There is a well-known old proverb, for which we have to thank one of the old Roman writers, who spread their Latin and their works through the civilised world, that a poet is born, not made, and it applies equally to the story-teller or writer of narrative. Henty was a story-teller from quite early days; for, following up his boyish attempts, the days came when, as a married man, with his children gathering round his fireside, it became a custom for them to come and say the familiar good-night, with the appeal to father to tell them a story. At first the stories were brief of the briefest, and doubtless versions of the old popular nursery tales. These, however, soon began to give way to invention, and these again would be followed by flights of fancy as the young author’s wings grew stronger, till, from being so brief that they only sufficed for one evening, his stories expanded and gradually merged into those which were cut short with, “There, it’s growing too late now. I must finish to-morrow night.” Doubtless invention in the furnishing of these little narratives, composed expressly for the juvenile audience, soon had to give way to study, and their author began to seek his inspiration from some incident in history. Gradually, too, as he realised the interest taken in his narratives by his own children, they began to be more thoughtfully designed, and grew longer, while the idea strengthened that they might prove as attractive to other children as to his own, until by a natural sequence the story-constructing took up more thought, grew more businesslike, and developed, as it were, into a profession.
It is easy, too, to imagine that as some of these stories—which were told for the benefit of his two boys, and the two little girls who were carried off by consumption on the verge of womanhood—ran to a length of four or five nights, they gave their originator the power to compose with fluency and ease. For throughout his life Henty practised storytelling as opposed to story-writing. It is not everyone who finds dictation easy, but for twenty years he dictated all his fiction to his secretary and amanuensis, Mr Griffiths, even down to the very last tale which he finished, prior to his being stricken down by paralysis.
In writing his books Henty was wonderfully practical. He thoroughly enjoyed a quiet evening and a dinner with friends at his club, but, speaking from old experience, he never allowed this to interfere with the work he had on hand. More than once the writer has said to him, “What! going already?” (“already” being almost directly after dinner). “Yes,” he would reply; “I shall perhaps have some telegrams to write up next door,” (“next door” being the Standard office). On other occasions it would be, “Yes; going home. My man will be waiting when I get there,” (“my man” representing his amanuensis, ready for him in his study at Lavender Hill). And in response to the remark, “Rather late to begin when you get home”, “Oh yes, but I daresay I shall get a couple of thousand words done”; and that meant from Henty that the work would be done, for he was a man who meant work, and did it. This would happen usually when he was extra busy preparing some book for the press. He had a quiet, determined way of making hay when the sun shone, for the Standard made great calls upon his time, requiring him to write matters of fact, and at such times fiction had to be laid aside. His long absences from home in times of war interfered greatly with his peaceful avocations, but he treated all these journeys as so many copy-collecting trips. They provided him with material which he would afterwards cleverly utilise, as can be gathered from passage after passage in his many works.
For details of the many stories for the young written by Henty, one is disposed to refer the reader to the publisher’s list; but to follow upon what has been said respecting the correspondence that reaches a writer from his young readers, a letter that has come to hand, written by a Canadian boy some years ago, is very amusing in its admiration of his favourite author. It indicates such an amount of steady reading, it evinces so much ingenuity, and (if it should ever reach the young writer’s eyes and he will take the criticism in the good part in which it is meant) displays so much need for improvement, that one gives it in full as an amusing list of the author’s works from the boy’s point of view.
The little lad calls it “a story.” Well, it is an original story of stories, and, as intimated, emanates from Canada. It is here given in a confidence which suppresses names, and thus cloaks the literary mistakes of the past:—
G.A. Henty, Esq.
Dear Sir,
Hoping you will excuse me for troubling you, but I would like you to read the little story I have made (while staying home from school with the measles). I have read and enjoyed a great many of your books. Following is the story made out of the names of some of the books you have written:—
“Jack Archer”, while travelling “Through Russian Snows”, met “Captain Bayley’s Heir”, who had been “Through the Sikh War” as “One of the 28th” and was “True to the Old Flag”, was swimming “In Greek Waters”, being pursued by “The Tiger of Mysore”, which had come “Through the Fray” “By Sheer Pluck.” All of a sudden along came a man who was “The Bravest of the Brave” while “With Wolfe in Canada” and “With Clive in India”; he also showed valour “At Agincourt”, which was “Won by the Sword” “By England’s Aid”, headed by “A Knight of the White Cross”, who was with “Wulf the Saxon” and “Beric the Briton” in fighting “The Dragon and the Raven”, which were “For the Temple”, met “The Cat of Bubastes”, followed by “The Young Carthaginian”, who was “Condemned as a Nihilist” for killing “The Lion of the North” and “The Lion of Saint Mark”, which were owned by “The Young Colonist” and “Maori and Settler”, who said they were “With Buller in Natal”, and had come to arrest him as “A Jacobite Exile”, with their colours “Orange and Green”, in the name of “Bonnie Prince Charlie.” It happened when on “Saint Bartholomew’s Eve” along came “Saint George for England” “By Right of Conquest.” “In Freedom’s Cause” he was “Held Fast for England” “In the Reign of Terror.” “Under Drake’s Flag” he made “The Dash for Khartoum”, which “With Lee in Virginia” “For Name and Fame” he fought and won “By Pike and Dyke”, assisted by “Redskin and Cowboy.” All this happened “When London Burned.”
Trusting you will let me know if you receive this, and how you like the story, Yours very truly, —.
Doubtless, as was often his custom, George Henty, who was proud of, as well as amused by, the above letter, replied to the young writer. One would be glad to know.
In addition to the three-volume story, A Search for a Secret, mentioned earlier, Henty produced several more, so that he may claim to be one of those who saw out the old days which preceded the six-shilling novel. He concluded his series of novels with another secret—Colonel Thorndykes’—but this, like those which had preceded it, only achieved what the superfine litterateur terms a succès d’estime, which is not the success beloved of the publisher, who has a bad habit of judging an author’s merits by reference to his ledger and counting the number of copies sold.
Henty’s novels were well contrived and thought out, and full of interesting matter, but not one of them seemed to contain that unknown quality which nobody appears as yet to have been able to analyse, but which causes the British public to go reading mad over something which hits the fancy of the time.
As a novelist he was unsuccessful; not that it mattered, for he soon laid the foundation of what was to prove an enduring fame, one which set an enormous clientele of young readers looking forward year by year for his next book or books—one, two, three, or even four per annum—until he had erected a literary column familiar in the bright young memories of thousands upon thousands of readers to whom the names of his works are well known.