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Introduction
A while ago； it may have been a year or more； the telephone in this house rang and down the mysterious wire — for notwithstanding a thousand explanations； what is more mysterious than a telephone wire； except a telephone without one？ — came an excited inquiry from a London press agency； as to whether I were dead。
Miss Hector； my secretary； answered that to the best of her knowledge and belief I was out walking on my farm in an average state of health。 Explanations followed； diversified by telegrams from the Authors’ Society and others interested in the continuance or the cessation of my terrestrial life。 From these it appeared that； like a sudden wind upon the sea； a rumour had sprung up to the effect that I had vanished from the world。
It was a false rumour； but the day must e； when or how I know not； since Providence in its mercy hides this ultimate issue from our eyes； on which it will be true； and like the storm that I hear raving outside the windows as I write； the elemental forces which are about every one of us will sweep me away as they brought me here and my place will know me no more。
Before this event happens to me； this mon； everyday event which excites so little surprise even among those who knew us and yet； whatever his degree or lack of faith； is so important to the individual concerned； shall overtake me； before I too； like the countless millions who have gone before； put on the Purple and have my part in the majesty of Death； it has entered into my mind that I desire to set down； while I still have my full faculties； certain of my own experiences of life。
I have met many men； I have seen many lands； I have known many emotions — all of them； I think； except that of hate； I have played many parts。 From all this sum of things； tangible or intangible； hidden now in the heart and the memory； some essence may perhaps be pressed which is worthy of preservation； some picture painted at which eyes unborn may be glad to look。 At least； such is my hope。
It is of course impossible for anyone； yes； even for a nun in a convent； to set down life’s every detail for the world to stare at； unless indeed such a person were prepared to order the resulting book to be buried for — let us say — five hundred years。 Could such a work be written by a hand adequate to the task； its interest as a human document would be supreme。 Also it would be beautiful in the sense that the naked truth is always beautiful； even when it tells of evil。 Yet I believe that it will never be written。 For were the writer mean enough to draw the veil from the failings of others； he would certainly keep it wrapped about his own。 Only one man； so far as my knowledge goes； has set down the absolute verity about himself； and it is certain that he did not intend that it should e to the printing…press。 I refer to Samuel Pepys。
Still an enormous amount remains of which a man may write without injuring or hurting the feelings of anyone； and by aid of my memory that； although weak enough in many ways； is strong and clear where essentials are concerned； and of the correspondence which； as it chances； I have preserved for years； with some of this matter I propose to deal。 After all； a man of normal ability and observation who has touched life at many points； cannot pass fifty…five years in the world without learning much； some of which may prove of use to others； and if he dies leaving his experience unrecorded； then like water thrown upon sand it sinks into the grave with him and there is wasted。
Such are the considerations that lead me to attempt this task。
I suppose that before considering it further the first question that I should ask myself and try to answer is； not to what extent I have achieved success； but by how much I have escaped failure in the world。 No positive reply seems possible to this query until I have been dead a good many years； for in such matters time is the only true judge。 Yet that final verdict is capable of a certain amount of intelligent； though possibly erroneous anticipation。
Although all my life I have been more or less connected with the Law； for which I have a natural liking； first as the Master of a High Court and subsequently in the modest but I trust useful office of the Chairman of a Bench of Magistrates； I have done nothing at all at my profession at the Bar。 In an unfortunate hour； considered from this point of view； I employed my somewhat ample leisure in chambers in writing “King Solomon’s Mines。” That； metaphorically； settled my legal hash。 Had it not been for “King Solomon’s Mines；” if even in imagination I may dwell upon such splendour； I might possibly have sat some day where sits my old friend and instructor； Sir Henry Bargrave Deane； as a judge of the Court of Probate and Divorce； in which I proposed to practise like my great…uncle； Doctor John Haggard； famous for his Reports； before me。
Well do I remember how； when one day I was seated in this Division watching a case or devilling for somebody； I unconsciously inscribed my name on the nice white blotting…paper before me。 Presently from behind me I heard a whisper from some solicitor — I think that was his calling — whom business had brought to the Court：
“Are you Rider Haggard； the man who wrote ‘King Solomon’s Mines’？” he said； staring at the tell…tale blotting…paper。
I intimated that such was really my name。
“Then； confound you！ Sir； you kept me up till three o’clock this morning。 But what are you doing here in a wig and gown — what are you doing here？”
Very soon I found cause to echo the question and to answer it in the words； “No good。” The British solicitor； and indeed the British client； cannot be induced to put confidence in anyone who has bee well known as an author。 If he has confined his attention to the writing of law…books； he may be tolerated； though hardly； but if his efforts have been on the imaginative side of literature； then for that man they have no use。 That such a person should bine gifts of imagination with forensic aptitude and sound legal knowledge is to them a thing past all belief。
A page or so back I said that my experience might possibly be of use to others； and already the suggestion seems in the way of proof。 If what I write should prevent even one young barrister who hopes to make a mark in his profession； from being beguiled into the fatal paths of authorship； I shall not have laboured in vain。
Next； I have never been able to gratify a very earnest ambition of my younger years； namely； to enter Parliament and shine as a statesman。 Once I tried： it was at the 1895 election； and I almost carried one of the most difficult seats in England。 But almost is not quite； and the awful expense attendant upon contesting a seat in Parliament （in a county division it costs； or used to cost； over 2000 pounds） showed me clearly that； unless they happen to be Labour members； such a career is only open to rich men。 Also I came to understand that it would be practically impossible for me both to earn a living by the writing of books and to plunge eagerly into Parliamentary work； as I know well that I should have done。 Even if I could have found the time by writing in the mornings — which； where imaginative