I belonged to a gang of young ruffians, or rather I was the organizer and leader of a band of youthful desperadoes who were bound to secrecy by oaths and the letting of blood. In the back of our orchard there was a thick briar patch, in the middle of which was concealed the entrance to a cave. We had dug this cave at opportune hours during the day or night, packing away the dirt in sacks. The entrance was just large enough to squeeze into, but below we had two good-sized rooms, all boarded up, with walls plastered with pictures and decorated with skins, hand-made weapons, and utensils we had filched from our respective homes. We had a lamp that never burned right and a stone fireplace that did not draw well.
Here we congregated at different times to divide the spoils of some boyish raid, or to eat the watermelons or grapes we had stolen, or to feast on some neighbor's chicken. We boiled the chickens in a pot that my mother was always searching for but never found…
In this cave I wrote my first story. I wrote it on pieces of wall paper, not all of which were even in size. I slaved and sweat over this story, and smarted too, for the smoke always got into my eyes. It was hard to write because the boys whispered with heads together some bloody story—some dark deed they contemplated against those we hated—some wild plan.
But at last I finished it. The title was 'Jim of the Cave.' That title made a hit with all but the member in whose honor it was created. I read it with voice not always steady nor clear. It had to do with a gang of misunderstood boys, a girl with light hair and blue eyes, dark nights, secrets, fight, blood, and sudden death. Jim, the hero, did not get the light-haired girl. For that matter none of the gang got her, because none of them survived…
The first of my work to see print in book form was written years afterward. I had always yearned to write, but in the early years I did not know it and there was no one to tell me. In college I could not attend to lectures. My mind wandered. My dreams persisted. I used to go into the great silent library of the University of Pennsylvania and sit there, feeling a vague peace, and the stirring of inward force that afterward drove me to write…
I chose the story of Elizabeth Zane, sister of Colonel Ebenezer Zane, my great-great-grandfather who held Fort Henry for twenty years against the Indians and British. During the last siege, September 11, 1782, Betty Zane saved the fort by running the gauntlet of fire, carrying an apron full of gunpowder over her shoulder…
I wrote 'Betty Zane' in a dingy flat, on a kitchen table, under a flickering light. All of one winter I labored over it, suffered, and hoped, was lifted up and anon plunged into despair. When it was finished I took it to Scribner's who returned it with their printed slip—then to Doubleday, where Lanier damned it with faint praise—then to Harpers, where Hitchcock's verdict was that he did not see anything in it to convince him that I could write. And so I peddled 'Betty Zane' from one publisher to another. All in vain! I had no money. My future looked black. And when all seemed the blackest and my spirit was low I re-read 'Betty Zane' and swore they were wrong.
I borrowed money to publish my work. No publisher would bring it out, so I hired a printer to print it. And at last I had a book in my hands—a book that I had written! It changed my life. I gave up my profession and went to the country to live and write. My father was distressed. He hated to have me give up my livelihood. But after I sent him 'Betty Zane' he read it almost as much as he read his favorite book, the Bible. 'Betty Zane' received unhoped for praise from the Press, but it sold slowly, for the printer could not get it before the public. And eventually I bought the plates.
Every year now 'Betty Zane,' in spite of its crudities, sells more and more." In fine condition, with overall toning and a few unobtrusive edge tears. This is a stunning, intimate account of all that drove Grey's career. It explains his writing from beginning to end–from his youthful love of adventure that shines through in works of Western fiction to the innate desire to put pen to paper. A simply fabulous autobiographical piece, penned in anticipation of its publication. Pre-certified PSA/DNA and RR Auction COA.
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