HANAN AND HIS FAVOURITE DOG 295

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 299

MR. STEVENSON'S HOUSE IN SAMOA 301

MRS. R. L. STEVENSON 305

STEVENSON TELLING 'YARNS' 307

[Illustration: drawing, signed: Walter Besant]

MY FIRST BOOK

'_READY MONEY MORTIBOY_'

BY WALTER BESANT

[Illustration]

Not the very first. That, after causing its writer labour infinite, hope
exaggerated, and disappointment dire, was consigned, while still in
manuscript, to the flames. My little experience, however, with this work
of Art, which never saw the light, may help others to believe, what is
so constantly denied, that publishers _do_ consider MSS. sent to them.
My MS. was sent anonymously, without any introduction, through a friend.
It was not only read--and refused--but it was read very conscientiously
and right through. So much was proved by the reader's opinion, which not
only showed the reasons--good and sufficient reasons--why he could not
recommend the manuscript to be published, but also contained,
indirectly, certain hints and suggestions, which opened up new ideas as
to the Art of Fiction, and helped to put a strayed sheep in the right
way. Now it is quite obvious that what was done for me must be
constantly and consistently done for others. My very first novel,
therefore, was read and refused. Would that candidates for literary
honours could be made to understand that refusal is too often the very
best thing that can happen to them! But the gods sometimes punish man by
granting his prayers. How heavy may be the burden laid upon the writer
by his first work! If anyone, for instance, should light upon the first
novels written by Richard Jefferies, he will understand the weight of
that burden.

My first MS., therefore, was destined to get burned or somehow
destroyed. For some years it lay in a corner--say, sprawled in a
corner--occupying much space. At dusk I used to see a strange, wobbling,
amorphous creature in that corner among those papers. His body seemed
not made for his limbs, nor did these agree with each other, and his
head was out of proportion to the rest of him. He sat upon the pile of
papers, and he wept, wringing his hands. 'Alas!' he said: 'Not another
like me. Don't make another like me. I could not endure ano