in one-volume form.

'The Witch's Head' was very well reviewed; indeed, in one or two cases,
the notices were almost enthusiastic, most of all when they dealt with
the African part of the book, which I had inserted as padding, the fight
between Jeremy and the Boer giant being singled out for especial praise.
Whatever it may lack, one merit this novel has, however, that was
overlooked by all the reviewers. Omitting the fictitious incidents
introduced for the purposes of the story, it contains an accurate
account of the great disaster inflicted upon our troops by the Zulus at
Isandhlwana. I was in the country at the time of the massacre, and heard
its story from the lips of survivors; also, in writing of it, I studied
the official reports in the blue books and the minutes of the court
martial.

[Illustration: MR. RIDER HAGGARD]

'The Witch's Head' attained the dignity of being pirated in America, and
in England went out of print in a few weeks, but no argument that I
could use would induce my publishers to re-issue it in a one volume
edition. The risk was too great, they said. Then it was I came to the
conclusion that I would abandon the making of books. The work was very
hard, and when put to the test of experience the glamour that surrounds
this occupation vanished. I did not care much for the publicity it
involved, and, like most young authors, I failed to appreciate being
sneered at by anonymous critics who happened not to admire what I wrote,
and whom I had no opportunity of answering. It is true that then, as
now, I liked the work for its own sake. Indeed, I have always thought
that literature would be a charming profession if its conditions allowed
of the depositing of manuscripts, when completed, in a drawer, there to
language in obscurity, or of their private publication only. But I could
not afford myself these luxuries. I was too modest to hope for any
renown worth having, and for the rest the game seemed scarcely worth the
candle. I had published a history and two novels. On the history I had
lost fifty pounds, on the first novel I had made ten pounds, and on the
second fifty; net profit on the three, ten pounds, which in the case of
a man with other occupations and duties did not appear to be an adequate
return for the labour involved. But I was not destined to escape thus
from the toils of romance. One day I chanced to read a clever article in
favour of boys' books, and it occurred to me that I might be ab