DOYLE, Arthur Conan - Juvenilia

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JUVENILIA

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"Juvenilia"

By Arthur Conan Doyle

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

JUVENILIA

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

IT is very well for the master craftsman with twenty triumphs behind him to look down the vista

of his successes, and to recall how he picked out the path which has led him to fame, but for the

tiro whose first book is perilously near to his last one it becomes a more invidious matter. His

past presses too closely upon his present, and his reminiscences, unmellowed by the flight of

Tears, are apt to be rawly and crudely personal. And yet even time helps me when I speak of my

first work, for it was written seven-and- twenty years ago.

I was six at the time, and have a very distinct recollection of the achievement. It was written, I

remember, upon foolscap paper, in what might be called a fine bold hand-four words to the line,

and was illustrated by marginal pen-and-ink sketches by the author. There was a man in it, and

there was a tiger. I forget which was the hero, but it didn't matter much, for they became blended

into one about the time when the tiger met the man. I was a realist in the age of the Romanticists

I described at some length, both verbally and pictorially the untimely end of that wayfarer. But

when the tiger had absorbed him, I found myself slightly embarrassed as to how my story was to

go on. 'It is very easy to get people into scrapes, and very hard to get them out again,' I remarked,

and I have often had cause to repeat the precocious aphorism of my childhood. On this occasion

the situation was beyond me, and my book, like my man, was engulfed in my tiger. There is an

old family bureau with secret drawers, in which lie little locks of hair tied up in circles, and black

silhouettes and dim daguerreotypes, and letters which seem to have been written in the lightest of

straw coloured inks. Somewhere there lies my primitive manuscript, where my tiger, like a

many-hooped barrel with a tail to it, still envelops the hapless stranger whom he has taken in.

Then came my second book, which was told and not written, but which was a much more

ambitious effort than the first. Between the two, four years had elapsed, which were mainly spent

in reading. It is rumoured that a special meeting of a library committee was held in my honour, at

which a bye-law was passed that no subscriber should be permitted to change his book more than

three times a day. Yet, even with these limitations, by the aid of a well-stocked bookcase at

home, I managed to enter my tenth year with a good deal in my head that I could never have

learned in the class-rooms.

I do not think that life has any joy to offer so complete, so soul-filling as that which comes upon

the imaginative lad, whose spare time is limited, but who is able to snuggle down into a corner

with his book knowing that the next hour is all his own. And how vivid and fresh it all is! Your

very heart and soul are out on the prairies and the oceans with your hero. It is you who act and

suffer and enjoy. You carry the long small-bore Kentucky rifle with which such egregious things

are done, and you lie out upon the topsail yard, and get jerked by the flap of the sail into the

Pacific, where you cling on to the leg of an albatross, and so keep afloat until the comic

boatswain turns up with his crew of volunteers to handspike you into safety. What a magic it is,

this stirring of the boyish heart and mind! Long ere I came to my teens I had traversed every sea

and knew the Rockies like my own back garden. How often had I sprung upon the back of the

charging buffalo and so escaped him! It was an everyday emergency to have to set the prairie on

fire in front of me in order to escape from the fire behind, or to run a mile down a brook to throw

the bloodhounds off my trail. I had creased horses, I had shot down rapids, I had strapped on my

mocassins hindforemost to conceal my tracks, I had lain under water with a reed in my mouth,

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