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THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
my hand, with results that shall be told later. These, however,
did not alarm me at the time, if I really considered them, as,
having then passed my fi nal examination for the Bar without
any assistance in the way of coaching, I determined to abandon the writing of fi ction and devote myself entirely to my
profession.
Three works had I produced, namely, one history and two
long novels. The history had cost me 50 pounds to publish, and
for the two novels I had received exactly the same sum in all;
in short, the net returns were at that time nothing, and this for
books that have since sold by the ten thousand copies, not to
mention pirated editions. Thus I fi nd that, during six months
of the present year, 4204 copies of “Dawn” and 5656 copies of
“The Witch’s Head” were sold in a cheap edition, besides others at a higher price, which, as these works were written about
twenty-eight years ago, is not a total to be despised.
To return: had it not been for a curious chance my literary
efforts would have ended with the publication of “The Witch’s
Head,” and probably by now my labours at the Bar in this or
some other land would almost have obliterated them from my
memory. But, as it happened, I read in one of the weekly papers
a notice of Stevenson’s “Treasure Island” so laudatory that I
procured and studied that work, and was impelled by its perusal to try to write a book for boys.
Outside of this matter of my attempts at fi ction I have little to add as to our life at Ditchingham before we migrated
to London when I began to practise at the Bar. We lived very
quietly, for we were not well off, and an estate which used to
produce suffi cient to support a country place of the smaller
sort and those who dwelt on it, began to show greatly lessened
261
H. RIDER HAGGARD
returns. The bad years were upon us, and rents fell rapidly;
moreover the repairs required were legion. Also, from one
cause, and another, little or nothing came out of the African
property, which shared in the depression that followed on the
giving back of the Transvaal.
Under these circumstances, outside members of my own
family our visitors were few, and in the main we had to rely
on ourselves and our little children for company. I should add
that in 1884 another daughter was born to us, who is now Mrs.
Cheyne. She was named Dorothy, after the heroine of “The
Witch’s Head,” or in full, Sybil Dorothy Rider. My recollection
of this period is that it was rather lonely, at any rate for me,
since my friends were African, and Africa was far away. However, I worked very hard, as indeed I have done without intermission since I was a rather idle boy at school, both at writing
and the study of the Law. Between the intervals of work I took
walks with a dear old bulldog I had, named Caesar, who appears in “Dawn,” and a tall Kaffi r stick made of the black and
white umzimbeet wood, which I still have, that reminded me of
Africa. At times, too, I got a day’s shooting on our own land or
elsewhere.
However, I had so many resources in my own mind, and so
much more to do than I could possibly compass, that all these
matters troubled me not at all. I was determined to make a
success in the world in one way or another, and that of a sort
which would cause my name to be remembered for long after
I had departed therefrom, and my diffi culty was to discover in
which way this could best be done – in short, to search out the
line of least resistance. So I possessed my soul in patience and
worked and worked and worked. Often I wonder what esti-
262
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
mate those who lived about me, and whom I met from time to
time, formed of the studious young man who was understood
to have been somewhere in Africa. I imagine that it was not
complimentary, for if I understood them they did not understand me.
Some pleasures I had, however. My journeys to London to
eat my dinners at Lincoln’s Inn were a change. So were the examinations, though these I faced with fear and trembling, having read up for them entirely by myself, which I imagine few
people do. Occasionally some of my old African friends came
to see me when they were on visits to England. Thus Sir Theophilus Shepstone came, and with what delight did I welcome
him! Here is an extract from a letter of his, in which he alludes
to his proposed visit, dated from London on May 26, 1883:
I have only just received your note of the 23rd. I see that
you sent it to the Colonial Offi ce, but I have not yet been there,
for I don’t think they care much for me, except perhaps a few
personal friends, and with the same exception the feeling is
mutual as far as I am concerned. I think I shall make my number there about noon on Monday for the purpose of seeing
those I care for, but for nothing else. I shall be very glad indeed
to have a look at you again. How is your good wife? I hope well
and strong.
Another letter from Sir Theophilus in this year has some
allusions of more general interest, so I will quote most of it:
1 Charles Street, London: August 21, 1883.
My dear Rider, – Your warm-hearted and to me most
touching farewell letter reached me last night on my return from a few days’ rushing about the country to say
some good-byes.
263
H. RIDER HAGGARD
I am sure I need not say, although it is pleasant to me
to say it, that all the affectionate feeling which I know you
entertain for me fi lls a warm place in my heart for you and
for your dear wife. May God bless and prosper you both!
Of course no one can tell what may happen in the future,
or whether this is a permanent or only a temporary parting. At the dinner which was given me by the Empire Club
Sir Robert Herbert spoke of me and of my services in the
most remarkable language, and said plainly that I was still
a young man so far as capacity for work went, and that he
hoped soon to see me discharging some high function, etc.
for the good of the country, and so on. It appeared as if
he spoke from some intention of which he had knowledge;
but my friend W. Sergeaunt, who sat next to me, said that
if such a speech had been made by anyone else it would
have meant a good deal, as it was it meant nothing; perhaps so. Of course every day I have in England adds to my
consciousness of the infl uence that I could exert if I tried;
but what is the use of it with such an abject Government
as now rules and will for years to come, I fear, rule England?
I am glad that my speech did not wholly disgust you; I
had no idea that the dinner was to be what it was, still less
did I expect that reporters would be there, so I congratulated myself when I sat down. I shall look forward to the
publication of your book with a great deal of interest; the
trouble is that the real merits of a book are not the measure
by which it is meted; as crushed strawberry is preferred to
the beautiful natural colour of the fruit because it happens
to be the fashion of the season, so with books: even they
264
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
must pander to the taste of the hour whether it be good or
bad, or they will not be read and therefore not bought. I
hope, however, that the taste will be good when your book
comes out; because, if it is, I have no doubt of its success....
Always affectionately yours,
T. Shepstone.
Towards the end of this letter Sir Theophilus says he is sailing in a few days for South Africa. I do not think that he ever
saw the shores of England again. It is needless to add that Sir
William Sergeaunt was right in his estimate of the value of Sir
Robert Herbert’s speech. No further permanent employment
was ever offered to him. Indeed, it was after this date that the
persecution of him began, of which I have already written.
In 1883 Osborn wrote me a letter concerning some imantophyllum
1
plants that he had collected for me in Zululand,
which at this moment, twenty-eight years afterwards, are
blooming in the greenhouse, in the course of which letter he
makes some rather interesting remarks.
Zulu Reserve, via Stanger, Natal:
August 2, 1883.
...The place I am living at now is about a hundred miles
south of Inhlazaty and is one of the loveliest spots in South
Africa. I have a very fi ne forest within half a mile of my
house, and a sea view a good sixty miles along the coast.
1
One of these plants was still blooming in Sir Rider’s bedroom
in 1925. – Ed.
265
H. RIDER HAGGARD
My position here as supreme chief representing the paramount Power is certainly an improvement on the last.
You will have learnt ere this of Cetewayo’s fate. It could
not have been otherwise: he was bound to come to grief, as
from the day he set foot in Zululand – since his restoration he has never ceased in doing that which he ought not
to have done. He proved himself to be as bad a character as
ever wore a head-ring. It is to be hoped that he will do better in the happy hunting-grounds whither he betook himself on Saturday, 21 July, through the persuasive infl uence
of several gleaming blades and sundry rifl e bullets. As to
myself I am getting thoroughly sick and tired of this dark
country full of dark deeds of evil and violence.... I suppose
that by this time you will have developed into a full blown
barrister, and I need not tell you that from my heart I wish
you every success. You ought to try for an appointment as
Attorney–General in a colony (Crown), as you have the
pull of private practice in addition to your offi cial employment in such an offi ce.
It is evident that when Sir Melmoth Osborn wrote thus of
the death of Cetewayo as having taken place on July 21, 1883,
he was deceived by some false rumour which had reached the
Reserve from Zululand proper. Cetewayo did not really die
until February 8, 1884, and Osborn saw his corpse before it
was quite cold. An account of the circumstances of his death,
which Sir Melmoth told me afterwards he believed to have
been caused by poison, will be found on pp. 28 and 29 of the
266
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
Introduction to the 1888 and subsequent editions of my book
“Cetewayo and his White Neighbours.”
I think that we left Ditchingham, which at the time I
thought I had let for some years to a gentleman who unhappily died before he took possession, at the beginning of 1885,
about ten years after I began life in South Africa. Now with a
wife and three children I was practically beginning life again
in a small furnished house in West Kensington at the age of
twenty-eight or thereabouts.
I remember, as one does remember trifl es, that we drove in
a railway bus from Liverpool Street to the West Kensington
house, which personally I had not seen. We passed down the
Embankment, and my little son, whom I was destined to lose,
kneeled upon the seat of the bus and stared at the Thames,
asking many questions.
After my arrival in London I began to attend the Probate and Divorce Court. Soon I found, however, that if I was
to obtain a footing in that rather close borough, I must do so
through a regular gate, and I entered into an arrangement
with Bargrave (now Sir Henry Bargrave) Deane to work in
his chambers. He was a connection of mine, my cousin Major George Haggard having married his sister. She died young.
At that time her father, the well-known lawyer old Sir James
Deane, was still alive, and I remember acting as his junior in
some Divorce Court case. Bargrave Deane is now one of the
judges of the Probate and Divorce Division.
267
CHAPTER 10
“KING SOLOMON’S MINES”
AND “SHE”
Whether I wrote “King Solomon’s Mines” before or after I
entered Bargrave Deane’s chambers I cannot now remember,
but I think it must have been before. At any rate I recollect that
we brought up from Ditchingham a certain pedestal writingdesk, which had always been in the house and has returned
thither, for it now stands in my wife’s bedroom, and added it to
the somewhat exiguous furniture of our hired abode. It stood
in the dining-room, and on it in the evenings – for my days
were spent in the Temple – I wrote “King Solomon’s Mines.” I
think the task occupied me about six weeks. When the tale was
fi nished I hawked it round to sundry publishers, Hurst and
Blackett among them, none of whom if I remember rightly,
thought it worth bringing out.
At length, I know not how, the manuscript, which today
presents a somewhat battered appearance, reached the late W.
E. Henley, who appears to have brought it to the notice of Mr.
Andrew Lang. How I fi rst came into contact with my friend
Andrew Lang – that is, where and when I met him – I cannot
recall. This, however, must have been subsequent to the following note:
268
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
1 Marloes Road: March 28 1883.
My dear Sir, – Your paper “Bottles” has reached me as
London editor of Harper’s. I am much pleased by it, but I
am unable to accept anything except by permission of the
American editor.... I am glad to take this opportunity of
thanking you for the great pleasure “The Witch’s Head”
has given me. I have not read anything so good for a long
while.
Faithfully yours,
A. Lang.
What the paper “Bottles” may have been I am not now
quite sure. I think, however, that I can identify it with a short
tale which subsequently appeared in a magazine, perhaps
the Cornhill, under the title of “The Blue Curtains.” At any
rate I have forgotten the circumstances of the story, and do not
know whether a copy of it remains in my possession.
When Lang’s next letter was written – it is only dated
“Sunday” – I gather from its tone that I had made his personal acquaintance. Its subject is “King Solomon’s Mines,” and
it runs:
Dear Mr. Rider Haggard, – I have got so far as Sir Henry’s duel with the king. Seldom have I read a book with so
much pleasure: I think it perfectly delightful. The question
is, what is the best, whereby I mean the coiniest, way to publish it? As soon as possible I will fi nd out what Harper’s Boy’s
Magazine is able to do. I believe that all boys’ magazines
pay hopelessly badly. There is so much invention and imaginative power and knowledge of African character in your
book that I almost prefer it to “Treasure Island.”
269
H. RIDER HAGGARD
The rest of the letter deals with possible methods of
bringing out the work.
Lang’s next letter on the subject is dated October 3rd,
and shows that by now we were on more or less intimate
terms.
Dear Rider Haggard, – Many thanks for “K.S.M.” How
grand the map is.... Abstain from politics; let civilisation die
decently as die it must, and as we have no fi ght in us. I
don’t belong to the Voting classes. Ni Elettori ni Eletti.
Yours very truly,
A. Lang.
P.S. – My people, with whom I have been in Galloway,
prefer “Dawn” to “The Witch’s Head.” I don’t. “Dawn” is
too steep, especially Lady Bellamy, and George, and Philip,
and the heroine. The writing and the sentiment pleased me
very much, but I barred the Astral Body.
Perhaps before I go any further I should try to give some
estimate of Andrew Lang, whose character I have had opportunities of observing through many years. Take him all in all
I think him one of the sweetest-natured and highest-minded
men whom it has ever been my privilege to know, although a
certain obtrusive honesty which will out, and an indifferent
off-handedness of manner, has prevented him from becoming
generally popular. Moreover, he has always been supposed to
be somewhat of a mocker and farceur, as is exemplifi ed in his
Press nickname of “Merry Andrew.” Yet the truth is that his
laughter is often of the sort that is summoned to the lips to
hide tears in the eyes. This may be seen by attentive students
270
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