reality. Imagination 
 
 THE CASTLE ROCK, ST. JOHN'S VALE 
 
 played about the position of that elder son, and ingenuity 
 puzzled itself for the sequel to his story. What did he think ? 
 What did he feel ? What were his superstitions ? What be- 
 came of him ? Did he die mad, or was he a MAN, and did he 
 rise out of all doubt and terror ? I cannot say how many years 
 this ghost of a conception (with various brothers and sisters of 
 a similar complexion) haunted my mind before I recognised it 
 as the central incident of a story, the faggot for a fire from 
 which other incidents might radiate and imaginary characters 
 take life. When I began to think of it in this practical way 
 I was about six-and-twenty, and was lodging in a lonely 
 farmhouse in the Vale of St. John.
 
 HALL CAINE 63 
 
 Rossetti was with me, for I had been up to London at his 
 request, and had brought him down to my retreat. The story 
 of that sojourn among the mountains I have told elsewhere. 
 It lives in my memory as a very sweet and sad experience. 
 The poet was a dying man. He spent a few hours of every 
 day in painful efforts to paint a picture. His nights were 
 long, for sleep never came to him until the small hours of the 
 
 THIRLMERE 
 
 morning ; his sight was troublesome, and he could not read 
 with ease ; he was in that condition of ill-health when he 
 could not bear to be alone, and thus he and I were much 
 together. I was just then looking vaguely to the career of a 
 public lecturer, and was delivering a long course of lectures 
 at Liverpool. The subject was prose fiction, and to fortify 
 myself for the work I was reading the masterpieces over
 
 6 4 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 acram. 
 
 Seeing this, Rossetti suggested that I should read 
 aloud, and I did so. Many an evening we passed in this 
 way. The farmhouse stood at the foot of a fell by the side 
 of the lowest pool of a ghyll, Fishers' Ghyll, and the roar of 
 
 ROSSETTI WALKING 
 
 falling waters could be heard from within. On the farther 
 side of the vale there were black crags where ravens lived, 
 and in the unseen bed of the dale between lay the dark waters 
 of Thirlmere. The surroundings were striking to the eye 
 and ear in the daylight, but when night came, and the lamp
 
 HALL CAINE 
 
 was lit, and the curtains were drawn, and darkness covered 
 everything outside, they were yet more impressive to the imagi- 
 nation. I remember those evenings with gratitude and some 
 pain. The little oblong room, the dull thud of the ghyll like 
 faint thunder overhead, the crackle of the wood fire, myself 
 reading aloud, and Rossetti in a long sack painting coat, his 
 hands thrust into its upright pockets, walking with his heavy 
 and uncertain step to and fro, to and fro, laughing sometimes 
 his big deep laugh, and sometimes sitting down to wipe his 
 moist spectacles and clear 
 his dim eyes. The autumn 
 was far spent, and the nights 
 were long. Not rarely the 
 dead white gleams of the 
 early dawn before the coming 
 of the sun met the yellow 
 light of our candles as we 
 passed on the staircase going 
 to bed a little window that 
 looked up to the mountains, 
 and over them to the east. 
 
 Perhaps it was not all 
 pleasure, so far as I was con- 
 cerned, but certainly it was 
 all profit. The novels we 
 read were ' Tom Jones,' in 
 
 four volumes, and ' Clarissa,' in its original eight, one or 
 two of Smollett's, and some of Scott's. Rossetti had not, 
 I think, been a great reader of fiction, but his critical judg- 
 ment was in some respects the surest and soundest I have 
 known. He was one of the only two men I have ever met 
 with who have given me in personal intercourse a sense 
 of the presence of a gift that is above and apart from talent 
 in a word, of genius. Nothing escaped him. His alert 
 mind seized upon everything. He had never before, I think, 
 
 F 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
 
 66 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 given any thought to fiction as an art, but his intellect played 
 over it like a bright light It amazes me now, after ten years' 
 close study of the methods of story-telling, to recall the 
 general principles which he seemed to formulate out of the 
 back of his head for the defence of his swift verdicts. 'Now 
 why ? ' I would say, when the art of the novelist seemed to 
 me to fail, or when the poet's condemnation appeared 
 extreme. ' Because so-and-so must happen,' he would answer. 
 He was always right. He grasped with masterly strength 
 the operation of the two fundamental factors in the novelist's 
 art the sympathy and the 'tragic mischief.' If these were 
 not working well, he knew by the end of the first chapters 
 that, however fine in observation, or racy in humour, or true in 
 pathos, the work as an organism must fail. 
 
 It was an education in literary art to sharpen one's wits on 
 such a grindstone, to clarify one's thought in such a stream, 
 to strengthen one's imagination by contact with a mind that 
 was ' of imagination all compact.' 
 
 Now, down to that time, though I had often aspired to the 
 writing of plays, it had never occurred to me that I might 
 write a novel. But I began to think of it then as a remote 
 possibility, and the immediate surroundings of our daily life 
 brought back recollection of the old Cumberland legend. I 
 told the story to Rossetti, and he was impressed by it, but he 
 strongly advised me not to tackle it. The incident did not 
 repel him by its ghastliness, but he saw no way of getting 
 sympathy into it on any side. His judgment disheartened 
 me, and I let the idea go back to the dark chambers of 
 memory. He urged me to try my hand at a Manx story. 
 ' ' The Bard of Manxland "it's worth while to be that/ he 
 said he did not know the author of ' Foc's'le Yarns.' I 
 thought so, too, but the Cumbrian ' statesman ' had begun to 
 lay hold of my imagination. I had been reviving my recol- 
 lection and sharpening my practice -of the Cumbrian dialect
 
 HALL CAINE 67 
 
 which had been familiar to my ear, and even to my tongue, 
 in childhood, and so my Manx ambitions had to wait. 
 
 Two years passed, the poet died, I had. spent eighteen 
 months in daily journalism in London, and was then settled 
 in a little bungalow of three rooms in a garden near the 
 beach at Sandown in the Isle of Wight. And there, at 
 length, I began to write my first novel. I had grown im- 
 patient of critical work, had persuaded myself (no doubt 
 wrongly) that nobody would go on writing about other 
 people's writing who could do original writing himself, and 
 was resolved to live on little and earn nothing, and never go 
 back to London until I had written something of some sort. 
 As nearly as I can remember, I had enough to keep things 
 gomg for four months, and if, at the end of that time, nothing 
 had got itself done, I must go back bankrupt. 
 
 Something did get done, but at a heavy price of labour 
 and heart-burning. When I began to think of a theme, I 
 found four or five subjects clamouring for acceptance. There 
 was the story of the Prodigal Son, which afterwards became 
 ' The Deemster ' ; the story of Jacob and Esau, which in the 
 same way turned into ' The Bondman ' ; the story of Samuel 
 and Eli, which, after a fashion, moulded itself ultimately into 
 ' The Scapegoat ' ; and half-a-dozen other stories, chiefly 
 Biblical, which are still on the forehead of my time to come. 
 But the Cumbrian legend was first favourite, and to that I 
 addressed myself. I thought I had seen a way to meet 
 Rossetti's objection. The sympathy was to be got out of the 
 elder son. He was to think God's hand was upon him. But 
 whom God's hand rested on had God at his right hand ; so 
 the elder son was to be a splendid fellow brave, strong, calm, 
 patient, long-suffering, a victim of unrequited love, a man 
 standing square on his legs against all weathers. It is said 
 that the young novelist usually begins with a glorified version 
 of his own character ; but it must interest my friends to see 
 
 F2
 
 68 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 how every quality of my first hero was a rebuke to my own 
 peculiar infirmities. 
 
 MR. HALL CAINE IN HIS STUDY 
 (From a photograph by A, M Pet tit) 
 
 Above this central figure and legendary incident I grouped 
 a family of characters. They were heroic and eccentric, good 
 and bad, but they all operated upon the hero. Then I began 
 to write.
 
 HALL CAfNE 
 
 69 
 
 Shall I ever forget the agony of the first efforts ? There 
 was the ground to clear with necessary explanations. This 
 I did in the way of Scott in a long prefatory chapter. 
 Having written it I read it aloud, and found it unutterably 
 
 MRS. HALL CAINE 
 (From a photograph by A. M. Ptttit) 
 
 slow and dead. Twenty pages were gone, and the interest 
 was not touched. Throwing the chapter aside I began with 
 an alehouse scene, intending to work back to the history in a 
 piece of retrospective writing. The alehouse was better, but 
 to try its quality I read it aloud, after the Rainbow' scene in
 
 7 o MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 ' Silas Marner,' and then cast it aside in despair. A third 
 time I began, and when the alehouse looked tolerable the 
 retrospective chapter that followed it seemed flat and poor. 
 How to begin by gripping the interest, how to fell all and 
 yet never stop the action these were agonising difficulties. 
 
 It took me nearly a fortnight to start that novel, sweating 
 drops as of blood at every fresh attempt. I must have 
 written the first half volume four times at the least. After 
 that I saw the way clearer, and got on faster. > At the end of 
 three months I had written nearly two volumes, and then in 
 good spirits I went up to London. 
 
 My first visit was to J. S. Cotton, an old friend, and to 
 him I detailed the lines of my story. His rapid mind saw a 
 new opportunity. ' You want peine forte et dure,' he said. 
 ' What's that ? ' I said. ' An old punishment a beautiful 
 thing,' he answered. ' Where's my dear old Blackstone ? ' 
 and the statute concerning the punishment for standing mute 
 was read to me. It was just the thing I wanted for my hero, 
 and I was in rapture, but I was also in despair. To work 
 this fresh interest into my theme, half of what I had written 
 would need to be destroyed ! 
 
 It was destroyed, the interesting piece of ancient juris- 
 prudence took a leading place in my scheme, and after two 
 months more I got well into the third volume. Then I took 
 my work down to Liverpool, and showed it to my friend, the 
 late John Lovell, a most able man, first manager of the Press 
 Association, but then editing the local Mercury. After he 
 had read it he said, ' I suppose you want my candid opinion ? ' 
 ' Well, ye s,' I said. ' It's crude,' he said. ' But it only wants 
 sub-editing.' Sub-editing ! 
 
 I took it back to London, began again at the first line, 
 and wrote every page over again. At the end of another 
 month the story had been reconstructed, and was shorter by 
 some fifty pages of manuscript. It had drawn my heart's 
 blood to cut out my pet passages, but they were gone, and I
 
 HALL CA1NE 
 
 I asked, nervously, 
 was all the favourable 
 
 knew the book was better. After that I went on to the end 
 and finished with a tragedy. Then the story was sent back 
 to Lovell, and I waited for his verdict. 
 
 My home (or what served for it) was now on the fourth 
 floor of New Court, in Lincoln's Inn, and one morning Lovell 
 came puffing and blowing and steaming (the good fellow was 
 a twenty-stone man) into my lofty nest. He had re-read my 
 novel coming up in the train. ' Well ? ' 
 ' It's magnificent,' he said. That 
 criticism he offered. All save 
 one practical and tangible bit. 
 'We'll give you ioo/. for the 
 serial right of the story for 
 the Weekly! 
 
 He offered one unfavour- 
 able criticism. ' The death of 
 your hero will never do/ he 
 said. ' If you kill that man 
 Ralph, you'll kill your book. 
 What's the good ? Take no 
 more than the public will 
 give you to begin with, and 
 by-and-by they'll take what 
 you give them: It was prac- 
 tical advice, but it went sorely against my grain. The death 
 of the hero was the natural sequel to the story ; the only end 
 that gave meaning, and intention, and logic to its motif. I had a 
 strong predisposition towards a tragic climax to a serious story. 
 To close a narrative of disastrous events with a happy ending it 
 always seemed necessary to turn every incident into accident. 
 That was like laughing at the reader. Comedy was comedy, 
 but comedy and tragedy together was farce. Then a solemn 
 close was so much more impressive. A happy end nearly 
 always frayed off into rags and nothingness, but a sad one 
 closed and clasped a story as with a clasp. Besides, a tragic 
 
 COMING UP IN THE TRAIN
 
 7 2 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 end might be a glorious and satisfying one, and need by no 
 means be squalid and miserable. But all these arguments 
 went down before my friend's practical assurance : ' Kill that 
 man, and you kill your book.' 
 
 With much diffidence I altered the catastrophe and made 
 my hero happy. Then, thinking my work complete, T asked 
 Mr. Theodore Watts (a friend to whose wise counsel I owed 
 much in those days) to read some ' galley ' slips of it. He 
 thought the rustic scenes good, but advised me to moderate 
 the dialect, and he propounded to me his well-known views 
 on the use of patois in fiction. ' It gives a sense of reality,' 
 he said, ' and often has the effect of wit, but it must not stand 
 in the way.' The advice was sound. A man may know 
 over much of his subject to write on it properly. I had 
 studied Cumbrian to too much purpose, and did not realise 
 that some of my scenes were like sealed books to the 
 general reader. So once again I ran over my story, taking 
 out some of the ' nobbuts ' and the ' dustas ' and the ' wiltas.' 
 
 My first novel was now written, but I had still to get it 
 published. In my early days in London, while trying to live 
 in the outer court of a calling wherein the struggle for 
 existence is keenest and bitterest and cruellest, I conceived 
 one day the idea of offering myself as a reader to the 
 publishers. With this view I called on several of that ilk, 
 who have perhaps no recollection of my early application. I 
 recall my interview with one of them. He was sitting at a 
 table when I was taken into his room, and he never once 
 raised his head from his papers to look at me. I just 
 remember that he had a neck like a three-decker, and a voice 
 like a peahen's. ' Well, sir ? ' he said. I mentioned the 
 object of my visit. ' What can you read ? ' ' Novels and 
 poems,' I answered. ' Don't publish either good day,' he 
 said, and I went out. 
 
 But one of the very best, and quite, I think, the very 
 oldest of publishers now living, received me differently.
 
 HALL CAINE 73 
 
 ' Come into my own room/ he said. It was a lovely little 
 place, full of an atmosphere that recalled the publishing house 
 of the old days, half office, half study ; a workshop where 
 books might be made, not turned out by machinery. I read 
 many manuscripts for that publisher, and must have learned 
 much by the experience. And now that my novel was finished 
 I took it to him first. He offered to publish it the following 
 year. That did not suit me, and I took my book elsewhere. 
 Next day I was offered 5O/. for my copyright. That was 
 wages at the rate of about four shillings a day for the time I 
 had been actually engaged upon the work, sweating brain 
 and heart and every faculty. Nevertheless, one of my friends 
 urged me to accept it. ' Why ? ' I asked. ' Because it is a 
 story of the past, and therefore not one publisher in ten will 
 look at it.' I used strong language, and then took my novel 
 to Chatto & Windus. Within a few hours Mr. Chatto 
 made me an offer which I accepted. The book is now, I 
 think, in its fifteenth edition. 
 
 The story I have told of many breakdowns in the attempt 
 to write my first novel may suggest the idea that I was 
 merely serving my apprenticeship to fiction. It is true that 
 I was, but it would be wrong to conclude that the writing of 
 a novel has been plain sailing with me ever since. Let me 
 ' throw a crust to my critics/ and confess that I am serving 
 my apprenticeship still. Every book that I have written 
 since has offered yet greater difficulties. Not one of the little 
 series but has at some moment been a despair to me. There 
 has always been a point of the story at which I have felt 
 confident that it must kill me. I have written six novels 
 (that is to say, about sixteen), and sworn as many oaths that 
 I would never begin another. Three times I have thrown up 
 commissions in sheer terror of the work ahead of one. Yet 
 here I am at this moment (like half-a-dozen of my fellow- 
 craftsmen), with contracts in hand which I cannot get 
 through for three years. The public expects a novel to be
 
 74 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 light reading. It may revenge itself for occasional dis- 
 appointments by remembering that a novel is not always 
 light writing. 
 
 Let me conclude with a few words that may be timely. 
 Of all the literary cants that I despise and hate, the one I 
 hate and despise the most is that which would have the world 
 believe that greatly gifted men who have become distinguished 
 in literature and are earning thousands a year by it, and have 
 no public existence and no apology apart from it, hold it in 
 pity as a profession and in contempt as an art. For my own 
 part, I have found the profession of letters a serious pursuit, 
 of which in no company and in no country have I had need 
 to be ashamed. It has demanded all my powers, fired all my 
 enthusiasm, developed my sympathies, enlarged my friend- 
 ships, touched, amused, soothed, and comforted me. If it 
 has been hard work, it has also been a constant inspiration, 
 and I would not change it for all the glory and more than all 
 the emoluments of the best-paid and the most illustrious 
 profession in the world.
 
 75 
 
 'THE SOCIAL KALEIDOSCOPE' 
 BY GEORGE R. SIMS 
 
 M 
 
 Y first book hardly de- 
 served the title. I have 
 only a dim remembrance of it 
 now, because it is one of those 
 things which I have studiously 
 set myself to forget- 
 I was very proud 
 of it before I saw 
 it. After I had 
 seen it, I realised in 
 one swift moment's 
 anguish the concen- 
 trated truth of the 
 word vanity as ap- 
 plied to human 
 wishes. Hidden 
 
 away in the bottom corner of an old box, which is not to be 
 opened until after I am dead, that first book lies at the 
 present moment ; that is to say, unless the process of decay, 
 which had already set in upon the paper on which it was 
 printed, has gone on to the bitter end, and the book has dis- 
 appeared entirely of its own accord. 
 
 Before that book was published, I used to lie awake at 
 night and fancy how great and how grand a thing it would 
 
 n 
 
 12 CLARENCE TERRACE
 
 7 6 
 
 M Y FIRST BOOK 
 
 be for me to see a book with my name on the cover lying on 
 Smith's bookstalls, and staring me in the face from the book- 
 sellers' windows. After it was published, I felt that I owed 
 Messrs. Smith & Sons a deep debt of gratitude for refusing 
 to take it, and my heart rejoiced within me greatly that the 
 only booksellers who exhibited it lived principally in old back 
 streets and half-finished suburban thoroughfares. 
 
 THE HALL 
 
 Stay I will go upstairs to my lumber room, I will open 
 that box, I will dig deep down among the buried memories of 
 the past, and I will find that book, and I will summon up my 
 courage and ask the publishers of this volume to kindly allow 
 the cover of that book to be reproduced here. It is only 
 by looking at it as I looked at it that you will thoroughly 
 appreciate my feelings on the subject. 
 
 I have found the box, but my heart sinks within me as I 
 try to open the lid. All my lost youth lies there. The key 
 is rusty and will hardly turn in the lock.
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 So so so, at last ! Ghosts of the long ago, come forth 
 from your resting-places and haunt me once again. 
 
 Dear me ! dear me ! how musty everything smells ; how 
 old, and worn, and time-stained everything is. A folded 
 poster : 
 
 'GRECIAN THEATRE 
 ' Mr. G. R. Sims will positively not appear 
 this evening at the entertainment held in the 
 Hall.' 
 
 Yes, I remember. I had been announced, entirely with- 
 out my consent or knowledge, to appear at a hall attached 
 to the Grecian Theatre with Mrs. 
 Georgina Weldon, and take part in 
 an entertainment. This notice was 
 stuck about outside the theatre in 
 consequence of my indignant remon- 
 strance. My old friend Mr. George 
 Conquest had, I need hardly say, 
 nothing to do with that bill. Some 
 one had taken the hall for a special 
 occasion. I think it was something 
 remotely connected with lunatics. 
 
 My first play ! Poor little play 
 a burlesque written for my brothers 
 and sisters, and played by us in the Theatre Royal Day 
 Nursery. There were some really brilliant lines in it, I 
 remember. They were taken bodily from a burlesque of 
 H. J. Byron's, which I purchased at Lacy & Son's (now 
 French's) in the Strand ' a new and original burlesque by 
 Master G. R. Sims.' My misguided parents actually had the 
 playbill printed and invited friends to witness the performance. 
 They little knew what they were doing by pandering to my 
 boyish vanity in such a way. But for that printed playbill, 
 and that public performance in my nursery, I might never have 
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS 
 
 79 
 
 SOCIAL KALEIDOSCOPE. 
 
 TWENTY-FIVE FIGURES. 
 
 taken to the stage, and inflicted upon a long-suffering public 
 Adelphi melodrama and Gaiety burlesque, farcical comedy and 
 comic opera ; I might have remained all my life an honest, 
 hard-working City man, relieving my feelings occasionally by 
 joining in the autumn discussions in the Daily Telegraph. I 
 was still in the City when my first book was published. I 
 used, in those days, to get to the City at nine and leave it at 
 six, but I had a dinner hour, and in that dinner hour I wrote 
 short stories and little things that I fancied were funny, and 
 I used to put them in 
 big envelopes and send 
 them to the different 
 magazines. I sent 
 about twenty out in 
 that way. I never had 
 one accepted, but seve- 
 ral returned. 
 
 I wrote my first 
 book in my dinner hour, 
 in a City office. I have 
 just found it. Here is 
 the cover. You will 
 observe that it has my 
 portrait on it. I look 
 very ill and thin and 
 haggard. That was, 
 perhaps, the result of 
 going without my din- 
 ner in order to devote myself to ' literature.' 
 
 If you could look inside that book, if you could see the 
 paper on which it is printed, you would understand the shock 
 it was to me when they laid it in my arms and said : ' Behold 
 your firstborn.' 
 
 All the vanity in me (and they tell me that I have a good 
 deal) rose up as I gazed at the battered wreck upon the cover 
 
 "S-i FRANCIS * CO., WINE OFFICE COl'RT, E.C.
 
 .8o 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 the man with the face that suggested a prompt subscription 
 
 to a burial club. 
 
 But I shouldn't have minded that so much if the people 
 
 who bought my book hadn't written to me personally to 
 
 complain. One gentleman sent me a postcard to say that 
 
 his volume fell to pieces while he was carrying it home. 
 
 Another assured me that he had picked enough pieces of 
 
 straw out of the leaves to make 
 a bed for his horse with, and 
 a third returned a copy to me 
 without paying the postage, 
 and asked me kindly to put it 
 in my dustbin, because his 
 cook was rather proud of the 
 'one he had in his back garden. 
 Still the book sold (the 
 sketches had all previously 
 appeared in the Weekly Dis- 
 patch}, and when the first edi- 
 tion was exhausted, a new and 
 better one was prepared (with- 
 out that haggard face upon 
 the cover), and I was happy. 
 The sale ran into thirty thou- 
 THE SNUGGERY sand the first year of publica- 
 
 tion, and as I was fortunate 
 
 enough to have published it on a royalty, I am glad to say 
 
 it is still selling. 
 
 ' The Social Kaleidoscope ' was my first book. With it I 
 
 made my actual debut between covers. 
 
 I hadn't done very well before then ; since then I have, 
 
 from a worldly point of view, done remarkably well far 
 
 better than I deserved to do, my good-natured friends assure 
 
 me, and I cordially agree with them. 
 
 But I had made a good fight for it, and I had suffered 
 
 years of disappointment and rebuff. I began to send contri-
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS 
 
 8.1 
 
 butions to periodicals when I was fourteen years old, and a 
 boy at Hanwell College. Fun was the first journal I favoured 
 with my effusions, and week after week I had a sinking at the 
 heart as I bought that popular periodical and searched in 
 vain for my comic verses, my humorous sketches, and my 
 smart paragraphs. 
 
 It took me thirteen years to get something printed and 
 paid for, but I succeeded at last, and it was Fun, my early- 
 love, that first took me by the hand. When I was on the 
 staff of Fun, and its columns were open to me for all I cared 
 to write, I used often to 
 look over the batch of boy- 
 ish efforts that littered the 
 editor's desk, and let my 
 heart go out to the writers 
 who were suffering the 
 pangs that I had known 
 so well. 
 
 I had had effusions of 
 mine printed before that, 
 but I didn't get any money 
 for them. I had the plea- 
 sure of seeing my signature 
 more than once in the columns of certain theatrical journals, 
 in the days when I was a constant first-nighter, and a deter- 
 mined upholder of the privileges of the pit. And I even 
 had some of my poetry printed. In the old box to which 
 I have gone in search of the first edition of my first book, 
 there are two papers carefully preserved, because they were 
 once my pride and glory. One is a copy of the Halfpenny 
 Journal, and the other is a copy of the Halfpenny Welcome 
 Guest. On the back page of the correspondence column 
 of the former there is a poem signed ' G. R. S.,' addressed 
 to a young lady's initials in affectionately complimentary 
 terms. Alas ! I don't know what has become of that young 
 
 G 
 
 MR. SIMS'S 'LITTLE DAWG '
 
 82 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 lady. Probably she is married, and is the mother of a 
 fine family of boys and girls, and has forgotten that I ever 
 wrote verses in her honour. I think I sent her a copy of 
 the Halfpenny Journal, but a few weeks after a coldness 
 sprang up between us. She was behind the counter of a 
 confectioner's shop in Camden Town, and I found her one 
 afternoon giggling at a young friend of mine who used to buy 
 his butterscotch there. My friend and I had words, but 
 
 THE DINING-ROOM 
 
 between myself and that fair confectioner ' the rest was 
 silence.' 
 
 I was really very much distressed that my pride com- 
 pelled me never again to cross the threshold of that 
 establishment. There wasn't a confectioner's in all Camden 
 Town that could come within measurable distance of it for 
 strawberry ices. 
 
 In the correspondence column of the Halfpenny Welcome 
 Guest, which is among my buried treasures, there is an 
 'answer ' instead of the poem which I had fondly hoped to
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS 
 
 see inserted in its glorious pages. And this is the answer : 
 ' G. R. S. Your poem is not quite up to our standard, but it 
 gives decided promise of better things. We should advise 
 you to persevere.' 
 
 I am quoting from memory, for after turning that box 
 upside down, I can't lay my hand on this particular Welcome 
 Guest, though I know that it is there. I don't know who the 
 editor was who gave me that kindly pat on the head, but 
 whoever he was he earned my 
 undying gratitude. At the time 
 I felt I should have liked him 
 better had he printed my poem. 
 I was no more fortunate with 
 my prose than I was with my 
 poetry. I began to tell stories 
 at a very early age, but it was 
 not until after I had succeeded 
 in getting a poem printed among 
 the ' Answers to Correspondents ' 
 that I took seriously to prose 
 with a view of publication. I 
 was encouraged to try my hand 
 at writing stories by the remem- 
 brance of the success which had 
 attended my efforts at romantic 
 narrative when I was a school- 
 boy. 
 
 There were eight other boys in the dormitory I slept in 
 at Hanwell (the College, not the Asylum), and they used to 
 make me tell them stories every night until they fell asleep, 
 and woe betide me if I cut my narrative short while one of 
 them remained awake. I wasn't much of a boy with a 
 bolster or a boot, but they were all champions, and many a 
 time when I had married the hero and heroine and wound up 
 my story did I have to start a fresh complication in a hurry 
 
 THE LIBRARY
 
 8 4 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 to save myself from chastisement. I remember on one 
 occasion, when I was dreadfully sleepy, and I had got into a 
 fearful fog as to who committed the murder, I made a wild 
 plunge at a ghost to get me out of the difficulty, and the 
 whole dormitory rose to a boy and set about me with bolsters 
 in their indignation at such a lame and impotent conclusion. 
 Night after night did those maddening words, 'Tell us 
 a story,' salute my ears as I laid my weary little head 
 upon the pillow, and I had to tell one or run the gauntlet of 
 eight bolsters and sixteen slippers, to say nothing of the 
 
 ' SIR HUGO ' 
 
 biggest boy of all, who kept a reserve pair of boots hidden 
 away under his bed for purposes not altogether unconnected 
 with midnight excursions to a neighbouring orchard. 
 
 It was the remembrance of my early story-telling days 
 that prompted me, when poetry seemed a drug in the market, 
 to try my hand at what is now, I believe, called ' The 
 Complete Novelette.' 
 
 I set myself seriously to work, laid in a large stock of 
 apples and jumbles, and spent several consecutive afternoons 
 in completing a story which I called ' A Pleasant Evening.' 
 After I had written it I copied it out in my best hand,
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS 85 
 
 and then, with fear and trembling, I sent it to the Family 
 Herald. 
 
 I sent it to the Family Herald because I had heard a 
 lady who visited at our house say that she knew a lady who 
 knew a lady who had sent a story to the Family Herald, 
 never having written anything before in her life, and the 
 story had been accepted, and the writer had received five 
 pounds for it by return of post. 
 
 THE BALCONY 
 
 I didn't receive anything by return of post, but in about 
 a fortnight my manuscript came back to me. Nothing 
 daunted, I carefully cut off the corner on which ' Declined 
 with thanks ' had been written, and I sent the story to 
 C/iambers's Journal. Here it met with a similar fate, but I 
 fancy it took a little longer to come back, and it bore signs 
 of wear and tear. I knew, or I had read, that it was not 
 wise to let your manuscript have the appearance of being 
 rejected, so I spent several unpleasant evenings in writing ' A 
 Pleasant Evening' out again, and I sent it to A II the Year Round.
 
 86 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 It came back ! This time I didn't take the trouble to 
 open it. I knew it directly I saw it, and as it reached me so 
 I flung it in my desk and bit my lips, and made up my mind 
 that after all it was better to be accepted as a poet in the 
 ' Answers to Correspondents ' column of the Halfpenny 
 
 Journal than to be 
 rejected as a story- 
 writer by the edi- 
 tors of higher- 
 priced periodicals. 
 
 though j 
 
 played with poetry 
 again, I didn't even 
 succeed in getting 
 into the ' Answers to Correspondents.' My vaulting ambition 
 o'erleaped its selle, and I sent my verses to journals which 
 didn't ' correspond.' In those days I kept a little book, in 
 which I entered all the manuscripts I sent to editors, and from 
 it now I copy the following instructive record. R stands 
 for ' Returned ' : 
 
 Once a Week ' The Minstrel's Curse ' . R. 
 
 Belgravia . ' After the Battle ' . R. 
 
 Broadway . ' After the Battle ' . R. 
 
 Fun . . ' Nearer and Dearer ' . . R. 
 
 Fun . ' An Unfortunate Attachment ' . R. 
 
 Fun . . 'A Song of May ' . R. 
 
 Banter . . ' Nearer and Dearer ' . . R. 
 
 Judy . ' An Unfortunate Attachment ' . R. 
 
 London Society ' The Minstrel's Curse ' . . R. 
 
 Owl . . ' Nearer and Dearer ' . . R. 
 
 Returned ! Returned ! Returned ! All I got for my 
 pains was the chance of making a joke in my diary on my 
 birthday. In those days of my wild struggles with Fate I 
 find written against the 2nd of September, ' Many unhappy 
 Returns.'
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS 
 
 87 
 
 I believe that I should have flung up authorship in 
 despair, and never have had a first book, but for the chance 
 remark of the dear old doctor who looked after my health in 
 the days when I hadn't to pay my own doctor's bills. 
 
 He was talking about me one day in my father's private 
 office, and I happened to be passing, and I heard him say, 
 ' He's a nice lad what a pity he scribbles ! ' Scribbles ! the 
 
 THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 word burnt itself into my brain, it seared my heart, it brought 
 the hot blood to my cheeks, and the indignant tears to my 
 eyes. Was I not ready to write an acrostic at a moment's 
 notice on the name of the sweetheart of any fellow who asked 
 me to do it? Had I not written a poem on the fall of 
 Napoleon, which my eldest sister had read aloud to her 
 schoolfellows, and made them all mad with jealousy to think
 
 88 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 there wasn't a brother among the lot of them who could even 
 rhyme decently? Had I not had stories rejected by the 
 Family Herald, All the Year Round, and Chambers 's Journal, 
 and a letter on the subject of the crossing opposite St. Mark's 
 Church, Hamilton Terrace, printed in the Marylebone 
 Mercury ? And was I to be dubbed a scribbler, and pitied 
 for my weakness ? It is nearly twenty years since those 
 words were uttered, and my dear old doctor rests beyond the 
 reach of all human ills, but I can hear them now. They 
 have never ceased to ring in my ears as they rang that day. 
 
 ' FAUST UP TO DATE ' 
 
 My pride was wounded, my vanity was hurt, I was put 
 upon my mettle. I registered a silent vow there and then 
 that some day I would have a noble revenge on my friendly 
 detractor, and make him confess that he was wrong when he 
 said that it was a pity I scribbled. 
 
 From that hour I set myself steadily to be an author. I 
 wrote poetry by the mile, prose by the acre, and I sent it to 
 every kind of periodical that I could find in the ' Post Office 
 Directory.' 
 
 I had to pass through years of rejection, but still I wrote
 
 GEORGE R. SIMS 89 
 
 on, and still I spent all my pocket-money on books, and 
 postage-stamps, and paper. 
 
 And at last the chance came. I was allowed to write 
 paragraphs in the Weekly DispatcJi by a friend who was a real 
 journalist, and had a column at his disposal to fill with 
 gossip. 
 
 After doing the work for a month for nothing, I had the 
 whole column given to me, and one day I received my first 
 guinea earned by scribbling. 
 
 MR. SIMS'S DINNER PARTY 
 
 I was a proud man when I went out of the Dispatch office 
 that day with a sovereign and a shilling in my hand. I had 
 forced the gates of the citadel at last. I had marched in with 
 the honours of war, and I was marching out with the price of 
 victory in my hand. 
 
 Soon afterwards there came another chance. The editor 
 of the Dispatch wanted a series of short complete stories. I 
 asked to be allowed to try if I could do them. Under the 
 title of ' The Social Kaleidoscope,' I wrote a series of short 
 stories or sketches, and from that day no week has passed
 
 9 o MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 that I have not contributed something to the columns of a 
 weekly journal. 
 
 When the sketches were complete, the publisher of the 
 Dispatch offered to bring them out in book form for me and 
 publish them in the office. 
 
 ' The Social Kaleidoscope ' was my first book, and that is 
 how it came into the world. 
 
 Years afterwards, my chance came with the dear old 
 fellow who had said that it was a pity I scribbled so. Fortune 
 had smiled upon me in one way then, and I was earning an 
 excellent income with my pen. But my health had broken 
 down, and it was thought necessary that I should place 
 myself in the hands of a celebrated surgeon. I had not seen 
 my old doctor for some years, but my people wished that he 
 should be consulted, because he had known me so well in the 
 days of my youth. 
 
 So I submitted, and he came, and he shook his head and 
 agreed that so-and-so was the man to take me in hand. 
 
 ' I think he'll cure you, my dear fellow,' said the doctor ; 
 ' he's the most skilful surgeon we have for cases like yours, 
 but his fee is a heavy one. Still, you can afford it.' 
 
 'Yes, doctor,' I replied, ' thanks to my scribbling, I can.' 
 
 That was the hour of my triumph. I had waited for it 
 for fifteen years, but it had come at last. 
 
 The dear old boy gripped my hand. ' I was wrong, 1 he 
 said, with a quiet smile, ' and I confess it ; but we'll get you 
 well, and you shall scribble for many a year to come.' 
 
 And I am scribbling still.
 
 'DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES' 
 BY RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 S there is only one man in 
 charge of a steamer, so 
 there is but one man 
 in charge of a news- 
 paper, and he is the 
 editor. My chief 
 taught me this on an 
 Indian journal, and he further 
 explained that an order was an 
 order, to be obeyed at a run, not 
 a walk, and that any notion or 
 notions as to the fitness or unfit- 
 ness of any particular kind of 
 work for the young had better be 
 
 held over till the last page was locked up to press. He was 
 breaking me into harness, and I owe him a deep debt of 
 gratitude, which I did not discharge at the time. The path 
 of virtue was very steep, whereas the writing of verses allowed 
 a certain play to the mind, and, unlike the filling in of reading 
 matter, could be done as the spirit served. Now, a sub-editor 
 is not hired to write verses : he is paid to sub-edit. At the 
 time, this discovery shocked me greatly ; but, some years 
 later, when I came to be a sort of an editor in charge, Provi- 
 dence dealt me for my subordinate one saturated with Elia. 
 
 THE NEWSPAPER FILES
 
 9 2 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 He wrote very pretty, Lamblike essays, but he wrote them 
 when he should have been sub-editing. Then I saw a little 
 of what my chief must have suffered on my account. There 
 is a moral here for the ambitious and aspiring who are 
 oppressed by their superiors. 
 
 ' YOUR POTERY VERY GOOD, SIR ; JUST COMING 
 PROPER LENGTH TO-DAY ' 
 
 This is a digression, as all my verses were digressions from 
 office work. They came without invitation, unmanneredly, 
 in the nature of things ; but they had to come, and the 
 writing out of them kept me healthy and amused. To the 
 best of my remembrance, no one then discovered their 
 grievous cynicism, or their pessimistic tendency, and I was 
 far too busy, and too happy, to take thought about these things.
 
 94 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 So they arrived merrily, being born out of the life about 
 me, and they were very bad indeed, and the joy of doing 
 them was payment a thousand times their worth. Some, of 
 course, came and ran away again, and the dear sorrow of 
 going in search of these (out of office hours, and catching 
 them) was almost better than writing them clear. Bad as 
 they were, I burned twice as many as were published, and of 
 the survivors at least two-thirds were cut down at the last 
 moment. Nothing can be wholly beautiful that is not useful, 
 and therefore my verses were made to ease off the perpetual 
 strife between the manager extending his advertisements and 
 my chief fighting for his reading-matter. They were born to 
 be sacrificed. Rukn-Din, the foreman of our side, approved 
 of them immensely, for he was a Muslim of culture. He 
 would say : ' Your potery very good, sir ; just coming proper 
 length to-day. You giving more soon ? One-third column 
 just proper. Always can take on third page.' 
 
 Mahmoud, who set them up, had an unpleasant way of 
 referring to a new lyric as ' Ek aur chiz ' one more thing 
 which I never liked. The job side, too, were unsympathetic, 
 because 1 used to raid into their type for private proofs with 
 old English and Gothic headlines. Even a Hindoo does not 
 like to find the serifs of his f's cut away to make long s's. 
 
 And in this manner, week by week, my verses came to be 
 printed in the paper. I was in very good company, for there 
 is always an undercurrent of song, a little bitter for the most 
 part, running through the Indian papers. The bulk of it is 
 much better than mine, being more graceful, and is done 
 by those less than Sir Alfred Lyall to whom I would 
 apologise for mentioning his name in this gallery ' Pekin,' 
 'Latakia,' 'Cigarette,' 'O.,' ' T.W./ 'Foresight,' and others, 
 whose names come up with the stars out of the Indian Ocean 
 going eastward. 
 
 Sometimes a man in Bangalore would be moved to song, 
 and a man on the Bombay side would answer him, and a
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING 95 
 
 man in Bengal would echo back, till at last we would all be 
 crowing together like cocks before daybreak, when it is too 
 dark to see your fellow. And, occasionally, some unhappy 
 Chaaszee, away in the China Ports, would lift up his voice 
 among the tea-chests, and the queer-smelling yellow papers 
 of the Far East brought us his sorrows. The newspaper 
 files showed that, forty years ago, the men sang of just the 
 same subjects as we did of heat, loneliness, love, lack of 
 promotion, poverty, sport, and war. Further back still, at the 
 end of the eighteenth century, Rickey's Bengal Gazette, a 
 very wicked little sheet in Calcutta, published the songs of 
 the young factors, ensigns, and writers to the East India 
 Company. They, too, wrote of the same things, but in those 
 days men were strong enough to buy a bullock's heart for 
 dinner, cook it with their own hands because they could not 
 afford a servant, and make a rhymed jest of all the squalor 
 and poverty. Lives were not worth two monsoons' purchase, 
 and perhaps the knowledge of this a little coloured the 
 rhymes when they sang : 
 
 In a very short time you're released from all cares 
 If the Padri's asleep, Mr. Oldham reads prayers ! 
 
 The note of physical discomfort that runs through so 
 much Anglo-Indian poetry had been struck then. You will 
 find it most fully suggested in ' The Long, Long Indian Day,' 
 a comparatively modern affair ; but there is a set of verses 
 called ' Scanty Ninety-five,' dated about Warren Hastings's 
 time, which gives a lively idea of what our seniors in the 
 Service had to put up with. One of the most interesting 
 poems I ever found was written at Meerut, three or four days 
 before the Mutiny broke out there. The author complained 
 that he could not get his clothes washed nicely that week, 
 and was very facetious over his worries. 
 
 My verses had the good fortune to last a little longer than 
 some others, which were more true to facts and certainly
 
 9 6 
 
 MY FIXST BOOK 
 
 better workmanship. Men in the Army, and the Civil 
 Service, and the Railway, wrote to me saying that the rhymes 
 might be made into a book. Some of them had been sung 
 
 o o 
 
 to the banjoes round camp fires, and some had run as far 
 down coast as Rangoon and Moulmein, and up to Mandalay. 
 A real book was out of the question, but I knew that Rukn- 
 Din and the office plant were at my disposal at a price, if I 
 did not use the office time. Also, I had handled in the 
 previous year a couple of small books, of which I was part 
 
 SUNG TO THE BANJOES ROUND CAMP FIRES 
 
 owner, and had lost nothing. So there was built a sort of a 
 book, a lean oblong docket, wire-stitched, to imitate a D.O. 
 Government envelope, printed on one side only, bound in 
 brown paper, and secured with red tape. It was addressed 
 to all heads of departments and all Government officials, and 
 among a pile of papers would have deceived a clerk of twenty 
 years' service. Of these ' books ' we made some hundreds, 
 and as there was no necessity for advertising, my public being 
 to my hand, I took reply-postcards, printed the news of the 
 birth of the book on one side, the blank order-form on the
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 97 
 
 other, and posted them up and down the Empire from Aden 
 to Singapore, and from Quetta to Colombo. There was no 
 trade discount, no reckoning twelves as thirteens, no commis- 
 sion, and no credit of any kind whatever. The money came 
 back in poor but honest rupees, and was transferred from the 
 publisher, the left-hand pocket, direct to the author, the right- 
 hand pocket. Every copy sold in a few weeks, and the ratio 
 of expenses to profits, as I remember it, has since prevented 
 my injuring my health by sympathising with publishers who 
 talk of their risks and advertisements. The down-country 
 papers complained of the form 
 of the thing. The wire binding 
 cut the pages, and the red tape 
 tore the covers. This was not 
 intentional, but Heaven helps 
 those who help themselves. Con- 
 sequently, there arose a demand 
 for a new edition, and this time I 
 exchanged the pleasure of taking 
 in money over the counter for 
 that of seeing a real publisher's 
 imprint on the title-page. More verses were taken out and 
 put in, and some of that edition travelled as far as Hong- 
 Kong on the map, and each edition grew a little fatter, and, 
 at last, the book came to London with a gilt top and a stiff 
 back, and was advertised in the publishers' poetry depart- 
 ment. 
 
 But I loved it best when it was a little brown baby with a 
 pink string round its stomach ; a child's child, ignorant that 
 it was afflicted with all the most modern ailments ; and 
 before people had learned, beyond doubt, how its author 
 lay awake of nights in India, plotting and scheming to 
 write something that should ' take ' with the English public. 
 
 H
 
 99 
 
 x 
 
 I WAS SIX 
 
 JUVENILIA 
 BY A. CONAN DOYLE 
 
 T is very well for the master crafts- 
 man with twenty triumphs be- 
 hind him to look down the vista 
 of his successes, and to recall how 
 he picked out the path which has 
 led him to fame, but for the tiro 
 whose first book is perilously near 
 to his last one it becomes a more 
 invidious matter. His past presses 
 too closely upon his present, and 
 
 his reminiscences, unmellowed by the flight of years, are apt 
 to be rawly and crudely personal. And yet even time helps 
 me when I speak of my first work, for it was written seven-and- 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 I was six at the time, and have a very distinct recollection 
 of the achievement. It was written, I remember, upon fools- 
 cap paper, in what might be called a fine bold hand four 
 words to the line, and was illustrated by marginal pen-and-ink 
 sketches by the author. There was a man in it, and there 
 was a tiger. I forget which was the hero, but it didn't matter 
 much, for they became blended into one about the time when 
 the tiger met the man. I was a realist in the age of the 
 Romanticists, I described at some length, both verbally and 
 pictorially, the untimely end of that wayfarer. But when
 
 ioo MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 the tiger had absorbed him, I found myself slightly embar- 
 rassed as to how my story was to go on. ' It is very easy to 
 get people into scrapes, and very hard to get them out again,' 
 I remarked, and I have often had cause to repeat the pre- 
 cocious aphorism of my childhood. On this occasion the 
 situation was beyond me, 
 and my book, like my man, 
 was engulfed in my tiger. 
 There is an old family bureau 
 with secret drawers, in which 
 lie little locks of hair tied 
 up in circles, and black sil- 
 houettes and dim daguerreo- 
 types, and letters 
 which seem to have 
 been written in the 
 lightest of straw- 
 
 ON THE PRAIRIES AND THE OCEANS 
 
 coloured inks. Somewhere there lies my primitive manu- 
 script, where my tiger, like a many-hooped barrel with a 
 tail to it, still envelops the hapless stranger whom he has 
 taken in.
 
 A. CON AN DOYLE TOT 
 
 Then came my second book, which was told and not 
 written, but which was a much more ambitious effort than 
 the first. Between the two, four years had elapsed, which 
 were mainly spent in reading. It is rumoured that a special 
 meeting of a library committee was held in my honour, at 
 which a bye-law was passed that no subscriber should be per- 
 mitted to change his book more than three times a day. Yet, 
 
 , even with these limitations, 
 by the aid of a well-stocked 
 bookcase at home, I managed 
 
 MY DEBUT AS A STORY-TELLER 
 
 to enter my tenth year with a good deal in my head that I 
 could never have learned in the class-rooms. 
 
 I do not think that life has any joy to offer so com- 
 plete, so soul-filling as that which comes upon the imaginative 
 lad, whose spare time is limited, but who is able to snuggle 
 down into a corner with his book, knowing that the next hour 
 is all his own. And how vivid and fresh it all is ! Your very 
 heart and soul are out on the prairies and the oceans with 
 your hero. It is you who act and suffer and enjoy. You carry 
 the long small-bore Kentucky rifle with which such egregious
 
 102 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 things are done, and you lie out upon the topsail yard, and 
 get jerked by the flap of the sail into the Pacific, where you 
 cling on to the leg of an albatross, and so keep afloat until 
 the comic boatswain turns up with his crew of volunteers ta 
 handspike you into safety. What a magic it is, this stirring 
 of the boyish heart and mind ! Long ere I came to my teens 
 I had traversed every sea and knew the Rockies like my own 
 back garden. How often had I sprung upon the back of the 
 
 charging buffalo and so escaped 
 i *i him ! It was an everyday emer- 
 
 gency to have to set the prairie 
 on fire in front of me in order 
 to escape from the fire behind, or 
 to run a mile down a brook to 
 throw the bloodhounds off my 
 trail. I had creased horses, I 
 had shot down rapids, I had 
 strapped on my mocassins hind- 
 foremost to conceal my tracks, 
 I had lain under water with a 
 reed in my mouth, and I had 
 feigned madness to escape the 
 torture. As to the Indian braves 
 whom I slew in single combats, 
 I could have stocked a large 
 graveyard, and, fortunately enough, though I was a good deal 
 chipped about in these affairs, no real harm ever came of it, 
 and I was always nursed back into health by a very fasci- 
 nating young squaw. It was all more real than the reality. 
 Since those days I have in very truth both shot bears and 
 harpooned whales, but the performance was flat compared with 
 the first time that I did it with Mr. Ballantyne or Captain 
 Mayne Reid at my elbow. 
 
 In the fulness of time I was packed off to a public school, 
 and in some way it was discovered by my playmates that I 
 
 ; WITH THE EDITOR'S 
 COMPLIMENTS '
 
 A. CONAN DOYLE 
 
 103 
 
 had more than my share of the lore after which they 
 hankered. There was my debut as a story-teller. On a wet 
 half-holiday I have been elevated on to a desk, and with an 
 audience of little boys all squatting on the floor, with their 
 chins upon their hands, I have talked myself husky over the 
 misfortunes of my heroes. Week in and week out those 
 unhappy men have battled and striven and groaned for the 
 amusement of that little circle. I 
 was bribed with pastry to continue 
 these efforts, and I remember that 
 I always stipulated for tarts down 
 and strict business, which shows 
 that I was born to be a member 
 of the Authors' Society. Some- 
 times, too, I would stop dead in the 
 very thrill of a crisis, and could 
 only be set agoing again by apples. 
 When I had got as far as ' With 
 his left hand in her glossy locks, 
 he was waving the blood-stained 
 
 knife above her head, when ' or 
 
 ' Slowly, slowly, the door turned 
 upon its hinges, and with eyes which 
 were dilated with horror, the wicked 
 
 Marquis saw ' I knew that I 
 
 had my audience in my power. And 
 thus my second book was evolved. 
 
 It may be that my literary experiences would have ended 
 there had there not come a time in my early manhood when 
 that good old harsh-faced schoolmistress, Hard Times, took 
 me by the hand. I wrote, and with amazement I found that 
 my writing was accepted. Chambers' s Journal it was which 
 rose to the occasion, and I have had a kindly feeling for its 
 mustard-coloured back ever since. Fifty little cylinders of 
 manuscript did I send out during eight years, which described 
 
 HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT THEY 
 SAY ABOUT YOU ? '
 
 104 My FIRST BOOK 
 
 irregular orbits among publishers, and usually came back like 
 paper boomerangs to the place that they had started from. 
 Yet in time they all lodged somewhere or other. Mr. Hogg, 
 of London Society, was one of the most constant of my patrons, 
 and Mr. James Payn wasted hours of his valuable time in en- 
 couraging me to persevere. Knowing as I did that he was 
 one of the busiest men in London, I never received one of his 
 shrewd and kindly and most illegible letters without a feeling 
 of gratitude and wonder. 
 
 I have heard folk talk as though there were some hidden 
 back door by which one may creep into literature, but I can 
 say myself that I never had an introduction to any editor or 
 publisher before doing business with them, and that I do not 
 think that I suffered on that account. Yet my apprentice- 
 ship was a long and trying one. During ten years of hard 
 work, I averaged less than fifty pounds a year from my pen. 
 I won my way into the best journals, Cornhill, Temple Bar, 
 and so on ; but what is the use of that when the contributions 
 to those journals must be anonymous ? It is a system which 
 tells very hardly against young authors. I saw with astonish- 
 ment and pride that ' Habakuk Jephson's Statement ' in the 
 Cornhill was attributed by critic after critic to Stevenson, but, 
 overwhelmed as I was by the compliment, a word of the most 
 lukewarm praise sent straight to my own address would have 
 been of greater use to me. After ten years of such work I 
 was as unknown as if I had never dipped a pen into an ink- 
 bottle. Sometimes, of course, the anonymous system may 
 screen you from blame as well as rob you of praise. How 
 well I can see a dear old friend running after me in the street, 
 waving a London evening paper in his hand ! ' Have you 
 seen what they say about your Cornhill story ? ' he shouted. 
 , No, no. What is it ? ' ' Here it is ! Here it is ! ' Eagerly 
 he turned over the column, while I, trembling with excite- 
 ment, but determined to bear my honours meekly, peeped 
 over his shoulder. ' The Cornhill this month,' said the critic,
 
 A. CONAN DOYLE 105 
 
 ' has a story in it which would have made Thackeray turn in 
 his grave.' There were several witnesses about, and the 
 Portsmouth bench are severe upon assaults, so my friend 
 escaped unscathed. Then first I realised that British criticism 
 had fallen into a shocking state of decay, though when some 
 one has a pat on the back for you you understand that, 
 
 'MRS. THURSTON'S LITTLE BOY WANTS TO SEE YOU, DOCTOR' 
 
 after all, there are some very smart people upon the literary 
 Press. 
 
 And so at last it was brought home to me that a man 
 may put the very best that is in him into magazine work for 
 years and years and reap no benefit from it, save, of course, 
 the inherent benefits of literary practice. So I wrote another 
 of my first books and sent it off to the publishers. Alas for 
 the dreadful thing that happened ! The publishers never
 
 io6 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 received it, the Post Office sent countless blue forms to say that 
 they knew nothing about it, and from that day to this no word 
 has ever been heard of it. Of course it was the best thing I ever 
 wrote. Who ever lost a manuscript that wasn't ? But I must 
 in all honesty confess that my shock at its disappearance would 
 be as nothing to my horror if it were suddenly to appear again 
 in print. If one or two other of my earlier efforts had also 
 been lost in the post, my conscience would have been the 
 lighter. This one was called ' The Narrative of John Smith,' 
 and it was of a personal-social-political complexion. Had it 
 appeared I should have probably awakened to find myself 
 infamous, for it steered, as I remember it, perilously near to 
 the libellous. However, it was safely lost, and that was the 
 end of another of my first books. 
 
 Then I started upon an exceedingly sensational novel, 
 which interested me extremely at the time, though I have 
 never heard that it had the same effect upon anyone else 
 afterwards. I may urge in extenuation of all shortcomings 
 that it was written in the intervals of a busy though ill-paying 
 practice. And a man must try that and combine it with 
 literary work before he quite knows what it means. How 
 often have I rejoiced to find a clear morning before me, and 
 settled down to my task, or rather, dashed ferociously at it, 
 as knowing how precious were those hours of quiet ! Then 
 to me enter my housekeeper, with tidings of dismay. ' Mrs. 
 Thurston's little boy wants to see you, doctor.' ' Show him 
 in,' say I, striving to fix my scene in my mind that I may 
 splice it when this trouble is over. ' Well, my boy ? ' 
 ' Please, doctor, mother wants to know if she is to add water 
 to that medicine.' ' Certainly, certainly.' Not that it matters 
 in the least, but it is well to answer with decision. Exit the 
 little boy, and the splice is about half accomplished when he 
 suddenly bursts into the room again. ' Please, doctor, when 
 I got back mother had taken the medicine without the water.' 
 'Tut, tut!' I answer. 'It really does not matter in the
 
 A. CON AN DOYLE 107 
 
 least.' The youth withdraws with a suspicious glance, and 
 one more paragraph has been written when the husband puts 
 in an appearance. ' There seems to have been some misun- 
 derstanding about that medicine,' he remarks coldly. ' Not 
 at all,' I say, ' it really didn't matter.' ' Well, then, why did 
 you tell the boy that it should be taken with water ? ' And then 
 I try to disentangle the business, and the husband shakes his 
 head gloomily at me. ' She feels very queer,' says he ; ' we 
 should all be easier in our minds if you came and looked at 
 
 
 MR. ANDREW LANG 
 
 her.' So I leave my heroine in the four-foot way with an 
 express thundering towards her, and trudge sadly off, with 
 the feeling that another morning has been wasted, and 
 another seam left visible to the critic's eye in my unhappy 
 novel. Such was the genesis of my sensational romance, and 
 when publishers wrote to say that they could see no merit in 
 it, I was, heart and soul, of the same way of thinking. 
 
 And then, under more favourable circumstances, I wrote
 
 io8 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 1 Micah Clarke,' for patients had become more tractable, and 
 I had married, and in every way I was a brighter man. A 
 year's reading and five months' writing finished it, and I 
 thought I had a tool in my hands that would cut a path for 
 me. So I had, but the first thing that I cut with it was my 
 finger. I sent it to a friend, whose opinion I deeply respected, 
 in London, who read for one of the leading houses, but he 
 had been bitten by the historical novel, and very naturally 
 he distrusted it. From him it went to house after house, and 
 house after house would have none of it. Blackwood found 
 that the people did not talk so in the seventeenth century ; 
 Bentley that its principal defect was that there was a com- 
 plete absence of interest ; Cassells that experience had shown 
 that an historical novel could never be a commercial success. 
 I remember smoking over my dog-eared manuscript when it 
 returned for a whiff of country air after one of its descents 
 upon town, and wondering what I should do if some sporting, 
 reckless kind of publisher were suddenly to stride in and 
 make me a bid of forty shillings or so for the lot. And then 
 suddenly I bethought me to send it to Messrs. Longmans, 
 where it was fortunate enough to fall into the hands of Mr. 
 Andrew Lang. From that day the way was smoothed to it, 
 and, as things turned out, I was spared that keenest sting of 
 ill-success, that those who had believed in your work should 
 suffer pecuniarily for their belief. A door had been opened 
 for me into the temple of the Muses, and it only remained 
 that I should find something that was worthy of being borne 
 through it.
 
 'THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT' 
 BY M. E. BRADDON 
 
 MY first novel ! Far back in the distinctness of childish 
 memories I see a little girl who has lately learnt to 
 write, who has lately been given a beautiful brand-new 
 mahogany desk, with a red velvet slope, and a glass ink- 
 bottle, such a desk as might now be bought for three-and- 
 sixpence, but which in the forties cost at least half a guinea. 
 Very proud is the little girl, with the Kenwigs pigtails and 
 the Kenwigs frills, of that mahogany desk, and its infinite 
 capacities for literary labour, above all, gem of gems, its stick 
 of variegated sealing-wax, brown, speckled with gold, and its 
 little glass seal with an intaglio representing two doves 
 Pliny's doves, perhaps, famous in mosaic, only the little girl 
 had never heard of Pliny, or his Laurentine Villa. 
 
 Armed with that desk and its supply of stationery, Mary 
 Elizabeth Braddon very fond of writing her name at full 
 length, and her address also at full length, though the word 
 ' Middlesex ' offered difficulties began that pilgrimage on the 
 broad high road of fiction, which was destined to be a longish 
 one. So much for the little girl of eight years old, in the 
 third person, and now to become strictly autobiographical. 
 
 My first story was based on those fairy tales which first 
 opened to me the world of imaginative literature. My first 
 attempt in fiction, and in round-hand, on carefully pencilled 
 double lines, was a story of two sisters, a good sister and a
 
 no MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 wicked, and I fear adhered more faithfully to the lines of the 
 archetypal story than the writer's pen kept to the double 
 fence which should have ensured neatness. 
 
 The interval between the ages of eight and twelve was a 
 prolific period, fertile in unfinished MSS., among which I 
 can now trace an historical novel on the Siege of Calais, an 
 Eastern story, suggested by a passionate love of Miss Pardoe's 
 Turkish tales, and Byron's ' Bride of Abydos,' which my 
 mother, a devoted Byron worshipper, allowed me to read 
 aloud to her and doubtless murder in the reading a story 
 
 LICHFIELD HOUSE, RICHMOND 
 
 of the Hartz Mountains, with audacious flights in German 
 diablerie ; and lastly, very seriously undertaken, and very 
 perseveringly worked upon, a domestic story, the outline of 
 which was suggested by the same dear and sympathetic 
 mother. 
 
 Now it is a curious fact, which may or may not be 
 common to other story-spinners, that I have never been able 
 to take kindly to a plot or the suggestion of a plot offered 
 to me by anybody else. The moment a friend tells me that 
 he or she is desirous of imparting a series of facts strictly 
 true as if truth in fiction mattered one jot ! which
 
 M. E. BR ADDON 
 
 in his or her opinion would make the ground plan of an 
 admirable, startling, and altogether original three-volume 
 novel, I know in advance that my imagination will never 
 grapple with those startling circumstances that my thoughts 
 will begin to wander before my friend has got half through 
 the remarkable chain of events, and that if the obliging pur- 
 veyor of romantic incidents were to examine me at the end 
 of the story, I should be spun ignominiously. For the most 
 part, such subjects as have t 
 
 been proposed to me by 
 friends have been hopelessly 
 unfit for the circulating li- 
 brary ; or, where not immoral, 
 have been utterly dull ; but it 
 is, I believe, a fixed idea in 
 the novel-reader's mind that 
 any combination of events 
 out of the beaten way of life 
 will make an admirable sub- 
 ject for the novelist's art. 
 
 My dear mother, taking 
 into consideration my tender 
 years, and perhaps influenced 
 in somewise by her own love 
 of picking up odd bits of She- 
 raton or Chippendale furni- 
 ture in the storehouses of the less ambitious second-hand dealers 
 of those simpler days, offered me the following scenario for a 
 domestic story. It was an incident which, I doubt not, she had 
 often read at the tail of a newspaper column, and which cer- 
 tainly savours of the gigantic gooseberry, the sea-serpent, and 
 the agricultural labourer who unexpectedly inherits half a 
 million. It was eminently a Simple Story, and far more 
 worthy of that title than Mrs. Inchbald's long and involved 
 romance. 
 
 THE MALI.
 
 112 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 An honest couple, in humble circumstances, possess among 
 their small household gear a good old easy chair, which has 
 been the pride of a former generation, and is the choicest of 
 their household gods. A comfortable cushioned chair, snug 
 and restful, albeit the chintz covering, though clean and tidy, 
 as virtuous people's furniture always is in fiction, is worn thin 
 by long service, while the dear chair itself is no longer the 
 chair it once was as to legs and framework. 
 
 THE DINING-ROOM 
 
 Evil days come upon the praiseworthy couple and their 
 dependent brood, among whom I faintly remember the love 
 interest of the story to have lain ; and that direful day arrives 
 when the average landlord of juvenile fiction, whose heart is 
 of adamant and brain of brass, distrains for the rent. The 
 rude broker swoops upon the humble dovecot ; a cart or 
 hand-barrow waits on the carefully hearth-stoned doorstep
 
 M. E. BRAD DON n 3 
 
 for the household gods ; the family gather round the cherished 
 chair, on which the rude broker has already laid his grimy 
 fingers ; they hang over the back and fondle the padded arms ; 
 and the old grandmother, with clasped hands, entreats that, 
 if able to raise the money in a few days, they may be allowed 
 to buy back that loved heirloom. 
 
 THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 The broker laughs the plea to scorn ; they might have 
 their chair, and cheap enough, he had no doubt. The cover 
 was darned and patched as only the virtuous poor of fiction 
 do darn and do patch and he made no doubt the stuffing 
 was nothing better than brown wool ; and with that coarse 
 taunt the coarser broker dug his clasp-knife into the cushion 
 against which grandfatherly backs had leaned in happier 
 days, and lo ! an avalanche of banknotes fell out of the much- 
 
 I
 
 ii4 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 maligned horsehair, and the family was lifted from penury 
 to wealth. Nothing more simple or more natural. A pru- 
 dent but eccentric ancestor had chosen this mode of putting 
 by his savings, assured that, whenever discovered, the money 
 would be useful to somebody. 
 
 So ran the scenario ; but I fancy my juvenile pen hardly 
 held on to the climax. My brief experience of boarding 
 school occurred at this time, and I well remember writing ' The 
 Old Arm Chair ' in a penny account book, in the schoolroom 
 of Cresswell Lodge, and that I was both surprised and offended 
 at the laughter of the kindly music-teacher who, coming into 
 the room to summon a pupil, and seeing me gravely occupied, 
 inquired what I was doing, and was intensely amused at my 
 stolid method of composition, plodding on undisturbed by the 
 voices and occupations of the older girls around me. ' The 
 Old Arm Chair' was certainly my first serious, painstaking 
 effort in fiction ; but as it was abandoned unfinished before 
 my eleventh birthday, and as no line thereof ever achieved 
 the distinction of type, it can hardly rank as my first novel. 
 
 There came a very few years later the sentimental period, 
 in which my unfinished novels assumed a more ambitious 
 form, and were modelled chiefly upon 'Jane Eyre,' with oc- 
 casional tentative imitations of Thackeray. Stories of gentle 
 hearts that loved in vain, always ending in renunciation. 
 One romance there was, I well remember, begun with resolute 
 purpose, after the first reading of ' Esmond,' and in the 
 endeavour to give life and local colour to a story of the 
 Restoration period, a brilliantly wicked interval in the social 
 history of England, which, after the lapse of thirty years, I 
 am still as bent upon taking for the background of a love 
 story as I was when I began ' Master Anthony's Record ' in 
 Esmondese, and made my girlish acquaintance with the 
 reading-room of the British Museum, where I went in quest 
 of local colour, and where much kindness was shown to my 
 youth and inexperience of the book world. Poring over a
 
 M. E. BRADDON 115 
 
 folio edition of the ' State Trials' at my uncle's quiet rectory 
 in sleepy Sandwich, I had discovered the passionate romantic 
 story of Lord Grey's elopement with his sister-in-law, next in 
 sequence to the trial of Lawrence Braddon and Hugh Speke 
 for conspiracy. At the risk of seeming disloyal to my own 
 race, I must add that it seemed to me a very tinpot order of 
 plot to which these two learned gentlemen bent their legal 
 minds, and which cost the Braddon family a heavy fine in 
 land near Camelford -confiscation which I have heard my 
 father complain of as especially unfair Lawrence being a 
 younger son. The romantic story of Lord Grey was to be 
 
 THE EVENING ROOM 
 
 the subject of ' Master Anthony's Record,' but Master 
 Anthony's sentimental autobiography went the way of all my 
 earlier efforts. It was but a year or so after the collapse 
 of Master Anthony, that a blindly enterprising printer of 
 Beverley, who had seen my poor little verses in the Beverley 
 Recorder, made me the spirited offer of ten pounds for a serial 
 story, to be set up and printed at Beverley, and published on 
 commission by a London firm in Warwick Lane. I cannot 
 picture to myself, in my after-knowledge of the bookselling 
 trade, any enterprise more futile in its inception or more 
 feeble in its execution ; but to my youthful ambition the 
 actual commission to write a novel, with an advance payment
 
 n6 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 of fifty shillings to show good faith on the part of my York- 
 shire speculator, seemed like the opening of that pen-and-ink 
 paradise which I had sighed for ever since I could hold a 
 pen. I had, previously to this date, found a Maecenas in 
 Beverley, in the person of a learned gentleman who 
 volunteered to foster my love of the Muses by buying the 
 copyright of a volume of poems and publishing the same at 
 
 his own expense which he 
 did, poor man, without stint, 
 and by which noble patron- 
 | age of Poet's Corner verse he 
 'i must have lost money. He 
 had, however, the privilege of 
 : dictating the subject of the 
 principal poem, which was to 
 ":, sing however feebly Gari- 
 >? . baldi's Sicilian campaign. 
 
 The Beverley printer sug- 
 gested that my Warwick Lane 
 serial should combine, as far 
 as my powers allowed, the 
 human interest and genial 
 humour of Dickens with the 
 plot-weaving of G. W. R. Rey- 
 nolds ; and, furnished with 
 these broad instructions, I 
 filled my ink-bottle, spread 
 
 out my foolscap, and, on a hopelessly wet afternoon, began my 
 first novel now known as 'The Trail of the Serpent' but 
 published in Warwick Lane, and later in the stirring High 
 Street of Beverley, as ' Three Times Dead.' In ' Three Times 
 Dead ' I gave loose to all my leanings to the violent in melo- 
 drama. Death stalked in ghastliest form across my pages : 
 and villainy reigned triumphant till the Nemesis of the last 
 chapter. I wrote with all the freedom of one who feared not 
 
 THE SMOKING-ROOM
 
 M. E. BRADDON 
 
 117 
 
 the face of a critic ; and, indeed, thanks to the obscurity of 
 its original production, and its re-issue as the ordinary two- 
 shilling railway novel, this first novel of mine has almost 
 entirely escaped the critical lash, and has pursued its way 
 as a chartered libertine. People buy it and read it, and its 
 faults and follies are forgiven as the exuberances of a pen 
 
 fcfl 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 unchastened by experience ; but faster and more facile at that 
 initial stage than it ever became after long practice. 
 
 I dashed headlong at my work, conjured up my images 
 of horror or of mirth, and boldly built the framework of my 
 story, and set my puppets moving. To me, at least, they 
 were living creatures, who seemed to follow impulses of their 
 own, to be impelled by their own passions, to love and hate, 
 and plot and scheme of their own accord. There was
 
 u8 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 unalloyed pleasure in the composition of that first story, and 
 in the knowledge that it was to be actually printed and 
 published, and not to be declined with thanks by adamantine 
 magazine editors, like a certain short story which I had 
 lately written, and which contained the germ of ' Lady 
 Audley's Secret.' Indeed, at this period of my life, the 
 postman's knock had become associated in my mind with the 
 sharp sound of a rejected MS. dropping through the open 
 letter-box on to the floor of the hall, while my heart seemed 
 to drop in sympathy with that book-post packet. 
 
 Short of never being printed at all, my Beverley-born 
 novel could have hardly entered upon the world of books in 
 a more profound obscurity. That one living creature ever 
 bought a number of ' Three Times Dead ' I greatly doubt. I 
 can recall the thrill of emotion with which I tore open the 
 envelope that contained my complimentary copy of the first 
 number, folded across, and in aspect inferior to a gratis 
 pamphlet about a patent medicine. The miserable little 
 wood block which illustrated that first number would have 
 disgraced a baker's whitey-brown bag, would have been un- 
 worthy to illustrate a penny bun. My spirits were certainly 
 dashed at the technical shortcomings of that first serial, and 
 I was hardly surprised when I was informed a few weeks 
 later, that although my admirers at Beverley were deeply 
 interested in the story, it was not a financial success, and that 
 it would be only obliging on my part, and in accordance with 
 my known kindness of heart, if I were to restrict the develop- 
 ment of the romance to half its intended length, and to 
 accept five pounds in lieu of ten as my reward. Having no 
 desire that the rash Beverley printer should squander his own 
 or his children's fortune in the obscurity of Warwick Lane, I 
 immediately acceded to his request, shortened sail, and went 
 on with my story, perhaps with a shade less enthusiasm, 
 having seen the shabby figure it was to make in the book 
 world. I may add that the Beverley publisher's payments
 
 M. E. BRADDON 
 
 119 
 
 began and ended with his noble advance of fifty shillings. 
 The balance was never paid ; and it was rather hard lines 
 that, on his becoming bankrupt in his poor little way a few 
 years later, a judge in the Bankruptcy Court remarked that, 
 as Miss Braddon was now making a good deal of money by 
 her pen, she ought to 'come to the relief of her first 
 publisher. 
 
 And now my volume of verses being well under way, I 
 went with my mother to farmhouse lodgings in the neighbour- 
 hood of that very Beverley, where I spent perhaps the 
 happiest half-year of my life 
 half a year of tranquil, 
 studious days, far from the 
 madding crowd, with the 
 mother whose society was 
 always all sufficient for me 
 half a year among level pas- 
 tures, with unlimited books 
 from the library in Hull, an 
 old farm-horse to ride about 
 the green lanes, the breath of 
 summer, with all its sweet 
 odours of flower and herb, 
 around and about us ; half a 
 year of unalloyed bliss, had it 
 
 not been for one dark shadow, the heroic figure of Garibaldi, 
 the sailor-soldier, looming large upon the foreground of my 
 literary labours, as the hero of a lengthy narrative poem in the 
 Spenserian metre. 
 
 My chief business at Beverley was to complete the volume 
 of verse commissioned by my Yorkshire Maecenas, at that 
 time a very rich man, who paid me a much better price for 
 my literary work than his townsman, the enterprising printer, 
 and who had the first claim on my thought and time. 
 
 With the business-like punctuality of a salaried clerk, I 
 
 MISS BRADDON'S FAVOURITE MARE
 
 120 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 .went every morning to my file of the Times, and pored and 
 puzzled over Neapolitan revolution and Sicilian campaign, 
 and I can only say that if Emile Zola has suffered as much 
 over Sedan as I suffered in the freshness of my youth, when 
 flowery meadows and the old chestnut mare invited to summer 
 idlesse, over the fighting in Sicily, his dogged perseverance in 
 uncongenial labour should place him among the Immortal 
 Forty. How I hated the great Joseph G. and the Spenserian 
 metre, with its exacting demands upon the rhyming faculty ! 
 How I hated my own ignorance of 
 modern Italian history, and my own 
 eyes for never having looked upon 
 Italian landscape, whereby historical 
 allusion and local colour were both 
 
 THE ORANGERY 
 
 wanting to that dry-as-dust record of heroic endeavour ! I 
 had only the Times corrrespondent ; where he was picturesque 
 I could be picturesque allowing always for the Spenserian 
 straining where he was rich in local colour I did my utmost 
 to reproduce his colouring, stretched always on the Spen- 
 serian rack, and lengthened out by the bitter necessity of 
 finding triple rhymes. Next to Giuseppe Garibaldi I hated 
 Edmund Spenser, and it may be from a vengeful remembrance 
 of those early struggles with a difficult form of versification, 
 that, although throughout my literary life I have been a lover 
 of England's earlier poets, and have delighted in the quaintness
 
 M. E. BR ADDON 121 
 
 and naivete of Chaucer, I have refrained from reading more 
 than a casual stanza or two of the ' Faery Queen.' When I 
 lived at Beverley, Spenser was to me but a name, and Byron's 
 ' Childe Harold ' was my only model for that exacting verse. 
 I should add that the Beverley Maecenas, when commissioning 
 this volume of verse, was less superb in his ideas than the 
 literary patron of the past. He looked at the matter from a 
 purely commercial standpoint, and believed that a volume of 
 verse, such as I could produce, would pay a delusion on his 
 part which I honestly strove to combat before accepting his 
 handsome offer of remuneration for my time and labour. It 
 was with this idea in his mind that he chose and insisted upon 
 
 MISS BRADDON'S COTTAGE AT LYNDHURST 
 
 the Sicilian campaign as a subject for my muse, and thus 
 started me heavily handicapped on the racecourse of Par- 
 nassus. 
 
 The weekly number of ' Three Times Dead ' was ' thrown 
 off' in brief intervals of rest from my magnum opus, and it 
 was an infinite relief to turn from Garibaldi and his brothers 
 in arms to the angels and the monsters which my own brain 
 had engendered, and which to me seemed more alive than the 
 good great man whose arms I so laboriously sang. My rustic 
 pipe far better loved to sing of melodramatic poisoners and 
 ubiquitous detectives ; of fine houses in the West of London, 
 and dark dens in the East. So the weekly chapter of my first
 
 122 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 novel ran merrily off my pen while the printer's boy waited 
 in the farmhouse kitchen. 
 
 Happy, happy days, so near to memory, and yet so far ! 
 In that peaceful summer I finished my first novel, knocked 
 Garibaldi on the head with a closing rhapsody, saw the 
 York spring and summer races in hopelessly wet weather, 
 
 learnt to love the Yorkshire 
 people, and left Yorkshire 
 almost broken-heartedly on 
 a dull, grey October morn- 
 ing, to travel Londonwards 
 through a landscape that 
 was mostly under water. 
 
 And, behold, since that October morning I have written 
 fifty-three novels ; I have lost dear old friends and found new 
 friends, who are also dear, but I have never looked on a 
 Yorkshire landscape since I turned my reluctant eyes from 
 those level meadows and green lanes where the old chestnut 
 mare used to carry me ploddingly to and fro between tall, 
 tangled hedges of eglantine and honeysuckle. 
 
 MISS BRADDON'S INKSTAND
 
 T2 3 
 
 'THE HOUSE OF ELM ORE' 
 BY F. W. ROBINSON 
 
 IT is a far cry back to 1853, when 
 dreams of writing a book had 
 almost reached the boundary line of 
 ' probable events.' I was then a pale, 
 long - haired, consumptive - looking 
 youth, who had been successful in 
 prize poems for there were prize 
 competitions even in those far-off 
 days and in acrostics, and in the 
 acceptance of one or two short stories, 
 which had been actually published in 
 a magazine that did not pay for con- 
 tributions (it was edited by a clergy- 
 man of the Church of England, and 
 the chaplain to a real duke), which 
 magazine has gone the way of many 
 magazines, and is now as extinct as 
 the dodo. It was in the year 1853, 
 or a month or two earlier, that I wrote 
 my first novel 
 which, upon a 
 moderate com- 
 putation,! think, 
 would make four 
 or five good- 
 sized library volumes, but I have never attempted to ' scale ' 
 the manuscript. It is in my possession still, although I have
 
 124 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 not seen it for many weary years. It is buried with a heap 
 more rubbish in a respectable old oak chest, the key of which 
 is even lost to me. And yet that MS. was the turning-point 
 of my small literary career. And it is the history of that 
 manuscript which leads up to the publication of my first 
 novel ; my first step, though I did not know it, and hence 
 it is part and parcel of the history of my first book a link 
 in the chain. 
 
 When that manuscript was completed, it was read aloud, 
 night after night, to an admiring audience of family members, 
 and pronounced as fit for publication 
 as anything of Dickens or Thackeray 
 or Bulwer, who were then in the full 
 swing of their mighty capacities. 
 Alas ! I was a better judge than my 
 partial and amiable critics. I had 
 very grave doubts ' qualms,' I think 
 they are called and I had read that 
 it was uphill work to get a book pub- 
 lished, and swagger through the world 
 as a real live being who had actually 
 written a novel. There was a faint 
 hope, that was all ; and so, with 
 my MS. under my arm, I strolled 
 into the palatial premises of Messrs. Hurst & Blackett 
 (' successors to Henry Colburn ' they proudly designated 
 themselves at that period), laid my heavy parcel on the 
 counter, and waited, with fear and trembling, for some 
 one to emerge from the galleries of books and rows 
 of desks beyond, and inquire the nature of my business. 
 And here ensued my first surprise quite a dramatic coin- 
 cidence for the tall, spare, middle-aged gentleman who 
 advanced from the shadows towards the counter, proved, 
 to my intense astonishment, to be a constant chess an- 
 tagonist of mine at Kling's Chess Rooms, round the 
 
 AT TWENTY
 
 (/ ro in a photograph by Elliott & Fry )
 
 126 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 corner, in New Oxford Street rooms which have long since 
 disappeared, together with Horwitz, Harrwitz, Loewenthal, 
 Williams, and other great chess lights of those far-away times, 
 who were to be seen there, night after night, prepared for all 
 
 comers. Kling's was a 
 great chess house, and I 
 was a chess enthusiast, 
 as well as a youth who 
 wanted to get into print. 
 Failing literature, I had 
 made up my mind to 
 become a chess cham- 
 pion, if possible, although 
 I knew already by quiet 
 observation of my an- 
 tagonists, that in that 
 way madness lay, sheer 
 uncontrollable, raging 
 madness for me at any 
 rate. And the grave, 
 middle-aged gentleman 
 behind the counter of 
 1 3 Great Maryborough 
 Street, proved to be the 
 cashier of the firm, and 
 used being chess-mad 
 with the rest of us to 
 spend his evenings at 
 ' Kling's.' He was a 
 player of my own 
 strength, and for twelve 
 
 months or so had I skirmished with him over the chessboard, 
 and fought innumerable battles with him. He had never 
 spoken of his occupation, nor I of my restless ambitions chess 
 players never go far beyond the chequered board. 
 
 ELMORE HOUSE
 
 W. ROBINSON 
 
 4 Hallo, Robinson ! ' he exclaimed in his surprise, ' you 
 don't mean to say that you 
 
 And then he stopped and regarded my youthful appear- 
 ance very critically. 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. Kenny it's a novel,' I said modestly ; ' my 
 first.' 
 
 'There's plenty of it,' he remarked dryly. 'I'll send it 
 upstairs at once. And I'll wish you luck, too ; but,' he added, 
 kindly preparing to soften 
 the shock of a future re- 
 fusal, ' we have plenty of 
 these come in about 
 seven a day and most 
 of them go back to their 
 writers again.' 
 
 'Ye-es, I suppose so,' 
 I answered, with a sigh. 
 
 For a while, however, 
 I regarded the meeting as 
 a happy augury a lucky 
 coincidence. I even had 
 the vain, hopeless notion 
 that Mr. Kenny might put 
 in a good word for me, 
 ask for special considera- 
 tion, out of that kindly 
 feeling which we had for 
 each other, and which chess antagonists have invariably 
 for each other, 1 am inclined to believe. But though we 
 met three or four times a week, from that day forth not one 
 word concerning the fate of my manuscript escaped the lips 
 of Mr. Kenny. It is probable the incident had passed from 
 his memory ; he had nothing to do with the novel department 
 itself, and the delivery of MSS. was a very common every- 
 day proceeding to him. I was too bashful, perhaps too proud, 
 
 AT THIRTY
 
 128 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 an individual to ask any questions ; but every evening that I 
 encountered him I used to wonder ' if he had heard any- 
 thing,' if any news of the book's fate had reached him, 
 directly or indirectly ; occasionally even, as time went on, I 
 was disposed to imagine that he was letting me win the game 
 out of kindness for he was a gentle, kindly soul always in 
 order to soften the shock of a disappointment which he knew 
 perfectly well was on its way towards me. 
 
 Some months afterwards, the fate- 
 ful letter came to me from the firm ; 
 
 regretting its inability to make use of the MS., and ex- 
 pressing many thanks for a perusal of the same a polite, 
 concise, all-round kind of epistle, which a publisher is 
 compelled to keep in stock, and to send out when rejected 
 literature pours forth like a waterfall from the dusky caverns 
 of a publishing house in a large way of business. It was all 
 over, then I had failed ! From that hour I would turn 
 chess player, and soften my brain in a quest for silver cups
 
 F. W. ROBINSON 
 
 129 
 
 or champion amateur stakes. I could play chess better than 
 I could write fiction, I was sure. Still, after some days of 
 dead despair, I sent the MS. once more on its travels this 
 time to Smith & Elder's, whose reader, Mr. Williams, had 
 leapt into singular prominence since his favourable judgment 
 of Charlotte Bronte's book, and to whom most MSS. flowed 
 spontaneously for many years afterwards. And in due course 
 of time, Mr. Williams, acting for 
 Messrs. Smith & Elder, asked me 
 to call upon him -for the MS. ! 
 at Cornhill, and there I received 
 my first advice, my first thrill of 
 exultation. ' Presently, and pro- 
 bably, and zvit/i perseverance,' he 
 said, ' you will succeed in 
 literature, and if you will 
 remember now, that to 
 write a good novel is a 
 very considerable achieve- 
 ment. Years of short 
 story-writing is the 
 best apprenticeship 
 for you. Write and 
 rewrite, and spare 
 
 no pains.' I thanked 
 him, and I went home 
 with tears in my eyes 
 
 of gratitude and consolation, though my big story had been 
 declined with thanks. But I did not write again. I put away 
 my MS., and went on for six or eight hours a day at chess for 
 many idle months before I was in the vein for composition, 
 and then, with a sudden dash, I began ' The House of Elmore.' 
 It was half finished when another strange incident occurred. 
 I received one morning a letter from Lascelles Wraxall 
 (afterwards Sir Lascelles Wraxall, Bart., as the reader may 
 
 K 
 
 THE GARDEN
 
 130 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 be probably aware), informing me that he was one of the 
 readers for Messrs. Hurst & Blackett, and that it had been 
 his duty some time ago to decide unfavourably against a 
 story which I had submitted to the notice of his firm, but 
 that he had intended to write to me a private note urging me 
 to adopt literature as a profession. His principal object in 
 writing at that time was to suggest my trying the fortunes of 
 
 
 THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 the novel, which he had already read, with Messrs. Routledge, 
 and he kindly added a letter of introduction to that firm in 
 the Broadway an introduction which, by the way, never 
 came to anything. 
 
 Poor Lascelles Wraxall, clever writer and editor, press- 
 man and literary adviser, real Bohemian and true friend- 
 indeed, everybody's friend but his own I look back at him 
 with feelings of deep gratitude. He was a rolling stone, and
 
 F. W. ROBINSON 
 
 when I met him for the first time in my life, years afterwards, 
 he had left Marlborough Street for the Crimea ; he had been 
 given a commission in the Turkish Contingent at Kertch ; 
 he had come back anathematising the Service, and ( chock 
 full ' of grievances against the Government, and he became 
 once more editor and sub-editor, and publisher's hack even, 
 until he stepped into his baronetcy an empty title, for he 
 had sold the reversion of the estates for a mere song long 
 ago and became special corre- 
 spondent in Austria for the Daily 
 Telegraph. And in Vienna he 
 died, young in years still not 
 forty, I think closing a life that 
 only wanted one turn more of 
 ' application,' I have often thought, 
 to have achieved very great dis- 
 tinction. There are still a 
 few writing men about who 
 remember Lascelles Wraxall, 
 but they are ' the boys of the 
 old brigade.' 
 
 It was to Lascelles 
 Wraxall I sent, when finished, 
 ' The House of Elmore,' as the 
 reader may very easily guess. 
 Wraxall had stepped so much 
 
 AT FORTY 
 
 out of his groove for the 
 busy literary man that he was to take me by the hand, and 
 point the way along ' the perilous road ; ' he had given me so 
 many kind words, that I wrote my hardest to complete my new 
 story before I should fade from his recollection. The book was 
 finished in five weeks, and in hot haste, and for months again 
 I was left wondering what the outcome of it all was to be ; 
 whether Wraxall was reading my story, or whether oh, 
 horror ! some other reader less kindly disposed, and more
 
 I 3 2 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 austere and critical, and hard to please, had been told off to 
 sit in judgment upon my second MS. 
 
 I went back to chess for a distraction till the fate of that 
 book was pronounced or sealed it was always chess in the 
 hours of my distress and anxiety and I once again faced 
 Charles Kenny, and once again wondered if he knew, and 
 how much he knew, whilst he was deep in his king's gambit 
 or his giuoco piano ; but he was not even aware that 1 had 
 
 MR. ROBINSON AT WORK 
 
 sent in a second story, I learned afterwards. And then at 
 last came the judgment the pleasant, if formal, notice from 
 Marlborough Street that the novel had been favourably re- 
 ported upon by the reader, and that Messrs. Hurst & 
 Blackett would be pleased to see me at Marlborough Street 
 to talk the matter of its publication over with me. Ah ! what 
 a letter that was ! what a surprise, after all ! what a good 
 omen !
 
 F. W. ROBINSON 133 
 
 And some three months afterwards, at the end of the year 
 1854, my first book but my second novel was launched 
 into the reading world, and I have hardly got over the feeling 
 yet that I had actually a right to dub myself a novelist ! 
 
 When the first three notices of the book appeared, wild 
 dreams of a brilliant future beset me. They were all favour- 
 able notices too favourable ; but John Bull, The Press, and 
 Bell's Messenger (I think they were the papers) scattered 
 favourable notices indiscriminately at that time. Presently 
 the AtJienceum sobered me a little, but wound up with a kindly 
 pat on the back, and the Saturday Review, then in its seventh 
 number, drenched me with vitriolic acid, and brought me to 
 a lower level altogether ; and, finally, the Morning Herald 
 blew a loud blast to my praise and glory that last notice, I 
 believe, having been written by my old friend Sir Edward 
 Clarke, then a very young reviewer on the Herald staff, with 
 no dreams of becoming Her Majesty's Solicitor-General just 
 then ! ' The House of Elmore ' actually paid its publishers' 
 expenses, and left a balance, and brought me in a little 
 cheque ; and thus my writing life began in sober earnest.
 
 '35 
 
 'DAWN' 
 BY H. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 T THINK that it 
 J- was in an article 
 by a fellow-scribe, 
 where, doubtless more 
 in sorrow than in 
 anger, that gentleman 
 exposed the worth- 
 lessness of the pro- 
 ductions 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. 
 
 1 This and succeeding illustrations are from photographs by Fradelle and Young. 
 
 THE FRONT GARDEN
 
 136 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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 com- 
 petition, 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 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 ex- 
 tensively 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
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD 137 
 
 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 
 
 MR. RIDER HAGGARD AND HIS DAUGHTERS 
 
 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.
 
 138 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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 inde- 
 pendence. As it chanced, at the time I was living on some 
 African property belonging to me in the centre of the opera- 
 tions, 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 Neigh- 
 bours.' This semi-political work, or rather history, was very 
 carefully constructed from the records of some six years' ex- 
 perience, 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 re- 
 member that I purchased a copy of the Athen&um, 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. Trlibner, who, 
 after consideration, wrote to say that they were willing to 
 bring it out on the half profit system, provided that I paid
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 J 39 
 
 down fifty pounds towards the cost of production. I did not 
 at all like the idea of parting with the fifty pounds, but I be- 
 lieved 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. Some- 
 what to my astonishment, it proved a success from a literary 
 point of view. It was not largely purchased indeed, that 
 fifty pounds took se- 
 veral years on its re- 
 turn journey to my 
 pocket, but it was 
 favourably, and in 
 some instances almost 
 enthusiastically, re- 
 viewed, especially in 
 the colonial papers. 
 
 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. Triibner 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 
 
 THE HALL
 
 i 4 o MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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. 
 
 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. Trubner, 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 de- 
 clined it, so that by degrees it became clear to me that I might 
 as well have saved my labour. Mr. Trubner, 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. Trubner 
 and Mr. Jeaffreson did these things for me without fee or re- 
 ward. 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 rewritten. 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,
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD 141 
 
 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 rewriting 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 
 
 MR. RIDER HAGGARD'S STUDY 
 
 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
 
 i 4 2 MY FIKST BOOK 
 
 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 interest- 
 ing 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 the current edition. 
 In its new shape ' Dawn ' was submitted to Messrs. Hurst 
 & 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
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD 143 
 
 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 
 
 SOME CURIOS 
 
 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. 
 
 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
 
 144 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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 tiros. 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. En- 
 couraged 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 recep- 
 tion 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. 
 
 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, how- 
 ever, in the Times and in the Morning Post, the first of these 
 speaking about the novel in terms of which any amateur
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD 145 
 
 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. Trlibner, through whose kind offices it came 
 to be published, who, J 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 
 
 A STUDY CORNER 
 
 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 
 
 4 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 
 
 L
 
 x 4 6 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 serially by posting the MS. to the editors of various maga- 
 zines 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 
 
 ' 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
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 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 languish in ob- 
 scurity, 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 
 
 MR. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 L 2
 
 i 4 8 MY FIRS! BOOK 
 
 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 con- 
 cerned. To begin with, either by accident or design, this 
 artful document was so worded that, primd facie, the con- 
 tracting 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
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 149 
 
 agent, and to a fortunate change in the personnel of the firm 
 to which I was bound, I avoided disaster. The fatal agree- 
 ment was cancelled, and in consideration of my release I un- 
 dertook 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 
 
 THE FARM 
 
 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 them- 
 selves and others, but in those days it did not exist. 
 
 This is the history of how I drifted into the writing of 
 books. If it saves one beginner so inexperienced and un- 
 friended 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.
 
 150 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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 pub- 
 lishers 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- -fyM 
 
 and-easy record of personal adven- 
 ture and every-day life in those wild 
 regions of North America 
 which are known, variously, 
 as Rupert's Land The 
 Hudson's Bay Ter- 
 ritory The Nor' 
 West, and ' The 
 Great Lone Land.' 
 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 ulti- 
 mately 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. 
 
 WHERE I WROTE MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 (A Sketch by the Aiithor)
 
 152 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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 with- 
 out 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. 
 
 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
 
 154 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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 tJiat 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 favour- 
 able 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 publish- 
 ing 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 litera- 
 ture 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.
 
 . M. BALLANTYNE 155 
 
 '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 
 
 MR. BALLANTYNE'S HOUSE AT HARPOW ' 
 
 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 
 
 1 This and the succeeding illustrations are from photographs by Fradelle & 
 Young.
 
 156 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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 back- 
 woods ! 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 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
 
 X. M. BALLANTYNE 157 
 
 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 fora nut, through the shell of which he bored a hole 
 with a penknife. It was not till long after the story was 
 
 TROPHIES FROM MR. BALLANTYNE's TRAVELS 
 
 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 is 
 over an inch thick, so that no ordinary penknife could bore 
 to its interior ! Of course I should have known this, and,
 
 158 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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 sea- 
 side 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
 
 . M. BALLANTYNE 159 
 
 modification, were to form the dramatis persona 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 Rarnsgate 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
 
 160 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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 whist- 
 ling 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 confiden- 
 tially, ' I know \vhatyou 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
 
 . M. BALLANTYNE l6l 
 
 a fortnight with the hearty inhabitants of the Gull Lightship 
 off the Goodwin Sands ; and went to the Cape of Good Hope 
 
 MR. R. M. BALLANTYNE 
 
 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 
 
 M
 
 162 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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.
 
 163 
 
 ' THE PREMIER AND THE PAINTER' 
 BY 1. 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 interroga- 
 tive mood futile as Pilate's. ' What is a book ? ' I ask, and 
 the dictionary answers with its usual dogmatic air, ' A collec- 
 tion 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
 
 164 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 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, contribut- 
 ing 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. 
 
 One fine day, 
 when I was sixteen, 
 I was wandering 
 about the Rams- 
 gate sands looking for 
 Toole. I did not really 
 expect to see him, and I 
 had no reason to believe 
 he was in Ramsgate, but I 
 thought if Provi- 
 dence were kind 
 to him it might 
 throw him in my 
 way. I wanted to 
 do him a good 
 turn. I had written 
 a three-act farcical 
 comedy at the request of an amateur dramatic club. I had 
 written out all the parts, and I think there were rehearsals. 
 But the play was never produced. In the light of after 
 knowledge I suspect some of those actors must have been of 
 quite professional calibre. You understand, therefore, why 
 my thoughts turned to Toole. But I could not find Toole. 
 Instead, I found on the sands a page of a paper called 
 Society. It is still running merrily at a penny, but at that 
 
 LOOKING FOR 
 TOOLE
 
 i66 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 time it had also a Saturday edition at threepence. On this 
 page was a great prize-competition scheme, as well as 
 details of a regular weekly competition. The competi- 
 tions in those days were always literary and intellectual, 
 but then popular education had not made such strides as 
 to-day. 
 
 I sat down on the spot, and wrote something which took 
 a prize in the weekly competition. This emboldened me to 
 
 enter for the great stakes. 
 
 There were various events. I 
 resolved to enter for two. One 
 was a short novel, and the other a 
 comedietta. The ' 5/. humorous 
 story ' competition I did not go 
 in for ; but when the last day of 
 sending in MSS. for that had 
 passed, I reproached myself with 
 not having despatched one of my 
 manuscripts. Modesty had pre- 
 vented me sending in old work, 
 as I felt assured it would stand 
 no chance, but when it was too 
 late I was annoyed with myself 
 for having thrown away a possi- 
 bility. After all I could have lost 
 nothing. Then I discovered that 
 
 I had mistaken the last date, and that there was still 
 a day. In the joyful reaction I selected a story called 
 ' Professor Grimmer,' and sent it in. Judge of my amaze- 
 ment when this got the prize (5/.), and was published in 
 serial form running through three numbers of Society. Last 
 year, at a Press dinner, I found myself next to Mr. Arthur 
 Goddard, who told me he had acted as Competition Editor, 
 and that quite a number of now well-known people had taken 
 part in these admirable competitions. My painfully laboured 
 
 I SAT DOWN AND WROTE 
 SOMETHING
 
 ZANGWILL 
 
 167 
 
 novel only got honourable mention, and my comedietta was 
 lost in the post. 
 
 But I was now at the height of literary fame, and success 
 stimulated me to fresh work. I still marvel when I think of 
 the amount of rubbish I turned out in my seventeenth and 
 eighteenth years, in the scanty leisure of a harassed pupil- 
 teacher at an elementary school, working hard in the evenings 
 for a degree at the London University to boot. There was a 
 fellow pupil-teacher (let 
 us call him Y.) who be- 
 lieved in me, and who 
 had a little money with 
 which to back his belief. 
 I was for starting a comic 
 paper. The name was to 
 be Grimaldi, and I was 
 to write it all every 
 week. 
 
 ' But don't you think 
 your invention would give 
 way ultimately ? ' asked 
 Y. It was the only time 
 he ever doubted me. 
 
 ' By that time I shall 
 be able to afford a staff/ 
 I replied triumphantly. 
 
 Y. was convinced. But before the comic paper was born, 
 Y. had another happy thought. He suggested that if I wrote 
 a Jewish story, we might make enough to finance the comic 
 paper. I was quite willing. If he had suggested an epic, I 
 should have written it. 
 
 So I wrote the story in four evenings (I always write in 
 spurts), and within ten days from the inception of the idea 
 the booklet was on sale in a coverless pamphlet form. The 
 printing cost ten pounds. I paid five (the five I had won) 
 
 ARTHUR GODDARD
 
 i.68 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 Y. paid five, and we divided the profits. He has since not 
 become a publisher. 
 
 My first book (price one penny nett) went well. It was 
 loudly denounced by those it described, and widely bought 
 by them ; it was hawked about the streets. One little shop 
 in Whitechapel sold 400 copies. It was even on Smith's 
 bookstalls. There was great curiosity among Jews to know 
 the name of the writer. Owing to my anonymity, I was 
 enabled to see those enjoying its perusal, who were afterwards 
 
 IT WAS HAWKED ABOUT THE STREETS 
 
 to explain to me their horror and disgust at its illiteracy and 
 vulgarity. By vulgarity vulgar Jews mean the reproduction 
 of the Hebrew words with which the poor and the old-fashioned 
 interlard their conversation. It is as if English-speaking 
 Scotchmen and Irishmen should object to 'dialect' novels 
 reproducing the idiom of their ' uncultured ' countrymen. I 
 do not possess a copy of my first book, but somehow or other 
 I discovered the MS. when writing ' Children of the Ghetto.' 
 The description of market-day in Jewry was transferred bodily 
 from the MS. of my first book, and is now generally admired
 
 I. ZANGWILL 
 
 169 
 
 What the profits were I never knew, for they were invested 
 in the second of our publications. Still jealously keeping the 
 authorship secret, we published a long comic ballad which I 
 had written on the model of ' Bab.' With this we determined 
 to launch out in style, and so we had gorgeous advertisement 
 posters printed in three 
 colours, which were to be 
 stuck about London to 
 beautify that great dreary 
 city. Y. saw the back-hair 
 of Fortune almost within 
 our grasp. 
 
 One morning our head- 
 master walked into my 
 room with a portentously 
 solemn air. I felt instinc- 
 tively that the murder was 
 out. But he only said, 
 ' Where is Y. ? ' though the 
 mere coupling of our names 
 was ominous, for our pub- 
 lishing partnership was un- 
 known. I replied, ' How 
 should I know ? In his 
 room, I suppose.' 
 
 He gave me a peculiar 
 sceptical glance. 
 
 ' When did you last see 
 Y. ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Yesterday afternoon,' I replied wonderingly, 
 
 ' And you don't know where he is now ? ' 
 
 ' Haven't an idea isn't he in school ? ' 
 
 ' No,' he replied in low, awful tones. 
 
 ' Where then ? ' I murmured. 
 
 ' In prison I ' 
 
 A POLICEMAN TOI.D HIM TO GET 
 DOWN
 
 1 70 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 ' In prison ! ' I gasped. 
 
 ' In prison ; I have just been to help bail him out' 
 
 It transpired that Y. had suddenly been taken with a 
 further happy thought. Contemplation of those gorgeous 
 tricoloured posters had turned his brain, and, armed with an 
 amateur paste-pot and a ladder, he had sallied forth at mid- 
 night to stick them about the silent streets, so as to cut down 
 the publishing expenses. A policeman, observing him at 
 work, had told him to get down, and Y., being legal-minded, 
 had argued it out with the policeman de haut en bas from the 
 top of his ladder. The outraged majesty of the law thereupon 
 haled Y. off to the cells. 
 
 Naturally the cat was now out of the bag, and the fat in 
 the fire. 
 
 To explain away the poster was beyond the ingenuity of 
 even a professed fiction-monger. 
 
 Straightway the committee of the school was summoned 
 in hot haste, and held debate upon the scandal of a pupil- 
 teacher being guilty of originality. And one dread afternoon, 
 when all Nature seemed to hold its breath, I was called down 
 to interview a member of the committee. In his hand were 
 copies of the obnoxious publications. 
 
 I approached the great person with beating heart. He 
 had been kind to me in the past, singling me out, on account 
 of some scholastic successes, for an annual vacation at the 
 seaside. It has only just struck me, after all these years, that, 
 if he had not done so, I should not have found the page of 
 Society, and so not have perpetrated the deplorable com- 
 positions. 
 
 In the course of a bad quarter of an hour, he told me 
 that the ballad was tolerable, though not to be endured ; he 
 admitted the metre was perfect, and there wasn't a single 
 false rhyme. But the prose novelette was disgusting. ' It is 
 such stuff,' said he, ' as little boys scribble upon walls.' 
 
 I said I could not see anything objectionable in it.
 
 /. ZANGWILL 
 
 171 
 
 ' Come now, confess you are ashamed of it,' he urged. 
 ' You only wrote it to make money.' 
 
 ' If you mean that I deliberately wrote low stuff to make 
 money,' I replied calmly, ' it is untrue. There is nothing I 
 am ashamed of. What you object to is simply realism.' I 
 pointed out that Bret Harte had been as realistic ; but they 
 did not understand literature on that committee. 
 
 ' Confess you are 
 ashamed of yourself,' 
 he reiterated, ' and we 
 will look over it.' 
 
 1 I am not,' I per- 
 sisted, though I foresaw 
 only too clearly that my 
 summer's vacation was 
 doomed if I told the 
 truth. ' What is the use 
 of saying I am ? ' 
 
 The headmaster up- 
 lifted his hands in 
 horror. ' How, after 
 all your kindness to 
 him, he can contradict 
 you ! ' he cried. 
 
 'When I come to 
 be your age,' 1 conceded 
 to the member of the 
 committee, ' it is possible I may look back on 'it with shame. 
 At present I feel none.' 
 
 In the end I was given the alternative of expulsion or of 
 publishing nothing which had not passed the censorship of 
 the committee. After considerable hesitation I chose the 
 latter. 
 
 This was a blessing in disguise ; for, as I have never been 
 able to endure the slightest arbitrary interference with my 
 
 SUCH STUFF AS LITTLE BOYS SCRIBBLE 
 UPON WALLS
 
 172 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 work, I simply abstained from publishing. Thus, although 
 I still wrote mainly sentimental verses my nocturnal 
 studies were less interrupted. Not till I had graduated, and 
 was of age, did I return to my inky vomit. Then came my 
 next first book a real book at last. 
 
 In this also I had the collaboration of a fellow-teacher, 
 Louis Covven by name. This time my colleague was part- 
 author. It was only gradually that I had been admitted to 
 the privilege of communion with him, for he was my senior 
 by five or six years, and a man of brilliant parts who had 
 already won his spurs in journalism, and who enjoyed 
 deservedly the reputation of an Admirable Crichton. What 
 drew me to him was his mordant wit (to-day, alas ! wasted 
 on anonymous journalism ! If he would only reconsider his 
 indetermination, the reading public would be the richer !) 
 Together we planned plays, novels, treatises on political 
 economy, and contributions to philosophy. Those were the 
 days of dreams. 
 
 One afternoon he came to me with quivering sides, and 
 told me that an idea for a little shilling book had occurred to 
 him. It was that a Radical Prime Minister and a Conserva- 
 tive working man should change into each other by super- 
 natural means, and the working man be confronted with the 
 problem of governing, while the Prime Minister should be as 
 comically out of place in the East End environment. He 
 thought it would make a funny ' Arabian Nights ' sort of 
 burlesque. And so it would have done ; but, unfortunately, 
 I saw subtler possibilities of political satire in it, nothing less 
 than a reductio ad absurdum of the whole system of Party 
 Government. I insisted the story must be real, not super- 
 natural, the Prime Minister must be a Tory, weary of office, 
 and it must be an ultra-Radical atheistic artisan bearing a 
 marvellous resemblance to him who directs (and with com- 
 plete success) the Conservative Administration. To add to 
 the mischief, owing to my collaborator's evenings being
 
 I. ZANGWILL 
 
 173 
 
 largely taken up by other work, seven-eighths of the book 
 came to be written by me, though the leading ideas were, of 
 
 LIFE IN 
 BETHNAL GREEN 
 
 course, threshed out and the whole revised in common, and 
 thus it became a vent-hole for all the ferment of a youth of 
 twenty-one, whose literary faculty had furthermore been pent
 
 174 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 up for years by the potential censorship of a committee. 
 The book, instead of being a shilling skit, grew to a ten-and- 
 sixpenny (for that was the unfortunate price of publication) 
 political treatise of over sixty long chapters and 500 closely 
 printed pages. I drew all the characters as seriously and 
 complexly as if the fundamental conception were a matter of 
 history ; the outgoing Premier became an elaborate study 
 of a nineteenth-century Hamlet ; the Bethnal Green life 
 amid which he came to live was presented with photographic 
 fulness and my old trick of realism ; the governmental 
 manoeuvres were described with infinite detail ; numerous 
 real personages were introduced under nominal disguises ; 
 and subsequent history was curiously anticipated in some of 
 the Female Franchise and Home Rule episodes. Worst of 
 all, so super-subtle was the satire, that it was never actually 
 stated straight out that the Premier had changed places with 
 the Radical working man, so that the door might be left 
 open for satirically suggested alternative explanations of the 
 metamorphosis in their characters ; and as, moreover, the two 
 men re-assumed their original roles for one night only with 
 infinitely complex effects, many readers, otherwise unim- 
 peachable, reached the end without any suspicion of the 
 actual plot and yet (on their own confession) enjoyed the 
 book ! 
 
 In contrast to all this elephantine waggery the half-dozen 
 chapters near the commencement, in which my collaborator 
 sketched the first adventures of the Radical working man in 
 Downing Street, were light and sparkling, and I feel sure the 
 shilling skit he originally meditated would have been a great 
 success. We christened the book ' The Premier and the 
 Painter,' ourselves J. Freeman Bell, had it type-written, and 
 sent it round to the publishers in two enormous quarto volumes. 
 I had been working at it for more than a year every evening 
 after the hellish torture of the day's teaching, and all day every 
 holiday, but now I had a good rest while it was playing its
 
 I. ZANGWILL 
 
 boomerang prank of returning to me once a month. The only 
 gleam of hope came from Bentleys, who wrote to say that they 
 could not make up their minds to reject it ; but they prevailed 
 upon themselves to part with it at last, though not without 
 asking to see Mr. Bell's next book. At last it was accepted 
 by Spencer Blackett, and, though it had been refused by all 
 the best houses, it failed. Failed in a material sense, that is ; 
 for there was plenty of praise in the papers, though at too 
 long intervals to do us any good. 
 The Athencewn has never spoken so 
 well of anything I have done since. 
 The late James Runciman (I learnt 
 after his death that it was he) raved 
 about it in various uninfluential 
 organs. It even called forth a 
 leader in the Family Herald^, and 
 there are odd people here and there, 
 who know the secret of J. Freeman 
 Bell, who declare that I. Zangwill 
 will never do anything so good. 
 There was a cheaper edition, but 
 it did not sell much then, though 
 now it is in its third edition, issued 
 uniformly with my other books by 
 Heinemann, and absolutely unre- 
 vised. But not only did ' The Pre- 
 mier and the Painter ' fail with the 
 great public at first, it did not even help either of us one step 
 up the ladder ; never got us a letter of encouragement nor a 
 stroke of work. I had to begin journalism at the very bottom 
 and entirely unassisted, narrowly escaping canvassing for 
 advertisements, for I had by this time thrown up my scholastic 
 position, and had gone forth into the world penniless and 
 without even a ' character,' branded as an Atheist (because I 
 did not worship the Lord who presided over our committee) 
 
 ; WE SENT IT ROUND
 
 176 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 and a Revolutionary (because I refused to break the law of 
 the land). 
 
 I should stop here if I were certain I had written the 
 required article. But as ' The Premier and the Painter ' was 
 not entirely my first book, I may perhaps be expected to say 
 something of my third first book, and the first to which I put 
 my name ' The Bachelors' Club.' Years of literary apathy 
 succeeded the failure of ' The Premier and the Painter.' All 
 I did was to publish a few serious poems (which, I hope, will 
 survive Time), a. couple of pseudonymous stories signed ' The 
 Baroness Von S.' (!), and a long philosophical essay upon 
 religion, and to lend a hand in the writing of a few playlets. 
 Becoming convinced of the irresponsible mendacity of the 
 dramatic profession, I gave up the stage, too, vowing never 
 to write except on commission (I kept my vow and yet 
 was played ultimately), and sank entirely into the slough of 
 journalism (glad enough to get there), inter alia editing a 
 comic paper (not Grimaldi, but Ariel] with a heavy heart. 
 At last the long apathy wore off, and I resolved to cultivate 
 literature again in my scraps of time. It is a mere accident 
 that I wrote a pair of ' funny ' books, or put serious criticism 
 of contemporary manners into a shape not understood in a 
 country where only the dull are profound and only the 
 ponderous are earnest. ' The Bachelors' Club ' was the result 
 of a whimsical remark made by my dear friend, Eder of 
 Bartholomew's, with whom I was then sharing rooms in 
 Bernard Street, and who helped me greatly with it, and its 
 publication was equally accidental. One spring day, in the 
 year of grace 1891, having lived unsuccessfully for a score of 
 years and seven upon this absurd planet, I crossed Fleet 
 Street and stepped into what is called ' success.' It was like 
 this. Mr. J. T. Grein, now of the Independent Theatre, 
 meditated a little monthly called The Playgoers' Review, and 
 he asked me to do an article for the first number, on the 
 strength of some speeches I had made at the Playgoers' Club.
 
 I. ZANGWILL 
 
 177 
 
 When I got the proof it was marked, ' Please return at once 
 to 6 Bouverie Street.' My office boy being out, and Bouverie 
 
 MR. ZANGWILL AT 
 WORK 
 
 Street being only a few steps away, I took it over myself, and 
 found myself, somewhat to my surprise, in the office of Henry 
 & Co., publishers, and in the presence of Mr. J. Hannaford 
 
 N
 
 178 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 Bennett, an active partner in the firm. He greeted me by 
 name, also to my surprise, and told me he had heard me 
 speak at the Playgoers' Club. A little conversation ensued, 
 and he mentioned that his firm was going to bring out a 
 Library of Wit and Humour. I told him I had begun a 
 book, avowedly humorous, and had written two chapters of it, 
 and he straightway came over to my office, heard me read 
 them, and immediately secured the book. (The then editor 
 ultimately refused to have it in the ' Whitefriars' Library of 
 
 EDITING A COMIC PAPER 
 
 Wit and Humour,' and so it was brought out separately.) 
 Within three months, working in odds and ends of time, I 
 finished it, correcting the proofs of the first chapters while I 
 was writing the last ; indeed, ever since the day I read those 
 two chapters to Mr. Hannaford Bennett I have never written 
 a line anywhere that has not been purchased before it was 
 written. For, to my undying astonishment, two average 
 editions of my real ' first book ' were disposed of on the day 
 of publication, to say nothing of the sale in New York. 
 Unless I had acquired a reputation of which I was totally
 
 /. ZANGWILL 
 
 unconscious, it must have been the title that ' fetched ' the 
 trade. Or, perhaps, it was the illustrations by my friend, Mr. 
 George Hutchinson, whom I am proud to have discovered as 
 a cartoonist for Ariel. 
 
 So here the story comes to a nice sensational climax. 
 Re-reading it, I feel dimly that there ought to be a moral in 
 it somewhere for the benefit of struggling fellow-scribblers. 
 But the best I can find is this : That if you are blessed with 
 some talent, a great deal of industry, and an amount of 
 conceit mighty enough to enable you to disregard superiors, 
 equals and critics, as well as the fancied demands of the 
 public, it is possible, without friends, or introductions, or 
 bothering celebrities to read your manuscripts, or cultivating 
 the camp of the log-rollers, to attain, by dint of slaving day 
 and night for years during the flower of your youth, to a fame 
 infinitely less widespread than a prizefighter's, and a pecuniary 
 position which you might with far less trouble have been 
 born to. 
 
 wow 
 
 sura 
 
 m*f* 
 
 A FAME LESS WIDESPREAD THAN A PRIZEFIGHTER'S
 
 'THE WESTERN AVERNUS' 
 BY MORLEY ROBERTS 
 
 /CERTAINLY no one was more 
 ^-^ surprised than myself when I dis- 
 covered that I could write decent prose, 
 and even make money out of it, for dur- 
 ing many years 
 my youthful aspira- 
 tions had been to 
 rival Rossetti, or 
 get on a level with 
 Browning, rather 
 than to make a 
 living out of litera- 
 ture as a profession. 
 But when I did 
 start a book, I 
 went through three years of 
 American experience like 
 fire through flax, and wrote 
 ' The Western Avernus,' a 
 volume containing ninety- 
 three thousand words, in 
 less than a lunar month. 
 
 I had been in Australia 
 years before, coming home 
 before the mast as an A.B. 
 
 BEFORE THE MAST 
 
 in a Blackwall liner, but my 
 
 occasional efforts to turn that experience into form always 
 failed. Once or twice, I read some of my prose to friends, 
 who told me that it was worse even than my poetry. Such
 
 182 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 criticism naturally confirmed me in the belief that I must be 
 a poet or nothing, and I soon got into a fair way to become 
 nothing, for my health broke down. At last, finding my 
 choice lay between two kinds of tragedies, I chose the least, 
 and went off to Texas. On February 27, 1884, I was working 
 in a Government office as a writer ; on March 27, I was sheep- 
 herding in Scurry County, North-west Texas, in the south 
 
 of the Panhandle. 
 This experience was 
 the opening of ' The 
 Western Avernus.' 
 
 .But I should 
 never have written 
 the book if it had 
 not been for two 
 friends of mine. One 
 was George Gissing, 
 and the other W. H. 
 Hudson, the Argen- 
 tine naturalist. When 
 5 "scn>~ =* ~&i\ j -" tf ^L \ 'LJifinuiiHimwui f 
 tfte^te&SSk&m l returne d from the West, 
 
 and yarned to them of 
 starvation and toil and 
 strife in that new world, 
 they urged me to put it 
 down instead of talking it. 
 I suppose they looked on 
 it as good material running to verbal conversational waste, 
 being both writers of many years' standing. Now I understand 
 their point of view, and carry a note-book, or an odd piece of 
 paper, to jot down motives that crop up in occasional talk, 
 but then I was ignorant, and astonished at the wild notion of 
 writing anything saleable. However, in desperation, for I 
 had no money, I began to write, and went ahead in the same 
 way that I have so far kept to. I wrote it without notes, 
 
 I MARRIED THEM ALL OFF AT THE END
 
 MO R LEY ROBERTS 
 
 183 
 
 without care, without thought, save that each night the past 
 was resurgent and alive before and within me, just as it was 
 when I worked and starved between Texas and the great 
 North-west. Each Sunday I read what I had done to George 
 Gissing ; at first with terror, but afterwards with more confi- 
 dence when he nodded approval, and as the end approached 
 I began to believe in it myself. 
 
 It is only six years since the book was finished and sent 
 to Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co., but it seems half a century 
 ago, so much has happened since then ; and when it was 
 
 AN AMERICAN SAW-MILL 
 WHERE MR. ROBERTS WORKED 
 
 accepted and published and paid for, and actually reviewed 
 favourably, I almost determined to take to literature as a 
 profession. I remembered that when I was a boy of eleven I 
 wrote a romance with twenty people^ men and women, in it. 
 I married them all off at the end, being then in the childish 
 mind of the most usual novelist who believes, or pretends to 
 believe, or at any rate by implication teaches, that the inter- 
 esting part of life finishes then instead of beginning. I recalled 
 the fact that I wrote doggerel verse at the age of thirteen 
 when I was at Bedford Grammar School, and that an ar- 
 dent, ignorant Conservatism drove me, when I was at Owens
 
 1 84 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 College, Manchester, to lampoon the Liberal candidates in 
 rhymes, and paste them up in the big lavatory ; and under 
 the influence of these memories I began to think that perhaps 
 scribbling was my natural trade. I had tried some forty differ- 
 ent callings, including ' sailorising,' saw-mill work, bullock- 
 driving, tramping, and the selling of books in San Francisco, 
 with indifferent financial success, so perhaps my metier was 
 the making of books instead. So I went on trying, and had 
 a very bad time for two years. 
 
 Having written ' The Western Avernus ' in a kind of 
 intuitive, instructive way, it came easy enough to me, but very 
 soon I began to think of the technique of writing, and wrote 
 badly. I had to look back at the best part of that book to be 
 assured I could write at all. For a long time it was a con- 
 solation and a distress to me, for I had to find out that 
 knowledge must get into one's fingers before it can be used. 
 Only those who know nothing, or who know a great deal very 
 well, can write decently, and the intermediate state is exceed- 
 ingly painful. Both the public and private laudation of my 
 American book made me unhappy then. I thought I had 
 only that one book in me. 
 
 Some of the letters I received from America, and, more 
 particularly, British Columbia, were anything but cheerful 
 reading. One man, of whom I had spoken rather freely, said 
 I should be hanged on a cottonwood tree if I ever set foot in 
 the Colony again. I do not believe there are any cotton woods 
 there, but he used a phrase common in American literature. 
 Another whilom friend of mine, who had read some favourable 
 criticisms, wrote me to say he was sure Messrs. Smith & Elder 
 had paid for them. He had understood it was always done, 
 and now he knew the truth of it, because the book was so 
 bad. I almost feared to return to British Columbia : the 
 critics there might use worse weapons than a sneering para- 
 graph. In England the worst one need fear is an action for 
 criminal libel, or a rough and tumble fight. There it might 
 end in an inquest. I wrote back to my critics that if I ever
 
 MORLEY ROBERTS 
 
 came out again, I would come armed, and endeavour to reply 
 effectually. 
 
 For [ that wild life, far away from the ancient set and 
 hardened bonds of social law which crush a man and make 
 him just like his fellows, or so nearly like that only intimacy 
 can distinguish individual differences, had allowed me to grow 
 in another way, and become more myself; more independent, 
 more like a savage, better able to fight and endure. That is 
 the use of going abroad, and going abroad to places that are 
 not civilised. They allow a man to revert and be himself. It 
 may make his return hard, his endurance of social bonds 
 bitterer, but it may 
 help him to refuse 
 to endure. He may 
 attain to some na- 
 tural sight. 
 
 Not many weeks 
 ago I was talking to 
 a well-known Ame- 
 rican publisher, and 
 our conversation 
 ran on the trans- 
 oceanic view of 
 Europe. He was amused and delighted to come across an 
 Englishman who was so Americanised in one way as to look 
 on our standing camps and armed kingdoms as citizens of 
 the States do, especially those who live in the West. To the 
 American, Europe seems like a small collection of walled yards, 
 each with a crowing fighting-cock defying the universe on the 
 top of his own dunghill, with an occasional scream from the wall. 
 The whole of our international politics gets to look small and 
 petty, and a bitter waste of power. Perhaps the American view 
 is right. At any rate, it seemed so when I sat far aloof upon the 
 lofty mountains to the west of the great plains. The isolation 
 from the politics of the moment allowed me to see nature and 
 natural law. 
 
 DEFYING THE UNIVERSE
 
 1 86 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 And as it was with nations, so it was with men. Out 
 yonder, in the West, most of us were brutal at times, and ready- 
 to kill, or be killed, but my American-bred acquaintances, 
 looked like men, strikingly like men, independent, free, equal 
 to the need of the ensuing day or the call of some sudden hour. 
 
 It is a liberal educa- 
 tion to the law-abiding 
 Englishman to see a 
 good specimen of a 
 Texan cowboy walk 
 down a Western street ; 
 for he looks like a law 
 unto himself, calm and 
 greatly assured of the 
 validity of his own 
 enactments. We live 
 in a crowd here, and 
 it takes a rebel to be 
 himself ; and in the 
 struggle for freedom 
 he is likely to go 
 under. 
 
 While I was gain- 
 ing the experience that 
 went solid and crys- 
 tallised into 'The Wes- 
 tern Avernus,' I was 
 discovering much that 
 had never been dis- 
 covered before, not in a geographical sense for I have been 
 in few places where men have not been but in myself. Each 
 new task teaches us something new, and something more 
 than the mere way to do it. To drive horses or milk a cow 
 or make bread, or kill a sheep, sets us level with facts and 
 face to face with some reality. \Ve are called on to be real, 
 
 COWBOY ROBERTS
 
 MO RLE Y ROBERTS 187 
 
 and not the shadow of others. This is the worth that is in 
 all real workers, whatever they do, under whatever conditions. 
 Every truth so learnt strips away ancient falsehood from us ; 
 it is real education, not the taught instruction which makes 
 us alike, and thus shams, merely arming us with weapons to 
 fight our fellows in the crowded, unwholesome life of falsely 
 civilised cities. 
 
 And in America there is the sharp contrast between the 
 city life and the life of the mountain and the plain. It is seen 
 more clearly than in England, which is all more or less city. 
 
 THE VERY PRAIRIE DOGS TAUGHT ME 
 
 There are no clear stellar interspaces in our life here. But out 
 yonder, a long day's train ride across the high barren cactus 
 plateaus of Arizona teaches us as much as a clear and open 
 depth in the sky. For, of a sudden, we run into the very 
 midst of a big town, and shams are made gods for our wor- 
 ship. It is difficult to be oneself when all others refuse to be 
 themselves. 
 
 This was for me the lesson of the West and the life there- 
 When I wrote this book I did not know it ; I wrote almost 
 unconsciously, without taking thought, without weighing words,
 
 1 88 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 without conscious knowledge. But I see now what I learnt in 
 a hard and bitter school. 
 
 For I acknowledge that the experience was at times 
 bitterly painful. It is not pleasant to toil sixteen hours a day ; 
 it is not good to starve overmuch ; it is not well to feel bitter 
 for long months. And yet it is well and good and pleasant 
 in the end to learn realities and live without lies. It is better 
 to be a truthful animal than a civilised man, as things go. I 
 learnt much from horses and cattle and sheep ; the very 
 prairie dogs taught me; the ospreys and the salmon they 
 preyed on expressed truths. They didn't attempt to live on 
 words, or the dust and ashes of dead things. They were 
 themselves and no one else, and were not diseased with 
 theories or a morbid altruism that is based on dependence. 
 
 This, I think, is the lesson I learnt from my own book. I 
 did not know it when I wrote it. I never thought of writing 
 it ; I never meant to write anything ; I only went to America 
 because England and the life of London made me ill. If I 
 could have lived my own life here I would have stayed, but 
 the crushing combination of social forces drove me out. For 
 fear of cutting my own throat I left, and took my chance with 
 natural forces. To fight with nature makes men, to fight with 
 society makes devils, or criminals, or martyrs, and sometimes 
 a man may be all three. I preferred to revert to mere natural 
 conditions for a time. 
 
 To lead such a life for a long time is to give up creeds, and 
 to go to the universal storehouse whence all creeds come. It 
 is giving up dogmas and becoming religious. In true opposi- 
 tion to instructive nature, we find our own natural religion, 
 which cannot be wholly like any other. So a life of this kind 
 does not make men good, in the common sense of the word. 
 But it makes a man good for something. It may make him 
 an ethical outcast, as facts faced always will. He prefers 
 induction to deduction, especially the sanctioned unverified 
 deductions of social order. For nature affords the only
 
 MORLEY ROBERTS 
 
 189 
 
 verification for the logical process of deduction. 'We fear 
 nature too much, to say the least.' For most of us hold to 
 other men's theories instead of making our own. 
 
 When Mill said, ' Solitude, in the sense of being fre- 
 quently alone, is necessary to the formation of any depth of 
 character,' he spoke almost absolute truth. But here we can 
 never be alone ; the very 
 air is full of the dead 
 breath of others. I learnt 
 more in a four days' walk 
 over the California coast 
 range, living on parched 
 Indian corn, than I could 
 have done in a lifetime of 
 the solitude of a lonely 
 house. The Selkirks and 
 the Rocky Mountains are 
 books of ancient learning : 
 the long plains of grey grass, 
 the burnt plateaus of 
 the hot South, speak 
 eternal truths to all 
 who listen. They 
 need not listen, for 
 there men do not 
 learn by the ear. 
 They breathe the 
 knowledge in. 
 
 THE CALIFORNIA COAST RANCH 
 
 In speaking as I 
 
 have done about America I do not mean to praise it as a 
 State or a society. In that respect it is perhaps worse 
 than our own, more diseased, more under the heel of the 
 money fiend, more recklessly and brutally acquisitive. But 
 there are parts of it still more or less free ; nature reigns 
 still over vast tracts in the West. As a democracy it is
 
 190 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 so far a failure, as democracies must be organised on a 
 plutocratic basis ; but it at any rate allows a man to think 
 himself a man. Walt Whitman is the big expression of that 
 thought, but his fervent belief in America was really but deep 
 
 HY THE CAMP FIRE 
 
 trust in man himself, in man's power of revolt, in his ultimate 
 recognition of the beauty of the truth. The power of America 
 to teach lies in the fact that a great part of her fertile and 
 barren soil has not yet been taught, not yet cultivated for the 
 bread which of itself can feed no man wholly.
 
 MO RLE Y R OBER TS 1 9 1 
 
 Perhaps among the few who have read ' The Western 
 Avernus ' (for it was not a financial success), fewer still have 
 seen what I think I myself see in it now. But it has taken 
 me six years to understand it, six years to know how I came 
 to write it, and what it meant. That is the way in life : we 
 do not learn at once what we are taught, we do not always 
 understand all we say even when speaking earnestly. There 
 is often one aspect of a book that the writer himself can learn 
 from, and that is not always the technical part of it. All 
 sayings may have an esoteric meaning. In those hard days 
 by the camp fire, on the trail, on the prairie with sheep and 
 cattle, I did not understand that they called up in me the 
 ancient underlying experience of the race, and, like a deep 
 plough, brought to the surface the lowest soil which should 
 hereafter be a little fertile. When I starved, I thought not of 
 our far ancestors who had suffered too ; as I watched the 
 sheep or the sharp-horned Texas steers, I could not reflect 
 upon our pastoral forefathers ; as I climbed with bleeding feet 
 the steep slopes of the Western hills, my thoughts were set in 
 a narrow circle of dark misery. I could not think of those 
 who had striven,, like me, in distant ages. But the songs of 
 the camp fire, and the leap of the flame, and the crackling 
 wood, and the lofty snow-clad hills, and the long dim plains, 
 the wild beast, and the venomous serpents, and the need of 
 food, brought me back to nature, the nature that had created 
 those who were the fathers of us all, and, bringing me back, 
 they taught me, as they strive to teach all, that the real and 
 deeper life is every where, even in a city, if we will but look for 
 it with unsealed eyes and minds set free from the tedious 
 trivialities of this debauched modern life.
 
 (Fran a pliotografh by Thos. Fall, Baker Street) 
 
 V L 
 
 X)
 
 'A LIFE'S ATONEMENT' 
 BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 I BEGAN my first book more years ago than I care to 
 count, and, naturally enough, it took poetic form, if not 
 poetic substance. In its original shape it was called ' Marsh 
 Hall,' and ran into four cantos. On the eve of my twenty- 
 first birthday I sent the MS. to Messrs. Macmillan, who, very 
 wisely, as I have since come to believe, counselled me not to 
 publish it. I say this in full sincerity, though I remember 
 some of the youthful bombast not altogether without affec- 
 tion. Here and there I can recall a passage which still seems 
 respectable. I wrote reams of verse in those days, but when 
 I came into the rough and tumble of journalistic life I was 
 too occupied to court the Muses any longer, and found 
 myself condemned to a life of prose. I was acting as special 
 correspondent for the Birmingham Morning Neivs in the 
 year '73 I think it was '73, though it might have been a 
 year later and at that time Mr. Edmund Yates was lecturing 
 in America, and a novel of his, the last he ever wrote, was 
 running through our columns. Whether the genial ' Atlas,' 
 who at that time had not taken the burden of The World 
 upon his shoulders, found his associations too numerous and 
 heavy, I can only guess, but he closed the story with an 
 unexpected suddenness, and the editor, who had supposed 
 himself to have a month or two in hand in which to make 
 arrangements for his next serial, was confronted with the 
 finis of Mr. Yates's work, and was compelled to start a new 
 
 O
 
 1 94 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 novel at a week's notice. In this extremity he turned to me. 
 ' I think, young 'un,' he said, ' that you ought to be able to 
 write a novel.' I shared his faith, and had, indeed, already 
 begun a story which I had christened ' Grace Forbeach.' I 
 handed him two chapters, which he read at once, and, in high 
 feather, sent to the printer. It never bade fair to be a mighty 
 work, but at least it fulfilled the meaning of the original 
 edition of Pope's famous line, for it was certainly ' all without 
 
 I HANDED HIM TWO CHAPTERS 
 
 a plan.' I had appropriate scenery in my mind, no end of 
 typical people to draw, and one or two moving actualities to 
 work from. But I had forgotten the plot. To attempt a 
 novel without a definite scheme of some sort is very like 
 trying to make a Christmas pudding without a cloth. Ruth 
 Pinch was uncertain as to whether her first venture at a 
 pudding might not turn out a soup. My novelistic effort, I 
 am sorry to confess, had no cohesion in it. Its parts got
 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 '95 
 
 loose in the cooking, and I have reason to think that most 
 people who tried it found the dish repellent. The cashier 
 assured me that I had sent down the circulation of the 
 Saturday issue by sixteen thousand. I 
 had excellent reasons for disbelieving this 
 circumstantial statement in 
 the fact that the Saturday 
 issue had never reached that 
 number, but I have no doubt , 
 I did a deal of damage. 
 There had been an idea in 
 ' Marsh Hall/ and what with 
 interpolated ballads and poetic 
 excursions and alarums of all 
 sorts, I had found in it matter 
 enough to fill out my four 
 cantos. I set out with the 
 intent to work that 
 same idea through 
 the pages of ' Grace 
 Forbeach,' but it 
 was too scanty for 
 the uses of a three- 
 volume novel, at 
 least in the hands 
 of a tiro. I know 
 one or two accomplished 
 gentlemen who could 
 
 make it serve the purpose ad- 
 mirably, and, perhaps, I myself might 
 do something with it at a pinch at 
 this time of day. Anyhow, as it was, the cloth was too small 
 to hold the pudding, and, in the process of cooking, I was 
 driven to the most desperate expedients. To drop the simile 
 and to come to the plain facts of the case, I sent all my 
 
 o 2
 
 196 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 wicked and superfluous people into a coal-mine, and there 
 put an end to them by an inrush of water. I forget what 
 became of the hero, but I know that some of the most 
 promising characters dropped out of that story, and were no 
 more heard of. The sub-editor used occasionally, for my 
 encouragement, to show me letters he received, denouncing 
 the work, and asking wrathfully when it would end. 
 
 Whilst I am about ' Grace Forbeach,' it may be worth 
 while to tell the story of the champion printer's error of my 
 experience. I wrote at the close of the story : 
 
 ' Are there no troubles now ? ' the lover asks. 
 
 ' Not one, dear Frank. Not one.' 
 
 And then, in brackets, thus [ ] I set the words : 
 [White line.] 
 
 This was a technical instruction to the printer, and meant 
 that one line of space should be left clear. The genius who 
 had the copy in hand put the lover's speech in type correctly, 
 and then, setting it out as if it were a line of verse, he gave 
 
 me 
 
 ' Not one, dear Frank, not one white line ! ' 
 
 It was a custom in the printing office to suspend a leather 
 medal by a leather bootlace round the neck of the man who 
 had achieved the prize betise of the year. It was somewhere 
 about midsummer at this time, but it was instantly and 
 unanimously resolved that nothing better than this would 
 or could be done by anybody. The compositors performed 
 what they called a ' jerry ' in the blunderer's honour, and 
 invested him, after an animated fight, with the medal. 
 
 ' Grace Forbeach ' has been dead and buried for very 
 nearly a score of years. It never saw book form, and I was 
 never anxious that it should do so, but as it had grown out 
 of ' Marsh Hall,' so my first book grew out of it, and, oddly 
 enough, not only my first, but my second and my third. 
 ' Joseph's Coat/ which made my fortune, and gave me such
 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 197 
 
 literary standing as I have, was built on one episode of that 
 abortive story, and ' Val Strange ' was constructed and written 
 to lead up to the episode of the attempted suicide on Wei- 
 beck Head, which had formed the culminating point in the 
 poem. 
 
 When I got to London I determined to try my hand 
 anew, and, having learned by failure something more than 
 success could ever have taught me, I built up my scheme 
 before I started on my book. Having come to utter grief 
 for want of a scheme to work on, I ran, in my eagerness to 
 avoid that fault, into the opposite extreme, and built an iron- 
 
 THEY INVESTED HIM WITH THE MEDAL 
 
 bound plot, which afterwards cost me very many weeks of 
 unnecessary and unvalued labour. I am quite sure that 
 no reader of 'A Life's Atonement' ever guessed that the 
 author took one tithe, or even one-twentieth part, of the 
 trouble it actually cost to weave the two strands of its narra- 
 tive together. I divided my story into thirty-six chapters. 
 Twelve of these were autobiographical, in the sense that 
 they were supposed to be written by the hero in person. 
 The remaining twenty-four were historical, purporting to be 
 written, that is, by an impersonal author. The autobio- 
 graphical portions necessarily began in the childhood of the
 
 198 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 narrator, and between them and the ' History ' there was 
 a considerable gulf of time. Little by little this gulf had to 
 be bridged over until the action in both portions of the story 
 became synchronous. I really do not suppose that the most 
 pitiless critic ever felt it worth his while to question the 
 accuracy of my dates, and I dare say that all the trouble I 
 took was quite useless, but I fixed in my own mind the 
 actual years over which the story extended, and spent scores 
 of hours in the consultation of old almanacs. I have never 
 verified the work since it was done, but I believe that in this 
 one respect, at least, it is beyond cavil. The two central 
 figures of the book were lifted straight from the story of 
 ' Marsh Hall/ and ' Grace Forbeach ' gave her quota to the 
 narrative. 
 
 I had completed the first volume when I received a 
 commission to go out as special correspondent to the Russo- 
 Turkish war. I left the MS. behind me, and for many months 
 the scheme was banished from my mind. I went through 
 those cities of the dead, Kesanlik, Calofar, Carlova, and Sopot. 
 I watched the long-drawn artillery duel at the Shipka Pass, 
 made the dreary month-long march in the rainy season from 
 Orkhanie to Plevna, with the army of reinforcement, under 
 Chefket Pasha and Chakir Pasha, lived in the besieged town 
 until Osman drove away all foreign visitors, and sent out his 
 wounded to sow the whole melancholy road with corpses. I 
 put up on the heights of Tashkesen, and saw the stubborn 
 defence of Mehemet Ali, and there was pounced upon by the 
 Turkish authorities for a too faithful dealing with the story of 
 the horrors of the war, and was deported to Constantinople. 
 I had originally gone out for an American journal at the 
 instance of a gentleman who exceeded his instructions in 
 despatching me, and I was left high and dry in the Turkish 
 capital without a penny and without a friend. But work of 
 the kind I could do was wanted, and I was on the spot. I slid 
 into an engagement with the Scotsman, and then into another
 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 199 
 
 with the Times. The late Mr. Macdonald, who was killed by 
 the Pigott forgeries, was then manager of the leading journal, 
 and offered me fresh work. I waited for it, and a year of wild 
 adventure in the face of war had given me such a taste for 
 that sort of existence that I let ' A Life's Atonement ' slide, 
 and had no thought of taking it up again. A misunderstand- 
 ing with the Times authori- 
 ties happily cleared up 
 years after left me in the 
 cold, and I was bound to 
 do something for a living. 
 The first volume of 
 ' A Life's Atonement ' 
 had been written in 
 the intervals of labour 
 in the Gallery of the 
 House of Commons, 
 and such work as an 
 active hack journalist 
 can find among the 
 magazines and the 
 weekly society papers. 
 I had been away 
 a whole year, and 
 everywhere my place 
 was filled. It was 
 obviously no use to a 
 man in want of ready 
 
 money to undertake the completion of a three-volume novel 
 of which only one volume was written, and so I betook myself 
 to the writing of short stories. The very first of these was 
 blessed by a lucky accident. Mr. George Augustus Sala had 
 begun to write for The Gentleman's Magazine a story called, 
 if I remember rightly, ' Dr. Cupid.' Sala was suddenly 
 summoned by the proprietors of the Daily Telegraph to 
 
 CONSULTING OLD 
 ALMANACS
 
 200 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 undertake one of his innumerable journeys, and the copy of 
 the second instalment of his story reached the editor too late 
 for publication. Just when the publishers of the Gentleman's 
 were at a loss for suitable copy, my MS. of ' An Old 
 Meerschaum ' reached them, and, to my delighted surprise, I 
 received proofs almost by return of post. The story appeared, 
 with an illustration by Arthur Hopkins, and, about a week 
 later, there came to me, through Messrs. Chatto & Windus, 
 a letter from Robert Chambers : ' Sir, I have read, with 
 unusual pleasure and interest, in this month's Gentleman's 
 Magazine, a story from your pen entitled "An Old Meer- 
 schaum." If you have a novel on hand, or in preparation, I 
 should be glad to see it. In the meantime, a short story, 
 not much longer than " An Old Meerschaum," would be 
 gladly considered by Yours very truly, ROBERT CHAMBERS. 
 P.S. We publish no authors' names, but we pay handsomely.' 
 This letter brought back to mind at once the neglected ' Life's 
 Atonement,' but I was uncertain as to the whereabouts of the 
 MS. I searched everywhere amongst my own belongings in 
 vain, but it suddenly occurred to me that I had left it in 
 charge of a passing acquaintance of mine, who had taken up 
 the unexpired lease of my chambers in Gray's Inn at the 
 time of my departure for the seat of war. I jumped into a 
 cab, and drove off in search of my property. The shabby old 
 laundress who had made my bed and served my breakfast 
 was pottering about the rooms. She remembered me perfectly 
 well, of course, but could not remember that I had left any- 
 thing behind me when I went away. I talked of manuscript, 
 and she recalled doubtfully a quantity of waste paper, of the 
 final destination of which she knew nothing. I began to 
 think it extremely improbable that I should ever recover a 
 line of the missing novel, when she opened a cupboard and 
 drew from it a brown-paper parcel, and, opening it, displayed 
 to me the MS. of which I was in search. I took it home and 
 read it through with infinite misgiving. The enthusiasm with
 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 which I had begun the work had long since had time 
 to pall, and the whole thing looked weary, flat, stale, and 
 unprofitable. For one thing, I had adopted the abominable 
 expedient of writing in the present tense so far as the auto- 
 biographical portion of the work was concerned, and, in the 
 
 interval which had gone by, my 
 taste had, I suppose, undergone 
 an unconscious correction. It was 
 a dull business, but, despondent 
 
 SHE DREW FROM IT A BROWN-PAPER 
 PARCEL 
 
 as I was, I found the heart to rewrite those chapters. 
 Charles Reade describes the task of writing out one's work 
 a second time as ' nauseous,' and I confess that I am with 
 him with all my heart. It is a misery which I have 
 never since, in all my work, imposed upon myself. At that 
 time I counted amongst my friends an eminent novelist, on 
 whose critical faculty and honesty I knew I could place the
 
 2O2 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 most absolute reliance. I submitted my revised first volume 
 to his judgment, and was surprised to learn that he thought 
 highly of it. His judgment gave me new courage, and I sent 
 the copy in to Chambers. After a delay of a week or two, I 
 received a letter which gave me, I think, a keener delight 
 
 than has ever touched me at 
 the receipt of any other com- 
 munication. ' If,' wrote Robert 
 Chambers, ' the rest is as good 
 as the first volume, I shall ac- 
 cept the book with pleasure. 
 Our price for the serial use 
 will be 25o/., of which we will 
 pay ioo/. on receipt of com- 
 pleted MS. ; the remaining 
 1 5o/. will be paid on the pub- 
 lication of the first monthly 
 number.' I had been out of 
 harness for so long a time, 
 and had been, by desultory 
 work, able to earn so little, 
 that this letter seemed to 
 
 IF THERE 
 HAD BEEN 
 
 NO 'DAVID open a sort of Eldorado to my 
 
 COPPER- 
 FIELD ' 
 
 gaze. It was not that alone 
 which made it so agreeable 
 to receive. It opened the 
 way to an honourable ambition which I 
 had long nourished, and I slaved away at the 
 remaining two volumes with an enthusiasm 
 which I have never been able to revive. There 
 are two or three people still extant who know in part the priva- 
 tions I endured whilst the book was being finished. I set every- 
 thing else on one side for it, incautiously enough, and for two 
 months I did not earn a penny by other means. The most 
 trying accident of all the time was the tobacco famine which
 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 203 
 
 set in towards the close of the third volume, but, in spite of all 
 obstacles, the book was finished. I worked all night at the 
 final chapter, and wrote ' Finis ' somewhere about five o'clock 
 on a summer morning. I shall never forget the solemn 
 exultation with which I laid down my pen 
 and looked from the window of the little 
 room in which I had been working over the 
 golden splendour of the gorse-covered com- 
 mon of Ditton Marsh. All my original 
 enthusiasm had revived, and in the course of 
 my lonely labours had grown to 
 a white heat I solemnly be- 
 lieved at that moment that I 
 had written a great book. I 
 suppose I may make 
 that confession now 
 without proclaiming 
 myself a fool. I really 
 and seriously believed 
 that the work I had 
 just finished was original in con- 
 ception, style, and character. No 
 reviewer ever taunted me with 
 the fact, but the truth is that ' A 
 Life's Atonement ' is a very 
 curious instance of unconscious 
 plagiarism. It is quite evident 
 to my mind now that if there 
 had been no ' David Copperfield ' 
 there would have been no ' Life's 
 
 Atonement.' My Gascoigne is Steerforth, my John Campbell 
 is David, John's aunt is Miss Betsy Trotwood, Sally Troman 
 is Peggotty. The very separation of the friends, though brought 
 about by a different cause, is a reminiscence. I was utterly 
 unconscious of these facts, and, remembering how devotedly 
 
 THE STOCK WAS TRANSFERRED
 
 2O4 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 and honestly I worked, how resolute I was to put my best of 
 observation and invention into the story, I have ever since felt 
 chary of entertaining a charge of plagiarism against anybody. 
 There are, of course, flagrant and obvious cases, but I believe 
 that in nine instances out of ten the supposed criminal has 
 worked as I did, having so completely absorbed and digested 
 in childhood the work of an admired master that he has come 
 to feel that work as an actual portion of himself. ' A Life's 
 Atonement' ran its course through Chambers 's Journal in due 
 time, and was received with favour. Messrs. Griffith & 
 Farran undertook its publication in book form, but one or 
 
 SOME NOVELS 
 
 two accidental circumstances forbade it to prosper in their 
 hands. To begin with, the firm at that time had only newly 
 decided on publishing novels at all, and a work under such a 
 title, and issued by such a house, was naturally supposed to 
 have a theological tendency. Then again, in the very week in 
 which my book saw the light, ' Lothair ' appeared, and for the 
 time being swamped everything. All the world read ' Lothair,' 
 all the world talked about it, and all the newspapers and 
 reviews dealt with it, to the exclusion of the products of the 
 smaller fry. Later on, ' A Life's Atonement ' was handsomely 
 reviewed, and was indeed, as I am disposed to think, praised
 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 205 
 
 a good deal beyond its merits. But it lay a dead weight on 
 the hands of its original publishers, until Messrs. Chatto & 
 Windus expressed a wish to incorporate it in their Piccadilly 
 Series. The negotiations between the two houses were easily 
 completed, the stock was transferred from one establishment 
 to the other, the volumes were stripped of their old binding 
 and dressed anew, and with this novel impetus the story 
 reached a second edition in three-volume form. It brought 
 me almost immediately two commissions, and by the time 
 that they were completed I had grown into a professional 
 novel-writer.
 
 206 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 'A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS' 
 BY MARIE CORELLI 
 
 IT is an un romantic thing for an author to have had no 
 literary vicissitudes. One cannot expect to be con- 
 sidered interesting, unless one has come up to London with 
 the proverbial solitary ' shilling,' and gone about hungry and 
 footsore, begging from one hard-hearted publisher's house to 
 another with one's perpetually rejected manuscript under 
 one's arm. One ought to have consumed the ' midnight oil ; ' 
 to have ' coined one's heart's blood ' (to borrow the tragic 
 expression of a contemporary gentleman-novelist) ; to have 
 sacrificed one's self-respect by metaphorically crawling on 
 all-fours to the critical faculty ; and to have become aestheti- 
 cally cadaverous and blear-eyed through the action of 
 inspired dyspepsia. Now, I am obliged to confess that I 
 have done none of these things, which, to quote the Prayer- 
 book, I ought to have done. I have had no difficulty in 
 making my career or winning my public. And I attribute 
 my good fortune to the simple fact that I have always tried 
 to write straight from my own heart to the hearts of others, 
 regardless of opinions and indifferent to results. My object 
 in writing has never been, and never will be, to concoct a 
 mere story which shall bring me in a certain amount of cash 
 or notoriety, but solely because I wish to say something 
 which, be it ill or well said, is the candid and independent 
 expression of a thought which I will have uttered at all 
 risks.
 
 MARIE CORELLI 207 
 
 In this spirit I wrote my first book, ' A Romance of Two 
 Worlds,' now in its seventh edition. It was the simply 
 worded narration of a singular psychical experience, and 
 included certain theories on religion which I, personally 
 speaking, accept and believe. I had no sort of literary pride 
 in my work whatsoever ; there was nothing of self in the wish 
 I had, that my ideas, such as they were, should reach the 
 public, for I had no particular need of money, and certainly 
 no hankering after fame. When the book was written I 
 doubted whether it would ever find a publisher, though I 
 determined to try and launch it if possible. My notion was 
 to offer it to Arrowsmith as a shilling railway volume, under 
 the title ' Lifted Up.' But in the interim, as a kind of test of 
 its merit or demerit, I sent the MS. to Mr. George Bentley, 
 head of the long-established and famous Bentley publishing 
 firm. It ran the gauntlet of his ' readers ' first, and they all 
 advised its summary rejection. Among these ' readers ' at 
 that time was Mr. Hall Caine. His strictures on my work 
 were peculiarly bitter, though, strange to relate, he afterwards 
 forgot the nature of his own report. For, on being intro- 
 duced to me at a ball given by Miss Eastlake, when my name 
 was made and my success assured, he blandly remarked, 
 before a select circle of interested auditors, that he ' had had 
 the pleasure of recommending' my first book to Mr. Bentley ! 
 Comment on this were needless and unkind : he tells stories 
 so admirably that I readily excuse him for his ' slip of 
 memory,' and accept the whole incident as a delightful 
 example of his inventive faculty. 
 
 His severe judgment pronounced upon me, combined 
 with similar, but perhaps milder, severity on the part of the 
 other ' readers,' had, however, an unexpected result. Mr. 
 George Bentley, moved by curiosity, and possibly by com- 
 passion for the impending fate of a young woman so ' sat 
 upon ' by his selected censors, decided to read my MS. himself. 
 Happily for me, the consequence of his unprejudiced and
 
 2 o8 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 impartial perusal was acceptance ; and I still keep the kind 
 and encouraging letter he wrote to me at the time, informing 
 me of his decision, and stating the terms of his offer. These 
 terms were, a sum down for one year's rights, the copyright 
 of the work to remain my own entire property. I did not 
 then understand what an advantage this retaining of my 
 copyright in my own possession was to prove to me, finan- 
 cially speaking ; but I am willing to do Mr. Bentley the 
 full justice of supposing that he foresaw the success of the 
 book ; and that, therefore, his action in leaving me the sole 
 owner of my then very small literary estate redounds very 
 much to his credit, and is an evident proof amongst many 
 of his manifest honour and integrity. Of course, the copy- 
 right of an unsuccessful book is valueless ; but my ' Romance ' 
 was destined to prove a sound investment, though I never 
 dreamed that it would be so. Glad of my chance of reaching 
 the public with what I had to say, I gratefully closed with 
 Mr. Bentley's proposal. He considered the title ' Lifted Up ' 
 as lacking attractiveness ; it was therefore discarded, and Mr. 
 Eric Mackay, the poet, gave the book its present name, ' A 
 Romance of Two Worlds.' 
 
 Once published, the career of the ' Romance ' became 
 singular, and totally apart from that of any other so-called 
 ' novel.' It only received four reviews, all brief and distinctly 
 unfavourable. The one which appeared in the dignified 
 Morning Post is a fair sample of the rest. I keep it by me 
 preciously, because it serves as a wholesome tonic to my 
 mind, and proves to me that when a leading journal can so 
 ' review ' a book, one need fear nothing from the literary 
 knowledge, acumen, or discernment of reviewers. I quote it 
 verbatim : ' Miss Corelli would have been better advised had 
 she embodied her ridiculous ideas in a sixpenny pamphlet. 
 The names of Heliobas and Zara are alone sufficient indications 
 of the dulness of this book.' This was all. No explanation 
 was vouchsafed as to why my ideas were ' ridiculous/ though
 
 MARIE CORELLI 
 
 209 
 
 such explanation was justly due ; nor did the reviewer state 
 why he (or she) found the ' names ' of characters ' sufficient 
 indications' of dulness, a curious discovery which I believe is 
 unique. However, the so-called ' critique ' did one good 
 thing ; it moved me to sincere laughter, and showed me what 
 I might expect from the critical brethren in these days days 
 which can no longer boast of a Lord Macaulay, a brilliant, if 
 bitter, Jeffrey, or a generous Sir Walter Scott 
 
 THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 To resume : the four ' notices ' having been grudgingly 
 bestowed, the Press ' dropped ' the ' Romance,' considering, no 
 doubt, that it was ' quashed,' and would die the usual death of 
 ' women's novels,' as they are contemptuously called, in the 
 prescribed year. But it did nothing of the sort. Ignored by 
 the Press, it attracted the public. Letters concerning it and 
 
 1 This and the succeeding illustrations are from photographs by 'Adrian.'
 
 210 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 its theories began to pour in from strangers in all parts of the 
 United Kingdom ; and at the end of its twelvemonth's run 
 in the circulating libraries Mr. Bentley brought it out in one 
 volume in his ' Favorite ' series. Then it started off at full 
 gallop the 'great majority' got at it, and, what is more, kept 
 at it. It was ' pirated ' in America ; chosen out and liberally 
 paid for by Baron Tauchnitz for the ' Tauchnitz ' series ; 
 translated into various languages on the Continent, and 
 became a topic of social discussion. A perfect ocean of 
 correspondence flowed in upon me from India, Africa, 
 Australia, and America, and at this very time I count through 
 correspondence a host of friends in all parts of the world 
 whom I do not suppose I shall ever see ; friends who even 
 carry their enthusiasm so far as to place their houses at my 
 disposal for a year or two years and surely the force of 
 hospitality can no further go ! With all these attentions, I 
 began to find out the advantage my practical publisher had 
 given me in the retaining of my copyright ; my ' royalties ' 
 commenced, increased, and accumulated with every quarter, 
 and at the present moment continue still to accumulate, so 
 much so, that the ' Romance of Two Worlds ' alone, apart 
 from all my other works, is the source of a very pleasant 
 income. And I have great satisfaction in knowing that its 
 prolonged success is not due to any influence save that which 
 is contained within itself. It certainly has not been helped 
 on by the Press, for since I began my career six years ago, I 
 have never had a word of open encouragement or kindness 
 from any leading English critic. The only real ' reviews ' I 
 ever received worthy of the name appeared in the Spectator 
 and the Literary World. The first was on my book ' Ardath : 
 The Story of a Dead Self/ and in this the over-abundant 
 praise in the beginning was all smothered by the unmitigated 
 abuse at the end. The second in the Literary World was 
 eminently generous ; it dealt with my last book, ' The Soul of 
 Lilith.' So taken aback was I with surprise at receiving an
 
 MARIE CORELLI 
 
 211 
 
 all-through kindly, as well as scholarly, criticism from any 
 quarter of the Press, that, though I knew nothing about the 
 Literary World, I wrote a letter of thanks to my unknown 
 reviewer, begging the editor to forward it in the right direction. 
 He did so, and my generous critic turned out to be a woman 
 a literary woman, too, fighting a hard fight herself, who 
 would have had an excuse to ' slate ' me as an unrequired rival 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 in literature had she so chosen, but who, instead of this easy 
 course, adopted the more difficult path of justice and un- 
 selfishness. 
 
 After the ' Romance of Two Worlds ' I wrote ' Vendetta ; ' 
 then followed ' Thelma,' and then ' Ardath : The Story of a 
 Dead Self,' which, among other purely personal rewards, 
 brought me a charming autograph letter from the late Lord 
 Tennyson, full of valuable encouragement. Then followed
 
 212 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 1 Wormwood ; A Drama of Paris ' now in its fifth edition ; 
 ' Ardath ' and ' Thelma ' being in their seventh editions. My 
 publishers seldom advertise the number of my editions, which 
 is, I suppose, the reason why the continuous ' run ' of the 
 books escapes the Press comment of the 'great success' 
 supposed to attend various other novels which only attain to 
 third or fourth editions. ' The Soul of Lilith,' published only 
 last year, ran through four editions in three-volume form ; it 
 is issued now in one volume by Messrs. Bentley, to whom, 
 however, I have not offered any new work. A change of 
 publishers is sometimes advisable ; but I have a sincere 
 personal liking for Mr. George Bentley, who is himself an 
 author of distinct originality and ability, though his literary 
 gifts are only known to his own private circle. His book of 
 essays, entitled ' After Business/ is a delightful volume, full 
 of point and brilliancy, two specially admirable papers being 
 those on Villon and Carlyle, while it would be difficult to 
 discover a more ' taking ' prose bit than the concluding 
 chapter, ' Under an Old Poplar.' 
 
 A very foolish and erroneous rumour has of late been 
 circulated concerning me, asserting that I owe a great measure 
 of my literary success to the kindly recognition and interest 
 of the Queen. I take the present opportunity to clear up this 
 perverse misunderstanding. My books have been running 
 successfully through several editions for six years, and the 
 much-commented-upon presentation of a complete set of them 
 to Her Majesty took place only last year. If it were possible 
 to regret the honour of the Queen's acceptance of these 
 volumes, I should certainly have cause to do so, as the 
 extraordinary spite and malice that has since been poured on 
 my unoffending head has shown me a very bad side of human 
 nature, which I am sorry to have seen. There is very little 
 cause to envy me in this matter. I have but received the 
 courteously formal thanks of the Queen and the Empress 
 Frederick, conveyed through the medium of their ladies-in-
 
 MARIE CORELLI 213 
 
 waiting, for the special copies of the books their Majesties were 
 pleased to admire ; yet for this simple and quite ordinary 
 honour I have been subjected to such forms of gratuitous abuse 
 as I did not think possible to a 'just and noble ' English Press. 
 I have often wondered why I was. not equally assailed when 
 the Queen of Italy, not content with merely ' accepting ' a copy 
 of the ' Romance of Two Worlds,' sent me an autograph 
 
 THE STUDY 
 
 portrait of herself, accompanied by a charming letter, a souvenir 
 which I value, not at all because the sender is a queen, but 
 because she is a sweet and noble woman whose every action 
 is marked by grace and unselfishness, and who has deservedly 
 won the title given her by her people, ' the blessing of Italy.' 
 I repeat, I owe nothing whatever of my popularity, such as it 
 is, to any ' royal ' notice or favour, though I am naturally glad 
 to have been kindly recognised and encouraged by those
 
 2i 4 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 ' throned powers ' who command the nation's utmost love and 
 loyalty. But my appeal for a hearing was first made to the 
 great public, and the public responded ; moreover, they do 
 still respond with so much heartiness and goodwill, that I 
 should be the most ungrateful scribbler that ever scribbled if 
 I did not (despite Press ' drubbings ' and the amusing total 
 ignoring of my very existence by certain cliquey literary 
 magazines) take up my courage in both hands, as the French 
 say, and march steadily onward to such generous cheering and 
 encouragement 
 
 I am told by an eminent literary authority that critics are 
 ' down upon me ' because I write about the supernatural. I 
 do not entirely believe the eminent literary authority, inasmuch 
 as 1 have not always written about the supernatural. Neither 
 ' Vendetta,' nor ' Thelma,' nor ' Wormwood ' is supernatural. 
 But, says the eminent literary authority, why write at all, at any 
 time, about the supernatural ? Why ? Because I feel the 
 existence of the supernatural, and feeling it, I must speak of 
 it. I understand that the religion we profess to follow ema- 
 nates from the supernatural. And I presume that churches 
 exist for the solemn worship of the supernatural. Wherefore, 
 if the supernatural be thus universally acknowledged as a 
 guide for thought and morals, I fail to see why I, and as many 
 others as choose to do so, should not write on the subject. An 
 author has quite as much right to characterise angels and 
 saints in his or her pages as a painter has to depict them on 
 his canvas. And I do not keep my belief in the supernatural 
 as a sort of special mood to be entered into on Sundays only ; 
 it accompanies me in my daily round, and helps me along in 
 all my business. But I distinctly wish it to be understood 
 that I am neither a ' Spiritualist ' nor a ' Theosophist.' I am 
 not a ' strong-minded ' woman, with egotistical ideas of a 
 ' mission.' I have no other supernatural belief than that which 
 is taught by the Founder of our Faith, and this can never be 
 shaken from me or ' sneered down.' If critics object to my
 
 MARIE CORELLI 215 
 
 dealing with this in my books, they are very welcome to do so ; 
 their objections will not turn me from what they are pleased 
 to consider the error of my ways. I know that unrelieved 
 naturalism and atheism are much more admired subjects with 
 the critical faculty ; but the public differ from this view. The 
 public, being in the main healthy-minded and honest, do not 
 care for positivism and pessimism. They like to believe in 
 something better than themselves ; they like to rest on the 
 ennobling idea that there is a great loving Maker of this 
 splendid Universe, and they have no lasting affection for any 
 author whose tendency and teaching is to despise the hope of 
 heaven, and ' reason away ' the existence of God. It is very 
 clever, no doubt, and very brilliant to deny the Creator ; it is 
 as if a monkey should, while being caged and fed by man, deny 
 man's existence. Such a circumstance would make us laugh, 
 of course ; we should think it uncommonly ' smart ' of the 
 monkey. But we should not take his statement for a fact all 
 the same. 
 
 Of the mechanical part of my work there is little to say. 
 I write every day from ten in the morning till two in the 
 afternoon, alone and undisturbed, save for the tinpot tinkling 
 of unmusical neighbours' pianos, and the perpetual organ- 
 grinding which is freely permitted to interfere ad libitum with 
 the quiet and comfort of all the patient brain-workers who pay 
 rent and taxes in this great and glorious metropolis. I gene- 
 rally scribble off the first rough draft of a story very rapidly in 
 pencil ; then I copy it out in pen and ink, chapter by chapter, 
 with fastidious care, not only because I like a neat manuscript, 
 but because I think everything that is worth doing at all is 
 worth doing well ; and I do not see why my publishers should 
 have to pay for more printers' errors than the printers them- 
 selves make necessary. I find, too, that in the gradual process 
 of copying by hand, the original draft, like a painter's first 
 sketch, gets improved and enlarged. No one sees my manu- 
 script before it goes to press, as I am now able to refuse to
 
 216 AfTf FIRST BOOK 
 
 submit my work to the judgment of ' readers.' These worthies 
 treated me roughly in the beginning, but they will never have 
 the chance again. I correct my proofs myself, though I regret 
 to say my instructions and revisions are not always followed. 
 In my novel ' Wormwood ' I corrected the French article ' le 
 chose ' to ' la chose ' three times, but apparently the printers 
 preferred their own French, for it is still ' le chose' in the 
 ' Favorite ' edition, and the error is stereotyped. In accord- 
 ance with the arrangement made by Mr. George Bentley for 
 my first book, I retain to myself sole possession of all my 
 copyrights, and as all my novels are successes, the financial 
 results are distinctly pleasing. America, of course, is always 
 a thorn in the side of an author. The ' Romance,' ' Vendetta,' 
 ' Thelma ' and ' Ardath ' were all ' pirated ' over there before 
 the passing of the American Copyright Act, it being appa- 
 rently out of Messrs. Bentley & Son's line to make even an 
 attempt to protect my rights. After the Act was passed, I 
 was paid a sum for ' Wormwood,' and a larger sum for ' The 
 Soul of Lilith,' but, as everyone knows, the usual honorarium 
 offered by American publishers for the rights of a successful 
 English novel are totally inadequate to the sales they are able 
 to command. American critics, however, have been very good 
 to me. They have at least read my books before starting to 
 review them, which is a great thing. I have always kept my 
 ' Tauchnitz ' rights, and very pleasant have all my dealings 
 been with the courteous and generous Baron. All wanderers 
 on the Continent love the ' Tauchnitz ' volumes their neat- 
 ness, handy form, and remarkably clear type give them 
 precedence over every other foreign series. Baron Tauchnitz 
 pays his authors excellently well, and takes a literary as well 
 as commercial interest in their fortunes. 
 
 Perhaps one of the pleasantest things connected with my 
 ' success ' is the popularity I have won in many quarters of 
 the Continent without any exertion on my own part. My 
 name is as well known in Germany as anywhere, while in
 
 v> 
 
 
 
 

 
 218 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 Sweden they have been good enough to elect me as one of 
 their favourite authors, thanks to the admirable translations 
 made of all my books by Miss Emilie Kullmann, of Stock- 
 holm, whose energy did not desert her even when she had so 
 difficult a task to perform as the rendering of ' Ardath ' into 
 Swedish. In Italy and Spain ' Vendetta,' translated into the 
 languages of those countries, is popular. Madame Emma 
 Guarducci-Giaconi is the translator of ' Wormwood ' into 
 Italian, and her almost literal and perfect rendering has been 
 running as \hefeuilleton in the Florentine journal, La Nazione, 
 under the title ' L'Alcoolismo : Un Dramma di Parigi.' The 
 ' Romance of Two Worlds ' is to be had in Russian, so I 
 am told ; and it will shortly be published at Athens, rendered 
 into modern Greek. While engaged in writing this article, I 
 have received a letter asking for permission to translate this 
 same ' Romance ' into one of the dialects of North-west India, 
 a request I shall very readily grant. In its Eastern dress the 
 book will, I understand, be published at Lucknow. I may 
 here state that I gain no financial advantage from these 
 numerous translations, nor do I seek any. Sometimes the 
 translators do not even ask my permission to translate, but 
 content themselves with sending me a copy of the book when 
 completed, without any word of explanation. 
 
 And now to wind up ; if I have made a name, if I have 
 made a career, as it seems I have, I have only one piece of 
 pride connected with it. Not pride in my work, for no one 
 with a grain of sense or modesty would, in these days, dare 
 to consider his or her literary efforts of much worth, as com- 
 pared with what has already been done by the past great 
 authors. My pride is simply this : that I have fought my 
 fight alone, and that I have no thanks to offer to anyone, 
 save those legitimately due to the publisher who launched 
 my first book, but who, it must be remembered, would, as a 
 good business man, have unquestionably published nothing
 
 MARIE CORELLI 219 
 
 else of mine had I been a failure. I count no ' friend on the 
 Press,' and I owe no ' distinguished critic ' any debt of grati- 
 tude. I have come, by happy chance, straight into close and 
 sympathetic union with my public, and attained to independence 
 and good fortune while still young and able to enjoy both. 
 An ' incomprehensibly successful ' novelist I was called last 
 summer by an irritated correspondent of Life, who chanced 
 to see me sharing in the full flow of pleasure and social 
 amusement during the ' season ' at Homburg. Well, if it be 
 so, this ' incomprehensible success ' has been attained, I 
 rejoice to say, without either ' log-roller ' or ' boom,' and were 
 I of the old Greek faith, I should pour a libation to the gods 
 for giving me this victory. Certainly I used to hope for 
 what Britishers aptly call ' fair play ' from the critics, but I 
 have ceased to expect that now. It is evidently a delight to 
 them to abuse me, else they would not go out of their way to 
 do it ; and I have no wish to interfere with either their ' copy ' 
 or their fun. The public are beyond them altogether. And 
 Literature is like that famous hill told of in the ' Arabian 
 Nights,' where threatening anonymous voices shouted the 
 most deadly insults and injuries to anyone who attempted to 
 climb it. If the adventurer turned back to listen, he was 
 instantly changed into stone ; but if he pressed boldly on, he 
 reached the summit and found magic talismans. Now I am 
 only at the commencement of the journey, and am ascending 
 the hill with a light heart and in good humour. I hear the 
 taunting voices on all sides, but I do not stop to listen, nor 
 have I once turned back. My eyes are fixed on the distant 
 peak of the mountain, and my mind is set on arriving there 
 if possible. My ambition may be too great, and I may 
 never arrive. That is a matter for the fates to settle. But, 
 in the meanwhile, I enjoy climbing. I have nothing to 
 grumble about. I consider Literature the noblest Art in the 
 world, and have no complaint whatever to urge against it as
 
 220 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 a profession. Its rewards, whether great or small, are suffi- 
 cient for me, inasmuch as I love my work, and love makes all 
 things easy. 
 
 NOTE. Since writing the above I have been asked to state whether, in my 
 arrangements for publishing, I employ a ' literary agent ' or use a ' type-writer. 
 I do not. With regard to the first part of the query, I consider that authors, like 
 other people, should learn how to manage their own affairs themselves, and that 
 when they take a paid agent into their confidence, they make open confession of 
 their business incapacity, and voluntarily elect to remain in foolish ignorance of 
 the practical part of their profession. Secondly, I dislike type-writing, and prefer 
 to make my own MS. distinctly legible. It takes no more time to write clearly 
 than in spidery hieroglyphics, and a slovenly scribble is no proof of cleverness, 
 but rather of carelessness and a tendency to ' scamp ' work.
 
 221 
 
 'ON THE STAGE AND OFF' 
 BY JEROME K. JEROME 
 
 THE story of one's ' first book ' I take to be the last 
 chapter of one's literary romance. The long wooing 
 is over. The ardent young author has at last won his coy 
 public. The good publisher has joined their hands. The 
 merry critics, invited to the feast of reason, have blessed the 
 union, and thrown the rice and slippers occasionally other 
 things. The bridegroom sits alone with his bride, none 
 between them, and ponders. 
 
 The fierce struggle, with its wild hopes and fears, its 
 heart-leapings and heart-achings, its rose-pink dawns of end- 
 less promise, its grey twilights of despair, its passion and its 
 pain, lies behind. Before him stretches the long, level road 
 of daily doing. Will he please her to all time ? Will she 
 always be sweet and gracious to him ? Will she never tire 
 of him ? The echo of the wedding-bells floats faintly through 
 the darkening room. The fair forms of half-forgotten dreams 
 rise up around him. He springs to his feet with a slight 
 shiver, and rings for the lamps to be lighted. 
 
 Ah ! that ' first book ' we meant to write ! How it pressed 
 forward an oriflamme of joy, through all ranks and peoples ; 
 how the world rang with the wonder of it ! How men and 
 women laughed and cried over it ! From every page there 
 leaped to light a new idea. Its every paragraph scintillated 
 with fresh wit, deep thought, and new humour. And, ye
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 gods ! how the critics praised it ! How they rejoiced over the 
 discovery of the new genius ! How ably they pointed out to 
 the reading public its manifold merits, its marvellous charm ! 
 Aye, it was a great work, that book we wrote as we strode 
 laughing through the silent streets, beneath the little stars. 
 
 And, heigho ! what a poor little thing it was, the book 
 that we did write ! I draw him from his shelf (he is of a 
 faint pink colour, as though blushing all over for his sins), 
 and stand him up before me on the desk. 'Jerome K. 
 Jerome' the K very big, followed by a small J, so that in 
 
 many quarters the author 
 is spoken of as ' Jerome 
 Kjerome,' a name that in 
 certain smoke-laden circles 
 still clings to me ( On the 
 Stage and Off: The Brief 
 Career of a would-be Actor. 
 One Shilling.' 
 
 I suppose I 
 be ashamed of 
 
 ought to 
 him, but 
 
 how can I be ? Is he not 
 my first-born ? Did he 
 not come to me in the 
 days of weariness, making 
 Do I not love him the more for 
 
 MY FIRST-BORN 
 
 my heart glad and proud ? 
 his shortcomings ? 
 
 Somehow, as I stare at him in this dim candlelight, he 
 seems to take odd shape. Slowly he grows into a little pink 
 imp, sitting cross-legged among the litter of my books and 
 papers, squinting at me (I think the squint is caused by the 
 big ' K '), and I find myself chatting with him. 
 
 It is an interesting conversation to me, for it is entirely 
 about myself, and I do nearly all the talking, he merely 
 throwing in an occasional necessary reply, or recalling to my 
 memory a forgotten name or face.
 
 224 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 We chat of the little room in Whitfield Street, off the 
 Tottenham Court Road, where he was born ; of our depressing, 
 meek-eyed old landlady, and of how, one day, during the 
 course of chance talk, it came out that she, in the far back 
 days of her youth, had been an actress, winning stage love 
 and breaking stage hearts with the best of them ; of how the 
 faded face would light up as, standing with the tea-tray in 
 her hands, she would tell us of her triumphs, and repeat to 
 us her ' Press Notices,' which she had learned by heart ; and 
 of how from her we heard not a few facts and stories useful 
 to us. We talk of the footsteps that of evenings would 
 climb the creaking stairs and enter at our door ; of George, 
 who always believed in us (God bless him !), though he could 
 never explain why ; of practical Charley, who thought we 
 should do better if we left literature alone and stuck to 
 work. Ah ! well, he meant kindly, and there be many who 
 would that he had prevailed. We remember the difficulties 
 we had to contend with ; the couple in the room below, who 
 would come in and go to bed at twelve, and lie there, 
 quarrelling loudly, until sleep overcame them about two, 
 driving our tender and philosophical sentences entirely out 
 of our head ; of the asthmatical old law-writer, whose never- 
 ceasing cough troubled us greatly (maybe, it troubled him 
 also, but I fear we did not consider that) ; of the rickety 
 table that wobbled as we wrote, and that, whenever in a 
 forgetful moment we leant upon it, gently but firmly 
 collapsed. 
 
 4 Yes,' I said to the little pink imp ; ' as a study the room 
 had its drawbacks, but we lived some grand hours there, didn't 
 we ? We laughed and sang there, and the songs we chose 
 breathed ever of hope and victory, and so loudly we sang 
 them we might have been modern Joshuas, thinking to cap- 
 ture a city with our breath. 
 
 ' And then that wonderful view we used to see from its 
 dingy window panes that golden country that lay stretched
 
 JEROME K. JEROME 225 
 
 before us, beyond the thousand chimney pots, above the 
 drifting smoke, above the creeping fog do you remember 
 that?' 
 
 It was worth living in that cramped room, worth sleeping 
 on that knobbly bed, to gain an occasional glimpse of that 
 shining land, with its marble palaces, where one day we 
 should enter, an honoured guest ; its wide market-places, 
 where the people thronged to listen to our words. I have 
 climbed many stairs, peered through many windows in this 
 London town since then, but never have I seen that view 
 again. Yet, from somewhere in our midst, it must be visible 
 for friends of mine, as we have sat alone, and the talk has 
 sunk into low tones, broken by long silences, have told me 
 that they, too, have looked upon those same glittering towers 
 and streets. But the odd thing is that none of us has seen 
 them since he was a very young man. So, maybe, it is only 
 that the country is a long way off, and that our eyes have 
 grown dimmer as we have grown older. 
 
 ' And who was that old fellow that helped us so much ? ' 
 I ask of my little pink friend ; ' you remember him surely a 
 very ancient fellow, the oldest actor on the boards he always 
 boasted himself had played with Edmund Kean and Mac- 
 ready. I used to put you in my pocket of a night and meet 
 him outside the stage door of the Princess's ; and we would 
 adjourn to a little tavern in old Oxford Market to talk you 
 over, and he would tell me anecdotes and stories to put in 
 you.' 
 
 ' You mean Johnson,' says the pink imp ; ' J. B. Johnson. 
 He was with you in your first engagement at Astley's, under 
 Murray Wood and Virginia Blackwood. He and you were 
 the High Priests in " Mazeppa," if you remember, and had to 
 carry Lisa Weber across the stage, you taking her head and 
 he her heels. Do you recollect what he said to her,, on the 
 first night, as you were both staggering towards the couch ? 
 " Well, I've played with Fanny Kemble, Cushman, Glyn, and 
 
 Q
 
 226 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 all of them, but hang me, my dear, if you ain't the heaviest 
 lead I've ever supported." ' 
 
 ' That's the old fellow,' I reply ; ' I owe a good deal to 
 him, and so do you. I used to read bits of you to him in a 
 whisper as we stood in the bar ; and he always had one 
 
 'HE AND YOU HAD TO CARRY LISA WEBER ACROSS THE STAGE ' 
 
 formula of praise for you : " It's damned clever, young un ; 
 damned clever. I shouldn't have thought it of you." 
 
 'And that reminds me,' I continue I hesitate a little here, 
 for I fear what I am about to say may offend him ' what 
 have you done to yourself since I wrote you ? I was 
 looking you over the other day, and really I could scarcely 
 recognise you. You were full of brilliancy and originality
 
 JEROME K. JEROME 
 
 227 
 
 
 when you were in manuscript. What have you done with 
 it all?' 
 
 By some mysterious process he contrives to introduce an 
 extra twist into the squint with which he is regarding me, but 
 makes no reply, and I continue : 
 
 ' Take, for example, that gem I lighted upon one drizzly 
 night in Portland Place. I 
 remember the circumstance 
 distinctly. I had been walk- 
 ing the deserted streets, work- 
 ing at you ; my note-book in 
 one hand and a pencil in the 
 other. I was coming home 
 through Portland Place, when 
 suddenly, just beyond the 
 third lamp-post from the 
 Crescent, there flashed into 
 my brain a thought so ori- 
 ginal, so deep, so true, that 
 involuntarily I exclaimed : 
 " My God, what a grand idea ! " 
 and a coffee-stall keeper, pass- 
 ing with his barrow just at 
 that moment, sang out : " Tell 
 it us, guv'nor. There ain't 
 many knocking about." 
 
 ' I took no notice of the 
 man, but hurried on to the 
 
 next lamp-post to jot down that brilliant idea before I should 
 forget it ; and the moment I reached home I pulled you out of 
 your drawer and copied it out on to your pages, and sat long 
 staring at it, wondering what the world would say when it 
 came to read it. Altogether I must have put into you nearly 
 a dozen startlingly original thoughts. What have you done 
 with them ? They are certainly not there now.' 
 
 Q2 
 
 THAT BRILLIANT IDEA
 
 228 MY FIXST BOOK 
 
 Still he keeps silence, and I wax indignant at the evident 
 amusement with which he regards my accusation. 
 
 ' And the bright wit, the rollicking humour with which I 
 made your pages sparkle, where are they ? ' I ask him, re- 
 proachfully ; ' those epigrammatic flashes that, when struck, 
 illumined the little room with a blaze of sudden light, showing 
 each cobweb in its dusty corner, and dying out, leaving my 
 dazzled eyes groping for the lamp ; those grand jokes at which 
 I myself, as I made them, laughed till the rickety iron bed- 
 stead beneath me shook in sympathy with harsh metallic 
 laughter ; where are they, my friend ? I have read you 
 through, page by page, and the thoughts in you are thoughts 
 that the world has grown tired of thinking ; at your wit one 
 smiles, thinking that anyone could think it wit ; and your 
 humour your severest critic could hardly accuse of being very 
 new. What has happened to you ? What wicked fairy has 
 bewitched you ? I poured gold into your lap, and you yield 
 me back only crumpled leaves.' 
 
 With a jerk of his quaint legs he assumes a more upright 
 posture. 
 
 ' My dear Parent,' he begins in a tone that at once reverses 
 our positions, so that he becomes the monitor and I the 
 wriggling admonished ; ' don't, I pray you, turn prig in your 
 old age ; don't sink into the " superior person " who mistakes 
 carping for criticism, and jeering for judgment. Any fool can 
 see faults, they lie on the surface. The merit of a thing is 
 hidden within it, and is visible only to insight. And there is 
 merit in me, in spite of your cheap sneers, sir. Maybe I do 
 not contain an original idea. Show me the book published 
 since the days of Caxton that does ! Are our young men, as 
 are the youth of China, to be forbidden to think, because 
 Confucius thought years ago ? The wit you appreciate now 
 needs to be more pungent than the wit that satisfied you at 
 twenty ; are you sure it is as wholesome ? You cannot smile 
 at humour you would once have laughed at ; is it you or the
 
 JEROME K. JEROME 229 
 
 humour that has grown old and stale ? I am the work of a 
 very young man, who, writing of that which he knew and had 
 felt, put down all things truthfully as they appeared to him, 
 in such way as seemed most natural to him, having no thought 
 of popular taste, standing in no fear of what critics might say. 
 Be sure that all your future books are as free from unworthy 
 aims.' 
 
 ' Besides,' he adds, after a short pause, during which I have 
 started to reply, but have turned back to think again, ' is not 
 this talk idle between you and me ? This apologetic attitude, 
 is it not the cant of the literary profession ? At the bottom 
 of your heart you are proud of me, as every author is of every 
 book he has written. Some of them he thinks better than 
 others ; but, as the Irishman said of whiskies, they are all 
 good. He sees their shortcomings. He dreams he could 
 have done better ; but he is positive no one else 'could.' 
 
 His little twinkling eyes look sternly at me, and, feeling 
 that the discussion is drifting into awkward channels, I hasten 
 to divert it, and we return to the chat about our early 
 experiences. 
 
 I ask him if he remembers those dreary days when, 
 written neatly in round hand on sermon paper, he journeyed a 
 ceaseless round from newspaper to newspaper, from magazine 
 to magazine, returning always soiled and limp to Whitfield 
 Street, still further darkening the ill-lit room as he entered. 
 Some would keep him for a month, making me indignant at 
 the waste of precious time. Others would send him back by 
 the next post, insulting me by their indecent haste. Many, 
 in returning him, would thank me for having given them the 
 privilege and pleasure of reading him, and I would curse 
 them for hypocrites. Others would reject him with no 
 pretence at regret whatever, and I would marvel at then 
 rudeness. 
 
 I hated the dismal little ' slavey ' who, twice a week, on an 
 average, would bring him up to me. If she smiled as she
 
 230 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 handed me. the packet, I fancied she was jeering at me. If 
 she looked sad, as she more often did, poor little over- 
 worked slut, I thought she was pitying me. I shunned the 
 postman if I saw him in the street, sure that he guessed my 
 shame. 
 
 'Did anyone ever read you out of all those I sent you to?' 
 I ask him. 
 
 ' Do editors read manuscript by unknown authors ? ' he 
 
 asks me in return. 
 
 ' I fear not more than 
 they can help,' I confess ; 
 ' they would have little else 
 to do.' 
 
 ' Oh,' he remarks de- 
 murely, ' I thought I had 
 read that they did.' 
 
 ' Very likely,' I reply ; 
 ' I have also read that 
 theatrical managers read all 
 the plays sent to them, eager 
 to discover new talent. One 
 obtains much curious infor- 
 mation by reading.' 
 
 ' But somebody did read 
 me eventually,' he reminds 
 me ; ' and liked me. Give credit where credit is due.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes,' I admit ; ' my good friend Aylmer Gowing 
 the " Walter Gordon " of the old Haymarket in Buckstone's 
 time, " Gentleman Gordon " as Charles Matthews nicknamed 
 him kindliest and most genial of men. Shall I ever forget 
 the brief note that came to me four days after I had posted 
 you to " The Editor Play " : " Dear Sir, I like your articles 
 very much. Can you call on me to-morrow morning before 
 twelve ? Yours truly, W. AYLMER GowiNG." ' 
 
 So success had come at last not the glorious goddess I 
 
 I HATED THE DISMAL LITTLE 'SLAVEY'
 
 JEROME K. JEROME 
 
 231 
 
 had pictured, but a quiet, pleasant-faced lady. I had imagined 
 the editor of Comhill, or the Nineteenth Century, or The Illus- 
 trated London News writing me that my manuscript was the 
 most brilliant, witty, and powerful story he had ever read, and 
 enclosing me a cheque for two hundred guineas. The Play 
 was an almost unknown little penny weekly, ' run ' by Mr. 
 
 THE STUDY 
 (From a photograph by Fradelle &* Young) 
 
 Gowing who, though retired, could not bear to be altogether 
 unconnected with his beloved stage at a no inconsiderable 
 yearly loss. It could give me little fame and less wealth. But 
 a crust is a feast to a man who has grown weary of dreaming 
 dinners, and as I sat with that letter in my hand a mist rose 
 before my eyes, and I acted in a way that would read foolish 
 if written down.
 
 232 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 The next morning, at eleven, I stood beneath the porch 
 of 37 Victoria Road, Kensington, wishing I did not feel so 
 hot and nervous, and that I had not pulled the bell-rope quite 
 so vigorously. But when Mr. Gowing, in smoking-coat and 
 slippers, came forward and shook me by the hand, my 
 shyness left me. In his study, lined with theatrical books, we 
 sat and talked. Mr. Gowing's voice seemed the sweetest I 
 had ever listened to, for, with unprofessional frankness, it 
 sang the praises of my work. He, in his young acting days, 
 had been through the provincial mill, and found my pictures 
 true, and many of my pages seemed to him, so he said, ' as 
 good as PuncJi! (He meant it complimentary.) He explained 
 to me the position of his paper, and I agreed (only too gladly) 
 to give him the use of the book for nothing. As I was 
 leaving, however, he called me back and slipped a five-pound 
 note into my hand a different price from what friend A. P. 
 Watt charms out of proprietors' pockets for me nowadays, 
 yet never since have I felt as rich as on that foggy November 
 morning when I walked across Kensington Gardens with that 
 ' bit of flimsy ' held tight in my left hand. I could not bear 
 the idea of spending it on mere mundane things. Now and 
 then, during the long days of apprenticeship, I drew it from 
 its hiding-place and looked at it, sorely tempted. But it 
 always went back, and later, when the luck began to turn, I 
 purchased with it, at a second-hand shop in Goodge Street, 
 an old Dutch bureau that I had long had my eye upon. It 
 is an inconvenient piece of furniture. One cannot stretch 
 one's legs as one sits writing at it, and if one rises suddenly it 
 knocks bad language into one's knees and out of one's mouth. 
 But one must pay for sentiment, as for other things. 
 
 In The Play the papers gained a fair amount of notice, 
 and won for me some kindly words ; notably, I remember, 
 from John Clayton and Palgrave Simpson. I thought that 
 in the glory of print they would readily find a publisher, but 
 I was mistaken. The same weary work lay before me, only
 
 JEROME K. JEROME 233 
 
 now I had more heart in me, and, having wrestled once with 
 Fate and prevailed, stood less in fear of her. 
 
 Sometimes with a letter of introduction, sometimes without, 
 sometimes with a bold face, sometimes with a timid step, I 
 visited nearly every publisher in London. A few received me 
 kindly, others curtly, many not at all. From most of them 
 I gathered that the making of books was a pernicious and 
 unprofitable occupation. Some thought the work would 
 prove highly successful if I paid the expense of publication, 
 but were less impressed with its merits on my explaining 
 to them my financial position. All kept me waiting long 
 before seeing me, but made haste to say ' Good day ' to 
 me. 
 
 I suppose all young authors have had to go through the 
 same course. I sat one evening, a few months ago, with a 
 literary friend of mine. The talk turned upon early struggles, 
 and, with a laugh, he said : ' Do you know one of the foolish 
 things I love to do ? I like to go with a paper parcel under 
 my arm into some big publishing house, and to ask, in a low, 
 nervous voice, if Mr. So-and-so is disengaged. The clerk, 
 with a contemptuous glance towards me, says that he is not 
 sure, and asks if I have an appointment. " No," I reply ; " not 
 not exactly, but I think he will see me. It's a matter of 
 importance. I shall not detain him a minute." 
 
 ' The clerk goes on with his writing, and I stand waiting. 
 At the end of about five minutes, he, without looking up, says 
 curtly, " What name ? " and I hand him my card. 
 
 'Up to that point, I have imagined myself a young man 
 again, but there the fancy is dispelled. The man glances at 
 the card, and then takes a sharp look at me. " I beg your 
 pardon, sir," he says, " will you take a seat in here for a 
 moment?" In a few seconds he flies back again with "Will 
 you kindly step this way, sir ? " As I follow him upstairs I 
 catch a glimpse of somebody being hurriedly bustled out of 
 the private office, and the great man himself comes to the
 
 234 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 door, smiling, and as I take his outstretched hand I am 
 remembering other times that he has forgotten. 
 
 In the end to make a long story short, as the saying is 
 
 I AM REMEMBERING 
 
 Mr. Tuer, of 'Ye 
 Leadenhall Press,' 
 urged thereto by 
 a mutual friend, 
 read the book, 
 and, I presume, 
 found merit in it, 
 for he offered to 
 publish it if I 
 would make him 
 a free gift of 
 the copyright. I 
 thought the terms 
 hard at the time 
 
 (though in my eagerness to see my name upon the cover of a 
 real book I quickly agreed to them), but with experience, I am 
 inclined to admit that the bargain was a fair one. The English
 
 JEROME K. JEROME 235 
 
 are not a book-buying people. Out of every hundred publi- 
 cations hardly more than one obtains a sale of over a 
 thousand, and, in the case of an unknown writer, with no 
 personal friends upon the Press, it is surprising how few 
 copies sometimes can be sold. 
 
 I am happy to think that in this instance, however, nobody 
 suffered. The book was, as the phrase goes, well received by 
 the public, who were possibly attracted to it by its subject, a 
 perennially popular one. Some of the papers praised it, others 
 dismissed it as utter rubbish ; and then, fifteen months later, 
 on reviewing my next book, regretted that a young man who 
 had written such a capital first book should have followed it 
 up by so wretched a second. 
 
 One writer the greatest enemy I have ever had, though 
 I exonerate him of all but thoughtlessness wrote me down 
 a ' humourist,' which term of reproach (as it is considered to 
 be in Merrie England) has clung to me ever since, so that 
 now, if I pen a pathetic story, the reviewer calls it 'depressing 
 humour/ and if I tell a tragic story, he says it is ' false humour,' 
 and, quoting the dying speech of the broken-hearted heroine, 
 indignantly demands to know ' where he is supposed to laugh.' 
 I am firmly persuaded that if I committed a murder half the 
 book reviewers would allude to it as a melancholy example 
 of the extreme lengths to which the ' new humour ' had de- 
 scended. 
 
 ' Once a humourist, always a humourist/ is the reviewer's 
 motto. 
 
 ' And all things allowed for the unenthusiastic publisher, 
 the insufficiently appreciative public, the wicked critic/ says 
 my little pink friend, breaking his somewhat long silence, 
 ' what do you think of literature as a profession ? ' 
 
 I take some time to reply, for I wish to get down to what 
 I really think, not stopping, as one generally does, at what 
 one thinks one ought to think. 
 
 1 I think/ I begin, at length, ' that it depends upon the
 
 236 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 literary man. If a man think to use literature merely as a 
 means to fame and fortune, then he will find it an extremely 
 unsatisfactory profession, and he would have done better to 
 take up politics or company promoting. If he trouble himself 
 about his status and position therein, loving the uppermost 
 tables at feasts, and the chief seats in public places, and 
 greetings in the markets, and to be called of men, Master, 
 Master, then he will find it a profession fuller than most pro- 
 fessions of petty jealousy, of little spite, of foolish hating and 
 foolish log-rolling, of feminine narrowness and childish queru- 
 lousness. If he think too much of his prices per thousand 
 words, he will find it a degrading profession ; as the solicitor, 
 thinking only of his bills-of-cost, will find the law degrading ; 
 as the doctor, working only for two-guinea fees, will find 
 medicine degrading ; as the priest, with his eyes ever fixed 
 on the bishop's mitre, will find Christianity degrading. 
 
 ' But if he love his work for the work's sake, if he remain 
 child enough to be fascinated with his own fancies, to laugh 
 at his own jests, to grieve at his own pathos, to weep at his 
 own tragedy then, as, smoking his pipe, he watches the 
 shadows of his brain coming and going before his half-closed 
 eyes, listens to their voices in the air about him, he will thank 
 God for making him a literary man. To such a one, it seems 
 to me, literature must prove ennobling. Of all professions it 
 is the one compelling a man to use whatever brain he has to 
 its fullest and widest. With one or two other callings, it in- 
 vites him nay, compels him to turn from the clamour of the 
 passing day to speak for a while with the voices that are eternal. 
 
 ' To me it seems that if anything outside oneself can help 
 one, the service of literature must strengthen and purify a man. 
 Thinking of his heroine's failings, of his villain's virtues, may he 
 not grow more tolerant of all things, kinder thinking towards 
 man and woman ? From the sorrow that he dreams, may he 
 not learn sympathy with the sorrow that he sees ? May not his 
 own brave puppets teach him how a man should live and die ?
 
 JEROME K. JEROME 237 
 
 ' To the literary man, all life is a book. The sparrow on 
 the telegraph wire chirps cheeky nonsense to him as he passes 
 by. The urchin's face beneath the gas lamp telis him a story, 
 sometimes merry, sometimes sad. Fog and sunshine have 
 their voices for him. 
 
 ' Nor can I see, even from the most worldly and business- 
 like point of view, that the modern man of letters has cause 
 
 MR. JEROME K. JEROME 
 
 (From a photograph by Fradellc &* ] 'oung) 
 
 of complaint. The old Grub Street days when he starved or 
 begged are gone. Thanks to the men who have braved sneers 
 and misrepresentation in unthanked championship of his plain 
 rights, he is now in a position of dignified independence ; and 
 if he cannot attain to the twenty thousand a year prizes of 
 the fashionable Q.C. or M.D., he does not have to wait their
 
 238 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 time for his success, while what he can and does earn is amply 
 sufficient for all that a man of sense need desire. His calling 
 is a password into all ranks. In all circles he is honoured. 
 He enjoys the luxury of a power and influence that many a 
 prime minister might envy. 
 
 ' There is still a last prize in the gift of literature that needs 
 no sentimentalist to appreciate. In a drawer of my desk lies 
 a pile of letters, of which if I were not very proud I should be 
 something more or less than human. They have come to me 
 from the uttermost parts of the earth, from the streets near at 
 hand. Some are penned in the stiff phraseology taught when 
 old fashions were new, some in the free and easy colloquialism 
 of the rising generation. Some, written on sick beds, are 
 scrawled in pencil. Some, written by hands unfamiliar with 
 the English language, are weirdly constructed. Some are 
 crested, some are smeared. Some are learned, some are ill- 
 spelled. In different ways they tell me that, here and there, 
 I have brought to some one a smile or pleasant thought ; that 
 to some one in pain and in sorrow I have given a moment's 
 laugh.' 
 
 Pinky yawns (or a shadow thrown by the guttering candle 
 makes it seem so). ' Well,' he says, ' are we finished ? Have 
 we talked about ourselves, glorified our profession, and anni- 
 hilated our enemies to our entire satisfaction ? Because, if so, 
 you might put me back. I'm feeling sleepy.' 
 
 I reach out my hand, and take him up by his wide, flat 
 waist. As I draw him towards me, his little legs vanish into 
 his squat body, the twinkling eye becomes dull and lifeless. 
 The dawn steals in upon him, for I have sat working long into 
 the night, and I see that he is only a little shilling book bound 
 in pink paper. Wondering whether our talk together has 
 been as good as at the time I thought it, or whether he has 
 led me into making a fool of myself, I replace him in his 
 corner.
 
 239 
 
 'CAVALRY LIFE' 
 BY 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER' 
 
 (MRS. ARTHUR STANNARD) 
 
 j\/T Y first book ' as ever was ' was written, or, to speak quite 
 correctly, was printed, on the nursery floor some thirty 
 odd years ago. I remember the making of the book very well ; 
 the leaves were made from an old copybook, and the back was 
 a piece of stiff paper, sewed in place and 
 carefully cut down to 
 the right size. So far 
 as I remember, it was 
 about three soldiers and 
 a pig. I don't 
 
 quite know 
 
 THREE SOLDIERS AND 
 A PIG 
 
 how the pig came in, but that is a mere detail. I have no 
 data to go upon (as I did not dream thirty years ago that I 
 should ever be so known to fame as to be asked to write the 
 true history of my first book), but I have a wonderful memory,
 
 2 4 o MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 and to the best of my recollection it was, as I say, about 
 three soldiers and a pig. 
 
 It never saw the light, and there are times when I feel 
 thankful to a gracious Providence that I have been spared the 
 power of gratifying the temptation to give birth to those early 
 efforts, after the manner of Sir Edwin Landseer and that 
 pathetic little childish drawing of two sheep, which is to be 
 seen at provincial exhibitions of pictures, for the encourage- 
 ment and example of the rising generation. 
 
 So far as I can recall, I made no efforts for some years to 
 woo fickle fortune after the attempt to recount the story of the 
 three soldiers and a pig ; but when I was about fourteen my 
 heart was fired by the example of a schoolfellow, one Josephine 
 
 H , who spent a large portion of her time writing stories, 
 
 or, as our schoolmistress put it, wasting time and spoiling 
 
 paper. All the same, Josephine H 's stories were very 
 
 good, and I have often wondered since those days whether 
 she, in after life, went on with her favourite pursuits. I have 
 never heard of her again except once, and then somebody told 
 me that she had married a clergyman, and lived at West 
 Hartlepool. Yes, all this has something to do, and very 
 materially, with the story of my first book. For in emulating 
 
 Josephine H , whom I was very fond of, and whom I 
 
 admired immensely, I discovered that I could write myself, or 
 at least that I wanted to write, and that I had ideas that I 
 wanted to see on paper. Without that gentle stimulant, 
 however, I might never have found out that I might one day 
 be able to do something in the same way myself. 
 
 My next try was at a joint story a story written by three 
 girls, myself and two friends. That was in the same year. 
 We really made considerable headway with that story ; and 
 had visions of completely finishing it and getting no less a 
 sum than thirty pounds for it. I have a sort of an idea that 
 I supplied most of the framework for the story, and that the 
 elder of my collaborators filled in the millinery and the love-
 
 ..- 
 
 ( f 
 
 IsT,' *- ."" S 
 
 (From a photograph by Russell &* Sons, Wimbledon) 
 
 R
 
 242 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 making. But alas for the futility of human hopes and 
 desires ! that book was destined never to be finished, for I had 
 a violent quarrel with my collaborators, and we have never 
 spoken to each other from that day to this. 
 
 So came to an untimely end my second serious attempt at 
 writing a book ; for the stories that I had written in emulation 
 
 of Josephine H were only short ones, and were mostly 
 
 unfinished. 
 
 I wasted a terrible deal of paper between my second try 
 and my seventeenth birthday, and I believe that I was, at that 
 time, one of the most hopeless trials of my father's life. He 
 many times offered to provide me with as much -cheap paper 
 as I liked to have ; but cheap paper did not satisfy my artistic 
 soul, for I always liked the best of everything. Good paper 
 was my weakness as it was his and I used it, or wasted it, 
 which you will, with just the same lavish hand as I had done 
 aforetime. 
 
 When I was seventeen, I did a skit on a little book called 
 ' How to Live on Sixpence a Day.' It was my first soldier 
 story excepting the original three soldiers and a pig and 
 introduced the ' sixpence a day ' pamphlet into a smart cavalry 
 regiment, whose officers were in various degrees of debt and 
 difficulty, and every man was a barefaced portrait, without the 
 smallest attempt at concealment of his identity. Eventually 
 this sketch was printed in a York paper, and the honour of 
 seeing myself in print was considered enough reward for me. 
 I, on the contrary, had no such pure love of fame. I had done 
 what I considered a very smart sketch, and I thought it well 
 worth payment of some kind, which it certainly was. 
 
 After this, I spent a year abroad, improving my mind 
 and I think, on the whole, it will be best to draw a veil over 
 that portion of my literary history, for I went out to dinner 
 on every possible occasion, and had a good time generally. 
 Stay did I not say my literary history ? Well, that year 
 had a good deal to do with my literary history, for I wrote
 
 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER' 
 
 243 
 
 stories most of the time, during a large part of my working 
 hours and during the whole of my spare time, when I did not 
 happen to be going out to dinner. And when I came home, 
 I worked on just the same until, towards the end of '75, 1 drew 
 blood for the first time. Oh, the joy of that first bit of money 
 my first earnings ! And it was but a bit, a mere scrap. To 
 be explicit, it amounted to ten shillings. I went and bought 
 a watch on the strength of it not a very costly affair : a 
 matter of two pounds ten 
 and an old silver turnip that 
 I had by me. It was won- 
 derful how that one half- 
 sovereign opened up my 
 ideas. I looked into the 
 future as far as eye could 
 see, and I saw myself earning 
 an income for at that time 
 of day I had acquired no 
 artistic feelings at all, and I 
 genuinely wanted to make 
 name and fame and money 
 I saw myself a young 
 woman who could make a 
 couple of hundred pounds 
 
 MR. ARTHUR STANNARD 
 
 (From a photograph by Frances Browne, 
 J 3S Kegent Street, H^.) 
 
 from one novel, and I gloried 
 in the prospect. 
 
 I disposed of a good 
 many stories in the same quarter at starvation prices, ranging 
 from the original ten shillings to thirty-five. Then, after a 
 patient year of this not very luxurious work, I made a 
 step forward and got a story accepted by the dear old 
 Family Herald. Oh, yes, this is really all relevant to 
 my first book ; very much so, indeed, for it was through 
 Mr. William Stevens, one of the proprietors of the Family 
 Herald, that I learned to know the meaning of the word
 
 244 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 1 caution ' a word absolutely indispensable to any young 
 author's vocabulary. 
 
 At this time I wrote a great deal for the Family Herald, 
 and also for various magazines, including London Society. In 
 the latter, my first ' Winter ' work appeared a story called 
 ' A Regimental Martyr.' 
 
 I was very oddly placed at this point of my career, for I 
 liked most doing the ' Winter ' work, but the ordinary young- 
 lady-like fiction paid me so much the best, that I could not 
 afford to give it up. I was, like all young magazine writers, 
 passionately desirous of appearing in book form. I knew not 
 a single soul in the way connected with literary matters, had 
 absolutely no help or interest of any kind to aid me over the 
 rough places, or even of whom to ask advice in times of doubt 
 and difficulty. Mr. William Stevens was the only editor that 
 I knew to whom I could go and say, ' Is this right ? ' or ' Is 
 that wrong ? ' And I think it may be interesting to say here 
 that I have never asked for, or indeed used, a letter of intro- 
 duction in my life that is, in connection with any literary 
 business. 
 
 Well, when I had been hard at work for several years, I 
 wrote a very long book upon my word, in spite of my good 
 memory, I forget what it was called. The story, however, 
 lives in my mind well enough ; it was the story of a very 
 large family about ten girls and boys, who all made brilliant 
 marriages and lived a sort of shabby, idyllic, happy life, some- 
 what on the plan of ' God for us all and the devil take the 
 hindermost' Need I say that it was told in the first person 
 and in the present tense, and that the heroine was anything 
 but good-looking ? 
 
 I was very young then, and thought a great deal of my 
 pretty bits of writing and those seductive scraps of moralising, 
 against which Mr. Stevens was always warning me. Well, 
 this very long, not to say spun-out, account of this very large 
 family of boys and girls, did not happen to please the ' readers '
 
 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER ' 245 
 
 for the Family Herald then my stay-by so I thought 1 
 would have a try round the various publishers and see if I 
 could not get it brought out in three volumes. Of course, I 
 tried all the best people first, and very often, when I receive 
 from struggling young authors (who know a great deal more 
 about my past history than I do myself, and who frequently 
 write to ask me the best and easiest way to get on at novel- 
 writing, without either hard work, or waiting, or disappoint- 
 ment, because, if you please, my own beginnings were so 
 singularly successful and delightful) the information that I 
 have never known of any of their troubles, it seems to me 
 that my past and my present cannot be the past and present 
 of the same woman. 'Yet they are. I went through it all; 
 the same sickening disappointments, the same hopes and fears ; 
 I trod the self-same path that every beginner must assuredly 
 tread, as we must all in time tread that other path to the grave. 
 I went through it all, and with that exceedingly long and 
 detailed account of that large and shabby family, I trod the 
 thorny path of publishing almost to the bitter end ay, even 
 to the goal where we find the full-blown swindler waiting for 
 us, with bland looks and honeyed words of sweetest flattery. 
 Dear, dear ! many who read this will know the process. It 
 seldom varies. First, I sent my carefully written MS., whose 
 very handwriting betrayed my youth, to a certain firm which 
 had offices off the Strand, to be considered for publication. The 
 firm very kindly did consider it, and their consideration was 
 such that they made me an offer of publication on certain 
 terms. 
 
 Their polite note informed me that their readers had read 
 the work and thought very highly of it, that they were inclined 
 just by the way of completing their list for the approaching 
 September, the best month in the year for bringing out novels 
 to bring it out, although I was, as yet, unknown to fame. 
 Then came the first hint of ' the consideration,' which took the 
 form of a hundred pounds, to be paid down in three sums, all to
 
 246 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 fall due before the day of publication. I worked out the profits 
 which could accrue if the entire edition sold out I found that, 
 in that case, I should have a nice little sum for myself of 1 8o/. 
 Now, no struggling young author in his or her senses is silly 
 enough to throw away the chance of making 1 8o/. in one lump. 
 I thought, and I thought the whole scheme out, and I must 
 
 confess that the more I 
 thought about it, the 
 more utterly tempting 
 did the offer seem. To 
 
 'THE FIRM ' 
 CONSIDERING 
 
 risk ioo/. and 
 to make 1 80^. ! 
 Why, it was a 
 positive sin to lose 
 such a chance. 
 Therefore, I 
 
 scraped a hundred pounds together, and, with my mother, set 
 off for London, feeling that, at last, I was going to conquer 
 the world. We did a theatre on the strength of my coming 
 good fortune, and the morning after our arrival in town set off 
 in my case, at all events with swelling hearts, to keep the 
 appointment with the kindly publisher who was going to put 
 me in the way of making fame and fortune.
 
 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER ' 
 
 247 
 
 I opened the door and went in. ' Is Mr. at-home ? ' I 
 
 asked. I was forthwith conducted to an inner sanctum, where 
 I was received by the head of the firm himself. Then I 
 experienced my first shock he squinted ! Now, I never could 
 endure a man with a squint, and I distrusted this man in- 
 stantly. You know, there are squints and squints ! There is 
 the soft uncertain squint feminine, which is really charming. 
 
 HE SQUINTED ! 
 
 And there is a particular obliquity of vision which, in a man, 
 rather gives a larky expression, and so makes you feel that 
 there is nothing prim and formal about him, and seems to put 
 you on good terms at once. 
 
 And there is a cold-blooded squint, which makes your 
 flesh creep, and which, when taken in connection with busi- 
 ness, brings little stories to your mind ' Is anyone coming, 
 sister Anne ? ' and that sort of thing.
 
 2 4 8 
 
 Mr. asked me to. excuse him a moment while he 
 
 gave some instructions, and, without waiting for my permis- 
 sion, looked through a few letters, shouted a message down a 
 speaking-tube, and then, after having arranged the fate of 
 about half-a-dozen novels by the means of the same instru- 
 ment, he sent a final message down the tube asking for my 
 MS., only to be told that he would find it in the top right- 
 hand drawer of his desk. 
 
 As a matter of fact, all this delay, intended to impress 
 me and make me understand what 
 a great thing had happened to me 
 in having won attention from so 
 
 busy a man, simply did for Mr. 
 
 so far as I was concerned. Instead 
 of impressing me, it gave me time 
 to get used to the place, it gave 
 
 me time to look at Mr. when 
 
 he was not looking at me. 
 
 Then, having found the MS., he 
 looked at me and prepared to give 
 me his undivided attention. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, with a long 
 breath, as if it was quite a relief to 
 see a new face, ' I am very glad you 
 have decided to close with our offer. 
 We confidently expect a great success with your book. We 
 shall have to change the title though. There's a good deal 
 in a title.' 
 
 I replied modestly that there was a good deal in a title. 
 ' But,' I added, ' I have not closed with your offer on the 
 
 contrary, I ' 
 
 He looked up sharply, and he squinted worse than ever. 
 
 ' Oh, I quite thought that you had definitely ' 
 
 ' Not at all,' I replied ; then added a piece of infor- 
 mation, which could not by any chance have been new to 
 
 MISS STANNARD 
 
 (From a plwtograph by H. S. 
 Mendelssohn)
 
 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER ' 
 
 249 
 
 him. ' A hundred pounds is a lot of money, you know/ 
 I remarked. 
 
 Mr. looked at me in a meditative fashion. ' Well, if 
 
 you have not got the money,' he said rather contemptuously, 
 ' we might make a slight reduction say, if we brought it 
 down to 75/., solely because our readers have spoken so 
 highly of the story. Now look here, I will show you what 
 our reader says which is a favour that we don't extend to 
 everyone, that I can tell you. Here it is ! ' 
 
 ' THE TWINS ' BOOTLES AND BETTY 
 (From photographs by H. S. Mendelssohn) 
 
 Probably in the whole of his somewhat chequered career 
 
 as a publisher, Mr. never committed such a fatal mistake 
 
 as by handing me the report on my history (in detail) of that 
 very large family of boys and girls. ' Bright, crisp, racy,' it 
 ran. ' Very unequal in parts, wants a good deal of revision, 
 and should be entirely re-written. Would be better if the 
 story was brought to a conclusion when the heroine first 
 meets with the hero after the parting, as all the rest forms an 
 anti-climax. This might be worked up into a really popular 
 novel, especially as it is written very much in Miss 's
 
 25 o MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 style ' (naming a then popular authoress whose sole merit 
 consisted in being the most faithful imitator of the gifted 
 founder of a very pernicious school). 
 
 I put the sheet of paper down, feeling very sick and ill. 
 And the worst of it was, I knew that every word of it was 
 true. I was young and inexperienced then, and had not 
 nous enough to say plump out that my eyes had been opened, 
 and that I could see that I should be neither more nor less 
 than a fool if I wasted a single farthing over a story that must 
 be utterly worthless. So I prevaricated mildly, and said that 
 I certainly did not feel inclined to throw a hundred or even 
 seventy-five pounds away over a story without some cer- 
 tainty of success. ' I'll think it over during the day,' I said, 
 rising from my chair. 
 
 ' Oh, we must know within an hour, at the outside,' Mr. 
 
 said very curtly. ' Our arrangements will not wait, and 
 
 the time is very short now for us to decide on our books for 
 September. Of course, if you have not got the money, we 
 might reduce a little more. We are always glad, if possible, 
 to meet our clients.' 
 
 ' It's not that,' I replied, looking at him straight. ' I have 
 the money in my pocket ; but a Yorkshire woman does not 
 put down a hundred pounds without some idea what is going 
 to be done with it.' 
 
 ' You must let me have your answer within an hour,' Mr. 
 remarked briefly. 
 
 ' I will,' said I, in my most polite manner ; ' but I really 
 must think out the fact that you are willing to knock off 
 twenty-five pounds at one blow. It seems to me if you 
 could afford to take that much off, and perhaps a little more, 
 there must have been something very odd about your original 
 offer.' 
 
 ' My time is precious,' said Mr. in a grumpy voice. 
 
 ' Then, good morning,' said I cheerfully. 
 
 My hopes were all dashed to the ground again, but I felt
 
 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER ' 
 
 251 
 
 very cheerful, nevertheless. I trotted round to my friend, 
 Mr. Stevens, who gave a whistle of astonishment at my story. 
 ' I'll send my head clerk round for your MS. at once,' he said, 
 ' else you'll probably never see it again.' 
 
 And so he did, and so ended my next attempt to bring 
 out my first book. 
 
 After this I felt very keenly the real truth of the old 
 saying, ' Virtue is its 
 own reward.' For, not 
 long after my episode 
 
 with Mr. , the then 
 
 editor of London So- 
 ciety wrote to me, say- 
 ing that he thought 
 that as I had already 
 had several stories pub- 
 lished in the magazine, 
 it might make a very 
 attractive volume if I 
 could add a few more 
 and bring them out as 
 a collection of soldier 
 stories. 
 
 I did not hesitate 
 very long over this 
 offer, but set to work 
 with all the enthusiasm 
 of youth and youth does have the advantage of being full 
 of the fire of enthusiasm, if of nothing else and I turned out 
 enough new stories to make a very respectable volume. 
 
 Then followed the period of waiting to which all literary 
 folk must accustom themselves. 
 
 I was, however, always of a tolerably long-suffering dis- 
 position, and possessed my soul in patience as well as I 
 could. The next thing I heard was that the book had very 
 
 LONG-LEGGED SOLDIERS
 
 252 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 good prospects, but that it would have its chances greatly 
 improved if it were in two volumes instead of being in only 
 one. 
 
 Well, youth is generous, and I did not see the wisdom of 
 spoiling the ship for the traditional ha'porth of tar, so I 
 cheerfully set to work and evolved another volume of stones, 
 all of smart, long-legged soldiers, and with as Heaven 
 knows no more idea of setting myself up as possessing all 
 knowledge about soldiers and the Service than I had of 
 aspiring to the Crown of the United Kingdom of Great 
 Britain and Ireland. But, even then, I had need of a vast 
 amount of patience, for time went on, and really my book 
 seemed as far from publication as ever. Every now and 
 then I had a letter telling me that the arrangements were 
 nearly completed, and that it would probably be brought 
 out by Messrs. So-and-so. But days wore into weeks, 
 and weeks into months, until I really began to feel as if 
 my first literary babe was doomed to die before it was 
 born. 
 
 Then arose a long haggle over terms, which I had thought 
 were settled, and to be on the same terms as the magazine 
 rates no such wonderful scale after all. However, my 
 literary guide, philosopher, and friend thought, as he was 
 doing me the inestimable service of bringing me out, that 2O/. 
 was an ample honorarium for myself; but I, being young and 
 poor, did not see things in the same light at all. Try as I 
 would and I cannot lay claim to trying very hard I could 
 not see why a man, who had never seen me, should have put 
 himself to so much trouble out of a spirit of pure philanthropy, 
 and a desire to help a struggling young author forward. So 
 I obstinately kept to my point, and said if I did not have 3O/., 
 I would rather have all of the stories back again. I think 
 nobody would credit to-day what that special bit of firmness 
 cost me. Still, I would cheerfully have died before I would 
 have given in, having once conceived my claim to be a just
 
 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER' 
 
 2 53 
 
 one. A bad habit on the whole, and one that has since cost 
 me dear more than once. 
 
 Eventually, my guide and I came to terms for the sum 
 for which I had held out, namely, 3O/., which was the price I 
 received for my very first book, in addition to about 8/. that 
 I had already had from 
 the magazine for serial 
 use of a few of the stories. 
 
 So, in due course, 
 my book, under the title 
 of ' Cavalry Life/ was 
 brought out in two great 
 cumbersome volumes by 
 
 CAVALRY LIFE 
 
 Messrs. Chatto & Windus, and I was launched upon the world 
 as a full-blown author under the name of ' Winter.' 
 
 So many people have asked me why I took that name, 
 and how I came to think of it, that it will not, perhaps, be 
 amiss if I give the reason in this paper. It happened like 
 this. During our negotiations, my guide suggested that I
 
 254 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 had better take some nom de guerre, as it would never do to 
 bring out such a book under a woman's name. ' Make it as 
 real-sounding and non-committing as you can,' he wrote, and 
 so, after much cogitation and cudgelling of my brains, I chose 
 the name of the hero of the only story of the series which was 
 written in the first person, and called myself J. S. Winter. I 
 believe that ' Cavalry Life ' was published on the last day 
 of iSSi. 
 
 Then followed the most trying time of all that of waiting 
 to see what the Press would say of this, my first child, which 
 had been so long in coming to life, and had been chopped 
 and changed, bundled from pillar to post, until my heart was 
 almost worn out before ever it saw the light. Then, on 
 January 14, 1882, I went into the Subscription Library at 
 York, where I was living, and began to search the new 
 journals through, in but faint hopes, however, of seeing a 
 review of my book so soon as that ; for I was quite alone in 
 the world, so far as literary matters went. Indeed, not one 
 friend did I possess who could in any way influence my 
 career, or obtain the slightest favour for me. 
 
 I remember that morning so well ; it is, I think, printed 
 on my memory as the word ' Calais ' was on the heart of Queen 
 Mary. It was a fine, cold morning, and there was a blazing 
 fire in the inner room, where the reviews were kept. I sat 
 down at the table, and took up the Saturday Revieiv, never 
 dreaming for a moment that I should be honoured by so much 
 as a mention in a journal which I held in such awe and respect. 
 And as I turned over the leaves, my eyes fell on a row of 
 foot-notes at the bottom of the page, giving the names of the 
 books which were noticed above, and among them I saw 
 ' Cavalry Life, by J. S. Winter.' 
 
 For full ten minutes I sat there, feeling sick and more fit 
 to die than anything else. I was perfectly incapable of looking 
 at the notice above. But, at last, I plucked up courage to 
 meet my fate, very much as one summons up courage to have
 
 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 
 255 
 
 a tooth out and get the horrid wrench over. Judge of my 
 surprise and joy when, on reading the notice, I found that the 
 Saturday had given me a rattling good notice, praising the 
 new author heartily and without stint. I shall never, as long 
 as I live, forget the effect of that, my first review, upon me. 
 For quite half an hour I sat without moving, only feeling, 
 ' I shall never be able to keep it up. I shall never be able 
 
 I TOOK UP THE 'SATURDAY REVIEW' 
 
 to follow it up by another.' I felt paralysed, faint, crushed, 
 anything but elated and jubilant. And, at last, through some 
 instinct, I put my hand up to my head to find that it was 
 cold and wet, as if it had been dipped in the river. Thank 
 Heaven, from that day to this I have never known what a 
 cold sweat was. It was my first experience of such a thing, 
 and sincerely I hope it will be my last.
 
 A Sketch from Life
 
 257 
 
 ' CALIFORNIAN VERSE' 
 BY BRET HARTE 
 
 WHEN I say that my ' first book ' was not my own, and 
 contained beyond the title-page not one word of my 
 own composition, I trust that I shall not be accused of trifling 
 with paradox, or tardily unbosoming myself of youthful 
 plagiary. But the fact remains that in priority of publication 
 the first book for which I became responsible, and which 
 probably provoked more criticism than anything I have 
 written since, was a small compilation of Californian poems 
 indited by other hands. 
 
 A well-known bookseller of San Francisco one day 
 handed me a collection of certain poems which had already 
 appeared in Pacific Coast magazines and newspapers, with 
 the request that I should, if possible, secure further additions 
 to them, and then make a selection of those which I con- 
 sidered the most notable and characteristic for a single 
 volume to be issued by him. I have reason to believe that 
 this unfortunate man was actuated by a laudable desire to 
 publish a pretty Californian book Jits first essay in publica- 
 tionand at the same time to foster Eastern immigration by 
 an exhibit of the Californian literary product, but, looking 
 back upon his venture, I am inclined to think that the little 
 volume never contained anything more poetically pathetic or 
 touch ingly imaginative than that gentle conception. Equally 
 simple and trustful was his selection of myself as compiler. 
 It was based somewhat, I think, upon the fact that ' the 
 
 s
 
 25 8 
 
 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 artless Helicon ' I boasted ' was Youth,' but I imagine it was 
 chiefly owing to the circumstance that I had from the outset, 
 with precocious foresight, confided to him my intention of not 
 putting any of my own verses in the volume. Publishers are 
 appreciative ; and a self-abnegation so sublime, to say nothing 
 of its security, was not without its effect. 
 
 WE SETTLED TO OUR WORK 
 
 We settled to our work with fatuous self-complacency, and 
 no suspicion of the trouble in store for us, or the storm that 
 was to presently hurtle around our devoted heads. I win- 
 nowed the poems, and he exploited a preliminary announce- 
 ment to an eager and waiting Press, and we moved together 
 unwittingly to our doom. I remember to have been early 
 struck with the quantity of material coming in evidently the
 
 BRET HARTE 
 
 259 
 
 I knew now the 
 
 result of some popular misunderstanding of the announcement. 
 I found myself in daily and hourly receipt of sere and yellow 
 fragments, originally torn from some dead and gone newspaper, 
 creased and seamed from long folding in wallet or pocket-book. 
 Need I say that most of them were of an emotional or didactic 
 nature ; need I add any criticism of these homely souvenirs, 
 often discoloured by the morning coffee, the evening tobacco, 
 or, Heaven knows ! perhaps blotted by too easy tears ! 
 Enough that I knew now what had become of those original 
 but never re-copied verses which filled the ' Poet's Corner ' of 
 every country newspaper on the coast, 
 genesis of every di- 
 dactic verse that 
 ' coldly furnished 
 forth the marriage 
 table ' in the an- 
 nouncement of wed- 
 dings in the rural 
 Press. I knew now 
 who had read and 
 possibly indited 
 the dreary hie jacets 
 of the dead in their 
 mourning columns. I knew now why certain letters of the 
 alphabet had been more tenderly considered than others, 
 and affectionately addressed. I knew the meaning of the 
 * Lines to Her who can best understand them,' and I knew 
 that they had been understood. The morning's post buried 
 my table beneath these withered leaves of posthumous pas- 
 sion. They lay there like the pathetic nosegays of quickly- 
 fading wild flowers, gathered by school children, inconsistently 
 abandoned upon roadsides, or as inconsistently treasured 
 as limp and flabby superstitions in their desks. The chill 
 wind from the Bay blowing in at my window seemed to 
 rustle them into sad articulate appeal. I remember that 
 
 A CIRCULATION IT HAD NEVER KNOWN 15EFOKE
 
 260 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 when one of them was whisked from the window by a 
 stronger gust than usual, and was attaining a circulation it 
 had never known before, I ran a block or two to recover it. 
 I was young then, and in an exalted sense of editorial re- 
 sponsibility which I have since survived, I think I turned pale 
 at the thought that the reputation of some unknown genius 
 might have thus been swept out and swallowed by the all- 
 absorbing sea. 
 
 There were other difficulties arising from this unexpected 
 wealth of material. There were dozens of poems on the same 
 subject. ' The Golden Gate,' ' Mount Shasta,' ' The Yosemite,' 
 were especially provocative. A beautiful bird known as the 
 ' Californian Canary' appeared to have been shot at and 
 winged by every poet from Portland to San Diego. Lines to 
 the ' Mariposa ' flower were as thick as the lovely blossoms 
 themselves in the Merced Valley, and the Madrone tree was as 
 ' berhymed ' as Rosalind. Again, by a liberal construction of 
 the publisher's announcement, manuscript poems, which had 
 never known print, began to coyly unfold their virgin blossoms 
 in the morning's mail. They were accompanied by a few lines 
 stating, casually, that their sender had found them lying 
 forgotten in his desk, or, mendaciously, that they were ' thrown 
 off' on the spur of the moment a few hours before. Some of 
 the names appended to them astonished me. Grave, practical 
 business men, sage financiers, fierce speculators, and plodding 
 traders, never before suspected of poetry, or even correct prose, 
 were among the contributors. It seemed as if most of the 
 able-bodied inhabitants of the Pacific Coast had been in the 
 habit at some time of expressing themselves in verse. Some 
 sought confidential interviews with the editor. The climax 
 was reached when, in Montgomery Street, one day, I was 
 approached by a well-known and venerable judicial magnate. 
 After some serious preliminary conversation, the old gentleman 
 finally alluded to what he was pleased to call a task of ' great 
 delicacy and responsibility ' laid upon my ' young shoulders.'
 
 BRET HARTE 
 
 261 
 
 4 In fact,' he went on paternally, adding the weight of his 
 judicial hand to that burden, ' I have thought of speaking to 
 you about it. In my leisure moments on the Bench I have, 
 from time to time, polished and perfected a certain college 
 poem begun years ago, but which may now be said to have 
 been finished in California, and thus embraced in the scope of 
 your proposed selection. If a few extracts, selected by myself, 
 to save you all trouble and re- 
 sponsibility, be of any benefit 
 to you, my dear young friend, 
 consider them at your service.' 
 In this fashion the con- 
 tributions had increased to 
 three times the bulk of the 
 original collection, and the 
 difficulties of selection were 
 augmented in proportion. The 
 editor and publisher eyed each 
 other aghast, ' Never thought 
 there were so many of the 
 blamed things alive,' 
 said the latter with 
 great simplicity, ' had 
 you ? ' The editor 
 had not. ' Couldn't 
 you sort of shake 'em 
 up and condense 'em, 
 you know ? keep their ideas and their names separate, so 
 that they'd have proper credit. See ? ' The editor pointed 
 out that this would infringe the rule he had laid down. ' I see,' 
 said the publisher thoughfully ' well, couldn't you pare 'em 
 down ; give the first verse entire and sorter sample the others ? ' 
 The editor thought not. There was clearly nothing to do but 
 to make a more rigid selection a difficult performance when 
 the material was uniformly on a certain dead level, which it is 
 
 'CONSIDER THEM AT YOUR SERVICE'
 
 262 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 not necessary to define here. Among the rejections were, of 
 course, the usual plagiarisms from well-known authors imposed 
 upon an inexperienced country Press ; several admirable 
 pieces detected as acrostics of patent medicines, and certain 
 veiled libels and indecencies such as mark the ' first ' publi- 
 cations on blank walls and fences of the average youth. Still 
 the bulk remained too large, and the youthful editor set to 
 work reducing it still more with a sympathising concern which 
 the good-natured, but unliterary, publisher failed to under- 
 stand, and which, alas ! proved to be equally unappreciated 
 by the rejected contributors. 
 
 The book appeared a pretty little volume typographi- 
 cally, and externally a credit to pioneer book-making. 
 Copies were liberally supplied to the Press, and authors 
 and publisher self-complacently awaited the result. To the 
 latter this should have been satisfactory ; the book sold 
 readily from his well-known counters to purchasers who 
 seemed to be drawn by a singular curiosity, unaccompanied, 
 however, by any critical comment. People would lounge into 
 the shop, turn over the leaves of other volumes, say carelessly, 
 ' Got a new book of California poetry out, haven't you ? ' 
 purchase it, and quietly depart. There were as yet no notices 
 from the Press ; the big dailies were silent ; there was some- 
 thing ominous in this calm. 
 
 Out of it the bolt fell. A well-known mining weekly, 
 which I here poetically veil under the title of the Red Dog 
 Jay Hawk, was first to swoop down upon the tuneful and 
 unsuspecting quarry. At this century-end of fastidious and 
 complaisant criticism, it may be interesting to recall the 
 direct style of the Californian ' sixties.' ' The hogwash and 
 
 " purp "-stuff ladled out from the slop bucket of Messrs. 
 
 & Co., of 'Frisco, by some lop-eared Eastern apprentice, 
 and called " A Compilation of Californian Verse," might be 
 passed over, so far as criticism goes. A club in the hands of 
 any able-bodied citizen of Red Dog and a steamboat ticket
 
 BRET HARTE 263 
 
 to the Bay, cheerfully contributed from this office, would be 
 all-sufficient. But when an imported greenhorn dares to call 
 his flapdoodle mixture " Californian," it is an insult to the 
 State that has produced the gifted " Yellow Hammer," whose 
 lofty flights have from time to time dazzled our readers in 
 the columns of the Jay Hawk. That this complacent editorial 
 
 I WAS INWARDLY RELIEVED 
 
 jackass, browsing among the dock and thistles which he has 
 served up in this volume, should make no allusion to Cali- 
 fornia's greatest bard, is rather a confession of his idiocy than 
 a slur upon the genius of our esteemed contributor.' I turned 
 hurriedly to my pile of rejected contributions the nom de 
 plume of ' Yellow Hammer ' did not appear among them ;
 
 264 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 certainly I had never heard of its existence. Later, when a 
 friend showed me one of that gifted bard's pieces, I was 
 inwardly relieved ! It was so like the majority of the other 
 verses, in and out of the volume, that the mysterious poet 
 might have written under a hundred aliases. But the Dutch 
 Flat Clarion, following, with no uncertain sound, left me 
 small time for consideration. : We doubt,' said that journal, 
 ' if a more feeble collection of drivel could have been made, 
 even if taken exclusively from the editor's own verses, which 
 we note he has, by an equal editorial incompetency, left out 
 of the volume. When we add that, by a felicity of idiotic 
 selection, this person has chosen only one, and the least 
 characteristic, of the really clever poems of Adoniram Skaggs, 
 which have so often graced these columns, we have said 
 enough to satisfy our readers.' The Mormon Hill Quartz 
 Crusher relieved this simple directness with more fancy : ' We 
 
 don't know why Messrs. & Co. send us, under the 
 
 title of " Selections of Californian Poetry," a quantity of slum- 
 gullion which really belongs to the sluices of a placer mining 
 camp, or the ditches of the rural districts. W T e have some- 
 times been compelled to run a lot of tailings through our 
 stamps, but never of the grade of the samples offered, which, 
 we should say, would average about 33^ cents per ton. We 
 have, however, come across a single specimen of pure gold 
 evidently overlooked by the serene ass who has compiled 
 this volume. We copy it with pleasure, as it has already 
 shone in the " Poet's Corner " of the Crusher as the gifted 
 effusion of the talented Manager of the Excelsior Mill, other- 
 wise known to our delighted readers as " Outcrop." ' The 
 Green Springs Arcadian was no less fanciful in imagery: 
 ' Messrs. - & Co. send us a gaudy green-and-yellow, 
 parrot-coloured volume, which is supposed to contain the 
 first callow " cheepings " and " peepings " of Californian song- 
 sters. From the flavour of the specimens before us we should 
 say that the nest had been disturbed prematurely. There
 
 BRET HARTE 
 
 265 
 
 seems to be a good deal of the parrot inside as well as outside 
 the covers, and we congratulate our own sweet singer " Blue 
 Bird," who has so often made these columns melodious, that 
 she has escaped the ignominy of being exhibited in Messrs. 
 
 & Co.'s aviary.' I should add that this simile of the 
 
 aviary and its occupants was ominous, for my tuneful choir 
 was relentlessly slaughtered ; the bottom of the cage was 
 
 THE B3OK SOLD TREMENDOUSLY 
 
 strewn with feathers ! The big dailies collected the criticisms 
 and published them in their own columns with the grim irony 
 of exaggerated head-lines. The book sold tremendously on 
 account of this abuse, but I am afraid that the public was 
 disappointed. The fun and interest lay in the criticisms, and 
 not in any pointedly ludicrous quality in the rather common- 
 place collection, and I fear I cannot claim for it even that 
 merit. And it will be observed that the animus of the
 
 266 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 criticism appeared to be the omission rather than the reten- 
 tion of certain writers. 
 
 But this brings me to the most extraordinary feature of 
 this singular demonstration. I do not think that the pub- 
 lishers were at all troubled by it ; I cannot conscientiously 
 say that / was ; I have every reason to believe that the poets 
 themselves, in and out of the volume, were not displeased at 
 the notoriety they had not expected, and I have long since 
 been convinced that my most remorseless critics were not in 
 earnest, but were obeying some sudden impulse started by 
 the first attacking journal. The extravagance of the Red 
 Dog fay Hawk was emulated by others : it was a large, con- 
 tagious joke, passed from journal to journal in a peculiar 
 cyclonic Western fashion. And there still lingers, not un- 
 pleasantly, in my memory the conclusion of a cheerfully 
 scathing review of the book which may make my meaning 
 clearer : ' If we have said anything in this article which might 
 cause a single pang to the poetically sensitive nature of the 
 youthful individual calling himself Mr. Francis Bret Harte 
 but who, we believe, occasionally parts his name and his hair 
 in the middle we will feel that we have not laboured in vain, 
 and are ready to sing Nunc Dimittis, and hand in our checks. 
 We have no doubt of the absolutely pellucid and lacteal 
 purity of Franky's intentions. He means well to the Pacific 
 Coast, and we return the compliment. But he has strayed 
 away from his parents and guardians while he was too fresh. 
 He will not keep without a little salt.' 
 
 It was thirty years ago. The book and its Rabelaisian 
 criticisms have been long since forgotten. Alas ! I fear that 
 even the capacity for that Gargantuan laughter which met 
 them, in those days, exists no longer. The names I have 
 used are necessarily fictitious, but where I have been obliged 
 to quote the criticisms from memory I have, I believe, only 
 softened their asperity. I do not know that this story has 
 any moral. The criticisms here recorded never hurt a repu-
 
 BRET HARTE 267 
 
 tation nor repressed a single honest aspiration. A few 
 contributors to the volume, who were of original merit, have 
 made their mark, independently of it or its critics. The 
 editor, who was for two months the most abused man on the 
 Pacific slope, within the year became the editor of its first 
 successful magazine. Even the publisher prospered, and 
 died respected !
 
 269 
 
 'DEAD MAN'S ROCK' 
 BY 'Q.' 
 
 I CHERISH no parental illusions about ' Dead Man's Rock.'' 
 It is two or three years since I read a page of that blood- 
 thirsty romance, and my only copy of it was found, the other 
 day, in turning out the lumber-room at the top of the house. 
 Later editions have been al- 
 lowed to appear with all the 
 inaccuracies and crudities of 
 the first. On page 1 16, Bom- 
 bay is still situated in the Bay 
 of Bengal, and may continue 
 to adorn that shore. The 
 error must be amusing, since 
 unknown friends continue to 
 write and confess themselves 
 tickled by it ; and it is stupid 
 to begin amending a book in 
 which you have lost interest. 
 But though this is my attitude 
 towards ' Dead Man's Rock,' 
 I can still look back on the 
 writing of it as on an amus- 
 ing adventure. 
 
 It was begun in the late summer of 1886, and was my 
 first attempt at telling a story on paper. I am careful to say 
 '-on paper,' because in childhood I was telling myself stories 
 from morning to night. Tens of thousands of small boys are 
 
 'Q.' TUMOR
 
 270 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 doing the same every day in the year ; but I should be sorry 
 to guess how much of my time, between the ages of seven and 
 thirteen, must have been given up to weaving these childish 
 epics. They were curious jumbles ; the characters (of which 
 I had a constant set) being drawn indiscriminately from the 
 * Morte d'Arthur,' ' Bunyan's Holy War/ ' Pope's Iliad,' 
 ' Ivanhoe,' and a book of Fairy Tales by Holme Lee, as well 
 as from history ; and the themes ranging from battles and 
 tournaments to cricket, wrestling, and sailing matches. Ana- 
 chronisms never troubled the story-teller. The Duke of 
 Wellington would cheerfully break a lance with Captain 
 Credence or Tristram of Lyonesse, and I rarely made up a 
 football fifteen without including Hardicanute (whom I loved 
 for his name), Hector (dear for his own sake) and Wamba 
 (who supplied the comic interest and scored off Thersites). 
 They were brave companions ; but at the age of thirteen they 
 deserted me suddenly. Or perhaps after reading Mr. Steven- 
 son's ' Chapter on Dreams,' I had better say it was the Piskies 
 the Small People who deserted me. They a^one know 
 why for their pensioner had never betrayed a single one of 
 their secrets or why in these later times, when he sells their 
 confidences for money, they have come back to help him, 
 though more sparingly. Three or four of the little stories in 
 ' Noughts and Crosses ' are but translated dreams, and there 
 are others in my notebook ; but now I never compose without 
 some pain, whereas in the old days I had but to sit alone in 
 a corner or take a solitary walk and invite them, and they did 
 all the work. But one summer evening I summoned them 
 and met with no response. Without warning the tales had 
 come to an end. 
 
 From my first school at Newton Abbot I went to Clifton, 
 and from Clifton in my nineteenth year to Oxford. It was 
 here that the old desire to weave stories began to come back. 
 Mr. Stevenson's ' Treasure Island ' was the immediate cause. 
 I had been scribbling all through my school days ; had written
 
 ' 2 7 I 
 
 a prodigious quantity of bad reflective poetry and burnt it 
 as soon as I really began to reflect ; and was now plying the 
 Oxford Magazine with light verse, a large proportion of which 
 was lately reprinted in a thin volume, with the title of ' Green 
 Bays.' But I wrote little or no prose. My prose essays at 
 school were execrable. I had followed after false models for 
 a while, and when gently made aware of this by the sound 
 and kindly scholar who looked over our sixth-form essays 
 at Clifton, had turned dispirited and wrote scarcely at all. 
 Though reading great quantities of fiction, I had, as has been 
 said, no thought of telling a story, and so far as I knew, no 
 faculty. The desire, at least, was awakened by ' Treasure 
 Island,' and, in explanation of this, I can only quote the 
 gentleman who reviewed my first book in the Atlienceum, and 
 observed that 'great wits jump, and lesser wits jump with 
 them.' That is just the truth of it. I began as a pupil and 
 imitator of Mr. Stevenson, and was lucky in my choice of a 
 master. 
 
 The germ of ' Dead Man's Rock ' was a curious little bit 
 of family lore, which I may extract from my father's history of 
 Polperro, a small haven on the Cornish coast. The Richard 
 Quiller of whom he speaks is my great grandfather. 
 
 ' In the old home of the Quillers, at Polperro, there was hanging 
 on a beam a key, which we as children regarded with respect and 
 awe, and never dared to touch, for Richard Quiller had put the key 
 of his quadrant on a nail, with strong injunctions that no one should 
 take it off until his return (which never happened), and there, I 
 believe, it still hangs. His brother John served for several years as 
 commander of a hired armed lugger, employed in carrying despatches 
 in the French war, Richard accompanying him as subordinate officer. 
 They were engaged in the inglorious bombardment of Flushing in 
 1809. Some short time after this they were taken, after a desperate 
 fight with a pirate, into Algiers, but were liberated on the severe remon- 
 strances of the British Consul. They returned to their homes in 
 most miserable plight, having lost their all, except their Bible, much 
 valued then by the unfortunate sailors, and now by a descendant in
 
 272 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 whose possession it is. About the year 1812 these same brothers 
 sailed to the island of Teneriffe in an armed merchant ship, but after 
 leaving that place were never heard of.' 
 
 Here, then, I had the simple apparatus for a mystery ; for, 
 of course, the key must be made to unlock something far more 
 uncommon than a quadrant ; and I still think it a capital 
 apparatus, had I only possessed the wit to use it properly. 
 There was romance in this key that was obvious enough, 
 and I puzzled over it for some weeks, by the end of which my 
 plot had grown to something like this : A family living in 
 poverty, though heirs to great wealth this wealth buried 
 close to their door, and the key to unlock it hanging over their 
 heads from morning to night. It was soon settled, too, that 
 this family should be Cornish, and the scene laid on the 
 Cornish coast, Cornwall being the only corner of the earth 
 with which I had more than a superficial acquaintance. 
 
 So far, so good ; but what was the treasure to be ? And 
 what the reason that stood between its inheritors and their 
 enjoyment of it ? As it happened, these two questions were 
 answered together. The small library at Trinity a delightful 
 room, where Dr. Johnson spent many quiet hours at work upon 
 his ' Dictionary ' is fairly rich in books of old travel and dis- 
 covery ; fine folios, for the most part, filling the shelves on your 
 left as you enter. To the study of these I gave up a good 
 many hours that should have been spent on ancient history 
 of another pattern, and more directly profitable for Greats ; 
 and in one of them Purchas, I think, but will not swear first 
 came on the Great Ruby of Ceylon. Not long after, a note 
 in Yule's edition of 'Marco Polo' set my imagination fairly in 
 chase of this remarkable gem ; and I hunted up all the ac- 
 cessible authorities. The size of this ruby (as thick as a man's 
 arm, says Marco Polo, while Maundevile, who was an artist, 
 and lied with exactitude, puts it at a foot in length and five 
 fingers in girth), its colour, ' like unto fire,' and the mystery 
 and completeness of its disappearance, combined to fascinate
 
 ' 273 
 
 me. No form of riches is so romantic as a precious stone with 
 a heart in it and a history. I had only to endow it with a 
 curse proportionate to its size and beauty, and I had all that 
 a story-teller could possibly want, 
 
 But even a treasure hunt is a poor affair unless you have 
 two parties vying for the booty, and a curse can hardly be 
 worked effectively until you introduce the fighting element, 
 and make destiny strike her blows through the passions hate, 
 greed, &c. of her victims. I had shaped my story to this 
 
 'THE HAVEN,' FOWEY ' 
 
 point : the treasure was to be buried by a man who had slain 
 his comrade and only confidant in order to enjoy the booty 
 alone, and had afterwards become aware of the curse attached 
 to its possession. And the descendants of these two men were 
 to be rivals in the search for it, each side possessing half of the 
 clue. It was at this point that, like George IV., I invented a 
 buckle. My buckle had two clasps, and on these the secret 
 
 1 Most of the illustrations in this chapter are from photographs by Messrs. W. 
 Heath & Co., Plymouth.
 
 274 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 of the treasure was so engraved as to become intelligible only 
 when they were united. 
 
 My plot had now taken something like a shape ; but it had 
 one serious defect. It would not start to walk. Coax it as I 
 might it would not budge. Even the worst book must have a 
 beginning this reflection was no less distressing than obvious, 
 for mine had none. And there is no saying it would ever have 
 found one but for a lucky accident. 
 
 In the Long Vacation of 1885 I spent three weeks or a 
 month at the Lizard pollacking and reading Plato. Knowing 
 at that time comparatively little of this corner of the coast, I 
 had brought one or two guide books and local histories in the 
 bottom of my portmanteau. One evening, after a stiff walk 
 along the cliffs, I put the ' Republic ' aside for a certain ' History 
 and Description of the Parish of Mullyon,' by its vicar, the Rev. 
 E. G. Harvey, and came upon a passage that immediately 
 shook my scraps of invention into their proper places. 
 
 The passage in question was a narrative of the wreck of 
 the ' Jonkheer Meester Van de Wall,' a Dutch barque, on the 
 night of March 25, 1867. I cannot quote at length the vicar's 
 description of this wreck ; but in substance and in many of its 
 details it is the story of the ' Belle Fortune ' in ' Dead Man's 
 Rock.' The vessel broke up in the night and drowned every 
 soul on board except a Greek sailor, who was found early next 
 morning clambering about the rocks under cliff, between 
 Polurrian and Poljew. This man's behaviour was mysterious 
 from the first, and his evidence at the inquest held on the 
 drowned bodies of his shipmates was, to say the least, extra- 
 ordinary. He said : ' My name is Georgio Buffani. I was 
 seaman on board the ship, which belonged to Dordrecht. I 
 joined the ship at Batavia, but I do not know the name of the 
 ship or the name of the captain! Being shown, however, the 
 official list of Dutch East Indiamen, he pointed to one built 
 in 1854, the ' Kosmopoliet,' Captain Konig. He then told his 
 story of the disaster, which there was no one to contradict, and
 
 M- 275 
 
 the jury returned a verdict of 'Accidentally drowned.' The 
 Greek made his bow and left the neighbourhood. 
 
 Just after the inquest Mr. Broad, Dutch Consul at Falmouth, 
 arrived, bringing with him the captains of two Dutch East 
 
 MR. AND MPS. QUILLER COUCH 
 
 Indiamen then lying at Falmouth. One of them asked at once 
 ' Is it Klaas Lammerts's ? ' Being told that the ' Kosmopoliet ' 
 was the name of the wrecked ship, he said, ' I don't believe it. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 The " Kosmopoliet " wouldn't be due for a fortnight, almost. It 
 must be Klaas Lammerts's vessel.' The vicar, who had now 
 come up, showed a scrap of flannel he had picked up, with 
 ' 6. K. L.' marked upon it. ' Ah ! ' said the Dutchman, 'it must 
 be so. It must be the " Jonkheer.'" But she had been returned 
 ' Kosmopoliet ' at the inquest, so there the matter rested. 
 
 ' On the Friday following, however,' pursues the vicar, 
 ' when Mr. Broad and this Dutch captain again visited 
 Mullyon, the first thing handed them was a parchment which 
 had been picked up meanwhile, and this was none other than 
 the masonic diploma of Klaas van Lammerts. Here, then, 
 was no room for doubt. The ship was identified as the 
 "Jonkheer Meester van de Wall van Puttershoek," Captain 
 Klaas van Lammerts, 650 tons register, homeward bound from 
 the East Indies, with a cargo of sugar, coffee, spices, and some 
 Banca tin. The value of the ship and cargo would be between 
 4O,ooo/. and 5o,ooo/.' It may be added that on the afternoon 
 before the wreck, the vessel had been seen to miss stays more 
 than once in her endeavour to beat off the land, and generally 
 to behave as if handled by an unaccountably clumsy crew. 
 Altogether, folks on shore had grave suspicions that there was 
 mutiny or extreme disorder of some kind on board ; but of 
 this nothing was ever certainly known. 
 
 I think this narrative was no sooner read than digested 
 into the scheme of my romance, now for some months 
 neglected and almost forgotten. But the Final School of 
 Literae Humaniores loomed unpleasantly near, and just a year 
 passed before I could turn my discovery to account. The 
 following August found me at Petworth, in Sussex, lodging 
 over a clockmaker's shop that looked out upon the Market 
 Square. Petworth is quiet ; and at that time I knew scarcely 
 a soul in the place ; but lovely scenery lies all around it, and 
 on a hot afternoon you may do worse than stretch yourself 
 on the slopes above the weald and smoke and do nothing. 
 There is one small common in particular, close to the monu-
 
 'Q- 277 
 
 ment at the top of the park, and just outside the park wall, 
 where I spent many hours looking across the blue country 
 to Blackdown, and lazily making up my mind about the 
 novel. In the end it was some time in September I called 
 on the local stationer and bought a large heap of superior 
 foolscap. 
 
 A travelling waxwork company was unpacking its caravan 
 in the square outside my window on the morning when I 
 
 FOWEY GRAMMAR SCHOOL CREW AND MR. QUILLER COUCH 
 
 pulled in my chair and light-heartedly wrote ' Dead Man's 
 Rock (a Romance), by Q.,' at the top of the first sheet of 
 foolscap. The initial was my old initial of the Oxford 
 Magazine verses, and the title had been settled on for some 
 time before. Staying with some friends on the Cornish coast, 
 I had been taken to a picnic, or some similar function, on a 
 beach, where they showed me a pillar-shaped rock, standing 
 boldly up from the sands, and veined with curious red streaks
 
 278 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 resembling bloodstains. ' I want a story written about that 
 rock,' a lady of the party had said ; ' something really blood- 
 thirsty. " Slaughter Rock " might do for the name.' But my 
 title was really borrowed from the Dodman, locally called 
 Deadman, a promontory east of Falmouth, between Veryan 
 and St. Austell bays, 
 
 I had covered two pages of foolscap before the brass band 
 of the waxwork show struck up and drove me out of doors 
 and along the road that leads to the railway station the only 
 dull road around Petworth, and chosen now for that very 
 reason. A good half of that morning's work was afterwards 
 torn up ; but I felt at the time that the enterprise was going 
 well. I had written slowly, but easily ; and, of course, believed 
 that I had found my vocation, and would always be able to 
 write easily most vain delusion ! For in six years and a half 
 I have recaptured the fluency of that morning not half-a- 
 dozen times. Still, I continued to take a lively interest in my 
 story, and wrote at it very steadily, finishing Book I. before 
 my return to Oxford. It surprised me, though, that, for all 
 my interest in it, the story gave me little or no emotion. 
 Once only did I get a genuine thrill, and that was at the point 
 where young Jasper finds the sailor's cap (p. 25), and why 
 at this point more than another is past explaining. In later 
 efforts I have written several pages with a shaking pen and amid 
 dismal signs of grief ; and, on revision, have usually had to 
 tear those pages up. On the whole, my short experience goes 
 against 
 
 si vis me flere, dolendum est 
 Primum ipsi tibi. 
 
 But if on revision an author is moved to tears or laughter 
 by any part of his work, then he may reckon pretty safely 
 upon it, no matter with how stony- a gravity it was written. 
 
 Book I. just half the tale was finished then, and put 
 aside. The Oxford Michaelmas Term was beginning, and
 
 there were lectures to be prepared ; but this was not all the 
 reason. To tell the truth, I had wound up my story into a 
 very pretty coil, and how to unwind it was past my contriving 
 When the book appeared, its critics agreed in pronouncing 
 Part I. to be a deal better than Part II., and they were right ; 
 for Book II. is little more than a violent cutting of half-a- 
 dozen knots that had been tied in the gayest of spirits ; and 
 
 THE OLD STUDY 
 
 it must be owned, moreover, that the long arm of coincidence 
 was invoked to perform a great part of the cutting. For the 
 time, however, the unfinished MS. lay in the drawer of my 
 writing-table ; and I went back to Virgil and Aristophanes 
 and scribbled more verses for the Oxford Magazine, None of 
 my friends knew at that time of my excursion into fiction ; but 
 one of them possesses the acutest eye in Oxford, and, with
 
 2 8o MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 just a perceptible twinkle in it, he asked me suddenly, one 
 evening towards the end of Term, if I had yet begun to write 
 a novel. The shot was excellently fired, and I surrendered my 
 MS. at once, the more gladly because believing in his judgment. 
 Next morning he asserted that he had sat up half the night 
 to read it. His look was of the freshest, but he came 
 triumphantly out of cross-examination, and urged me to finish 
 the story. In my elated mood I would have promised any- 
 thing, and set to work at once to think out the rest of the plot ; 
 but it was not until the Easter Vacation that I finished the 
 book, in a farmhouse at the head of Wastwater. 
 
 Another friend was with me, who, in the intervals of 
 climbing, put all his enthusiasm into Aristotelian logic while I 
 hammered away at the ' immortal product,' as we termed it by 
 consent. It was further agreed that he should abstain from 
 looking at a line of it until the whole was written a compact 
 which I have not heard he found any difficulty in keeping. 
 Indeed, there was plenty to occupy us both without the book. 
 Snow lay thick on the fells that spring, and the glissading was 
 excellent ; we had found, or thought we had, a new way up 
 the Mickledore cliffs ; and Mr. Gladstone had jur.t introduced 
 his first Home Rule Bill, and made the newspapers (which 
 reached us a day late) very good reading. However, the MS. 
 was finished and read with sincere, if discriminating, approval, 
 on the eve of our departure. 
 
 The next step was. to find a publisher. My earliest hopes 
 had inclined upon my friend, Mr. Arrowsmith, of Bristol, who 
 (I hoped) might remember me as having for a time edited the 
 Cliftonian ; but the book was clearly too long for his ' Railway 
 Library/ and on this reflection I determined to try the 
 publishers of ' Treasure Island.' Mr. Lyttelton Gell, of the 
 Clarendon Press, was kind enough to provide a letter of 
 introduction ; the MS. went to Messrs. Cassell & Co., and I 
 fear the end of my narrative must be even duller than the 
 beginning. Messrs. Cassell accepted the book, and have
 
 '<?' 28l 
 
 published all its successors. The inference to be drawn from 
 this is pleasant and obvious, and I shall be glad if my readers 
 will draw it. 
 
 It is the rule, I find, to conclude such a confession as this 
 with a paragraph or so in abuse of the literary calling ; to 
 parade one's self before the youth of merry England as the 
 Spartans paraded their drunken Helot ; to mourn the expense 
 
 MR. AND MRS. QUILLER COUCH IN A CANADIAN CANOE 
 
 of energies that in any other profession would have fetched a 
 nobler pecuniary return. I cannot do this ; at any rate, I 
 cannot do it yet. My calling ties me to no office stool, makes 
 me no man's slave, compels me to no action that my soul 
 condemns. It sets me free from town life, which I loathe, and 
 allows me to breathe clean air, to exercise limbs as well as 
 brain, to tread good turf and wake up every morning to the 
 sound and smell of the sea and that wide prospect which to
 
 282 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 my eyes is the dearest on earth. All happiness must be 
 purchased with a price, though people seldom recognise this ; 
 and part of the price is that, living thus, a man can never 
 amass a fortune. But as it is extremely unlikely that I could 
 have done this in any pursuit, I may claim to have the better 
 of the bargain. 
 
 Certain gentlemen who have preceded me in this series 
 have spoken of letters as of any ordinary characteristic pursuit. 
 Naturally, therefore, they report unfavourably ; but they seem 
 to me to prove the obvious. Literature has her own pains, 
 her own rewards ; and it scarcely needs demonstration that 
 one who can only bring to these a bagman's estimate had very 
 much better be a bagman than an author.
 
 2 8 3 
 
 'UNDERTONES' AND l IDYLS AND LEGENDS 
 OF IN VERB URN' 
 
 BY ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 MY first serious effort in literature was what I may call 
 a double-barrelled one ; in other words, I was seriously 
 engaged upon two books at the same time, and it was by 
 the merest accident that they did not appear simultaneously. 
 As it was, only a few months divided one from the other, and 
 they are always, in my own mind, inseparable, or Siamese, 
 twins. The book of poems called ' Undertones ' was the one ; 
 the book of poems called ' Idyls and Legends of Inverburn ' 
 was the other. They were published nearly thirty years ago, 
 when I was still a boy, and as they happened to bring me 
 into connection, more or less intimately, with some of the 
 leading spirits of the age, a few notes concerning them may 
 be of interest. 
 
 A word, first, as to my literary beginnings. I can scarcely 
 remember the time when the idea of winning fame as an 
 author had not occurred to me, and so I determined very 
 early to adopt the literary profession, a determination which 
 I unfortunately carried out, to my own life-long discomfort, 
 and the annoyance of a large portion of the reading public. 
 When a boy in Glasgow, I made the acquaintance of David 
 Gray, who was fired with a similar ambition to fly incon- 
 tinently to London 
 
 The terrible City whose neglect is Death, 
 Whose smile is Fame !
 
 284 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 and to take it by storm. It seemed so easy ! ' Westminster 
 Abbey/ wrote my friend to a correspondent ; ' if I live, I 
 shall be buried there so help me God ! ' 'I mean, after 
 Tennyson's death,' I myself wrote to Philip Hamerton, 
 ' to be Poet Laureate ! ' From these samples of our callow 
 speech, the modesty of our ambition may be inferred. Well, 
 it all happened just as we planned, only otherwise ! Through 
 some blunder of arrangement we two started for London on 
 the same day, but from different railway stations, and, until 
 some weeks afterwards, one knew nothing of the other's 
 exodus. I arrived at King's Cross Railway Station with the 
 conventional half-crown in my pocket ; literally and absolutely 
 half-a-crown ; I wandered about the Great City till I was 
 weary, fell in with a Thief and Good Samaritan who sheltered 
 me, starved and struggled with abundant happiness, and 
 finally found myself located at 66 Stamford Street, Waterloo 
 Bridge, in a top room, for which I paid, when I had the 
 money, seven shillings a week. Here I lived royally, with 
 Duke Humphrey, for many a day ; and hither, one sad 
 morning, I brought my poor friend Gray, whom I had 
 discovered languishing somewhere in the Borough, and who 
 was already death-struck through 'sleeping out' one night 
 in Hyde Park. 1 ' Westminster Abbey if I live, I shall be 
 buried there ! ' Poor country singing-bird, the great Dismal 
 Cage of the Dead was not for him, thank God ! He lies 
 under the open Heaven, close to the little river which he 
 immortalised in song. After a brief sojourn in the ' dear old 
 ghastly bankrupt garret at No. 66,' he fluttered home to die. 
 
 To that old garret, in these days, came living men of 
 letters who were of large and important interest to us poor 
 cheepers from the North : Richard Monckton Milnes, Laurence 
 Oliphant, Sydney Dobell, among others, who took a kindly 
 interest in my dying comrade. But afterwards, when I was 
 left to fight the battle alone, the place was solitary. Ever 
 
 1 See the writer's Life of David Gray.
 
 /
 
 286 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 reserved and independent, not to say 'dour' and opinionated, 
 I made no friends, and cared for none. I had found a little 
 work on the newspapers and magazines, just enough to keep 
 body and soul alive, and while occupied with this I was busy 
 on the literary twins to which I referred at the opening of 
 this paper. What did my isolation matter, when I had all 
 the gods of Greece for company, to say nothing of the fays 
 and trolls of Scottish Fairyland ? Pallas and Aphrodite 
 haunted that old garret ; out on Waterloo Bridge, night after 
 night, I saw Selene and all her nymphs ; and when my heart 
 sank low, the fairies of Scotland sang me lullabies ! It was 
 a happy time. Sometimes, for a fortnight together, I never 
 had a dinner save, perhaps, on Sunday, when a good-natured 
 Hebe would bring me covertly a slice from the landlord's 
 joint. My favourite place of refreshment was the Caledonian 
 Coffee House in Covent Garden. Here, for a few coppers, I 
 could feast on coffee and muffins muffins saturated with 
 butter, and worthy of the gods ! Then, issuing forth, full-fed, 
 glowing, oleaginous, I would light my pipe, and wander out 
 into the lighted streets. 
 
 Criticisms for the AtJienceum, then edited by Hepworth 
 Dixon, brought me ten-and-sixpence a column. I used to 
 go to the old office in Wellington Street and have my contri- 
 butions measured off on the current number with a foot-rule, 
 by good old John Francis, the publisher. I wrote, too, for 
 the Literary Gazette, where the pay was less princely seven- 
 and-sixpence a column, I think, but with all extracts deducted ! 
 The Gazette was then edited by John Morley, who came to 
 the office daily with a big dog. ' I well remember the time 
 when you, a boy, came to me, a boy, in Catherine Street/ 
 wrote honest John to me years afterwards. But the neighbour- 
 hood of Covent Garden had greater wonders ! Two or three 
 times a week, walking, black bag in hand, from Charing Cross 
 Station to the office of All 'the Year Round in Wellington Street, 
 came the good, the only Dickens ! From that good genie the
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 287 
 
 poor straggler from Fairyland got solid help and sympathy. 
 Few can realise now what Dickens was then to London. 
 His humour filled its literature like broad sunlight ; the Gospel 
 of Plum-pudding warmed every poor devil in Bohemia. 
 
 At this time, I was (save the mark !) terribly in earnest, 
 with a dogged determination to bow down to no graven 
 literary idol, but to judge men of all ranks on their personal 
 merits. I never had 
 much reverence for 
 gods of any sort ; 
 if the superior per- 
 sons could not win 
 me by love, I re- 
 mained heretical. 
 So it was a long 
 time before I came 
 close to any living 
 souls, and all that 
 time I was working 
 away at my poems. 
 Then, a little later, 
 I used to go o' 
 Sundays to the 
 open house of 
 Westland Marston, 
 which was then a 
 great haunt of lite- 
 rary Bohemians. 
 
 Here I first met Dinah Muloch, the author of ' John Halifax,' 
 who took a great fancy to me, used to carry me off to her 
 little nest on Hampstead Heath, and lend me all her books. 
 At Hampstead, too, I foregathered with Sydney Dobell, a 
 strangely beautiful soul, with (what seemed to me then) very 
 effeminate manners. Dobell's mouth was ever full of very 
 pretty Latinity, for the most part Virgilian. He was fond of 
 
 MR. BUCHANAN'S HOUSE
 
 288 MV FIRST BOOK 
 
 quoting, as an example of perfect expression, sound conveying 
 absolute sense of the thing described, the doggrel lines 
 
 Down the stairs the young missises ran 
 To have a look at Miss Kate's young man ! 
 
 The sibilants in the first line, he thought, admirably suggested 
 the idea of the young ladies slipping along the banisters and 
 peeping into the hall ! 
 
 But I had other friends, more helpful to me in preparing 
 my first twin-offering to the Muses ; the faces under the gas, 
 the painted women on the bridge (how many a night have I 
 walked up and down by their sides, and talked to them for 
 hours together), the actors in the theatres, the ragged groups 
 afthe stage doors. London to me, then, was still Fairyland ! 
 Even in the Haymarket, with its babbles of nymph and 
 satyr, there was wonderful life from midnight to dawn 
 deep sympathy with which told me that I was a born Pagan, 
 and could never be really comfortable in any modern Temple 
 of the Proprieties. On other points connected with that old 
 life on the borders of Bohemia, I need not touch ; it has all 
 been so well done already by Muiger, in the ' Vie de Boheme,' 
 .and it will not bear translation into contemporary English. 
 There were cakes and ale, pipes and beer, and ginger was 
 hot in the mouth too ! Et ego fui in Bohemia ! There were 
 inky fellows and bouncing girls, then ; now there are only 
 fine ladies, and respectable, God-fearing men of letters. 
 
 It was while the twins were fashioning, that I went down 
 in summer time to live at Chertsey on the Thames, chiefly in 
 order to be near to one I had long admired, Thomas Love 
 Peacock, the friend of Shelley and the author of ' Headlong 
 Hall ' ' Greekey Peekey,' as they called him, on account of 
 his prodigious knowledge of things and books Hellenic. I 
 :soon grew to love the dear old man, and sat at his feet, like 
 an obedient pupil, in his green old-fashioned garden at Lower 
 Halliford. To him I first read some of my ' Undertones,' getting
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 289 
 
 many a rap over the knuckles for my sacrilegious tampering 
 with Divine Myths. What mercy could / expect from one 
 who had never forgiven ' Johnny ' Keats for his frightful per- 
 version of the sacred mystery of Endymion and Selene ? and 
 who was horrified at the base ' modernism ' of Shelley's 
 4 Prometheus Unbound ? ' But to think of it ! He had known 
 Shelley, and all the rest of the demigods, and his speech was 
 golden with memories of them all ! Dear old Pagan, wonder- 
 ful in his death as in his life. When, shortly before he died, 
 his house caught fire, and the mild curate of the parish begged 
 him to withdraw from the library of books he loved so well, 
 he flatly refused to listen, and cried roundly, in a line of 
 vehement blank verse, ' By the immortal gods, I will not 
 stir ! ' > 
 
 Under such auspices, and with all the ardour of youth to 
 help, my Book, or Books, progressed. Meantime, I was 
 breaking out into poetry in the magazines, and writing 
 * criticism ' by the yard. At last the time came when I 
 remembered another friend with whom 1 had corresponded, 
 and whose advice I thought I might now ask with some con- 
 fidence. This was George Henry Lewes, to whom, when I 
 was a boy in Glasgow, I had sent a bundle of manuscript, 
 with the blunt question, ' Am I, or am I not, a Poet ? ' To 
 my delight he had replied to me with a qualified affirmative, 
 saying that in the productions he had ' discerned a real faculty, 
 and perhaps a future poet. I say perhaps/ he added, ' because 
 I do not know your age, and because there are so many poetical 
 blossoms which never come to fruit.' He had, furthermore, 
 advised me ' to write as much as I felt impelled to write, but 
 to publish nothing ' at any rate, for a coupie of years. Three 
 years had passed, and I had neither published anything that 
 is to say, in book form nor had I had any further communi- 
 cation with my kind correspondent, To Lewes, then, I wrote, 
 reminding him of our correspondence, telling him that I had 
 
 1 I have given a detailed account of Peacock in my Look Round Literature, 
 
 U
 
 290 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 waited, not two years, but three, and that I now felt inclined 
 to face the public. I soon received an answer, the result of 
 which was that I went, on Lewes's invitation, to the Priory,. 
 North Bank, Regent's Park, and met my friend and his 
 partner, better known as ' George Eliot.' 
 
 But, as the novelists say, I am anticipating. Sick to death,- 
 David Gray had returned to the cottage of his father, the 
 handloom weaver, at Kirkintilloch, and there had peacefully 
 passed away, leaving as his legacy to the world the volume 
 of beautiful poems published under the auspices of Lord 
 Houghton. I knew of his death the hour he died ; awaking 
 in the night, I was certain of my loss, and spoke of it 
 (long before the formal news reached me) to a friend. This 
 by the way ; but what is more to the purpose is that my 
 first grief for a beloved comrade had expressed itself in the 
 words which were to form the ' proem ' of my first book 
 
 Poet gentle hearted, 
 
 Are you then departed, 
 And have you ceased to dream the dream we loved of old so well ? 
 
 Has the deeply-cherish'd 
 
 Aspiration perished, 
 And are you happy, David, in that heaven where you dwell ? 
 
 Have you found the secret 
 
 We, so wildly, sought for, 
 And is your soul enswath'd at last in the singing robes you fought for ? 
 
 Full of my dead friend, I spoke of him to Lewes and George 
 Eliot, telling them the piteous story of his life and death. 
 Both were deeply touched, and Lewes cried, ' Tell that story 
 to the public ' ; which I did, immediately afterwards, in the 
 Cornhill Magazine. By this time I had my Twins ready, and 
 had discovered a publisher for one of them, Undertones. The 
 other, Idyls and Legends ofjnverburn, was a ruggeder bantling,, 
 containing almost the first blank verse poems ever written in 
 Scottish dialect. I selected one of the poems, ' Willie Baird,' 
 and showed it to Lewes. He expressed himself delighted,.
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 291; 
 
 and asked for more. I then showed him the 'Two Babes.' 
 ' Better and better ! ' he wrote ; ' publish a volume of such 
 poems and your position is assured.' More than this, he at 
 once found me a publisher, Mr. George Smith, of Messrs. 
 Smith and Elder, who offered me a good round sum (such it 
 seemed to me then) for the copyright. Eventually, however, 
 alter ' Willie Baird ' had been published in the CornJiill, I 
 
 THE STUDY 
 
 withdrew the manuscript from Messrs. Smith and Elder, and 
 transferred it to Mr. Alexander Strahan, who offered me both 
 more liberal terms and more enthusiastic appreciation. 
 
 It was just after the appearance of my story of David 
 Gray in the Corn/till that I first met, at the Priory, North 
 Bank, with Robert Browning. It was an odd and repre-^ 
 sentative gathering of men, only one lady being present, the 
 hostess, George Eliot. I was never much of a hero-worshipper,
 
 292 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 but I had long been a sympathetic Browningite, and I well 
 remember George Eliot taking me aside after my first tete-a- 
 tete with the poet, and saying, ' Well, what do you think of 
 him ? Does he come up to your ideal ? ' He didn't quite, I 
 must confess, but I afterwards learned to know him well and 
 to understand him better. He was delighted with my state- 
 ment that one of Gray's wild ideas was to rush over to Florence 
 and ' throw himself on the sympathy of Robert Browning.' 
 
 Phantoms of these first books of mine, how they begin to 
 rise around me ! Faces of friends and counsellors that have 
 flown for ever ; the sibylline Marian Evans with her long, 
 weird, dreamy face ; Lewes, with his big brow and keen 
 thoughtful eyes ; Browning, pale and spruce, his eye like a 
 skipper's cocked-up at the weather ; Peacock, with his round, 
 mellifluous speech of the old Greeks ; David Gray, great-eyed 
 and beautiful, like Shelley's ghost ; Lord Houghton, with his 
 warm worldly smile and easy-fitting enthusiasm. Where are 
 they all now ? Where are the roses of last summer, the snows 
 of yester year ? I passed by the Priory to-day, and it looked 
 like a great lonely Tomb. In those days, the house where I 
 live now was not built ; all up here Hampstead-ways was 
 grass and fields. It was over these fields that Herbert Spencer 
 and George Eliot used to walk on their way to Hampstead 
 Heath. The Sibyl has gone, but the great Philosopher still 
 remains, to brighten the sunshine. It was not my luck to 
 know him then would it had been ! but he is my friend and 
 neighbour in these latter days, and, thanks to him, I still get 
 glimpses of the manners of the old gods. 
 
 With the publication of my first two books, I was fairly 
 launched, I may say, on the stormy waters of literature. When 
 the Atkenceum told its readers that ' this was poetry, and of a 
 noble kind,' and when Lewes vowed in the Fortnightly Review 
 that even if I ' never wrote another line, my place among the 
 pastoral poets would be undisputed,' I suppose I felt happy 
 enough far more happy than any praise could make me now.
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 293 
 
 Poor little pigmy in a cockle-boat, I thought Creation was 
 ringing with my name ! I think I must have seemed rather 
 conceited and ' bounceable,' for I have a vivid remembrance 
 of a Fortnightly dinner at the Star and Garter, Richmond, 
 when Anthony Trollope, angry with me for expressing a doubt 
 about the poetical greatness of Horace, wanted to fling a 
 decanter at my head ! It was about this time that an 
 omniscient publisher, after an interview with me, exclaimed 
 (the circumstance is historical), ' I don't like that young man ; 
 he talked to me as if he was God Almighty, or Lord Byron \ ' 
 But in sober truth, I never had the sort of conceit with which 
 men credited me ; I merely lacked gullibility, and saw, at the 
 first glance, the whole unmistakable humbug and insincerity 
 of the Literary Life. I think still that, as a rule, the profession 
 of letters narrows the sympathy and warps the intelligence. 
 When I saw the importance which a great man or woman 
 could attach to a piece of perfunctory criticism, when I saw 
 the care with which this Eminent Person 'humoured his 
 reputation,' and the anxiety with which that Eminent Person 
 concealed his true character, I found my young illusions very 
 rapidly fading. On one occasion, when George Eliot was 
 very much pestered by an unknown lady, an insignificant 
 individual, who had thrust herself somewhat pertinaciously 
 upon her, she turned to me and asked, with a smile, for my 
 opinion. I gave it, rudely enough, to the effect that it was 
 good for ' distinguished people ' to be reminded occasionally 
 of how very small consequence they really were, in the mighty 
 life of the World ! 
 
 From that time until the present I have pursued the 
 vocation into which fatal Fortune, during boyhood, incon- 
 tinently thrust me, and have subsisted, ill sometimes, well 
 sometimes, by a busy pen. I may, therefore, with a certain 
 experience, if with little authority, imitate those who have 
 preceded me in giving reminiscences of their first literary 
 beginnings, and offer a few words of advice to my younger
 
 2 9 4 MY FIKST BOOK 
 
 brethren to those persons, I mean, who are entering the 
 profession of Literature. To begin with, I entirely agree with 
 Mr. Grant Allen in his recent avowal that Literature is the 
 poorest and least satisfactory of all professions ; I will go even 
 further, and affirm that it is one of the least ennobling. With 
 a fairly extensive knowledge of the writers of my own period, 
 I can honestly say that I have scarcely met one individual 
 who has not deteriorated morally by the pursuit of literary 
 Fame. For complete literary success among contemporaries, 
 it is imperative that a man should either have no real opinions, 
 or be able to conceal such as he possesses, that he should have 
 one eye on the market and the other on the public journals, 
 that he should humbug himself into the delusion that book- 
 writing is the highest work in the Universe, and that he should 
 .regulate his likes and dislikes by one law, that of expediency. 
 If his nature is in arms against anything that is rotten in 
 Society or in Literature itself, he must be silent. Above all, 
 he must lay this solemn truth to heart, that when the World 
 speaks well of him the World will demand the/rzb? of praise, 
 'and that price will possibly be his living Soul. He may tinker, 
 he may trim, he may succeed, he may be buried in Westminster 
 Abbey, he may hear before he dies all the people saying, ' How 
 good and great he is ! how perfect is his art ! how gloriously 
 'he embodies the Tendencies of his Time ! M but he will know 
 all the same that the price has been paid, and that his living 
 Soul has gone, to furnish that whitewashed Sepulchre, a 
 'Blameless Reputation. 
 
 For one other thing, also, the Neophyte in Literature had 
 'better be prepared. He will never be able to subsist by 
 -creative writing unless it so happens that the form of expres- 
 sion he chooses is popular in form (fiction, for example), and 
 
 1 O those ' Tendencies of one's Time ' ! O those dismal Phantoms, conjured 
 up by the blatant Book-taster and the indolent Reviewer ! How many a poor 
 Soul, that would fain have been honest, have they bewildered into the Slough of 
 Despond and the Bog of Beautiful Ideas ! R. B.
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 2 95 
 
 even in that case, the work he does, if he is to live by it, must 
 be in harmony with the social and artistic status quo. Revolt 
 
 MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN AND HIS FAVOURITE DOG 
 
 of any kind is always disagreeable. Three-fourths of the 
 success of Lord Tennyson (to take an example) was due to
 
 296 MY F1XST BOOK 
 
 the fact that this fine poet regarded Life and all its phenomena 
 from the standpoint of the English public school, that he 
 ethically and artistically embodied the sentiments of our 
 excellent middle-class education. His great American con- 
 temporary, Whitman, in some respects the most command- 
 ing spirit of this generation, gained only a few disciples, and 
 was entirely misunderstood and neglected by contemporary 
 criticism. Another prosperous writer, to whom I have already 
 alluded, George Eliot, enjoyed enormous popularity in her 
 lifetime, while the most strenuous and passionate novelist of 
 her period, Charles Reade, was entirely distanced by her in 
 the immediate race for Fame. In Literature, as in all thingSj 
 manners and costume are most important ; the hall-mark of 
 contemporary success is perfect Respectability. It is not 
 respectable to be too candid on any subject, religious, moral, 
 or political. It is very respectable to say, or imply, that this 
 country is the best of all possible countries, that War is a noble 
 institution, that the Protestant Religion is grandly liberal, and 
 that social evils are only diversified forms of social good. 
 Above all, to be respectable, one must have ' beautiful ideas/ 
 ' Beautiful ideas ' are the very best stock-in-trade a young; 
 writer can begin with. They are indispensable to every 
 complete literary outfit. Without them, the short cut to 
 Parnassus will never be discovered, even though one starts 
 from Rugby.
 
 297 
 
 'TREASURE ISLAND' 
 BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 IT was far indeed from being my first book, for I am not a 
 novelist alone. But I am well aware that my paymaster, 
 the Great Public, regards what else I have written with 
 indifference, if not aversion ; if it call upon me at all, it calls 
 on me in the familiar and indelible character ; and when I am 
 asked to talk of my first book, no question in the world but 
 what is meant is my first novel. 
 
 Sooner or later, somehow, anyhow, I was bound to write a 
 novel. It seems vain to ask why. Men are born with various 
 manias : from my earliest childhood, it was mine to make a 
 plaything of imaginary series of events ; and as soon as I was 
 able to write, I became a good friend to the paper-makers. 
 Reams upon reams must have gone to the making of Rathillet/ 
 ' The Pentland Rising,' 1 ' The King's Pardon ' (otherwise ' Park 
 Whitehead '), ' Edward Daven,' ' A Country Dance,' and ' A 
 Vendetta in the West ' ; and it is consolatory to remember 
 that these reams are now all ashes, and have been received 
 again into the soil. I have named but a few of my ill-fated 
 efforts, only such indeed as came to a fair bulk ere they were 
 desisted from ; and even so they cover a long vista of years. 
 ' Rathillet ' was attempted before fifteen, ' The Vendetta ' at 
 
 1 Ne pas confondre. Not the slim green pamphlet with the imprint of Andrew 
 Elliott, for which (as I see with amazement from the book-lists) the gentlemen of 
 England are willing to pay fancy prices ; but its predecessor, a bulky historical 
 romance without a spark of merit, and now deleted from the world.
 
 .2 9 8 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 twenty-nine, and the succession of defeats lasted unbroken till 
 I was thirty-one. By that time, I had written little books and 
 little essays and short stories ; and had got patted on the back 
 and paid for them though not enough to live upon. I had 
 quite a reputation, I was the successful man ; I passed my 
 days in toil, the futility of which would sometimes make my 
 cheek to burn that I should spend a man's energy upon this 
 business, and yet could not earn a livelihood : and still there 
 shone ahead of me an unattained ideal : although I had at- 
 tempted the thing with vigour not less than ten or twelve times, 
 I had not yet written a novel. All all my pretty ones had 
 gone for a little, and then stopped inexorably like a schoolboy's 
 watch. I might be compared to a cricketer of many years' 
 standing who should never have made a run. Anybody can 
 write a short story a bad one, I mean who has industry 
 and paper and time enough ; but not everyone may hope to 
 write even a bad novel. It is the length that kills. The 
 .accepted novelist may take his novel up and put it down, spend 
 days upon it in vain, and write not any more than he makes 
 haste to blot. Not so the beginner. Human nature has 
 -certain rights ; instinct the instinct of self-preservation^ 
 forbids that any man (cheered and supported by the conscious- 
 ness of no previous victory) should endure the miseries of 
 unsuccessful literary toil beyond a period to be measured in 
 weeks. There must be something for hope to feed upon. The 
 <beginner must have a slant of wind, a lucky vein must be 
 -running, he must be in one of those hours when the words 
 come and the phrases balance of themselves even to begin. 
 And having begun, what a dread looking forward is that until 
 the book shall be accomplished ! For so long a time, the slant 
 is to continue unchanged, the vein to keep running, for so long 
 -a time you must keep at command the same quality of style : 
 for so long a time your puppets are to be always vital, always 
 consistent, always vigorous ! I remember I used to look, in 
 those days, upon every three-volume novel with a sort of
 
 X^V~s~-7 
 
 ri^j <*~
 
 300 MY FJXST BOOK 
 
 veneration, as a feat not possibly of literature but at least 
 of physical and moral endurance and the courage of Ajax. 
 
 In the fated year I came to live with my father and mother 
 at Kinnaird, above Pitlochry. Then I walked on the red 
 moors and by the side of the golden burn ; the rude, pure air 
 of our mountains inspirited, if it did not inspire us, and my 
 wife and I projected a joint volume of logic stories, for which 
 she wrote ' The Shadow on the Bed,' and I turned out ' Thrawn> 
 Janet ' and a first draft of ' The Merry Men.' I love my native- 
 air, but it does not love me ; and the end of this delightful 
 period was a cold, a fly-blister, and a migration by Strathairdle 
 and Glenshee to the Castleton of Braemar. There it blew a 
 good deal and rained in a proportion ; my native air was more 
 unkind than man's ingratitude, and I must consent to pass a 
 good deal of my time between four walls in a house lugubri- 
 ously known as the Late Miss McGregor's Cottage. And now 
 admire the finger of predestination. There was a schoolboy 
 in the Late Miss McGregor's Cottage, home from the holidays, 
 and much in want of ' something craggy to break his mind 
 upon.' He had no thought of literature ; it was the art of 
 Raphael that received his fleeting suffrages ; and with the aid 
 of pen and ink and a shilling box of water colours, he had 
 soon turned one of the rooms into a picture gallery. My more 
 immediate duty towards the gallery was to be showman ; but 
 I would sometimes unbend a little, join the artist (so to speak) 
 at the easel, and pass the afternoon with him in a generous 
 emulation, making coloured drawings. On one of these 
 occasions, I made the map of an island ; it was elaborately 
 and (I thought) beautifully coloured ; the shape of it took my 
 fancy beyond expression ; it contained harbours that pleased 
 me like sonnets ; and with the unconsciousness of the pre- 
 destined, I ticketed my performance ' Treasure Island.' I am 
 told there are people who do not care for maps, and find it 
 hard to believe. The names, the shapes of the woodlands, 
 the courses of the roads and rivers, the prehistoric footsteps of
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 301 
 
 man still distinctly traceable up hill and down dale, the mills 
 and the ruins, the ponds and the ferries, perhaps the Standing 
 Stone or the Druidic Circle on the heath ; here is an inex- 
 haustible fund of interest for any man with eyes to see or 
 twopence worth of imagination to understand with ! No child 
 but must remember laying his head in the grass, staring into 
 the infinitesimal forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy 
 armies. Somewhat in this way, as I paused upon my map of 
 " Treasure Island,' the future character of the book began to 
 
 MR. STEVENSON'S HOUSE IN SAMOA 
 
 appear there visibly among imaginary woods ; and their brown 
 faces and bright weapons peeped out upon me from unexpected 
 quarters, as they passed to and fro, fighting and hunting 
 treasure, on these few square inches of a flat projection. The 
 next thing I knew I had some papers before me and was 
 writing out a list of chapters. How often have I done so, and 
 the thing gone no further! But there seemed elements of 
 success about this enterprise. It was to be a story for boys ; 
 no need of psychology or fine writing ; and I had a boy at
 
 302 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 hand to be a touchstone. Women were excluded. I was 
 unable to handle a brig (which the Hispaniola should have 
 been), but I thought I could make shift to sail her as a 
 schooner without public shame. And then I had an idea for 
 John Silver from which I promised myself funds of entertain- 
 ment ; to take an admired friend of mine (whom the readcr 
 very likely knows and admires as much as I do), to deprive 
 him of all his finer qualities and higher graces of temperament, 
 to leave him with nothing but his strength, his courage, his 
 quickness, and his magnificent geniality, and to try to express 
 these in terms of the culture of a raw tarpaulin. Such 
 psychical surgery is, I think, a common way of ' making 
 character ' ; perhaps it is, indeed, the only way. We can put 
 in the quaint figure that spoke a hundred words with us 
 yesterday by the wayside ; but do we know him ? Our friend 
 with his infinite variety and flexibility, we know but can we 
 put him in ? Upon the first, we must engraft secondary and 
 imaginary qualities, possibly all wrong ; from the second, knife 
 in hand, we must cut away and deduct the needless arbor- 
 escence of his nature, but the trunk and the few branches that 
 remain we may at least be fairly sure of. 
 
 On a chill September morning, by the cheek of a brisk 
 fire, and the rain drumming on the window, I began 'The Sea 
 Cook,' for that was the original title. I have begun (and 
 finished) a number of other books, but I cannot remember to 
 have sat down to one of them with more complacency. It is 
 not to be wondered at, for stolen waters are proverbially sweet. 
 I am now upon a painful chapter. No doubt the parrot once 
 belonged to Robinson Crusoe. No doubt the skeleton is 
 conveyed from Poe. I think little of these, they are trifles and 
 details ; and no man can hope to have a monopoly of 
 skeletons or make a corner in talking birds. The stockade 
 I am told, is from ' Masterman Ready.' It may be, I care not 
 a jot. These useful writers had fulfilled the poet's saying: 
 departing, they had left behind them Footprints on the sands
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 303; 
 
 of time, Footprints which perhaps another and I was the 
 other ! It is my debt to Washington Irving that exercises my 
 conscience, and justly so, for I believe plagiarism was rarely 
 carried farther. I chanced to pick up the ' Tales of a Traveller ' 
 some years ago with a view to an anthology of prose narrative,, 
 and the book flew up and struck me : Billy Bones, his chest,. 
 the company in the parlour, the whole inner spirit, and a good 
 deal of the material detail of my first chapters all were there, 
 all were the property of Washington Irving. But I had no 
 guess of it then as I sat writing by the fireside, in what seemed 
 the spring-tides of a somewhat pedestrian inspiration ; nor yet 
 day by day, after lunch, as I read aloud my morning's work 
 to the family. It seemed to me original as sin ; it seemed to 
 belong to me like my right eye. 1 had counted on one boy, 
 I found I had two in my audience. My father caught fire at 
 once with all the romance and childishness of his original 
 nature. His own stories, that every night of his life he put 
 himself to sleep with, dealt perpetually with ships, roadside 
 inns, robbers, old sailors, and commercial travellers before the 
 era of steam. He never finished one of these romances ; the 
 lucky man did not require to ! But in ' Treasure Island ' he 
 recognised something kindred to his own imagination ; it was 
 his kind of picturesque ; and he not only heard with delight 
 the daily chapter, but set himself acting to collaborate. When 
 the time came for Billy Bones's chest to be ransacked, he must 
 have passed the better part of a day preparing, on the back of 
 a legal envelope, an inventory of its contents, which I exactly 
 followed ; and the name of ' Flint's old ship ' the ' Walrus ' 
 was given at his particular request. And now who should 
 come dropping in,<?-r niachind, but Dr. Japp, like the disguised 
 prince who is to bring down the curtain upon peace and 
 happiness in the last act ; for he carried in his pocket, not a 
 horn or a talisman, but a publisher had, in fact, been charged 
 by my old friend, Mr. Henderson, to unearth new writers for 
 Young Folks. Even the ruthlessness of a united family recoiled
 
 304 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 before the extreme measure of inflicting on our guest the 
 mutilated members of ' The Sea Cook ' ; at the same time, we 
 would by no means stop our readings ; and accordingly the tale 
 was begun again at the beginning, and solemnly re-delivered 
 for the benefit of Dr. Japp. From that moment on, 1 have 
 thought highly of his critical faculty ; for when he left us, he 
 carried away the manuscript in his portmanteau. 
 
 Here, then, was everything to keep me up, sympathy, help, 
 and now a positive engagement. I had chosen besides a very 
 easy style. Compare it with the almost contemporary ' Merry 
 Men ' ; one reader may prefer the one style, one the other 'tis 
 an affair of character, perhaps of mood ; but no expert can 
 fail to see that the one is much more difficult, and the other 
 much easier to maintain. It seems as though a full-grown 
 experienced man of letters might engage to turn out ' Treasure 
 Island ' at so many pages a day, and keep his pipe alight. 
 But alas ! this was not my case. Fifteen days I stuck to it, 
 and turned out fifteen chapters ; and then, in the early 
 paragraphs of the sixteenth, ignominiously lost hold. My 
 mouth was empty ; there was not one word of ' Treasure 
 Island ' in my bosom ; and here were the proofs of the 
 beginning already waiting me at the ' Hand and Spear ' ! 
 Then I corrected them, living for the most part alone, walking 
 on the heath at Weybridge in dewy autumn mornings, a good 
 deal pleased with what I had done, and more appalled than lean 
 depict to you in words at what remained for me to do. I was 
 thirty one ; I was the head of a family ; I had lost my health ; 
 I had never yet paid my way, never yet made 2OO/. a year ; my 
 father had quite recently bought back and cancelled a book 
 that was judged a failure : was this to be another and last fiasco? 
 I was indeed very close on despair ; but I shut my mouth 
 hard, and during the journey to Davos, where I was to pass 
 the winter, had the resolution to think of other things and 
 bury myself in the novels of M. de Boisgobey. Arrived at my 
 destination, down I sat one morning to the unfinished tale ;
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 305 
 
 and behold ! it flowed from me like small talk ; and in a second 
 tide of delighted industry, and again at a rate of a chapter a 
 day, I finished ' Treasure Island.' It had to be transcribed 
 
 MRS. R. L. STEVENSON 
 
 almost exactly ; my wife was ill ; the schoolboy remained 
 alone of the faithful ; and John Addington Symonds (to whom 
 I timidly mentioned what I was engaged on) looked on me 
 askance. He was at that time very eager I should write on 
 
 x
 
 306 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 the characters of Theophrastus : so far out may be the 
 judgments of the wisest men. But Symonds (to be sure) was 
 scarce the confidant to go for sympathy on a boy's story. 
 He was large-minded ; ' a full man,' if there was one ; but the 
 very name of my enterprise would suggest to him only 
 capitulations of sincerity and solecisms of style. Well ! he 
 was not far wrong. 
 
 'Treasure Island ' it was Mr. Henderson who deleted the 
 first title, ' The Sea Cook ' appeared duly in the story paper, 
 where it figured in the ignoble midst, without woodcuts, and 
 attracted not the least attention. I did not care. 1 liked the 
 tale myself, for much the same reason as my father liked the 
 beginning : it was my kind of picturesque. I was not a little 
 proud of John Silver, also ; and to this day rather admire that 
 smooth and formidable adventurer. What was infinitely more 
 exhilarating, I had passed a landmark ; I had finished a tale, 
 and written ' The End ' upon my manuscript, as I had not done 
 since ' The Pentland Rising,' when I was a boy of sixteen not 
 yet at college. In truth it was so by a set of lucky accidents ; 
 had not Dr. Japp come on his visit, had not the tale flowed 
 from me with singular ease, it must have been laid aside like 
 its predecessors, and found a circuitous and unlamented way 
 to the fire. Purists may suggest it would have been better so. 
 I am not of that mind. The tale seems to have given much 
 pleasure, and it brought (or was the means of bringing) fire and 
 food and wine to a deserving family in which I took an 
 interest. I need scarcely say I mean my own. 
 
 But the adventures of ' Treasure Island ' are not yet quite 
 at an end. I had written it up to the map. The map was 
 the chief part of my plot. For instance, I had called an 
 islet ' Skeleton Island,' not knowing what I meant, seeking 
 only for the immediate picturesque, and it was to justify this 
 name that I broke into the gallery of Mr. Poe and stole Flint's 
 pointer. And in the same way, it was because I had made 
 two harbours that the ' Hispaniola ' was sent on her wanderings
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 37 
 
 with Israel Hands. The time came when it was decided to 
 republish, and I sent in my manuscript, and the map along 
 with it, to Messrs. Cassell. The proofs came, they were 
 corrected, but I heard nothing of the map. I wrote and asked ; 
 was told it had never been received, and sat aghast. It is one 
 thing to draw a map at random, set a scale in one corner of it 
 
 STEVENSON TELLING ' YARNS ' 
 
 at a venture, and write up a story to the measurements. It is 
 quite another to have to examine a whole book, make an 
 inventory of all the allusions contained in it, and with a pair 
 of compasses, painfully design a map to suit the data. I did 
 it ; and the map was drawn again in my father's office, with 
 embellishments of blowing whales and sailing ships, and my
 
 3 o8 MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 father himself brought into service a knack he had of various 
 writing, and elaborately forged the signature of Captain Flint, 
 and the sailing directions of Billy Bones. But somehow it 
 was never ' Treasure Island ' to me. 
 
 I have said the map was the most of the plot. I might 
 almost say it was the whole. A few reminiscences of Poe, 
 Defoe, and Washington Irving, a copy of Johnson's 
 ' Buccaneers,' the name of the Dead Man's Chest from 
 Kingsley's ' At Last,' some recollections of canoeing on the 
 high seas, and the map itself, with its infinite, eloquent 
 suggestion, made up the whole of my materials. It is, perhaps, 
 not often that a map figures so largely in a tale, yet it is 
 always important. The author must know his countryside, 
 whether real or imaginary, like his hand ; the distances, the 
 points of the compass, the place of the sun's rising, the 
 behaviour of the moon, should all be beyond cavil. And how 
 troublesome the moon is ! I have come to grief over the moon 
 in ' Prince Otto,' and so soon as that was pointed out to me, 
 adopted a precaution which I recommend to other men I 
 never write now without an almanack. With an almanack, and 
 the map of the country, and the plan of every house, either 
 actually plotted on paper or already and immediately 
 apprehended in the mind, a man may hope to avoid some of 
 the grossest possible blunders. With the map before him, he 
 will scarce allow the sun to set in the east, as it does in*' The 
 Antiquary.' With the almanack at hand, he will scarce allow 
 two horsemen, journeying on the most urgent affair, to employ 
 six days, from three of the Monday morning till late in the 
 Saturday night, upon a journey of, say, ninety or a hundred 
 miles, and before the week is out, and still on the same nags, 
 to cover fifty in one day, as may be read at length in the in- 
 imitable novel of ' Rob Roy.' And it is certainly well, though 
 far from necessary, to avoid such ' croppers.' But it is my 
 contention my superstition, if you like that who is faithful 
 to his map, and consults it, and draws from it his inspiration,
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 309 
 
 daily and hourly, gains positive support, and not mere negative 
 immunity from accident. The tale has a root there ; it grows 
 in that soil ; it has a spine of its own behind the words. Better 
 if the country be real, and he has walked every foot of it and 
 knows every milestone. But even with imaginary places } 
 he will do well in the beginning to provide a map ; as he 
 studies it, relations will appear that he had not thought upon ; 
 he will discover obvious, though unsuspected, shortcuts and 
 footprints for his messengers ; and even when a map is not all 
 the plot, as it was in ' Treasure Island,' it will be found to be 
 a mine of suggestion. 
 
 THE END 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARB 
 LONDON
 
 [April, 1894. 
 
 a Hist of BooUs lJui)lts1)cfl Jig 
 CHATTO & WINDUS 
 
 214, Piccadilly, London, W. 
 
 ABOUT. THE FELLAH: An Egyptian Novel. By EDMOND ABOUT. 
 " Translated by Sir RANDAL ROBERTS. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 8s. 
 
 ADAMS (W. DAVENPORT), WORKS BY. 
 
 A DICTIONARY OF THE DRAMA : The Plays, Playwrights, Players, and Playhouses 
 
 of the United Kingdom and America. Cr. 8vo, half-bound, 12s. (id. [Preparing. 
 
 QUIPS AND QUIDDITIES. Selected by W. D. ADAMS. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 88. (id. 
 
 AGONY COLUMN~7THE) OF "THE TIMES," from 1800 to 1870. 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by ALICE CLAY. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 8 fid. 
 
 AIDE (HAMILTON), WORKS BY, Post 8vo, illustrated boards, . each, 
 CARR OF CARRLYON. | CONFIDENCES. 
 
 ALBERT.-BROOKE FINCHLEY'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Post 8vo, picture boards, 8. ; cloth limp, 8. (id. 
 
 By MARY ALBERT. 
 
 ALDEN. A LOST SOUL. By W. L. ALDEN. Fcap. 8vo, cl. bds., l. (id. 
 
 SLEXANDER~(MRS7)rNOVELS BY. Pst 8vo, illustrated boards, a. each! 
 
 MAID, WIFE, OR WIDOW? | VALERIE'S FATE. . 
 
 ALLEN (F. M.). GREEN AS GRASS. By F. M. ALLEN, Author of 
 
 "Through Green Glasses." Frontispiece by ]. SMYTH. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 3. 6d. 
 ALLEN~TG^RANT)rWORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. (i. eachT" 
 THE EVOLUTIONIST AT LARGE. | COLIN CLOUT'S CALENDAR. 
 POST-PRANDIAL PHILOSOPHY. Crown 8vo, linen, 3s. (id. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, ?*. each. 
 
 PHILISTIA. 
 BABYLON. 
 STRANGE STORIES. 
 BECKONING HAND. 
 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 IN ALL SHADES. 
 THE DEVIL'S DIE. 
 THIS MORTAL COIL. 
 THE TENTS OF SHEW. 
 THE GREAT TABOO. 
 
 DUHARESQ'S DAUGHTER. 
 THE DUCHESS OF 
 
 POWYSLAND. 
 BLOOD ROYAL. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 IVAN GREET'S MASTERPIECE, &c. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY L. WOOD. 
 
 THE SCALLYWAG. With a Frontispiece. 
 
 DR^PALLI SER'S PATIENT. Fcap. 8vo, cloth extra, 1. Od. 
 
 ARCHITECTURAL STYLES, A HANDBOOK OF. By A. ROSENGAR- 
 
 TEN. Translated by W. COLLETT-SANDARS. With 639 Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 7. Oil. 
 
 ART (THE) OF "AMUSING : A Collection of Graceful Arts, GAMES, 
 Tricks, Puzzles, and Charades. By FRANK BELLEW. 300 Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex.. 4.(id. 
 
 ARNOLlT(EDWIN~LSfER), WORKS BY. 
 
 THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF PHRA THE PHOENICIAN. With 12 Illusts 
 
 by H. M. PAGET. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, .'{. (id.; post 8vo, illust. boards, 3i. 
 THE CONSTABLE OF ST. NICHOLAS. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY WOOD. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, 3. (id. 
 
 BIRD LIFE IN ENGLAND. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 6. 
 
 ARTEMUS WARD'S WORKS. With Portrait and Facsimile. Crovif. 
 
 8vo, cloth extra, 7. (id. Also a POPULAR EDITION, post 8vo, picture boards, 3 . 
 THE GENIAL SHOWMAN : Life and Adventures of ARTEMUS WARD. By EDWARD 
 
 P. HIMQITON. With a Frontispiece. Crown STO, cloth extr, 3m. 64.
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 ASHTON (JOHN), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. each. 
 HISTORY OF THE CHAP-BOOKS OP THE 18th CENTURY. With 334 UlustS. 
 SOCIAL LIFE IN THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE. With 85 Illustrations. 
 HUMOUR, WIT, AND SATIRE OF SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. With 82 Illusts, 
 ENGLISH CARICATURE AND SATIRE ON NAPOLEON THE FIRST. 115 Illusts, 
 STREET BALLADS. With 57 Illustrations. 
 
 PACTERIA, YEAST FUNGI, AND ALLIED SPECIES, A SYNOPSIS 
 
 OF. By W. B. GROVE, B.A. With 87 Illustrations, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3. (id. 
 
 BARDSLEY (REV. C. W.), WORKS BY. 
 
 ENGLISH SURNAMES : Their Sources and Significations. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 7s. fid. 
 CURIOSITIES OF PURITAN NOMENCLATURE. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 6s. 
 
 BARING GOULD (S., Author of "John Herring," &c.), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 RED SPIDER. I EYE. 
 
 BARR (ROBERT : LUKE SHARP), STORIES BY. Cr. Svo, ci., 3s. 6i. ^. 
 
 IN A STEAMER CHAIR. With Frontispiece and Vignette by DEMAIN HAMMOND. 
 FROM WHOSE BOURNE, &c. With 47 Illustrations. 
 
 BARRETT (FRANK, Author of " Lady Biddy Fane,") NOVELS BY. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each ; cloth, *. (id. each. 
 
 FETTERED FOR LIFE. 
 THE SIN OF OLGA ZASSOULICH. 
 BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 
 FOLLY MORRISON. I HONEST DAYIE. 
 LITTLE LADY LINTON. 
 
 A PRODIGAL'S PROGRESS. 
 JOHN FORD; and HIS HELPMATE. 
 A RECOILING VENGEANCE. 
 LIEUT.BARNABAS. | FOUND GUILTY. 
 FOR LOVE AND HONOUR. 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE IRON BRACELETS. Crown Svo. cloth, 3s. (id. [Shortly. 
 
 BEACONSFIELD, LORD. By T. P. O'CONNOR, M.P. Cr. Svo. cloth, 5s. 
 BEAUCHAMP. GRANTLEY GRANGE: A Novel. By SHELSLEY 
 
 BEAUCHAMP. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL PICTURES BY BRITISH ARTISTS : A Gathering from 
 the Picture Galleries, engraved on Steel. Imperial 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, 21s. 
 
 BECHSTEIN. AS PRETTY AS SEVEN, and other German Stories. 
 Collected by LUDWIG BECHSTEIN. With Additional Tales by the Brothers GRIMM, 
 and 98 Illustrations by RICHTER. Square Svo, cloth extra, 6. 6d.; gilt edges, 7s. 6d. 
 
 BEERBOHM. WANDERINGS IN PATAGONIA ; or, Life among the 
 
 Ostrich Hunters. By JULIUS BEERBOHM. With Illusts. Cr. Svo, cl. extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 BENNETT (W. C., LL.D.), WORKS BY. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. each, 
 
 A BALLAD HISTORY OF ENGLAND. | SONGS FOR SAILORS. 
 
 BESANT (WALTER), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Cr. Svo, cl. ex., 3s. 6d. each ; post Svo, illust. bds., 2s. each : cl. limp. 2s. 6d. each. 
 >UUL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN. With Illustrations by FRED. BARNARD 
 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM, &c. With Frontispiece by E J WHEELER 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. With 6 Illustrations by HARRY FURNISS ' 
 DOROTHY FORSTER. With Frontispiece by CHARLES GREEN. 
 UNCLE JACK, and other Stories. I CHILDREN OF GIBEOU 
 
 THE WORLD WENT VERY WELL THEN. With 12 Illustrations by A FORESTIER 
 HERR PAULUS: His Rise, his Greatness, and bis Fall. 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. With Illustrations by A. FORESTIER and F WADDV 
 TO CALL HER MINE, &c. With 9 Illustrations by A. FORESTIER. 
 THE BELL OF ST. PAUL'S. 
 
 THE HOLY ROSE,&c. With Frontispiece by F.BARNARD 
 
 ARMOREL OF LYONESSE: A Romance of To-day. With 12 Illusts bvF BARNART> 
 ST. KATHERINE'S BY THE TOWER. With 12 page Illustrations by C GREEN 
 VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS, &c. | THE IVORY GATE; A NoveL" 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each 
 
 E REBEL QUEEN. | IN DEACON'S ORDERS. [Shortly. 
 
 I^IFTY YEARS AGO. With 144 Plates and Woodcuts. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 LONDON. With 124 Illustrations. Demy Svo, cloth extra 18s. 
 Syi]?. 1 ^* 1 * WHITTINGTON. Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, Irish Linen, 3s. 6d. 
 CASPAR D DE COLIGNY. With a Portrait. Crown Svo, Irish linen, 3s. (id. 
 WALTER BESAMT: A Stud'y. By JOHN UNDERBILL. Cr. 8vo, linen, 6*. [Shortly,
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 BESANT (WALTER) AND JAMES RICE, NOVELS BY. 
 
 Ci. Svo, cl. ex., 3s. 6d. each : post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. each; cl. limp, 2s. ttd. each 
 READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. BY DELIA'S ARBOUR. 
 
 THE CHAPLAIN OF THE FLEET. 
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 WITH HARP AND CROWN. 
 
 THIS SON OF YULCAN. 
 
 HE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 
 THE MONKS OF THELEMA. 
 
 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 THE CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT. &c 
 'TWAS IN TRAFALGAR'S BAY, &c. 
 THE TEN YEARS' TENANT, &c. 
 
 %* There is also a LIBRARY EDITION of the abov& Twelve Volumes, handsomely 
 t set in new typo, on a large crown Svo page, and bound In cloth extra. 6s. each. 
 
 BEWICK (THOMAS) AND HIS PUPILS. By AUSTIN DOBSON. With 
 
 95 Illustrations. Square Svo, cloth extra, Gs, 
 
 BIERCE. IN THE MIDST OF LIFE: Tales of Soldiers and 
 
 By AMBROSE BIERCE. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s.; post Svo, illustrated boards, as. 
 
 BLACKBURN'S (HENRY) ART HANDBOOKS. 
 
 ACADEMY NOTES, separate years, from 187S-1887, 1889-1892. each Is. 
 
 ACADEMY NOTES, 1893. With Illustrations. Is. 
 
 ACADEMY NOTES, 1375-79. Complete in One Vol., with 6oo,Illusts. Cloth Ump, 6*. 
 
 ACADEMY NOTES, 1880-84. Complete in One Vol. with7ooHlusts Cloth limp, fes. 
 
 GROSVENOR NOTES, 1877. 6d. 
 
 GROSVENOR NOTES, separate years, from 1878 to 1890, each Is. 
 
 GROSYENOR NOTES, Vol. I., 1877-82. With 300 Illusts. Demy 8vv doth limp,,s. 
 
 GROSYENOR NOTES, Vol. II. ,1883-87. With 300 Illusts. Demy Svo, cloth limp,. **. 
 
 GROSVENOR NOTES, Vol. III., 1888-90. With 230 Illasts. Demy 8vo. cloth, Ss, d. 
 
 THE NEW GALLERY, 1888-1892. With numeroua Illustrations, each, Is. 
 
 THE NEW GALLERY, 1893. With Illustrations. Is. 
 
 THE NEW GALLERY, Vol. I., 1888-1892. With 230 Illusts. Demy 8vo, clotk, fit*. 
 
 ENGLISH PICTURES AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY. 114 Illustrations. Is. 
 
 OLD WASTERS AT THE NATIONAL GALLEKY. 128 Illustrations, fa* CO. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE TO THE NATIONAL GALLERY. 243, Illusts, oi 3s. 
 
 7IWS, MIRIS SALON, 1893. With Facsimile.Sietches. 3s. 
 
 ME PARIS SOCIETY OF FINE ARTS, 189& With Sketches. 3g> 6A, _ 
 
 BLAXE (WILLIAM) : India-proof Etchings from his Works by WTIXIAM 
 EF.LL SCOTT. With descriptive Text. Folio, half-bound boards, j^s. __ 
 
 jBLIND (MATHILDE). Poems by. Crown Svo, doThTextra,,. 5s. each. 
 4 THE ASCENT OF MAN. 
 
 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. With a Frontispiece by FSRP.MADC* Baow. 
 
 SONGS AND SONNETS. Fcap. Svo.. vellum andgpjbj. _ _^ __ 
 
 BOURNE (H. R. FOX), WQ8KS BY. 
 
 ENGLISH MERCHANTS: K^raoirs in IU-astrat of, th^Progcess^ British Com- 
 
 merce. With numerous lustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, **.!. 
 ENGLISH NEWSPAPEP,3:-The History of Journalism Two ^>^^y 8 ' c ' '*''*' 
 THE OTHER SIDEJl^H;^EM!_^ASHA KEj.IEj'jjXPEPfriUMI. Cr. Svo, ;^ 
 
 BOWERS.-LEAV^ FROM A HUNTING J,OURNAJL By GEOR*S.; 
 
 BOWERS. Oblona folio, half-bound, ais. _ __ ___ __ __ ^__ - 
 
 BY. Post Svo, illusisated boards, 2-saijli. 
 
 -,o,, " D 
 
 -GASTRONOMY AS A 'FINE 
 V". E. AWMO, M., ?sn*Q. tolMmoO.su.
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 BRET HARTE, WORKS BY. 
 
 LIBRARY EDITION In Seven Volume*, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 8s. each. 
 BRET HARTE'S COLLECTED WORKS. Arranged and Revised by the Author. 
 VoU I. COMPLETE POETICAL AND DRAMATIC WORKS. With Steel Portrait. 
 ' Vol. II. LUCK OF ROARING CAMP BOHEMIAN PAPERS AMERICAN LEGENDS. 
 i Vol. III. TALES OF THE ARGONAUTS EASTERN SKETCHES. 
 J Vol IV. GABRIEL CONROY. | Vol. V, STORIES CONDENSED NOVELS, &c. 
 ? Vol. VI. TALES OF THE PACIFIC SLOPE. 
 
 I Vol. VII. TALES or THE PACIFIC SLOPE II. With Portrait by JOHN PETTIE, R.A. 
 i VoLVIII. SALLY Dows, &c. [Shortly^ 
 
 THE SELECT WORKS OP BRET HARTE, in Prose and Poetry With Introductory- 
 Essay by J. M. BELLF.W, Portrait of Author, and 50 Illusts. Cr.Svo, cl. ex.. 7s. ttd. 
 RET HARTE'S POETICAL WORKS. Hand-made paper & buckram. Cr.8vo,4s.ttd. 
 IHB QUEEN OP THE PIRATE ISLE. With 28 original Drawings by KATK 
 GREENAWAY, reproduced in Colours by EDMUND EVANS. Small 410, cloth, 5. 
 
 Crown Bvo, cloth extra, 3s. ttd. each. 
 
 A WAIF OP THE PLAINS. With 60 Illustrations by STANLEY L. WOOD. 
 A WARD OP THE GOLDEN GATE. With 59 Illustrations by STANLEY L, WOOD. 
 A SAPPHO OP GREEN SPRINGS, &c. With Two Illustrations by HUME NISBET. 
 COLONEL STARBOTTLE'S CLIENT, AND SOME OTHER PEOPLB, Witb a 
 
 Frontispiece by FRED. BARNARD. 
 
 BUSY: A Novel. With Frontispiece and Vignette by J. A. CHRISTIE. 
 SALLY DOWS, &o. With 47 Illustrations by W. D. ALMOND, &c. 
 ." A PROTEGEE OP JACK HAMLIN'S. With 26 Illustrations by W. SMALL, &C:. 
 .< Post Bvo, illustrated boards, 4s. each. 
 
 GABRIEL CONROY. I THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP, &c. 
 
 AN HEIRESS OP RED DOG,^;c._ | CAL1FORNIAB STORIES. * 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. ttd. each. 
 
 FLIP. | MARUJA. | A PHYLLIS OP THE SIERRAS. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, picture cover. Is. each. 
 SNOW BOUND AT EAGLE'S. | JEFP BRIGGS'S LOVE STORY. 
 
 BRYDGES UNCLE SAM AT HOME. By HAROLD BRYDGES. Post 
 8vo, illustrated boards, '-3*. ; cloth limp, 2. Cd. 
 
 BUCHANAN'S (ROBERT) WORKS. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, . each. 
 
 SELECTED POEMS OF ROBERT BUCHANAN. With Frontispiece by T. DALZIBL. 
 THE EARTHQUAKE; or, Six Days and a Sabbath. 
 
 1HE CITY OF DREAM: An Epic Poem. With Two Illustrations by P. MACNAB,. 
 THE WANDERING JEW : A Christmas Carol. Second Edition. 
 ' JHB OUTCAST : A Rhyme forlne Time. With'is Illustrations by RUDOLF BLIND, 
 
 PETER MACNAB, and HUME NISSET. Small demy 8vo, cloth extra, Ss. 
 OBERT BUCHANAN'S COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. With Steel-plate Por- 
 trait. Crown gvo, cloth extra, 7s. Gti- 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 1. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD. 
 
 A CHILD OF NATURE. Frontispiece 
 
 GOD AND THE MAN. With u Illus- 
 trations by FRED. BARNARD. 
 
 THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 
 With Frontispiece by A. W. COOPER. 
 
 LOVE ME FOR EVER. Frontispiece. 
 ANK'AN WATER. | FOXGLOYB MAHOR:. 
 THE NEW ABELARD. 
 MATT : A Story of a caravan, fronf. 
 THE MAC'TER OF THE MINE. u '^f 
 THE HEIK OF LINNE. 
 
 WOMAN AND THE jIAN^Crown jvo. cloth extra. 3*. 6d. t Shortly 
 
 BURTON (CAPTAIN).-THE BOOK~OP~fHrs\V i ORDr~By RfclTARD 
 
 F. BURTON. With over 400 Illustrations. Demy 410, cloth ext%: 32 
 
 BURTON (ROBERT). 
 
 THE ANATOMY OP MELANCHOLY: A New Edition, with translations of the 
 
 Classical Extracts. Demy 8vo, cloth extra *g. id. 
 MELANCHOLY ANATOMISED Being an Abridgment, for popular use, ot B-'RTON'S 
 
 ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLV. Post 8vo, cloth limp 2s. d 
 
 (T. HALL), NOVElS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra 3s ^Tlach- 

 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 CARLYLE (THOMAS) ON THE CHOICE OF BOOKS. With Life 
 
 by R. H. SHEPHERD, and Three Illustrations. Post 8vo, cloth extra, la. (id. 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF THOMAS CARLYLE ANDR. W. EMERSON, 1834 to 1872. 
 
 Edited by C. E. NORTON. With Portraits. Two Vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 94*. 
 
 CARLYLE (JANE WELSH), LIFE OF. By Mrs. ALEXANDER IRELAND. 
 
 With Portrait and Facsimile Letter. Small demy 8vo, cloth extra, >. (id. 
 
 CHAPMAN'S (GEORGE) WORKS. Vol. I. contains the Plays complete, 
 
 including the doubtful ones. Vol. II., the Poems and Minor Translations, with an 
 Introductory Essay by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. Vol. III., the Translations 
 of the Iliad and Odyssey. Three Vols., crown 8vo, cloth extra, (is. each. 
 
 CHATTO AND JACKSON. A TREATISE ON WOOD ENGRAVING. 
 
 By W. A. CHATTO and J. JACKSON. With 450 fine Illusts. Large 4to. hf.-bd., 28. 
 
 CHAUCER FOTTCHILDREN : A Golden Key. By Mrs. H. R. HAWEIS. 
 
 With 8 Coloured Plates and 30 Woodcuts. Small 410, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 CHAUCER FOR SCHOOLS. By Mrs. H. R. HAWEIS. Demy 8vo. cloth limp. 2a. 6d. 
 
 CLARE. FOR THE LOVE OF A LASS : A Tale of Tynedale. By 
 
 AUSTIN CLARK. Post 8vo, picture boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, 2s. (id. 
 
 CLIVE (MRS. ARCHER), NOVELS^B Y. Post svo, iiiust. boards as. each. 
 
 PAUL FERROLL. | WHY PAUL FERROLL KILLED HIS WIFE. 
 
 CLODD.-MYTHS AND DREAMS. By EDWARD CLODD, F.R.A.S. 
 
 Second Edition, Revised. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d 
 
 COBBAN (J. MACLAREN), NOVELS BY. 
 
 THE CURE OF SOULS. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 THE RED SULTAN. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3. (id. 
 THE BURDEN OF ISABEL. Three Vols, crown Svo. 
 
 COLEMAN (JOHN), WORKS BY. 
 
 PLAYERS AND PLAYWRIGHTS I HAVE KNOWN. Two Vols., Svo, cloth, 24. 
 CURLY; An Actor's Story. With 21 Illusts. by J. C. DOLLMAN. Cr. Svo, cl., Is. Od. 
 
 COLERIDGE. THE SEVEN SLEEPERS OF EPHESU& By M. E. 
 
 COLERIDGE. Fcap. Svo, cloth, Is. (id. ____ 
 
 COLLINS (CT^ALLSTON).-THE BAR SINISTER. Post 8vo. 2s~ 
 COLLINS (MORTIMER AND FRANCES), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post Svo, illustrated boards, 2. each. 
 FROM MIDNIGHT TO MIDNIGHT. | BLACKSMITH AND SCHOLAR. 
 TRANSMIGRATION. | YOU PLAY ME FALSE. | A VILLAGE COMEDT. 
 
 Post Svo, illu-trated boards. 2s. each. 
 SWEET ANNE PAGE. | FIGHT WITH FORTUNE. | SWEET & TWENTY. | FRANCES. 
 
 COLLINS (WILKIE), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Cr. Svo. cl. ex., 3s. Od. each ; post Svo, illust. bds., 2s. each ; c'. limp, 2s. 6l. each. 
 ANTONINA. With a Frontispiece by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A. 
 BASIL. Illustrated by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A., and J. MAHONEY. 
 HIDE AND SEEK. Illustrated by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A. , and J. MAHONEY. 
 AFTER DARK. Illustrations by A. B. HOUGHTON. | THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 THE DEAD SECRET. With a Frontispiece by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A. 
 QUEEN OF HEARTS. With a Frontispiece by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A. 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. With Illusts. by Sir J. GILBERT, R.A.,and F. A. FRASER. 
 NO NAME. With Illustrations by Sir J. E. MILLAIS, R.A., and A. W. COOPER. 
 MY MISCELLANIES. With a Steel-plate Portrait of WILKIE COLLINS. 
 ARMADALE. With Illustrations by G. H. THOMAS. 
 
 THE MOONSTONE. With Illustrations by G. Du MAURiERand F. A. FRASER. 
 MAN AND WIFE. With Illustrations by WILLIAM SMALL. 
 POOR MISS FINCH. Illustrated by G. Du MAURIER and EDWARD HUGHES. 
 MISS OR MRS.? With Illusts. by S. L. FILDES, R.A., and HENRY WOODS, A.R.A. 
 THE NEW MAGDALEN. Illustrated by G. Du MAURIER and C. S. REINHARDT. 
 THE FROZEN DEEP. Illustrated by G. Du MAURIER and J. MAHONEY. 
 THE LAW AND THE LADY. Illusts. by S. L. FILDES, R.A., and SYDNEY HALL. 
 THE HAUNTED HOTEL. Illustrated by ARTHUR HOPKINS. 
 
 THE FALLEN LEAVES. 
 JEZEBEL'S DAUGHTER. 
 THE BLACK ROBE. 
 
 HEART AND SCIENCE. 
 'I SAY NO." 
 A ROGUE'S LIFE. 
 
 BLIND LOVE. With Preface by WALTER BESANT. and 
 
 THE EVIL GENIUS. 
 LITTLE NOVELS. 
 THE LEGACY OF CAIN. 
 
 Illusts. by A. FORESTIEK. 
 
 COLLINS (JOHN CHURTON, M.A.), BOOKS BY. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS OF TENNYSON. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6. 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT : A Biographical and Critical Study. Crown Svo, cloth extra, Ms
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 COLMAN'S (GEORGE) HUMOROUS WORKS: "Broad Grins," "My 
 
 Nightgown and Slippers," &c. With Life and Frontis. Cr. 8vo. cl. extra. 7a. fid. 
 
 COLQUHOUN.-EVERY INCH A SOLDIER : A Novel. By M. J. 
 
 COLQUHOUN. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 CONVALESCENT COOKERY: A Family Handbook. By CATHERINE 
 
 RYAN. Crown 8vo, Is. ; cloth limp. Is. fid. 
 
 CONWAY (MONCURE D.), WORKS BY. 
 
 DEMONOLOGY AND DEVIL-LORE. 65 Illustrations. Two Vols., 8vo, cloth 28s. 
 A NECKLACE OF STORIES. 25 Illusts. by W. J. HENNESSY. Sq. 8vo, cloth, s. 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON'S RULES OF CIVILITY. Fcap.Svo, Jap, vellum, 2s. fid. 
 
 COOK (DUTTON), NOVELS BY. 
 
 PAUL FOSTER'S DAUGHTER. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 3s. 6d.; post Bvo.illust. boards, 2s. 
 LEO. Post 8vo. illustrated boards. 2s. 
 
 COOPER (EDWARD H.)-GEOFFORY HAMILTON. Cr. 8vo, 3s. 6cf. 
 
 CORNWALL. POPULAR ROMANCES OF THE WEST OF ENG- 
 LAND ; or, The Drolls, Traditions, and Superstitions of Old Cornwall. Collected 
 by ROBERT HUNT, F.R.S. Two Steel-plates by GEO.CRUIKSHANK. Cr.Svo, cl.,7s. Od. 
 
 COTES. -TWO GIRLS ON A BARGE. By V. CECIL COTES. With 
 
 44 Illustrations by F. H. TOWNSENP. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid. 
 
 CRADDOCK.-THE PROPHET OF THE GREAT SMOKY MOUN- 
 
 TAINS. By CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. Post STO, illust. bds., 2s. ; cl. limp, 2s. fid. 
 
 CRELLIN~(H. N.) THE NAZARENES : A Drama. CrowrTjvo, Is. 
 CRIM. ADVENTURES OF A FAIR REBEL. By MATT CRIM. With 
 
 a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 CROKER (B.M.), NOVELS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid, each; post 
 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each ; cloth limp, 2s. fid. each. 
 
 PRETTY MISS NEVILLE. 
 A BIRD OF PASSAGE. 
 A FAMILY LIKENESS. 
 
 DIANA BARRINGTON. 
 PROPER PRIDE. 
 "TO LET." 
 
 CRUIKSHANK'S COMIC ALMANACK. Complete in Two SERIES : 
 The FIRST from 1835 to 1843; the SECOND from 1844 to 1853. A Gathering of 
 the BEST HUMOUR of THACKERAY, HOOD, MAYHEW, ALBERT SMITH, A'BECKETT, 
 ROBERT BROUGH, &c. With numerous Steel Engravings and Woodcuts by CRUIK- 
 SHANK, HIKE, LANDELLS, &c. Two Vols.. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, fa. fid. each 
 THE LIFE OF GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. By BLANCHARD JERROLD. Witk 84 
 Illustrations and a Bibliography. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 CUMMING (C.F. GORDON), WORKS BY. Demy 8vo, cl. ex., Ss. fid. elrt. 
 IN THE HEBRIDES. With Autotype Facsimile and 23 Illustrations. 
 IN THE HIMALAYAS AND ON THE INDIAN PLAINS. With 42 Illustrations 
 TWO HAPPY YEARS IN CEYLON. With 28 Illustrations. 
 VIA CORNWALL Tj) EGYPT. With Photogravure Frontis. DemySvo, cl., Ts. fid. 
 
 CUSSANS.-A HANDBOOK OF HERALDRY; with Instruction!!^ 
 
 Tracing Pedigrees and Deciphering Ancient MSS., &c. By JOHN E. CUSSANS. With 
 408 Woodcuts and 2 Coloured Plates. Fourth edition, revised, crown 8vo, cloth, fi s . 
 
 CYPLES(W.) HEARTS of GOLD. Cr.Svo, cl.,3s.6d.; postjvo,bds.,2sl 
 T)ANIEL. MERRIE ENGLAND IN THE OLDENTlME. By GEORGE 
 
 DANIEL. With Illustrations by ROBERT CRUIKSHANK. Crown 8vo. cloth extra. 3s. fid. 
 DAUDET. THE EVANGELIST; or, Port Salvation. By ALPHONSE 
 DAUDET. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid.; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 DAVIDSON. MR. SADLER'S DAUGHTERS. By HUGH COLEMAN 
 
 DAVIDSON. With a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid. 
 
 DAVIES (DR. N. E.~YORKE-), WORKS BY. cr. 8vo, i s . .; cl., 1 8 . 
 
 ONE THOUSAND MEDICAL MAXIMS AND SURGICAL HINTS. 
 NURSERY HINTS: A Mother's Guide in Health and Disease. 
 FOODS FOR THE FAT: A Treatise on Corpulency, and a Dietary for its Cure. 
 AIDS TO LONG LIFE. CrowFdvo, 2s.; ciotlFlimp, 2s. fid.
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 DA VENANT. HINTS FOR PARENTS ON THE CHOICE OF A PRO- 
 
 FESSION FOR THEIR SONS. By F. DAVENANT, M.A. Post 8vo. la.; cl., la. Od. 
 
 DAVIES' (SIR JOHN) COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS, for the first 
 
 time Collected and Edited, with Memorial-Introduction and Notes, by the Rev. A. B. 
 GROSART, P.P. Two Vols., crown 8yo, cloth boards, 12s. __ 
 
 " 
 
 DAWSON. THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. By 
 
 M.B. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, ?{. Cl. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, '&. _ 
 
 DE GUERIN.-THE JOURNAL OF MAURICE DE GUERIN. Edited 
 
 by G. S. TREBUTIEN. With a Memoir by SAINTE-BEUVE. Translated from the 
 2oth French Edition by JESSIE P. FROTHINGHAM. Fcap, 8vo, half-bound, 2a. Od. 
 
 DE MAISTRE.-A JOURNEY ROUND MY ROOM. By XAVIER DE 
 
 MAISTRE. Translated by HENRY ATTWELL. Post 8vo. cloth limp, 2s. Od. _ 
 
 DE MILLE. A CASTLE IN SPAIN. By JAMES DE MILLE. With a 
 
 Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. S. 6d. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 DERBY (THE). THE BLUE RIBBON OF THE TURF : A Chronicle 
 
 of the RACE FOR THE DERBY, from Diomed to Donovan. With Brief Accounts of 
 THE OAKS. By Louis HENRY CURZON. Crown 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Od. 
 
 DERWENT (LEITH), NOVELS BY. Cr.8vo.cl., Ss.Od. ea. ; post 8vo,bds.,2s.ea. 
 OUR LADY OF TEARS. _ I CIRCE'S LOVERS. _ 
 
 DICKENS (CHARLES), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 SKETCHES BY BOZ. I NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 
 
 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. I OLIVER TWIST. 
 
 THE SPEECHES Of CHARLES DICKENS, 1841-1870. With a New Bibliography. 
 Edited by RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. Os.J 
 
 ABOUT ENGLAND WITH DICKENS. By ALFRED RIMMER. With 57 Illustrations 
 _ by C. A. VANDERHOOF, ALFRED RIMMER, and others. Sq. 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. <id. 
 
 DICTIONARIES. 
 
 A DICTIONARY OP MIRACLES: Imitative, Realistic, and Dogmatic. By the Rev. 
 
 E. C. BREWER, LL.D. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. Od. 
 
 THE READER'S HANDBOOK OF ALLUSIONS, REFERENCES, PLOTS, AND 
 , STORIES. By the Rev. E. C. BREWER, L-L.D. With an ENGLISH BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Fifteenth Thousand. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Vs. Od. 
 
 AUTHORS AND THEIR WORKS, WITH THE DATES. Cr. 8vo, cloth limp, 2. 
 FAMILIAR SHORT SAYINGS OF GREAT MEN. With Historical and Explana- 
 
 tory Notes. By SAMUEL A. BENT, A.M. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 7s. Od. 
 SLANG DICTIONARY : Etymological, Historical, and Anecdotal. Cr. 8vo, cl., Os. Od. 
 WOMEN OF THE DAY: A Biographical Dictionary. By F. HAYS. Cr.8vo,cl., 5s. 
 WORDS, FACTS, AND PHRASES: A Dictionary of Curious, Quaint, and Out-of- 
 _ the-Way Matters. By ELIEZER EDWARDS. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. Oci. 
 
 DIDEROT. THE PARADOX OF ACTING. Translated, with Annota- 
 tions, from Diderot's "Le ParadoxesurleComedien," by WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK. 
 With a Preface by HENRY IRVING. Crown 8vo, parchment, 4s. Od. _ 
 
 DOBSON (AUSTIN), WORKS BY. 
 
 THOMAS BEWICK & HIS PUPILS. With 95 Illustrations. Square 8vo, cloth. O. 
 ^*~FOUR FRENCHWOMEN. With 4 Portraits. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, Os. 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY VIGNETTES. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, Os. A 
 SECOND SERIES, uniform in size and price, is now in preparation. _ 
 
 DOBSON (W. T.)-POETICAL INGENUITIES AND ECCENTRICI- 
 
 T I E S. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Od. _ 
 
 DONOVAN (DICK), DETECTIVE STORIES BY. 
 
 Post Hvo. illustrated boards, 2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. fld. each. 
 
 THE MAN-HUNTER. | WANTED J 
 
 CAUGHT AT LAST! 
 
 TRACKED AND TAKEN. 
 
 WHO POISONED HETTY DUNCAN? 
 
 A DETECTIVE'S TRIUMPHS. 
 IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW. 
 FROM INFORMATION RECEIVED. 
 LINK BY LINK. 
 
 SUSPICION AROUSED. 
 Crown 8vo, clotb, 3s. Od. each ; post 8vo, boards, 2s. each ; cloth, 2s. Od. each. 
 THE MAN FROM MANCHESTER. With 23 Illustrations. 
 TRACKED TO DOOM. With 6 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 
 
 DOYLE (CONAN). THE FIRM OF GIRDLESTONE. J3y A. CONAN 
 DOYLE, Author of " Mican Clarke." Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3*. Oil-
 
 8 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 DRAMATISTS, THE OLD. With Vignette Portraits. Cr.8vo.cl. ex., 6s. per VoL 
 
 BEN JONSON'S WORKS. With Notes Critical and Explanatory, and a Bio- 
 graphical Memoir by WM. GIFFORD. Edited by Col. CUNNINGHAM. Three Vols. 
 
 CHAPMAN'S WORKS. Complete in Three Vols. Vol. I. contains the Plays 
 complete; Vol. II., Poems and Minor Translations, with an Introductory Essay 
 by A. C. SWINBURNE ; Vol. III., Translations of the Iliad and Odyssey. 
 
 MARLOWE'S WORKS. Edited, with Notes, by Col. CUNNINGHAM. One Vol. 
 
 MASSINGER'S PLAYS. From GIFFORD'S Text. Edit by COI.CUNNTNGHAM. OneVoI. 
 
 DUNCAN (SARA JEANNETTE), WORKS BY. cr. 8vo. ci., r. d. each. 
 
 A SOCIAL DEPARTURE: How Orthodocia and I Went round the World by Our- 
 
 selves. With in Illustrations by F. H. TOWNSEND. 
 
 AN AMERICAN GIRL IN LONDON. With 80 Illustrations by F. H. TOWNSEND. 
 THE SIMPLE ADVENTURES OJ[ A MEMSAHIB. Illustrated by F. H. TOWNSEND. 
 A DAUGHTER OP TO-DAY. Two Vols.. crown 8vo. 
 
 DYER. THE FOLK-LORE OF PLANTS. By Rev. T. F. THISELTON 
 
 DYER, M.A. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 "PARLY ENGLISH POETS. Edited, with Introductions and Annota- 
 
 tions, by Rev. A. B.GROSART, D.D. Crown 8vo, cloth boards, 6s. per Volume. 
 FLETCHER'S (GILES) COMPLETE POEMS. One Vol. 
 DAVIES' (SIR JOHN) COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Two Vols. 
 HERRICK'S (ROBERT) COMPLETE COLLECTED POEMS. Three Vols. 
 SIDNEY'S (SIR PHILIP) COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Three Vols. 
 
 EDGCUMBE. ZEPHYRUS : A Holiday in Brazil and on the River Plate. 
 By E. R. PEARCE EDGCUMBE. With 41 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 EDWARDES (MRS. ANNIE), NOVELS BY: 
 
 A POINT OF HONOUR. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 ARCHIE LOYELL. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 38. 6d. ; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. 
 
 EDWARDS (ELIEZER).-WORDS, FACTS, AND PHRASES: A 
 
 Dictionary of Curious, Quaint, and Out-oi-the-Way Matters. By ELIEZEK EDWARDS. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 EDWARDS (M. BETHAM-), NOVELS BY. 
 
 KITTY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 FELICIA. Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 EGERTON.-Sy SSEX FOLK & SUSSEX WAYS. By Rev. J . C. EGERTON^ 
 
 With Introduction by Rev. Dr. H. WAGE, and 4 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 5s. 
 
 EGGLESTON TEDWARD).-ROXY ; A Novel. p os t SVQ. must. bd^2s. 
 
 ENGLISHMAN'S HOUSE, THE: A Practical Guide to all interested in 
 
 Selecting or Building a House ; with Estimates of Cost, Quantities, &c. By C. T. 
 RICHARDSON. With Coloured Frontispiece and 600 Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s. Od. 
 
 EWALD (ALEX. CHARLES, F.S.A.), WORKS BY. 
 
 THE LIFE AND TIMES OF PRINCE CHARLES STUART, Count of Albany 
 
 (THE YOUNG PRETENDER). With a Portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 STORIES FROM THE STATE PAPERS. With an Autotype. Crown 8vo, cloth. 6s. 
 EYES, OUR : How to Preserve Them from Infancy to Old Age. By 
 JOHN BROWNING, F.R. A. S. With 70 Illusts. Eighteenth Thousand. Crown 8vo, Is. 
 
 FAMILIAR SHORT SAYINGS OF GREAT MEN. By SAMUEL ARTHUR 
 
 BENT. A.M. Fifth Edition, Revised and Enlarged. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 FARADAY (MICHAEL), WORKS BY. Post 8vo, cloth extra, 4s. Cd. each. 
 
 THE CHEMICAL HISTORY OF A CANDLE: Lectures delivered before a Juvenile 
 Audience. Edited by WILLIAM CROOKES. F.C.S. With numerous Illustrations. 
 
 ON THE VARIOUS FORCES OF NATURE, AND THEIR RELATIONS TO 
 EACH OTHER. Edited by W ILLIAM CROOKES, F.C.S. With Illustrations. 
 
 FARRER (J. ANSON), WORKS BYT~ 
 
 MILITARY MANNERS AND CUSTOMS. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 WAR : Three Essays, reprinted from " Military Manners." Cr. 8vo, 1. ; el.. Is. fid. 
 
 FINN "(GTMANviLLE), NOVELS BYT~ 
 
 THE NEW MISTRESS. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3. 6d.; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. 
 WITNESS TO THE DEED. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Ss. Od. 
 THE TIGER LILY : A Tale of Two Passions. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. [Shortly. 
 THB WHITE VIRGIN. Two Vols. [Shortly.
 
 CHATTO 8t WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 9 
 
 FIN-BEC. THE CUPBOARD PAPERS : Observations on the Art of 
 
 Living and Dining. By FIN-BEC. Post 8vo. cloth limp, 2s. fid. 
 
 FIREWORKS, THE COMPLETE ART OF MAKING ; or, The Pyro- 
 
 technist's Treasury. By THOMAS KENTISH. With 267 Illustration?. Cr. 8vo, cl., S. 
 
 FITZGERALD (PERCY, M.A., F.S.A.), WORKS~BY7~ 
 
 THE WORLD BEHIND THE SCENES. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. <><!. 
 LITTLE ESSAYS: Passages from Letters of CHARLES LAMB. Post 8vo, cl., 2s. 6d. 
 A DAY'S TOUR: Journey through France and Belgium. With Sketches. Cr.4to, Is. 
 FATAL ZERO. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 61. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 BELLA DONNA. I LADY OP BRANTOME. 
 POLLY. | NEVER FORGOTTEN. 
 
 THE SECOND MRS. TILLOTSON. 
 SEVENTY-FIVE BROOKE STREET. 
 
 LIFE OF JAMES BOSWELL (of Auchinleck). With an Account of his Sayings, 
 
 Doings, and Writings; and Four Portraits. Two Vols., demy 8vo, cloth, 24s. 
 THE SAVOY OPERA. Illustrations and Portraits. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 3s. Ol. [Shortly. 
 
 FLA7MMARION (CAMILLE), WORKS BY. 
 
 POPULAR ASTRONOMY: A General Description of the Heavens. By CAMILLE 
 FLAMMARION. Translated by J. ELI.ARD GORE, F.R.A.S. With nearly 300 Illus- 
 trations. Medium 8vo, cloth extra, 16s. [Preparing. 
 
 URANIA : A Romance. Translated by A. R. STETSON. With 87 Illustrations 
 by DE BIELER, MYRBACH, &c. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 FLETCHER'S (GILES, B.D.) COMPLETE~POEMS : Christ's Victorie 
 
 in Heaven, Christ's Victorie on Earth, Christ's Triumph over Death, and Minor 
 Poems. With Notes by Rev. A. B. GROSART, D.D. Crown 8vo, cloth boards, Os. 
 
 FONBLANQUE (ALBANY). FILTHY LUCRE. PostSvo, illust. bds., 2s. 
 FRANCILLON (R. E.), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. 6d. each : post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 ONE BY ONE. | QUEEN COPHETUA. | A REAL QUEEN. | KING OR KNAYE? 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. Illustrated. | A DOG AND HIS SHADOW. 
 OLYMPIA. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. | ESTHER'S GLOVE. Fcap. 8vo, pict. cover, Is. 
 ROMANCES OF THE LAW. Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s. 
 JACK DOYLE'S DAUGHTER. Three Vo!s.. crown 8vo. _____ 
 
 FREDERIC (HAROLD), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. each. 
 
 SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE. | THE LAWTON GIRL. 
 
 FRENCH LITERATURE, A HISTORY OF. By HENRY VAN LAUN. 
 
 Three Vols.. demy 8vo, cloth boards, Ts. fid, each. 
 
 FRERE. PANDURANG HARI ; or, Memoirs of a Hindoo. With Pre- 
 face by Sir BARTLE FRERE. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3a. 6d.-; post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. 
 
 FRISWElL(HA!N). ONETOF TWO : A Novel. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s. 
 
 FROST (THOMAS), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. d. each. 
 CIRCUS LIFE AND CIRCUS CELEBRITIES. I LIVES OF THE CONJURERS. 
 THE OLD SHOWMEN AND THE OLD LONDON FAIRS. 
 
 FRY'S (HERBERT) ROYAL GUIDE TO THE LONDON CHARITIES. 
 
 Showing their Name, Date of Foundation, Objects, Income, Officials, &c. Edited 
 by JOHN LANE. Published Annually. Crown 8vo, cloth, lw. 6d. 
 
 GARDENING BOOKS. Post 8vo. Is. each ; cloth limp, Js. 6d. each. 
 
 u A YEAR'S WORK IN GARDEN AND GREENHOUSE. By GEORGE GLENNV. 
 
 HOUSEHOLD HORTICULTURE. By TOM and FANE JERROLD. Illustrated. 
 
 THE GARDEN THAT PAID THE RENT. By TOM JERROLD. 
 
 OUR KITCHEN GARDEN. By TOM JERROLD. Crown 8vo, cloth, Is. Od. 
 
 MY GARDEN WILD. By FRANCIS G. HEATH. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 6a. 
 
 GARRETT. THE CAPEL GIRLS: A Novel. By EDWARD GARRBTT. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3*. 6d.; post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2. 
 
 GAUtOT. THE RED SHIRTS : A Story of the Revolution. By PAUL 
 GAULOT. Translated by J. A. J. DE VILLIERS. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3. <td. [Shortly. 
 
 GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, THE* Is. Monthly. In addition to 
 
 Articles upon subjects in Literature. .Science, and Art, "TABLE TALK" by SVL- 
 VANUS URBAN, and" PAGES ON PLAYS" by JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY, appear monthly. 
 *." Ununti Volumes for recent years kept in stock, Sa. ftd. each. Cases for binding, 2n. 
 
 GENTLEllO'S'ANNUATrTHE. Published Annually in November, w.
 
 io BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 GERMAN POPULAR STORIES. Collected by the Brothers GRIMM 
 and Translated by EDGAR TAYLOR. With Introduction by JOHN RUSKIN, and 22 Steel 
 Plates after GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. Square 8vo, cloth, feg. Od.; gilt edges, 7*. Od. 
 
 GIBBON (CHARLES), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo cloth extra, 3s. Od. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2. each. 
 ROBIN GRAY. | LOVING A DREAM. I THE GOLDEN SHAFT. 
 THE FLOWER OF THE FOREST. | OF_HIGH DEGREE. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 THE DEAD HEART. 
 
 FOR LACK OF GOLD. 
 
 WHAT WILL THE WORLD SAY? 
 
 FOR THE KING. | A HARD KNOT. 
 
 IN LOVE AND WAR. 
 A HEART'S PROBLEM. 
 BY MEAD AND STREAM. 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 QUEEN OF THE MEADOW. I FANCY FREE. | IN HONOUR BOUND. 
 
 IN PASTURES GREEN. I HEART'S DELIGHT. | BLOOD-MONEY. 
 
 GIBNEY (SOMERVILLE). -SENTENCED I Cr. 8vo, Is. ; cl., Is. 6d. 
 
 GILBERT (WILLIAM), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2*. each. 
 DR. AUSTIN'S GUESTS. I JAMES DUKE, COSTERMONGER. 
 THE WIZARD OJMTHE MOUNTAIN. | 
 
 GILBERT (W. S.), "ORIGINAL PLAYS BY. Two Series, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 The FIRST SERIES contains: The Wicked World Pygmalion and Galatea 
 Charity The Princess The Palace of Truth Trial by Jury. 
 
 The SECOND SERIES : Broken Hearts Engaged Sweethearts Gretchen Dan'l 
 Druce Tom Cobb H.M.S. " Pinafore "The Sorcerer Pirates of Penzance. 
 
 EIGHT ORIGINAL COMIC OPERAS written by W. S. GILBERT. Containing: 
 The Sorcerer H.M.S. "Pinafore" Pirates of Penzance lolanthe Patience- 
 Princess Ida The Mikado Trial by Jury. Demy 8vo, cloth limp, "is. Od. 
 
 THE "GILBERT AND SULLIVAN" BIRTHDAY BOOK: Quotations for Every 
 Day in the Year, Selected from Plays by W. S. GILBERT set to Music by Sir A. 
 SULLIVAN. Compiled by ALEX. WATSON. Royal i6mo, Jap, leather, 2a. Cd. 
 
 GLANVILLE (ERNEST), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6l. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 THE LOST HEIRESS: A Tale of Love, Battle, and Adventure. With 2 Illusts. 
 THE FOSSICKER: A Romance of Mashonaland. _ With 2 Illusts. by HUME NISBET. 
 A FAIR COLONIST. With a Frontispiece. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3. 6d. __ 
 
 GLENNY.-A YEAR'S WORK IN GARDEN AND GREENHOUSE: 
 
 Practical Advice to Amateur Gardeners as to the Management of the Flower, Fruit, 
 and Frame Garden. By GEORGE GLENNY. Post 8vo. Is. ; cloth limp, Is. Od. 
 
 GODWIN.-LIVES OF THE NECROMANCERS. By WILLIAM GOD- 
 
 WIN. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. ___ 
 
 GOLDEN TREASURY OF THOUGHT7 THE : An Encyclopedia of 
 
 QUOTATIONS. Edited by THEODORE TAYLOR. Crown 8vo. cloth gilt, 7s. Od. 
 
 GOODTffAN.-THE FATE OF HERBERT WAYNE. By E. J. 
 
 MAN, Author of "Too Curious." Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. Oil. 
 
 GDWING.-FIVE THOUSAND MILES IN A SLEDGE : A Midwinter 
 
 Journey Across Siberia. By LIONEL F. COWING. With 30 Illustrations by C. J. 
 UKEN, and a Map by E. WELLEK. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra. SB. _ 
 
 GRAHAM. THE PROFESSOR'S WIFE: A Stor^ By LEONARD 
 GRAHAM. Fcap. 8vo, picture cover, la. 
 
 GREEKS AND ROMANS, THE LIFE OF THE, described from 
 
 Antique Monuments. By ERNST GUHL and W. KONER. Edited by Dr. F. HUEFFER. 
 With 545 Illustrations. Large crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. Od. 
 
 GREENWOOD^ JAMES)TWORKS BY. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od. each. 
 THE WJ[JLJDSJ3F_WNJ)ON. _ | LOW-LIFE DEEPS. _ 
 
 GREVILLE (HENRY), NOVELS BY: 
 
 NIKANOR. Translated by ELIZA E. CHASE. With 8 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, 
 
 cloth extra, OM. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, '-is. 
 _ A NOBLE_WOMAN^ Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 GRIFFITH. CORrNTHIA~MAffAZION : A Novel. By CECIL GRIF- 
 
 FITH. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 GRUNDY.-THE DAYS OF HIS VANITY : A Passage in the Life of 
 a Young Man. By SYDNEY GRUNDY. Crown 8vo, cloth eitra, 3. Od.
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 tlABBERTON (JOHN, Author of " Helen's Babies"), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards 2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. ><!. each. 
 BRUETON'S BAYOU. I COUNTRY LUCK. 
 
 HAIR, THE : Its Treatment in Health, Weakness, and Disease. Trans- 
 lated from the German of Dr. J. PINCUS. Crown Svo, Is. ; cloth, Is. 6<l. 
 
 HAKE (DR. THOMAS GORDON), POEMS BY. Cr. 8vo, ci. ex., 6s. each. 
 
 NEW SYMBOLS. | LEGENDS OF THE MORROW. | THE SERPENT PLAY. 
 MAIDEN ECSTASY. Small 410. cloth extra. 8s. 
 
 HALL.-SKETCHES OF IRISH CHARACTER. By Mrs. S. C. HALL. 
 
 With numerous Illustrations on Steel and Wood by MACLISE, GILBERT, HARVEY, and 
 GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. Medium 8ro, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 HALLIDAYTANDR.). E VERY-DAY PAPERS. Post Svo, bds., 2s. 
 
 HANDWRITING, THE PHILOSOPHY OF. Wuh over 100 Facsimiles 
 and Explanatory Text. By DON FELIX DE SALAMANCA. Post Svo. cloth limp. 2s. 6<i. 
 
 HANKY-PANKY : "Easy Tricks, White Magic, Sleight of Hand, &c. 
 Edited by W. H. CRSMER. With 200 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth extra. 4*. C<l. 
 
 HARDY (LADY DUFFUS). - PAUL WYNTER'S SACRIFICE. 2sT 
 HARDY (THOMAS). UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. By 
 
 THOMAS HARDY, Author of'Tess." With Portrait and 15 Illustrations. Crown Svo, 
 cloth extra. 3s. 6d. ; post Svo. illustrated boards. '2*. ; cloth limp, 2s. fid. 
 
 HARPER (CHARLES G.), WORKS BY. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, 16s. each. 
 THE BRIGHTON ROAD. With Photogravure Frontispiece and 90 Illustrations. 
 FROM PADDINGTON TO PENZANCE: The Record of a Summer Tramp. 105 Illusts. 
 
 HARWOOD. THE TENTH EARL. By J. BERWICK HARWOOD. Post 
 
 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 HAWEIS (MRS. H. R.), WORKS BY. Square 8vo, clotirextra, 6s. each. 
 THE ART OF BEAUTY. With Coloured Frontispiece and 91 Illustrations, 
 THE ART OF DECORATION. With Coloured Frontispiece and 74 Illustrations. 
 THE ART OF DRESS. With 32 Illustrations. Post Svo, Is. ; cloth, Is. Oil. 
 CHAUCER FOR SCHOOLS. Demy Svo, cloth limp, 2s. I. 
 CHAUCER FOR CHILDREN. 38 Illusts. (8 Coloured). Sm. 4to, el. extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 HAWEIS (Rev. H. R.,M. A.). -AMERICAN HUMORISTS: WASHINGTON 
 
 IRVING, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, ARTEMUS WARD, 
 MARK TWAIN, and BRET HARTE. Third Edition. Crown Svo. cloth extra. 6s. 
 
 HAWLEY SMART. WITHOUT" LOVE OR LICENCE: A Novel. By 
 
 HAWLEY SMART. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3a. 6d. ; post Svo, illustrated boards. 2. 
 
 HAWTHORNE. OUR OLD HOME. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE; 
 Annotated with Passages from the Author's Note-book, and Illustrated with 31 
 Photogravures. Two Vols., crown Svo. buckram, gilt top, 15s. 
 
 HAWTHORNE (JULIAN), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3*. 6d. each; post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 GARTH. | ELLICE QUENTIN. 
 
 SEBASTIAN STROME. 
 FORTUNE'S FOOL. 
 
 BEATRIX RANDOLPH. DUST. 
 
 DAVID POINDEXTER. 
 
 THE SPECTRE OF THE CAMERA. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2a. each. 
 
 MISS CADOGNA. | LOVE OR A NAME. 
 
 MRS. GAINSBOROUGH'S DIAMONDS. Fcap. Svo. illustrated cover, Is. 
 
 HEATH. MY GARDEN WILD, AND WHAT I GREW THERE. 
 
 By FRANCIS GBORGE HEATH. Crown Svo, cloth extra, gilt edges. Oa. 
 
 HELPS (SIR ARTHUR), WORKS BY. Post 8vo. doth limp, 2.Od. each. 
 
 ANIMALS AND THEIR MASTERS, j SOCIAL PRESSURE. 
 
 IVAN DE BIRON : A Novel. Cr. Svo, el. extra, 3*. 6d. ; post Svo, illust. bds., 2. 
 
 HENDERSON. AGATHA PAGE : A Novel. By ISAAC HENDERSON. 
 
 Crown Svo. cloth gxtra, 3a. 6d. 
 
 HENTY (G. A.), 'NOVELS BY. 
 
 RUJUB THE JUGGLER. 8 Illusts. by STANLEY L WOOD. Cr. 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s. 
 DOROTHY'S DOUBLE. Three Vols., crown Svo. 
 
 HERMAN.-A LEADING LADY. " By HENRY HERMAN, joint-Author 
 ot " The Bishops' Bible." Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth extra, 2a. Od.
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 HERRICK'S (ROBERp JJESPERIDES, NOBLE NUMBERS, AND 
 
 Rev. A. B. GROSART 
 
 COMPLETE COLLECTED POEMS. With Memorial-Introduction and Notes by tha 
 , P.P. : Steel Portrait, &c. Three Vols.. crown 8vo, cl. bds., ISs. 
 
 HERTZKA. FREELAND : A Social Anticipation. By Dr. THEODOR 
 HERTZKA. Translated by ARTHUR RANSOM. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Ca. 
 
 HEISSE-WARTEGG. TUNIS : The Land and the People. By Chevalier 
 ERNST VON HESSE-WARTEGG. With 22 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 HILL (HEADON). ZAMBRA THE DETECTIVE. By HEADON HILL. 
 
 Post Svo. illustrated boards, 2a. ; cloth, 2s. fid. 
 
 HILL (JOHN, M.A.), WORKS BY. 
 
 TREASON-FELONY. Post 8vo,2. | THE COMMON ANCESTOR. Three Vols. 
 
 HINDLEY (CHARLES), WORKS BY. 
 
 TAVERN ANECDOTES AND SAYINGS: Including Reminiscences connected with 
 
 Coffee Houses, Clubs, &c. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. fid. 
 THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF A CHEAP JACK. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 3s. fid . 
 
 50EY. THE LOVER'S CREED. By Mrs. CASHEL HOEY. Post 8vo. 2s. 
 HOLLINGSHEAD (JOHN). NIAGARA SPRAY. Crown 8vo, Is. 
 
 HOLMES.-THE SCIENCE OF VOICE PRODUCTION AND VOICE 
 
 PRESERVATION. By GORDON HOLMES, M.D. Crown 8vo, Is. ; cloth, Is. fid. 
 
 ^~ 
 
 BY. 
 
 THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. Illustrated by J. GORDON 
 THOMSON. Post 8vo, cloth limp 'i*. fid. Another Edition, post 8vo, clofh, 2s. 
 THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE and THE PROFESSOR AT THE 
 BREAKFAST-TABLE. In One Vol. Post 8vo, half-bound, gs. _ 
 
 HOOIVS (THOMAS) CHOICE WORKS, in Prose and Verse. With Life 
 
 of the Author, Portrait, and 200 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. fid. 
 HOOD'S WHIMS AND ODDITIES. With 85 Illusts. Post 8vo, half-bound , 2s. 
 
 HOOD (TOM). FROM NOWHERE TO THE NORTH POLlT~A 
 
 Noah's Arkasological Narrative. By TOM HOOD. With 25 Illustrations by W. BRUNTON 
 and E. C. BARNES. Square 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 6s. 
 
 HOOK'S (THEODORE) CHOICE HUMOROUS WORKS; including his 
 
 Ludicrous Adventures, Bons Mots, Puns, and Hoaxes. With Life of the Author, 
 Portraits, Facsimiles, and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7*. fid. _ 
 
 HOOPER. THE HOUSE OF RABY : A Novel. By Mrs. GEORGE 
 HOOPER. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. _ [ 
 
 HOPKINS. " 'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY:" A Novel. By TIGHE 
 
 HOPKINS. Post 8vo. illustrated boards. 2s. ____ 
 
 HORNE. ORION: An Epic Poem. By RICHARD HENGIST HORNE. 
 With Photographic Portrait by SUMMERS. Tenth Edition. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 
 
 HUNGERFORD (MRS.), Author of "Molly Bawn," NOVELS BY. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each ; cloth limp, 2s. fid. each. 
 A MAIDEN ALL FORLORN. I IN DURANCE VILE. | A MENTAL STRUGGLE. 
 MARVEL. | A MODERN CIRCE. 
 
 LADY VERNER'S FLIGHT. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid. 
 THE RED-HOUSE MYSTERY. Two Vols., crown 8vo. _ 
 
 HUNT. -ESSAYS BY LEIGH HUNT : A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER, 
 
 &c. Edited by EDMUND OLLIER. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and half-bd., 2a. 
 
 HUNT (MRS. ALFRED), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3*. fid. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards. 2s. each. 
 THE LEADEN CASKET. | SELF-CONDEMNED. | THAT OTHER PERSON. 
 THORNICROFT'S MODEL. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 MRS. JULIET. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 3s. fid. _ 
 
 HUTCHISON. HINTS ON COLT-BREAKING. By W. M. HUTCHISON. 
 
 With 25 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. fid. _ 
 
 HYDROPHOBIA : An Account of M. PASTEUR'S System ; Technique of 
 
 his Method, and Statistics. By RENAUD SUZOR, M.B. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, . 
 
 IDLER (THE) : A Monthly Magazine. Edited by JEROME K. JEROME 
 and ROBERT E. BARR. Profusely Illustrated. Sixpence Monthly. The first FOUR 
 VOLUMES are now ready, cloth extra, 5n. each ; Cases for Binding, 1*. fid.
 
 CHATTO it WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 13 
 
 INGELOW (JEAN). FATED TO BE FREE. p os t 8vo. illustrated bds., 2. 
 INDOOR PAUPERS. By ONE OF THF.M. Crown 8vo. Is.; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 INNKEEPER'S HANDBOOK (THE) AND LICENSWVICWATl7LER r S 
 
 MANUAL. By J. TREVOR-DAVIES. Crown 8vo, Is. ; cloth, Is. Od. 
 
 IRISH WIT AND HUMOUR, SONGS OF. Collected and Edited by 
 
 A. PERCEVAL GRAVES. Post 8vo. cloth limp. 2s. Cd. 
 
 JAMES. -A ROMANClTbF THE QUEEN'S HOUNDS. By CHARLES 
 
 JAMES. Post 8vo, picture cover, Is. ; cloth limp, Is. Gil. 
 
 JAMESON. MY DEAD SELF. By WILLIAM JAMESON. Post 8vo, 
 
 illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth, 2s. Od. 
 
 JANVIER. -PRACTICAL KERAMICS FOR STUDENTS. By CATHERINE 
 
 A. JANVIER. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Os. 
 
 JAPP. DRAMATIC PICTURES7SONNETS, &e. ByA.H.jApp, LL.D. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 JAY (HARRlETT)TlNOVELS BY. Po*i 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. eachT" 
 THE DARK COLLEEN. | THE QUKEN OF CONNAUGHT. 
 
 JEFFERIES (RICHARD), WORKS BY. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Od. each. 
 
 NATURE NEAR LONDON. | THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS, j THE OPEN AIR. 
 
 %* Also th HAND-MADE PAPER EDITION, crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, Os. each. 
 
 THE EULOGY OF RICHARD JEFFERIES. By WALTER BESANT. Second Edi- 
 tion With a Photograph Portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 JENNINGS (H. J.), WORKS BY. 
 
 CURIOSITIES OF CRITICISM. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Od. 
 
 LORD TENNYSON: A Biographical Sketch. With a Photograph, Cr. 8vo, cl., O. 
 
 JEROME. STAGELAND. By JEROME K. JEROME. With 64 Illustra- 
 tions by ]. BERNARD PARTRIDGE. Square 8vo, picture cover, Is. ; cloth limp, 2. 
 
 JERROLD.-THE MRBErslTHAlR]~&THE"HEDGEHOG LETTERST 
 
 By DOUGLAS JERROLD. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and halt-bound. 2*. 
 
 JERROLD (TOM), WORKS BY. Post 8 vo, Is. each; cloth limp, Js. Od. each. 
 THE GARDEN THAT PAID THE RENT. 
 
 HOUSEHOLD HORTICULTURE; A Gossip about Flowers. Illustrated. 
 OUR KITCHEN GARDEN: the Plants, and How we Cook Them. Cr. 8vo.c1.,ls.6d. 
 
 JESSE.-SCENES AND OCCUPATIONS OF~A COUNTRY LIFE. By 
 
 EDWARD JESSE. Post 8vo, clotn limp, 2s. 
 
 JONES (WILLIAM, F.S.A.), WOltKS BY. Cr.Svo, cl. extra, 7s. Od. each. 
 FINGER-RING LORE: Historical, Legendary, and Anecdotal. With nearly 300 
 
 Illustrations. Second Edition, Revised and Enlarged. 
 CREDULITIES, PAST AND PRESENT. Including the Sea and Seamen, Miners, 
 
 Talismans, Word and Letter Divination, Exorcising and Blessing of Animals, 
 
 Birds, Eggs, Luck, &c. With an Etched Frontispiece. 
 CROWNS AND CORONATIONS; A History of Regalia. With 100 Illustrations. 
 
 JOHSON'S (BEN) WORKS. With Notes Critical and Explanatory, 
 and a Biographical Memoir by WILLIAM GIFFORD. Edited by Colonel CUNNING- 
 HAM. Three Vols., crown 8vo, cloth extra, Os. each. 
 
 JOSEPHUS, THE COMPLETE WORKS OF. Translated by WHISTON. 
 Containing "The Antiquities of the Jews" and "The Wars 01 the Tews." With 51 
 Illustrations and Maps. Two Vols.. demy 8vo, half-bound, 12s. Od. 
 
 iTEMPT. PENCIL AND PALETTE : Chapters on Art and Artists. By 
 ROBERT KEMPT. Post 8vo. cloth limp, 2. Od. 
 
 KERSHAW. COLONIAL FACTS AND FICTIONS: Humorous 
 
 Sketches. By MARK KERSHAW. Post 8vo, illustrated boards. 2s. ; cloth, 2s. Od. 
 
 KEYSER. CUT BY THE MESS: A Novel. By ARTHUR KKVSEK. 
 
 Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is. ; cloth limp, In. Od. 
 
 KING (R. ASHE)7NOVELS BY. Cr. 8vo, cl., 3. Od. ea. ; post 8vo, bds., 2s. ea. 
 A DRAWN GAME. | "THE WEARING OF THE GREEN." 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards. 2. each. 
 PASSION'S SLAVE. I BELL BARRY.
 
 I 4 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 KNIGHT. THE PATIENT'S VADE MECUM : How to Get Most 
 
 Benefit from Medical Advice. By WILLIAM KNIGHT, M.R.C.S., and EDWARD 
 KNIGHT, L.R.C.P. Crown 8vo, Is. ; cloth Iknp, Is. (id. 
 
 KNIGHTSl(THE) OF THE LION : A Romance of the Thirteenth Century. 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by the MARQUESS of LORNE, K.T. Cr. 8vo. cl. ex. (is 
 
 T AMB'S (CHARLES) COMPLETE WORKS, in Prose and Verse, 
 including " Poetry for Children" and " Prince Dorus." Edited, with Notes and 
 Introduction, by R. H. SHEPHERD. With Two Portraits and Facsimile of a page. 
 of the "Essay on Roast Pig.' 1 Crown 8vo, half-bound, Vs. 6d. 
 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and half-bound, 2s. 
 LITTLE ESSAYS: Sketches and Characters by CHARLES LAMB, selected from his 
 
 Letters by PERCY FITZGERALD. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. (id. 
 THE DRAMATIC ESSAYS OF CHARLES LAMB. With Introduction and Notes 
 by BRANDER MATTHEWS, and Steel-plate Portrait. Fcap. 8vo, hf.-bd., 'in. 6d.. 
 
 LANDOR.-CITATIQN AND EXAMINATION OF WILLIAM SHAKS^ 
 
 PEARE, &c.. before Sir THOMAS LUCY, touching Deer-stealing, iqth September, 1582. 
 To which is added, A CONFERENCE OF MASTER EDMUND SPENSER with the 
 Earl of Essex, touching the State of Ireland, 1595. By WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 Fcap. 8vo, half-Roxburghe, 2. 6d. 
 
 LANE. THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS, commonly called in 
 England THE ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS. Translated from the 
 Arabic, with Notes, by EDWARD WILLIAM LANE. Illustrated by many hundred 
 Engravings from Designs by HARVEY. Edited by EDWARD STANLEY POOLE. With a 
 Preface by STANLEY LANE-POOLE. Three Vols., demy 8vo, cloth extra. Vs. fid, each. 
 
 LARWOOD (JACOB), WORKS BY. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE LONDON PARKS. With Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. 6dV 
 ANECDOTES OF THE CLERGY. Post 8vo, laid paper, half-bound, 2. 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. <5d. each. 
 FORENSIC ANECDOTES. | THEATRICAL ANECDOTES. 
 
 LEHMANN. HARRY FLUDYER AT CAMBRIDGE. By R. C. LEH- 
 
 MANN. Post 8vo, Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 LEIGH (HENRY S.), WORKS BY. 
 
 CAROLS OF COCKAYNE. Printed on hand-made paper, bound in buckram, 5s. 
 JEUX D'ESPRIT. Edited by HENRY S. LEIGH. Post 8vo. cloth limp, 2s. (id. 
 
 LEYS (JOHN). THE LINDSAYS : A Romance. Post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s> 
 
 LINTON (E. LYNN), WORKS BY. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 WITCH STORIES. I OURSELVES: ESSAYS ON WOMEN. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. <><!. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 PATRICIA KEMBALL. | IONE. 
 ATONEMENT OF LEAM DUNDAS. 
 THE WORLD WELL LOST. 
 
 UNDER WHICH LORD? 
 
 "MY LOVE!" | SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 PASTON CAREW, Millionaire & Miser. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, Its. each. 
 
 THE REBEL OF THE FAMILY. I WITH A SILKEN THREAD. 
 THE ONE TOO MANY. Three Vols., crown 8vo. 
 
 FREESHOOTING : Extracts from Works of Mrs. L. LINTON. Post 8vo, cl., 2s. 6d. 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S POETICAL WORKS. With numerous Illustrations 
 
 on Steel and Wood. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 LUCY. GIDEON FLEYCE : A Novel. By HENRY W. LUCY. Crowa 
 
 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. (id. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2n. 
 
 MACALPINE (AVERY), NOVELS BY. 
 
 "* TERESA ITASCA. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Is. 
 
 BROKEN WINGS. With 6 Illusts. by W. J. HENNESSY. Crown 8vo. cloth extra. 6s. 
 
 MACCOLL (HUGH), NOVELS BY. 
 
 MR. STRANGER'S SEALED PACKET. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 __E DNOR WHITLOCK. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 MACDONELL. QUAKER COUSINS : A Novel. By AGNES MACDONELL. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 MACGREGOR. PASTIMES AND PLAYERS : Notes on Popular 
 
 Games. By ROBERT MACGREGOR. Post 8vo. cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 
 MACKAYT=INTERLUDES^ND UNDERTONES ; or, Music at Twilight. 
 
 By CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, (is.
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 15 
 
 MCCARTHY (JUSTIN, M.P.), WORKS BY. 
 
 A HISTORY OF OUR OWN TIMES, from the Accession of Queen Victoria to the 
 General Election of 1880. Four Vols. demy 8vo, cloth extra, 12s. each. Also 
 a POPULAR EDITION, in Four Vols., crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each. And a 
 JUBILEE EDITION, with an Appendix of Events to the end ot 1886, in Two Vols., 
 large crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7. 6d. each. 
 
 A SHORT HISTORY OF OUR OWN TIMES. One Vol., crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 - " Also a CHEAP POPULAR EDITION, postSvo, cloth limp, 2s. 61. 
 
 A HISTORY OF THE FOUR GEORGES. Four Vo'.s. demy 8vo, cloth extra, 
 
 12s. each. fVols. I. & II. ready. 
 
 Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 8vo, illust bds., 2s. each ; cl. limp, 2s. 6tl. each. 
 
 THE WATERDALE NEIGHBOURS. 
 MY ENEMY'S DAUGHTER. 
 A FAIR SAXON. 
 LINLEY ROCHFORD. 
 DEAR LADY DISDAIN. 
 
 MISS MISANTHROPE. 
 DONNA QUIXOTE. 
 THE COMET OF A SEASON. 
 MAID OF ATHENS. 
 CAMIOLA: A Girl with a Fortune. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3*. 61. each. 
 
 THE DICTATOR. J JED DIAMONDS. 
 
 "THE RIGHT HONOURABLE." By JUSTIN MCCARTHY, M.P.,and Mrs.CAMPBELL- 
 PRAED. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 MCCARTHY (JUSTIN HO, WORKS BYT~ 
 
 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. Four Vols., 8vo, 12s. each. [Vols. I. & II. ready. 
 AN OUTLINE OF THE HISTORY OF IRELAND. Crown 8vo, Is. ; cloth, Is. tfd. 
 IRELAND SINCE THE UNION; Irish History. 1798-1886. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 HAFIZ IN LONDON: Poems. Small 8vo, gold cloth, 3s. 6d. 
 HARLEQUINADE: Poems. Small 4to, Japanese vellum, 8s. 
 OUR SENSATION NOVEL. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is. ; cloth limp, Is. 6d. 
 DOOM! An Atlantic Episode. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is. 
 DOLLY: A Sketch. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is.; cloth limp, Is. 6d. 
 LILY LASS: A Romance. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is. ; cloth limp, 1*. 6d. 
 THE THOUSAND AND ONE DAYS: Persian Tales. With z Photogravures by 
 STANLEY L. WOOD. Two Vols.. crown 8vo, half-bound, 12s. 
 
 MACDONALDlGEORGE, LL.D.), WORKS BY. 
 
 WORKS OF FANCY AND IMAGINATION. Ten Vols., cl. extra, gilt edges, in cloth 
 case, 21s. Or the Vols. may be had separately, ingrolier cl., at 2s. Oil. each. 
 Vol. I. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. THE HIDDEN LIFE. 
 
 II. THE DISCIPLE. THE GOSPEL WOMEN. BOOK OF SONNETS. ORGAN SONSS. 
 
 III. VIOLIN SONGS. SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS. A BOOK OF DREAMS. 
 
 ROADSIDE POEMS. POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 IV. PARABLES. BALLADS. SCOTCH SONGS. 
 
 V. & VI. PHANTASIES: A Faerie Romance. | Vol. VII. THE PORTENT. 
 
 VIII. THE LIGHT PRINCESS. THE GIANT'S HEART. SHADOWS. 
 
 IX. CROSS PURPOSES. THE GOLDEN KEY. THE CARASOYN. LITTLE DAYLIGHT 
 X. THE CRUEL PAINTER. THE Wow o' RIVVEN. THE CASTLE. THE BROKE* 
 
 SWORDS. THE GRAY WOLF. UNCLE CORNELIUS. 
 POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE MACDONALD. Collected and arranged by the 
 
 Author, 2 vols., crown 8vo, buckram, 12s. 
 
 A THREEFOLD CORD. Edited by GEORGE MACDONALD. Post 8vo, cloth, 5s. 
 HEATHER AND SNOW: A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 MACLISE PORTRAIT GALLERY (THE) OF ILLUSTRIOUS LITER- 
 ARY CHARACTERS: 83 PORTRAITS; with Memoirs Biographical, Critical, 
 Bibliographical, and Anecdotal illustrative of the Literature of the former half of 
 the Present Century, by WILLIAM BATES. B.A. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6*1. 
 
 MACQUOID~(MRS7), WORKS BY. Square 8vo, cloth extra, Ts. 6d. each. 
 IN THE ARDENNES. With 50 Illustrations by THOMAS R. MACQUOID. 
 PICTURES AND LEGENDS FROM NORMANDY AND BRITTANY. 34 Illustrations. 
 THROUGH NORMANDY. With 92 Illustrations by T. R. MACQUOID, and a Map. 
 THROUGH BRITTANY. With 35 Illustrations by T. R. MACQUOID, and a Map. 
 ABOUT YORKSHIRE. With 67 Illustrations by T. R. MACQUOID, Square 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 6. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2n. each. 
 THE EVIL EYE, and other Stories. | LOST ROSE. 
 
 MAGIC LANTERN, THE, and its Management : including full Practical 
 Directions. By T. C. HEPWORTH. 10 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo. Is. ; cloth. la. 6d. 
 
 MAGICIAN'S OWN BOOK, THE : Performances with Eggs, Hats."*^ 
 Edited by W. H. CKEMER. 200 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 4. 6d.
 
 16 BOCKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 MAGNA CHARTA : An Exact Facsimile of the Original in the British 
 Museum. 3 feet by 2 feet, with Arms and Seals emblazoned in Gold and Colours, 5n. 
 
 MALLOCK (W. H.), WORKS BY. 
 
 THE NEW REPUBLIC. Post 8vo, picture cover, 2.; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. 
 THE NEW PAUL & VIRGINIA : Positivism on an Island. Post 8vo, cloth, 2. 6d. 
 POEMS. Small 410, parchment, SB. 
 
 IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 A ROMANCE OP THE NINETEENTH CENTURA. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.; post 8vo, 
 illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 MALLORY'S (SIR THOMAS) MORT D' ARTHUR : The Stories of 
 
 King Arthur and of the Knights of the Round Table. (A. Selection.) Edited by B. 
 
 MONTGOMERIE RANKING. PoSt 8VO, cloth limp, 2a. 
 
 MARK TWAIN, WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. each. 
 
 THE CHOICE WORKS OF MARK TWAIN. Revised and Corrected throughout 
 
 by the Author. With Life, Portrait, and numerous Illustrations. 
 ROUGHING IT, and INNOCENTS AT HOME. With 200 Illusts. by F. A. FRASER. 
 "ARK TWAIN'S LIBRARY OF HUMOUR. With 197 Illustrations, 
 town 8vo, cloth extra (illustrated), 7s. 6d. each; post^Svo, illust. boards, 2s. each. 
 THE INNOCENTS ABROAD; or, New Pilgrim's Progress. With 234 Illustrations. 
 
 (The Two-Shilling Edition is entitled MARK TWAIN'S PLEASURE TRIP.) 
 THE GILDED AGE. By MARK TWAIN and C. D. WARNER. With 212 Illustrations. 
 1 THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER. With in Illustrations. 
 
 A TRAMP ABROAD. With 314 Illustrations. 
 cTHE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER. With 190 Illustrations. 
 'LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. With 300 Illustrations. 
 
 ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN. With 174 Illusts. by E. W. KEMBLE. 
 A YANKEE AT THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR With 220 Illusts. by BEARD. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 THE STOLEN WHITE ELEPHANT. | MARK TWAIN'S SKETCHES. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od. each. 
 
 THE AMERICAN CLAIMANT. With 81 Illustrations by HAL HURST, &c. 
 THE 1,000,000 BANK-NOTE, and other New Stories. 
 . TOM SAWYER ABROAD. Illustrated by DAN BEARD. 
 PUDD'NHEAD WILSON. Illustrated by Louis LOF.B. [Shortly, 
 
 MARKS (H. S., R.A.), THE RECOLLECTIONS OF. With numerous 
 
 Photogravure and other Illustrations. Two Vols., demy 8vo, cloth, 32s. [Shortly. 
 
 MARLOWE'S WORKS. Including his Translations. Edited, with Notes 
 and Introductions, by Col. CUNNINGHAM. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, Cs. 
 
 MARRYAT (FLORENCE), NOVELS BY. Post 8ro.illnst. boards, 9s.each. 
 A HARVEST OF WILD OATS. I FIGHTING THE AIR. 
 OPEN ! SESAME! | WRITTEN IN FIRE. 
 
 MASSINGER'S PLAYS. From the Text of WILLIAM GIFFORD. Edited 
 by Col. CUNNINGHAM. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, tf s. 
 
 MASTERMAN. -HALF-A-DOZEN DAUGHTERS : A Novel. BTJ 
 
 MASTERMAN. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 MATTHEWS. A SECRET OF THE SEA, &c. By BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2. ; cloth limp, 2a. Cd. 
 
 MAYHEW.-LONDON CHARACTERS AND THE HUMOROUS SIDE 
 
 OF LONDON LIFE. By HENRY MAYHEW. With Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3. 6d> 
 
 MEADE (L. T.).-A SOLDiER"OFTO'RtUNE. Three Vols. 
 MENKEN. INFELICIA : Poems by ADAH ISAACS MENKEN. With 
 
 Illustrations by F. E. LUMMIS and F. O. C. PARLEY. Small 4to, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 MERRICK. THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD. By LEONARD MERRICK, 
 
 Author of "Violet Moses," &c. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 MEXICAN MUSTANG (ON A), through Texas to the Rio Grande. By 
 A. E. SWEET and J. ARMOY KNOX. With 265 Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 MIDDLEMASS (JEAN), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each. 
 TOUCH AND GO. | MR. DORILLION. 
 
 MILLER.-PHYSIOLOGY FOR THE YOUNG; or, The House of Life. 
 
 By Mrs. F. FENWICK MILLER. With Illustrations. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d.
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 17 
 
 MILTON (J. LA WORKS BY. Post 8vo, Is. each; cloth, Is. fid. each. 
 THE HYGIENE OF THE SKIN. With Directions for Diet, Soaps. Baths, &c. 
 THE BATH IN DISEASES OF THE SKIN. 
 
 THE LAWS OF LIFE, AND THEIR RELATION TO DISEASES OF THE SKIH. 
 THE SUCCESSFUL TREATMENT OF LEPROSY. Demy 8vo, Is. 
 
 MINTO (WM.)-WAS SHE GOOD OR BAD? Cr.8vo.ls. ; cloth, ls.6d. 
 
 MITFORD (BERTRAM), NOVELS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. d. each. 
 THE GUN-RUNNER: A Romance of Zululand. With Frontispiece by S. L.Wooo. 
 THE LUCK OF GERARD RIDGELEY. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY L. WOOD. 
 THE KING'S ASSEGAI. With Six full-page Illustrations. 
 
 MOLESWORTH (MRS.), NOVELS BY. 
 
 HATHERCOURT RECTORY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. Crown 8 vo, cloth, In. 6d. 
 
 MOORE (THOMAS), WORKS BY. 
 
 THE EPICUREAN; and ALCIPHRON. Post 8vo, half-bound, 2s. 
 PROSE AND VERSE. With Suppressed Passages from the MEMOIRS OF LORD> 
 BVRON. Edited by R. H. SHEPHERD. With Portrait. Cr 8vo, cl. ex., 7s. fid. 
 
 MUDDOCK (J. E.), STORIES BY. 
 
 STORIES WEIRD AND WONDERFUL. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2*. ; cloth, 2s. 6rf. 
 THE DEAD HAN'S SECRET; or, The Valley of Gold. With Frontispiece by 
 
 F. BARNARD. Crown two, cloth extra, 5s. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 FROM THE BOSOM OF THE DEEP. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 MAID MARIAN AND ROBIN HOOD: A Romance of Old Sherwood Forest. With 
 12 Illustrations by STANLEY L. WOOD. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 MURRAY (D. CHRISTIE), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid. each : post 8vo, illustrated boards. 2s. each. 
 
 A LIFE'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 COALS OF FIRE. 
 
 YAL STRANGE. I HEARTS. 
 
 WAY OF THE WORLD 
 A MODEL FATHER. 
 OLD BLAZER'S HERO. 
 CYNIC FORTUNE. 
 
 BY THE GATE OF THESES. 
 A BIT OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 FIRST PERSON SINGULAR. 
 BOB MARTIN'S LITTLE 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3. fid. each. [GIRL. 
 
 TIME'S REVENGES. | A WASTED CRIME. [Shortly, 
 
 IN DIREST PERIL. Three Vols.. crown 8vo. 
 
 THE MAKING OF A NOVELIST : An Experiment in Autobiography. With a 
 Collotype Portrait and Vignette. Crown 8vo, Irish linen, Os. 
 
 MURRAY (D. CHRISTIE) & HENRY HERMAN, WORKS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra 3". fid. each ; post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 _ ONE TRAVELLER RETURNS. [PAUL JONES'S ALIAS. I THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 
 
 MURRAY (HENRY), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, lllust. bds., 2s. ea.; cl., 2s. 6d. ea. 
 A GAME OF BLUFF. I A SONG OF SIXPENCE. 
 
 JJEWBOLT. -TAKEN FROM THE ENEMY. By HENRY NEWBOLT. 
 _ Fcap. 8vo, cloth boards, Is. fid. 
 
 NTSBET (HUME), BOOKS BY. 
 
 "BAIL UP!" Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. fid. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 DR. BERNARD ST. VINCENT. Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s. 
 LESSONS IN ART. With 21 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. fid. 
 WHERE ART BEGINS. With 27 Illusts. Square 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. fid. 
 
 NORRIS. ST. ANN'S : A Novel. By W.E. MORRIS. Two Vols. 
 
 O'HANLON (ALICE), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2. each. 
 THE UNFORESEEN. | CHANCE? OR FATE? 
 
 OHNEf (GEORGES), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2. each. 
 DOCTOR RAMEAU. | A LAST LOVE. 
 A WEIRD GIFT. Crown 8vo. cloth, 3*. fid. , post 8vo, picture boards. 2. 
 
 OLIPlfANT r lMRS.), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. ! WHITELADIES. 
 
 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 
 
 O'REILLY (HARRINGTON). LIFE AMONG THE AMERICAN IN- 
 
 DIANS; Fifty Years on the Trail. 100 Illusts. by P. FRENZENY. Crown 8vo. 3s. fid. 
 
 ~ Post 8vo, illust. bds., 2s.
 
 i8 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 OUIDA, NOVELS BY. Cr.8vo.cl., 3s. 6d, each; post 8vo, illust. bds.,2s. each. 
 HELD IN BONDAGE. 
 TRICOTRIN. 
 STRATHMORE. 
 CHANDOS. 
 CECIL CASTLEMAINE'S 
 
 GAGE. 
 
 UNDER TWO FLAGS. 
 PUCK. 1 IDALIA. 
 
 FOLLE-FARINE. 
 A DOG OF FLANDERS. 
 PASCAREL. | SIGNA. 
 TWO LITTLE WOODEN 
 
 SHOES. 
 
 IN A WINTER CITY. 
 ARIADNE. 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 MOTHS. | PIPISTRELLO. 
 
 A VILLAGE COMMUNE. 
 
 IN MAREMMA. 
 
 BIMBI. 1 SYRLIN. 
 
 WANDA. 
 
 FRESCOES. | OTHMAR. 
 
 PRINCESS NAPRAXINE. 
 
 GU1LDEROY. | RUFFINO. 
 
 Square 8vo, cloth extra, 5s, each. 
 BIMBI. With Nine Illustrations by EDMUND H. GARRETT. 
 A DOG OF FLANDERS, &c. Witn Sis Illustrations by EDMUND H. GARRETT. 
 SANTA BARBARA. &c. Square 8vo, cloth, 6s, ; crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. ; pos* 
 
 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 TWO OFFENDERS. Square 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 WISDOM, WIT, AND PATHOS, selected from "the "Works of OUIDA by F. SYDNEY 
 MORRIS. Post 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. CHEAP EDITION, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 PAGE (H. A.), WORKS BY. 
 
 * THOREAU : His Life and Aims. With Portrait. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. Od. 
 
 ANIMAL ANECDOTES. Arranged on a New Principle. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 58, 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY ELECTIONS AND ELECTIONEERING, A HIS- 
 TORY OF, from the Stuarts to Queen Victoria. ByJosEPH GREGO. A New Edition, 
 with 93 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, V, Oil. 
 
 PASCAL'S PROVINCIAL LETTERS. A New Translation, with His- 
 torical Introduction and Notes by T. M'CRIE, P.P. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2a. 
 
 PAUL. GENTLE AND~SIMPLE. By MARGARET A. PAUL. WithFrontis- 
 
 piece by HELEN PATERSON Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s, 6d. ; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. 
 
 PAYN (JAMES), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 LOST SIR MASSINGBERD. 
 
 WALTER'S WORD. 
 
 LESS BLACK THAN WE'RE 
 
 PAINTED. 
 
 BY PROXY. | FOR CASH ONLY. 
 HIGH SPIRITS. 
 UNDER ONE ROOF. 
 A CONFIDENTIAL AGENT. 
 
 A GRAPE FROM A THORN. 
 
 FROM EXILE. 
 
 THE CANON'S WARD. 
 
 THE TALK OF THE TOWN. 
 
 HOLIDAY TASKS. 
 
 GLOW-WORM TALES. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF MIRBRIDGE, 
 
 THE WORD AND THE WILL. 
 
 HUMOROUS STORIES. 
 
 THE FOSTER BROTHERS. 
 
 THE FAMILY SCAPEGRACE. 
 
 MARRIED BENEATH HIM. 
 
 BENTINCK'S TUTOR. 
 
 A PERFECT TREASURE. 
 
 A COUNTY FAMILY. 
 
 LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON. 
 
 A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 CARLYON'S YEAR. CECIL'S TRYST. 
 
 MURPHY'S MASTER. 
 
 AT HER MERCY. 
 
 THE CLYFFARDS OF CLYFFE. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 FOUND DEAD. 
 
 GWENDOLINE'S HARVEST. 
 
 A MARINE RESIDENCE. 
 
 MIRK ABBEY.] SOME PRIVATE VIEWS. 
 
 NOT WOOED, BUT WON. 
 
 TWO HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD. 
 
 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. 
 
 HALVES. I THE BURNT MILLION. 
 
 FALLEN FORTUNES. 
 
 WHAT HE COST HER. 
 
 KIT: A MEMORY. 
 
 A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD, 
 
 SUNNY STORIES. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 A TRYING PATIENT, &c. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY L. WOOD. 
 IN PERIL AND PRIVATION; Stories of MARINE ADVENTURE. With 17 Illusts. 
 NOTES FROM THE " NEWS." Crown 8vo, portrait cover, Is. ; cloth. 1. 6d. 
 
 PENNELL (H. CHOLMONDELEY), WORKS BY. Post 8vo |C i.,2.6d. each. 
 
 PUCK ON PEGASUS. With Illustrations. 
 
 PEGASUS RE-SADDLED. With Te full-page Illustrations by G. Du MAURIER. 
 THE MUSES OF MAYFAIH. Vers de Societe, Selected by H. C. PENNELL. 
 PHELPS(E. STUART), WORKS BY. PostSvo Is. each; cloth Is. ttfl.each. 
 BEYOND THE GATES, f OLD MAID'S PARADISE, j BURGLARS IN PARADISE. 
 JACK THE FISHERMAN. Illustrated by C. W. REED. Cr. 8vo, Is. ; cloth, !.<!. 
 
 PIRKIS (C. L.), NOVELS BY. 
 
 TROOPING WITH CROWS. Fcap. 8vo, picture cover, Is. 
 
 LADY LOVELACE. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. v ,
 
 CHATTO Sc WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. xg 
 
 PLANCHE (J. R.), WORKS BY. 
 
 THE PURSUIVANT OF ARMS. With Six Plates, and 209 Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. Ts. ttdf. 
 SONGS AND POEMS, 1819-1879. Introduction by Mrs. MACKARNESS. Cr. Svo, cl.,6s. 
 
 PLUTARCH'S LIVES OF ILLUSTRIOUS MEN. With Notes and Life 
 
 of Plutarch by J. and WM. LANGHORNE. Portraits. Two Vols., demy Svo, lOs. 6d. 
 
 FOE'S (EDGAR ALLAN) CHOICE WORKS, in Prose and Poetry. Intro- 
 
 duction by CHAS. BAUDELAIRE, Portrait, and Facsimiles. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6d. 
 THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET, &c. Post Svo. illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 POPE'S POETICAL WORKS. Post 8vo, cloth limrJT2s. 
 
 PRAED (MRS. CAMPBELL), NOVELS BY. Post 8vo, must. MS., 2s. ea. 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF A STATION. | THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 
 OUTLAW AND LAWMAKER. Crown Svo, cloth, 3s. 6d. [Shortly. 
 CHRISTINA CHARD. Three Vols., crown Svo. 
 
 PRICE (E. C.), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 YALENTINA. | THE FOREIGNERS. | MRS. LANCASTER'S RIVAL. 
 
 GERALD. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2. 
 
 PRINCESS OLGA. RADNA. By Princess OLGA. Crown Svo. cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 PROCTOR (RICHARD A., B.A.), WORKS BY. 
 
 FLOWERS OF THE SKY. With 55 Illusts. Small crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 EASY STAR LESSONS. With Star Maps for Every Night in the Year. Cr. 8vo, 6s. 
 FAMILIAR SCIENCE STUDIES. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 SATURN AND ITS SYSTEM. With 13 Steel Plates. Demy Svo, cloth ex., lOs. 6d. 
 MYSTERIES OF TIME AND SPACE. With Illustrations. Cr. Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 THE UNIVERSE OF SUNS. With numarous Illustrations. Cr. Svo, cloth ex., 6s. 
 WAGES AND WANTS OF SCIENCE WORKERS. Crown Svo, In. 6d. 
 
 PRYCE. MISS MAXWELL'S AFFECTIONS. By RICHARD PRYCE. 
 Frontispiece by HAL LUDLOW. Cr. Svo, cl., 3. 6d. ; post Svo, illust. boards., 2s. 
 
 BAMBOSSON^POPULAR ASTRONOMY. By J. RAMBOSSON, Laureate 
 * of the Institute of France. With numerous Illusts. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 9*. 6d. 
 
 RANDOLPH. AUNT ABIGAIL DYKES: A Novel. By Lt. -Colonel 
 GEORGE RANDOLPH, U.S.A. Crown Svo, cloth extra, y. 6d. 
 
 EEADlT(CHARLES)rNOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, illustrated, 3. 6l. each ; post Svo, illust. bds., 2s. each. 
 PEG WOFFINGTON. Illustrated by S. L. FILDES. R.A. Also a POCKET EDITION, 
 
 set in New Type, in Elzevir style, fcap. Svo, half-leather, 2s. 6d. And a Cheap 
 
 POPULAR EDITION of PEQ WOFFINGTON and CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE, the two 
 
 Stories in One Volume, medium Svo. 6d. ; cloth, Is. 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. Illustrated by WILLIAM SMALL. Also a POCKET EDITION, 
 
 set in New Type, in Elzevir style, fcap. Svo, half-leather, 2s. 6d. 
 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. Illustrated by G. J. PINWELL. Also a Cheap 
 - POPULAR EDITION, medium Svo, portrait cover, 6d. ; cloth, 1*. 
 
 COURSE OF TRUE LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. Illust. HELEN PATERSON. 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A THIEF, &c. Illustrated by MATT STRETCH. 
 LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. Illustrated by M. ELLEN EDWARDS. 
 THE DOUBLE MARRIAGE. Illusts. by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A., and C. KEENE. 
 THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH. Illustrated by CHARLES KEENE. Also a 
 ~CHEAP POPULAR EDITION, medium Svo, 6d. ; cloth, Is. 
 HARD CASH. Illustrated by F. W. LAWSON. 
 
 GRIFFITH GAUNT. Illustrated by S. L. FILDES, R.A., and WILLIAM SMALL, 
 FOUL PLAY. Illustrated by GEORGE Du MAURIER. 
 PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. Illustrated by ROBERT BARNES. 
 A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. Illustrated by EDWARD HUGHES and A. W. COOPER. 
 A SIMPLETON. Illustrated by KATE CRAUFURD. 
 
 THE WANDERING HEIR. Illust. by H. PATERSON, S. L. FILDES, C. GREEN, &c. 
 A WOMAN-HATER. Illustrated by THOMAS COULDERY. 
 8INGLEHEART AND DOUBLEFACE. Illustrated by P. MACNAB. 
 GOOD STORIES OF MEN AND OTHER ANIMALS. Illust. by E.A. ABBEY, &c. 
 THE JILT, and other Stories. Illustrated by JOSEPH NASH. 
 A PERILOUS SECRET. Illustrated by FRED. BARNARD. 
 READIANA. With a Steel-plateJPortrait of CHARLES READE. 
 BIBLE CHARACTERS: Studies of David, Paul, &c. Fcap. Svo, leatherette. In. 
 THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH. With an Introduction by WALTER BESANT. 
 
 Elzevir Edition. 4 vols.,post Svo, each wUh Front., cl. ex., gilt top, 14*. the set. 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS OF CHARLES READE. Cr. Svo, buckram .
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 RIDDELL (MRS. J. H.), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. ttd. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2.each. 
 THE PRINCE OP WALES'S GARDEN PARTY. | WEIRD STORIES. 
 
 THE UNINHABITED HOUSE. 
 MYSTERY IN PALACE GARDENS. 
 FAIRY WATER. 
 
 Post 8v , illustrated boards, 3s. each 
 
 HER MOTHER'S DARLING. 
 THE NUN'S CURSE. 
 IDLE TALES. 
 
 KIMMER (ALFRED), WORKS BY. Square Svo, cloth gilt, T*.d. each. 
 OUR OLD COUNTRY TOWNS. With 55 Illustrations. 
 RAMBLES ROUND ETON AND HARROW. With 50 Illustrations. 
 ABOUT ENGLAND WITH DICKENS. With 58 Illusts. byC. A. VANDERHOOF, &c. 
 
 RIVES. BARBARA BERING. By AM'ELIE RIVES, Author of " The 
 
 Quick or the Dead ? " Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3. 6d. ; post Svo, illust. bds., 'is. 
 ROBINSON CRUSOE. By DANIEL DEFOE. (MAJOR'S EDITION.) With 
 37 Illustrations by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. Post 8vo, half-bound, 3s. 
 
 ROBINSON (F. W.), NOVELS BY. 
 
 WOMEN ARE STRANGE. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 THE HANDS OF JUSTICE. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 3. Cd. ; post 8vo. illust. bds., 2. 
 
 ROBINSON (PHIL), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each. 
 THE POETS' BIRDS. I THE POETS' BEASTS. 
 THE POETS AND NATURE; REPTILES, FISHES, AND INSECTS. 
 
 ROCHEFOUCAULD'S MAXIMS AND MORAL REFLECTIONS. With 
 
 Notes, and an Introductory Essay by SAINTE-BEUVE. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2. 
 
 ROLL OF BATTLE ABBEY, THE : A List of the Principal Warriors 
 who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror. Handsomely printed, 5s. 
 
 ROWLEY (HON. HUGH), WORKS BY. Post 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. each. ~~ 
 
 PUNIANA: RIDDLES AND JOKES. With numerous Illustrations. 
 MORE PUNIANA. Profusely Illustrated. 
 
 BUNCIM AN (JAMES), STORIES BY. P*t 8vo, bds., 2. ea. ; c!., 3*. 6.1. ea. 
 SKIPPERS AND SHELLBACKS. I GRACE BALMAIGN'S SWEETHEART. 
 SCHOOLS AND SCHOLARS. | _____^ 
 
 RUSSELL (W. CLARK), BOOKS AND NOVELS BY : 
 
 Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, tt. each; post 8vo, illust. boards, 3s. each ; cloth limp, 2s. ttd. ea. 
 
 ROUND THE GALLEY-FIRE. 
 IN THE MIDDLE WATCH. 
 A VOYAGE TO THE CAPE. 
 
 A BOOK FOR THE HAMMOCK. 
 MYSTERY OF THE "OCEAN STAR." 
 THE ROMANCE OF JENNY HARLOWE. 
 
 Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, 3s. ttd. ea. ; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. ea. ; cloth limp, 2s. ttd. ea. 
 AN OCEAN TRAGEDY. | MY SHIPMATE LOUISE. 
 
 ALONE OH A WIDE WIDE SEA. 
 ON THE FO'K'SLE HEAD. Post 8vo. illust. boards. 2s. ; cloth limp. 3s. 6d. 
 
 CAINT AUBYN (ALAN), NOVELS BY. 
 
 ** Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 3s. <>!. each ; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each. 
 
 A FELLOW OF TRINITY. Note by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES and Frontispiece. 
 
 THE JUNIOR DEAN. I THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, cloth boards, Is. ttd. each. 
 
 THE OLD MAID'S SWEETHEART. I MODEST LITTLE SARA. 
 TO HIS OWN MASTER. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. [Shortly. 
 
 IN THE FACE OF THE WORLD. Two Vols. 
 
 SALA (G. A.).-GASLIGHT AND DAYLIGHT. Post Svo, boards. 2s. 
 SANSON.-SEVEN GENERATIONS OF EXECUTIONERS: Memoirs 
 
 of the Sanson Family (1688 to 1847). Crown Svo, cloth extra. 3*. 6il. 
 
 SAUNDERS (JOHN), NOVELS BY7~ 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. ttd. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 GUY WATERMAN. | THE LION IN THE PATH. | THE TWO DREAMERS, 
 BOUND TO THE WHEEL. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. Cd. 
 
 SAUNDERS (KATHARINE), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra. 3s. ttd. each; post Svo. illustrated boards, 3s. each. 
 MARGARET AND ELIZABETH. I HEART SALVAGE. 
 
 THE HIGH MILLS. I SEBASTIAN. 
 
 JOAN MERRYWEATHER. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2*. 
 GIDEON'S ROCK. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. ttd.
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 SCOTLAND YARD, Past and Present : Experiences of 37 Years. By 
 Ex-Chief-Inspector CAVANAGH. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 88. ; cloth, 3. Cl. 
 
 SECRET OUT, THE : One Thousand Tricks with Cards ; wnth Enter- 
 taining Experiments in Drawing-room or " White Magic." By W. H. CREMER. 
 With 300 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 4s. Od. 
 
 SEGUIN (L. G.), WORKS BY. 
 
 THE COUNTRY OF THE PASSION PLAY (OBERAMMERGAU) and the Highlands 
 
 of Bavaria. With Map and 37 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Oil. 
 WALKS IN ALGIERS. With 2 Maps and 16 Illusts. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Os. 
 
 SENIOR (WM.). BY STREAM AND SEA. Post 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 SHAKESPEARE FOR CHILDREN: LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKE- 
 
 SPEARE. With Illusts., coloured and plain, by J. MOYR SMITH. Cr. 4to. 3. Od. 
 
 SHARP.-CHILDREN OF TO-MORROW: A Novel. By WILLIAM 
 
 SHARP. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Os. 
 
 SHELLEY. THE COMPLETE WORKS IN VERSE AND PROSE OF 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Edited. Prefaced, and Annotated by R. HERNS 
 SHEPHERD. Five Vols., crown 8vo, cloth boards, 3s. Od. each. 
 POETICAL WORKS, in Three Vols. : 
 Vol. I. Introduction by the Editor; Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson; Shelley's Corre 
 
 ^ spondence with Stockdale; The Wandering Jew; Queen Mab, with the Notes; Alastor, 
 
 and other Poems ; Rosalind and Helen : Prometheus Unbound ; Adonais, &c. 
 Vol. II. Laon and Cythna ; The Cenci ; Julian and Maddalo ; Swellfoot the Tyrant; The Witch of 
 
 Atlas; Epipsychirlion: Hellas. 
 __Vol. III. Posthumous Poems; The Masque of Anarchy ; and other Pieces. 
 
 PROSE WORKS, in Two Vols.: 
 
 Vol. I. The Two Romances of Zastrozzi and St. Irvyne : the Dublin and Marlow Pamphlets ; A Refuta- 
 tion of Deism ; Leltersto Leigh Hunt, and some Minor Writings and Fragments. 
 
 VoL II. The Essays; Letters from Abroad; Translations and Fragments, Edited by Mrs. SHELLEY. 
 With a Bibliography of Shelley, and an Index of the Prose Works. 
 
 SHERARD (R. H.). ROGUEST A Novel. Crown 8vo. Is. ; cloth, Is. 6dT 
 
 SHERIDAN (GENERAL). PERSONAL MEMOIRS OF GENERAL 
 
 P.H.SHERIDAN. With Portraits and Facsimiles. Two Vols., demy 8vo, cloth, i34s. 
 
 SHERIDAN'S (RICHARD BRINSLEY) COMPLETE WORKS. With 
 
 Life and Anecdotes. Including his Dramatic Writings, his Works in Prose and 
 Poetry, Translations, Speeches and Jokes. 10 Illusts. Cr.Svo. hf.-bound, 7s. Od. 
 
 THE RIVALS, THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL, and other Plays. Post 8vo, printed 
 on laid paper and half- bound. 2s. 
 
 SHERIDAN'S COMEDIES: THE RIVALS and THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 
 Edited, with an Introduction and Notes to each Play, and a Biographical Sketch, by 
 BRANDER MATTHEWS. With Illustrations. Demy 8vo, half-parchment, 13s. Od. 
 
 SIDNEY'S (SIR PHILIP) COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS, includ- 
 
 ing all those in "Arcadia." With Portrait, Memorial-Introduction, Notes, &c. by the 
 Rev. A. B. GROSART, P.P. Three Vols.. crown 8vo. cloth boards, 18s. 
 
 SIGNBOARDS : Their History. With Anecdotes of Famous Taverns 
 and Remarkable Characters. By JACOB LARWOOD and JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN 
 With Coloured Frontispiece and 94 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7 a. Od. 
 
 SIMS (GEORGE R.), WORKS BY. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, !i. each; cloth limp, 3s. Od. eaca. 
 
 ROGUES AND VAGABONDS. 
 THE RING 0' BELLS. 
 MARY JANE'S MEMOIRS. 
 
 MARY JANE MARRIED. 
 
 TALES OF TO DAY. 
 
 DRAMAS OF LIFE. With 60 Illustrations. 
 
 TINKLETOP'S CRIME. With a Frontispiece by MAURICE GREIFFENHAGEN. 
 
 2EPH: A Circus Story, &c. | MY TWO WIVES. 
 
 Crown 8vo, picture cover, l.t. each ; cloth. Is. Od. each. 
 HOW THE POOR LIVE; and HORRIBLE LONDON. 
 THE DAGONET RECITER AND READER: being Readings and Recitations in 
 
 Prose and Verse, selected from his own Works by GEORGE R. SIMS. 
 THE CASE OF GEORGE CANDLEMAS. | DAGONET DITTIES. 
 
 SISTER DORA : A Biography. By MARGARET LONSDALE. With Four 
 Illustrations. Demy Bvo, picture cover, 4d.; cloth, Od. 
 
 SKETCHLEY. A MATCH IN THE DARK. By ARTHUR SKETCHLBY. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 4s.
 
 22 BOOKS PUBLISHED BV 
 
 SLANG DICTIONARY (THE): Etymological, Historical, and Anec- 
 dotal. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6. 6d. 
 
 SMITH (J. MOYR), WORKS BY. 
 
 THE PRINCE OF ARGOLIS. With 130 Illusts. Post 8vo, cloth extra, 3*. 61. 
 THE WOOING OF THE WATER WITCH. Illustrated. Post Svo, cloth, 6a. 
 
 SOCIETY IN LONDON. By A FOREIGN RESIDENT. Crown 8vo, 
 Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 SOCIETY IN PARIS : The Upper Ten Thousand. A Series of Letters 
 from Count PAUL VASILI to a Young French Diplomat. Crcwn 8vo. cloth, 6n. 
 
 SOMERSET. SONGS OF ADIEUS By Lord HENRY SOMERSET. 
 Small 4to, Japanese vellum, 6s. 
 
 SPALDING. ELIZABETHAN DEMONOLOGY : An Essay on the Belief 
 
 in the Existence of Devils. By T. A. SPALDING, LL.B. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 SPEIGHT (T. W.), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE. 
 BY DEVIOUS WAYS, &c. 
 HOODWINKED; and THE SANDY- 
 
 CROFT MYSTERY. 
 
 Post Svo. cloth limp, Is. 6d. each. 
 
 A BARREN TITLE. | WIFE OR NO WIFE? 
 
 THE SANDYCROFT MYSTERY. Crown Svo, picture cover, Is. 
 
 THE GOLDEN HOOP. 
 BACK TO LIFE. 
 THE LOUDWATER TRAGEDY. 
 BURGO'S ROMANCE. 
 
 SPENSER FOR CHILDREN. By M. H. TOWRY. With Illustrations 
 by WALTER J. MORGAN. Crown 4to, cloth extra, 3s. fid. 
 
 STARRY HEAVENS (THE): A POETICAL BIRTHDAY BOOK. Royal 
 
 i6mo, cloth extra, 2s. Oct. _i____ 
 
 STAUNTON. THE LAWS AND PRACTICE OF CHESS. With an 
 
 Analysis of the Openings. By HOWARD STAUNTON. Edited by ROBERT B. WORMALD. 
 Crown Svo, cloth extra, 5s. 
 
 STEDMAN (E. C.), WORKS BY. 
 
 VICTORIAN POETS. Thirteenth Edition. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 9s. 
 
 THE POETS OF AMERICA. Crown 6vo, cloth extra. 9s. 
 
 STERNDALE. THE AFGHAN KNIFE: A Novel. By ROBERT 
 ARMITAC.E STERNDALE. Cr. Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.; post Svo, illust. boards. 2s. 
 
 STEVENSON (R. LOUIS), WORKS BY. Post Svo. ci.iimp, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY. Seventh Edit. With a Frontis.by WALTER CRANE. 
 AN INLAND VOYAGE. Fourth Edition. With a Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE. 
 
 Crown Svo, buckram, gilt top, 6s. each. 
 ^-f AMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS. Sixth Edition. 
 
 THE MERRY MEN. Third Edition. I UNDERWOODS: Poems. Fifth Edition. 
 MEMORIES AND PORTRAITS. Third Edition. 
 
 YIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE, and other Papers. Seventh Edition. | BALLADS. 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS, with other Memories and Essays. 
 
 HEW ARABIAN NIGHTS. Eleventh Edition. Crown 8vo. buckram, gilt top, 6s.; 
 
 post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 THE SUICIDE CLUB; and THE RAJAH'S DIAMOND. (From NEW ARABIAN 
 , NIGHTS.) With Six Illustrations by J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE. Crown Svo, cloth 
 
 extra, 5s. [Shortly. 
 
 , PRINCE OTTO. Sixth Edition. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 FATHER DAMIEN: An Open Letter to the Rev. Dr. Hyde. Second Edition. 
 Crown Svo, hand-made and brown paper. Is. 
 
 STODDARD. SUMMER CRUISING IN THE SOUTH SEAS. By 
 
 C. WARREN STODDARD. Illustrated by WALLIS MACKAY. Cr. 8vo, cl. extra, its. <>d. 
 
 STORIES FROM FOREIGN NOVELISTS. With Notices by HELEN and 
 ALICE ZIMMERN. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post Svo, illustrated boards, 2*. 
 
 STRANGE MANUSCRIPTlATFOUND~IN~A~COPPER~CYLINDER. 
 
 With 19 Illustrations by GILBERT GAUL. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s. ; post Svo, 
 _ illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 STRANGE SECRETS. Told by CON AN DOYLE, PERCY FITZGERALD, FLOR- 
 ENCE MARRVAT, &c. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2x.
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 23 
 
 STRUTrsT SPORTS AND PASTIMES OF THE PEOPLE OF 
 
 ENGLAND; including the Rural and Domestic Recreations, May Games, Mum- 
 meries, Shows, &c., from the Earliest Period to the Present Time. Edited by 
 WILLIAM HONE. With 140 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. Od. 
 
 SWIFT'S (DEAN) CHOICE WORKS, in Prose and Verse. With Memoir, 
 
 Portrait, and Facsimiles of the Maps in " Gulliver's Travels.' 1 Cr. 8vo, cL, 7s. 6*1. 
 
 GULLIVER'S TRAVELS, and A TALE OF A TUB. Post 8vo, half-bound, 3s. 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT; A Study. By J. CHURTON COLLINS. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, Ms. 
 
 SWINBURNE (ALGERNON C.), WORKS BY. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM POETICAL WORKS OF A. 0. ERECHTHEUS : A Tragedy. Crown 8vo, 6s. 
 
 SWINBURNE. Heap. 3vo, 6s. 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON. Crown Svo, 6s. 
 CHASTELARD : A Tragedy. Crown 8vo, It. 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. FIRST SERIES. Crown 
 
 8vo or fcap. 8vo, 9s. 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. SECOND SERIES. 
 
 Crown Svo or fcap. 8vo, 9s. 
 
 POEMS & BALLADS. THIRD SERIES. Cr. Svo, 7s. 
 SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE. Crown Svo, 10s. 6d. 
 BOTHWELL : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 12s. 6d. 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS. Crown Svo, 6s. 
 GEORGE CHAPMAN. (See Vol. II. of G. CHAP- 
 MAN'S Works.) Crown Svo, 68. 
 ESSAYS AND STUDIES. Crown Svo, 12s. 
 
 A NOTE ON CHARLOTTE BRONTE. Cr. Svo, 6s. 
 SONGS OF THE SPRINGTIDES. Crown Svo 63. 
 STUDIES IN SONS. Crown Svo, 7s. 
 MARY STUART: A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 8s. 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. Crown. Svo, 9s. 
 A CENTURY OF ROUNDELS. Small 410, 83. 
 A MIDSUMMER HOLIDAY. Crown Svo, 7s. 
 MARINO FALIERO : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 6s. 
 A STUDY OF VICTOR HUGO. Crown Svo, 6>. 
 MfSCELLANIES. Crown Svo, 12s. 
 LOCRINE : A Tragedy. Crown Svo, 6g. 
 A STUDY OF BEN JONSON. Crown Svo, 7*. 
 THE SISTERS: A Tragedy. Crown Svo, Bs. 
 ASTROPHEL, &c. Crown Svo, 7s. 
 
 SYNTAX'S (DR.) THREE TOURS : In Search of the Picturesque, in 
 Search of Consolation, and in Search of a Wife. With ROWLANDSON'S Coloured Illus- 
 trations, and Lite of the Author by ]. C. HOTTEN. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. <><!. 
 
 TAINE'S HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. Translated by 
 
 * HENRY VAN LAUN. Four Vols., small demy Svo, cl. bds., 3Os. POPULAR EDITION, 
 Two Vols., large crown Svo, cloth extra, 15s. 
 
 TAYLOR'S (BAYARD) DIVERSIONS OF THE ECHO CLUB: Bur- 
 
 lesques of Modern Writers. Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 TAYLOR (DR. J. E., F.L.S.), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo. cloth, 5s. each. 
 
 THE SAGACITY AND MORALITY OF PLANTS: A Sketch of the Life and Conduct 
 
 of the Vegetable Kingdom. With a Coloured Frontispiece and 100 Illustrations. 
 
 OUR COMMON BRITISH FOSSILS, and Where to Find Them. 331 Illustrations. 
 
 THE PLAYTIME NATURALIST. With 366 Illustrations. 
 
 TAYLOR'S (TOM) HISTORICAL DRAMAS. Containing " Clancarty," 
 
 "Jeanne Dare," "'Twixt Axe and Crown," "The Fool's Revenge," " Arkwright's 
 Wife," "Anne Boleyn," " Plot and Passion. 1 ' Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7s. Od. 
 ** The Plays may also be had separately, at Is. each. 
 
 TENNYSON (LORD) : A Biographical Sketch. By H. J. JENNINGS. 
 With a Photograph-Portrait. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. Cheap Edition, post Svo, 
 portrait cover, Is. ; cloth, Is. Oil. 
 
 THACKERAY ANA : Notes and Anecdotes. Illustrated by Hundreds of 
 Sketches by WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. Crown Svo. cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 
 THAMES. A NEW PICTORIAL HISTORY OF THE THAMES. 
 
 By A. S. KRAUSSE. With 340 Illustrations Post Svo, Is. ; cloth, Is. Od. 
 
 THIERS.-HISTORY OF THE CONSULATE & EMPIRE OF FRANCE 
 
 UNDER NAPOLEON. By A. THIERS. Translated by D. FORBES CAMPBELL and 
 JOHN STEBBING. New Edition, reset in a specially-cast type, with 36 Steel Plates. 
 12 vols., demy Svo, cl. ex., ias. each. (Monthly Volumes, beginning September, 1893.) 
 
 THOMAS (BERTHA), NOVELS BY. Cr. 8vo, cl., 3s. Od. ea. ; post 8vo, 3s. ea. 
 THE VIOLIN-PLAYER. | PROUD MA1SIE. 
 CRESSIDA. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 3s. 
 
 THOMSON'S SEASONS, and CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. With Intro- 
 
 __ duction by ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, and 48 Illustrations. Post Svo, half-bound, 3. 
 
 THORNBURY (WALTER^ WORKS BY. 
 
 THE LIFE AHD CORRESPONDENCE OF J. M. W. TURNER. With Illustra- 
 tions in Colours. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 7. Od. 
 
 Post Svo, illustrated boards, 3s. each. ' 
 OLD STORIES RE-TOLD. | TALES FOR THE MARINES.
 
 24 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 TIMES (JOHN), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. d. each. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF CLUBS AND CLUB LIFE IN LONDON: Anecdotes of its 
 
 Famous Coffee-houses, Hostelries, and Taverns. With 43 Illustrations. 
 ENGLISH ECCENTRICS AND ECCENTRICITIES: Stories of Delusions, Impos- 
 tures, Sporting Scenes, Eccentric Artists, Theatrical Folk, &c. 48 Illustrations. 
 
 TROLLOPE (ANTHONY), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. Od. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards. 2. each. 
 
 THE WAY WE LIVE NOW. 
 
 FRAU FROHMANN. ] MARION FAY. THE LAND-LEAGUERS. 
 
 MR. SCARBOROUGH'S FAMILY. 
 
 KEPT IN THE DARK. 
 
 GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE. 
 
 Post 8 vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 AMERICAN SENATOR. 
 JOHN CALDIGATE. 
 
 TROLLOPE (FRANCES E.), NOVELS BY. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. <><!. each: post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each 
 LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA. | MABEL'S PROGRESS. | ANNE FURNES3. 
 
 TROLLOPE (T. A.). DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. Post 8vo. must. Ms.. 3s. 
 TROWBRIDGE. FARNELL'S FOLLY: A Novel. By J. T. TROW- 
 
 BRIDGE. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. 
 
 TYTLER (C. C. FRASER-). -MISTRESS JUDITH : A Novel. B^ 
 
 C. C. FRASER-TYTLER. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo, illust. boards, 2a. 
 
 TYTLER~(SARAH)TNOVELS~BY~ 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. GI. each ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, 28. each. 
 THE BRIDE'S PASS. I BURIED DIAMONDS. 
 
 LADY BELL. I THE BLACKBALL GHOSTS. 
 
 Post 8vo. illustrated boards. 2s. each. 
 
 WHAT SHE CAME THROUGH. 
 CITOYENNE JACQUELINE 
 SAINT MUNGO'S CITY. 
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 DISAPPEARED. | NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 
 THE HUGUENOT FAMILY. 
 
 TTNDERHILL. WALTER BESANT : A Study. By JOHN UNDERBILL. 
 
 *"* With Portraits. Crown 8vo, Irish linen, 6s. _ [Shortly. 
 
 UPWARD. THE QUEEN AGAINST OWEN. By ALLEN UPWARD 
 
 With Frontispiece by J. S. CROMPTON. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. tid. _ 
 
 VASHTI AND ESTHER. By the Writer of "Belle's" Letters in The 
 World. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ___ [Shortly^ 
 
 VILLARL^A DOUBLE~BOND. By LINDA VILLARI. Fcap. Svo, Is. 
 WALFORD (EDWARD, M.A.). WORKS BY. 
 
 T WALFORD S COUNTY FAMILIES OF THE UNITED KINGDOM (1894). Containing the Descent, 
 
 Birth, Marriaee, Education, &c., of 12,000 Heads of Families, their Heirs, Oftces, Addresses,. 
 
 Clubs, &c. Royal Svo, cloth fill. 50s. 
 WALFORD S WINDSOR PEERAGE, BARONETAGE, AND KNIGHTAGE (18941. Crown Svo, cloth 
 
 extra. 12s. d. 
 WALFORD'S SHILLING PEERAGE (1894). Containing a List of the House of Lords, Scotch and 
 
 Irish Peers, &c. 32010, cloth. It. 
 WALFORD S SHILLING BARONETAGE (1894). Containing- a List of the Baronets of the United 
 
 Kingdom, Biographical Notires. Addresses. &c. 32010, cloth, Is. 
 WALFORD S SHILLING KNIGHTAGE (1894). Containing a List of the Knights of the United 
 
 Kingdom, Biographical Notices. Addresses. &c. yimo, cloth, Is. 
 WALFORD S SHILLING HOUSE OF COMMONS (1894). Containing a List of all the Members of the 
 
 New Parliament, their Addresses Clubs, &c. 32010, cloth. Ig. 
 WALFORD S COMPLETE PEERAGE. BARONETAGE, KNIGHTAGE, AND HOUSE OF COMMONS 
 
 (1884). Royal 32010, cloth, gilt edges. 5l. 
 TALES OF OUR 6REAT FAMILIES. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 3. 6d. _ 
 
 WALTMVHITMAN, POEMS BY. Edited, with introduction, by 
 
 WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI. With Portrait. Cr. Svo, hand-made paper and buckram, Os. 
 
 ~" 
 
 or, The Con- 
 
 templative Man's Recreation, by IZAAK WALTON ; and Instructions how to Angle for a 
 Trout or Grayling in a clear Stream, by CHARLES COTTON. With Memoirs and Notes 
 by Sir HARRIS NICOLAS, and 61 Illustrations. Crown Svo, cloth antique, 7s. O<1. 
 
 ~ 
 
 FIVE YEARS WITH THE CONGO CANNIBALS. With 92 Illustrations by tha 
 
 Author, VICTOR PERARD, and W. B. DAVIS. Third ed. Roy. Svo, cloth ex., 14s. 
 
 MY LIFE WITH STANLEY'S REAR GUARD. With a Map by F. S. WELLER, 
 
 _ F.R.G.S. Post Svo, Is. ; cloth, la. 6d. __ 
 
 WARNER. A ROUNDABOUT JOURNEY. By CHARLES DUDLEV 
 WARNER. Crown Svo cloth extra 6.
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 25 
 
 WARRANT TO EXECUTE CHARLES I. A Facsimile, with the 59 
 
 Signatures and Seals. Printed on paper 22 in. by 14 in. 2s. 
 
 WARRANT TO EXECUTE MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. A Facsimile, including 
 Queen Elizabeth's Signature and the Great Seal, 2s. 
 
 WASSERMANN (LILLIAS), NOVELS BY. 
 
 THE DAFFODILS. Crown 8vo, Is. ; cloth, Is. Gd. 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS. By AARON WATSON and LILLIAS WASSERMANN. 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2. 
 
 WEATHER, HOW TO FORETELL THE, WITH POCKET SPEC- 
 TROSCOPE. By F. W. CORY. With 10 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, Is. ; cloth, Is. ttd. 
 
 WESTALL (William). TRUST-MONEY. Post 8vo. illust" bds., 2s. 
 WHIST.- HOW TO PLAY SOLO WHIST. By ABRAHAM S. WILKS 
 
 and CHARLES F. PARDON. New Edition. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 
 
 WHITE. THE NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBORNE. By GILBERT 
 
 WHITE, M.A. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and half-bound, 2s. 
 
 WILLIAMS (W. MATTIEU, F.R.A.S.), WORKS BY. 
 
 SCIENCE IN SHORT CHAPTERS. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. 
 A SIMPLE TREATISE ON HEAT. With Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cloth limp, 3s. 6d. 
 THE CHEMISTRY OF COOKERY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 THE CHEMISTRY OF IRON AND STEEL MAKING. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 9s. 
 A VINDICATION OF PHRENOLOGY. With over 40 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, 
 cloth extra, 12s. 6d. 
 
 WILLIAMSON (MRS. F. H.). A CHILD WIDOW. Post 8vo, bds , 2s. 
 WILSON (DR. ANDREW, F.R.S.E.), WORKS BY. 
 
 CHAPTERS ON EVOLUTION. With 259 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, r. 6l. 
 LEAVES FROM A NATURALIST'S NOTE-BOOK. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. <><!. 
 LEISURE-TIME STUDIES. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 STUDIES IN LIFE AND SENSE. With numerous Illusts. Cr. 8vo, cl. ex., 6s. 
 COMMON ACCIDENTS: HOW TO TREAT THEM. Illusts. Cr. 8vo, Is.; cl., ls.6d. 
 GLIMPSES OF NATURE. With 35 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. 3s. 6d. 
 
 WINTER (J. S.), STORIES BY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each; 
 cloth limp, 2s. Cd. each. 
 
 CAVALRY LIFE. [JEGIMENTAL LEGENDS. 
 
 A SOLDIER'S CHILDREN. With 34 Illustrations byE. G.THOMSON and E. STUART 
 HARDY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Us. Od. 
 
 WISSMANN.-MY SECOND JOURNEY THROUGH EQUATORIAL 
 
 AFRICA. By HERMANN VON WISSMANN. With 92 Illusts. Demy 8vo, 16s. 
 
 WOOD. SABINA ; A Novel. By Lady WOOD. Post 8vo, boards, 2s. 
 
 WOOD (H. F.), DETECTIVE STORIES BY. Post 8vo, boards, 2s. each. 
 PASSENGER FROM SCOTLAND YARD. | ENGLISHMAN OF THE RUE CAIN. 
 
 WOOLLEY. RACHEL ARMSTRONG ; or, Love and Theology. By 
 
 CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 
 WRIGHT (THOMAS), WORKS BY. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. each. 
 
 CARICATURE HISTORY OF THE GEORGES. With 400 Caricatures, Squibs, &c. 
 
 HISTORY OF CARICATURE AND OF THE GROTESQUE IN ART, LITERA- 
 TURE, SCULPTURE, AND PAINTING. Illustrated by F. W. FAIRHOLT, F.S.A. 
 
 WYNMAN MY FLIRTATIONS. By MARGARET WYNMAN. With 13 
 Illustrations by J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3. 6d. 
 
 VATES (EDMUND), NOVELS BY. Post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 * LAND AT LAST. | THE FORLORN HOPE. | CASTAWAY. 
 
 70LA (EMILE), NOVELS BY. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 * 4 THE DOWNFALL. Translated by E. A. VIZETELLY. Fourth Edition, Revised. 
 THE DREAM. Translated by ELIZA CHASE. With 8 Illustrations by JEANNIOT. 
 DOCTOR PASCAL. Translated by E. A. VIZETELLY. With Portrait of the Author. 
 MONEY. Translated by ERNEST A. VIZETELLY. 
 
 EMILE ZOLA : A Biography . Hy R. H. SHERARD. With Portraits, Illustrations, 
 and Facsimile Letter. Demy Svo, cloth extra, 12s.
 
 26 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 LISTS OF BOOKS CLASSIFIED IN SERIES. 
 
 ** For fuller cataloguing, see alphabetical arrangement, pp. 1-25. 
 THE MAYFAIR LIBRARY. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 3s. 6d. per Volume. 
 
 ; A Journey Round My Room. By XAVIER 
 DE MAISTRE. 
 
 ?uips and Quiddities. By W. D. ADAMS. 
 he Agony Column of "The Times." 
 Melancholy Anatomised: Abridgment of 
 
 " Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy." 
 Poetical Ingenuities. By W. T. DOBSON. 
 The Cupboard Papers. By FIN-BEC. 
 W. S. Gilbert's Plays. FIRST SERIES. 
 W. S. Gilbert's Plays. SECOND SERIES. 
 Songs of Irish Wit and Humour. 
 Animals and Masters. By Sir A. HELPS. 
 Social Pressure. By Sir A. HELPS. 
 Curiosities of Criticism. H. J. JENNINGS. 
 Holmes's Autocrat of the breautast- 
 
 Table. 
 
 Pencil and Palette. By R. KEMPT. 
 Little Essays; from LAMB'S Letters. 
 
 Forensic Anecdotes. By JACOB LARWOOD. 
 Theatrical Anecdotes. JACOB LARWOOD. 
 Jeuxd'Ksprit. Edited by HENRYS. LEIGH. 
 Witch Stories. By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 Ourselves. By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 Pastimes & Players. By R. MACGREGOR. 
 New Paul and Virginia. W.H.MALLOCK. 
 New Republic. By W. H. MALLOCK. 
 Puck on Pegasus. By H. C. PENNELL. 
 Pegasus Re-Saddled. By H. C. PENNELL. 
 Muses of Mayfair. Ed. H. C. PENNELL. 
 Thoreau : His Life & Aims. By H. A. PAGE. 
 Puniana. By Hon. HUGH ROWLEY. 
 More Puniana. By Hon. HUGH ROWLEY. 
 The Philosophy of Handwriting. 
 By Stream and Sea. By WM. SENIOR. 
 Leaves from a Naturalist's Note-BooK. 
 By Dr. ANDREW WILSON. 
 
 THE GOLDEN LIBRARY. 
 Bayard Taylor's Diversions ot the Ecno 
 
 Club. 
 
 Bennett's Ballad History of England. 
 Bennett's Songs for Sailors. 
 Godwin's Lives of the Necromancers. 
 Pope's Poetical Works. 
 Holmes's Autocrat of Breakfast Table. 
 
 Post 8vo, cloth limp, 3s. per Volume. 
 I Jesse's Scenes of Country Life. 
 
 Leigh Hunt's Tale tor a Chimney 
 Corner. 
 
 Mallory's Mort d'Arthnr: Selections. 
 
 Pascal's Provincial Letters. 
 
 Rochefoucauld's Maxims & Reflections. 
 
 THE WANDERER'S LIBRARY. 
 Wanderings in Patagonia, by JULIUS 
 
 BEERBOHM. Illustrated. 
 Camp Notes. By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 Savage Life. By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 Merrie England in the Olden Time. By 
 
 G. DANIEL. Illustrated by CRUIKSHANK. 
 Circus Life. By THOMAS FROST. 
 Lives of the Conjurers. THOMAS FROST. 
 The Old Showmen and the Old London 
 
 Fairs. By THOMAS FROST. 
 Low-Life Deeps. By JAMES GREENWOOD. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 Wilds of London. JAMES GREENWOOD. 
 Tunis. Chev. HESSE- WARTEGG. 22 Illusts. 
 Life and Adventures of a Cheap Jack. 
 World Behind the Scenes. P.FITZGERALD. 
 Tavern Anecdotes and Sayings. 
 The Genial Showman. By E.P. KINGSTON. 
 Story of London Parks. JACOB LARWOOD, 
 London Characters. By HENRY MAYHEW. 
 Seven Generations of Executioners. 
 Summer Cruising in the South Seas. 
 
 By C. WARREN STODDARD. Illustrated. 
 
 POPULAR SHILLING BOOKS. 
 
 Harry Fludyer at Cambridge. 
 Jeff Briggs's Love Story. BRET HARTE. 
 Twins of Table Mountain. BRET HARTE. 
 Snow-bound at Eagle's. By BRET HARTE. 
 A Day's Tour. By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Esther's Glove. By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 Sentenced ! By SOMERVILLE GIBNEY. 
 The Professor's Wife. By L.GRAHAM. 
 Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. By 
 
 JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Niagara Spray. By J. HOLLINGSHEAD. 
 A Romance of the Queen's Hounds. By 
 
 CHARLES JAMES. 
 
 Garden that Paid Rent, TOM JERROLD. 
 Cut by the Mess. By ARTHUR KEYSER. 
 Teresa Itasca. By A. MACALPINE. 
 Our Sensation Novel. J. H. MCCARTHY. 
 Doom! By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY. 
 Dolly. By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY. 
 
 Lily Lass. JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY. 
 Was She Good or Bad? ByW. MINTO. 
 Notes from the "News." ByjAs. PAYN. 
 Beyond the Gates. By E. S. PHELPS. 
 Old Maid's Paradise. By E. S. PHELPS. 
 Burglars in Paradise. By E. S. PHELPS. 
 Jack the Fisherman. By E. S. PHELPS. 
 Trooping with Crows. By C. L. PIRKIS. 
 Bible Characters. By CHARLES READE. 
 Rogues. By R. H. SHERARD. 
 The Dagonet Reciter. By G. R. SIMS. 
 How the Poor Live. By G. R. SIMS. 
 Case of George Candlemas. G. R, SIMS 
 Sandycroft Mystery. T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 Hoodwinked. By T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 Father Damien, By R. L. STEVENSON. 
 A Double Bond. By LINDA VILLARI. 
 My Life with Stanley's Rear Guard. By 
 HERBERT WARD. 
 
 HANDY NOVELS. Fcap. 8vo, cloth boards, Is. 6d. each. 
 The Old Maid's Sweetheart. A. ST. AUBYN I Taken from the Enemy. H. NEWBOLT. 
 Modest Little Sara. ALAN ST. AUBYN. | A Lost Soul. By W. L. ALDEN. 
 Be ven Sleepers of Ephesus. M E. COLERIDGE. | Dr. Palliser's Patient. GRANT ALLEN.
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 27 
 
 MY LIBRARY. Printed on laid paper, post 8vo, half-Roxburghe, 9s. 6l. each. 
 
 Pour Frenchwomen. By AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 Citation and Examination of William 
 
 Shakspeare. By W. S. LANDOR. 
 The Journal of Maurice de Guerin. 
 
 Christie Johnstone. By CHARLES READS 
 
 With a Photogravure Frontispiece. 
 Peg Woffington. By CHARLES READE. 
 The Dramatic Essays of Charles Lamb. 
 
 THE POCKET LIBRARY. Post 8vo, printed on laid paoer and hf.-bd., 2s. each. 
 
 The Essays of Ella. By CHARLES LAMB. 
 Robinson Crusoe. Illust. G. CRUIKSHANK. 
 Whims and Oddities. By THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 With 85 Illustrations. 
 
 The Barber's Chair, &c. By D. JERROLD. 
 Gastronomy. ByBRiLLAT-SAVARiN. 
 The Epicurean, &c. By THOMAS MOORE. 
 Leigh Hunt's Essays. Ed. E. OLLIER. 
 
 White's Natural History of Selborne. 
 
 Gulliver's Travels, &c. By Dean SWIFT. 
 
 Plays. By RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 Anecdotes of the Clergy. J. LARWOOD. 
 
 Thomson's Seasons. Illustrated. 
 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Tabla 
 and The Professor at the Breakfast- 
 Table. By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. 
 
 LIBRARY EDITIONS OF NOVELS, many Illustrated, crown 8vo. cloth extra, 3*. 6<I. each. 
 
 By F. HI. ALLEN. 
 
 Green as Grass. 
 
 By GRANT ALLEN. 
 
 Philistia. The Tents of Shem. 
 
 Babylon. For Maimie's Sake. 
 
 Strange Stories. The Devil's Die. 
 Beckoning Hand. This Mortal Coil. 
 In all Shades. The Great Taboo. 
 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. | Blood Royal. 
 The Duchess of Powysland. 
 Ivan Greet's Masterpiece. I Scallywag. 
 
 By ED WIN L. Alt.\OLi>. 
 Phra the Phoenician. 
 The Constable of St. Nicholas. 
 
 By ALAN ST. AUBVIV. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. | The Junior Dean. 
 The Master of 'St. Benedict's. 
 To his Own Master. 
 
 By Kcv. 8. BAKING GOULD, 
 Red Spider. I Eve. 
 
 By KOBEKT 15 A U 1C. 
 In Steamer Chair | From Whose Bourne 
 
 By FRANK BAKRETT. 
 The Woman of the Iron Bracelets. 
 " BELLE,"- Vashtl and Esther. 
 By W. BESANT & JT. RICE. 
 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 Monks of Thelema, 
 The Seamy Side. 
 Ten Years' Tenant. 
 
 My Little Girl 
 Case of Mr.Lucraft. 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 Golden Butterfly. 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy, 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 By WALTER BESANT. 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 The Captains' Room. Herr Paul us. 
 All in a Garden Fair The Ivory Gate. 
 The World Went Very Well Then. 
 For Faith and Freedom. | Rebel Queen. 
 Dorothy Forster. j The Holy Rose. 
 Uncle Jack. | Armorel of Ljon- 
 
 ChildrenofGlbeon. esse. 
 Bell of St. Paul's. St. Katherine's by 
 To Call Her Mine. the Tower. 
 Verbena Camellia Stephanotis. 
 
 By BOBEBT BUCHANAN. 
 The Shadow of the Sword. I Matt. 
 A Child of Nature. I Heir of Linne. 
 The Martyrdom of Madeline. 
 
 God and the Man. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Annan Water. 
 
 Woman and the Man. 
 
 The New Abelard. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 Master of the Mine. 
 
 By HALL CAINE. 
 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 A Son of Hagar. ! The Deemster. 
 By MACLAREN COBBAN. 
 
 The Red Sultan. 
 
 UIORT. <fc FRANCES COLLINS. 
 
 Transmigration. | Blacksmith&ScholE.r. 
 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 
 Village Comedy. | You Play Me False. 
 
 By WILICIE COLLINS. 
 Armadale. The Frozen Deep. ' 
 
 After Dark. The Two Destinies. 
 
 No Name. Law and the Lady. 
 
 Antonina. [ Basil. Haunted Hotel. 
 Hide and Seek. The Fallen Leaves. 
 The Dead Secret. Jezebel's Daughter. 
 Queen of Hearts. The Black Robe. 
 My Miscellanies. Heartland Science. 
 Woman in White. "I Say No." 
 The Moonstone. Little Novels. 
 Man and Wife. The Evil Genius. 
 Poor Miss Finch. The Legacy of Cain 
 Miss or Mrs? A Rogue's Life. 
 
 New Magdalen. Blind Love. 
 By MUTTON COOK. 
 Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 E. II. COOl'EIC Geoff. Hamilton. 
 
 By V. CECIL COTES. 
 Two Girls on a Barge. 
 
 By MATT CRIJI. 
 Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 By B. j.U. CHOICER. 
 
 Diana Barrington. 
 
 PrettyMiss Neville. 
 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 
 T T.of " 
 
 To Let. 
 
 Proper Pride. 
 
 A Family Likeness. 
 
 By WILLIAM CVI'LES. 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 By ALPI1ONSE DAUDET. 
 The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. 
 By II. COLEMAN DAVIDSON. 
 .Mr. Sadler's Daughters. 
 
 By ERASMUS DAWSON. 
 The Fountain of Youth. 
 
 By JAMES I>E MILLE. 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 By J. LEITII DERWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. ! Circe's Lovers. 
 
 By I>ICK DONOVAN. 
 Tracked to Doom. 
 Man from Manchester. 
 
 By A. CONAN DOVLE. 
 The Firm of Girdlestone. 
 By Mi*. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 Archie Lovell.
 
 s8 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
 
 By O. tl A:\VIH, H FENN. 
 The New Mistress. I Witness to the Deed. 
 The Tiger Lily. 
 
 By PERCY riTZGEIt ALU. 
 Fatal Zero. 
 
 JBy IS. !:. I K A >< II, 1 ,0\. 
 
 8ueen Cophetua. 
 ne by One. 
 Dog & his Shadow. 
 
 A Real Queen. 
 King or Knave. 
 Ropes of Sand. 
 
 Pref. by Sir BARTLE I It I K I . 
 Pandurang Hari. 
 
 ED. GAKKETT. The Capel Girls. 
 PAUL GAULOT. The Red Shirts. 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 Of High Degree. 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 
 Loving a Dream 
 
 The Flower of the Forest. 
 
 By E. GLANVILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. The Fossicker. 
 A Fair Colonist. 
 
 By E. J. GOODMAN. 
 The Fate of Herbert Wayne. 
 
 By CECIL GRIFFITH. 
 Corinthia Marazion. 
 
 By SYDNEY GRUNDY. 
 The Days of his Vanity. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By BBET II AIM i:. 
 A Waif of the Plains. | Sally Dows. 
 A Ward of the Golden Gate. 
 A Sappho of Green Springs. 
 Colonel Starbottle's Client, j Susy. 
 A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's. 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Garth. 
 
 Ellice Quentin. 
 
 Sebastian Stronie. 
 
 Dust. 
 Fortune's Fool. 
 Beatrix Randolph. 
 
 David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 By Sir A. HELPS. Ivan de Biron. 
 1, HENDERSON. Agatha Page. 
 
 By .11 r*. HUNGERFORD. 
 Lady Yerner's Flight. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 
 Self-Condemned. 
 Mrs. Juliet. 
 
 The Leaden Casket. 
 That Other Person. 
 
 By R. A SHE KING. 
 A Drawn Game. 
 "The Wearing of the Green." 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTOJV. 
 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 Under which Lord? 
 "My Love!" 
 
 lone. 
 
 Paston Carew. 
 
 Sowing the Wind 
 
 The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 
 
 The World Well Lost. 
 
 Br II. W. LUCY. Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. Donna Quixote. 
 
 Linley Rochford. Maid of Athens. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. Camiola. 
 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 
 My Enemy's Daughter. | Red Diamonds 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. | The Dictator. 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 By GEOBGE MACDONALD. 
 Heather and Snow. 
 
 By AGNES MACDONELL. 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 By BERTRAM MITFORD. 
 The Gun-Runner. I The King's Assegai. 
 She Luck of Gerard Ridgeley. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/S NOVELS continued. 
 
 By D. < me is in: m KKA v. 
 
 Life's Atonement. 
 Joseph's Coat. 
 Coals of Fire. 
 
 Val Strange. 
 
 Hearts. 
 
 A Model Father. 
 
 Old Blazer's Hero. | Time's Revenges. 
 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 
 First Person Singular. I Cynic Fortune. 
 
 The Way of the World. I A Wasted 
 
 Bob Martin's Little Girl. | Crime. 
 
 By MURRAY & HERMAN. 
 The Bishops' Bible. | Paul Jones's Alias. 
 One Traveller Returns. 
 By HUME NISBET "Bail Up!" 
 By G. O1INET. A Weird Gift. 
 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 Held in Bondage. Two Little Wooden 
 Strathmore. Shoes. 
 
 Chandos. In a Winter City. 
 
 Under Two Flags. Ariadne. 
 Idalia. Friendship. 
 
 CecilCastlemaine's [ Moths. I Ruftlno. 
 
 Gage. Pipistrello. 
 
 Tricotrin. | Puck. ' AVillage Commune 
 Folle Farine. i Bimbi. Wanda. 
 
 A Dog of Flanders. Frescoes. \ Othmar. 
 Pascarel. | Signa. j In Maremma. 
 Princess Nap rax- Syrlin. Guilderoy. 
 
 ine. 
 
 Santa Barbara. 
 
 By MARGARET A. PAUL. 
 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 
 Less Black than We're Painted. 
 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 
 In Peril and Privation. 
 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge 
 
 The Canon's Ward. 
 
 Walter's Word. 
 By Proxy. 
 High Spirits. 
 Under One Roof. 
 From Exile. 
 Glow-worm Tales. 
 Talk of the Town. 
 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 For Cash Only. 
 The Burnt Million. 
 The Word and the 
 
 Will. 
 
 Sunny Stories. 
 A Trying Patient. 
 
 By Mrs. CAMPBELL, PRAED. 
 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. 
 
 By E. C. PRICE. 
 
 Valentina. j The Foreigners. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 
 By RICHARD PRYCE. 
 
 Miss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 By CHARLES READE. 
 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 
 The Double Marqiage. 
 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 
 The Course of True Love. 
 
 The Autobiography of a Thief. 
 
 Put Yourself in his Place. 
 
 A Terrible Temptation. | The Jilt. 
 
 Singleheart and Doubletace. 
 
 Good Stories of Men and other Animals. 
 
 Hard Cash. 
 Peg Womngton. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 Foul Play. 
 
 Wandering Heir. 
 
 A Woman-Hater. 
 
 A Simpleton. 
 
 Readiana. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 
 By Mrs. J. H. R1DDELL. 
 
 The Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 Weird Stories.
 
 CHATTO & WIN3US, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued, 
 
 ISv A M I I.I l RIVES. 
 Barbara Dering. 
 
 By I . W. ROBINSON. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 By \V. CL.% It K RUSSELL. 
 Ocean Tragedy. | My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on a Wide Wide Sea. 
 
 By JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 
 Guy Waterman. 
 Bound to Wheel. 
 
 Two Dreamers. 
 Lion in the Path. 
 By KATHARINE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 
 Heart Salvage. 
 Sebastian. 
 
 Gideon's Rock. 
 The High Hills. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 
 Without Love or Licence. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By BERTHA THOU AS. 
 Proud Maisie. I The Violin-player. 
 By nA.\< i:s E. TKOI.I.OI'i:. 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 Anne Furness. | Mabel's Progress. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued, 
 
 By IVAN Ti I:,I:M 1:1 i , &<. 
 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
 By ANTHONV I KO I . I,O I't . 
 Frau Frohmann. I Land-Leaguers. 
 Marion Fay. | The Way We Live Now. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family. 
 
 By . C. FRASER-TYTLER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 
 Lady Bell. 
 
 Blackball Ghosts, 
 
 The Bride's Pass. 
 Buried Diamonds. 
 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 The American Claimant. 
 The 1,000,000 Bank-note. 
 Tom Sawyer Abroad. 
 Pudd'nhead Wilson. 
 
 By ALLEN UPWARD. 
 The Queen against Owen. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 A Soldier's Children. 
 
 By MARGARET WYNMAN. 
 My Flirtations. 
 
 By E. ZOLA. 
 The Downfall. I Dr. Pascal. 
 The Dream. I Money. 
 
 CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 By ARTEMUS WARD. 
 
 Artemus Ward Complete. 
 
 By I:I>MOM ABOUT. 
 
 Tne Fellah. 
 
 By HAMILTON AIDE. 
 
 Carr of Carrlyon. | Confidences. 
 Sty MABY ALBERT. 
 tirooKe Fincnley's Daughter. 
 
 By Mrs. ALEXANDER. 
 Maid, Wife,or Widow? | Valerie' Fate. 
 
 By GRANT ALLEN. 
 Strange Stories. The'Devil's Die. 
 Philistia. This Mortal Coil. 
 
 Babylon. In all Shades. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand. | Blood Royal. 
 For Maimie's Sake. | Tents of Shem. 
 Great Taboo. | Dumaresq's Daughter. 
 The Duchess of Powysland. 
 
 By E. LESTER ARNOLD. 
 Phra the Phoenician. 
 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. | The Junior Dean. 
 The Master of St. Benedict's. 
 
 By Rev. S. BARING GOULD. 
 iced Spider. I Eve. 
 
 By FRANK BARRETT. 
 fettered for Life. | Little Lady Linton. 
 Between Life and Death. 
 The Sin of Olga Zassoulich. 
 -My Morrison. {Honest Davie. 
 
 - Barnabas. A Prodigal's Progress. 
 ,i fc t, ''ilty. I A Recoiling Vengeance. 
 Honour. 
 
 His Helpmate. 
 
 T & J. RICE. 
 Delia's Arbour. 
 - f Thelema. 
 
 For Love an_ 
 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 My Little Girl. 
 Case of Mr.Lucrart. 
 
 By . 
 Monks b 
 The Seam] 
 Ten 
 
 Side. 
 -nt. 
 
 Golden Butterfly. __ 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet* 
 
 By WALTER BESANT. 
 
 Dorothy Forster. Uncle Jack. 
 
 Children of Gibeon. Herr Paulus. 
 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 
 The Captains' Room. 
 
 All in a Garden Fair. 
 
 The World Went Very Well Then. 
 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 
 The Bell of St. Paul's. The Holy Rose. 
 
 Armorel of Lyonesse. The Ivory Gate. 
 
 St. Katherine's by the Tower. 
 
 Verbena Camellia Stephanotis. 
 
 BySIIELSLE Y BE A Ut II AM P. 
 
 Grantley Grange. 
 
 By A.TIBROSE BIERCE. 
 In the Midst of Life. 
 
 By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 Camp Notes. ' Savage Life. 
 
 Chronicles of No-man's Land. 
 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 Californian Stories. | Gabriel Corfoy. 
 An Heiress of Red Dog. Flip. 
 
 The Luck of Roaring Camp. Marula. 
 A Phyllis of the Sierras. 
 
 By HAROLD BRYDGES. 
 Uncle Sam at Home. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 The Shadow of the : The Martyrdom of 
 
 Sword. 
 A Child of Nature. 
 
 Madeline. 
 Annan Water. 
 
 God and the Man. j The New Abelard. 
 Love Me for Ever. Matt. 
 Foxglove Manor. I The Heir of Linne. 
 The Master of the Mine. 
 
 By HALL CAINE. 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster. 
 
 By Commander CAMERON. 
 "^e Cruise of the "Black Prince." 
 
 Mis. LOVETT CAMERON. 
 '- - Ever. I Juliet's Guardian, 
 
 ay 

 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 By AUSTIN CLARE. 
 For the Love of a Lass. 
 
 By Tli*. ARCHER < 1,1 VK. 
 Paul Ferroll. 
 Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 
 By ,'I.\ j, \ |{i:-\ COBBAN. 
 The Cure of Souls. 
 
 By C. A I,I,*TO> 4 01,1,1 >*. 
 The Bar Sinister. 
 
 1TIOKT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 Sweet Anne Page. | Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 Fight with Fortune. I Village Comedy. 
 Sweet and Twenty. | You Play me False. 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. | Frances. 
 By Ml l,li I COLLINS. 
 
 My Miscellanies. 
 Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 "I Say "No." 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novels. 
 Legacy of Cain. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 Armadale. 
 After Dark. 
 No Name. 
 Antonina. I Basil. 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 Kiss or Mrs? 
 New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 Law and the Lady. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 Haunted Hotel. 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 
 By ;I. J. COLO.UHOUN. 
 Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
 By BUTTON COOK. 
 Leo. I Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 By C. EGBERT < K I I>LHM li. 
 Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. 
 
 By 1T1ATT CRI.tt. 
 Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 By B. -Tl. CROltER. 
 Pretty Miss Neville. Bird of Passage. 
 Diana Harrington. Proper tride. 
 "To Let." I A Family Likeness. 
 By W. CYPLES. Hea/ts of Gold. 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. 
 By ERAS.MUS DAWSON. 
 The Fountain of Youth. 
 
 By JAMES !>!: 1UILLE. 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 By J. LEITIl DEBWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS. 
 Sketches by Boz. Oliver Twist. 
 Pickwick Papers. Nicholas Nickleby. 
 
 By DICK. DONOVAN. 
 The Man-Hunter. | Caught at Last! 
 Tracked and Taken. | Wanted 1 
 Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan? 
 The Man from Manchester. 
 A Detective's Triumphs. 
 In the Grip of the Law. 
 From Information Received. 
 Tracked to Doom. | Link by Link. 
 Suspicion Aroused. 
 By ITI 1-9. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovell. 
 By M. BETMAM-KO WARDS. 
 Felicia. I Kitty. 
 
 By EDW. EGGLESTON. Roxy. 
 
 By G. 9IANVILLJE FJENN, - 
 The New Mistress. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Bella Donna. Polly. 
 
 Never Forgotten. Fatal Zerp. 
 The Second Mrs. Tillotson. 
 Seventy-five Brooke Street. 
 The Lady of Brantome. 
 By P. FITZGERALD and others 
 Strange Secrets. 
 
 ALBANY DE FONBLANO,UE 
 Filthy Lucre. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 Olympia. I Queen Cophetua. 
 
 One by One. King or Knave? 
 
 A Real Queen. | Romances of Law. 
 By HAROLD FREDERICK. 
 Seth's Brother's Wife. | Lawton Girl. 
 Pref.foy Sir BARTLE FRERE. 
 Pandurang Hari. 
 IIAIN FRISWELL. Oneof Two. 
 
 By EDWARD GAR 11 EXT. 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 By GILBERT GAUL. 
 A Strange Manuscript. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 Robin Gray. I In Honour Bound. 
 
 Fancy Free. Flower of Forest. 
 
 For Lack of Gold. Braes of Yarrow. 
 What will the The Golden Shaft. 
 
 World Say? Of High Degree. 
 
 In Love and War. Mead and Stream. 
 For the King. Loving a Dream. 
 
 In Pastures Green. A Hard Knot. 
 Queen of Meadow. Heart's Delight. 
 A Heart's Problem. j Blood-Money. 
 The Dead Heart. 
 
 By WILLIAM GILBERT. 
 Dr. Austin's Guests. I James Duke. 
 The Wizard of the Mountain. 
 
 By ERNEST GLANVfLLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. | The Fossicker. 
 By HENRY GREVILLE. 
 A Noble Woman. | Nikanor. 
 
 By CECIL GKI1 I Si'Il. 
 Corinthia Marazion. 
 
 By JOHN HABBERTON. 
 Brueton's Bayou, j Country Luck. 
 
 By ANDREW 1IALL1DAY. 
 Every-Day Papers. 
 
 By Lady Dill IS HARDY. 
 Paul Wynter s Sacrifice. 
 
 By TIMMIAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By J. BERWICK HARWOC***, 
 The Tenth Earl. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Garth. 
 
 Ellice Quentin. 
 
 Fortune's Fool. 
 
 Miss Cadogna. 
 
 David Poindexter's Disappear* 
 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 By Sir A It t IJJl it - 
 Ivan de 
 
 Sebastian S&onie, 
 
 Dust. 
 
 Beatrix 
 
 Love or 
 
 HBB1HAN. 
 
 Ih , (ivefs CKti.
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 By .11 !. GEORGE HOOPER. 
 The House of Raby. 
 
 By TIGIIE HOPKINS. 
 'Twixi Love and Duty. 
 
 By Mrs. HUNiiERFORB-. 
 A Maiden all Forlorn. 
 
 In Durance Vile. 
 Marvel. 
 
 A Mental Struggle. 
 A Modern Circe. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 
 Self-Condemned. 
 Leaden Casket. 
 
 Thornicroft's Model. 
 That Other Person. 
 
 By JEAN INGELOW. 
 Fated to be Free. 
 WM. J A ME SON. My Dead Self. 
 
 By HARRIETT JAY. 
 Dark Colleen. I Queen of Connaught. 
 
 By .VIA Kit KICKSHAW. 
 Colonial Facts and Fictions. 
 
 By R. ASIIE KING. 
 A Drawn Game. I Passion's Slave. 
 "The Wearing of the Green." 
 Bell Barry. 
 By JOHN LEYS.-The Lindsays. 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 Patricia Kemball. Paston Carew. 
 World Well Lost. "My Love I" 
 Under which Lord? lone. 
 The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 The Rebel of the Family. 
 Sowing the Wind. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY. 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. Donna Quixote. 
 
 Linley Rochford. Maid of Athens. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. Camiola. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 By HUGH MACCOLL, 
 Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet. 
 
 By AGNES MACJUONELL. 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 KATHARINE 8. MACO.UOO>. 
 The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose. 
 
 By W. II. >l \ 1,1.0 C St. 
 The New Republic. 
 
 A Romance of the Nineteenth Century. 
 Uy FLORENCE MARK VAT. 
 Open! Sesame! | Fighting the Air. 
 A Harvest of Wild Oats. 
 Written in Fire. 
 
 By J. MASTERMAN. 
 Half-a-dozen Daughters. 
 
 By RRANDER .Tl ATTIIEWH. 
 A Secret of the Sea. 
 
 By LKONARU MERK1CK. 
 The Man who was Good. 
 
 By JEAN MIDDLEMAS9. 
 Touch and Go. J Mr. Dorillion. 
 
 By .r. MOLESWORTH. 
 Hathercourt Rectory. 
 
 By J. E. MUDVOCK. 
 Stories Weird and Wonderful. 
 The Dead Man's Secret. 
 From the Bosom of the Deep. 
 
 By HURRAY nnil HERMAN. 
 One Traveller Returns. 
 Paul Jones's Alias. | The Bishops' Bible. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 By I*. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 A Model Father. Old Blazer's Hero. 
 Joseph's Coat. Hearts. 
 
 Coals of Fire. Way of the World. 
 
 Val Strange. Cynic Fortune. 
 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 Bob Martin's Little Girl. 
 
 By HENRY MURRAY.' 
 A Game of Bluff. | A Song of Sixpence. 
 
 By HUME NISBET. 
 " Bail Up S " | Dr. Bernard St. Vincent. 
 
 By ALICE O'HANLON. 
 The Unforeseen. | Chance? or Fate? 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET. 
 Dr. Rameau. | Last Love. | Weird Gift. 
 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. | The Primrose Path. 
 The Greatest Heiress in England. 
 By Mrs. ROBERT O'REILLY. 
 Phoebe's Fortunes. 
 
 By O UIDA. 
 
 Held In Bondage. 
 Strathmore. 
 Chandos. ] Idalia. 
 Under Two Flags. 
 CecilCastlemaine's 
 
 Gage. 
 
 Tricotrin. | Puck. 
 Folle Farine. 
 A Dog of Flanders 
 Pascarel. 
 
 Signa. [Ine. 
 
 Princess Naprax- 
 In a Winter City. 
 Ariadne. 
 
 Two Little Wooden 
 
 Shoes. 
 Friendship. 
 Moths. | Bimbi. 
 Pipistrello. [mune. 
 A Village Corn- 
 Wanda. | Othmar. 
 Frescoes. 
 In Maremma. 
 Guilderoy. 
 Rufflno. | Syrllo. 
 Santa Barbara. 
 Ouida's Wisdom. 
 
 Wit, and Pathos. 
 
 MARGARET AGNES PAUL. 
 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 Bentlnck's Tutor. 
 
 Murphy's Master. 
 
 A County Family 
 
 At Her Mercy. 
 
 Cecil's Tryst. 
 
 Clyffards of Clyffe. For Cash Only 
 
 Foster Brothers. ; Kit. 
 
 Found Dead. 
 
 Best of Husbands. 
 
 Walter's Word. 
 
 Halves. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes. 
 
 Humorous Stories. 
 
 By Proxy.) 
 Under One Roof. 
 High Spirits. 
 Carlyon's Year. 
 From Exile. 
 
 The Canon's Ward 
 Talk of the Town. 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 A Perfect Treasure. 
 What He Cost Her. 
 
 Confidential Agent. 
 
 200 Reward. j Glow-worm Tales. 
 
 Marine Residence. The Burnt Million. 
 
 Mirk Abbey. I Sunny Stories. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 
 A Woman's Vengeance. 
 
 The Family Scapegrace. 
 
 Gwendoline's Harvest. 
 
 Like Father, Like Son. 
 
 Married Beneath Him. 
 
 Not Wooed, but Won. 
 
 Less Black than We're Painted 
 
 Some Private Views. 
 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
 
 The Word and the Will. 
 
 A Prince of the Blood.
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY CHATTO & WINDUS. 
 
 "iWO-bHlLLlNU INOVUbS CuHllltUtKl. 
 
 Ity . L. PIRKIS. 
 
 Lady Lovelace. 
 
 By EDOAR A. POE. 
 
 The Mystery of Marie Roget. 
 By Mr*. CAMPBELL PR A ED. 
 
 The Romance of a Station. 
 The Soul of Countess Adrian. 
 By E. '. I'lt I '!:. 
 Yalentlna. I The Foreigners. 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. | Gerald. 
 
 By KM II Alt l IMC1 !-:. 
 Tliss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 By CHARLES READE. 
 It Is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 Christie Johnstone. | Double Marriage. 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 The Course of True Love. | The Jilt. 
 Autobiography of a Thief. 
 A Terrible Temptation. | Foul Play. 
 The Wandering Heir. | Hard Cash. 
 Singleheart and Doubleface. 
 Good Stories of Men and other Animals. 
 Peg Wofflngton. I A Simpleton. 
 Griffith Gaunt. I Readiana. 
 A Perilous Secret. | A Woman-Hater. 
 
 By Mrs. J. II. IS I lis: LL. 
 Weird Stories. | Fairy Water. 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 The Uninhabited House. 
 The Mystery in Palace Gardens. 
 The Nun's Curse. I Idle Tales. 
 By A MLLli: RIVES. 
 Barbara Dering. 
 
 By F. W. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 By JAMES RUNCIMAN. 
 Skippers and Shellbacks. 
 Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart. 
 Schools and Scholars. 
 
 By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 Round the Galley Fire. 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 A Book for the Hammock. 
 The Mystery of the "Ocean Star." 
 The Romance of Jenny Harlowe. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on a Wide Wide Sea. 
 ,l OK,i: AUOUSTUS SAL A. 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 By JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 Guy Waterman. ' Two Dreamers. 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 By KATHARINE SAUNDERS. 
 Joan Merryweather. Heart Salvage. 
 The High Mills. Sebastian. 
 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 
 By GEOKGE R. SIMS. 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 The Ring o' Bells. 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 Tales of To-day. | Dramas of Life. 
 Tinkletop's Crime. 
 Zeph. | My Two Wives. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By ARTHUR SKETCHLEY. 
 A Match in the Dark. 
 
 By HAWLUY SMART. 
 Without Love or Licence. 
 
 By T. W. SPEIOIIT.J 
 The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 
 The Golden Hoop. By Devious Ways. 
 Hoodwinked, &c. Back to Life. 
 The Loudwater Tragedy. 
 Burgo's Romance. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By R. LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 New Arabian Nights. | Prince Otto. 
 BV BERTHA THOMAS. 
 Cressida. ! Proud Maisie. | Violin-player. 
 By WALTER THORNBURV. 
 Tales for Marines.! Old Stories Re-told. 
 T. ADOLPI1US I KOI I. OI-I . 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 By F. ELEANOR TROLLOPE. 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 Anne Furness. I Mabel's Progress. 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOP*:. 
 
 Frau Frohmann. 
 Marion Fay. 
 
 Kept in the Dark. 
 John Caldigate. 
 
 Way We Live Now. | Land-Leaguers. 
 The American Senator. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family. 
 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 
 
 By J. T. TROWBRIDOE. 
 Farnell's Folly. 
 
 By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c. 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 A Pleasure Trip on the Continent. 
 The Gilded Age. | Huckleberry Finn. 
 Mark Twain's Sketches. 
 Tom Sawyer. | A Tramp Abroad. 
 
 The Stolen White Elephant. 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 The Prince and the Pauper. 
 A Yankee at the Court of King Arthur. 
 
 By C. C. FRASER-TVTLER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 
 The Bride's Pass. 
 Buried Diamonds. 
 Saint Mungo'sCity. 
 
 Noblesse Oblige. 
 Disappeared. 
 Huguenot Family. 
 Blackball Ghosts. 
 
 Lady Bell. 
 
 What She Came Through. 
 
 Beauty and the Beast. 
 
 Citoyenne Jaqueline. 
 
 By AARON WATSON nnd 
 LILLIAS WASSERMANN. 
 
 The Marquis of Carabas. 
 
 By WILLIAM WESTALL. 
 
 Trust-Money. 
 
 By Mrs. F. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 A Child Widow. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 
 Cavalry Life. I Regimental Legend*. 
 By H. F. WOOD. 
 
 The Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
 
 The Englishman of the Rue Cain. 
 By Lady WOOD.-Sabina. 
 
 CELIA PARKER WOOL LEY. 
 
 Rachel Armstrong; or, Love & Theology 
 By EDMUND YATE*. 
 
 The Forlorn Hope. | Land at Last. 
 
 Castaway. 
 
 OGDEN, SMALE AND CO. LIMITED, PRINTERS, GREAT SAFFRON HILL, B.C.
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 
 
 Return this material to the library 
 
 from which it was borrowed.
 
 ". E .9. ION AL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000 708 564 o