The Days of My Life, page 1
The Days of My Life
by
Sir Henry Rider Haggard
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
BY
SIR H. RIDER HAGGARD
EDITED BY
C. J. LONGMAN
Contents
VOLUME 1
Preface
Introduction
I. Childhood
II. Youth
III. Natal
IV. The Special Commission to the Transvaal
V. The Annexation
VI. Life in the Transvaal
VII. Marriage
VIII. Our Life at Newcastle
IX. Return to England
X. "King Solomon's Mines" and "She"
XI. Egypt
XII. Iceland
VOLUME 2
XIII. "Eric Brighteyes" and "Nada the Lily"
XIV. Mexico
XV. Andrew Lang
XVI. Miss Ida Hector
XVII. Politics and Town Life
XVIII. Rural England
XIX. Psychical
XX. The Roosevelt Letters
XXI. Report on Labour Colonies
XXII. Royal Commission on Coast Erosion and Afforestation
XXIII. A Note on Religion
Appendix
VOLUME 1
PREFACE
Henry Rider Haggard was born on June 22, 1856, and died on May 14, 1925. The present work covers the first fifty-six years of his life, commencing with his earliest recollections and ending on September 25, 1912. On that day he wrote to me: "I have just written the last word of 'The Days of My Life,' and thankful I am to have done with that book. Whenever I can find time and opportunity I wish to add 'A Note on Religion,' which, when done, if ever, I will send to you." This "note" he sent me on January 24, 1913. By his wish the entire MS. was sealed up and put away in Messrs. Longman's safe, and was seen no more till after his death, when it was opened by me in the presence of one of his executors.
Rider Haggard entered on the serious business of life at an early age. He sailed for South Africa in July 1875, when he was only just nineteen, on the staff of Sir Henry Bulwer, the newly appointed Governor of Natal. Eighteen months later he was attached to the special mission to the Transvaal, led by Sir Theophilus Shepstone, which resulted in the annexation of the Transvaal to Great Britain on April 12, 1877. Shortly after the annexation the Master and Registrar of the High Court at Pretoria died, and Haggard was appointed as Acting Master when he was barely twenty-one, an age at which his contemporaries in England were undergraduates at college. This provisional appointment was confirmed a year later.
It can hardly be doubted that this early initiation into affairs had an effect in moulding Rider Haggard's character, and that effect would not be diminished by the tragic nature of the events which quickly followed, with which he was closely connected—Isandlwana, Majuba, and the Retrocession of the Transvaal.
In consequence of the Retrocession he returned to England in the autumn of 1881. His African career was ended, he had a young wife and child, and he still had his way to make in the world. His six years of Africa had, however, not only given him a knowledge of the world and a self-reliance rare in so young a man, but had also enabled him to acquire an intimate knowledge of the history and characteristics of the Native Races, which he was subsequently able to turn to good account.
From the circumstances of his early life he was thrown much into the company of men older than himself, and he had a singular gift of winning not only their confidence, but their love. The happy relations which he was able to establish with his superiors in the Government service are an example of this, and it was a faculty which never left him.
This autobiography deals not only with Haggard's life in South Africa, and with his literary career, but also with an aspect of his many activities which is less familiar to those who knew him mainly as a writer of romances. He was always dominated by a strong sense of duty, and by an ardent patriotism, and the direction in which he thought that he could best serve his country was in an attempt to arrest the rapidly growing migration of population from the country districts to the slums of the towns. He thought that a healthy, contented, and prosperous rural population was the greatest asset that a country could possess, and this work will show with what ardour and energy he devoted himself to the furtherance of this object, and to the prosperity of agriculture generally. He journeyed through twenty-seven countries examining the condition of agriculture, and published the results of this survey in his book "Rural England." This undertaking he described as "the heaviest labour of all my laborious life." Besides this he travelled through the United States and to Canada as a Commissioner appointed by the Colonial Office, to report to the Secretary of State on the Labour Colonies instituted by the Salvation Army. He also served on Royal Commissions which involved much labour and long journeys. If to give unsparingly of one's time and abilities to the service of one's fellow-men, without hope of reward, is to be a philanthropist, surely Rider Haggard deserved that honoured name. But, like many another man who devotes his time to work of this character, he was much discouraged and disappointed because his labours were not crowned by immediate results. Nevertheless, it is probable that the causes for which he worked will, in the long run, triumph, and the work which he gave so unsparingly will not be wasted.
I undertook the preparation of this work for the press because my friend, Rider Haggard, wished me to do so. I hope I have not bungled or failed in the execution of this labour of love. I wish especially to express my gratitude to Miss Hector, who acted as Sir Rider's secretary for thirty-four years, up to the time of his death, for reading the proofs and for her unfailing kindness and help in many ways.
My thanks are also due to various gentlemen for permission to print letters: viz. the Father Superior of Mount Saint Bernard's Abbey for several letters from the late Brother Basil; Mr. E. F. Benson for an extract from a letter of Archbishop Benson; the executors of Sir Walter Besant; Mr. Bramwell Booth, General of the Salvation Army, for letters from himself and from General William Booth; the Earl of Carnarvon for a letter from his grandfather; the Rt. Hon. Winston Churchill for a letter from himself, and one from Lady Leslie; Lady Clarke for a letter from Sir Marshal Clarke; the executors of Miss Marie Corelli; Sir Douglas Dixie, Bart., for a letter from the late Lady Florence Dixie; Lady Gwendolen Elveden for one from the late Earl of Onslow; Sir Bartle Frere for a letter from his father; Sir Edmund Gosse; Earl Grey for letters from his father; the Viscountess Harcourt for letters from the late Viscount Harcourt; Mrs. Hanbury for a letter from the late Rt. Hon. R. W. Hanbury; the executors of the late W. E. Henley; Mr. H. C. L. Holden for a letter from Dr. Holden; Messrs. Hutchinson and Co., Ltd., for a letter from Messrs. Hurst and Blackett; the executors of the late Mr. J. Cordy Jeaffreson; Mr. Rudyard Kipling; Chief Justice J. K. Kotze; Mrs. Andrew Lang for many letters from her husband; Sir Oliver Lodge; the Hon. Mrs. A. Lyttleton; the executors of the late Sir Melmoth Obsorn; Mr. Lloyd Osbourne for five letters and an unpublished poem by R. L. Stevenson; Messrs. G. Routledge and Sons, Ltd., for a letter from Mr. Trubner; the executors of the late President Roosevelt; Colonel Walter Shepstone for letters from his father, Sir Theophilus Shepstone; Miss Townsend for a letter from her father, Mr. Meredith Townsend; Mr. Evelyn Wrench for extracts from the Spectator. I have also to express my thanks to the following gentlemen for kindly reading and consenting to the publication of passages referring to them: Sir E. Wallis Budge, Major Burnham, The Rt. Hon. D. Lloyd George, and Mr. Thomas Hardy, O.M.
July 1926. C. J. Longman.
INTRODUCTION
A while ago, it may have been a year or more, the telephone in this house rang and down the mysterious wire—for notwithstanding a thousand explanations, what is more mysterious than a telephone wire, except a telephone without one?—came an excited inquiry from a London press agency, as to whether I were dead.
Miss Hector, my secretary, answered that to the best of her knowledge and belief I was out walking on my farm in an average state of health. Explanations followed; diversified by telegrams from the Authors' Society and others interested in the continuance or the cessation of my terrestrial life. From these it appeared that, like a sudden wind upon the sea, a rumour had sprung up to the effect that I had vanished from the world.
It was a false rumour, but the day must come, when or how I know not, since Providence in its mercy hides this ultimate issue from our eyes, on which it will be true, and like the storm that I hear raving outside the windows as I write, the elemental forces which are about every one of us will sweep me away as they brought me here and my place will know me no more.
Before this event happens to me, this common, everyday event which excites so little surprise even among those who knew us and yet, whatever his degree or lack of faith, is so important to the individual concerned, shall overtake me, before I too, like the countless millions who have gone before, put on the Purple and have my part in the majesty of Death, it has entered into my mind that I desire to set down, while I still have my full faculties, certain of my own experiences of life.
I have met many men, I have seen many lands, I have known many emotions—all of them, I think, except that of hate; I have played many parts. From all this sum of things, tangible or intangible, hidden now in the heart and the memory, some essence may perhaps be pressed which is worthy of preservation, some picture painted at which eyes unborn may be glad to look. At least, such is my hope.
It is of cours
Still an enormous amount remains of which a man may write without injuring or hurting the feelings of anyone, and by aid of my memory that, although weak enough in many ways, is strong and clear where essentials are concerned, and of the correspondence which, as it chances, I have preserved for years, with some of this matter I propose to deal. After all, a man of normal ability and observation who has touched life at many points, cannot pass fifty-five years in the world without learning much, some of which may prove of use to others, and if he dies leaving his experience unrecorded, then like water thrown upon sand it sinks into the grave with him and there is wasted.
Such are the considerations that lead me to attempt this task.
I suppose that before considering it further the first question that I should ask myself and try to answer is, not to what extent I have achieved success, but by how much I have escaped failure in the world. No positive reply seems possible to this query until I have been dead a good many years, for in such matters time is the only true judge. Yet that final verdict is capable of a certain amount of intelligent, though possibly erroneous anticipation.
Although all my life I have been more or less connected with the Law, for which I have a natural liking, first as the Master of a High Court and subsequently in the modest but I trust useful office of the Chairman of a Bench of Magistrates, I have done nothing at all at my profession at the Bar. In an unfortunate hour, considered from this point of view, I employed my somewhat ample leisure in chambers in writing "King Solomon's Mines." That, metaphorically, settled my legal hash. Had it not been for "King Solomon's Mines," if even in imagination I may dwell upon such splendour, I might possibly have sat some day where sits my old friend and instructor, Sir Henry Bargrave Deane, as a judge of the Court of Probate and Divorce, in which I proposed to practise like my great-uncle, Doctor John Haggard, famous for his Reports, before me.
Well do I remember how, when one day I was seated in this Division watching a case or devilling for somebody, I unconsciously inscribed my name on the nice white blotting-paper before me. Presently from behind me I heard a whisper from some solicitor—I think that was his calling—whom business had brought to the Court:
"Are you Rider Haggard, the man who wrote 'King Solomon's Mines'?" he said, staring at the tell-tale blotting-paper.
I intimated that such was really my name.
"Then, confound you! Sir, you kept me up till three o'clock this morning. But what are you doing here in a wig and gown—what are you doing here?"
Very soon I found cause to echo the question and to answer it in the words, "No good." The British solicitor, and indeed the British client, cannot be induced to put confidence in anyone who has become well known as an author. If he has confined his attention to the writing of law-books, he may be tolerated, though hardly, but if his efforts have been on the imaginative side of literature, then for that man they have no use. That such a person should combine gifts of imagination with forensic aptitude and sound legal knowledge is to them a thing past all belief.
A page or so back I said that my experience might possibly be of use to others, and already the suggestion seems in the way of proof. If what I write should prevent even one young barrister who hopes to make a mark in his profession, from being beguiled into the fatal paths of authorship, I shall not have laboured in vain.
Next, I have never been able to gratify a very earnest ambition of my younger years, namely, to enter Parliament and shine as a statesman. Once I tried: it was at the 1895 election, and I almost carried one of the most difficult seats in England. But almost is not quite, and the awful expense attendant upon contesting a seat in Parliament (in a county division it costs, or used to cost, over 2000 pounds) showed me clearly that, unless they happen to be Labour members, such a career is only open to rich men. Also I came to understand that it would be practically impossible for me both to earn a living by the writing of books and to plunge eagerly into Parliamentary work, as I know well that I should have done. Even if I could have found the time by writing in the mornings—which, where imaginative effort is concerned, has always been distasteful to me—my health would never have borne the double strain.
So that dream had to be abandoned, for which I am sorry. Indeed, a legislative career is about the only one of which the doors are not shut to the writer of fiction, as is proved by many instances, notably that of Disraeli.
Thus it cames about that on these lines I have failed to make any mark. Fate has shut those doors in my face. The truth is that "man knoweth not his own way": he must go where his destiny leads him. Either so or he is afloat upon an ocean of chance, driven hither and thither by its waves, till at length his frail bark is overset or sinks worn out. This, however, I do not believe. If everything else in the universe is governed by law, why should the lot of man alone be excepted from the workings of law?
However this may be, as heralds say in talking of a doubtful descent, whether through appointment or accidentally, it has so come about that, although I have done other things, I must earn my livelihood by the pen. Now of this I should not have complained had I been in a position to choose my own subjects. But unhappily those subjects which attract me, such as agricultural and social research, are quite unremunerative. Everybody talks of the resulting volumes, which receive full and solemn review in all the newspapers, but very few people buy them in these days. So far as I am aware, remunerative books may be divided roughly into three classes: (1) School or technical works, which must be purchased by scholars preparing for examinations, or for the purposes of their profession; (2) religious works, purchased by scholars preparing themselves for a prosperous career in another world; and (3) works of fiction, purchased—or rather borrowed from libraries (if they cost more than fourpence- halfpenny[*])—by persons wishing to be amused. It has been my lot to cater for the last of these three classes, and as there is other work which I should have much preferred to do, I will not pretend that I have found, or find, the occupation altogether congenial, perhaps because at the bottom of my heart I share some of the British contempt for the craft of story-writing.
[*] Written in 1911.—Ed.
I remember a few years ago discussing this matter fully with my friend Mr. Rudyard Kipling, a most eminent practitioner of that craft, and finding that our views upon it were very similar, if not identical. He pointed out, I recollect, that all fiction is in its essence an appeal to the emotions, and that this is not the highest class of appeal. Here, however, we have a subject that might be argued interminably and from many points of view, especially when we bear in mind that there are various classes of imaginative literature. So far as I am concerned the issue is that though I feel myself more strongly drawn to other pursuits, such as administration or politics or even law, I have been called upon to earn the bread of myself and others out of a kind of by-product of my brain which chances to be saleable, namely, the writing of fiction.
It is fortunate for writers that they do not depend wholly upon the verdict of a hundred or so of contemporary critics. The history of literature and art goes to show that contemporary criticism seldom makes and never can destroy a reputation; in short, that Time is the only true critic, and that its verdict is the one we have to fear. It is in the light of this axiom that I proceed to consider my own humble contributions to the sum of romantic literature. I can assure the reader that I approach this not unamusing task without any prejudice in my own favour. The test of work is whether it will or will not live; whether it contains within itself the vital germ necessary to a long-continued existence.
