H. Rider Haggard
4 Published Stories
H. Rider Haggard's Books and Stories
King Solomon's Mines
Fantasy "A peculiarly thrilling and vigorous tale of adventure."—Andrew Lang
"It goes and it grips and it moves with all the freshness of youth."—Rudyard Kipling
When Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island was first published, H. Rider Haggard made a five-shilling bet that he could write a better adventure tale. In 1885, he created King Solomon's Mines, a story in which Allan Quatermain, a gentleman adventurer, is hired to locate a man who had disappeared into the heart of Africa while hunting for the legendary lost diamond mines of King Solomon. The book became an instant sensation and has remained popular ever since.
Tales of adventure in exotic settings were the hallmark of Haggard's art; and King Solomon's Mines was no exception. Here were all the elements for which his novels were famous: a gripping tale in a foreign setting, supernatural adventures, terror, passion, and discovery. Praised as "the most amazing story ever written," the book went on to become one of the best-selling novels of the nineteenth century. Allan Quatermain
Fantasy Allan Quartermain is a sequel to the famous novel King Solomon's Mines. Quatermain has lost his only son and longs to get back into the wilderness. Having persuaded Sir Henry Curtis, Captain John Good, and the Zulu chief Umbopa to accompany him, they set out from the coast of east Africa, this time in search of a white race reputed to live north of Mount Kenya. They survive fierce encounters with Masai warriors, undergo a terrifying subterranean journey, and discover a lost civilization before being caught up in a passionate love-triangle that engulfs the country in a ferocious civil war. This novel is based on author's own experience in the African continent.
Excerpt:
'I have just buried my boy, my poor handsome boy of whom I was so proud, and my heart is broken. It is very hard having only one son to lose him thus, but God's will be done. Who am I that I should complain? The great wheel of Fate rolls on like a Juggernaut, and crushes us all in turn, some soon, some late it does not matter when, in the end, it crushes us all. We do not prostrate ourselves before it like the poor Indians; we fly hither and thither we cry for mercy; but it is of no use, the black Fate thunders on and in its season reduces us to powder. 'Poor Harry to go so soon! just when his life was opening to him. He was doing so well at the hospital, he had passed his last examination with honours, and I was proud of them, much prouder than he was, I think. And then he must needs go to that smallpox hospital. He wrote to me that he was not afraid of smallpox and wanted to gain the experience; and now the disease has killed him, and I, old and grey and withered, am left to mourn over him, without a chick or child to comfort me. I might have saved him, too-I have money enough for both of us, and much more than enough-King Solomon's Mines provided me with that; but I said, "No, let the boy earn his living, let him labour that he may enjoy rest." But the rest has come to him before the labour. Oh, my boy, my boy! You might like
Gold-Seeking on the Dalton Trail
Arthur R. Thompson Among my first passions was that for exploration. The Unknown—that region of mysteries lying upon the outskirts of commonplace environment—drew me with a mighty attraction. My earliest recollections are of wanderings into the domains of the neighbors, and of excursions—not infrequently in direct contravention to parental warnings—over fences, stone-walls, and roofs, and into cobwebbed attics, fragrant hay-lofts, and swaying tree-tops. Of my favorite tree, a sugar maple, I remember that, so thoroughly did I come to know every one of its branches, I could climb up or down unhesitatingly with eyes shut. At that advanced stage of acquaintance, however, it followed naturally that the mysteriousness, and hence the subtle attractiveness, of my friend the maple was considerably lessened. The Sacred Fount
Henry James It was an occasion, I felt — the prospect of a large party — to look out at the station for others, possible friends and even possible enemies, who might be going. Such premonitions, it was true, bred fears when they failed to breed hopes, though it was to be added that there were sometimes, in the case, rather happy ambiguities. One was glowered at, in the compartment, by people who on the morrow, after breakfast, were to prove charming; one was spoken to first by people whose sociability was subsequently to show as bleak; and one built with confidence on others who were never to reappear at all — who were only going to Birmingham. As soon as I saw Gilbert Long, some way up the platform, however, I knew him as an element.