ouses 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 tryi