Chapter 5

Having been asked to give some account of the commencement of my literary career, I begin by remarking that my first book was not a tale or "story-book," but a free-and-easy record of personal adventure and every-day life in those wild regions of North America which are known, variously, as Rupert's Land--The Hudson's Bay Territory--The Nor' West, and "The Great Lone Land."

The record was never meant to see the light in the form of a book. It was written solely for the eye of my mother, but, as it may be said that it was the means of leading me ultimately into the path of my life-work, and was penned under somewhat peculiar circumstances, it may not be out of place to refer to it particularly here.

The circumstances were as follows:--

After having spent about six years in the wild Nor' West, as a servant of the Hudson's Bay Fur Company, I found myself, one summer--at the advanced age of twenty-two--in charge of an outpost on the uninhabited northern shores of the gulf of St. Lawrence named Seven Islands. It was a dreary, desolate spot; at that time far beyond the bounds of civilisation. The gulf, just opposite the establishment, was about fifty miles broad. The ships which passed up and down it were invisible, not only on account of distance, but because of seven islands at the mouth of the bay coming between them and the outpost. My next neighbour, in command of a similar post up the gulf, was about seventy miles distant. The nearest house down the gulf was about eighty miles off, and behind us lay the virgin forests, with swamps, lakes, prairies, and mountains, stretching away without break right across the continent to the Pacific Ocean.

The outpost--which, in virtue of a ship's carronade and a flagstaff, was occasionally styled a "fort"--consisted of four wooden buildings. One of these--the largest, with a verandah--was the Residency. There was an offshoot in rear which served as a kitchen. The other houses were a store for goods wherewith to carry on trade with the Indians, a stable, and a workshop. The whole population of the establishment--indeed of the surrounding district--consisted of myself and one man--also a horse! The horse occupied the stable, I dwelt in the Residency, the rest of the population lived in the kitchen.

There were, indeed, other five men belonging to the establishment, but these did not affect its desolation, for they were away netting salmon at a river about twenty miles distant at the time I write of.

My "Friday"--who was a French-Canadian--being cook, as well as man-of-all-works, found a little occupation in attending to the duties of his office, but the unfortunate Governor had nothing whatever to do except await the arrival of Indians, who were not due at that time. The horse was a bad one, without a saddle, and in possession of a pronounced backbone. My "Friday" was not sociable. I had no books, no newspapers, no magazines or literature of any kind, no game to shoot, no boat wherewith to prosecute fishing in the bay, and no prospect of seeing any one to speak to for weeks, if not months, to come. But I had pen and ink, and, by great good fortune, was in possession of a blank paper book fully an inch thick.

These, then, were the circumstances in which I began my first book.

When that book was finished, and, not long afterwards, submitted to the--I need hardly say favourable--criticism of my mother, I had not the most distant idea of taking to authorship as a profession. Even when a printer-cousin, seeing the MS., offered to print it, and the well-known Blackwood, of Edinburgh, seeing the book, offered to publish it--and did publish it--my ambition was still so absolutely asleep that I did not again put pen to paper in _that_ way for eight years thereafter, although I might have been encouraged thereto by the fact that this first book--named "Hudson's Bay"--besides being a commercial success, received favourable notice from the press.

It was not until the year 1854 that my literary path was opened up. At that time I was a partner in the late publishing firm of Constable & Co. of Edinburgh. Happening one day to meet with the late William Nelson, publisher, I was asked by him how I should like the idea of taking to literature as a profession. My answer I forget. It must have been vague, for I had never thought of the subject before.

"Well," said he, "what would you think of trying to write a story?"

Somewhat amused, I replied that I did not know what to think, but I would try if he wished me to do so.

"Do so," said he, "and go to work at once"--or words to that effect.

I went to work at once, and wrote my first story or work of fiction. It was published in 1855 under the name of "Snowflakes and Sunbeams; or, The Young Furtraders." Afterwards the first part of the title was dropped, and the book is now known as "The Young Furtraders." From that day to this I have lived by making story-books for young folk.

From what I have said it will be seen that I have never aimed at the achieving of this position, and I hope that it is not presumptuous in me to think--and to derive much comfort from the thought--that God led me into the particular path along which I have walked for so many years.

The scene of my first story was naturally laid in those backwoods with which I was familiar, and the story itself was founded on the adventures and experiences of myself and my companions. When a second book was required of me, I stuck to the same regions, but changed the locality. When casting about in my mind for a suitable subject, I happened to meet with an old retired "Nor'wester" who had spent an adventurous life in Rupert's Land. Among other duties he had been sent to establish an outpost of the Hudson Bay Company at Ungava Bay, one of the most dreary parts of a desolate region. On hearing what I wanted he sat down and wrote a long narrative of his proceedings there, which he placed at my disposal, and thus furnished me with the foundation of "Ungava."

But now I had reached the end of my tether, and when a third story was wanted I was compelled to seek new fields of adventure in the books of travellers. Regarding the Southern seas as the most romantic part of the world--after the backwoods!--I mentally and spiritually plunged into those warm waters, and the dive resulted in the "Coral Island."

It now began to be borne in upon me that there was something not quite satisfactory in describing, expatiating on, and energising in, regions which one has never seen. For one thing, it was needful to be always carefully on the watch to avoid falling into mistakes geographical, topographical, natural-historical, and otherwise.

For instance, despite the utmost care of which I was capable while studying up for the "Coral Island," I fell into a blunder through ignorance in regard to a familiar fruit. I was under the impression that cocoanuts grew on their trees in the same form as that in which they are usually presented to us in grocers' windows--namely, about the size of a large fist with three spots at one end. Learning from trustworthy books that at a certain stage of development the nut contains a delicious beverage like lemonade, I sent one of my heroes up a tree for a nut, through the shell of which he bored a hole with a penknife. It was not till long after the story was published that my own brother--who had voyaged in Southern seas--wrote to draw my attention to the fact that the cocoanut is nearly as large as a man's head, and its outer husk is over an inch thick, so that no ordinary penknife could bore to its interior! Of course I should have known this, and, perhaps, should be ashamed of my ignorance, but, somehow, I'm not!

I admit that this was a slip, but such, and other slips, hardly justify the remark that some people have not hesitated to make, namely, that I have a tendency to draw the long bow. I feel almost sensitive on this point, for I have always laboured to be true to nature and to fact even in my wildest flights of fancy.

This reminds me of the remark made to myself once by a lady in reference to this same "Coral Island." "There is one thing, Mr. Ballantyne," she said, "which I really find it hard to believe. You make one of your three boys dive into a clear pool, go to the bottom, and then, turning on his back, look up and wink and laugh at the other two."

"No, no, not '_laugh_,'" said I, remonstratively.

"Well, then, you make him smile."

"Ah, that is true, but there is a vast difference between laughing and smiling under water. But is it not singular that you should doubt the only incident in the story which I personally verified? I happened to be in lodgings at the seaside while writing that story, and, after penning the passage you refer to, I went down to the shore, pulled off my clothes, dived to the bottom, turned on my back, and, looking up, I smiled and winked."

The lady laughed, but I have never been quite sure, from the tone of that laugh, whether it was a laugh of conviction or of unbelief. It is not improbable that my fair friend's mental constitution may have been somewhat similar to that of the old woman who declined to believe her sailor-grandson when he told her he had seen flying-fish, but at once recognised his veracity when he said he had seen the remains of Pharaoh's chariot wheels on the shores of the Red Sea.

Recognising, then, the difficulties of my position, I formed the resolution to visit--when possible--the scenes in which my stories were laid; converse with the people who, under modification, were to form the _dramatis personæ_ of the tales, and, generally, to obtain information in each case, as far as lay in my power, from the fountain head.

Thus, when about to begin "The Lifeboat," I went to Ramsgate, and, for some time, was hand and glove with Jarman, the heroic coxswain of the Ramsgate boat, a lion-like as well as lion-hearted man, who rescued hundreds of lives from the fatal Goodwin Sands during his career. In like manner, when getting up information for "The Lighthouse," I obtained permission from the Commissioners of Northern Lights to visit the Bell Rock Lighthouse, where I hobnobbed with the three keepers of that celebrated pillar-in-the-sea for three weeks, and read Stevenson's graphic account of the building of the structure in the library, or visitors' room, just under the lantern. I was absolutely a prisoner there during those three weeks, for no boats ever came near us, and it need scarcely be said that ships kept well out of our way. By good fortune there came on a pretty stiff gale at the time, and Stevenson's thrilling narrative was read to the tune of whistling winds and roaring seas, many of which latter sent the spray right up to the lantern and caused the building, more than once, to quiver to its foundation.

In order to do justice to "Fighting the Flames" I careered through the streets of London on fire-engines, clad in a pea-jacket and a black leather helmet of the Salvage Corps. This, to enable me to pass the cordon of police without question--though not without recognition, as was made apparent to me on one occasion at a fire by a fireman whispering confidentially, "I know what _you_ are, sir, you're a hamitoor!"

"Right you are," said I, and moved away in order to change the subject.

It was a glorious experience, by the way, this galloping on fire-engines through the crowded streets. It had in it much of the excitement of the chase--possibly that of war--with the noble end in view of saving instead of destroying life! Such tearing along at headlong speed; such wild roaring of the firemen to clear the way; such frantic dashing aside of cabs, carts, 'buses, and pedestrians; such reckless courage on the part of the men, and volcanic spoutings on the part of the fires! But I must not linger. The memory of it is too enticing. "Deep Down" took me to Cornwall, where, over two hundred fathoms beneath the green turf, and more than half-a-mile out under the bed of the sea, I saw the sturdy miners at work winning copper and tin from the solid rock, and acquired some knowledge of their life, sufferings, and toils.

In the land of the Vikings I shot ptarmigan, caught salmon, and gathered material for "Erling the Bold." A winter in Algiers made me familiar with the "Pirate City." I enjoyed a fortnight with the hearty inhabitants of the Gull Lightship off the Goodwin Sands; and went to the Cape of Good Hope, and up into the interior of the Colony, to spy out the land and hold intercourse with "The Settler and the Savage"--although I am bound to confess that, with regard to the latter, I talked to him only with mine eyes. I also went afloat for a short time with the fishermen of the North Sea in order to be able to do justice to "The Young Trawler."

To arrive still closer at the truth, and to avoid errors, I have always endeavoured to submit my proof sheets, when possible, to experts and men who knew the subjects well. Thus, Capt. Shaw, late chief of the London Fire Brigade, kindly read the proofs of "Fighting the Flames," and prevented my getting off the rails in matters of detail, and Sir Arthur Blackwood, financial secretary to the General Post Office, obligingly did me the same favour in regard to "Post Haste."

One other word in conclusion. Always, while writing--whatever might be the subject of my story--I have been influenced by an undercurrent of effort and desire to direct the minds and affections of my readers towards the higher life.

_Trials And Troubles of an Artist._

BY FRED MILLER.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. M. JESSOP.

Are any professional men so liable to public insults as painters? Only last summer a new, and I think unique, type of insult was dropped upon me. I had a picture in hand, and wanted a bit of background to complete it. I had seen just the very thing near Twickenham, so, taking my sketching-box and camp-stool, I trained out, and in due course started work. Although I was painting by the side of a public road, the traffic was small and the passers-by few. Still there _were_ passers-by, mostly children, with their nurses or governesses. I am too used to being looked at to take any notice of those who try to peep as they pass, and I soon got quite absorbed in my task. Presently, I was aroused from my artistic abstraction by a little girl dropping a penny in my box, and before I had time to explain, expostulate, or thank her, she had run away. "The world is less hard-hearted than I thought," was my reflection as I resumed painting. A little while after this I noticed, during the pauses of my work, another little girl hovering about me in an undecided sort of way. After a few moments' indecision, _she_ dropped a penny in my box and disappeared. "This is encouraging," I said to myself, "I shall certainly come here again."

I resumed my sketch, when presently a young girl with two children came and stood near me. These were of a different class. There was no timidity or reticence about them. After standing at my side, and finding that they could not see to advantage, the three sidled round to the back, and gradually edged themselves nearer and nearer until they commanded a satisfactory view of the sketch.

They watched in silence for awhile, and then the girl said--"You ain't done much yet. 'Spose you're going to finish it at 'ome?"

The tone of her voice made me inclined to humour her, so I replied--

"Well, you see, miss, I haven't taken enough yet. Can't afford to go home on twopence."

"_My_ brother paints. He's in the sixth standard. I give 'im a box of paints on his birthday, and he's going to paint me a picture for my bedroom."

The gulf that _might_ have divided us was bridged now, so I got what satisfaction I could out of her chatter.

"I wish I could paint. I'd like to do them tex's what they gives yer at Sunday school."

"Oh, that's the line you'd like to take up, Julia, is it?"

Another pause.

"D'yer like them paintin's what they gives yer at the tea grocers? My brother says 'e's going to paint them sort when 'e gets them colours what you squeezes out of tubes; you know, like them ladies' tormenters, same as you gets on Bank 'olidays on 'Ampstead 'Eath."

I wanted to go on with my picture, so I suggested to Julia (I had no reason to suppose that her name was not Julia) that it was getting near tea-time.

"Oh, is it," she said; "come along, Halbert." Then, turning to me, she added--"Are yer comin' to-morrer? I'd like yer to see my brother's paintin's."

"That depends upon how much I make to-day, Julia," I answered--"whether the 'pitch' is a good one or not."

"Oh," said Julia, thoughtfully; "I'd like yer to come to-morrer," and then as she passed she dropped a halfpenny into my box.

On other occasions, when out painting in poor neighbourhoods, my easel, camp-stool, and self have been used as "home" in games like "Hi-spi-hoy" and "Hoop," and I have, during the progress of my sketch, been more than once in imminent danger of being carried away, and my kit sent flying, during a sudden rush of the excited players. But even such an indignity as this does not touch bottom. Boys have before now made me a "Harbour of Refuge," with the poetry left out, and bricks and various missiles substituted. They have dodged behind me to escape the consequences of "cheekiness" to bigger boys, and have used my canvas as a screen to shield off stones.

And what are you to do? Just at that moment, in all likelihood, you are putting in a crisp, telling touch that will "do the trick," and if the news were brought to you that your favourite aunt had fallen downstairs, it would not be sufficient to make you rise from off your camp-stool.

I was sketching once near a row of those cheap one-storied cottages, generally called Villa This and Villa That, inhabited by a tribe the mothers of which seem always to have a baby on hand, and several others in various stages of development. These children spend most of their time, so far as I can judge, in hanging about, just outside the front garden, waiting for something to turn up to amuse them, and I had been much bothered by their creeping round behind me, or edging closer and closer to my side, and occasionally shoving each other so as to shake me or my sketch. I tried to forget them, and maintained a chilling silence. The numbers, however, kept on increasing, and presently games were projected in my immediate vicinity, as though I were the centre of gravity, or the hub of the universe. The climax was reached when a young nurse, aged seven or thereabouts, with a child just on the brink of independence in her arms, came up and said--

"D'yer mind me leaving my baby here, while I have a game with the Tubbses? She'll be all right if I sit her on your jacket."

Nice thing when seeking material for a masterpiece for next year's Academy to be asked to look after baby!

The remarks made by street loafers and errand-boys, too, who stand at your elbow for half-an-hour at a stretch, are not encouraging, as a rule. One boy, in what he considers a tone of confidence, will say to another--

"S'elp me, Bob, aint 'e a doin' it a fair treat."

"Carry me out" (it is impossible to write "out" as _they_ pronounce it), "'Arree, ain't it fine" (rising intonation on the "I")--"I wish I wos a bloomin' hartist."

"Don't 'e fancy 'isself, just."

It is difficult to keep quietly on at work with every appearance of indifference under such circumstances. It is also exasperating to be called "Matey," as though you were a pal of theirs, and lived on the same landing. Yet these are only a few of the indignities with which a poor artist has to put up.

Who has not, when on a sketching tour, felt the contempt that the bucolic mind has for a man who, day after day, and week after week, sits out of doors on his camp-stool, doing his best to catch some of Nature's mystery and fleeting beauty, and give it an abiding place on his canvas.

My friend S---- is a big, healthy, bearded fellow, who looks as though he could pick half-hundred weights up in each hand with the ease that I pick up my palette. The following dialogue took place on one occasion between him and an elderly rustic who had been standing watching him for some time, as he sat by the roadside, painting.

"No offence, sir," said the agriculturist, "but is anything the matter wi' yer?"

"No," answered S---- "What makes you ask?"

"Yer hain't lame, are yer?"

"Lame! Good gracious, no!"

"You hain't 'ad a misfortune in any way? The sciatics or lumbager, that's kind o' laid yer by?"

"No, I'm as well as I have always been."

"An' yer call yerself a man and can sit theer a doin' o' that. Well, I'm d----d!"

I never go out sketching without feeling this silent contempt, for it is only rarely that it finds expression. The remarks made by villagers show how utterly unable they are to grasp the idea of anyone valuing an artist's efforts. The old story of the painter who was asked by the farmer whose cow he had been drawing, what the said picture might be worth when finished, is typical.

"Oh, I hope to get thirty pounds for it if it is well hung," explained the artist.

"Thutty pound for the mere picture!" cried the old fellow in astonishment. "Why, I'd sell you the old cow itself for ten."

A spirit of commiseration underlies a good many of the remarks made by the bucolic. I went down on one occasion to see a couple of painters who had taken a small cottage at one and sixpence a week in order to paint some orchard pictures. When their neighbours, who were farm hands, got to know them a bit, they were very friendly disposed, and made them presents of vegetables, and one old fellow who was reputed to have "saved a smart bit o' money," said to one of the "painter chaps," as they were called--

"There don't seem much of a living in your business, sir. I s'pose trade's a bit dull with ye, now folks is a spring cleaning. What do yer say now to paintin' my cart in yer dinner hour? I shall want it done afore long, and I'd like to gie ye the job, for a shilling or two down't come amiss to any of us. Do it now?"

Another job refused by these same artists was to clean and touch up an old picture that had been bought for a few shillings at a sale. The old chap who had purchased it went so far as to offer them a shilling to do the work, and that offer being declined, he threw in a pint of stout as an additional inducement.

A friend who had painted a 50 x 40 canvas outside during one summer, spending some five or six weeks upon it, told me that one old chap, who looked like a jobbing gardener, used to pass by every day, and invariably stayed to stare at the work, but always at a respectful distance, and it was not until the picture was nearly completed that he broke the silence.

"D'yer moind me 'aving a look at it, sir?"