"The Free Lances" was published in three volumes, 1881, by Remington.
The _Sat.u.r.day Review_, July, 1881, says: "Captain Mayne Reid seems to be as lively a writer as he ever was, and if "The Free Lances" causes any less thrill of excitement than was wont to be aroused by "The Scalp Hunters," the fault must be due to a change in the reader rather than in the author."
"The Free Lances" is now published in one volume.
The last novel from Captain Mayne Reid"s pen was "No Quarter," an historical tale of the Parliamentary wars. Most of the scenes are laid in Herefordshire and the Forest of Dean, all of which Mayne Reid personally visited before writing the story. The princ.i.p.al characters and scenes of the book are historically correct.
He also wrote for the _Sporting and Dramatic News_ articles on "Our Home Natural History," and letters to the _New York Tribune_ on the "Rural Life of England."
For Mr Ingram"s paper, the _Boys" Ill.u.s.trated News_, of which Captain Mayne Reid was co-editor on its first appearance, he wrote "The Lost Mountain" and "The Chase of Leviathan," also natural history notes and short stories.
"The Naturalist in Siluria," a popular book on natural history, was also written in Herefordshire.
Mr W.H. Bates, author of "The Naturalist on the Amazon," in a letter to Mrs Reid, says:
"Throughout our mutual acquaintance Captain Mayne Reid always impressed me as a man deeply interested in all natural history lore, and the subject was one of our most constant topics of conversation. If circ.u.mstances in early life had turned his attention in that direction he would have made a reputation as a naturalist."
The last book for boys written by Captain Mayne Reid was "The Land of Fire," a short story of the South Seas; but ere its publication the hand that penned it was cold in death.
Captain Mayne Reid possessed great powers of oratory. He would speak for hours on a subject with untiring energy. The language from his tongue flowed facile as that from his pen, his favourite theme being politics. He would often astound his hearers by the eloquence he expended upon his beloved theory--the superiority of Republican over Monarchial inst.i.tutions. Occasionally he came across a Tory equally red-hot, and then the "fur would fly." But Captain Reid, by his great charm of manner, rarely gave offence, and was, as a rule, listened to with good nature on both sides. Often while in the height of a very hot discussion he would suddenly change the theme, dropping at once from the sublime to the ridiculous with such ease that it was difficult for his audience to tell if he had really been in earnest. Had Mayne Reid chosen, he would have made a name as an orator. The few occasions on which he occupied the platform amply proved this.
Though cherishing the strongest Republican principles, Mayne Reid was by no means a leveller, but in many things the very opposite to what the expression of his opinions would lead one to suppose. He was an enigma, which only one in the close contact of everyday life with him could solve.
His name rarely figured at literary gatherings, but he sometimes attended the Geographical or Zoological Societies" meetings; in fact, he avoided rather than sought literary society.
Before commencing a new book, Captain Mayne Reid would thoroughly study his subject and work out the plot. He would make rough drafts at first, which were afterwards thrown away.
He had no skill with the pencil, but would make curious figures like hieroglyphics in his ma.n.u.script, intended to represent objects described, but bearing to all but himself a merely imaginary resemblance.
His mode of writing was peculiar. He rarely sat at a table, but reclined on a couch, arrayed in dressing-gown and slippers, with a portable desk and fur robe thrown across his knees even in hot weather, and a cigar between his lips--which was constantly going out and being re-lighted--while the floor all around him was strewed with matches.
Latterly, after he became a cripple, the dressing-gown was discarded for a large Norfolk jacket, made from his own sheep"s wool; and he would sit and write at the window in a large arm-chair with an improvised table in front of him resting on his knees, upon which at night he would have a couple of candles placed, the inevitable cigar, matches, and whisky toddy being the accessories.
He had a singular habit of reading in bed, with newspapers, ma.n.u.script, and a lighted candle on his pillow. At least a score or more of times he has been found in the morning with the paper burnt to black tinder all round him, but neither himself nor the bed-clothes in the slightest singed.
The Mexican hero was never an idle man; and after his sword was sheathed in its scabbard, his pen never rested. His brain was as active as ever till within a fortnight of his death.
On October 22nd, 1883, Mayne Reid had fought his last battle.
An irregular block of white marble, on which is carved a sword and pen crossing each other, and these words from "The Scalp Hunters:--"
This is the weed prairie, It is misnamed, It is the Garden of G.o.d,
mark his last resting-place, in Kensal Green Cemetery, London.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
DONN PIATT"S REMINISCENCE. PRESS NOTICES.
In this chapter are given a reminiscence by Donn Piatt of Mayne Reid, and a few extracts from the numerous obituary notices which appeared in the press. Donn Piatt writes:
"Mayne Reid wrote his first romance at my house, in this valley, where he spent a winter. He had come out of the Mexican war decorated with an ugly wound, and covered with glory as the bravest of the brave, in our little army under Scott.
"When not making love to the fair girls of the Mac-o-chee, or dashing over the country on my mare, he was writing a romance, ["The Rifle Rangers"] with the scene in Mexico and on our Mexican border.
"He would read chapters to us of an evening (he was a fine reader), and if the commendation did not come up to his self-appreciation he would go to bed in a huff, and not touching pen to paper for days would make my mare suffer in his wild rides. I found that to save bay Jenny I must praise his work, and he came to regard me in time as Byron did Gifford.
When told that ugly critic had p.r.o.nounced "me lord" the greatest of living poets, he said that he was "a d.a.m.ned discriminating fellow."
"That romance proved a great success. Again, like Byron, he put his well-worn gown, one morning, about one wakened to fame and fortune.
"The first remittance took the restless soldier of fortune from us, never to return. He would not have been content to remain as long as he did, but for the fact that he was desperately in love with a fair inmate of our house. But in her big blue eyes the gallant Irishman did not find favour, and he at last gave up the pursuit.
"From the station where he awaited his train he wrote us two letters.
One of these I never saw. The other contained the following lines, which, without possessing any remarkable poetic merit, gracefully put on record his kind feelings on parting from the house he had made his home for nearly a year."
Mac-o-Chee Adieu.
Fade from my sight the valley sweet, The brown, old, mossy mill, The willows, where the wild birds keep Song watch beside the rill; The cottage, with its rustic porch, Where the latest flower blooms, And autumn, with her flaming torch, The dying year illumes.
Within mine ears the sad farewell In music lingers yet, And casts upon my soul a spell That bids it not forget; Forget, dear friends, I never may, While yet there lives a strain, A flower, a thought, a favoured lay To call you back again.
When evening comes you fondly meet About the firelit hearth, And hours fly by on winged feet, In music and in mirth; Ah! give a thought to one whose fate On th.o.r.n.y pathway lies, Who lingered fondly near the gate That hid his paradise.
I hear, along the ringing rails, My fate, that comes apace, A moment more and strife prevails, Where once were peace and rest; Unrest begins, my furlough ends, The world breaks on my view, Ah! peaceful scene; ah! loving friends, A sad and last adieu.
"Between that parting and our next encounter some twenty years intervened. Mayne Reid had made his fame and fortune, throwing the last away upon a Mexican ranch in England, and I yet floating about on spars had just begun to use my pen as a means of support. He was grey, stout and rosy, living with his handsome little wife in rooms in Union Square.
I told him that the old homestead upon the Mac-o-chee had fallen into decay, and of the little family circle he so fondly remembered I alone remained.
"That made him so sad that I proposed a bottle of wine to alleviate our sorrow, and he led the way to a subterranean excavation in Broadway, where we had not only the bottle, but a dinner and several bottles."
The following are short extracts from some public notices of his life:
In _The Times_, October 24th, 1883--"Every schoolboy, and every one who has ever been a schoolboy, will learn with sorrow of the death of Captain Mayne Reid. Who has forgotten those glorious rides across the Mexican prairies, when we galloped, mounted upon a mustang--a horse would have been too flat and unromantic--on the war trail, and surprised our enemy. The very t.i.tles of the books are enough to stir the blood.
What a vista they open out of wild adventure, of mystery, of savage heroism!"
In _The Standard_--"It is an odd incident in the life of Captain Mayne Reid, that its active part ended suddenly, just when he might be supposed to think that it was seriously beginning. In 1849 he came to London, and began to pour forth that wonderful stream of romance, which never quite failed through thirty-four years, to the day of his death.
Captain Mayne Reid wrote for men and women, as well as boys; but there was not, we believe, a word in his books which a schoolboy could not read aloud to his mother and sisters."
In _The Daily News_--"An active man of adventurous temperament, he imparted his own animal spirits and his pa.s.sion for the marvellous into the products of his busy brain. He was born with a zest for travel, which he contrived to indulge at a very early age. He explored American backwoods, hunted with Indians up the Red River, and roamed the boundless prairie on his own account. On behalf of the United States, in whose army he received a commission, he fought against Mexico. When his sword was in its sheath, and his fingers held the pen, he wrote with vigour and impetuosity as if under fire. Captain Mayne Reid gave by his books a great deal of innocent pleasure, and they could always be admitted without scruple or inquiry into the best-regulated families."
And in _The Spectator_, October 27th, 1883--"As our judgment on Mayne Reid"s novels is not that of our contemporaries, we are disinclined to allow his death to pa.s.s without a word of criticism. As an individual we knew nothing about him, except that in our judgment he missed his career, and would have made a first-cla.s.s agent of the Geographical Society, to explore dangerous or excessively difficult regions, like Thibet, the Atlas Range, or the unknown hills and locked-up villages of Eastern Peru. He was a man of exceptional daring, having a positive liking for danger; he had the typographical eyes which should belong to a general; and he had a faculty of description, which he watered down for his novels till it was hardly apparent. During the only interview which this writer ever had with him, accident induced his interlocutor to ask about the Pintos--the particoloured race sprung from native Mexicans and the cross breed between Indians and Negroes--who are stated to exist in the State of Mexico. The writer disbelieved in them, and expressed his belief, but Captain Mayne Reid, who declared he had seen specimens of the race, held him quite fascinated for half-an-hour by a description which, if imaginary, was a triumph of art, but which left on the hearer"s mind an impression of absolute truth."
APPENDIX.