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It is an old belief
？That on some solemn shore
Beyond the sphere of grief
？Dear friends shall meet once more。
Beyond the sphere of Time；
？And Sin； and Fate’s control；
Serene in changeless prime
？Of body and soul。
That creed I fain would keep；
？This hope I’ll not forgo；
Eternal be the sleep；
？Unless to waken so。
And so to Andrew Lang； among men my best friend perhaps； and the one with whom I was most entirely in tune； farewell for a while。 Of his character and gifts I have already written while he was still living； so I will say no more of them now。 There are few such； and today the world is poorer and greyer for the loss of a pure and noble nature。 For myself I am more lonely； since of those men； not of my kin； whom I knew and loved while I still was young； now Charles Longman and Arthur Cochrane alone are left。
I find also another letter from Lang dated June 2； 1902； in which he informs me of the death of a second brother — “my little brother； he was always little； and ten years younger than I。 。 。 。 I tell you because you are a good fellow if ever there was one； and so was he；” etc。
I quote no more； according to the rule I have made as to certain matters which belong to the private lives of others。 My answer； however； which is pinned to the letter； may be printed； as that is my affair and only portrays my private views。
June 6； 1902。
My dear Andrew； — Very well I won’t write about it； but try to take fort。 I am sure that no affections are so perfect as those which have passed through the fires of death； and often I think that as sometimes we grow away from the living； so always do we grow nearer to the desired dead — in spirit； I mean。
It is a strange world； especially to those who feel much； but the only things to do seem to be to work on to the best of one’s ability； to be very sorry for one’s sins； and in great humbleness to wait till the mortal tide engulfs us also — hoping that beneath or beyond it we may find peace； understanding and our perfect part。 If I am sure of anything I am sure that Man has a living Spirit； and that he does not suffer so much to please the laws of Matter or a god called Chance。 With true sympathy；
Your affec。 friend；
H。 Rider Haggard。
Some days after Lang’s death I received a letter from Charles Longman of which I will quote a passage that deals with the character of Andrew Lang and the friendship we both had for him。
Yes； you and I will always feel a blank when we think of Andrew Lang。 He was of all men the most loyal to his friends — it was one of his most marked characteristics； and there had been a bond between us three which nothing could break。 As you know； I had been anxious about him this spring； though not about his heart； which the doctor had lately examined without finding anything wrong。 But his eyesight was threatened； and there was this strange depression about public affairs； which seemed as though it might grow worse。 In old days when he was bright and cheerful it is little he troubled himself about strikes and such…like。 So it may be that he — and those who loved him — have been spared something by his swift end。 But the breaking of an unclouded friendship of five…and…forty years is no light thing： as you say； one must hope that the break is but a temporary one and that there is some other meeting…place for friends。 Matt。 Arnold says：
“Sad fate of every mortal lot
Which man； proud man； finds hard to bear；
And builds himself； I know not what
Of second life； I know not where。”
At some date before he died Lang asked his wife to give to me a certain ring in token of remembrance。 I have now received and shall always wear this ring。 It belonged to Queen Taia； the wife of Amenophis III； or perhaps to Nefertiti； her daughter…inlaw； who married the famous Khu…en…aten； the fourth Amenophis and the remarkable Pharaoh who inaugurated what the priests of Amen considered the heresy of the worship of the Sun’s Disc； by which； I take it； he symbolised the one Almighty God who made the world。 On this ring； which； I think； from the length of time that it had evidently been worn； must have adorned the hand of Taia some 3500 years ago； is engraved a cat adoring Ra or the Sun； or perhaps the “Aten” or Disc。 I already possess the sister ring that； from the less amount of wear it shows； was probably worn by the shorter…lived Nefertiti； Khu…en…aten’s adored and； I believe； sole wife。 Both of them were obtained by us from the Rev。 W。 J。 Loftie in the year 1887； in Egypt when； about that time； the mummies of these queens were discovered and broken up by the Arabs at Tel…el…Amarna。
Chapter 16
Miss Ida Hector — H。 R。 H。 dictates his works to her — Wishes for change of occupation — Dream…pictures — H。 R。 H。‘s theory of Romance…writing — Literary coincidences — Examples from the works of H。 R。 H。 — The Spectator。
When I returned from Mexico in 1891 I fell into very poor health。 Everything； especially my indigestion； went wrong； so wrong that I began to think that my bones would never grow old。 Amongst other inconveniences I found that I could no longer endure the continual stooping over a desk which is involved in the writing of books。 It was therefore fortunate for me that about this time Miss Ida Hector； the eldest daughter of Mrs。 Hector； better known as Mrs。 Alexander； the novelist； became my secretary； and in that capacity； as in those of a very faithful friend and panion； to whose sound sense and literary judgment I am much indebted； has so remained to this day。 From that time forward I have done a great deal of my work by means of dictation； which has greatly relieved its labour。 Some people can dictate； and others cannot。 Personally I have always found the method easy； provided that the dictatee； if I may coin a word； is patient and does not go too fast。 I imagine； for instance； that it would be impossible to dictate a novel to a shorthand…writer。 Also； if the person who took down the words irritated one in any way； it would be still more impossible。 Provided circumstances are congenial； however； the plan has merits； since to many the mere physical labour of writing clogs the mind。 So； at least； various producers of books seem to have found。 Among them I recall Thackeray and Stevenson。
Of the next few years of my life there is not much to tell。 I lived here at Ditchingham in a very quiet and retired fashion； rarely visiting London； wrote a few novels； and for recreation occupied myself with farming and gardening； for which occupations I have always had an instinctive taste。 The work that I did was a good deal attacked： it was the fashion to attack me in those days。 Possibly owing to my ill…health some of it may not have been quite up to the mark； I do not know。 What I do know is that I grew heartily tired of the writing of stories。 After the birth of my youngest child； Lilias； which to my great joy happened at the end of the year 1892； my health and spirits began to mend and my energy to return； largely owing； I think； to the treatment of my friend Dr。 Lyne Stivens。 I was still a youngish man； but had reached that time of life when I felt that if I was to make any change of occupation it must be done at once。 And I longed to make a change； for this humdrum existence in a country parish； staring at crops and cultivating flowers； was； I felt； more suitable to some aged man whose life’s work was done than to myself。 Also at this time the unrealities of fiction…writing greatly wearied me； oddly enough much more than they do at present； when they have bee a kind of amusement and set…off to the more serious things and thoughts with which my life is occupied。
Still it is true that even now； if circumstances allowed of it； I do not think I should write much more fiction； at any rate of the kind that people would buy。 With the exception of certain stories that I should like to tell for their own sake； and not to earn money by them。 I should occupy my time with writings of a different sort； connected； probably； for the most part with the land； agriculture； and social matters。 For instance； I should dearly like to finish my survey of rural England； and to undertake that of Scotland； Wales； and Ireland — tasks； I suppose； that I shall never be able to exec