MY FIRST BOOK

THE EXPERIENCES OF

WALTER BASANT
R. M. BALLANTYNE
JAMES PAYN
I. ZANGWILL
W.CLARK RUSSELL
MORLEY ROBERTS
GRANT ALLEN
DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY
HALL CAINE
MARIE CORELLI
GEORGE R. SIMS
JEROME K. JEROME
RUDYARD KIPLING
JOHN STRANGE WINTER
A. CONAN DOYLE
BRET HARTE
M. E. BRADDON
'Q'
F. W. ROBINSON
ROBERT BUCHANAN
H. RIDER HAGGARD
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

JEROME K. JEROME

AND 185 ILLUSTRATIONS

London

CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY

1894

INTRODUCTION

BY JEROME K. JEROME

LEASE, 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 information 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 sort legs might be hard put to it.
'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.

'Oh, I don't know,' he replied, ' I think.'
'And what do you think about?'
'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 confided 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 about things, you know.'
I agreed that this was so. 'And do you like this evening time?' I enquired.

'Yes,' he answered; 'don't you?'
'Yes, I like it too,' I admitted. 'But tell me why you like it, then I will tell you why I like it.'
'Oh,' he replied, 'things come to you.'
'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.
'Oh, fancies' he explained; 'I'm going to be an author when I grow up, and write books.'

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 women, 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 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 Quincey's Confessions (he called him Quinsy) just now,' was his replay.
'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-advertisement and the gentle craft of making friends upon the Press. But somethings about the almost baby face beside me, fringed by the gathering shadows, silenced my middle-aged cvnicis. Involuntarily my gaze 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 friends 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 them,' he answered. 'She isn't really strong enough for it, you know,' he explained,' and I'd back the big house were she used to live when she was a little girl, and take her back to live in the coutry- 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 trails and troubles of the literary career, and of the difficulties and disappointments awaiting the literary aspirant, but my croakings terrified him not.

'Mama says that every work worth doing is difficult,' he replied, 'and that it doesn't matter what carrer we choose there are difficulties and disappointments 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 calligraphy, and all obstacles thus removed, the business of a literary gent seemed to him an exceptionally pleasant and joyous one.

'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 heard, 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 literature, 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 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 h 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 many 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.'

The growing frightened at my own earnestness, as we men do, deeming it, God know why something to be ashamed of, I laughed away his answering questions, 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-biographical, you know.'

'And what does Mama thing of it?' was my next question, after we ad discussed the advantages of drawing upon one s own personal experiences for one's materials.

'Mama thinks it is very clever-in parts,' he tole 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.

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, h said, 'I must go now.'
'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 l'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 man thoughts, until across the rising mist there rang a horse, harsh cry, 'All out, All out,' and slowly I moved homeward.

CONTENTS

READY-MONEY MORTIBOY BY WALTER BESANT

THE FAMILY SCAPEGRACE BY JAMES PAYN

THE WRECK OF THE 'GROSVENOR BY W.CLARK RUSSELL

PHYSIOLOGICAL AESTHETHICS AND PHILISTIA BY GRANT ALLEN

THE SHADOW OF A CRIME BY HALL CAINE

THE SOCIAL KALEIDOSCOPE BY GEORGE R. SIMS

DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES BY RUDYARD KIPLING

JUVENILIA BY A. CONAN DOYLE

THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT BY M.E. BRADDON.

THE HOUSE OF ELMORE BY F.W. ROBINSON

DAWN BY H. RIDER HAGGARD

HUDSON'S BAY BY R.M. BALLANTYNE

THE PREMIER AND THE PAINTER BY I. NANGWILL

THE WESTERN AVERNUS BY MORLEY ROBERTS

A LIFE'S ATONEMENT BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY

A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS BY MARIE CORELLI

ON THE STAGE AND OFF BY JEROME K. JEROME

CAVALRY LIFE BY 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER' (MRS. ARTHUR STANNARD)

DEAD MAN'S ROCK BY 'Q'

UNDERTONES AND IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN BY ROBERT BUCHANAN

TREASURE ISLAND BY ROBERT LOUTS STEVENSON

LIST OF ILLUSTRATION

JEROME K. JEROME.
WALTER BESANT
JAMES RICE
JULIA
MR. BESANT'S STUDY
THE OYSTER SHOP
A BOOK PLATE
A WICKED SISTER
JAMES PAYN
IT 'TOOK OFF' FROM HIS SHOULDER
MR. PAYN'S STUDY
COUNT GOTSUCHAKOFF
'WOULD YOU MIND JUST READING A BIT OF IT?'
THE SERVANT CAME TO PUT COALS ON THE FIRE
MR. PAYN'S OFFICE AT WATERLOO PLACE
KILLED BY LIONS
CLARK RUSSELL
CLARK RUSSELL AS A MIDSHIPMAN OF SEVENTEEN
I WAS A CHILD OF THIRTEEN
NEATBY
ANCHORED IN THE DOWNS
SOME OF THE CREW
THE MAGISTRATES
THE WRECK OF THE 'CROSVENOR'
MRS. CLARK RUSSELL
THE BOATSWAIN OF THE 'GROSVENOR'
THE 'HOUGOUMONT'
POOR JACK
GRANT ALLEN
FICTION
SCIENCE
ANDREW CHATTO
A SHELF IN THE STUDY
'THANK YOU, SIR'
I LFET IT
HALL CAINE
MY. MS. WENT SPRAWLING OVER THE TABLE
DERWENTWATER
STY HEAD PASS
WASTWATER FROM STY HEAD PASS
THE HORSE BROKE AWAY
SOMETHING STRAPPED ON ITS BACK
THE CASTLE ROCK, ST. JOHN'S VALE
THIRLMERE
ROSSETTI WALKING TO AND FRO
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
MR. HALL CAINE IN HIS STUDY
MRS. HALL CAINE
COMING UP IN THE TRAIN
12CLARENCE TERRACE
THE HALL
GEORGE R. SIMS
GEORGE R. SIMS
THE 'SOCIAL KALEIDOSCOPE'
THE SNUGGERY
MR. SIMS'S 'LITTLE DAWG'
THE DINING ROOM
THE LIBRARY
'SIR HUGO'
THE BALCONY
'BEAUTY,' AND OLD FAVOURITE, TWENTY YEARS OLD
THE DRAWING-ROOM
'FAUST UP TO DATE'
MR. SIMS'S DINNER PARTY
THE NEWSPAPER FILES
'YOUR POTERY VERY GOOD, SIR; JUST COMING PROPER LENGTH TO-DAY'
RUDYARD KIPLING
SUNG TO THE BANJOES
ROUND CAMP FIRES
DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES
A. CONAN DOYLE
I WAS SIX
ON THE PRAIRIES AND THE OCEANS
MY DEBUT AS A STORY-TELLER
'WITH THE EDITOR'S COMPLIMENTS'
'HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT YOU?'
'MRS. THURSTON'S LITTLE BOY WANTS TO SEE YOU, DOCTOR'
MR. ANDREW LANG
LICHFIELD HOUSE, RICHMOND
THE HALL
THE DINING ROOM
THE EVENING ROOM
THE SMOKING ROOM
THE LIBRARY
MISS BRADDON'S FAVOURITE MAKE
THE ORANGERY
MISS BRADDON'S COTTAGE AT LYNDHURST
MISS BRADDON'S INKSTAND
AT TWENTY
F.W. ROBINSON
ELMORE HOUSE
AT THIRTY
MR. ROBINSON'S LIBRARY
THE GARDEN
THE DRAWING ROOM
AT FORTY
MR. ROBINSON AT WORK
H. RIDER HAGGARD
THE FRONT GARDEN
MR. RIDER HAGGARD AND HIS DAUGHTERS
THE HALL
MR. RIDER HAGGARD'S STUDY
SOME CURIOS
A STUDY CORNER
MR. RIDER HAGGARD
THE FARM
WHERE I WROTE MY FIRST BOOK
R.M. BALLANTYNE
MR. BALLANTYNE'S HOUSE AT HARROW
TROPHIES FROM MR. BALLANTYNE'S TRAVELS
THE STUDY
MR. R.M. BALLANTYNE
LOOKING FOR TOOLE
I ZANGWILL
I SAT DOWN AND WROTE SOMETHING
ARTHUR GODDARD
IT WAS HAWKED ABOUT THE STREETS
A POLICEMAND TOLD HIM TO GET DOWN
SUCH STUFF AS LITTLE BOYS SCRIBBLE UPON WALLS
LIFE IN BETHNAL GREEN
WE SENT IT ROUND
MR. ZANGWILL AT WORK
EDITING A COMIC PAPER
A FAME LESS WIDESPRED THAN A PRIZEFIGHER'S
MR. MORLEY ROBERTS
BEFORE THE MAST
I MARRIED THEM ALL OF AT THE END
AN AMERICAN SAW-MILL WHERE MR. ROBERTS WORKED
DEFYING THE UNIVERSE
COWBOY ROBERTS
THE VERY PRAIRIE DOGS TAUGHT ME
THE CALIFORNIA COAST RANGE
BY THE CAMP FIRE
D. CHRISTIE MURRAY
I HANDED HIM TWO CHAPTERS
I SENT ALL MY PEOPLE INTO A COAL-MINE
THEY INVESTED HIM WITH THE MEDAL
CONSULTING OLD ALMANACS
SHE DREW FROM IT A BROWN-PAPER PARCEL
IF THERE HAD BEEN NO 'DAVID COPPERFIELD'
THE STOCK WAS TRANSFERRED
SOME NOVELS
THE DRAWING ROOM
THE LIBRARY
THE STUDY
FACSIMILE OF MARIE CORELLI'S MS. AS PREPARED FOR THE PRESS
MY FIRST BORN
JEROME K. JEROME
'HE AND YOU HAD TO CARRY LISA WEBER ACROSS THE STAGE'
THAT BRILLIANT IDEA
'HE AND YOU HAD TO CARRY LISA WEBER ACROSS THE STAGE
THEAT BRILLIANT IDA
I HATED THE DISMAL LITTLE SLAVEY
THE STUDY
I AM REMEMBERING
MR. JEROME K. JEROME
THREE SOLDIERS AND A PIG
JOH STRANGE WINTER
MR. ARTHUR STANNARD
'THE FIRM' CONSIDERING
HE SQUINTED
MISS STANNARD
'THE TWINS' BOOTLES AND BETTY
LONG-LEGGED SOLDIERS
CAVALRY LIFE
I TOOK UP THE 'SATURDAY REVIEW'
WE SETTLED TO OUR WORK
A CIRCULATION IT HAD NEVER KNOWN BEFORE
'CONSIDER THEM AT YOUR SERVICE'
I WAS INWARDLY RELIEVED
THE BOOK SOLD TREMENDOUSLY
A.T. QUILLER COUCH
'Q.' JUNIOR
'THE HAVEN,' FOWEY
MR. AND MRS. QUILLER COUCH
FOWEY GRAMMAR SCHOOL CREW AND MR. QUILLER COUCH
THE OLD STUDY
MR. AND MRS. QUILLER COUCH IN A CANADIAN CANOE
ROBERT BUCHANAN
MR. BUCHANAN'S HOUSE
THE STUDY
MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN AND HIS FAVOURITE DOG
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
MR. STEVENSON'S HOUSE IN SAMOA
MRS. R. L. STEVENSON
STEVENSON TELLING 'YARNS'