The Chronicles of the Imp: A Romance

Mr. Jeffery Farnol is an Englishman, and his best-known book, The Broad Highway, is redolent of the atmosphere of his native country. Nevertheless it was written in the United States of America, and perhaps it has enjoyed its greatest popularity there. Yet three American publishers refused the book, and so Mr. Farnol is one of a long list of authors who have worked their way through much tribulation to success. I confess that such episodes in the romance of publishing attract me mightily. I rather like to hear of the short-sighted publisher who rejects an author's book and finds out, when too late, that he has lost money and reputation by his lack of prescience. And I like also to hear the story of the loyal friend who, reading a manuscript, stands by his judgment and introduces that friend to a publisher, with the happiest results for both. That is Mr. Farnol's personal romance. The friend in question was Mr. Shirley Byron Jevons, to whom the manuscript was sent from America. Mr. Jevons, after an enthusiastic perusal, carried it to Mr. Fred J. Rymer, a director of Sampson Low, Marston & Co., the publishers. The book was published, and a sale throughout the English-speaking world of 600,000 was the result. I hope I may be forgiven for recalling that Mr. Rymer brought the manuscript to me. Well do I remember his enthusiasm and my lack of it. I have read too many manuscripts in my life as an editor ever to wish to usurp the duties of a publisher or of a publisher's literary adviser. I should hate the life. Think of that publisher and what he would feel about you if perchance you had persuaded him to refuse this or that "best-seller," as our American friends call the very popular book. Imagine the feelings of the publishers whose readers advised them to refuse Charlotte Bronte's Professor without at the same time persuading the author to write a Jane Eyre. But Mr. Rymer was an old acquaintance and I promised to read his new-found story. I added the remark, I remember, that I was rather used to publishers counting their geese as swans. Mr. Rymer told me long afterwards that he brought the book to me because he knew of my devotion to George Borrow.

In any case I read The Broad Highway with avidity, and recognised at once--as who would not have done?--that here was a striking addition to picaresque romances, that the author had not read Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and the best stories by Defoe and Fielding for nothing, nor had he walked along the broad highways of England without observation and profit any more than had the creator of Lavengro and Romany Rye. For the vast multitude of readers of each epoch the dictum of Emerson stands: "Every age must write its own books." It is of no use for the pedantic critic to affirm, with pontifical fervour, that Cervantes and Le Sage and Defoe are masters of literature and that our contemporaries are but pigmies in comparison. The great reading public of any age will not be bullied into reading the authors who have reached the dignity of classics. The writer who can catch some element of the spirit of the "masters" and modernise it, is destined to win the favour of the crowd. And thus Mr. Jeffery Farnol has entered into his kingdom.

Mr. Farnol was born in Birmingham some thirty-six years ago. His early years were spent at Lee, in Kent, where he and a younger brother Ewart, who fell in the Boer War, went to school. Our author recalls with gratitude that his mother never failed to believe in his possession of a literary gift, and had, in his boyhood, hopes of seeing him an author, and faith that he would be a successful one. But circumstances seemed to throw him into a quite different kind of activity, and everything pointed to the probability that his livelihood would be obtained in a world remote from literature. Schooldays were followed by an apprenticeship to engineering in London and in Birmingham. His experience included the work of the smithy, which must have been of service to him when he came to write The Broad Highway. Very badly equipped for the struggle of life in a strange land he rashly betook himself to New York, where his wife--he married when quite young--had friends. I imagine that a great gulf is fixed between the world to which Mr. Farnol introduces us in his romances and the early struggles that he met with in New York. For a long period he was a scene painter at the Astor Theatre, "and must," a friend assures us, "have daubed miles of scenery in his time." His income from this work was supplemented by the sale of occasional short stories. And then, in this most practical of cities, amid an atmosphere of up-to-dateness and progress of which those who only know the quieter ways of London can form no idea, he wrote his romance of an unprogressive world with stage coaches, boxers, and idyllic love--the world that Mr. Austin Dobson has so happily presented in his poem, "A Gentleman of the Old School":