One of America's best-know and best-like authors, George Allan England, has left Massachusetts for New Hampshire and plans to make this state his permanent home. Here's the story!
When I called at Camp Sans Souci on the beautiful shores of Lake Massasecum, Bradford--Camp Sans Souci being the summer home that Mr. England has just bought--the author was engaged in the nonliterary occupation of sawing wood. He had a regulation buck saw, and was driving it at a good clip through some hard pine. He straightened up his more than six feet, and smiled:
"Great exercise, this. I've sawed a lot of wood, first and last. Nothing beats the bucksaw, to counteract long hours at the typewriter."
"This is the way you 'buck up,' is it?" I asked.
He laughed assent; and Mrs. England who just then appeared in the dooryard added:
"Allan has to keep the home-fires burning, you know, even if it is Sunday."
"You're pretty good with a saw and axe, yourself, Blanche," said he. Turning to me he explained: "My wife can beat me splitting wood any day. She and I have sawed and split a good many cords of wood together. We take vast pride in a good big woodpile. She's my pal and partner in everything, even lumbering!" They both laughed, and it was plain to see theirs was a real home, indeed.
Camp "Free from Care."
If you've forgotten what "Sans couci" means, brush up on your French--or look at the caption above. The England camp is set high up on the western shores of the lake, and commands a marvelous view of Guild Mountain on the opposite shore. Had I walked from a simple country road up on to the author's spacious veranda and found myself in the Swiss Alps, the transition could not have been more striking; for there lay the lovely lake with the mountain soaring up almost perpendicularly above it, casting a perfect reflection across the placid waters.
"We think this location almost ideal," Mr. England said. "As things look now, we're going to make this our permanent summer headquarters."
"Muff," one of the England quartet of cats, then put in an appearance, for a little petting. The other three are "King Tut","Snoozer" and "Demon."
While we enjoyed the beauties of nature all about us, our genial and charming hostess was preparing another and more material feast--this being in the nature of a picnic interview. When I say "we," I mean my family and myself. We all interviewed the Englands, en masse! Mrs. England brought out a lot of good things; and we contributed ice cream and cake; and I'll say that if we had no bananas, we had no bananas today, the omission wasn't noticed. All the time we were having our lunch on that wonderful piazza, I couldn't get the idea out of my head that we were sitting on the observation platform of a limited going through the Canadian Rockies.
Lunch over, and tobacco burning just for Mr. England and myself, as he is old-fashioned enough to frown on women smoking and wouldn't let his wife indulge even if she wanted to, which she doesn't--my host took me up into his attic, which is his literary workshop, his "Fiction Factory," he called it. And there, in the slang phrase, I got an eyeful.
The Fiction Factory
A wonderful plant it is, for turning out the work that has built up Mr. England's reputation in this and other lands! His workshop is long and narrow, with four windows admitting light and air. At the end overlooking the lake is a big table, strewn with papers and books; and in the middle of the table stands a six-cylinder typewriter, on which he drives at the rate of five or six thousand words of finished "copy" a day. For the past 25 years, Mr. England has spent most of his time at just such a machine, and well he knows how to steer it.
As he sat at his trusty "Rem," a rugged, wiry-appearing man of 46, he looked the part of a hard-working, practical producer of literature. It is plain to see his work wholly absorbs him. The whole workshop bears evidence to it. On shelves surrounding the "fiction factory" are stacked reference-books, clippings bound and arranged in his own practical way, many bound volumes of his magazine stories, a lot of his novels, and in-numerable other data of his profession.
Mr. England stretched back in his chair, drew at his pipe, and brushed his thick, iron-gray hair back from his high forehead. He fixed on me his blue eyes, that in their depths hide the creative story sense of humor, pathos and insight that combine in his work.
"My being a writer was something of an accident,' 'he began. "Of course, I have always been writing, but the instinct might have turned to other lines. When I was in Harvard, I edited the 'Harvard Illustrated Magazine,' and used to write college news for the Boston papers, and in my senior year I got the first prize of 500 francs offered by a Paris paper for the best translation of a poem, 'La Course des Grands Maques.' I also took the first Bowdoin prize of $250 for my essay on 'Literary and Feministic Influences of Petrarch-ism;' Still I might never have gone in for fiction if I hadn't been driven to it by seeming disaster.
"My health was undermined by having to work my way through college, tutoring the sons of the rich; also by working night and day to get a Phi Beta Kappa and Master of Arts degree, as well as a Bachelor of Arts. So that when I went to New York, to take charge of the publicity department of the Mutual Life Insurance company, I was rather run down.
"Tuberculosis soon developed, and I had to give up work and go into the Maine woods. Two years of roughing it restored my health, but roughing it doesn't earn any money, so I plugged into fiction--writing; and never shall I forget the exultation of my first story check--$100 for a story sent to Collier's." That was nearly 20 years ago, and since then I have been steadily writing fiction, and have sold everything I've written.
"My motto then, as now was: 'Stick to it will do it.' I was surrounded by discouragements, living with backward, illiterate people, crude and ignorant. Imagine the contrast, going from Harvard and from New York City, to associate with such barbarians; people who mocked and sneered. However, I kept on. That's really the only way to do; just know you're right, and 'Stick to it.' That is the end will always win out. And incidentally, some day I am going to write a book giving the experiences of a city chap going to live amongst country folk. If that book doesn't make a sensation, I miss my guess."
From those dismal days, to the comfort of this cozy home with plenty of friends and success is a long, long trail; but Mr. England has kept grit on the rail and has made the grade, and here he is, with about all a man can wish for. Had he not had the will, the abysmal grim determination never to stay down, he might have had a far different life-history. As it is, he is on the highroad to even larger success, and it seems as if nothing but death could stop him. He has sold stories to every magazine of any importance in the country and the demand is now far ahead of even his 'fiction factory.' He is about a year behind now, on orders; has turned down a number of commissions, from lack of time to fill them; and is getting as much for a single story now, as in the early days he would have got for half a dozen or a dozen. From work in the "Saturday Evening Post," where he has had a number of stories and articles, shows that he is now near the top of the ladder.
After a pause, I heard him say from behind a cloud of tobacco smoke:
"There is no despondency in which, after it has passed, you can't find something laughable. And no misery or hardship or disappointment exists, that you can't sooner or later turn into stories, and cash. I have capitalized all my hard times, and eventually expect to use in story form every trouble and disaster that has ever come to me."
I confess I had never talked with just such a man as George Allan England. Life has handed him some pretty hard wallops, but I defy anybody to find any hint of despondency in his writings.
How He Works
"What are your working hours?" I asked.
"Oh, I usually get up about five and get to work by six or half-past, and write til nearly noon. Early morning's the time to turn out copy! Then everything is dew-dripped and cool and sweet, before the sun rides high and the world awakes. I tell you a pipe tastes good, early in the morning, and the old typewriter surely can rattle!"
"At noon I have a good go at the woodpile; and then lunch, and a smoke and rest; and after that tackle the job again till about four, when we row down to the 'Sand Shore' and have a swim. I'm a wonderful swimmer. I can swim 44 strokes before sinking to the bottom. My wife can swim 45. I am now in training, to beat her, and hope to do 46 before the lake freezes."
"In the evening, we take a spin in our car, or work in our garden, which measures about seven feet by eleven. Sometimes, though, we have to work at manuscript, evenings. Just now, we're having a spell of evening work."
"We?" I asked. "So your wife helps you?"
"I should say so!" he emphatically replied.
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| Blanche Mildred Porter |
"I don't know what I'd do without her. She has her own typewriter, and turns out a big lot of copy for me. Just now she is copying my novel, 'The White Wilderness,' for book publication after its magazine run in 'People's'. She can do more and better work than most professional stenographers. Of course I pay her just as I would any assistant, which is the only way to do. A wife should have her own independent money; her allowance, plus what she earns. That's one of the secrets of being 'happy though married' Another thing is for husband and wife to share everything, especially trips.
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| Geo. A. England & Blanche |
My wife has been in various countries with me, on hiking tours. Once we walked through The Land of Evangeline together, and once she went to Newfoundland and roughed it with me there. Never leave your wife behind, when traveling, is a good motto. But it depends on the wife, of course. She must be a good walker, and ready to rough it if necessary. And that, after all, is the only kind of wife to have. One of the great secrets of success is in getting the right wife."
Has Many Books
"Quite right," I agreed. "But speaking about writing, Mr. England, don't you have off-days, when you don't feel like turning out copy?"
"Never, if I am well,' he answered with characteristic force." "My work is my play, and I'm always so deep in it that it's my very life. It's a sort of perpetual motion, seven days a week, the year through. I'm always taking notes and making observation, building up vocabulary, adding to my stock-in-trade. The result is--well, these!"
He pointed to his shelf of books, all bearing his name on the back. He has had a formidable lot of novels and books published. The more important ones are "Underneath the Bough, (poems); "Darkness and Dawn'; "The Alibi"; "Their Son"; and "The Necklace," (two Spanish translations); "The Gift Supreme"; "Pod, Bender and Co."; "Cursed"; "The Story of the Appeal"; and "The Flying Legion." Just now he is working on "The Crimson North," an account of his experiences as a foremost-hand on board the historic old "Terra Nova," in which he recently went seal-hunting in the Arctic ice. This book, illustrated by his own photographs and sketches, will be issued soon by Doubleday, Page and Co.
It addition to these books, a number of his stories have been produced on the screen with Seena Owen, Dustin Farnum and Lon Chaney in leading roles. Mr. England's experiences in traveling from the tropics to the Arctic, and from east to west, have been of great value in the making of picture-plays. He has just sold one entitled "One Pebble," soon to be produced. This branch of work he calls "Velvet," and always welcomes a "movie sale."
Many of Mr. England's stories have been printed in English editions or in translations into French, Italian, Danish, Finnish and other languages. He is always getting letters from odd places, even as far as China and Australia, about his work; and once an insane man wrote him. He prizes this curious letter as a real work of art. Sometime, when writing a story about a lunatic, he is going to use this unique bit of literature. Everything has to help.
System and Strings
"With all this mass of story-material," I asked, "don't you ever mislay data?"
"Sometimes, but not often," he answered. "I used to, constantly, and so have been forced to invent this system of filing-cabinets, envelopes, boxes and strings!" He laughed. "Now I can generally pick up anything I want. See these strings of mine?"
I nodded, and I remembered wondering what they could be for.
"Well, sir," and his blue eyes smiled, "these strings are real life-savers. I use them to keep my tools handy. One string is anchored to my dictionary, another to my scissors, another to my manuscript-record book, and so on. And these, overhead--on these I hang my big sheets of brown paper all pasted over with my local-color and dialect-notes, for every story. As fast as the material is used, I tear it off, and so do not repeat it. Some idea, eh? Not patented. Use it, and welcome. I can assure you it works!"
"It does," added his wife, just then peeping into the den, "unless he happens to get his strings crossed! Allan has a perfect mania for tying things. His note books, eraser, and everything has a string on it. He even keeps a pad and pencil hung to the head of the bed, so that when he wakes up in the night with a story-idea, he can write it down and not forget it."
"And if Coleridge had had the same," added Mr. England, "the last half of Kubla Khan' wouldn't have been lost forever!"
After all, string may have its literary merit.
Success Means Perspiration
"Keeping eternally at it, and never quitting," said he, "are the secrets of literary success. All this talk about inspiration, and waiting for the purple mood, makes me sick. Dig. That's the secret of it. Observe, learn, remember, and work! Write, write, write! And never say die. It is impossible to beat that combination."
Mr. England pointed to some drawings on the wall.
"Why, I have even taught myself to draw well enough to illustrate some of my articles," said he. "I know my drawings are pretty punk, but I manage to sell 'em; and the editors themselves admit that Michelangelo never did anything at all like 'em."
He has a daughter, Isabelle--age 18--who gives promise of being an artist. Some of her drawings are very creditable. Miss Isabelle has just graduated from high school, and spent the summer in Maine. She holds a Carnegie medal for having saved a girl from drowning, and gives evidence of ability as a writer. Perhaps in time her father may find her a rival!
The sum total of Mr. England's production, in novels, short stories, photo-plays, poems, essays, translations and other forms of literary work, would read like a library catalog. Space prohibits giving it. He is still in the full drive of his production, and hopes to go on for many years, turning out stories for the amusement and edification of mankind-good, lively, human stories, without any very didactic tendency, but always subtly trying to teach progressive ideas and help free the world from the wretched slavery that the capitalist system of competition and war-making has fastened on it. A Nebraskan by birth, he is a New Englander by adoption; and after having lived all over New England, he has at last chosen New Hampshire as the most beautiful state in the Union, the most conducive to his work. He has come up into the free, everlasting hills to labor and to dwell.
Just as a specimen of Mr. England's verse, I append this spirited poem, which has been widely reprinted all over the country. It was written in the Arctic ice-fields in a blizzard aboard Captain Robert Falcon Scott's and Captain Ernest Shackleton's old ship, the"Terra Nova;"
The Sealers of Newfoundland
Ho! We be the Sealers of Newfound-
land!
We clear from a snowy shore,
Out into the gale with our steam and
sail,
Where temptest and tumult roar.
We battle the floe as we northward go,
North, from a frozen strand!
Through lead, through bay, we battle
our way,
We sealers of Newfoundland!
Yea, we be the Sealers of Newfound-
land!
We laugh at the blinding dark;
We mock the wind, as we fling behind
The wilderness hoar and stark.
We jest at death, at the icy breath
Of the Pole, by the north-lights
spanned.
In a wild Death-dance we dice with
Chance;
We Sealers of Newfoundland!
Sealers, ho Sealers of Newfoundland,
With engines begrimed and racked,
With groaning beams where the blue
ice gleams,
We push through the growlers packed,
With rife, with knife we press our
strife,
What lubber shall understand
The war we fight in the ghostly light?
Aye, Sealers of Newfoundland!
The ice glows red where our skin-boots
tread,
And crimson the gleaming floes.
From mast we 'scun" till our race be
run,
Where the Labrador current goes,
From ship we spring to the pans that
swing;
By stalwarts our deck is manned.
O'er the blood-red road the sculps are
towed
By the Sealers of Newfoundland!
Oh, some may sail with a southern
gale;
Some may fare east or west.
The North is ours, where the white
storm lowers,
Wild North that we love the best!
Oh North, we ken that ye make us
men;
Your glory our eyes have scanned,
Hard men we be, of the Frozen Sea,
We Sealers of Newfoundland!
Bitterly bold through the stinging cold
We vanquish the naked North.
We make our kill with an iron will,
Where the great white cold stalks
forth.
"Onward!" we cry, where the bare
bergs lie,
Dauntless our course is planned.
With blood, with sweat, scant bread we
get,
We Sealers of Newfoundland!
"Starb'rd!" and Steady!" and "Port!"
we steer;
Press on through the grinding pan!
We labor and muck for a fling at luck,
Each man of us, God! a man!
We cheer at the bawl of the white-
coats all,
We labor with knife and hand,
With rope and gaff. At the North we
laugh,
We Sealers of Newfoundland!
Where the old dog-hood and the old
harps'borrod
Lie out on the raftered pack.
We tally our prey. Then away and
away,
Men, Ho for the homeward track!
Till the day dawn near when a wel-
come cheer
Shall greet us, as red we stand
On the decks that come to our island
home,
We Sealers of Newfoundland!
