o edit certain of the reminiscences of Mr。 Allan Quatermain。 To be honest； these have amused me not a little； perhaps because I always find it easy to ain； who； after all； is only myself set in a variety of imagined situations； thinking my thoughts and looking at life through my eyes。 Indeed there are several subjects with which I always find it not difficult to deal — for instance； Old Egypt； Norsemen； and African savages。 Of these last； however； I prefer to write in the pany of the late Allan Quatermain。
At the time of which I am now speaking； the early niies； it was； however； otherwise； for then； being much younger； I wearied of fiction and longed for the life of action to which I had been bred and that； indeed； is native to my character。 In truth； the dislike and revolt of my heart in those days still haunts me as a kind of nightmare which is perhaps sufficiently amusing to relate。
Many people have their favourite dreams； and within the last year or so I have developed a very fair specimen of this class of illusion which es to me in an oft…repeated vision of the mind。 Who does not know that order of dream wherein we seem to move among the dead and in their pany； with eager yet trembling feet； to try the cold waters of the stream of Death？
Well； through the ivory gates of such a dream as this at times I seem to see my spiritual heritage spread large before me in a world of pictured silence。 There； at the back of the picture； rises the mighty cliff whereon； at intervals； the great golden figures； which I take it are images and not alive； seem to keep watch and ward over the illimitable lands beneath； while between them； also at intervals of scores or hundreds of leagues； pour the cataracts gathered I know not whence。 In a fold of that cliff lie the blue waters of the Holy Lake； surrounded by wide cedars and huge； immemorial pines that spring two hundred feet without a bough and； at their crown； end always in a single bent plume of green； as though up on high some strong wind shaped them with a steady hand。 Along the foot of the cliff runs a great river that； like the Nile； floods the lands at certain seasons； and makes them bear a hundredfold。 Winding almost at right angles from the mountain slope； it flows across the boundless plain； past a white and wonderful city whose domes and palaces I only see from far away； for here my guide has never led me。 There on its banks soar gracious palms； there willows weep； there spread aspens with leaves just about to quiver； and there； through the sparse woodlands； roam the wild things of the New Creation； seeking their food from God and fearing no hurt from aught that serves Him。 Facing this river； to the right as I see it； but far across the plain； are lovely mountains not so very lofty； where； from the other river of the lake； amidst slender ferns； rush waterfalls that descend in bursts of stirless spray。
There； too； in the east — can it be the east； I wonder？ — is the very well and fount of light： a soft but radiant light that casts no shadow； since it grows and flows above； beneath； around； and everywhere。 Its shape is that of a luminous fan。 While the day increases — how long that day is I do not know — so does the glory of that fan extend till it fills all those celestial skies： till it bends across them beyond the mighty cliff where stand the golden guards； as in the funeral paintings of Old Egypt the image of the goddess Nout bends across the heavens and holds the earth in her embracing arms。 Then； as at length the night draws on； this wondrous fan folds itself again to a cluster of jewelled stars； large as young moons and of every lovely hue； varying from that of a kind of shining blackness to those of steel blue； and scarlet； and red fire； that girdle the firmament with a glittering belt as might do the Milky Way drawn near。
Overlooking all these wonders； at the foot of the cliff； beyond the borders of the lake but at a lower level； in this fantastic dream of mine stands a strange and silent house built for me by hands that I have known。 I see its central hall； where all those I loved or love in life steal in and out。 I see a certain chamber； low and large； which overlooks the dreaming landscape； and； more nearly； the walks of garden trees hung with bells of white and purple blossom； with unknown； golden fruits and creeping strands of vine。 Standing in the recessed doorway of this chamber； I see in its far corner； seated at a desk above a covered terrace； myself； younger than I am now； wearing some sort of white garments and bending over the desk at work； with papers spread before me。
At the sight a kind of terror seizes me lest this fair place should be but a scented purgatory where； in payment for my sins； I am doomed to write fiction for ever and a day！
“At what do I work？” I ask； alarmed； of the guide who； shining steadily； stands at my side and shows me all。
“You write the history of a world” （or was it “of the world”？ — I am not sure）； is the answer； and in my dream I breathe again。
For truly it would be a horrible fate to be doomed from aeon to countless aeons to the position of romance。
Of course what I have set down is but a fancy such as might e to an imaginative child。 Still； that landscape； which I know as well as； if not better than； any on the earth； has charms and glories of its own。 Therefore I have wasted half an hour of my time and some few minutes of my reader’s in attempting very briefly to describe that which in truth no words can carry。
I confess that in any other life I should prefer some change of employment； but if I should be doomed to write there I hope that the subject…matter of my toil may； as in the vision； prove to be not fiction but history； which I love。 In all the worlds above us there must be much history to record。 Also there must be much good work to do； which is fortunate。 At least I can conceive no idle heaven — where it “is always afternoon。” To me such a place would be the reverse of heaven。 To me happiness and work well done； or service faithfully acplished； are words with a like meaning。
And now； with many apologies； I will turn to mundane things again。 Before I do so； however； as I dare say I shall allude to the subject no more； I will add a word on the general matter of the writing of romances。 This； I gather； from remarks that have been made to me and many letters that I have received； is supposed to be a very easy art； if indeed it is worthy to be classified under that high name。 As a matter of fact it is difficult。 In a novel； as the word is generally understood； the author may discourse upon a thousand topics； nothing； or at any rate very little； is barred to him。 He may burrow in the obscene depths of human nature； he may discuss politics； religion； metaphysics； socialism； “love” in all its forms； the elemental or artificial divisions between the sexes — oh！ what is there that he may not and does not discuss？ Nothing that appears in the columns of the daily papers； nothing that is within the range of the human intellect； lies beyond his legitimate； or illegitimate； scope。
In romance all this is different； the lines between which he must move are by parison extremely narrow： as I remember； Besant put