MY FIRST BOOK

THE EXPERIENCES OF

WALTER BESANTR. M. BALLANTYNE
JAMES PAYNI. ZANGWILL
W. CLARK RUSSELLMORLEY ROBERTS
GRANT ALLENDAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY
HALL CAINEMARIE CORELLI
GEORGE R. SIMSJEROME K. JEROME
RUDYARD KIPLINGJOHN STRANGE WINTER
A. CONAN DOYLEBRET HARTE
M. E. BRADDON'Q.'
F. W. ROBINSONROBERT BUCHANAN
H. RIDER HAGGARD ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
JEROME K. JEROME
AND 185 ILLUSTRATIONS
London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1894

[INTRODUCTION]
[CONTENTS]
[LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS]
[FOOTNOTES]

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 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 short 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 different 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 confrères, 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, naïvely 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 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-advertisement 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 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 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 terrified him not.

'Mama says that every work worth doing is difficult,' he replied, 'and that it doesn't matter what career 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 caligraphy, 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 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 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—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 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—bio—graphical, 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.

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.'] By W. Clark[29]
[PHYSIOLOGICAL ÆSTHETICS 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]
[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

The images may be view enlarged by clicking on them. (note of ebooks transcriber.)

PAGE
Jerome K. Jerome[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 Russell[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]
Poor Jack![40]
Grant Allen[42]
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]
'Faust 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 Début as a Story-teller[101]
'With the Editor's Compliments'[102]
'Have you seen what they say about you?'[103]
'Mrs. Thurston's little Boy Wants To See You, Doctor'[105]
Mr. Andrew Lang[107]
Lichfield House, Richmond[110]
The Hall[111]
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[130]
At Forty[131]
Mr. Robinson at Work[132]
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 Study[159]
Mr. R. M. Ballantyne[161]
Looking for Toole[164]
I. Zangwill[165]
I sat down and wrote something[166]
Arthur Goddard[167]
It was hawked about the Streets[168]
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 Paper[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]
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[201]
If there had been no 'David Copperfield'[202]
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 Lisa 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]
'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. Robert Buchanan and his favourite Dog[295]
Robert Louis Stevenson[299]
Mr. Stevenson's House in Samoa[301]
Mrs. R. L. Stevenson[305]
Stevenson telling 'Yarns'[307]