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Lot 152
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Jack London, "The Cruise of the Snark" Annotated Manuscript and Signed Check
Jack London, "The Cruise of the Snark" Annotated Manuscript and Signed Check
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Description:

London Jack


Jack London, The Cruise of the Snark Annotated Manuscript and Signed Check

 

Lot consists of 4pp 1st revision typed manuscript of The Cruise of the Snark with 15+ handwritten edits/words in Jack London's hand; along with a signed check dating from the era of the Snark's construction.

 

In the spring of 1907, Jack London (1876-1916), along with his wife Charmian (1871-1955) and a small crew, set out for a modern maritime adventure aboard the Snark, their 45' long custom built sailboat. Over the next 2 years, the Londons would sail west and south across the Pacific Ocean, exploring Hawaii, the Solomon Islands, Fiji, Tahiti, Australia, and other tropical locales. London later recounted his travel experiences in a non-fiction illustrated account called The Cruise of the Snark, published by The Macmillan Company in New York in 1911.

 

These typed manuscript galleys correspond to pages 36-41 of London's final 1st edition of The Cruise of the Snark. This excerpt, which is an early part of Chapter III: "Adventure," describes the most memorable job applicants who volunteered to be part of Snark's crew.

 

The galley proofs are oversized, measuring 9.25" x 12" on average overall, and have generously sized margins to accommodate handwritten author's edits. The pages are in mostly very good condition, with expected wear including folds, closed tears, and minor scattered loss. The manuscript dates circa spring 1911.

 

London's edits throughout the manuscript are in pencil. He changed the verb "expressed" to "wrote" on the first page, and deleted a comma and inserted an "in" on the second page. On the first and third pages, London has drawn an arrow into the text block where he wished the illustrations to appear. Included are two black and white photographs that would become Illustration 9, "The Best Adventurer of them all" and Illustration 10, "On a level sea", both with handwritten captions in London's hand. The last page is inscribed "Dakin" at top, and draws attention to a printing spacing error further below. Other possibly publisher's edits in red are found throughout.

 

The manuscript pages correspond to the following published text found in The Cruise of the Snark. Areas affected by London's edits are in bold.

 

"No, adventure is not dead, and in spite of the steam engine and of Thomas Cook & Son.  When the announcement of the contemplated voyage of the Snark was made, young men of “roving disposition” proved to be legion, and young women as well—to say nothing of the elderly men and women who volunteered for the voyage.  Why, among my personal friends there were at least half a dozen who regretted their recent or imminent marriages; and there was one marriage I know of that almost failed to come off because of the Snark.

 

Every mail to me was burdened with the letters of applicants who were suffocating in the “man-stifled towns,” and it soon dawned upon me that a twentieth century Ulysses required a corps of stenographers to clear his correspondence before setting sail.  No, adventure is certainly not dead—not while one receives letters that begin: “There is no doubt that when you read this soul-plea from a female stranger in New York City,” etc.; and wherein one learns, a little farther on, that this female stranger weighs only ninety pounds, wants to be cabin-boy, and “yearns to see the countries of the world.”

 

The possession of a “passionate fondness for geography,” was the way one applicant expressed the wander-lust that was in him; while another wrote, “I am cursed with an eternal yearning to be always on the move, consequently this letter to you.”  But best of all was the fellow who said he wanted to come because his feet itched.

 

There were a few who wrote anonymously, suggesting names of friends and giving said friends’ qualifications; but to me there was a hint of something sinister in such proceedings, and I went no further in the matter.

 

With two or three exceptions, all the hundreds that volunteered for my crew were very much in earnest.  Many of them sent their photographs.  Ninety per cent. offered to work in any capacity, and ninety-nine per cent. offered to work without salary.  “Contemplating your voyage on the Snark,” said one, “and notwithstanding its attendant dangers, to accompany you (in any capacity whatever) would be the climax of my ambitions.”  Which reminds me of the young fellow who was “seventeen years old and ambicious,” and who, at the end of his letter, earnestly requested “but please do not let this git into the papers or magazines.”  Quite different was the one who said, “I would be willing to work like hell and not demand pay.”  Almost all of them wanted me to telegraph, at their expense, my acceptance of their services; and quite a number offered to put up a bond to guarantee their appearance on sailing date.

 

Some were rather vague in their own minds concerning the work to be done on the Snark; as, for instance, the one who wrote: “I am taking the liberty of writing you this note to find out if there would be any possibility of my going with you as one of the crew of your boat to make sketches and illustrations.”  Several, unaware of the needful work on a small craft like the Snark, offered to serve, as one of them phrased it, “as assistant in filing materials collected for books and novels.”  That’s what one gets for being prolific.

 

“Let me give my qualifications for the job,” wrote one.  “I am an orphan living with my uncle, who is a hot revolutionary socialist and who says a man without the red blood of adventure is an animated dish-rag.”  Said another: “I can swim some, though I don’t know any of the new strokes.  But what is more important than strokes, the water is a friend of mine.”  “If I was put alone in a sail-boat, I could get her anywhere I wanted to go,” was the qualification of a third—and a better qualification than the one that follows, “I have also watched the fish-boats unload.”  But possibly the prize should go to this one, who very subtly conveys his deep knowledge of the world and life by saying: “My age, in years, is twenty-two.”

 

Then there were the simple straight-out, homely, and unadorned letters of young boys, lacking in the felicities of expression, it is true, but desiring greatly to make the voyage.  These were the hardest of all to decline, and each time I declined one it seemed as if I had struck Youth a slap in the face.  They were so earnest, these boys, they wanted so much to go.  “I am sixteen but large for my age,” said one; and another, “Seventeen but large and healthy.”  “I am as strong at least as the average boy of my size,” said an evident weakling.  “Not afraid of any kind of work,” was what many said, while one in particular, to lure me no doubt by inexpensiveness, wrote: “I can pay my way to the Pacific coast, so that part would probably be acceptable to you.”  “Going around the world is the one thing I want to do,” said one, and it seemed to be the one thing that a few hundred wanted to do.  “I have no one who cares whether I go or not,” was the pathetic note sounded by another.  One had sent his photograph, and speaking of it, said, “I’m a homely-looking sort of a chap, but looks don’t always count.”  And I am confident that the lad who wrote the following would have turned out all right: “My age is 19 years, but I am rather small and consequently won’t take up much room, but I’m tough as the devil.”  And there was one thirteen-year-old applicant that Charmian and I fell in love with, and it nearly broke our hearts to refuse him.

 

But it must not be imagined that most of my volunteers were boys; on the contrary, boys constituted a very small proportion.  There were men and women from every walk in life.  Physicians, surgeons, and dentists offered in large numbers to come along, and, like all the professional men, offered to come without pay, to serve in any capacity, and to pay, even, for the privilege of so serving.

 

There was no end of compositors and reporters who wanted to come, to say nothing of experienced valets, chefs, and stewards.  Civil engineers were keen on the voyage; “lady” companions galore cropped up for Charmian; while I was deluged with the applications of would-be private secretaries.  Many high school and university students yearned for the voyage, and every trade in the working class developed a few applicants, the machinists, electricians, and engineers being especially strong on the trip.  I was surprised at the number, who, in musty law offices, heard the call of adventure; and I was more than surprised by the number of elderly and retired sea captains who were still thralls to the sea.  Several young fellows, with millions coming to them later on, were wild for the adventure, as were also several county superintendents of schools.

 

Fathers and sons wanted to come, and many men with their wives, to say nothing of the young woman stenographer who wrote: “Write immediately if you need me.  I shall bring my typewriter on the first train.”  But the best of all is the following—observe the delicate way in which he worked in his wife: “I thought I would drop you a line of inquiry as to the possibility of making the trip with you, am 24 years of age, married and broke, and a trip of that kind would be just what we are looking for.”

 

Come to think of it, for the average man it must be fairly difficult to write an honest letter of self-recommendation.  One of my correspondents was so stumped that he began his letter with the words, “This is a hard task”; and, after vainly trying to describe his good points, he wound up with, “It is a hard job writing about one’s self.”  Nevertheless, there was one who gave himself a most glowing and lengthy character, and in conclusion stated that he had greatly enjoyed writing it.

 

“But suppose this: your cabin-boy could run your engine, could repair it when out of order.  Suppose he could take his turn at the wheel, could do any carpenter or machinist work.  Suppose he is strong, healthy, and willing to work.  Would you not rather have him than a kid that gets seasick and can’t do anything but wash dishes?”  It was letters of this sort that I hated to decline.  The writer of it, self-taught in English, had been only two years in the United States, and, as he said, “I am not wishing to go with you to earn my living, but I wish to learn and see.”  At the time of writing to me he was a designer for one of the big motor manufacturing companies; he had been to sea quite a bit, and had been used all his life to the handling of small boats.

 

“I have a good position, but it matters not so with me as I prefer travelling,” wrote another.  “As to salary, look at me, and if I am worth a dollar or two, all right, and if I am not, nothing said.  As to my honesty and character, I shall be pleased to show you my employers.  Never drink, no tobacco, but to be honest, I myself, after a little more experience, want to do a little writing.”

 

“I can assure you that I am eminently respectable, but find other respectable people tiresome.”  The man who wrote the foregoing certainly had me guessing, and I am still wondering whether or not he’d have found me tiresome, or what the deuce he did mean.

 

“I have seen better days than what I am passing through to-day,” wrote an old salt, “but I have seen them a great deal worse also.”

 

But the willingness to sacrifice on the part of the man who wrote the following was so touching that I could not accept: “I have a father, a mother, brothers and sisters, dear friends and a lucrative position, and yet I will sacrifice all to become one of your crew.”

 

Another volunteer I could never have accepted was the finicky young fellow who, to show me how necessary it was that I should give him a chance, pointed out that “to go in the ordinary boat, be it schooner or steamer, would be impracticable, for I would have to mix among and live with the ordinary type of seamen, which as a rule is not a clean sort of life.”

 

Then there was the young fellow of twenty-six, who had “run through the gamut of human emotions,” and had “done everything from cooking to attending Stanford University,” and who, at the present writing, was “A vaquero on a fifty-five-thousand-acre range.”  Quite in contrast was the modesty of the one who said, “I am not aware of possessing any particular qualities that would be likely to recommend me to your consideration.  But should you be impressed, you might consider it worth a few minutes’ time to answer.  Otherwise, there’s always work at the trade.  Not expecting, but hoping, I remain, etc.”

 

But I have held my head in both my hands ever since, trying to figure out the intellectual kinship between myself and the one who wrote: “Long before I knew of you, I had mixed political economy and history and deducted therefrom many of your conclusions in concrete.”"

 

In addition to the hand-corrected manuscript is an unnumbered check inscribed overall and signed “Jack London” on the payee line. Issued from the Central Bank of Oakland, California on May 15, 1905 in the amount of $10.50 payable to “J.C. Johnson & Co.” The plain cream check is stamped in purple and bears a y-shaped cancellation mark at center. In near fine condition, with a few light wrinkles. Check measures 6.5" x 2.875".

 

J.C. Johnson & Co. was a San Francisco-based saddler and leathermaking firm. In 1905, London purchased his first ranch on Mount Sonoma in Glen Ellen, California called Beauty Ranch, or the Ranch of Good Intentions. (Today, the ranch, along with London's 1911 Wolf House ruins, are part of Jack London State Historic Park.) Could this check have been for ranch related expenses?

 

Jack London grew up in Oakland, California. He attended elementary school through high school there, and studied at a local waterfront bar named Heinold's First and Last Saloon; the proprietor later lent him tuition money to Berkeley.

 

Jack London wrote dozens of poems, short stories, essays, and novels over a prolific career curtailed by chronic ill-health. With income generated from adventure classics like Call of the Wild (1903) and White Fang (1906), London was able to purchase a ranch and outfit the Snark.

 

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