Publishers' Introduction

George Alfred Henty has been called "The Prince of Story-Tellers." To call him "The Boy's Own Historian" would perhaps be a more appropriate title, for time has proved that he is more than a story-teller; he is a preserver and propagator of history amongst boys.

How Mr. Henty has risen to be worthy of these enviable titles is a story which will doubtless possess some amount of interest for all his readers.

Henty may be said to have begun his preliminary training for his life-work when a boy attending school at Westminster. Even then the germ of his story-telling propensity seems to have evinced itself, for he was always awarded the highest marks in English composition.

From Westminster he went to Cambridge, where he was enrolled as a student at Caius College. It is a decided change of scenery and circumstances from Cambridge to the Crimea, but such was the change which took place in Mr. Henty's career at the age of twenty-one.

An appointment in connection with the commissariat department of the British army, took him from the scenes of student life into the excitement of the Muscovite war.

Previous to this, however, he had written his first novel, which he has characterized as "Very bad, no doubt, and was, of course, never published, but the plot was certainly a good one."

Whilst engaged with his duties at the Crimea he sent home several descriptive letters of the places, people, and circumstances passing under his notice. His father, thinking some of those letters were of more than private interest, took a selection of them to the editor of the Morning Advertiser, who, after perusal of them, was so well pleased with their contents that he at once appointed young Henty as war correspondent to the paper in the Crimea.

The ability with which he discharged his duties in the commissariat department at that time soon found for him another sphere of similar work in connection with the hospital of the Italian forces. After a short time this was relinquished for engagement in mining work, which he first entered into at Wales, and then in Italy.

Ten years after his Crimean correspondence to the Morning Advertiser he again took to writing, and at this time obtained the position of special correspondent to the Standard. While holding this post, he contributed letters and articles on the wars in Italy and Abyssinia, and on the expedition to Khiva. Two novels came from his pen during this time, but his attention was mostly devoted to miscellaneous letters and articles.

It is a specially interesting incident in the career of Mr. Henty how he came to turn his attention to writing for boys. When at home, after dinner, it was his habit to spend an hour or so with his children in telling them stories, and generally amusing them. A story begun one day would be so framed as "to be continued in the next," and so the same story would run on for a few days, each day's portion forming a sort of chapter, until the whole was completed. Some of the stories continued for weeks. Mr. Henty, seeing the fascination and interest which these stories had for his own children, bethought himself that others might receive from them the same delight and interest if they were put into book form. He at once acted upon the suggestion and wrote out a chapter of his story for each day, and instead of telling it to his children in an extempore fashion, read what he had written. When the story was completed, the various chapters were placed together and dispatched to a publisher, who at once accepted and published it. It was in this way the long series of historical stories which has come from his powerful pen was inaugurated, and G.A. Henty was awarded the title of "The Prince of Story-Tellers."

There is in this incident a glimpse of the character of our author which endears him to us all. The story of his kindly interest in his own children surely creates a liking for him in the hearts of the children of others. The man who can spend an hour in telling stories to his little ones, and retain their attention and interest, has an evident sympathy with, and power over, the youthful nature. Time has proved such is the case with G.A. Henty, for up to the present he has written close on fifty stories for boys, which have been received with unbounded joy and satisfaction by all.

As an indication of the reception which his books have met with, the following may be quoted from an English paper:

"G.A. Henty, the English writer of juveniles, is the most popular writer in England to-day in point of sales. Over 150,000 copies of his books are sold in a year, and in America he sells from 25,000 to 50,000 during a year."

"All the world" is the sphere from which Mr. Henty draws his pictures and characters for the pleasure of the young. Almost every country in the world has been studied to do service in this way, with the result that within the series of books which Mr. Henty has produced for the young we find such places dealt with as Carthage, Egypt, Jerusalem, Scotland, Spain, England, Afghanistan, Ashanti, Ireland, France, India, Gibraltar, Waterloo, Alexandria, Venice, Mexico, Canada, Virginia, and California. Doubtless what other countries remain untouched as yet are but so many fields to be attacked, and which every lad hopes to see conquered in the same masterly way in which the previous ones have been handled.

As a rule much of what boys learn at school is left behind them when classes are given up for the sterner work of the world. Unless there is a special demand for a certain subject, that subject is apt to become a thing of the past, both in theory and practice. This, however, is not likely to be the case with history, so long as G.A. Henty writes books for boys, and boys read them. History is his especial forte, and that he is able to invest the dry facts of history with life, and make them attractive to the modern schoolboy, says not a little for his power as a story-teller for boys. It is questionable if history has any better means of fixing itself in the minds of youthful readers than as it is read in the pages of G.A. Henty's works. There is about it an attraction which cannot be resisted; a most unusual circumstance in connection with such a subject. All this of course means for Mr. Henty a vast amount of research and study to substantiate his facts and make his situations, characters, places, and points of time authentic. To the reader it means a benefit which is incalculable, not only as a means of passing a pleasant hour, but in reviving or imparting a general knowledge of the history and geography, the manners and customs of our own and other lands.

There is a noticeable element of "Freedom" which runs through Mr. Henty's books, and in this may be said to lie their influence. From them lads get an elevating sense of independence, and a stimulus to patriotic and manly endeavor. His pages provide the purest form of intellectual excitement which it is possible to put into the hands of lads. They are always vigorous and healthy, and a power for the strengthening of the moral as well as the intellectual life.

In the present work, "The Golden Canyon," a tale of the gold mines, Mr. Henty has fully sustained his reputation, and we feel certain all boys will read the book with keen interest.

The Golden Canyon

Chapter I.—A Run Ashore

In the month of August, 1856, the bark Northampton was lying in the harbor of San Diego. In spite of the awning spread over her deck the heat was almost unbearable. Not a breath of wind was stirring in the land-locked harbor, and the bare and arid country round the town afforded no relief to the eye. The town itself looked mean and poverty-stricken, for it was of comparatively modern growth, and contained but a few buildings of importance. Long low warehouses fringed the shore, for here came for shipping vast quantities of hides; as San Diego, which is situated within a few miles of the frontier between the United States and Mexico, is the sole sheltered port available for shipping between San Francisco and the mouth of the Gulf of California. Two or three other ships which were, like the Northampton, engaged in shipping hides, lay near her. A sickening odor rose from the half-cured skins as they were swung up from boats alongside and lowered into the hold, and in spite of the sharp orders of the mates, the crew worked slowly and listlessly.

"This is awful, Tom," a lad of about sixteen, in the uniform of a midshipman, said to another of about the same age as, after the last boat had left the ship's sides, they leaned against the bulwarks; "what with the heat, and what with the stench, and what with the captain and the first mate, life is not worth living. However, only another two or three days and we shall be full up, and once off we shall get rid of a good deal of the heat and most of the smell."

"Yes, we shall be better off in those respects, Dick, but unfortunately we shan't leave the captain and mate behind."

"No, I don't know which I like worst of them. It is a contrast to our last sip, Tom. What a good time we had of it on board the Zebra! The captain was a brick, and the mates were all good fellows. In fact, we have always been fortunate since the day we first came on board together up to now. I can't think how the owners ever appointed Collet to the command; he is not one of their own officers. But when Halford was taken suddenly ill I suppose they had no others at home to put in his place, so had to go outside. My father said that Mr. Thompson had told him that they heard that he was a capital sailor, and I have no doubt he is. He certainly handled her splendidly in that big storm we had rounding the Cape. I suppose they did not inquire much farther, as we took no passengers out to San Francisco, and were coming out to pick up a cargo of hides here for the return journey; but he is a tyrant on board, and when I get back I will tell my father, and he will let Thompson know the sort of fellow Collet is. It doesn't do one any good making complaints of a captain, but my father is such friends with Thompson that I know he will tell the other partners that he hears that Collet isn't the sort of man they care about having commanding their ships, without my name coming into it. If he does I can't help it. I know Thompson will see that I don't sail with Collet again, anyhow, and will get you with me, as he has often met you at my father's, and knows what chums we are. Collet brought Williams with him, and they were a nice pair. I believe the second and third are just as disgusted as we are, and as Allen is a nephew of one of the partners he will put a spoke in their wheel too, when he comes back."

"Well, we might be worse off in some respects, Dick. We have two good officers out of the four, and we have a very fair crew, and we have good grub; and the company always victual their ships well, and don't put the officers' messing into the hands of the captain, as they do in some ships."

Presently Mr. Allen, the second officer, came up with the two lads.

"I am going ashore in an hour, Preston," he said to Dick; "if you like, you can come with me."

"Thank you, sir; I should like it very much."

"I wish you were coming too, Tom," he went on when the officer moved away. "That is one of the nuisances, Collet never letting us go ashore together."

"It is a nuisance," the other said, heartily. "Of course, Allen is a very good fellow, but one can't have any larks as one could have if we were together."

"Well, there are not many larks to be had here, at any rate, Tom. It is about the dullest place I ever landed at. It is a regular Mexican town, and except that they do have, I suppose, sometimes, dances and that sort of thing, there is really nothing to be done when one does go ashore, and the whole place stinks of hides. Even if one could get away for a day there is no temptation to ride about that desert-looking country, with the sun burning down on one; no one but a salamander could stand it. They are about the roughest-looking lot I ever saw in the town. Everyone has got something to do with hides one way or the other. They have either come in with them from the country, or they pack them in the warehouses, or they ship them. That and mining seem the only two things going on, and the miners, with their red shirts and pistols and knives, look even a rougher lot than the others. I took my pistol when last I went ashore; I will lend it you this evening."

"Oh, I don't want a pistol, Tom; there is no chance of my getting into a row."

"Oh, it is just as well to carry one, Dick, when you know that everyone else has got one about him somewhere, and a considerable number of them are drunk; it is just as well to take one. You know, it is small, and goes in my breast pocket."

"I will take my stick, the one I bought at San Francisco; it has got an ounce of lead in the knob. I would rather have that than a pistol any day."

However, as Dick was standing with the second officer at the top of the gangway, Tom Haldane, as he passed by, slipped the pistol into his hand and then walked on. Dick thrust it into his pocket, and then descended the ladder. It was almost dark now.

"I have two or three places to go to, Preston, and do not know how long I shall be detained. It is just nine o'clock now. Suppose you meet me here at the boat at half-past ten. It will be pleasanter for you to stroll about by yourself than to be waiting about outside houses for me."

"Very well, sir. I don't think there is much to see in the town, but I will take a bit of a stroll outside. It is cool and pleasant after the heat of the day."

They walked together to the first house that Mr. Allen had to visit; then Dick strolled on by himself. The place abounded with wine-shops. Through the open doors the sound of the strumming of mandolins, snatches of Spanish song, and occasionally voices raised in dispute or anger, came out. Dick felt no inclination to enter any of them. Had his chum been with him he might have looked in for a few minutes for the fun of the thing, but alone he would be the object of remark, and might perhaps get involved in a quarrel. Besides the freshness of the air was so pleasant that he felt disposed for a walk, for the moon was shining brightly, the stars seemed to hang from the skies, and after having been pent up in the ship for the last four days it was pleasant to stretch the limbs in a brisk walk. In ten minutes he was outside the town, and followed the road for half an hour.

"It is a comfort," he said to himself, "to have got rid of the smell of hides. If ever cholera comes this way I should think it would make a clean sweep of San Diego."

Turning, he walked leisurely back; he entered the town, and had gone but a hundred yards or two when he heard a shout, followed by a pistol shot, and then, in English, a cry for help.

He dashed down the street toward a group of people who, he could see in the moonlight, were engaged in a sharp struggle. One man was defending himself against four, and the oaths and exclamations of these showed that they were Mexicans. Just as he reached them the man they were attacking was struck down, and two of his assailants threw themselves upon him.

Dick rushed upon the men, and felled one with a sweeping blow of his stick. The other man who was standing up sprang at him, knife in hand, with a savage oath.

So quick was the action that he was upon Dick before he had time to strike a blow with his stick. He threw up his left arm to guard his head, but received a severe gash on the shoulders. At the same moment he struck out with his right, full into the face of the Mexican, who, as he staggered back, fell across the three men on the ground. Dick seized the opportunity to draw his pistol, dropping his stick as he did so, as his left arm was disabled. It was a double-barreled pistol and as the three natives rose and rushed at him, he shot the first. The other two sprang at him and he received a blow that almost paralyzed him. He staggered against the wall, but had strength to raise his arm and fire again, just as the man was about to repeat his blow; he fell forward on his face, and his other assailant took to his heels. A moment later Dick himself sank to the ground.