Bradenham： June 29； 1889。
My dearest Rider； — I have only a few minutes to write and thank you for your charming gift； but I must not let the week pass over without my doing so。 I think it is got up as well as possible； and the Dedication is most successfully acplished； which must be as gratifying to you as to me。 I have not thoroughly looked at the illustrations； but see that they are very much more to be liked than those of the Illustrated News。 Thank you greatly for your excellent work； my dear son。 It certainly redounds greatly to you； dearest Rider； whatever the critics may say； and I have no doubt they will do their worst。 But I think posterity will do justice to your production。 I will write no more as I cannot easily add to this。
Your ever most affectionate Mother；
Ella Haggard。
There is also a letter from my father in which he says that my mother opened and looked at the book “not without tears。” Whether she ever read it herself I do not know； for by this time her sight was failing much。
A few months later I stood at her death…bed and received her last blessing。 But of that long…drawn out and very sad scene； even after the lapse of two…and…twenty years； I cannot bear to write。
“Cleopatra” ran serially through the Illustrated London News before its appearance in book form。 It is a work that has found many friends； but my recollection is that； as my mother foresaw； it was a good deal attacked by the critics who were angry that； after Shakespeare’s play； I should dare to write of Cleopatra。 However； I have not kept any of the notices； indeed I think I saw but few。 Of professional critics already I began to feel a certain repletion。 Little do these gentlemen know the harm that they do sometimes。 A story es into my mind in illustration of this truth。 One day； years later； I was in the little writing…room of the Savile Club； that on the first floor with fern…cases in the windows where one may not smoke。 At least； so things were when I ceased to be a member。 Presently Thomas Hardy entered and took up one of the leading weekly papers in which was a long review of his last novel。 He read it； then came to me — there were no others in the room — and pointed out a certain passage。
“There’s a nice thing to say about a man！” he exclaimed。 “Well； I’ll never write another novel。”
And he never did。 This happened quite fifteen years ago。 By the way； the Savile was a very pleasant club in the late ‘eighties。 There was a certain table in the corner； near the window； where a little band of us were wont to lunch on Saturdays： Lang； Gosse； Besant； A。 Ross； Loftie； Stevenson （the cousin of the writer）； Eustace Balfour； and some others。 Of this pany the most are dead； though I believe Gosse still lunches there。 He must feel himself to be a kind of monument erected over many graves。 The last time that I visited the club there was not a soul in the place whom I knew。 So feeling lonely and over…oppressed by sundry memories； I sent in my resignation of membership。 But often as I walk down Piccadilly I look at that table through the window and think of many things； and especially of the genial talk of Walter Besant； whose funeral I attended now so long ago。 Surely he was one of the best and kindest…hearted gentlemen that ever wrote a book。 Long may his memory remain green in the annals of literature for which he did so much。
I think that about this time I must have bee rather sickened of the novel…writing trade and despondent as regards my own powers。 This I conclude from an undated and unaddressed note which I find among Lang’s letters of the period。 It runs：
Dear Haggard； — If you jack up Literature； I shall jack up Reading。 Of course I know the stuff is the thing； but the ideal thing would be the perfection of stuff and the perfection of style； and we don’t often get that； except from Henry Fielding。 Yes； I believe in “Jess”； but you can’t expect me to be in love with all your women； the heart devoted to Ayesha has no room for more。 Probably I think more highly of your books than you do； and I was infinitely more anxious for your success than for my own； which is not an excitement to me。 But Lord love you； it would be log…rollery to say that in a review。
Yours ever；
A。 L。
I have not the faintest idea of the genesis of this note。 I presume； however； that Lang had aimed some of his barbed shafts at me； probably in conversation； and that I had written to him petulantly。 Anyhow his answer is most kind and nice。
The next letter in the bunch； dated May 9th （year missing）； says：
I am much grieved by the death of Umslopogaas。 I have written his epitaph in Greek and in English verses。 ＇N。B。 — These fine verses now appear upon the title…page of “Allan Quatermain。” I remember Mrs。 Lang telling me that “Andrew had wasted an entire day in their position。”＇
“Allan Quatermain；” after running through Longmans’ Magazine； came out about the end of June 1887。 Charles Longman； in a letter dated June 20th； writes：
You have broken the record — at least so I am told。 We have subscribed over 10；000 copies of “Quatermain” in London； which they say is more than has ever been subscribed of a 6 — novel before。 。 。 。 We printed 20；000 of “Quatermain；” as you know and we are now ordering paper in readiness for another lot。
This tale proved； and has remained； a general favourite； the Zulu in it； old Umslopogaas； being a very popular character with all classes of readers； and especially among boys。
Here is a letter from one who was a boy then； but has since bee a very famous man； namely Mr。 Winston Churchill； in which he expresses his critical opinion of the work。 To this I append a letter from his aunt； Lady Leslie； whom I used to know well； in which she expresses her critical opinion of Mr。 Winston Churchill in his youth。 I am sorry to say that I cannot remember whether the meeting she was trying to arrange did or did not take place。
46 Grosvenor Square； W。
Dear Mr。 Haggard； — Thank you so much for sending me “Allan Quatermain；” it was so good of you。 I like “A。 Q。” better than “King Solomon’s Mines”； it is more amusing。
I hope you will write a great many more books。
I remain；
Yours truly；
Winston S。 Churchill。
11 Stratford Place； W。
February 11； 1888。
Dear Mr。 Haggard； — The little boy Winston came here yesterday morning； not having been in London on Sunday； and beseeching me to take him to see you before he returns to school at the end of the month。 I don’t wish to bore so busy a man as yourself； but will you； when you have time； please tell me； shall I bring him on Wednesday next； when Mrs。 Haggard said she would be at home？ Or do you prefer settling to e here some afternoon when I could have the boy to meet you？ He really is a very interesting being； though temporarily uppish from the restraining parental hand being in Russia。
Yours very truly；
Constance Leslie。
By one of the saddest of all coincidences； if such things are pure coincidence； “Allan Quatermain” opens with a description of the death of Quatermain’s only son。 I dedicated it to my only son； and shortly afterwards that fate overtook him also！
I find letters from Lang imploring me not to kill Allan Quatermain。 But when he wrote Allan had already been killed； and how could the end of the story be altered？ Besides his day was done and his tale told。 But he left others behind him。
Before finally leaving the subject of “Cleopatra” I will quote a couple of letters that I received from W。 E。 Henley。 I should here mention that I was well acquainted with this able and interesting man； some of whose poems will； I think； survive in our literature。
I remember once driving to the British Museum with him and Lang； or it may have been Gosse； or both of them； in a four…wheeled cab； to see some Japanese prints that were on show。 On the way I told him that personally I admired statuary； and especially Greek statuary； much more than I did pictorial art。 He was greatly astonished。
“I think it wonderful；” he said； “that you being what you are； and your work what it is； you should prefer form to colour。”
It seemed curious to him that a man who wrote romances should have other sides to his nature。 He was extremely fond of war and fighting； witness his