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you did not burn it。 If you rewrite it slowly with your right hand — suppressing much； expanding much； making every chapter a picture by itself； and polishing up every sentence so that each page bears testimony to the power of its producer — the story will be the beginning of such a literary career as I conceive you to be desirous of running。 Get the better of the mon notion that novels may be dashed off — by remembering how often Lord Lytton rewrote “Pelham；” thinking over every part of it； now pressing and now expanding the narrative； before he ventured to give it to the world。 Go to the Charles Dickens rooms in the S。 Kensington Museum and observe the erasures； the insertions； the amendments of every paragraph of his writing 。 。 。 。
Here follows a long and able criticism of the story。
Having read your MS。 I have packed it and will do anything you like with it — with the exception of sending it to a publisher in its present state。 You will succeed in literary enterprise if it will be your ambition to do so。
Your story disposes me to think you have that ambition。 It also causes me to hope that I may make the author’s acquaintance。 If you call on me when you are in town I shall be delighted to ask your pardon for writing to you with such unmannerly frankness and self…sufficiency。
Believe me to be； my dear sir；
Yours very sincerely；
John Cordy Jeaffreson。
What an extraordinarily kind heart must have been that of Mr。 Jeaffreson！ He was a very busy man； producing as he did works of fiction and of biography； in addition to his antiquarian labours that involved the deciphering of thousands of old documents； by means of all which toil he earned a moderate ine。 Yet he found time on behalf of an individual totally unknown to him； or to anybody else in this country； to labour through several hundred not too legible sheets of manuscript； and to write a masterly criticism of their contents。 Moreover； for all this trouble he refused to accept any reward。 Certainly it has been my fortune to make acquaintance with much malice in the world； but on the other hand I have met with signal kindness at the hands of those engaged in literary pursuits； and of such kindnesses I can recall no more striking example than this act of Mr。 Jeaffreson； of whom I shall always entertain the most affectionate memory。
Well； I took his advice。 From a tiny note on the first page of the manuscript it would seem that I began to rewrite “Dawn” or “Angela；” as it was then called； on May 15； 1883； and finished the last of the four hundred and niy…three foolscap sheets on September 5th of the same year。 That is； in just under four months； in addition to my legal studies and other occupations and the time taken in attending in London to eat my dinners at Lincoln’s Inn； I wrote nearly two hundred thousand words。 Nowadays the average length of a novel may be put at seventy…five thousand words； or even less； though mine are longer。 But in the early eighties； when stories were brought out in three volumes and readers had more patience than at present； it was otherwise。 I toiled at that book morning； noon； and night； with the result that at length my eyesight gave out； and I was obliged to finish the writing of it in a darkened room。
Still I did finish it notwithstanding the pain in my eyes； and then went to London to see an oculist。 To my relief he told me I was not going blind as I feared； but that the trouble came from the brain which was overworked。 He ordered me plete rest and change； during which I was not to read anything。 So we went for a month to Switzerland； where we took lodgings。 The only occupation that I had there was to walk； or； when this was not feasible； like a child to throw a ball against the wall of the room and see how often I could catch it on the rebound。 However； the treatment proved effective。
The book being finished； or nearly finished； and the heroine； Angela； rescued from the untimely death to which she was consigned in the first version and happily married to her lover； once more I sought the assistance of Cordy Jeaffreson； who gave me a letter introducing me to Mr。 Arthur Blackett of the firm of Messrs。 Hurst and Blackett。 It runs：
Dear Blackett； — Some months since I read the MS。 of a novel of which the bearer of these presents； Mr。 Rider Haggard of Ditchingham House； Bungay； is looking for a publisher。 Mr。 Haggard having distinguished himself in another field of literature； I was not surprised to find his first essay in prose fiction a thing of no ordinary power。 It was a tale of character； pathos； incident； and new ground： so good that had it been less I should have advised him to publish it as it came to me。 The goodness of the story； however； made me urge him to rewrite it； so that every chapter should be in harmony with its best and strongest parts。 He has acted on my advice； and if the result of his renewed labour answers my anticipation； he has produced a work that will make your reader rub his hands and say “This will do。” 。 。 。
Messrs。 Hurst and Blackett wrote to me； and well do I remember the jubilation with which I read the letter：
We shall be very happy to undertake the publication of your novel on the following terms。 To produce the work at our own expense and risk。 To pay you the sum of 40 pounds on the sale of four hundred copies and 30 pounds on the sale of every hundred copies after。 The title “Angela” has been used before 。 。 。 。
Needless to say I accepted the offer with gratitude and promised to find another title。 Three days later the agreement arrived under which I sold the copyright to Messrs。 Hurst and Blackett for a period of one year only from the date of publication。 In their covering letter they informed me that they only proposed to print five hundred copies in the three…volume form； leaving me at liberty to make any arrangements I liked for a cheap edition； if one should be demanded。
About this time； namely just after he had read the MS。 of “Angela；” I received the following interesting but undated letter from Mr。 Jeaffreson：
Dear Sir； — Can’t you arrange to dine with us at seven o’clock on the 10th of next month？ We could talk all round the literary question over a cigar in my study after dinner。 Could you succeed in literature？ Certainly up to a certain point： unquestionably up to the point you indicate； though you might never earn as much money as the two novelists you mention； for in that respect they have been singularly fortunate。 But you may not hope to succeed in a day。 You might bee famous in a morning； but you may not entertain the hope of doing so。 You must hope only to succeed by degrees； — by steady work； slow advances； and after several disappointments。 Moderate success in literature is easily attainable by a man of energy； culture； and resoluteness who can afford to work steadily and play a waiting game。 At twenty…one a man is necessarily impatient； at twenty…six a man has neither the excuse of youth nor the excuse of advancing age for impatience。 How I envy you for being only twenty…six。 I am old enough to be your father。 I could not have written as good a novel as Angela’s story when I was twenty…six。 I have already perused your “Cetewayo。” It is a far more difficult thing to interest readers in imaginary persons and incidents than to entertain them with writing about facts and characters in which they are already interested。 It was because I saw you really knew your characters that I urged you to make the most of them。 Do e and see me。
Yours cordially；
John Cordy Jeaffreson。
The following letter from myself to my sister Mary； which she found and returned to me a few years ago； throws some light upon the above：
Ditchingham House： May 5 ＇1883＇。
My dearest Mary； — The enclosed letters may interest you。 I consider Jeaffreson’s very encouraging on the whole； though he is inflicting a lot of extra labour on me。 However； after I have been up for this examination I will go at it； and hope to finish the book in from two to three months。 I do not altogether agree with Mr。 Jeaffreson’s ideas as to changing the end of the book； indeed my own sentiments about it are much the same as those expressed by Miss Barber ＇a schoolfellow of my wife’s who was more or less livin