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[Illustration: book's cover]



MY FIRST BOOK

PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON

[Illustration: signed: Yours sincerely,

Jerome K. Jerome]




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

_AND 185 ILLUSTRATIONS_

London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1894




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 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 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
RUSSELL                                                               29

PHYSIOLOGICAL AESTHETICS 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


                                                                 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