Part 19 (1/2)

Boys' writers most probably do not have more worries than other people, but they have to submit to one nuisance from the selfish and thoughtless which does go very much against the grain. Fancy being a man who feels himself in duty bound to fulfil an engagement to write some four, five, or six thousand words of a story pretty well every day. Is it not extremely probable that when that long tale of words is written he will lay the pen down with a feeling of weariness, almost of loathing and disgust. Imagine his feelings, then, when he finds in his correspondence a letter from some absolute stranger, enclosing a long ma.n.u.script which he has written ”especially for boys,” with the request that ”as the recipient is so clever and knows so well exactly what a boy likes, he will be good enough to read it at once and give his opinion upon its merits”? Now, human nature is human nature, and as a weary writer has a great deal of that sad human nature in his composition, and is p.r.o.ne to be irritable, surely it is not surprising that for a few minutes he falls into a fretful state, and mentally asks this would-be scribe why he does not send his MS to an editor or other practised judge of people's works for his opinion about the unknown one's literary production?

Henty uttered his wail to one of his visitors who recorded an interview, and then confessed to being as weak and amiable as many others of his craft, for he says: ”I do generally read them, and have helped several men to get publishers; but, of course, the great majority of the stories are hopelessly unfit for boys. One does not like to write back and say that the work is confounded rubbish, although I suppose it would be the most merciful thing to do, as it would prevent the writer from wasting his time. I let them down as lightly as I can.”

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 furnis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sage after pa.s.sage 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 d.y.k.e”, a.s.sisted 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-s.h.i.+lling novel. He concluded his series of novels with another secret--_Colonel Thornd.y.k.es'_--but this, like those which had preceded it, only achieved what the superfine litterateur terms a _succes 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 n.o.body appears as yet to have been able to a.n.a.lyse, 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.

In the long list of his other writings, _A Story of the Carlist Troubles_, another volume more modern and up-to-date, relating to the Sudan when Kitchener was in command, and a romance telling of a search for the treasure of the Peruvian kings, were among his last productions, while editions after editions of his earlier works kept on appearing, and were eagerly read. These new issues of his earlier books of course appealed to a much wider public than before, since the writer's popularity had gone on increasing with every fresh story from his pen.

As is often the case with a young and enthusiastic writer, Henty in his early days made more than one attempt to publish his productions at his own cost, only to learn the severe lesson that these business transactions are matters of trade, and do not often prosper in the hands of an author.

One of his hardest fights was over the _Union Jack_, which he edited for some years. It was a boys' journal, which ought to have succeeded, and over which he worked very hard both as author and editor; but somehow, in spite of the names of the able men whom he enlisted as his literary lieutenants, the sun of prosperity did not s.h.i.+ne upon it brightly, and after a last effort, in which he took in new blood, he gave it up in disgust. He must have thought, after the fas.h.i.+on of others before him, that the success of periodicals is a matter of accident. It would be difficult indeed to come to any other conclusion when one sees the way in which clever and scholarly productions, fostered by the best literary ability, struggle into life and hold on to a precarious existence for a few brief weeks or months, and then die from lack of appreciation, while others that are perfect marvels of all that a magazine should not be, rush up into popularity and become, as it were, gold-mines to their proprietors.

So far as Henty was concerned, however, there is the consolation that whatever disappointments he may have had over his early productions, they formed a portion of the literary concrete upon which he raised a structure that made his name familiar to every young reader of his time.

CHAPTER FORTY.

AN APPRECIATION.

Much has been said about the writing of a boys' book and the changes that have taken place during the present generation or two. It may be taken into consideration that to go back to, say, 1830, there were hardly any books for a boy to read. We had _Evenings at Home_ and _Robinson Crusoe_, of course, and there were some cheaply-issued stories by Pierce Egan the younger. A very attractive volume, too, was a tremendously thumbed and dog's-eared _Boy's Country Book_, by William Howitt. Marryat's and Cooper's works, with a few of Scott's, however, found plenty of favour with boys, who soon afterwards began to read d.i.c.kens, a writer who caught on with them at once. Soon after this Kingston and Ballantyne had the field almost to themselves, while the publishers were shy about publis.h.i.+ng exclusively for boys; even to this day the trade, as it is termed, cla.s.s books written especially for boys as juvenile literature. The term is correct, of course, for our recollections of Latin teach us that juvenile relates to youth; but to a boy the very term seems to suggest a toy-book, untearable, perhaps, with gaudy coloured pictures, and this begets in him a feeling of scorn. He does not want juvenile literature. His aim is to become a man and read what men do and have done. Hence the great success of George Henty's works. They are essentially manly, and he used to say that he wanted his boys to be bold, straightforward, and ready to play a young man's part, not to be milksops. He had a horror of a lad who displayed any weak emotion and shrank from shedding blood, or winced at any encounter.

The result is shown again and again in his pages, and though some of his readers may object to the deeds of his heroes, no one could look down upon their vigour and determination. The fact is, he painted his own boyhood in all--the boy--the young man as he wished him to be, and the man.

There was a reality and power about Henty's work which caused many of his characters to be remembered long after the book had been laid aside, though, of course, it was not really characterisation which was his forte, but rather the depicting of historical incidents and brave deeds on the frontiers of the empire. He did a great work for the boy reader in throwing open for him the big doorway of history. There was scarcely a book from his pen, and especially is this the case with the later ones, which did not serve to impress some important period of fighting or diplomatic action upon the mind of the reader. Knowledge thus gained is generally the most useful, for it is imbibed with avidity. Henty came out of long years of exciting work as a chronicler of things seen on the battlefields of the world, and he had the gift of ready portrayal, allied to a retentive and observant mind. Amidst the purple slopes and white walls of Italy he seemed as much at home as on the Venetian lagoons or in the forests of Germany. The entire panorama of the world was his sphere of action, and old-world romance suggestive of forgotten stairways and ancient palaces was, so to speak, a department in which he excelled. He could write as few men could of that mediaeval tramp of crusading hosts, of glinting armour, of all that stirring pageantry of the old, old days which sometimes in the heat of interest makes our own time seem trivial and of poor account; and yet, although he possessed this key to romance, maybe he was really at his best in dealing with the thin red line of modern times. Still, among his older books, _The Cornet of Horse_ stands out as pre-eminently strong and dramatic, and the account of a remarkable adventure during the campaign in the Netherlands, when the commander, who was afterwards cited as ”Marlbrouck” to naughty French children, defeated the French at.