{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_39718/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_39718","id":"gutenberg_39718","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39718","summary":null,"tags":["Australia -- Description and travel","Category: Biographies","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Travel Writing","Doyle, Arthur Conan, 1859-1930","Doyle, Arthur Conan, 1859-1930 -- Travel -- Australia","Spiritualism","Spiritualism -- Australia -- History -- 20th century"],"text":"Produced by Dianna Adair, Suzanne Shell and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  Transcriber's Note:\n\n  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=.\n  Obvious punctuation and spelling errors have been corrected.\n\n\n\n     Illustration: _Photo: Stirling, Melbourne._ ON THE WARPATH IN\n     AUSTRALIA, 1920-21.\n\n\n\n_THE\nWANDERINGS OF A\nSPIRITUALIST_\n\nBY\nSIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE\n\nAUTHOR OF\n\"THE NEW REVELATION,\" \"THE VITAL MESSAGE,\" ETC.\n\n\"Aggressive fighting for the right is\nthe noblest sport the world affords.\"\n\n_Theodore Roosevelt._\n\nHODDER AND STOUGHTON\nLIMITED       LONDON\n\n\n\n\n_By SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE_\n\n\nTHE NEW REVELATION\n\n     Ninth Edition. Cloth, 5/. net.. Paper, 2/6 net.\n\n     \"This book is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's confession of faith, very\n     frank, very courageous and very resolute ... the courage and\n     large-mindedness of this book deserve cordial recognition.\"--DAILY\n     CHRONICLE. \"It is a book that demands our respect and commands our\n     interest.... Much more likely to influence the opinion of the\n     general public than 'Raymond' or the long reports of the Society\n     for Psychical Research.\"--DAILY NEWS.\n\n\nTHE VITAL MESSAGE\n\n                                           Tenth Thousand. Cloth, 5/.\n\n     \"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The New Revelation' was his confession\n     of faith. 'The Vital Message' seeks to show our future relations\n     with the Unseen World.\"--DAILY CHRONICLE. \"... it is a clear,\n     earnest presentation of the case, and will serve as a useful\n     introduction to the subject to anyone anxious to learn what the new\n     Spiritualists claim for their researches and their faith.... Sir\n     Arthur writes with evident sincerity, and, within the limits of his\n     system, with much broad-mindedness and toleration.\"--DAILY\n     TELEGRAPH. \"A splendid propaganda book, written in the author's\n     telling and racy style, and one that will add to his prestige and\n     renown.\"--TWO WORLDS.\n\n\nSPIRITUALISM AND RATIONALISM\n\n\n                   WITH A DRASTIC EXAMINATION OF MR. JOSEPH M'CABE\n\n     Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's trenchant reply to the criticisms of\n     Spiritualism as formulated by Mr. Joseph M'Cabe.\n                                                    Paper, 1/. net.\n\n_HODDER & STOUGHTON, Ltd., London, E.C.4_\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                     PAGE\n\nCHAPTER I                                                               9\n\nThe inception of the enterprise.--The Merthyr Seance.--Experience\nof British lectures.--Call from Australia.--The Holborn\nluncheon.--Remarkable testimony to communication.--Is individual\nproof necessary?--Excursion to Exeter.--Can Spiritualists continue\nto be Christians?--Their views on Atonement.--The party on the\n\"Naldera.\"\n\nCHAPTER II                                                             24\n\nGibraltar.--Spanish right versus British might.--Relics of\nBarbary Rovers, and of German militarists.--Ichabod!--Senegal\nInfantry.--No peace for the world.--Religion on a liner.--Differences\nof vibration.--The Bishop of Kwang-Si.--Religion in China.--Whisky\nin excelsis.--France's masterpiece.--British errors.--A procession\nof giants.--The invasion of Egypt.--Tropical weather.--The\nRussian Horror.--An Indian experiment.--Aden.--Bombay.--The\nLambeth encyclical. A great novelist.--The Mango trick.--Snakes.--The\nCatamarans.--The Robber Castles of Ceylon.--Doctrine of\nReincarnation.--Whales and Whalers.--Perth.--The Bight.\n\nCHAPTER III                                                           60\n\nMr. Hughes' letter of welcome.--Challenges.--Mr. Carlyle\nSmythe.--The Adelaide Press.--The great drought.--The wine\nindustry.--Clairvoyance.--Meeting with Bellchambers.--The\nfirst lecture.--The effect.--The Religious lecture.--The\nillustrated lecture.--Premonitions.--The spot light.--Mr.\nThomas' account of the incident.--Correspondence.--Adelaide\ndoctors.--A day in the Bush,--The Mallee fowl.--Sussex in\nAustralia.--Farewell to Adelaide.\n\nCHAPTER IV                                                            84\n\nSpeculations on Paul and his Master.--Arrival at Melbourne.--Attack\nin the Argus.--Partial press boycott.--Strength of the movement.--The\nPrince of Wales.--Victorian football. Rescue Circle in\nMelbourne.--Burke and Wills' statue.--Success of the\nlectures.--Reception at the Auditorium.--Luncheon of the British\nEmpire League.--Mr. Ryan's experience.--The Federal Government.--Mr.\nHughes' personality.--The mediumship of Charles Bailey.--His alleged\nexposure.--His remarkable record.--A test sitting.--The Indian\nnest.--A remarkable lecture.--Arrival of Lord Forster.--The\nfuture of the Empire.--Kindness of Australians.--Prohibition.\n--Horse-racing.--Roman Catholic policy.\n\nCHAPTER V                                                            114\n\nMore English than the English.--A day in the Bush.--Immigration.--A\ncase of spirit return.--A seance.--Geelong.--The lava\nplain.--Good-nature of General Ryrie.--Bendigo.--Down a gold\nmine.--Prohibition v. Continuance.--Mrs. Knight MacLellan.\n--Nerrin.--A wild drive.--Electric shearing.--Rich sheep stations.\n--Cockatoo farmers.--Spinnifex and Mallee.--Rabbits.--The\ngreat marsh.\n\nCHAPTER VI                                                           136\n\nThe Melbourne Cup.--Psychic healing.--M. J. Bloomfield.--My\nown experience.--Direct healing.--Chaos and Ritual.--Government\nHouse Ball.--The Rescue Circle again.--Sitting with Mrs.\nHarris.--A good test case.--Australian botany.--The land of\nmyrtles.--English cricket team.--Great final meeting in Melbourne.\n\nCHAPTER VII                                                          151\n\nGreat reception at Sydney.--Importance of Sydney.--Journalistic\nluncheon.--A psychic epidemic.--Gregory.--Barracking.--Town\nHall reception.--Regulation of Spiritualism.--An ether\napport.--Surfing at Manly.--A challenge.--Bigoted opponents.--A\ndisgruntled photographer.--Outing in the harbour.--Dr. Mildred\nCreed.--Leon Gellert.--Norman Lindsay.--Bishop Leadbeater.--Our\nrelations with Theosophy.--Incongruities of H.P.B.--Of D.D. Home.\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII                                                         176\n\nDangerous fog.--The six photographers.--Comic\nAdvertisements.--Beauties of Auckland.--A Christian\nclergyman.--Shadows in our American relations.--The\nGallipoli Stone.--Stevenson and the Germans.--Position of\nDe Rougemont.--Mr. Clement Wragge.--Atlantean\ntheories.--A strange psychic.--Wellington the windy.--A\nliterary oasis.--A Maori seance.--Presentation.\n\nCHAPTER IX                                                           198\n\nThe Anglican Colony.--Psychic dangers.--The learned dog.--Absurd\nnewspaper controversy.--A backward community.--The Maori\ntongue.--Their origin.--Their treatment by the Empire.--A\nfiasco.--The Pa of Kaiopoi.--Dr. Thacker.--Sir Joseph Kinsey.--A\ngenerous collector.--Scott and Amundsen.--Dunedin.--A genuine\nmedium.--Evidence.--The Shipping strike.--Sir Oliver.--Farewell.\n\nCHAPTER X                                                            223\n\nChristian origins.--Mithraism.--Astronomy.--Exercising\nboats.--Bad news from home.--Futile strikes.--Labour\nParty.--The blue wilderness.--Journey to Brisbane.--Warm\nreception.--Friends and Foes.--Psychic experience\nof Dr. Doyle.--Birds.--Criticism on Melbourne--Spiritualist\nChurch.--Ceremony.--Sir Matthew Nathan.--Alleged repudiation of\nQueensland.--Billy tea.--The bee farm.--Domestic service in\nAustralia.--Hon. John Fihilly.--Curious photograph by the State\nphotographer.--The \"Orsova.\"\n\nCHAPTER XI                                                           255\n\nMedlow Bath.--Jenolan Caves.--Giant skeleton.--Mrs.\nFoster Turner's mediumship.--A wonderful prophecy.--Final\nresults.--Third sitting with Bailey.--Failure of State\nControl.--Retrospection.--Melbourne presentation.--Crooks.--Lecture\nat Perth.--West Australia.--Rabbits, sparrows and sharks.\n\nCHAPTER XII                                                          280\n\nPleasing letters.--Visit to Candy.--Snake and Flying Fox.--Buddha's\nshrine.--The Malaya.--Naval digression.--Indian trader.\n--Elephanta.--Sea snakes.--Chained to a tombstone.--Berlin's escape.\n--Lord Chetwynd.--Lecture in the Red Sea.--Marseilles.\n\nCHAPTER XIII                                                         303\n\nThe Institut Metaphysique.--Lecture in French.--Wonderful\nmusical improviser.--Camille Flammarion.--Test of materialised\nhand.--Last ditch of materialism.--Sitting with Mrs. Bisson's medium,\nEva.--Round the Aisne battlefields.--A tragic intermezzo.\n--Anglo-French Rugby match.--Madame Blifaud's clairvoyance.\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nOn the War-Path in Australia, 1920-1921           _Frontispiece_\n\n                                                   _Facing page_\n\nHow This Book was Written                                      9\n\nThe God-Speed Luncheon in London. On this occasion\n250 out of 290 Guests rose as testimony that they\nwere in Personal touch with their Dead                        16\n\nThe Wanderers, 1920-1921                                      72\n\nBellchambers and the Mallee Fowl. \"Get along with\nyou, do\"                                                      80\n\nMelbourne, November, 1920                                     96\n\nA Typical Australian Back-Country Scene by H. J.\nJohnstone, a Great Painter Who Died Unknown.\nPainting in Adelaide National Gallery                        128\n\nAt Melbourne Town Hall, November 12th, 1920                  144\n\nThe People of Turi's Canoe, after a Voyage of Great\nHardship, at last Sight the Shores of New Zealand.\nFrom a Painting by C. F. Goldie and L. G. A. Steele          208\n\nLaying Foundation Stone of Spiritualist Church at\nBrisbane                                                     240\n\nCurious Photographic Effect referred to in Text.\nTaken by the Official Photographer, Brisbane.\n\"Absolutely mystifying\" is his Description                   252\n\nOur Party _en route_ to the Jenolan Caves, January 20th,\n1921. In Front of Old Court House in which Bushrangers were\nTried                                                        256\n\nDenis with a Black Snake at Medlow Bath                      264\n\n\n\n\n        TO MY WIFE.\n\n\n    THIS MEMORIAL OF A JOURNEY WHICH\n    HER HELP AND PRESENCE CHANGED\n    FROM A DUTY TO A PLEASURE.\n\n    A. C. D.\n\n    _July 18/21._\n\n\n\n     Illustration: HOW THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n     The inception of the enterprise.--The Merthyr Seance.--Experience\n     of British lectures.--Call from Australia.--The Holborn\n     luncheon.--Remarkable testimony to communication.--Is individual\n     proof necessary?--Excursion to Exeter.--Can spiritualists continue\n     to be Christians?--Their views on Atonement.--The party on the\n     \"Naldera.\"\n\n\nThis is an account of the wanderings of a spiritualist, geographical and\nspeculative. Should the reader have no interest in psychic things--if\nindeed any human being can be so foolish as not to be interested in his\nown nature and fate,--then this is the place to put the book down. It\nwere better also to end the matter now if you have no patience with a\ngo-as-you-please style of narrative, which founds itself upon the\nconviction that thought may be as interesting as action, and which is\nbound by its very nature to be intensely personal. I write a record of\nwhat absorbs my mind which may be very different from that which appeals\nto yours. But if you are content to come with me upon these terms then\nlet us start with my apologies in advance for the pages which may bore\nyou, and with my hopes that some may compensate you by pleasure or by\nprofit. I write these lines with a pad upon my knee, heaving upon the\nlong roll of the Indian Ocean, running large and grey under a grey\nstreaked sky, with the rain-swept hills of Ceylon, just one shade\ngreyer, lining the Eastern skyline. So under many difficulties it will\nbe carried on, which may explain if it does not excuse any slurring of a\nstyle, which is at its best but plain English.\n\nThere was one memorable night when I walked forth with my head throbbing\nand my whole frame quivering from the villa of Mr. Southey at Merthyr.\nBehind me the brazen glare of Dowlais iron-works lit up the sky, and in\nfront twinkled the many lights of the Welsh town. For two hours my wife\nand I had sat within listening to the whispering voices of the dead,\nvoices which are so full of earnest life, and of desperate endeavours to\npierce the barrier of our dull senses. They had quivered and wavered\naround us, giving us pet names, sweet sacred things, the intimate talk\nof the olden time. Graceful lights, signs of spirit power had hovered\nover us in the darkness. It was a different and a wonderful world. Now\nwith those voices still haunting our memories we had slipped out into\nthe material world--a world of glaring iron works and of twinkling\ncottage windows. As I looked down on it all I grasped my wife's hand in\nthe darkness and I cried aloud, \"My God, if they only knew--if they\ncould only know!\" Perhaps in that cry, wrung from my very soul, lay the\ninception of my voyage to the other side of the world. The wish to serve\nwas strong upon us both. God had given us wonderful signs, and they were\nsurely not for ourselves alone.\n\nI had already done the little I might. From the moment that I had\nunderstood the overwhelming importance of this subject, and realised how\nutterly it must change and chasten the whole thought of the world when\nit is whole-heartedly accepted, I felt it good to work in the matter and\nunderstood that all other work which I had ever done, or could ever do,\nwas as nothing compared to this. Therefore from the time that I had\nfinished the history of the Great War on which I was engaged, I was\nready to turn all my remaining energies of voice or hand to the one\ngreat end. At first I had little of my own to narrate, and my task was\nsimply to expound the spiritual philosophy as worked out by the thoughts\nand experiences of others, showing folk so far as I was able, that the\nsuperficial and ignorant view taken of it in the ordinary newspapers did\nnot touch the heart of the matter. My own experiences were limited and\ninconclusive, so that it was the evidence of others which I quoted. But\nas I went forward signs were given in profusion to me also, such signs\nas were far above all error or deception, so that I was able to speak\nwith that more vibrant note which comes not from belief or faith, but\nfrom personal experience and knowledge. I had found that the wonderful\nliterature of Spiritualism did not reach the people, and that the press\nwas so full of would-be jocosities and shallow difficulties that the\npublic were utterly misled. Only one way was left, which was to speak to\nthe people face to face. This was the task upon which I set forth, and\nit had led me to nearly every considerable city of Great Britain from\nAberdeen to Torquay. Everywhere I found interest, though it varied from\nthe heavier spirit of the sleepy cathedral towns to the brisk reality of\ncentres of life and work like Glasgow or Wolverhampton. Many a time my\nhalls were packed, and there were as many outside as inside the\nbuilding. I have no eloquence and make profession of none, but I am\naudible and I say no more than I mean and can prove, so that my\naudiences felt that it was indeed truth so far as I could see it, which\nI conveyed. Their earnestness and receptiveness were my great help and\nreward in my venture. Those who had no knowledge of what my views were\nassembled often outside my halls, waving banners and distributing\ntracts, but never once in the course of addressing 150,000 people, did I\nhave disturbance in my hall. I tried, while never flinching from truth,\nto put my views in such a way as to hurt no one's feelings, and although\nI have had clergymen of many denominations as my chairmen, I have had\nthanks from them and no remonstrance. My enemies used to follow and\naddress meetings, as they had every right to do, in the same towns. It\nis curious that the most persistent of these enemies were Jesuits on the\none side and Evangelical sects of the Plymouth Brethren type upon the\nother. I suppose the literal interpretation of the Old Testament was the\ncommon bond.\n\nHowever this is digression, and when the digressions are taken out of\nthis book there will not be much left. I get back to the fact that the\noverwhelming effect of the Merthyr Seance and of others like it, made my\nwife and myself feel that when we had done what we could in Britain we\nmust go forth to further fields. Then came the direct invitation from\nspiritual bodies in Australia. I had spent some never-to-be-forgotten\ndays with Australian troops at the very crisis of the war. My heart was\nmuch with them. If my message could indeed bring consolation to bruised\nhearts and to bewildered minds--and I had boxes full of letters to show\nthat it did--then to whom should I carry it rather than to those who had\nfought so splendidly and lost so heavily in the common cause? I was a\nlittle weary also after three years of incessant controversy, speaking\noften five times a week, and continually endeavouring to uphold the\ncause in the press. The long voyage presented attractions, even if there\nwas hard work at the end of it. There were difficulties in the way.\nThree children, boys of eleven and nine, with a girl of seven, all\ndevotedly attached to their home and their parents, could not easily be\nleft behind. If they came a maid was also necessary. The pressure upon\nme of correspondence and interviews would be so great that my old friend\nand secretary, Major Wood, would be also needed. Seven of us in all\ntherefore, and a cheque of sixteen hundred pounds drawn for our return\ntickets, apart from outfit, before a penny could be entered on the\ncredit side. However, Mr. Carlyle Smythe, the best agent in Australia,\nhad taken the matter up, and I felt that we were in good hands. The\nlectures would be numerous, controversies severe, the weather at its\nhottest, and my own age over sixty. But there are compensating forces,\nand I was constantly aware of their presence. I may count our adventures\nas actually beginning from the luncheon which was given us in farewell a\nweek or so before our sailing by the spiritualists of England. Harry\nEngholm, most unselfish of men, and a born organiser among our most\nunorganised crowd, had the matter in hand, so it was bound to be a\nsuccess. There was sitting room at the Holborn Restaurant for 290\npeople, and it was all taken up three weeks before the event. The\nsecretary said that he could have filled the Albert Hall. It was an\nimpressive example of the solidity of the movement showing itself for\nthe moment round us, but really round the cause. There were peers,\ndoctors, clergymen, officers of both services, and, above all, those\nsplendid lower middle class folk, if one talks in our material earth\nterms, who are the spiritual peers of the nation. Many professional\nmediums were there also, and I was honoured by their presence, for as I\nsaid in my remarks, I consider that in these days of doubt and sorrow, a\ngenuine professional medium is the most useful member of the whole\ncommunity. Alas! how few they are! Four photographic mediums do I know\nin all Britain, with about twelve physical phenomena mediums and as many\nreally reliable clairvoyants. What are these among so many? But there\nare many amateur mediums of various degrees, and the number tends to\nincrease. Perhaps there will at last be an angel to every church as in\nthe days of John. I see dimly the time when two congregations, the\nliving and those who have passed on, shall move forward together with\nthe medium angel as the bridge between them.\n\nIt was a wonderful gathering, and I only wish I could think that my own\nremarks rose to the height of the occasion. However, I did my best and\nspoke from my heart. I told how the Australian visit had arisen, and I\nclaimed that the message that I would carry was the most important that\nthe mind of man could conceive, implying as it did the practical\nabolition of death, and the reinforcement of our present religious views\nby the actual experience of those who have made the change from the\nnatural to the spiritual bodies. Speaking of our own experiences, I\nmentioned that my wife and I had actually spoken face to face beyond all\nquestion or doubt with eleven friends or relatives who had passed over,\ntheir direct voices being in each case audible, and their conversation\ncharacteristic and evidential--in some cases marvellously so. Then with\na sudden impulse I called upon those in the audience who were prepared\nto swear that they had had a similar experience to stand up and testify.\nIt seemed for a moment as if the whole audience were on their feet. _The\nTimes_ next day said 250 out of 290 and I am prepared to accept that\nestimate. Men and women, of all professions and social ranks--I do not\nthink that I exaggerated when I said that it was the most remarkable\ndemonstration that I had ever seen and that nothing like it had ever\noccurred in the City of London.\n\nIt was vain for those journals who tried to minimise it to urge that in\na Baptist or a Unitarian assembly all would have stood up to testify to\ntheir own faith. No doubt they would, but this was not a case of faith,\nit was a case of bearing witness to fact. There were people of all\ncreeds, Church, dissent, Unitarian and ex-materialists. They were\ntestifying to an actual objective experience as they might have\ntestified to having seen the lions in Trafalgar Square. If such a public\nagreement of evidence does not establish a fact then it is indeed\nimpossible, as Professor Challis remarked long ago, to prove a thing by\nany human testimony whatever. I confess that I was amazed. When I\nremember how many years it was before I myself got any final personal\nproofs I should have thought that the vast majority of Spiritualists\nwere going rather upon the evidence of others than upon their own. And\nyet 250 out of 290 had actually joined hands across the border. I had no\nidea that the direct proof was so widely spread.\n\nI have always held that people insist too much upon direct proof. What\ndirect proof have we of most of the great facts of Science? We simply\ntake the word of those who have examined. How many of us have, for\nexample, seen the rings of Saturn? We are assured that they are there,\nand we accept the assurance. Strong telescopes are rare, and so we do\nnot all expect to see the rings with our own eyes. In the same way\nstrong mediums are rare, and we cannot all expect to experience the\nhigher psychic results. But if the assurance of those who have carefully\nexperimented, of the Barretts, the Hares, the Crookes, the Wallaces, the\nLodges and the Lombrosos, is not enough, then it is manifest that we are\ndealing with this matter on different terms to those which we apply to\nall the other affairs of science. It would of course be different if\nthere were a school of patient investigators who had gone equally deeply\ninto the matter and come to opposite conclusions. Then we should\ncertainly have to find the path of truth by individual effort. But such\na school does not exist. Only the ignorant and inexperienced are in\ntotal opposition, and the humblest witness who has really sought the\nevidence has more weight than they.\n\n     Illustration: THE GOD-SPEED LUNCHEON IN LONDON. On this occasion\n     250 out of 290 guests rose as testimony that they were in personal\n     touch with their dead.\n\nAfter the luncheon my wife made the final preparations--and only ladies\ncan tell what it means to fit out six people with tropical and\nsemi-tropical outfits which will enable them for eight months to stand\ninspection in public. I employed the time by running down to Devonshire\nto give addresses at Exeter and Torquay, with admirable audiences at\nboth. Good Evan Powell had come down to give me a last seance, and I had\nthe joy of a few last words with my arisen son, who blessed me on my\nmission and assured me that I would indeed bring solace to bruised\nhearts. The words he uttered were a quotation from my London speech at\nwhich Powell had not been present, nor had the verbatim account of it\nappeared anywhere at that time. It was one more sign of how closely our\nwords and actions are noted from the other side. Powell was tired,\nhaving given a sitting the night before, so the proceedings were short,\na few floating lights, my son and my sister's son to me, one or two\ngreetings to other sitters, and it was over.\n\nWhilst in Exeter I had a discussion with those who would break away from\nChristianity. They are a strong body within the movement, and how can\nChristians be surprised at it when they remember that for seventy years\nthey have had nothing but contempt and abuse for the true light-bearers\nof the world? Is there at the present moment one single bishop, or one\nhead of a Free Church, who has the first idea of psychic truth? Dr.\nParker had, in his day, so too Archdeacons Wilberforce and Colley, Mr.\nHaweis and a few others. General Booth has also testified to spiritual\ncommunion with the dead. But what have Spiritualists had in the main\nsave misrepresentation and persecution? Hence the movement has\nadmittedly, so far as it is an organised religion--and it has already\n360 churches and 1,000 building funds--taken a purely Unitarian turn.\nThis involves no disrespect towards Him Whom they look upon as the\ngreatest Spirit who ever trod the earth, but only a deep desire to\ncommunicate direct without intermediary with that tremendous centre of\nforce from and to whom all things radiate or return. They are very\nearnest and good men, these organised religious Spiritualists, and for\nthe most part, so far as my experience goes, are converts from\nmaterialism who, having in their materialistic days said very properly\nthat they would believe nothing which could not be proved to them, are\nready now with Thomas to be absolutely wholehearted when the proof of\nsurvival and spirit communion has actually reached them. There, however,\nthe proof ends, nor will they go further than the proof extends, as\notherwise their original principles would be gone. Therefore they are\nUnitarians with a breadth of vision which includes Christ, Krishna,\nBuddha and all the other great spirits whom God has sent to direct\ndifferent lines of spiritual evolution which correspond to the different\nneeds of the various races of mankind. Our information from the beyond\nis that this evolution is continued beyond the grave, and very far on\nuntil all details being gradually merged, they become one as children of\nGod. With a deep reverence for Christ it is undeniable that the\norganised Spiritualist does not accept vicarious atonement nor original\nsin, and believes that a man reaps as he sows with no one but himself to\npull out the weeds. It seems to me the more virile and manly doctrine,\nand as to the texts which seem to say otherwise, we cannot deny that the\nNew Testament has been doctored again and again in order to square the\nrecord of the Scriptures with the practice of the Church. Professor\nNestle, in the preface to a work on theology (I write far from books of\nreference), remarks that there were actually officials named\n\"Correctores,\" who were appointed at the time of the Council of Nicaea\nfor this purpose, and St. Jerome, when he constructed the Vulgate,\ncomplains to Pope Damasus that it is practically a new book that he is\nmaking, putting any sin arising upon the Pope's head. In the face of\nsuch facts we can only accept the spirit of the New Testament fortified\nwith common sense, and using such interpretation as brings most\nspiritual strength to each of us. Personally, I accept the view of the\norganised Spiritual religion, for it removes difficulties which formerly\nstood between me and the whole Christian system, but I would not say or\ndo anything which would abash those others who are getting real\nspiritual help from any sort of Christian belief. The gaining of\nspirituality and widening of the personality are the aims of life, and\nhow it is done is the business of the individual. Every creed has\nproduced its saints and has to that extent justified its existence. I\nlike the Unitarian position of the main Spiritual body, however, because\nit links the movement up with the other great creeds of the world and\nmakes it more accessible to the Jew, the Mohammedan or the Buddhist. It\nis far too big to be confined within the palings of Christianity.\n\nHere is a little bit of authentic teaching from the other side which\nbears upon the question. I take it from the remarkable record of Mr.\nMiller of Belfast, whose dialogues with his son after the death of the\nlatter seem to me to be as certainly true as any case which has come to\nmy notice. On asking the young soldier some question about the exact\nposition of Christ in religion he modestly protested that such a\nsubject was above his head, and asked leave to bring his higher guide to\nanswer the question. Using a fresh voice and in a new and more weighty\nmanner the medium then said:--\n\n\"I wish to answer your question. Jesus the Christ is the proper\ndesignation. Jesus was perfect humanity. Christ was the God idea in Him.\nJesus, on account of His purity, manifested in the highest degree the\npsychic powers which resulted in His miracles. Jesus never preached the\nblood of the lamb. The disciples after His ascension forgot the message\nin admiration of the man. The Christ is in every human being, and so are\nthe psychic forces which were used by Jesus. If the same attention were\ngiven to spiritual development which you give to the comfort and growth\nof your material bodies your progress in spiritual life would be rapid\nand would be characterised by the same works as were performed by Jesus.\nThe one essential thing for all on earth to strive after is a fuller\nknowledge and growth in spiritual living.\"\n\nI think that the phrase, \"In their admiration of the man they forgot His\nmessage,\" is as pregnant a one as I ever heard.\n\nTo come back then to the discussion at Exeter, what I said then and feel\nnow is that every Spiritualist is free to find his own path, and that as\na matter of fact his typical path is a Unitarian one, but that this in\nno way obscures the fact that our greatest leaders, Lodge, Barrett,\nEllis Powell, Tweedale, are devoted sons of the Church, that our\nliterature is full of Christian aspiration, and that our greatest\nprophet, Vale Owen, is a priest of a particularly sacerdotal turn of\nmind. We are in a transition stage, and have not yet found any common\ntheological position, or any common position at all, save that the dead\ncarry on, that they do not change, that they can under proper physical\nconditions communicate with us, and that there are many physical signs\nby which they make their presence known to us. That is our common\nground, and all beyond that is matter of individual observation and\ninference. Therefore, we are not in a position to take on any\nanti-Christian agitation, for it would be against the conscience of the\ngreater part of our own people.\n\nWell, it is clear that if I do not begin my book I shall finish it\nbefore I have begun, so let me end this chapter by saying that in\ndespite of all superstition we started for Australia in the good ship\n\"Naldera\" (Capt. Lewellin, R.N.R.), on Friday, August 13th, 1920. As we\ncarried two bishops in addition to our ominous dates we were foredoomed\nby every nautical tradition. Our party were my dear, splendid wife, who\nhas shared both my evidence and my convictions. She it is who, by\nbreaking up her household, leaving her beloved home, breaking the\nschooling of her children, and venturing out upon a sea voyage, which of\nall things she hates, has made the real sacrifice for the cause. As to\nme, I am fond of change and adventure, and heartily agree with President\nRoosevelt when he said that the grandest sport upon earth is to champion\nan unpopular cause which you know to be true. With us were Denis,\nMalcolm and Baby, concerning whom I wrote the \"Three of them\" sketches\nsome years ago. In their train was Jakeman, most faithful of maids, and\nin mine Major Wood, who has been mixed up in my life ever since as young\nmen we played both cricket and football in the same team. Such was the\nlittle party who set forth to try and blow that smouldering glow of\ntruth which already existed in Australia, into a more lively flame.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n     Gibraltar.--Spanish right versus British might.--Relics of Barbary\n     Rovers, and of German militarists.--Ichabod! Senegal Infantry.--No\n     peace for the world.--Religion on a liner.--Differences of\n     vibration.--The Bishop of Kwang-Si.--Religion in China.--Whisky in\n     excelsis.--France's masterpiece.--British errors.--A procession of\n     giants.--The invasion of Egypt.--Tropical weather.--The Russian\n     Horror.--An Indian experiment.--Aden.--Bombay.--The Lambeth\n     encyclical.--A great novelist.--The Mango trick.--Snakes.--The\n     Catamarans.--The Robber Castles of Ceylon.--Doctrine of\n     Reincarnation.--Whales and Whalers.--Perth.--The Bight.\n\n\nWe had a favourable journey across the Bay and came without adventure to\nGibraltar, that strange crag, Arabic by name, African in type, Spanish\nby right, and British by might. I trust that my whole record has shown\nme to be a loyal son of the Empire, and I recognise that we must have a\nsecure line of communications with the East, but if any change could\ngive us Ceuta, on the opposite African coast, instead of this outlying\ncorner of proud old Spain, it would be good policy as well as good\nmorality to make the change. I wonder how we should like it if the\nFrench held a garrison at Mount St. Michael in Cornwall, which would be\na very similar situation. Is it worth having a latent enemy who at any\ntime might become an active one, or is it wiser to hold them to us by\nthe memory of a great voluntary act of justice? They would pay, of\ncourse, for all quays, breakwaters and improvements, which would give us\nthe money to turn Ceuta into a worthy substitute, which could be held\nwithout offending the pride of a great nation, as old and proud as\nourselves. The whole lesson of this great war is that no nation can do\nwhat is unjust with impunity, and that sooner or later one's sin will\nfind one out. How successful seemed all the scheming of Frederick of\nPrussia! But what of Silesia and of Poland now? Only on justice can you\nbuild with a permanent foundation, and there is no justice in our tenure\nof Gibraltar. We had only an hour ashore, a great joy to the children,\nand carried away a vague impression of grey-shirted Tommies, swarthy\nloungers, one long, cobblestoned street, scarlet blossoms, and a fine\nGovernor's house, in which I picture that brave old warrior,\nSmith-Dorrien, writing a book which will set all the critics talking,\nand the military clubs buzzing a year or two from now. I do not know if\nhe was really forced to fight at Le Cateau, though our sympathies must\nalways go to the man who fights, but I do feel that if he had had his\nway and straightened the salient of Ypres, there would have been a\nmighty saving of blood and tears. There were sentimental reasons against\nit, but I can think of no material ones--certainly none which were worth\nall the casualties of the Salient. I had only one look at the place, and\nthat by night, but never shall I forget the murderous loop, outlined by\nstar shells, nor the horrible noises which rose up from that place of\nwrath and misery.\n\nOn August 19th we were running up the eastern Spanish coast, a most\ndesolate country of high bare cliffs and barren uplands, studded with\naged towers which told of pirate raids of old. These Mediterranean shore\ndwellers must have had a hellish life, when the Barbary Rover was\nafloat, and they might be wakened any night by the Moslem yell. Truly,\nif the object of human life was chastening by suffering, then we have\ngiven it to each other in full measure. If this were the only life I do\nnot know how the hypothesis of the goodness of God could be sustained,\nsince our history has been one hardly broken record of recurring\nmiseries, war, famine, and disease, from the ice to the equator. I\nshould still be a materialist, as I was of yore, if it were not for the\ncomfort and teaching from beyond, which tells me that this is the\nworst--far the worst--and that by its standard everything else becomes\nmost gloriously better, so long as we help to make it so. \"If the boys\nknew what it was like over here,\" said a dead soldier, \"they would just\njump for it.\" He added however, \"If they did that they would surely miss\nit.\" We cannot bluff Providence, or short-circuit things to our liking.\n\nWe got ashore once more at Marseilles. I saw converted German merchant\nships, with names like \"Burgomeister Mueller,\" in the harbour, and\nrailway trucks with \"Mainz-Coeln\" still marked upon their flanks--part\nof the captured loot. Germany, that name of terror, how short is the\ntime since we watched you well-nigh all-powerful, mighty on land,\ndangerous on the sea, conquering the world with your commerce and\nthreatening it with your arms! You had everything, numbers, discipline,\nknowledge, industry, bravery, organisation, all in the highest--such an\nengine as the world has never seen. And now--Ichabod! Ichabod! Your\nwarships lie under the waves, your liners fly the flags of your enemies,\nyour mother Rhine on either bank hears the bugles of your invaders. What\nwas wanting in you to bring you to such a pass? Was it not spirituality?\nHad not your churches become as much a department of State as the Post\nOffice, where every priest and pastor was in State pay, and said that\nwhich the State ordained? All other life was at its highest, but\nspiritual life was dead, and because it was dead all the rest had taken\non evil activities which could only lead to dissolution and corruption.\nHad Germany obeyed the moral law would she not now be great and\nflourishing, instead of the ruin which we see? Was ever such an object\nlesson in sin and its consequence placed before the world? But let us\nlook to it, for we also have our lesson to learn, and our punishment is\nsurely waiting if we do not learn it. If now after such years we sink\nback into old ruts and do not make an earnest effort for real religion\nand real active morality, then we cumber the ground, and it is time that\nwe were swept away, for no greater chance of reform can ever come to\nus.\n\nI saw some of the Senegal troops in the streets of Marseilles--a whole\nbattalion of them marching down for re-embarkation. They are fierce,\nhard soldiers, by the look of them, for the negro is a natural fighter,\nas the prize ring shows, and these have long service training upon the\ntop of this racial pugnacity. They look pure savages, with the tribal\ncuts still upon their faces, and I do not wonder that the Germans\nobjected to them, though we cannot doubt that the Germans would\nthemselves have used their Askaris in Europe as well as in Africa if\nthey could have done so. The men who had as allies the murderers of the\nArmenians would not stick at trifles. I said during the war, and I can\nclearly see now, that the way in which the war was fought will prove\nhardly second to the war itself as a misfortune to the human race. A\nclean war could end in a clean peace. But how can we ever forget the\npoison gas, the Zeppelin bombardments of helpless cities, the submarine\nmurders, the scattering of disease germs, and all the other atrocities\nof Germany? No water of oblivion can ever wash her clean. She had one\nchance, and only one. It was to at once admit it all herself and to set\nto work purging her national guilt by punishing guilty individuals.\nPerhaps she may even now save herself and clear the moral atmosphere of\nthe world by doing this. But time passes and the signs are against it.\nThere can be no real peace in the world until voluntary reparation has\nbeen made. Forced reparation can only make things worse, for it cannot\nsatisfy us, and it must embitter them. I long for real peace, and\nshould love to see our Spiritualist bodies lead the van. But the time is\nnot yet and it is realities we need, not phrases.\n\nOld travellers say that they never remember the Mediterranean so hot. We\nwent down it with a following breeze which just neutralised our own head\nwind, the result being a quivering tropical heat. With the Red Sea\nbefore us it was no joke to start our trials so soon, and already the\nchildren began to wilt. However, Major Wood kept them at work for the\nforenoons and discipline still flourished. On the third day out we were\nsouth of Crete, and saw an island lying there which is surely the same\nin the lee of which Paul's galley took refuge when Euroclydon was\nbehaving so badly. I had been asked to address the first-class\npassengers upon psychic religion that evening, and it was strange indeed\nto speak in those waters, for I knew well that however ill my little\npip-squeak might compare with that mighty voice, yet it was still the\nsame battle of the unseen against the material, raging now as it did\n2,000 years ago. Some 200 of the passengers, with the Bishop of\nKwang-Si, turned up, and a better audience one could not wish, though\nthe acoustic properties of the saloon were abominable. However, I got it\nacross, though I was as wet as if I had fallen overboard when I had\nfinished. I was pleased to learn afterwards that among the most keen of\nmy audience were every colored man and woman on the ship, Parsees,\nHindoos, Japanese and Mohammedans.\n\n\"Do you believe it is true?\" they were asked next day.\n\n\"We _know_ that it is true,\" was the answer, and it came from a lady\nwith a red caste-mark like a wafer upon her forehead. So far as I could\nlearn she spoke for all the Eastern folk.\n\nAnd the others? At least I set them talking and thinking. I heard next\nmorning of a queue of six waiting at the barber's all deep in\ntheological discussion, with the barber himself, razor in hand, joining\nwarmly in. \"There has never been so much religion talked on a P. & O.\nship since the line was started,\" said one old traveller. It was all\ngood-humoured and could do no harm. Before we had reached Port Said all\nmy books on the subject were lent out to eager readers, and I was being\nled aside into remote corners and cross-questioned all day. I have a\nnumber of good psychic photographs with me, some of them of my own\ntaking, and all of them guaranteed, and I find these valuable as making\nfolk realise that my words do in truth represent realities. I have the\nfamous fairy photos also, which will appear in England in the Christmas\nnumber of the _Strand_. I feel as if it were a delay-action mine which I\nhad left behind me. I can imagine the cry of \"Fake!\" which will arise.\nBut they will stand investigation. It has of course nothing to do with\nSpiritualism proper, but everything which can shake the mind out of\nnarrow, material grooves, and make it realise that endless worlds\nsurround us, separated only by difference of vibration, must work in the\ngeneral direction of truth.\n\n\"Difference of Vibration\"--I have been trying lately to get behind mere\nwords and to realise more clearly what this may mean. It is a\nfascinating and fruitful line of thought. It begins with my electric fan\nwhizzing over my head. As it starts with slow vibration I see the little\npropellers. Soon they become a dim mist, and finally I can see them no\nmore. But they are there. At any moment, by slowing the movement, I can\nbring them back to my vision. Why do I not see it all the time? Because\nthe impression is so fast that my retina has not time to register it.\nCan we not imagine then that some objects may emit the usual light\nwaves, long enough and slow enough to leave a picture, but that other\nobjects may send waves which are short and steep, and therefore make so\nswift an impression that it is not recorded? That, so far as I can\nfollow it, is what we mean by an object with a higher rate of vibration.\nIt is but a feeling out into the dark, but it is a hypothesis which may\nserve us to carry on with, though the clairvoyant seems to be not a\nperson with a better developed physical retina, but rather one who has\nthe power to use that which corresponds with the retina in their own\netheric bodies which are in harmony with etheric waves from outside.\nWhen a man can walk round a room and examine the pictures with the back\nof his head, as Tom Tyrrell has done, it is clear that it is not his\nphysical retina which is working. In countless cases inquirers into\nmagnetic phenomena have caused their subjects to read with various parts\nof their bodies. It is the other body, the etheric body, the\n\"spiritual\" body of Paul, which lies behind all such phenomena--that\nbody which is loose with all of us in sleep, but only exceptionally in\nwaking hours. Once we fully understand the existence of that deathless\netheric body, merged in our own but occasionally detachable, we have\nmastered many a problem and solved many a ghost story.\n\nHowever, I must get back to my Cretan lecture. The bishop was\ninterested, and I lent him one of the Rev. Charles Tweedale's pamphlets\nnext day, which shows how sadly Christianity has wandered away from its\nearly faith of spiritual gifts and Communion of Saints. Both have now\nbecome words instead of things, save among our ranks. The bishop is a\ngood fellow, red and rough like a Boer farmer, but healthy, breezy, and\nApostolic. \"Do mention his kind grey eyes,\" says my wife. He may die a\nmartyr yet in that inland diocese of China--and he would not shrink from\nit. Meanwhile, apart from his dogma, which must be desperately difficult\nto explain to an educated Chinaman, he must always be a centre of\ncivilisation and social effort. A splendid fellow--but he suffers from\nwhat all bishops and all cardinals and all Popes suffer from, and that\nis superannuation. A physiologist has said that few men can ever\nentertain a new idea after fifty. How then can any church progress when\nall its leaders are over that age? This is why Christianity has\nstagnated and degenerated. If here and there one had a new idea, how\ncould it survive the pressure of the others? It is hopeless. In this\nparticular question of psychic religion the whole order is an\ninversion, for the people are ahead of the clergy and the clergy of the\nbishops. But when the laymen lead strongly enough the others will follow\nunless they wish to see the whole Church organisation dissolve.\n\nHe was very interesting upon the state of Christianity in China.\nProtestantism, thanks to the joint British and American Missions, is\ngaining upon Roman Catholicism, and has now far outstripped it, but the\nRoman Catholic organisations are very wealthy on account of ancient\nvaluable concessions and well-invested funds. In case of a Bolshevist\nmovement that may be a source of danger, as it gives a reason for\nattack. The Bishop made the very striking remark that if the whites\ncleared right out of China all the Christian Churches of divers creeds\nwould within a generation merge into one creed. \"What have we to do,\"\nthey say, \"with these old historical quarrels which are hardly\nintelligible to us? We are all followers of Christ, and that is enough.\"\nTruly, the converted seem far ahead of those who converted them. It is\nthe priesthoods, the organisations, the funds and the vested interests\nwhich prevent the Churches from being united. In the meanwhile ninety\nper cent. of our population shows what it thinks by never entering into\na church at all. Personally, I can never remember since I reached\nmanhood feeling myself the better for having gone into one. And yet I\nhave been an earnest seeker for truth. Verily, there is something deep\ndown which is rotten. It is want of fact, want of reality, words\ninstead of things. Only last Sunday I shuddered as I listened to the\nhymns, and it amazed me to look around and see the composed faces of\nthose who were singing them. Do they think what they are saying, or does\nFaith atrophy some part of the brain? We are \"born through water and\nblood into the true church.\" We drink precious blood. \"He hath broken\nthe teeth in their jaw.\" Can such phrases really mean anything to any\nthoughtful man? If not, why continue them? You will have your churches\nempty while you do. People will not argue about it--they will, and do,\nsimply stay away. And the clergy go on stating and restating incredible\nunproved things, while neglecting and railing at those which could be\nproved and believed. On our lines those nine out of ten could be forced\nback to a reconsideration of their position, even though that position\nwould not square with all the doctrines of present-day Christianity,\nwhich would, I think, have offended the early Christians as much as it\ndoes the earnest thinkers of to-day.\n\nPort Said came at last, and we entered the Suez Canal. It is a shocking\nthing that the entrance to this, one of the most magnificent of the\nworks of man, are flanked by great sky advertisements of various brands\nof whisky. The sale of whisky may or may not be a tolerable thing, but\nits flaunting advertisements, Dewar, Johnny Walker, and the rest, have\nsurely long been intolerable. If anything would make me a total\nprohibitionist those would. They are shameless. I do not know if some\nmiddle way could be found by which light alcoholic drinks could\nremain--so light that drunkenness would be hardly possible--but if this\ncannot be done, then let us follow the noble example of America. It is\nindeed shameful to see at the very point of the world where some noble\nsentiment might best be expressed these huge reminders of that which has\nled to so much misery and crime. To a Frenchman it must seem even worse\nthan to us, while what the abstemious Mohammedan can think is beyond my\nimagination. In that direction at least the religion of Mohammed has\ndone better than that of Christ. If all those Esquimaux, South Sea\nIslanders and others who have been converted to Christianity and then\ndebauched by drink, had followed the prophet instead, it cannot be\ndenied that their development would have been a happier and a higher\none, though the cast-iron doctrines and dogmas of the Moslem have\ndangers of their own.\n\nHas France ever had the credit she deserves for the splendid faith with\nwhich she followed that great beneficent genius Lesseps in his wonderful\nwork? It is beautiful from end to end, French in its neatness, its\norder, its exquisite finish. Truly the opposition of our people, both\nexperts and public, was a disgrace to us, though it sinks into\ninsignificance when compared with our colossal national stupidity over\nthe Channel tunnel. When our descendants compute the sums spent in\nshipping and transhipping in the great war, the waste of merchant ships\nand convoys, the sufferings of the wounded, the delay in\nreinforcements, the dependence upon the weather, they will agree that\nour sin had found us out and that we have paid a fitting price for our\nstupidity. Unhappily, it was not our blind guides who paid it, but it\nwas the soldier and sailor and taxpayer, for the nation always pays\ncollectively for the individual blunder. Would a hundred million pounds\ncover the cost of that one? Well can I remember how a year before war\nwas declared, seeing clearly what was coming, I sent three memoranda to\nthe Naval and Military authorities and to the Imperial Council of\nDefence pointing out exactly what the situation would be, and especially\nthe danger to our transports. It is admitted now that it was only the\nstrange inaction of the German light forces, and especially their want\nof comprehension of the possibilities of the submarine, which enabled\nour Expeditionary Force to get across at all, so that we might have lost\nthe war within the first month. But as to my poor memoranda, which\nproved so terribly correct, I might as well have dropped them into my\nown wastepaper basket instead of theirs, and so saved the postage. My\nonly convert was Captain, now General, Swinton, part inventor of the\ntanks, who acted as Secretary to the Imperial Defence Committee, and who\ntold me at the time that my paper had set him thinking furiously.\n\nWhich leads my thoughts to the question of the torpedoing of merchant\nvessels by submarines. So sure was I that the Germans would do this,\nthat after knocking at official doors in vain, I published a sketch\ncalled \"Danger,\" which was written a year before the war, and depicted\nall that afterwards occurred, even down to such small details as the\nships zig-zagging up Channel to escape, and the submarines using their\nguns to save torpedoes. I felt as if, like Solomon Eagle, I could have\nmarched down Fleet Street with a brazier on my head if I could only call\npeople's attention to the coming danger. I saw naval officers on the\npoint, but they were strangely blind, as is shown by the comments\nprinted at the end of \"Danger,\" which give the opinions of several\nadmirals pooh-poohing my fears. Among others I saw Captain Beatty, as he\nthen was, and found him alive to the possible danger, though he did not\nsuggest a remedy. His quiet, brisk personality impressed me, and I felt\nthat our national brain-errors might perhaps be made good in the end by\nthe grit that is in us. But how hard were our tasks from our want of\nforesight. Admiral Von Capelle did me the honour to say during the war,\nin the German Reichstag, that I was the only man who had prophesied the\nconditions of the great naval war. As a matter of fact, both Fisher and\nScott had done so, though they had not given it to the public in the\nsame detail--but nothing had been done. We know now that there was not a\nsingle harbour proof against submarines on our whole East Coast. Truly\nthe hand of the Lord was over England. Nothing less could have saved\nher.\n\nWe tied up to the bank soon after entering the Canal, and lay there most\nof the night while a procession of great ships moving northwards swept\nsilently past us in the ring of vivid light cast by their searchlights\nand our own. I stayed on deck most of the night to watch them. The\nsilence was impressive--those huge structures sweeping past with only\nthe slow beat of their propellers and the wash of their bow wave on\neither side. No sooner had one of these great shapes slid past than,\nlooking down the Canal, one saw the brilliant head light of another in\nthe distance. They are only allowed to go at the slowest pace, so that\ntheir wash may not wear away the banks. Finally, the last had passed,\nand we were ourselves able to cast off our warps and push southwards. I\nremained on deck seeing the sun rise over the Eastern desert, and then a\nwonderful slow-moving panorama of Egypt as the bank slid slowly past us.\nFirst desert, then green oases, then the long line of rude\nfortifications from Kantara downwards, with the camp fires smoking,\ngroups of early busy Tommies and endless dumps of stores. Here and to\nthe south was the point where the Turks with their German leaders\nattempted the invasion of Egypt, carrying flat-bottomed boats to ford\nthe Canal. How they were ever allowed to get so far is barely\ncomprehensible, but how they were ever permitted to get back again\nacross one hundred miles of desert in the face of our cavalry and\ncamelry is altogether beyond me. Even their guns got back untaken. They\ndropped a number of mines in the Canal, but with true Turkish\nslovenliness they left on the banks at each point the long bamboos on\nwhich they had carried them across the desert, which considerably\nlessened the work of those who had to sweep them up. The sympathies of\nthe Egyptians seems to have been against us, and yet they have no desire\nto pass again under the rule of the Turk. Our dominion has had the\neffect of turning a very poor country into a very rich one, and of\nsecuring some sort of justice for the fellah or peasant, but since we\nget no gratitude and have no trade preference it is a little difficult\nto see how we are the better for all our labours. So long as the Canal\nis secure--and it is no one's interest to injure it--we should be better\nif the country governed itself. We have too many commitments, and if we\nhave to take new ones, such as Mesopotamia, it would be well to get rid\nof some of the others where our task is reasonably complete. \"We never\nlet the youngsters grow up,\" said a friendly critic. There is, however,\nI admit, another side to the question, and the idea of permitting a\nhealthy moral place like Port Said to relapse into the hotbed of\ngambling and syphilis which it used to be, is repugnant to the mind.\nWhich is better--that a race be free, immoral and incompetent, or that\nit be forced into morality and prosperity? That question meets us at\nevery turn.\n\nThe children have been delighted by the fish on the surface of the\nCanal. Their idea seems to be that the one aim and object of our\nexcursion is to see sharks in the sea and snakes in Australia. We did\nactually see a shark half ashore upon a sandbank in one of the lower\nlakes near Suez. It was lashing about with a frantic tail, and so got\nitself off into deep water. To the west all day we see the very wild and\nbarren country through which our ancestors used to drive upon the\noverland route when they travelled by land from Cairo to Suez. The smoke\nof a tiny mail-train marks the general line of that most desolate road.\nIn the evening we were through the Canal and marked the rugged shore\nupon our left down which the Israelites pursued their way in the\ndirection of Sinai. One wonders how much truth there is in the\nnarrative. On the one hand it is impossible to doubt that something of\nthe sort did occur. On the other, the impossibility of so huge a crowd\nliving on the rare wells of the desert is manifest. But numbers are not\nthe strong point of an Oriental historian. Perhaps a thousand or two may\nhave followed their great leader upon that perilous journey. I have\nheard that Moses either on his own or through his wife was in touch with\nBabylonian habits. This would explain those tablets of stone, or of\ninscribed clay burned into brick, which we receive as the Ten\nCommandments, and which only differ from the moral precepts of other\nraces in the strange limitations and omissions. At least ten new ones\nhave long been needed to include drunkenness, gluttony, pride, envy,\nbigotry, lying and the rest.\n\nThe weather grows hotter and hotter, so that one aged steward who has\ndone 100 voyages declares it to be unique. One passenger has died.\nSeveral stewards have collapsed. The wind still keeps behind us. In the\nmidst of all this I had an extensively signed petition from the second\nclass passengers that I should address them. I did so, and spoke on deck\nfor forty minutes to a very attentive audience which included many of\nthe officers of the ship. I hope I got my points across to them. I was a\nsad example of sweated labour when I had finished. My wife tells me that\nthe people were impressed. As I am never aware of the presence of any\nindividual when I am speaking on this subject I rely upon my wife's very\nquick and accurate feminine impressions. She sits always beside me,\nnotes everything, gives me her sympathetic atmosphere which is of such\npsychic importance, and finally reports the result. If any point of mine\nseems to her to miss its mark I unhesitatingly take it out. It interests\nme to hear her tell of the half-concealed sneer with which men listen to\nme, and how it turns into interest, bewilderment and finally something\nlike reverence and awe as the brain gradually realises the proved truth\nof what I am saying, which upsets the whole philosophy on which their\nlives are built.\n\nThere are several Australian officers on board who are coming from the\nRussian front full of dreadful stories of Bolshevist atrocities, seen\nwith their own eyes. The executioners were Letts and Chinese, and the\ninstigators renegade Jews, so that the Russians proper seem to have been\nthe more or less innocent dupes. They had dreadful photographs of\ntortured and mutilated men as corroboration. Surely hell, the place of\npunishment and purgatorial expiation, is actually upon this earth in\nsuch cases. One leader seems to have been a Sadic madman, for after\ntorturing his victims till even the Chinese executioners struck, he\nwould sit playing a violin very exquisitely while he gloated over their\nagonies. All these Australian boys agree that the matter will burn\nitself out, and that it will end in an immense massacre of Jews which\nmay involve the whole seven millions now in Russia. God forbid, but the\noutlook is ominous! I remember a prophecy which I read early in the war\nthat a great figure would arise in the north and have power for six\nyears. If Lenin was the great figure then he has, according to the\nprophet, about two years more to run. But prophecy is fitful, dangerous\nwork. The way in which the founders of the Christian faith all foretold\nthe imminent end of the world is an example. What they dimly saw was no\ndoubt the destruction of Jerusalem, which seems to have been equally\nclear to Ezekiel 600 years before, for his picture of cannibalism and\ndispersion is very exact.\n\nIt is wonderful what chances of gaining direct information one has\naboard a ship of this sort, with its mixed crowd of passengers, many of\nthem famous in their own lines. I have already alluded to the officers\nreturning from Russia with their prophecies of evil. But there are many\nother folk with tales of deep interest. There is a Mr. Covell, a solid\npractical Briton, who may prove to be a great pioneer, for he has made\nfarming pay handsomely in the very heart of the Indian plains. Within a\nhundred miles of Lucknow he has founded the townlet of Covellpore,\nwhere he handles 3,000 acres of wheat and cotton with the aid of about\nthe same number of natives. This is the most practical step I have ever\nheard of for forming a real indigenous white population in India. His\nson was with him, going out to carry on the work. Mr. Covell holds that\nthe irrigation of the North West of India is one of the greatest wonders\nof the world, and Jacob the engineer responsible. I had never heard of\nhim, nor, I am ashamed to say, had I heard of Sir Leonard Rogers, who is\none of those great men like Sir Ronald Ross, whom the Indian Medical\nService throws up. Rogers has reduced the mortality of cholera by\nintravenous injections of hypertonic saline until it is only 15 per\ncent. General Maude, I am informed, would almost certainly have been\nsaved, had it not been that some false departmental economy had withheld\nthe necessary apparatus. Leprosy also seems in a fair way to yielding to\nRogers' genius for investigation.\n\nIt is sad to hear that this same Indian Medical Service which has\nproduced such giants as Fayrer, Ross, and Rogers is in a fair way to\nabsolute ruin, because the conditions are such that good white\ncandidates will no longer enter it. White doctors do not mind working\nwith, or even under, natives who have passed the same British\nexaminations as themselves, but they bar the native doctor who has got\nthrough a native college in India, and is on a far lower educational\nlevel than themselves. To serve under such a man is an impossible\ninversion. This is appreciated by the medical authorities at home, the\nword is given to the students, and the best men avoid the service. So\nunless a change is made, the end is in sight of the grand old service\nwhich has given so much to humanity.\n\nAden is remarkable only for the huge water tanks cut to catch rain, and\ncarved out of solid rock. A whole captive people must have been set to\nwork on so colossal a task, and one wonders where the poor wretches got\nwater themselves the while. Their work is as fresh and efficient as when\nthey left it. No doubt it was for the watering, not of the population,\nbut of the Egyptian and other galleys on their way to Punt and King\nSolomon's mines. It must be a weary life for our garrison in such a\nplace. There is strange fishing, sea snakes, parrot fish and the like.\nIt is their only relaxation, for it is desert all round.\n\nMonsoon and swell and drifting rain in the Indian Ocean. We heard that\n\"thresh of the deep sea rain,\" of which Kipling sings. Then at last in\nthe early morning the long quay of Bombay, and the wonderful crowd of\nmen of every race who await an incoming steamer. Here at least half our\npassengers were disgorged, young subalterns, grey colonels, grave\nadministrators, yellow-faced planters, all the fuel which is grown in\nBritain and consumed in the roaring furnace of India. So devoted to\ntheir work, so unthanked and uncomprehended by those for whom they work!\nThey are indeed a splendid set of men, and if they withdrew I wonder how\nlong it would be before the wild men of the frontier would be in\nCalcutta and Bombay, as the Picts and Scots flowed over Britain when the\nRoman legions were withdrawn. What view will the coming Labour\ngovernments of Britain take of our Imperial commitments? Upon that will\ndepend the future history of great tracts of the globe which might very\neasily relapse into barbarism.\n\nThe ship seemed lonely when our Indian friends were gone, for indeed,\nthe pick of the company went with them. Several pleased me by assuring\nme as they left that their views of life had been changed since they\ncame on board the \"Naldera.\" To many I gave reading lists that they\nmight look further into the matter for themselves. A little leaven in\nthe great lump, but how can we help leavening it all when we know that,\nunlike other creeds, no true Spiritualist can ever revert, so that while\nwe continually gain, we never lose. One hears of the converts to various\nsects, but one does not hear of those who are driven out by their\nnarrow, intolerant doctrines. You can change your mind about faiths, but\nnot about facts, and hence our certain conquest.\n\nOne cannot spend even a single long day in India without carrying away a\nwonderful impression of the gentle dignity of the Indian people. Our\nmotor drivers were extraordinarily intelligent and polite, and all we\nmet gave the same impression.\n\nIndia may be held by the sword, but it is certainly kept very carefully\nin the scabbard, for we hardly saw a soldier in the streets of this,\nits greatest city. I observed some splendid types of manhood, however,\namong the native police. We lunched at the Taj Mahal Hotel, and got back\ntired and full of mixed impressions.\n\nVerily the ingenuity of children is wonderful. They have turned their\nactive minds upon the problem of paper currency with fearsome results.\nBaby writes cheques in quaint ways upon odd bits of paper and brings\nthem to me to be cashed. Malcolm, once known as Dimples, has made a\nseries of pound and five pound notes of his own. The bank they call the\nmoney shop. I can trace every sort of atavism, the arboreal, the cave\ndweller, the adventurous raider, and the tribal instinct in the child,\nbut this development seems a little premature.\n\nSunday once more, and the good Bishop preaching. I wonder more and more\nwhat an educated Chinaman would make of such doctrines. To take an\nexample, he has quoted to-day with great approval, the action of Peter\nin discarding the rite of circumcision as a proof of election. That\nmarked, according to the Bishop, the broad comprehensive mind which\ncould not confine the mercies of God to any limited class. And yet when\nI take up the oecumenical pronouncement from the congress of Anglican\nbishops which he has just attended, I find that baptism is made the\ntest, even as the Jews made circumcision. Have the bishops not learned\nthat there are millions who revere the memory of Christ, whether they\nlook upon him as God or man, but who think that baptism is a senseless\nsurvival of heathendom, like so many of our religious observances? The\nidea that the Being who made the milky way can be either placated or\nincensed by pouring a splash of water over child or adult is an offence\nto reason, and a slur upon the Divinity.\n\nTwo weary days upon the sea with drifting rain showers and wonderful\nscarlet and green sunsets. Have beguiled the time with W. B. Maxwell's\n\"Lamp and the Mirror.\" I have long thought that Maxwell was the greatest\nof British novelists, and this book confirms me in my opinion. Who else\ncould have drawn such fine detail and yet so broad and philosophic a\npicture? There may have been single books which were better than\nMaxwell's best--the \"Garden of Allah,\" with its gorgeous oriental colour\nwould, for example, make a bid for first place, but which of us has so\nsplendid a list of first class serious works as \"Mrs. Thompson,\" \"The\nRest Cure,\" \"Vivian,\" \"In Cotton Wool,\" above all, \"The Guarded\nFlame\"--classics, every one. Our order of merit will come out very\ndifferently in a generation or so to what it stands now, and I shall\nexpect to find my nominee at the top. But after all, what's the odds?\nYou do your work as well as you can. You pass. You find other work to\ndo. How the old work compares with the other fellow's work can be a\nmatter of small concern.\n\nIn Colombo harbour lay H.M.S. \"Highflyer,\" which we looked upon with the\nreverence which everybody and everything which did well in the war\ndeserve from us--a saucy, rakish, speedy craft. Several other steamers\nwere flying the yellow quarantine flag, but our captain confided to me\nthat it was a recognised way of saying \"no visitors,\" and did not\nnecessarily bear any pathological meaning. As we had nearly two days\nbefore we resumed our voyage I was able to give all our party a long\nstretch on shore, finally staying with my wife for the night at the\nGalle Face Hotel, a place where the preposterous charges are partly\ncompensated for by the glorious rollers which break upon the beach\noutside. I was interested in the afternoon by a native conjurer giving\nus what was practically a private performance of the mango-tree trick.\nHe did it so admirably that I can well understand those who think that\nit is an occult process. I watched the man narrowly, and believe that I\nsolved the little mystery, though even now I cannot be sure. In doing it\nhe began by laying several objects out in a casual way while hunting in\nhis bag for his mango seed. These were small odds and ends including a\nlittle rag doll, very rudely fashioned, about six or eight inches long.\nOne got accustomed to the presence of these things and ceased to remark\nthem. He showed the seed and passed it for examination, a sort of large\nBrazil nut. He then laid it among some loose earth, poured some water on\nit, covered it with a handkerchief, and crooned over it. In about a\nminute he exhibited the same, or another seed, the capsule burst, and a\nlight green leaf protruding. I took it in my hands, and it was certainly\na real bursting mango seed, but clearly it had been palmed and\nsubstituted for the other. He then buried it again and kept raising the\nhandkerchief upon his own side, and scrabbling about with his long brown\nfingers underneath its cover. Then he suddenly whisked off the\nhandkerchief and there was the plant, a foot or so high, with thick\nfoliage and blossoms, its root well planted in the earth. It was\ncertainly very startling.\n\nMy explanation is that by a miracle of packing the whole of the plant\nhad been compressed into the rag doll, or little cloth cylinder already\nmentioned. The scrabbling of the hands under the cloth was to smooth out\nthe leaves after it was freed from this covering. I observed that the\nleaves were still rather crumpled, and that there were dark specks of\nfungi which would not be there if the plant were straight from nature's\nmanufactory. But it was wonderfully done when you consider that the man\nwas squatting in our midst, we standing in a semi-circle around him,\nwith no adventitious aid whatever. I do not believe that the famous Mr.\nMaskeleyne or any of those other wise conjurers who are good enough\noccasionally to put Lodge, Crookes and Lombroso in their places, could\nhave wrought a better illusion.\n\nThe fellow had a cobra with him which he challenged me to pick up. I did\nso and gazed into its strange eyes, which some devilry of man's had\nturned to a lapis lazuli blue. The juggler said it was the result of its\nskin-sloughing, but I have my doubts. The poison bag had, I suppose,\nbeen extracted, but the man seemed nervous and slipped his brown hand\nbetween my own and the swaying venomous head with its peculiar\nflattened hood. It is a fearsome beast, and I can realise what was told\nme by a lover of animals that the snake was the one creature from which\nhe could get no return of affection. I remember that I once had three in\nmy employ when the \"Speckled Band\" was produced in London, fine, lively\nrock pythons, and yet in spite of this profusion of realism I had the\nexperience of reading a review which, after duly slating the play, wound\nup with the scathing sentence, \"The performance ended with the\nproduction of a palpably artificial serpent.\" Such is the reward of\nvirtue. Afterwards when the necessities of several travelling companies\ncompelled us to use dummy snakes we produced a much more realistic\neffect. The real article either hung down like a pudgy yellow bell rope,\nor else when his tail was pinched, endeavoured to squirm back and get\nlevel with the stage carpenter, who pinched him, which was not in the\nplot. The latter individual had no doubts at all as to the dummy being\nan improvement upon the real.\n\nNever, save on the west coast of Africa, have I seen \"the league-long\nroller thundering on the shore,\" as here, where the Indian Ocean with\nits thousand leagues of momentum hits the western coast of Ceylon. It\nlooks smooth out at sea, and then you are surprised to observe that a\ngood-sized boat has suddenly vanished. Then it scoops upwards once more\non the smooth arch of the billow, disappearing on the further slope. The\nnative catamarans are almost invisible, so that you see a row of\nstanding figures from time to time on the crest of the waves. I cannot\nthink that any craft in the world would come through rough water as\nthese catamarans with their long outriggers can do. Man has made few\nmore simple and more effective inventions, and if I were a younger man I\nwould endeavour to introduce them to Brighton beach, as once I\nintroduced ski to Switzerland, or auto-wheels to the British roads. I\nhave other work to do now, but why does not some sportsman take the\nmodel, have it made in England, and then give an exhibition in a gale of\nwind on the south coast. It would teach our fishermen some possibilities\nof which they are ignorant.\n\nAs I stood in a sandy cove one of them came flying in, a group of\nnatives rushing out and pulling it up on the beach. The craft consists\nonly of two planks edgewise and lengthwise. In the nine-inch slit\nbetween them lay a number of great twelve-pound fish, like cod, and tied\nto the side of the boat was a ten-foot sword fish. To catch that\ncreature while standing on a couple of floating planks must have been\nsport indeed, and yet the craft is so ingenious that to a man who can at\na pinch swim for it, there is very small element of danger. The really\ngreat men of our race, the inventor of the wheel, the inventor of the\nlever, the inventor of the catamaran are all lost in the mists of the\npast, but ethnologists have found that the cubic capacity of the\nneolithic brain is as great as our own.\n\nThere are two robbers' castles, as the unhappy visitor calls them,\nfacing the glorious sea, the one the Galle Face, the other the Mount\nLavinia Hotel. They are connected by an eight-mile road, which has all\nthe colour and life and variety of the East for every inch of the way.\nIn that glorious sun, under the blue arch of such a sky, and with the\ntropical trees and flowers around, the poverty of these people is very\ndifferent from the poverty of a London slum. Is there in all God's world\nsuch a life as that, and can it really be God's world while we suffer it\nto exist! Surely, it is a palpable truth that no one has a right to\nluxuries until every one has been provided with necessities, and among\nsuch necessities a decent environment is the first. If we had spent\nmoney to fight slumland as we spent it to fight Germany, what a\ndifferent England it would be. The world moves all the same, and we have\neternity before us. But some folk need it.\n\nA doctor came up to me in the hotel and told me that he was practising\nthere, and had come recently from England. He had lost his son in the\nwar, and had himself become unsettled. Being a Spiritualist he went to\nMrs. Brittain, the medium, who told him that his boy had a message for\nhim which was that he would do very well in Colombo. He had himself\nthought of Ceylon, but Mrs. B. had no means of knowing that. He had\nobeyed the advice thus given, and was glad that he had done so. How much\npeople may miss by cutting themselves away from these ministers of\ngrace! In all this opposition to Spiritualism the punishment continually\nfits the crime.\n\nOnce again we shed passengers and proceeded in chastened mood with\nempty decks where once it was hard to move. Among others, good Bishop\nBanister of Kwang-si had gone. I care little for his sacramental and\nvicarious doctrines, but I am very sure that wherever his robust,\nkindly, sincere personality may dwell is bound to be a centre of the\ntrue missionary effort--the effort which makes for the real original\nteaching of his Master, submission to God and goodwill to our fellow\nmen.\n\nNow we are on the last lap with nothing but a clear stretch of salt\nwater between our prow and West Australia. Our mission from being a sort\nof dream takes concrete form and involves definite plans. Meanwhile we\nplough our way through a deep blue sea with the wind continually against\nus. I have not seen really calm water since we left the Canal. We carry\non with the usual routine of ship sports, which include an England and\nAustralia cricket match, in which I have the honour of captaining\nEngland, a proper ending for a long if mediocre career as a cricketer.\nWe lost by one run, which was not bad considering our limited numbers.\n\nPosers of all sorts are brought to me by thoughtful inquirers, which I\nanswer when I can. Often I can't. One which is a most reasonable\nobjection has given me a day's thought. If, as is certain, we can\nremember in our next life the more important incidents of this one, why\nis it that in this one we can remember nothing of that previous\nspiritual career, which must have existed since nothing can be born in\ntime for eternity? Our friends on the other side cannot help us there,\nnor can even such extended spiritual visions as those of Vale Owen clear\nit up. On the whole we must admit that our Theosophical friends, with\nwhom we quarrel for their absence of evidence, have the best attempt at\nan explanation. I imagine that man's soul has a cycle which is complete\nin itself, and all of which is continuous and self conscious. This\nbegins with earth life. Then at last a point is reached, it may be a\nreincarnation, and a new cycle is commenced, the old one being closed to\nour memory until we have reached some lofty height in our further\njourney. Pure speculation, I admit, but it would cover what we know and\ngive us a working hypothesis. I can never excite myself much about the\nreincarnation idea, for if it be so, it occurs seldom, and at long\nintervals, with ten years spent in the other spheres for one spent here,\nso that even admitting all that is said by its supporters it is not of\nsuch great importance. At the present rate of change this world will be\nas strange as another sphere by the time we are due to tread the old\nstage once more. It is only fair to say that though many spiritualists\noppose it, there is a strong body, including the whole French Allan\nKardec school, who support it. Those who have passed over may well be\ndivided upon the subject since it concerns their far future and is a\nmatter of speculation to them as to us.\n\nThrasher whales and sperm whales were seen which aroused the old whaling\nthrill in my heart. It was the more valuable Greenland whale which I\nhelped to catch, while these creatures are those which dear old Frank\nBullen, a childlike sailor to the last, described in his \"Cruise of the\nCachelot.\" How is it that sailors write such perfect English. There are\nBullen and Conrad, both of whom served before the mast--the two purest\nstylists of their generation. So was Loti in France. There are some\nessays of Bullen's, especially a description of a calm in the tropics,\nand again of \"Sunrise seen from the Crow's Nest,\" which have not been\nmatched in our time for perfection of imagery and diction. They are both\nin his \"Idyls of the Sea.\" If there is compensation in the beyond--and I\nknow that there is--then Frank Bullen is in great peace, for his whole\nearthly life was one succession of troubles. When I think of his cruel\nstepmother, his dreadful childhood, his life on a Yankee blood ship, his\nstruggles as a tradesman, his bankruptcy, his sordid worries, and\nfinally, his prolonged ill-health, I marvel at the unequal distribution\nof such burdens. He was the best singer of a chanty that I have ever\nheard, and I can hear him now with his rich baritone voice trolling out\n\"Sally Brown\" or \"Stormalong.\" May I hear him once again! Our dear ones\ntell us that there is no great gap between what pleases us here and that\nwhich will please us in the beyond. Our own brains, had we ever used\nthem in the matter, should have instructed us that all evolution,\nspiritual as well as material, must be gradual. Indeed, once one knows\npsychic truth, one can, reasoning backwards, perceive that we should\nunaided have come to the same conclusions, but since we have all been\ndeliberately trained not to use our reason in religious matters, it is\nno wonder that we have made rather a hash of it. Surely it is clear\nenough that in the case of an artist the artistic nature is part of the\nman himself. Therefore, if he survives it must survive. But if it\nsurvives it must have means of expression, or it is a senseless thing.\nBut means of expression implies appreciation from others and a life on\nthe general lines of this one. So also of the drama, music, science and\nliterature, if we carry on they carry on, and they cannot carry on\nwithout actual expression and a public to be served.\n\nTo the east of us and just beyond the horizon lie the Cocos Islands,\nwhere Ross established his strange little kingdom, and where the _Emden_\nmet its end--a glorious one, as every fair minded man must admit. I have\nseen her stern post since then in the hall of the Federal Parliament at\nMelbourne, like some fossil monster, once a terror and now for children\nto gaze at. As to the Cocos Islands, the highest point is, I understand,\nabout twenty feet, and tidal waves are not unknown upon the Pacific, so\nthat the community holds its tenure at very short and sudden notice to\nquit.\n\nOn the morning of September 17th a low coast line appeared upon the port\nbow--Australia at last. It was the edge of the West Australian State.\nThe evening before a wireless had reached me from the spiritualists of\nPerth saying that they welcomed us and our message. It was a kind\nthought and a helpful one. We were hardly moored in the port of\nFremantle, which is about ten miles from the capital, when a deputation\nof these good, kind people was aboard, bearing great bunches of wild\nflowers, most of which were new to us. Their faces fell when they\nlearned that I must go on in the ship and that there was very little\nchance of my being able to address them. They are only connected with\nthe other States by one long thin railway line, 1,200 miles long, with\nscanty trains which were already engaged, so that unless we stuck to the\nship we should have to pass ten days or so before we could resume our\njourney. This argument was unanswerable, and so the idea of a meeting\nwas given up.\n\nThese kind people had two motors in attendance, which must, I fear, have\nbeen a strain upon their resources, for as in the old days the true\nbelievers and practical workers are drawn from the poor and humble.\nHowever, they certainly treated us royally, and even the children were\npacked into the motors. We skirted the Swan River, passed through the\nvery beautiful public park, and, finally, lunched at the busy town,\nwhere Bone's store would cut a respectable figure in London, with its\nmany departments and its roof restaurant. It was surprising after our\nmemories of England to note how good and abundant was the food. It is a\ncharming little town, and it was strange, after viewing its settled\norder, to see the mill where the early settlers not so very long ago had\nto fight for their lives with the black fellows. Those poor black\nfellows! Their fate is a dark stain upon Australia. And yet it must in\njustice to our settlers be admitted that the question was a very\ndifficult one. Was colonisation to be abandoned, or were these brave\nsavages to be overcome? That was really the issue. When they speared the\ncattle of the settlers what were the settlers to do? Of course, if a\nreservation could have been opened up, as in the case of the Maoris,\nthat would have been ideal. But the noble Maori is a man with whom one\ncould treat on equal terms and he belonged to a solid race. The\nAborigines of Australia were broken wandering tribes, each at war with\nits neighbours. In a single reservation they would have exterminated\neach other. It was a piteous tragedy, and yet, even now in retrospect,\nhow difficult it is to point out what could have been done.\n\nThe Spiritualists of Perth seem to be a small body, but as earnest as\ntheir fellows elsewhere. A masterful looking lady, Mrs. McIlwraith,\nrules them, and seems fit for the part. They have several mediums\ndeveloping, but I had no chance of testing their powers. Altogether our\nencounter with them cheered us on our way. We had the first taste of\nAustralian labour conditions at Fremantle, for the men knocked off at\nthe given hour, refusing to work overtime, with the result that we\ncarried a consignment of tea, meant for their own tea-pots, another\nthousand miles to Adelaide, and so back by train which must have been\npaid for out of their own pockets and those of their fellow citizens.\nVerily, you cannot get past the golden rule, and any breach of it brings\nits own punishment somehow, somewhere, be the sinner a master or a man.\n\nAnd now we had to cross the dreaded Bight, where the great waves from\nthe southern ice come rolling up, but our luck was still in, and we went\nthrough it without a qualm. Up to Albany one sees the barren irregular\ncoast, and then there were two days of blue water, which brought us at\nlast to Adelaide, our port of debarkation. The hour and the place at\nlast!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n     Mr. Hughes' letter of welcome.--Challenges.--Mr. Carlyle\n     Smythe.--The Adelaide Press.--The great drought.--The wine\n     industry.--Clairvoyance.--Meeting with Bellchambers.--The first\n     lecture.--The effect.--The Religious lecture.--The illustrated\n     lecture.--Premonitions.--The spot light.--Mr. Thomas' account of\n     the incident.--Correspondence.--Adelaide doctors.--A day in the\n     Bush.--The Mallee fowl.--Sussex in Australia.--Farewell to\n     Adelaide.\n\n\nI was welcomed to Australia by a hospitable letter from the Premier, Mr.\nHughes, who assured me that he would do what he could to make our visit\na pleasant one, and added, \"I hope you will see Australia as it is, for\nI want you to tell the world about us. We are a very young country, we\nhave a very big and very rich heritage, and the great war has made us\nrealise that we are Australians, proud to belong to the Empire, but\nproud too of our own country.\"\n\nApart from Mr. Hughes's kind message, my chief welcome to the new land\ncame from Sydney, and took the queer form of two independant challenges\nto public debate, one from the Christian Evidence Society, and the other\nfrom the local leader of the materialists. As the two positions are\nmutually destructive, one felt inclined to tell them to fight it out\nbetween themselves and that I would fight the winner. The Christian\nEvidence Society, is, of course, out of the question, since they regard\na text as an argument, which I can only accept with many qualifications,\nso that there is no common basis. The materialist is a more worthy\nantagonist, for though he is often as bigotted and inaccessible to\nreason as the worst type of Christian, there is always a leaven of\nhonest, open-minded doubters on whom a debate might make an impression.\nA debate with them, as I experienced when I met Mr. MacCabe, can only\nfollow one line, they quoting all the real or alleged scandals which\nhave ever been connected with the lowest forms of mediumship, and\nclaiming that the whole cult is comprised therein, to which you counter\nwith your own personal experiences, and with the evidence of the cloud\nof witnesses who have found the deepest comfort and enlarged knowledge.\nIt is like two boxers each hitting the air, and both returning to their\nrespective corners amid the plaudits of their backers, while the general\npublic is none the better.\n\nThree correspondents headed me off on the ship, and as I gave each of\nthem a long separate interview, I was a tired man before I got ashore.\nMr. Carlyle Smythe, my impresario, had also arrived, a small alert\ncompetent gentleman, with whom I at once got on pleasant terms, which\nwere never once clouded during our long travels together upon our tour.\nI was fortunate indeed to have so useful and so entertaining a\ncompanion, a musician, a scholar, and a man of many varied experiences.\nWith his help we soon got our stuff through the customs, and made the\nshort train journey which separates the Port of Adelaide from the\ncharming city of that name. By one o'clock we were safely housed in the\nGrand Central Hotel, with windows in place of port holes, and the roar\nof the trams to take the place of the murmurs of the great ocean.\n\nThe good genius of Adelaide was a figure, already almost legendary, one\nColonel Light, who played the part of Romulus and Remus to the infant\ncity. Somewhere in the thirties of last century he chose the site,\nagainst strong opposition, and laid out the plan with such skill that in\nall British and American lands I have seen few such cities, so pretty,\nso orderly and so self-sufficing. When one sees all the amenities of the\nplace, botanical gardens, zoological gardens, art gallery, museum,\nuniversity, public library and the rest, it is hard to realise that the\nwhole population is still under three hundred thousand. I do not know\nwhether the press sets the tone to the community or the community to the\npress, but in any case Adelaide is greatly blessed in this respect, for\nits two chief papers the _Register_ and the _Advertiser_, under Sir\nWilliam Sowden and Sir Langdon Bonython respectively, are really\nexcellent, with a worldwide Metropolitan tone.\n\nTheir articles upon the subject in which I am particularly interested,\nthough by no means one-sided, were at least informed with knowledge and\nbreadth of mind.\n\nIn Adelaide I appreciated, for the first time, the crisis which\nAustralia has been passing through in the shape of a two-years drought,\nonly recently broken. It seems to have involved all the States and to\nhave caused great losses, amounting to millions of sheep and cattle. The\nresult was that the price of those cattle which survived has risen\nenormously, and at the time of our visit an absolute record had been\nestablished, a bullock having been sold for L41. The normal price would\nbe about L13. Sheep were about L3 each, the normal being fifteen\nshillings. This had, of course, sent the price of meat soaring with the\nusual popular unrest and agitation as a result. It was clear, however,\nthat with the heavy rains the prices would fall. These Australian\ndroughts are really terrible things, especially when they come upon\nnewly-opened country and in the hotter regions of Queensland and the\nNorth. One lady told us that she had endured a drought in Queensland\nwhich lasted so long that children of five had never seen a drop of\nrain. You could travel a hundred miles and find the brown earth the\nwhole way, with no sign of green anywhere, the sheep eating twigs or\ngnawing bark until they died. Her brother sold his surviving sheep for\none shilling each, and when the drought broke had to restock at 50s. a\nhead. This is a common experience, and all but the man with savings have\nto take to some subordinate work, ruined men. No doubt, with\nafforestation, artesian wells, irrigation and water storage things may\nbe modified, but all these things need capital, and capital in these\ndays is hard to seek, nor can it be expected that capitalists will pour\ntheir money into States which have wild politicians who talk lightly of\npast obligations. You cannot tell the investor that he is a bloated\nincubus one moment, and go hat in hand for further incubation the next.\nI fear that this grand country as a whole may suffer from the wild ideas\nof some of its representatives. But under it all lies the solid\nself-respecting British stuff, which will never repudiate a just debt,\nhowever heavily it may press. Australians may groan under the burden,\nbut they should remember that for every pound of taxation they carry the\nhome Briton carries nearly three.\n\nBut to return for a moment to the droughts; has any writer of fiction\ninvented or described a more long-drawn agony than that of the man, his\nnerves the more tired and sensitive from the constant unbroken heat,\nwaiting day after day for the cloud that never comes, while under the\nglaring sun from the unchanging blue above him, his sheep, which\nrepresent all his life's work and his hopes, perish before his eyes? A\nrevolver shot has often ended the long vigil and the pioneer has joined\nhis vanished flocks. I have just come in contact with a case where two\nyoung returned soldiers, demobilised from the war and planted on the\nland had forty-two cattle given them by the State to stock their little\nfarm. Not a drop of water fell for over a year, the feed failed, and\nthese two warriors of Palestine and Flanders wept at their own\nhelplessness while their little herd died before their eyes. Such are\nthe trials which the Australian farmer has to bear.\n\nWhile waiting for my first lecture I do what I can to understand the\ncountry and its problems. To this end I visited the vineyards and wine\nplant of a local firm which possesses every factor for success, save the\ncapacity to answer letters. The originator started grape culture as a\nprivate hobby about 60 years ago, and now such an industry has risen\nthat this firm alone has L700,000 sunk in the business, and yet it is\nonly one of several. The product can be most excellent, but little or\nany ever reaches Europe, for it cannot overtake the local demand. The\nquality was good and purer than the corresponding wines in\nEurope--especially the champagnes, which seem to be devoid of that\npoison, whatever it may be, which has for a symptom a dry tongue with\ninternal acidity, driving elderly gentlemen to whisky and soda. The\nAustralian product, taken in moderate doses, seems to have no poisonous\nquality, and is without that lime-like dryness which appears to be the\ncause of it. If temperance reform takes the sane course of insisting\nupon a lowering of the alcohol in our drinks, so that one may be\nsurfeited before one could be drunken, then this question of good mild\nwines will bulk very largely in the future, and Australia may supply one\nof the answers. With all my sympathy for the reformers I feel that wine\nis so useful a social agent that we should not abolish it until we are\ncertain that there is no _via media_. The most pregnant argument upon\nthe subject was the cartoon which showed the husband saying \"My dear, it\nis the anniversary of our wedding. Let us have a second bottle of ginger\nbeer.\"\n\nWe went over the vineyards, ourselves mildly interested in the vines,\nand the children wildly excited over the possibility of concealed\nsnakes. Then we did the vats and the cellars with their countless\nbottles. We were taught the secrets of fermentation, how the wonderful\nPasteur had discovered that the best and quickest was produced not by\nthe grape itself, as of old, but by the scraped bloom of the grape\ninserted in the bottle. After viewing the number of times a bottle must\nbe turned, a hundred at least, and the complex processes which lead up\nto the finished article, I will pay my wine bills in future with a\nbetter grace. The place was all polished wood and shining brass, like\nthe fittings of a man-of-war, and a great impression of cleanliness and\nefficiency was left upon our minds. We only know the Australian wines at\npresent by the rough article sold in flasks, but when the supply has\nincreased the world will learn that this country has some very different\nstuff in its cellars, and will try to transport it to their tables.\n\nWe had a small meeting of spiritualists in our hotel sitting-room, under\nthe direction of Mr. Victor Cromer, a local student of the occult, who\nseems to have considerable psychic power. He has a small circle for\npsychic development which is on new lines, for the neophytes who are\nlearning clairvoyance sit around in a circle in silence, while Mr.\nCromer endeavours by mental effort to build up the thought form of some\nobject, say a tree, in the centre of the room. After a time he asks each\nof the circle what he or she can see, and has many correct answers.\nWith colours in the same way he can convey impressions to his pupils. It\nis clear that telepathy is not excluded as an explanation, but the\nactual effect upon the participants is according to their own account,\nvisual rather than mental. We had an interesting sitting with a number\nof these developing mediums present, and much information was given, but\nlittle of it could be said to be truly evidential. After seeing such\nclairvoyance as that of Mr. Tom Tyrell or others at home, when a dozen\nnames and addresses will be given together with the descriptions of\nthose who once owned them, one is spoiled for any lesser display.\n\nThere was one man whom I had particularly determined to meet when I came\nto Australia. This was Mr. T. P. Bellchambers, about whom I had read an\narticle in some magazine which showed that he was a sort of humble\nJeffries or Thoreau, more lonely than the former, less learned than the\nlatter, who lived among the wild creatures in the back country, and was\non such terms with our humble brothers as few men are ever privileged to\nattain. I had read how the eagle with the broken wing had come to him\nfor succour, and how little birds would sit on the edge of his pannikin\nwhile he drank. Him at all cost would we see. Like the proverbial\nprophet, no one I met had ever heard of him, but on the third day of our\nresidence there came a journalist bearing with him a rudely dressed,\ntangle-haired man, collarless and unkempt, with kind, irregular features\nand clear blue eyes--the eyes of a child. It was the man himself. \"He\nbrought me,\" said he, nodding towards the journalist. \"He had to, for I\nalways get bushed in a town.\"\n\nThis rude figure fingering his frayed cap was clearly out of his true\npicture, and we should have to visit him in his own little clearing to\nsee him as he really was. Meanwhile I wondered whether one who was so\nnear nature might know something of nature's more occult secrets. The\ndialogue ran like this:\n\n\"You who are so near nature must have psychic experiences.\"\n\n\"What's psychic? I live so much in the wild that I don't know much.\"\n\n\"I expect you know plenty we don't know. But I meant spiritual.\"\n\n\"Supernatural?\"\n\n\"Well, we think it is natural, but little understood.\"\n\n\"You mean fairies and things?\"\n\n\"Yes, and the dead.\"\n\n\"Well, I guess our fairies would be black fairies.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Well, I never saw any.\"\n\n\"I hoped you might.\"\n\n\"No, but I know one thing. The night my mother died I woke to find her\nhand upon my brow. Oh, there's no doubt. Her hand was heavy on my brow.\"\n\n\"At the time?\"\n\n\"Yes, at the very hour.\"\n\n\"Well, that was good.\"\n\n\"Animals know more about such things.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"They see something. My dog gets terrified when I see nothing, and\nthere's a place in the bush where my horse shies and sweats, he does,\nbut there's nothing to see.\"\n\n\"Something evil has been done there. I've known many cases.\"\n\n\"I expect that's it.\"\n\nSo ran our dialogue. At the end of it he took a cigar, lighted it at the\nwrong end, and took himself with his strong simple backwoods atmosphere\nout of the room. Assuredly I must follow him to the wilds.\n\nNow came the night of my first lecture. It was in the city hall, and\nevery seat was occupied. It was a really magnificent audience of two\nthousand people, the most representative of the town. I am an\nembarrassed and an interested witness, so let me for this occasion quote\nthe sympathetic, not to say flattering account of the _Register_.\n\n     \"There could not have been a more impressive set of circumstances\n     than those which attended the first Australian lecture by Sir\n     Arthur Conan Doyle at the Adelaide Town Hall on Saturday night,\n     September 25th. The audience, large, representative and thoughtful,\n     was in its calibre and proportions a fitting compliment to a world\n     celebrity and his mission. Many of the intellectual leaders of the\n     city were present--University professors, pulpit personalities,\n     men eminent in business, legislators, every section of the\n     community contributed a quota. It cannot be doubted, of course,\n     that the brilliant literary fame of the lecturer was an attraction\n     added to that strange subject which explored the 'unknown drama of\n     the soul.' Over all Sir Arthur dominated by his big arresting\n     presence. His face has a rugged, kindly strength, tense and earnest\n     in its grave moments, and full of winning animation when the sun of\n     his rich humour plays on the powerful features.\"\n\n     \"It is not altogether a sombre journey he makes among the shadows,\n     but apparently one of happy, as well as tender experiences, so that\n     laughter is not necessarily excluded from the exposition. Do not\n     let that be misunderstood. There was no intrusion of the slightest\n     flippancy--Sir Arthur, the whole time, exhibited that attitude of\n     reverence and humility demanded of one traversing a domain on the\n     borderland of the tremendous. Nothing approaching a theatrical\n     presentation of the case for Spiritualism marred the discourse. It\n     was for the most part a plain statement. First things had to be\n     said, and the explanatory groundwork laid for future development.\n     It was a lucid, illuminating introduction.\"\n\n     \"Sir Arthur had a budget of notes, but after he had turned over a\n     few pages he sallied forth with fluent independence under the\n     inspiration of a vast mental store of material. A finger jutted out\n     now and again with a thrust of passionate emphasis, or his big\n     glasses twirled during moments of descriptive ease, and\n     occasionally both hands were held forward as though delivering\n     settled points to the audience for its examination. A clear,\n     well-disciplined voice, excellent diction, and conspicuous\n     sincerity of manner marked the lecture, and no one could have found\n     fault with the way in which Sir Arthur presented his case.\"\n\n     \"The lecturer approached the audience in no spirit of impatient\n     dogmatism, but in the capacity of an understanding mind seeking to\n     illumine the darkness of doubt in those who had not shared his\n     great experiences. He did not dictate, but reasoned and pleaded,\n     taking the people into his confidence with strong conviction and a\n     consoling faith. 'I want to speak to you to-night on a subject\n     which concerns the destiny of every man and woman in this room,'\n     began Sir Arthur, bringing everybody at once into an intimate\n     personal circle. 'No doubt the Almighty, by putting an angel in\n     King William Street, could convert every one of you to\n     Spiritualism, but the Almighty law is that we must use our own\n     brains, and find out our own salvation, and it is not made too easy\n     for us.'\"\n\nIt is awkward to include this kindly picture, and yet I do not know how\nelse to give an idea of how the matter seemed to a friendly observer. I\nhad chosen for my theme the scientific aspect of the matter, and I\nmarshalled my witnesses and showed how Professor Mayo corroborated\nProfessor Hare, and Professor Challis Professor Mayo, and Sir William\nCrookes all his predecessors, while Russell Wallace and Lombroso and\nZollner and Barrett, and Lodge, and many more had all after long study\nassented, and I read the very words of these great men, and showed how\nbravely they had risked their reputations and careers for what they knew\nto be the truth. I then showed how the opposition who dared to\ncontradict them were men with no practical experience of it at all. It\nwas wonderful to hear the shout of assent when I said that what struck\nme most in such a position was its colossal impertinence. That shout\ntold me that my cause was won, and from then onwards the deep silence\nwas only broken by the occasional deep murmur of heart-felt agreement. I\ntold them the evidence that had been granted to me, the coming of my\nson, the coming of my brother, and their message. \"Plough! Plough!\nothers will cast the seed.\" It is hard to talk of such intimate matters,\nbut they were not given to me for my private comfort alone, but for that\nof humanity. Nothing could have gone better than this first evening, and\nthough I had no chairman and spoke for ninety minutes without a pause, I\nwas so upheld--there is no other word for the sensation--that I was\nstronger at the end than when I began. A leading materialist was among\nmy audience. \"I am profoundly impressed,\" said he to Mr. Smythe, as he\npassed him in the corridor. That stood out among many kind messages\nwhich reached me that night.\n\n     Illustration: _Photo: Stirling, Melbourne._ THE WANDERERS, 1920-21.\n\nMy second lecture, two nights later, was on the Religious aspect of the\nmatter. I had shown that the phenomena were nothing, mere material\nsignals to arrest the attention of a material world. I had shown also\nthat the personal benefit, the conquest of death, the Communion of\nSaints, was a high, but not the highest boon. The real full flower of\nSpiritualism was what the wisdom of the dead could tell us about their\nown conditions, their present experiences, their outlook upon the secret\nof the universe, and the testing of religious truth from the viewpoint\nof two worlds instead of one. The audience was more silent than before,\nbut the silence was that of suspense, not of dissent, as I showed them\nfrom message after message what it was exactly which awaited them in the\nbeyond. Even I, who am oblivious as a rule to my audience, became aware\nthat they were tense with feeling and throbbing with emotion. I showed\nhow there was no conflict with religion, in spite of the\nmisunderstanding of the churches, and that the revelation had come to\nextend and explain the old, even as the Christ had said that he had much\nmore to tell but could not do it now. \"Entirely new ground was\ntraversed,\" says my kindly chronicler, \"and the audience listened\nthroughout with rapt attention. They were obviously impressed by the\nearnestness of the speaker and his masterly presentation of the theme.\"\nI cannot answer for the latter but at least I can for the former, since\nI speak not of what I think but of what I know. How can a man fail to be\nearnest then?\n\nA few days later I followed up the lectures by two exhibitions of\npsychic pictures and photographs upon a screen. It was certainly an\namazing experience for those who imagined that the whole subject was\ndreamland, and they freely admitted that it staggered them. They might\nwell be surprised, for such a series has never been seen, I believe,\nbefore, including as it does choice samples from the very best\ncollections. I showed them the record of miracle after miracle, some of\nthem done under my very eyes, one guaranteed by Russell Wallace, three\nby Sir William Crookes, one of the Geley series from Paris, two of Dr.\nCrawford's medium with the ecto-plasm pouring from her, four\nillustrating the absolutely final Lydia Haig case on the island of\nRothesay, several of Mr. Jeffrey's collection and several also of our\nown Society for the Study of Supernormal Pictures, with the fine\nphotograph of the face within a crystal. No wonder that the audience sat\nspellbound, while the local press declared that no such exhibition had\never been seen before in Australia. It is almost too overwhelming for\nimmediate propaganda purposes. It has a stunning, dazing effect upon the\nspectators. Only afterwards, I think, when they come to turn it all over\nin their minds, do they see that the final proof has been laid before\nthem, which no one with the least sense for evidence could reject. But\nthe sense for evidence is not, alas, a universal human quality.\n\nI am continually aware of direct spirit intervention in my own life. I\nhave put it on record in my \"New Revelation\" that I was able to say that\nthe turn of the great war would come upon the Piave months before that\nriver was on the Italian war map. This was recorded at the time, before\nthe fulfilment which occurred more than a year later--so it does not\ndepend upon my assertion. Again, I dreamed the name of the ship which\nwas to take us to Australia, rising in the middle of the night and\nwriting it down in pencil on my cheque-book. I wrote _Nadera_, but it\nwas actually _Naldera_. I had never heard that such a ship existed until\nI visited the P. & O. office, when they told me we should go by the\n_Osterley_, while I, seeing the _Naldera_ upon the list, thought \"No,\nthat will be our ship!\" So it proved, through no action of our own, and\nthereby we were saved from quarantine and all manner of annoyance.\n\nNever before have I experienced such direct visible intervention as\noccurred during my first photographic lecture at Adelaide. I had shown a\nslide the effect of which depended upon a single spirit face appearing\namid a crowd of others. The slide was damp, and as photos under these\ncircumstances always clear from the edges when placed in the lantern,\nthe whole centre was so thickly fogged that I was compelled to admit\nthat I could not myself see the spirit face. Suddenly, as I turned away,\nrather abashed by my failure, I heard cries of \"There it is,\" and\nlooking up again I saw this single face shining out from the general\ndarkness with so bright and vivid an effect that I never doubted for a\nmoment that the operator was throwing a spot light upon it, my wife\nsharing my impression. I thought how extraordinarily clever it was that\nhe should pick it out so accurately at the distance. So the matter\npassed, but next morning Mr. Thomas, the operator, who is not a\nSpiritualist, came in great excitement to say that a palpable miracle\nhad been wrought, and that in his great experience of thirty years he\nhad never known a photo dry from the centre, nor, as I understood him,\nbecome illuminated in such a fashion. Both my wife and I were surprised\nto learn that he had thrown no ray upon it. Mr. Thomas told us that\nseveral experts among the audience had commented upon the strangeness of\nthe incident. I, therefore, asked Mr. Thomas if he would give me a note\nas to his own impression, so as to furnish an independant account. This\nis what he wrote:--\n\n                                        _\"Hindmarsh Square, Adelaide._\n\n     \"_In Adelaide, on September 28th, I projected a lantern slide\n     containing a group of ladies and gentlemen, and in the centre of\n     the picture, when the slide was reversed, appeared a human face. On\n     the appearance of the picture showing the group the fog incidental\n     to a damp or new slide gradually appeared covering the whole slide,\n     and only after some minutes cleared, and then quite contrary to\n     usual practice did so from a central point just over the face that\n     appeared in the centre, and refused even after that to clear right\n     off to the edge. The general experience is for a slide to clear\n     from the outside edges to a common centre. Your slide cleared only\n     sufficiently in the centre to show the face, and did not, while the\n     slide was on view, clear any more than sufficient to show that\n     face. Thinking that perhaps there might be a scientific\n     explanation to this phenomenon, I hesitated before writing you, and\n     in the meantime I have made several experiments but have not in any\n     one particular experiment obtained the same result. I am very much\n     interested--as are hundreds of others who personally witnessed the\n     phenomenon._\"\n\nMr. Thomas, in his account, has missed the self-illuminated appearance\nof the face, but otherwise he brings out the points. I never gave\noccasion for the repetition of the phenomenon, for in every case I was\ncareful that the slides were carefully dried beforehand.\n\nSo much for the lectures at Adelaide, which were five in all, and left,\nas I heard from all sides, a deep impression upon the town. Of course,\nthe usual abusive messages poured in, including one which wound up with\nthe hearty words: \"May you be struck dead before you leave this\nCommonwealth.\" From Melbourne I had news that before our arrival in\nAustralia at a public prayer meeting at the Assembly Hall, Collins\nStreet, a Presbyterian prayed that we might never reach Australia's\nshores. As we were on the high seas at the time this was clearly a\nmurderous petition, nor could I have believed it if a friend of mine had\nnot actually been present and heard it. On the other hand, we received\nmany letters of sympathy and thanks, which amply atoned. \"I feel sure\nthat many mothers, who have lost their sons in the war, will, wherever\nyou go, bless you, as I do, for the help you have given.\" As this was\nthe object of our journey it could not be denied that we had attained\nour end. When I say \"we,\" I mean that such letters with inquiries came\ncontinually to my wife as well as myself, though she answered them with\nfar greater fullness and clearness than I had time to do.\n\nHotel life began to tell upon the children, who are like horses with a\nprofusion of oats and no exercise. On the whole they were wonderfully\ngood. When some domestic crisis was passed the small voice of Malcolm,\nonce \"Dimples,\" was heard from the darkness of his bed, saying, \"Well,\nif I am to be good I must have a proper start. Please mammie, say one,\ntwo, three, and away!\" When this ceremony had been performed a still\nsmaller voice of Baby asked the same favour, so once more there was a\nformal start. The result was intermittent, and it is as well. I don't\nbelieve in angelic children.\n\nThe Adelaide doctors entertained me to dinner, and I was pleased to meet\nmore than one who had been of my time at Edinburgh. They seemed to be a\nvery prosperous body of men. There was much interesting conversation,\nespecially from one elderly professor named Watson, who had known Bully\nHayes and other South Sea celebrities in the semi-piratical,\nblack-birding days. He told me one pretty story. They landed upon some\noutlying island in Carpentaria, peopled by real primitive blacks, who\nwere rounded up by the ships crew on one of the peninsulas which formed\nthe end of the island. These creatures, the lowest of the human race,\nhuddled together in consternation while the white men trained a large\ncamera upon them. Suddenly three males advanced and made a speech in\ntheir own tongue which, when interpreted, proved to be an offer that\nthose three should die in exchange for the lives of the tribe. What\ncould the very highest do more than this, and yet it came from the\nlowest savages. Truly, we all have something of the divine, and it is\nthe very part which will grow and spread until it has burned out all the\nrest. \"Be a Christ!\" said brave old Stead. At the end of countless aeons\nwe may all reach that point which not only Stead but St. Paul also has\nforeshadowed.\n\nI refreshed myself between lectures by going out to Nature and to\nBellchambers. As it was twenty-five miles out in the bush, inaccessible\nby rail, and only to be approached by motor roads which were in parts\nlike the bed of a torrent, I could not take my wife, though the boys,\nafter the nature of boys, enjoy a journey the more for its roughness. It\nwas a day to remember. I saw lovely South Australia in the full beauty\nof the spring, the budding girlhood of the year, with all her winsome\ngrowing graces upon her. The brilliant yellow wattle was just fading\nupon the trees, but the sward was covered with star-shaped purple\nflowers of the knot-grass, and with familiar home flowers, each subtly\naltered by their transportation. It was wild bush for part of the way,\nbut mostly of the second growth on account of forest fires as much as\nthe woodman's axe. Bellchambers came in to guide us, for there is no one\nto ask upon these desolate tracks, and it is easy to get bushed. Mr.\nWaite, the very capable zoologist of the museum, joined the party, and\nwith two such men the conversation soon got to that high nature talk\nwhich represents the really permanent things of material life--more\nlasting than thrones and dynasties. I learned of the strange storks, the\n\"native companions\" who meet, 500 at a time, for their stately balls,\nwhere in the hush of the bush they advance, retreat, and pirouette in\ntheir dignified minuets. I heard of the bower birds, who decorate their\nhomes with devices of glass and pebbles. There was talk, too, of the\nlittle red beetles who have such cunning ways that they can fertilise\nthe insectivorous plants without being eaten, and of the great ants who\nget through galvanised iron by the aid of some acid-squirting insect\nwhich they bring with them to the scene of their assault. I heard also\nof the shark's egg which Mr. Waite had raped from sixty feet deep in\nSydney Harbour, descending for the purpose in a diver's suit, for which\nI raised my hat to him. Deep things came also from Bellchambers' store\nof knowledge and little glimpses of beautiful humanity from this true\ngentleman.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I am mostly vegetarian. You see, I know the beasts too\nwell to bring myself to pick their bones. Yes, I'm friends with most of\nthem. Birds have more sense than animals to my mind. They understand you\nlike. They know what you mean. Snakes have least of any. They don't get\nfriendly-like in the same way. But Nature helps the snakes in queer\nways. Some of them hatch their own eggs, and when they do Nature\nraises the temperature of their bodies. That's queer.\"\n\n     Illustration: _Photo: W. G. Smith, Adelaide._ BELLCHAMBERS AND THE\n     MALLEE FOWL. \"GET ALONG WITH YOU, DO!\"\n\nI carried away a mixed memory of the things I had seen. A blue-headed\nwren, an eagle soaring in the distance; a hideous lizard with a huge\nopen mouth; a laughing jackass which refused to laugh; many more or less\ntame wallabies and kangaroos; a dear little 'possum which got under the\nback of my coat, and would not come out; noisy mynah birds which fly\nahead and warn the game against the hunter. Good little noisy mynah! All\nmy sympathies are with you! I would do the same if I could. This\nsenseless lust for killing is a disgrace to the race. We, of England,\ncannot preach, for a pheasant battue is about the worst example of it.\nBut do let the creatures alone unless they are surely noxious! When Mr.\nBellchambers told us how he had trained two ibises--the old religious\nvariety--and how both had been picked off by some unknown local\n\"sportsman\" it made one sad.\n\nWe had a touch of comedy, however, when Mr. Bellchambers attempted to\nexpose the egg of the Mallee fowl, which is covered a foot deep in\nmould. He scraped into the mound with his hands. The cock watched him\nwith an expression which clearly said: \"Confound the fellow! What is he\nup to now?\" He then got on the mound, and as quickly as Bellchambers\nshovelled the earth out he kicked it back again, Bellchambers in his\ngood-humoured way crying \"Get along with you, do!\" A good husband is the\nMallee cock, and looks after the family interests. But what we humans\nwould think if we were born deep underground and had to begin our career\nby digging our way to the surface, is beyond imagination.\n\nThere are quite a clan of Bellchambers living in or near the little\npioneer's hut built in a clearing of the bush. Mrs. Bellchambers is of\nSussex, as is her husband, and when they heard that we were fresh from\nSussex also it was wonderful to see the eager look that came upon their\nfaces, while the bush-born children could scarce understand what it was\nthat shook the solid old folk to their marrow. On the walls were old\nprints of the Devil's Dyke and Firle Beacon. How strange that old Sussex\nshould be wearing out its very life in its care for the fauna of young\nAustralia. This remarkable man is unpaid with only his scanty holding\nupon which to depend, and many dumb mouths dependent upon him. I shall\nrejoice if my efforts in the local press serve to put his affairs upon a\nmore worthy foundation, and to make South Australia realise what a\nvaluable instrument lies to her hand.\n\nBefore I left Adelaide I learned many pleasing things about the\nlectures, which did away with any shadow cast by those numerous\ncorrespondents who seemed to think that we were still living under the\nMosaic dispensation, and who were so absent-minded that they usually\nforgot to sign their names. It is a curious difference between the\nChristian letters of abuse and those of materialists, that the former\nare usually anonymous and the latter signed. I heard of one man, a lame\nstockman, who had come 300 miles from the other side of Streaky Bay to\nattend the whole course, and who declared that he could listen all\nnight. Another seized my hand and cried, \"You will never know the good\nyou have done in this town.\" Well, I hope it was so, but I only regard\nmyself as the plough. Others must follow with the seed. Knowledge,\nperseverance, sanity, judgment, courage--we ask some qualities from our\ndisciples if they are to do real good. Talking of moral courage I would\nsay that the Governor of South Australia, Sir Archibald Weigall with\nLady Weigall, had no hesitation in coming to support me with their\npresence. By the end of September this most successful mission in\nAdelaide was accomplished, and early in October we were on our way to\nMelbourne, which meant a long night in the train and a few hours of the\nnext morning during which we saw the surface diggings of Ballarat on\nevery side of the railway line, the sandy soil pitted in every direction\nwith the shallow claims of the miners.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n     Speculations on Paul and his Master.--Arrival at Melbourne.--Attack\n     in the Argus.--Partial press boycott.--Strength of the\n     movement.--The Prince of Wales.--Victorian football.--Rescue Circle\n     in Melbourne.--Burke and Wills' statue.--Success of the\n     lectures.--Reception at the Auditorium.--Luncheon of the British\n     Empire League.--Mr. Ryan's experience.--The Federal\n     Government.--Mr. Hughes' personality.--The mediumship of Charles\n     Bailey.--His alleged exposure.--His remarkable record.--A second\n     sitting.--The Indian nest.--A remarkable lecture.--Arrival of Lord\n     Forster.--The future of the Empire.--Kindness of\n     Australians.--Prohibition.--Horse-racing.--Roman Catholic policy.\n\n\nOne cannot help speculating about those great ones who first carried to\nthe world the Christian revelation. What were their domestic ties! There\nis little said about them, but we should never have known that Peter had\na wife were it not for a chance allusion to his mother-in-law, just as\nanother chance allusion shows us that Jesus was one of a numerous\nfamily. One thing can safely be said of Paul, that he was either a\nbachelor or else was a domestic bully with a very submissive wife, or he\nwould never have dared to express his well known views about women. As\nto his preaching, he had a genius for making a clear thing obscure, even\nas Jesus had a genius for making an obscure thing clear. Read the\nSermon on the Mount and then a chapter of Paul as a contrast in styles.\nApart from his style one can reconstruct him as a preacher to the extent\nthat he had a powerful voice--no one without one could speak from the\nhistoric rocky pulpit on the hill of Mars at Athens, as I ascertained\nfor myself. The slope is downwards, sound ascends, and the whole\nconditions are abominable. He was certainly long-winded and probably\nmonotonous in his diction, or he could hardly have reduced one of his\naudience to such a deep sleep that he fell out of the window. We may add\nthat he was a man of brisk courage in an emergency, that he was subject\nto such sudden trances that he was occasionally unaware himself whether\nhe was normal or not, and that he was probably short-sighted, as he\nmistook the person who addressed him, and had his letters usually\nwritten for him. At least three languages were at his command, he had an\nintimate and practical knowledge of the occult, and was an authority\nupon Jewish law--a good array of accomplishments for one man.\n\nThere are some points about Paul's august Master which also help in a\nreconstruction of Himself and His surroundings. That His mother was\nopposed to His mission is, I think, very probable. Women are dubious\nabout spiritual novelties, and one can well believe that her heart ached\nto see her noble elder son turn from the sure competence of His father's\nbusiness at Nazareth to the precarious existence of a wandering\npreacher. This domestic opposition clouded Him as one can see in the\nsomewhat cold, harsh words which He used to her, and his mode of address\nwhich began simply as \"Woman.\" His assertion to the disciples that one\nwho followed His path had to give up his family points to the same\nthing. No doubt Mary remained with the younger branches at Nazareth\nwhile Jesus pursued His ministry, though she came, as any mother would,\nto be near Him at the end.\n\nOf His own personality we know extraordinarily little, considering the\nsupreme part that He played in the world. That He was a highly trained\npsychic, or as we should say, medium, is obvious to anyone who studies\nthe miracles, and it is certainly not derogatory to say that they were\ndone along the line of God's law rather than that they were inversions\nof it. I cannot doubt also that he chose his apostles for their psychic\npowers--if not, on what possible principle were they selected, since\nthey were neither staunch nor learned? It is clear that Peter and James\nand John were the inner circle of psychics, since they were assembled\nboth at the transfiguration and at the raising of Jairus' daughter. It\nis from unlearned open-air men who are near Nature that the highest\npsychic powers are obtained. It has been argued that the Christ was an\nEssene, but this seems hard to believe, as the Essenes were not only\nsecluded from the world, but were certainly vegetarians and total\nabstainers, while Jesus was neither. On the other hand baptism was not a\nJewish rite, and his undergoing it--if He did, indeed, undergo it--marks\nHim as belonging to some dissenting sect. I say \"if He did\" because it\nis perfectly certain that there were forgeries and interpolations\nintroduced into the Gospels in order to square their teaching with the\npractice of the Church some centuries later. One would look for those\nforgeries not in the ordinary narrative, which in the adult years bears\nevery mark of truth, but in the passages which support ceremonial or\ntributes to the Church--such as the allusions to baptism, \"Unless a man\nbe born again,\" to the sacrament, \"This is my body, etc.,\" and the whole\nstory of Ananias and Sapphira, the moral of which is that it is\ndangerous to hold anything back from the Church.\n\nPhysically I picture the Christ as an extremely powerful man. I have\nknown several famous healers and they were all men who looked as if they\nhad redundant health and strength to give to others. His words to the\nsick woman, \"Who has touched me? Much power\" (_dunamis_ is the word in\nthe original Greek) \"has gone out of me,\" show that His system depended\nupon His losing what He gave to others. Therefore He was a very strong\nman. The mere feat of carrying a wooden cross strong enough to bear a\nman from Jerusalem to Calvary, up a hill, is no light one. It is the\ndetails which convince me that the gospel narrative is correct and\nreally represents an actual event. Take the incident during that sad\njourney of Simon of Cyrene having helped for a time with the cross. Why\nshould anyone invent such a thing, putting an actual name to the person?\nIt is touches of this kind which place the narrative beyond all\nsuspicion of being a pure invention. Again and again in the New\nTestament one is confronted with incidents which a writer of fiction\nrecognises as being beyond the reach of invention, because the inventor\ndoes not put in things which have no direct bearing upon the matter in\nhand. Take as an example how the maid, seeing Peter outside the door\nafter his escape from prison, ran back to the guests and said that it\nwas his angel (or etheric body) which was outside. Such an episode could\nonly have been recorded because it actually occurred.\n\nBut these be deep waters. Let me get back to my own humble experiences,\nthese interpolated thoughts being but things which have been found upon\nthe wayside of our journey. On reaching Melbourne we were greeted at the\nstation by a few devoted souls who had waited for two trains before they\nfound us. Covered with the flowers which they had brought we drove to\nMenzies Hotel, whence we moved a few days later to a flat in the Grand,\nwhere we were destined to spend five eventful weeks. We found the\natmosphere and general psychic conditions of Melbourne by no means as\npleasant or receptive as those of Adelaide, but this of course was very\nwelcome as the greater the darkness the more need of the light. If\nSpiritualism had been a popular cult in Australia there would have been\nno object in my visit. I was welcome enough as an individual, but by no\nmeans so as an emissary, and both the Churches and the Materialists, in\nmost unnatural combination, had done their best to make the soil stony\nfor me. Their chief agent had been the _Argus_, a solid, stodgy paper,\nwhich amply fulfilled the material needs of the public, but was not\ngiven to spiritual vision. This paper before my arrival had a very\nviolent and abusive leader which attracted much attention, full of such\nterms as \"black magic,\" \"Shamanism,\" \"witchcraft,\" \"freak religion,\"\n\"cranky faith,\" \"cruelty,\" \"black evil,\" \"poison,\" finishing up with the\nassertion that I represented \"a force which we believe to be purely\nevil.\" This was from a paper which whole-heartedly supports the liquor\ninterest, and has endless columns of betting and racing news, nor did\nits principles cause it to refuse substantial sums for the advertising\nof my lectures. Still, however arrogant or illogical, I hold that a\npaper has a perfect right to publish and uphold its own view, nor would\nI say that the subsequent refusal of the _Argus_ to print any answer to\nits tirade was a real breach of the ethics of journalism. Where its\nconduct became outrageous, however, and where it put itself beyond the\npale of all literary decency, was when it reported my first lecture by\ndescribing my wife's dress, my own voice, the colour of my spectacles,\nand not a word of what I said. It capped this by publishing so-called\nanswers to me by Canon Hughes, and by Bishop Phelan--critics whose\nknowledge of the subject seemed to begin and end with the witch of\nEndor--while omitting the statements to which these answers applied.\nNever in any British town have I found such reactionary intolerance as\nin this great city, for though the _Argus_ was the chief offender, the\nother papers were as timid as rabbits in the matter. My psychic\nphotographs which, as I have said, are the most wonderful collection\never shown in the world, were received in absolute silence by the whole\npress, though it is notorious that if I had come there with a comic\nopera or bedroom comedy instead of with the evidence of a series of\nmiracles, I should have had a column. This seems to have been really due\nto moral cowardice, and not to ignorance, for I saw a private letter\nafterwards in which a sub-editor remarked that he and the chief\nleader-writer had both seen the photographs and that they could see no\npossible answer to them.\n\nThere was another and more pleasing side to the local conditions, and\nthat lay in the numbers who had already mastered the principles of\nSpiritualism, the richer classes as individuals, the poorer as organised\nchurches. They were so numerous that when we received an address of\nwelcome in the auditorium to which only Spiritualists were invited by\nticket, the Hall, which holds two thousand, was easily filled. This\nwould mean on the same scale that the Spiritualists of London could fill\nthe Albert Hall several times over--as no doubt they could. Their\nnumbers were in a sense an embarrassment, as I always had the fear that\nI was addressing the faithful instead of those whom I had come so far to\ninstruct. On the whole their quality and organisation were\ndisappointing. They had a splendid spiritual paper in their midst, the\n_Harbinger of Light_, which has run for fifty years, and is most ably\nedited by Mr. Britton Harvey. When I think of David Gow, Ernest Oaten,\nJohn Lewis and Britton Harvey I feel that our cause is indeed well\nrepresented by its press. They have also some splendid local workers,\nlike Bloomfield and Tozer, whole-hearted and apostolic. But elsewhere\nthere is the usual tendency to divide and to run into vulgarities and\nextravagances in which the Spiritual has small share. Discipline is\nneeded, which involves central powers, and that in turn means command of\nthe purse. It would be far better to have no Spiritual churches than\nsome I have seen.\n\nHowever, I seem to have got to some of my final conclusions at Melbourne\nbefore I have begun our actual experience there. We found the place\nstill full of rumours and talk about the recent visit of the Prince of\nWales, who seems to have a perfect genius for making himself popular and\nbeloved. May he remain unspoiled and retain the fresh kindliness of his\nyouth. His success is due not to any ordered rule of conduct but to a\nperfectly natural courtesy which is his essential self and needs no\neffort. Our waiter at the hotel who had waited upon him remarked: \"God\nnever made anything nearer to Nature than that boy. He spoke to me as he\nmight have spoken to the Governor.\" It was a fine tribute, and\ncharacteristic of the humbler classes in this country, who have a vigour\nof speech and an independence of view which is very refreshing. Once as\nI passed a public house, a broken old fellow who had been leaning\nagainst the wall with a short pipe in his mouth, stepped forward to me\nand said: \"I am all for civil and religious liberty. There is plenty of\nroom for your cult here, sir, and I wish you well against the bigots.\" I\nwonder from what heights that old fellow had fallen before he brought up\nagainst the public house wall?\n\nOne of my first afternoons in Melbourne was spent in seeing the final\ntie of the Victorian football cup. I have played both Rugby and Soccer,\nand I have seen the American game at its best, but I consider that the\nVictorian system has some points which make it the best of\nall--certainly from the spectacular point of view. There is no off-side,\nand you get a free kick if you catch the ball. Otherwise you can run as\nin ordinary Rugby, though there is a law about bouncing the ball as you\nrun, which might, as it seemed to me, be cut out without harming the\ngame. This bouncing rule was put in by Mr. Harrison who drew up the\noriginal rules, for the chivalrous reason that he was himself the\nfastest runner in the Colony, and he did not wish to give himself any\nadvantage. There is not so much man-handling in the Victorian game, and\nto that extent it is less dramatic, but it is extraordinarily open and\nfast, with none of the packed scrums which become so wearisome, and with\nlinesmen who throw in the ball the instant it goes out. There were\nseveral points in which the players seemed better than our best--one was\nthe accurate passing by low drop kicking, very much quicker and faster\nthan a pass by hand. Another was the great accuracy of the place kicking\nand of the screw kicking when a runner would kick at right angles to his\ncourse. There were four long quarters, and yet the men were in such\ncondition that they were going hard at the end. They are all, I\nunderstand, semi-professionals. Altogether it was a very fine display,\nand the crowd was much excited. It was suggestive that the instant the\nlast whistle blew a troop of mounted police cantered over the ground and\nescorted the referees to the safety of the pavilion.\n\nI began at once to endeavour to find out the conditions of local\nSpiritualism, and had a long conversation with Mr. Tozer, the chairman\nof the movement, a slow-talking, steady-eyed man, of the type that gets\na grip and does not easily let go. After explaining the general\nsituation, which needs some explanation as it is full of currents and\ncross-currents caused by individual schisms and secessions, he told me\nin his gentle, earnest way some of his own experiences in his home\ncircle which corroborate much which I have heard elsewhere. He has run a\nrescue circle for the instruction of the lower spirits who are so\nmaterial that they can be reached more easily by humanity than by the\nhigher angels. The details he gave me were almost the same as those\ngiven by Mr. MacFarlane of Southsea who had a similar circle of which\nMr. Tozer had certainly never heard. A wise spirit control dominates the\nproceedings. The medium goes into trance. The spirit control then\nexplains what it is about to do, and who the spirit is who is about to\nbe reformed. The next scene is often very violent, the medium having to\nbe held down and using rough language. This comes from some low spirit\nwho has suddenly found this means of expressing himself. At other times\nthe language is not violent but only melancholy, the spirit declaring\nthat he is abandoned and has not a friend in the universe. Some do not\nrealise that they are dead, but only that they wander all alone, under\nconditions they could not understand, in a cloud of darkness.\n\nThen comes the work of regeneration. They are reasoned with and\nconsoled. Gradually they become more gentle. Finally, they accept the\nfact that they are spirits, that their condition is their own making,\nand that by aspiration and repentance they can win their way to the\nlight. When one has found the path and has returned thanks for it,\nanother case is treated. As a rule these errant souls are unknown to\nfame. Often they are clergymen whose bigotry has hindered development.\nOccasionally some great sinner of the past may come into view. I have\nbefore me a written lament professing to come from Alva, the bigoted\ngovernor of the Lowlands. It is gruesome enough. \"Picture to yourself\nthe hell I was in. Blood, blood everywhere, corpses on all sides,\ngashed, maimed, mutilated, quivering with agony and bleeding at every\npore! At the same time thousands of voices were raised in bitter\nreproaches, in curses and execrations! Imagine the appalling spectacle\nof this multitude of the dead and dying, fresh from the flames, from the\nsword, the rack, the torture chambers and the gibbet; and the\npandemonium of voices shrieking out the most terrible maledictions!\nImagine never being able to get away from these sights and sounds, and\nthen tell me, was I not in hell?--a hell of greater torment than that to\nwhich I believed all heretics were consigned. Such was the hell of the\n'bloody Alva,' from which I have been rescued by what seems to me a\ngreat merciful dispensation of Almighty God.\"\n\nSometimes in Mr. Tozer's circle the souls of ancient clerics who have\nslumbered long show their first signs of resuscitation, still bearing\ntheir old-world intolerance with them. The spirit control purports to be\na well-educated Chinaman, whose presence and air of authority annoy the\necclesiastics greatly. The petrified mind leads to a long period of\ninsensibility which means loss of ground and of time in the journey\ntowards happiness. I was present at the return of one alleged Anglican\nBishop of the eighteenth century, who spoke with great intolerance. When\nasked if he had seen the Christ he answered that he had not and that he\ncould not understand it. When asked if he still considered the Christ to\nbe God he threw up his hand and shouted violently, \"Stop! That is\nblasphemy!\" The Chinese control said, \"He stupid man. Let him wait. He\nlearn better\"--and removed him. He was succeeded by a very noisy and\nbigoted Puritan divine who declared that no one but devils would come to\na seance. On being asked whether that meant that he was himself a devil\nhe became so abusive that the Chinaman once more had to intervene. I\nquote all this as a curious sidelight into some developments of the\nsubject which are familiar enough to students, but not to the general\npublic. It is easy at a distance to sneer at such things and to ask for\ntheir evidential value, but they are very impressive to those who view\nthem at closer quarters. As to evidence, I am informed that several of\nthe unfortunates have been identified in this world through the\ninformation which they gave of their own careers.\n\nMelbourne is a remarkable city, far more solid and old-established than\nthe European visitor would expect. We spent some days in exploring it.\nThere are few cities which have the same natural advantages, for it is\nnear the sea, with many charming watering places close at hand, while\ninland it has some beautiful hills for the week-end villas of the\ncitizens. Edinburgh is the nearest analogy which I can recall. Parks and\ngardens are beautiful, but, as in most British cities, the public\nstatues are more solid than impressive. The best of them, that to Burke\nand Wills, the heroic explorers, has no name upon it to signify who the\ntwo figures are, so that they mean nothing at all to the casual\nobserver, in spite of some excellent bas-reliefs, round the base, which\nshow the triumphant start and the terrible end of that tragic but\nsuccessful journey, which first penetrated the Continent from south to\nnorth. Before our departure I appealed in the press to have this\nomission rectified and it was, I believe, done.\n\n     Illustration: _Photo: Stirling, Melbourne._ MELBOURNE, NOVEMBER,\n     1920.\n\nMr. Smythe, my agent, had been unfortunate in being unable to secure one\nof the very few large halls in Melbourne, so we had to confine ourselves\nto the Playhouse which has only seating for about 1,200. Here I\nopened on October 5th, following my lectures up in the same order as in\nAdelaide. The press was very shy, but nothing could have exceeded the\nwarmth and receptivity of my hearers. Yet on account of the inadequate\nreports of the press, with occasional total suppression, no one who was\nnot present could have imagined how packed was the house, or how\nunanimous the audience.\n\nOn October 14th the Spiritualists filled the Auditorium and had a\nspecial service of welcome for ourselves. When I went down to it in the\ntram, the conductor, unaware of my identity, said, when I asked to be\nput down at the Auditorium, \"It's no use, sir; it's jam full an hour\nago.\" \"The Pilgrims,\" as they called us, were in special seats, the\nseven of us all in a line upon the right of the chair. Many kind things\nwere said, and I replied as best I might. The children will carry the\nremembrance of that warm-hearted reception through their lives, and they\nare not likely to forget how they staggered home, laden with the flowers\nwhich were literally heaped upon them.\n\nThe British Empire League also entertained my wife and myself to lunch,\na very select company assembling who packed the room. Sir Joseph Cook,\nFederal Chancellor of the Exchequer, made a pleasant speech, recalling\nour adventures upon the Somme, when he had his baptism of fire. In my\nreply I pulled the leg of my audience with some success, for I wound up\nby saying, very solemnly, that I was something greater than Governments\nand the master of Cabinet Ministers. By the time I had finished my\ntremendous claims I am convinced that they expected some extravagant\noccult pretension, whereas I actually wound up with the words, \"for I am\nthe man in the street.\" There was a good deal of amusement caused.\n\nMr. Thomas Ryan, a very genial and capable member of the State\nLegislature, took the chair at this function. He had no particular\npsychic knowledge, but he was deeply impressed by an experience in\nLondon in the presence of that remarkable little lady, Miss Scatcherd.\nMr. Ryan had said that he wanted some evidence before he could accept\npsychic philosophy, upon which Miss Scatcherd said: \"There is a spirit\nbeside you now. He conveys to me that his name is Roberts. He says he is\nworried in his mind because the home which you prepared for his widow\nhas not been legally made over to her.\" All this applied to a matter in\nAdelaide. In that city, according to Mr. Ryan, a seance was held that\nnight, Mr. Victor Cromer being the medium, at which a message came\nthrough from Roberts saying that he was now easy in his mind as he had\nmanaged to convey his trouble to Mr. Ryan who could set it right. When\nthese psychic laws are understood the dead as well as the living will be\nrelieved from a load of unnecessary care; but how can these laws be\nignored or pooh-poohed in the face of such instances as this which I\nhave quoted? They are so numerous now that it is hardly an exaggeration\nto say that every circle of human beings which meets can supply one.\n\nMr. Hughes was good enough to ask me to meet the members of the Federal\nGovernment at lunch, and the experience was an interesting one, for here\nround one small table were those who were shaping the course of this\nyoung giant among the nations. They struck me as a practical hard-worked\nrough-and-ready lot of men. Mr. Hughes dominated the conversation, which\nnecessarily becomes one-sided as he is very deaf, though his opponents\nsay that he has an extraordinary knack of hearing what he is not meant\nto hear. He told us a series of anecdotes of his stormy political youth\nwith a great deal of vivacity, the whole company listening in silence.\nHe is a hard, wiry man, with a high-nosed Red Indian face, and a good\ndeal of healthy devilry in his composition--a great force for good\nduring the war.\n\nAfter lunch he conducted me through the library, and coming to a\nportrait of Clemenceau he cried: \"That's the man I learned to admire in\nEurope.\" Then, turning to one of Wilson, he added, \"And that's the man I\nlearned to dislike.\" He added a number of instances of Wilson's\nignorance of actual conditions, and of his ungenial coldness of heart.\n\"If he had not been so wrapped in himself, and if he had taken Lodge or\nsome other Republican with him, all could have easily been arranged.\" I\nfeel that I am not indiscreet in repeating this, for Hughes is not a man\nwho conceals his opinions from the world.\n\nI have been interested in the medium Bailey, who was said to have been\nexposed in France in 1910. The curious will find the alleged exposure\nin \"Annals of Psychical Science,\" Vol. IX. Bailey is an apport\nmedium--that is to say, that among his phenomena is the bringing of\nobjects which are said to come from a distance, passing through the\nwalls and being precipitated down upon the table. These objects are of\nthe strangest description--Assyrian tablets (real or forged), tortoises,\nlive birds, snakes, precious stones, &c. In this case, after being\nsearched by the committee, he was able to produce two live birds in the\nseance room. At the next sitting the committee proposed an obscene and\nabsurd examination of the medium, which he very rightly resented and\nrefused. They then confidently declared that on the first occasion the\ntwo live birds were in his intestines, a theory so absurd that it shakes\none's confidence in their judgment. They had, however, some more solid\ngrounds for a charge against him, for they produced a married couple who\nswore that they had sold three such birds with a cage to Bailey some\ndays before. This Bailey denied, pointing out that he could neither\nspeak French, nor had he ever had any French money, which Professor\nReichel, who brought him from Australia, corroborated. However, the\ncommittee considered the evidence to be final, and the seances came to\nan end, though Colonel de Rochas, the leading member, wound up the\nincident by writing: \"Are we to conclude from the fraud that we have\nwitnessed that all Bailey's apports may have been fraudulent? I do not\nthink so, and this is also the opinion of the members of the committee,\nwho have had much experience with mediums and are conversant with the\nliterature of the subject.\"\n\nReading the alleged exposure, one is struck, as so often in such cases,\nwith its unsatisfactory nature. There is the difficulty of the language\nand the money. There is the disappearance of the third bird and the\ncage. Above all, how did the birds get into the carefully-guarded seance\nroom, especially as Bailey was put in a bag during the proceedings? The\ncommittee say the bag may not have been efficient, but they also state\nthat Bailey desired the control to be made more effective. Altogether it\nis a puzzling case. On my applying to Bailey himself for information, he\ndeclared roundly that he had been the victim of a theological plot with\nsuborned evidence. The only slight support which I can find for that\nview is that there was a Rev. Doctor among his accusers. I was told\nindependently that Professor Reichel, before his death in 1918, came\nalso to the conclusion that there had been a plot. But in any case most\nof us will agree with Mr. Stanford, Bailey's Australian patron, that the\ncommittee would have been wise to say nothing, continue the sittings,\nand use their knowledge to get at some more complete conclusion.\n\nWith such a record one had to be on one's guard with Mr. Bailey. I had a\nsitting in my room at the hotel to which I invited ten guests, but the\nresults were not impressive. We saw so-called spirit hands, which were\nfaintly luminous, but I was not allowed to grasp them, and they were\nnever further from the medium than he could have reached. All this was\nsuspicious but not conclusive. On the other hand, there was an attempt\nat a materialisation of a head, which took the form of a luminous patch,\nand seemed to some of the sitters to be further from the cabinet than\ncould be reached. We had an address purporting to come from the control,\nDr. Whitcombe, and we also had a message written in bad Italian. On the\nwhole it was one of those baffling sittings which leave a vague\nunpleasant impression, and there was a disturbing suggestion of cuffs\nabout those luminous hands.\n\nI have been reading Bailey's record, however, and I cannot doubt that he\nhas been a great apport medium. The results were far above all possible\nfraud, both in the conditions and in the articles brought into the room\nby spirit power. For example, I have a detailed account published by Dr.\nC. W. McCarthy, of Sydney, under the title, \"Rigid Tests of the Occult.\"\nDuring these tests Bailey was sealed up in a bag, and in one case was\ninside a cage of mosquito curtain. The door and windows were secured and\nthe fire-place blocked. The sitters were all personal friends, but they\nmutually searched each other. The medium was stripped naked before the\nseance. Under these stringent conditions during a series of six sittings\n138 articles were brought into the room, which included eighty-seven\nancient coins (mostly of Ptolemy), eight live birds, eighteen precious\nstones of modest value and varied character, two live turtles, seven\ninscribed Babylonian tablets, one Egyptian Scarabaeus, an Arabic\nnewspaper, a leopard skin, four nests and many other things. It seems\nto me perfect nonsense to talk about these things being the results of\ntrickery. I may add that at a previous test meeting they had a young\nlive shark about 1-1/2 feet long, which was tangled with wet seaweed and\nflopped about on the table. Dr. McCarthy gives a photograph of the\ncreature.\n\nMy second sitting with Bailey was more successful than the first. On his\narrival I and others searched him and satisfied ourselves he carried\nnothing upon him. I then suddenly switched out all the lights, for it\nseemed to me that the luminous hands of the first sitting might be the\nresult of phosphorised oil put on before the meeting and only visible in\ncomplete darkness, so that it could defy all search. I was wrong,\nhowever, for there was no luminosity at all. We then placed Mr. Bailey\nin the corner of the room, lowered the lights without turning them out,\nand waited. Almost at once he breathed very heavily, as one in trance,\nand soon said something in a foreign tongue which was unintelligible to\nme. One of our friends, Mr. Cochrane, recognised it as Indian, and at\nonce answered, a few sentences being interchanged. In English the voice\nthen said that he was a Hindoo control who was used to bring apports for\nthe medium, and that he would, he hoped, be able to bring one for us.\n\"Here it is,\" he said a moment later, and the medium's hand was extended\nwith something in it. The light was turned full on and we found it was a\nvery perfect bird's nest, beautifully constructed of some very fine\nfibre mixed with moss. It stood about two inches high and had no sign of\nany flattening which would have come with concealment. The size would be\nnearly three inches across. In it lay a small egg, white, with tiny\nbrown speckles. The medium, or rather the Hindoo control acting through\nthe medium, placed the egg on his palm and broke it, some fine albumen\nsquirting out. There was no trace of yolk. \"We are not allowed to\ninterfere with life,\" said he. \"If it had been fertilised we could not\nhave taken it.\" These words were said before he broke it, so that he was\naware of the condition of the egg, which certainly seems remarkable.\n\n\"Where did it come from?\" I asked.\n\n\"From India.\"\n\n\"What bird is it?\"\n\n\"They call it the jungle sparrow.\"\n\nThe nest remained in my possession, and I spent a morning with Mr.\nChubb, of the local museum, to ascertain if it was really the nest of\nsuch a bird. It seemed too small for an Indian sparrow, and yet we could\nnot match either nest or egg among the Australian types. Some of Mr.\nBailey's other nests and eggs have been actually identified. Surely it\nis a fair argument that while it is conceivable that such birds might be\nimported and purchased here, it is really an insult to one's reason to\nsuppose that nests with fresh eggs in them could also be in the market.\nTherefore I can only support the far more extended experience and\nelaborate tests of Dr. McCarthy of Sydney, and affirm that I believe Mr.\nCharles Bailey to be upon occasion a true medium, with a very\nremarkable gift for apports.\n\nIt is only right to state that when I returned to London I took one of\nBailey's Assyrian tablets to the British Museum and that it was\npronounced to be a forgery. Upon further inquiry it proved that these\nforgeries are made by certain Jews in a suburb of Bagdad--and, so far as\nis known, only there. Therefore the matter is not much further advanced.\nTo the transporting agency it is at least possible that the forgery,\nsteeped in recent human magnetism, is more capable of being handled than\nthe original taken from a mound. Bailey has produced at least a hundred\nof these things, and no Custom House officer has deposed how they could\nhave entered the country. On the other hand, Bailey told me clearly that\nthe tablets had been passed by the British Museum, so that I fear that I\ncannot acquit him of tampering with truth--and just there lies the great\ndifficulty of deciding upon his case. But one has always to remember\nthat physical mediumship has no connection one way or the other with\npersonal character, any more than the gift of poetry.\n\nTo return to this particular seance, it was unequal. We had luminous\nhands, but they were again within reach of the cabinet in which the\nmedium was seated. We had also a long address from Dr. Whitcombe, the\nlearned control, in which he discoursed like an absolute master upon\nAssyrian and Roman antiquities and psychic science. It was really an\namazing address, and if Bailey were the author of it I should hail him\nas a master mind. He chatted about the Kings of Babylon as if he had\nknown them all, remarked that the Bible was wrong in calling Belthazar\nKing as he was only Crown Prince, and put in all those easy side\nallusions which a man uses when he is absolutely full of his subject.\nUpon his asking for questions, I said: \"Please give me some light as to\nthe dematerialisation and subsequent reassembly of an object such as a\nbird's nest.\" \"It involves,\" he answered, \"some factors which are beyond\nyour human science and which could not be made clear to you. At the same\ntime you may take as a rough analogy the case of water which is turned\ninto steam, and then this steam which is invisible, is conducted\nelsewhere to be reassembled as visible water.\" I thought this\nexplanation was exceedingly apt, though of course I agree that it is\nonly a rough analogy. On my asking if there were libraries and\nfacilities for special study in the next world, he said that there\ncertainly were, but that instead of studying books they usually studied\nthe actual objects themselves. All he said was full of dignity and\nwisdom. It was curious to notice that, learned as he was, Dr. Whitcombe\nalways referred back with reverence to Dr. Robinson, another control not\npresent at the moment, as being the real expert. I am told that some of\nDr. Robinson's addresses have fairly amazed the specialists. I notice\nthat Col. de Rochas in his report was equally impressed by Bailey's\ncontrols.\n\nI fear that my psychic experiences are pushing my travels into the\nbackground, but I warned the reader that it might be so when first we\njoined hands. To get back to the earth, let me say that I saw the\nprocession when the new Governor-General, Lord Forster, with his\ncharming wife, made their ceremonial entry into Melbourne, with many\nworkman-like Commonwealth troops before and behind their carriage. I\nknew Lord Forster of old, for we both served upon a committee over the\nOlympic Games, so that he gave quite a start of surprised recognition\nwhen his quick eye fell upon my face in the line of spectators. He is a\nman who cannot fail to be popular here, for he has the physical as well\nas the mental qualities. Our stay in Melbourne was afterwards made more\npleasant by the gracious courtesy of Government House for, apart from\nattending several functions, we were invited to a special dinner, after\nwhich I exhibited upon a screen my fairy portraits and a few of my other\nvery wonderful psychic photographs. It was not an occasion when I could\npreach, but no quick intelligence could be brought in contact with such\nphenomena without asking itself very seriously what lay behind them.\nWhen that question is earnestly asked the battle is won.\n\nOne asks oneself what will be the end of this system of little viceroys\nin each State and a big viceroy in the Capital--however capable and\nexcellent in themselves such viceroys may be. The smaller courts are, I\nunderstand, already doomed, and rightly so, since there is no need for\nthem and nothing like them elsewhere. There is no possible purpose that\nthey serve save to impose a nominal check, which is never used, upon\nthe legislation. The Governor-Generalship will last no doubt until\nAustralia cuts the painter, or we let go our end of it, whichever may\ncome first.\n\nPersonally, I have no fear of Britain's power being weakened by a\nseparation of her dominions. Close allies which were independent might\nbe a greater source of moral strength than actual dependencies. When the\nsons leave the father's house and rule their own homes, becoming fathers\nin turn, the old man is not weakened thereby. Certainly I desire no such\nchange, but if it came I would bear it with philosophy. I hope that the\nera of great military crises is for ever past, but, if it should recur,\nI am sure that the point of view would be the same, and that the starry\nUnion Jack of the great Australian nation would still fly beside the old\nflag which was its model.\n\nIf one took a Machiavelian view of British interests one would say that\nto retain a colony the surest way is not to remove any danger which may\nthreaten her. We conquered Canada from the French, removing in\nsuccessive campaigns the danger from the north and from the west which\nthreatened our American colonies. When we had expended our blood and\nmoney to that end, so that the colonies had nothing to fear, they took\nthe first opportunity to force an unnecessary quarrel and to leave us.\nSo I have fears for South Africa now that the German menace has been\nremoved. Australia is, I think, loyal to the core, and yet self-interest\nis with every nation the basis of all policy, and so long as the British\nfleet can guard the shores of the great empty northern territories, a\nregion as big as Britain, Germany, France and Austria put together, they\nhave need of us. There can be no doubt that if they were alone in the\nworld in the face of the teeming millions of the East, they might, like\nthe Siberian travellers, have to throw a good deal to the wolves in\norder to save the remainder. Brave and capable as they are, neither\ntheir numbers nor their resources could carry them through a long\nstruggle if the enemy held the sea. They are natural shots and soldiers,\nso that they might be wiser to spend their money in a strategic railway\nright across their northern coast, rather than in direct military\npreparations. To concentrate rapidly before the enemy was firmly\nestablished might under some circumstances be a very vital need.\n\nBut so long as the British Empire lasts Australia is safe, and in twenty\nyears' time her own enlarged population will probably make her safe\nwithout help from anyone. But her empty places are a danger. History\nabhors a vacuum and finds some one to fill it up. I have never yet\nunderstood why the Commonwealth has not made a serious effort to attract\nto the northern territories those Italians who are flooding the\nArgentine. It is great blood and no race is the poorer for it--the blood\nof ancient Rome. They are used to semitropical heat and to hard work in\nbad conditions if there be only hope ahead. Perhaps the policy of the\nfuture may turn in that direction. If that one weak spot be guarded then\nit seems to me that in the whole world there is no community, save only\nthe United States, which is so safe from outside attack as Australia.\nInternal division is another matter, but there Australia is in some ways\nstronger than the States. She has no negro question, and the strife\nbetween Capital and Labour is not likely to be so formidable. I wonder,\nby the way, how many people in the United States realise that this small\ncommunity lost as many men as America did in the great war. We were\nstruck also by the dignified resignation with which this fact was faced,\nand by the sense of proportion which was shown in estimating the\nsacrifices of various nations.\n\nWe like the people here very much more than we had expected to, for one\nhears in England exaggerated stories of their democratic bearing. When\ndemocracy takes the form of equality one can get along with it, but when\nit becomes rude and aggressive one would avoid it. Here one finds a very\npleasing good fellowship which no one would object to. Again and again\nwe have met with little acts of kindness from people in shops or in the\nstreet, which were not personal to ourselves, but part of their normal\ngood manners. If you ask the way or any other information, strangers\nwill take trouble to put you right. They are kindly, domestic and\nstraight in speech and in dealings. Materialism and want of vision in\nthe broader affairs of life seem to be the national weakness, but that\nmay be only a passing phase, for when a nation has such a gigantic\nmaterial proposition as this continent to handle it is natural that\ntheir thoughts should run on the wool and the wheat and the gold by\nwhich it can be accomplished. I am bound to say, however, that I think\nevery patriotic Australian should vote, if not for prohibition, at least\nfor the solution which is most dear to myself, and that is the lowering\nof the legal standard of alcohol in any drink. We have been shocked and\nastonished by the number of young men of decent exterior whom we have\nseen staggering down the street, often quite early in the day. The\nBiblical test for drunkenness, that it was not yet the third hour, would\nnot apply to them. I hear that bad as it is in the big towns it is worse\nin the small ones, and worst of all in the northern territories and\nother waste places where work is particularly needed. It must greatly\ndecrease the national efficiency. A recent vote upon the question in\nVictoria only carried total abstinence in four districts out of about\n200, but a two-third majority was needed to do it. On the other hand a\ntrial of strength in Queensland, generally supposed to be rather a rowdy\nState, has shown that the temperance men all combined can out-vote the\nothers. Therefore it is certain that reform will not be long delayed.\n\nThe other curse of the country, which is a real drag upon its progress,\nis the eternal horse-racing. It goes on all the year round, though it\nhas its more virulent bouts, as for example during our visit to this\ntown when the Derby, the Melbourne Cup, and Oaks succeeded each other.\nThey call it sport, but I fear that in that case I am no sportsman. I\nwould as soon call the roulette-table a sport. The whole population is\nunsettled and bent upon winning easy money, which dissatisfies them\nwith the money that has to be worked for. Every shop is closed when the\nCup is run, and you have lift-boys, waiters and maids all backing their\nfancies, not with half-crowns but with substantial sums. The danger to\nhonesty is obvious, and it came under our own notice that it is not\nimaginary. Of course we are by no means blameless in England, but it\nonly attacks a limited class, while here it seems to the stranger to be\nalmost universal. In fact it is so bad that it is sure to get better,\nfor I cannot conceive that any sane nation will allow it to continue.\nThe book-makers, however, are a powerful guild, and will fight tooth and\nnail. The Catholic Church, I am sorry to say, uses its considerable\ninfluence to prevent drink reform by legislation, and I fear that it\nwill not support the anti-gamblers either. I wonder from what hidden\nspring, from what ignorant Italian camarilla, this venerable and in some\nways admirable Church gets its secular policy, which must have central\ndirection, since it is so consistent! When I remember the recent\nsequence of world events and the part played by that Church, the attack\nupon the innocent Dreyfus, the refusal to support reform in the Congo,\nand finally the obvious leaning towards the Central Powers who were\nclearly doomed to lose, one would think that it was ruled by a Council\nof lunatics. These matters bear no relation to faith or dogma, so that\none wonders that the sane Catholics have not risen in protest. No doubt\nthe better class laymen are ahead of the clergy in this as in other\nreligious organisations. I cannot forget how the Duke of Norfolk sent me\na cheque for the Congo Reform Movement at the very time when we could\nnot get the Catholic Church to line up with the other sects at a Reform\nDemonstration at the Albert Hall. In this country also there were many\nbrave and loyal Catholics who took their own line against Cardinal\nMannix upon the question of conscription, when that Cardinal did all\nthat one man could do to bring about the defeat of the free nations in\nthe great war. How he could face an American audience afterwards, or how\nsuch an audience could tolerate him, is hard to understand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n     More English than the English.--A day in the Bush.--Immigration.--A\n     case of spirit return.--A Seance.--Geelong.--The lava\n     plain.--Good-nature of General Ryrie.--Bendigo.--Down a gold\n     mine.--Prohibition v. Continuance.--Mrs. Knight\n     MacLellan.--Nerrin.--A wild drive.--Electric shearing.--Rich sheep\n     stations.--Cockatoo farmers.--Spinnifex and Mallee.--Rabbits.--The\n     great marsh.\n\n\nIn some ways the Australians are more English than the English. We have\nbeen imperceptibly Americanised, while our brethren over the sea have\nkept the old type. The Australian is less ready to show emotion, cooler\nin his bearing, more restrained in applause, more devoted to personal\nliberty, keener on sport, and quieter in expression (as witness the\nabsence of scare lines in the papers) than our people are. Indeed, they\nremind me more of the Scotch than the English, and Melbourne on a\nSunday, without posts, or Sunday papers, or any amenity whatever, is\nlike the Edinburgh of my boyhood. Sydney is more advanced. There are\ncurious anomalies in both towns. Their telephone systems are so bad that\nthey can only be balanced against each other, for they are in a class by\nthemselves. One smiles when one recollects that one used to grumble at\nthe London lines. On the other hand the tramway services in both towns\nare wonderful, and so continuous that one never hastens one's step to\ncatch a tram since another comes within a minute. The Melbourne trams\nhave open bogey cars in front, which make a drive a real pleasure.\n\nOne of our pleasant recollections in the early days of our Melbourne\nvisit was a day in the bush with Mr. Henry Stead and his wife. My\nintense admiration for the moral courage and energy of the father made\nit easy for me to form a friendship with his son, who has shown the\nfamily qualities by the able way in which he has founded and conducted\nan excellent journal, _Stead's Monthly_. Australia was lucky ever to get\nsuch an immigrant as that, for surely an honest, fearless and\nclear-headed publicist is the most valuable man that a young country,\nwhose future is one long problem play, could import. We spent our day in\nthe Dandenong Hills, twenty miles from Melbourne, in a little hostel\nbuilt in a bush clearing and run by one Lucas, of good English cricket\nstock, his father having played for Sussex. On the way we passed Madame\nMelba's place at Lilydale, and the wonderful woods with their strange\ntree-ferns seemed fit cover for such a singing bird. Coming back in\nStead's light American car we tried a short cut down roads which proved\nto be almost impossible. A rather heavier car ahead of us, with two\nyouths in it, got embedded in the mud, and we all dismounted to heave it\nout. There suddenly appeared on the lonely road an enormous coloured\nman; he looked like a cross between negro and black fellow. He must\nhave lived in some hut in the woods, but the way his huge form suddenly\nrose beside us was quite surprising. He stood in gloomy majesty\nsurveying our efforts, and repeating a series of sentences which\nreminded one of German exercises. \"I have no jack. I had a jack. Some\none has taken my jack. This is called a road. It is not a road. There is\nno road.\" We finally levered out the Australian car, for which, by the\nway, neither occupant said a word of thanks, and then gave the black\ngiant a shilling, which he received as a keeper takes his toll. On\nlooking back I am not sure that this slough of despond is not carefully\nprepared by this negro, who makes a modest income by the tips which he\ngets from the unfortunates who get bogged in it. No keeper ever darted\nout to a trap quicker than he did when the car got stuck.\n\nStead agreed with me that the Australians do not take a big enough view\nof their own destiny. They--or the labour party, to be more exact--are\ninclined to buy the ease of the moment at the cost of the greatness of\ntheir continental future. They fear immigration lest it induce\ncompetition and pull down prices. It is a natural attitude. And yet that\nlittle fringe of people on the edge of that huge island can never\nadequately handle it. It is like an enormous machine with a six\nhorsepower engine to drive it. I have a great sympathy with their desire\nto keep the British stock as pure as possible. But the land needs the\nmen, and somewhere they must be found. I cannot doubt that they would\nbecome loyal subjects of the Empire which had adopted them. I have\nwondered sometimes whether in Lower California and the warmer States of\nthe Union there may not be human material for Australia. Canada has\nreceived no more valuable stock than from the American States, so it\nmight be that another portion of the Union would find the very stamp of\nman that Queensland and the north require. The American likes a big\ngamble and a broad life with plenty of elbow-room. Let him bring his\ncotton seeds over to semi-tropical Australia and see what he can make of\nit there.\n\nTo pass suddenly to other-worldly things, which are my mission. People\nnever seem to realise the plain fact that one positive result must\nalways outweigh a hundred negative ones. It only needs one single case\nof spirit return to be established, and there is no more to be said.\nIncidentally, how absurd is the position of those wiseacres who say\n\"nine-tenths of the phenomena are fraud.\" Can they not see that if they\ngrant us one-tenth, they grant us our whole contention?\n\nThese remarks are elicited by a case which occurred in 1883 in\nMelbourne, and which should have converted the city as surely as if an\nangel had walked down Collins Street. Yet nearly forty years later I\nfind it as stagnant and material as any city I have ever visited. The\nfacts are these, well substantiated by documentary and official\nevidence. Mr. Junor Browne, a well-known citizen, whose daughter\nafterwards married Mr. Alfred Deakin, subsequently Premier, had two\nsons, Frank and Hugh. Together with a seaman named Murray they went out\ninto the bay in their yacht the \"Iolanthe,\" and they never returned. The\nfather was fortunately a Spiritualist and upon the second day of their\nabsence, after making all normal inquiries, he asked a sensitive, Mr.\nGeorge Spriggs, formerly of Cardiff, if he would trace them. Mr. Spriggs\ncollected some of the young men's belongings, so as to get their\natmosphere, and then he was able by psychometry to give an account of\ntheir movements, the last which he could see of them being that they\nwere in trouble upon the yacht and that confusion seemed to reign aboard\nher. Two days later, as no further news was brought in, the Browne\nfamily held a seance, Mr. Spriggs being the medium. He fell into trance\nand the two lads, who had been trained in spiritual knowledge and knew\nthe possibilities, at once came through. They expressed their contrition\nto their mother, who had desired them not to go, and they then gave a\nclear account of the capsizing of the yacht, and how they had met their\ndeath, adding that they had found themselves after death in the exact\nphysical conditions of happiness and brightness which their father's\nteaching had led them to expect. They brought with them the seaman\nMurray, who also said a few words. Finally Hugh, speaking through the\nmedium, informed Mr. Browne that Frank's arm and part of his clothing\nhad been torn off by a fish.\n\n\"A shark?\" asked Mr. Browne.\n\n\"Well, it was not like any shark I have seen.\"\n\nMark the sequel. Some weeks later a large shark of a rare deep-sea\nspecies, unknown to the fishermen, and quite unlike the ordinary blue\nshark with which the Brownes were familiar, was taken at Frankston,\nabout twenty-seven miles from Melbourne. Inside it was found the bone of\na human arm, and also a watch, some coins, and other articles which had\nbelonged to Frank Browne. These facts were all brought out in the papers\nat the time, and Mr. Browne put much of it on record in print before the\nshark was taken, or any word of the missing men had come by normal\nmeans. The facts are all set forth in a little book by Mr. Browne\nhimself, called \"A Rational Faith.\" What have fraudulent mediums and all\nthe other decoys to do with such a case as that, and is it not perfectly\nconvincing to any man who is not perverse? Personally, I value it not so\nmuch for the evidence of survival, since we have that so complete\nalready, but for the detailed account given by the young men of their\nnew conditions, so completely corroborating what so many young officers,\ncut off suddenly in the war, have said of their experience. \"Mother, if\nyou could see how happy we are, and the beautiful home we are in, you\nwould not weep except for joy. I feel so light in my spiritual body and\nhave no pain, I would not exchange this life for earth life even it were\nin my power. Poor spirits without number are waiting anxiously to\ncommunicate with their friends when an opportunity is offered.\" The\nyoung Brownes had the enormous advantage of the education they had\nreceived from their father, so that they instantly understood and\nappreciated the new conditions.\n\nOn October 8th we had a seance with Mrs. Hunter, a pleasant middle-aged\nwoman, with a soft South of England accent. Like so many of our mediums\nshe had little sign of education in her talk. It does not matter in\nspiritual things, though it is a stumbling block to some inquirers.\nAfter all, how much education had the apostles? I have no doubt they\nwere very vulgar provincial people from the average Roman point of view.\nBut they shook the world none the less. Most of our educated people have\ngot their heads so crammed with things that don't matter that they have\nno room for the things that do matter. There was no particular success\nat our sitting, but I have heard that the medium is capable of better\nthings.\n\nOn October 13th I had my first experience of a small town, for I went to\nGeelong and lectured there. It was an attentive and cultured audience,\nbut the hall was small and the receipts could hardly have covered the\nexpenses. However, it is the press report and the local discussion which\nreally matter. I had little time to inspect Geelong, which is a\nprosperous port with 35,000 inhabitants. What interested me more was the\nhuge plain of lava which stretches around it and connects it with\nMelbourne. This plain is a good hundred miles across, and as it is of\ngreat depth one can only imagine that there must be monstrous cavities\ninside the earth to correspond with the huge amount extruded. Here and\nthere one sees stunted green cones which are the remains of the\nvolcanoes which spewed up all this stuff. The lava has disintegrated on\nthe surface to the extent of making good arable soil, but the harder\nbits remain unbroken, so that the surface is covered with rocks, which\nare used to build up walls for the fields after the Irish fashion. Every\nhere and there a peak of granite has remained as an island amid the\nlava, to show what was there before the great outflow. Eruptions appear\nto be caused by water pouring in through some crack and reaching the\nheated inside of the earth where the water is turned to steam, expands,\nand so gains the force to spread destruction. If this process went on it\nis clear that the whole sea might continue to pour down the crack until\nthe heat had been all absorbed by the water. I have wondered whether the\nlava may not be a clever healing process of nature, by which this soft\nplastic material is sent oozing out in every direction with the idea\nthat it may find the crack and then set hard and stop it up. Wild\nspeculation no doubt, but the guess must always precede the proof.\n\nThe Australians are really a very good-natured people. It runs through\nthe whole race, high and low. A very exalted person, the Minister of\nWar, shares our flat in the hotel, his bedroom being imbedded among our\nrooms. This is General Sir Granville Ryrie, a famous hero of Palestine,\ncovered with wounds and medals--a man, too, of great dignity of bearing.\nAs I was dressing one morning I heard some rather monotonous whistling\nand, forgetting the very existence of the General, and taking it for\ngranted that it was my eldest boy Denis, I put my head out and said,\n\"Look here, old chap, consider other people's nerves and give up that\nrotten habit of whistling before breakfast.\" Imagine my feelings when\nthe deep voice of the General answered, \"All right, Sir Arthur, I will!\"\nWe laughed together over the incident afterwards, and I told him that he\nhad furnished me with one more example of Australian good humour for my\nnotes.\n\nOn October 13th I was at the prosperous 50,000 population town of\nBendigo, which every one, except the people on the spot, believes to\nhave been named after the famous boxer. This must surely be a world\nrecord, for so far as my memory serves, neither a Grecian Olympic\nathletic, nor a Roman Gladiator, nor a Byzantine Charioteer, has ever\nhad a city for a monument. Borrow, who looked upon a good honest\npugilist as the pick of humanity, must have rejoiced in it. Is not\nvalour the basis of all character, and where shall we find greater\nvalour than theirs? Alas, that most of them began and ended there! It is\nwhen the sage and the saint build on the basis of the fighter that you\nhave the highest to which humanity can attain.\n\nI had a full hall at Bendigo, and it was packed, I am told, by real\nold-time miners, for, of course, Bendigo is still the centre of the gold\nmining industry. Mr. Smythe told me that it was quite a sight to see\nthose rows of deeply-lined, bearded faces listening so intently to what\nI said of that destiny which is theirs as well as mine. I never had a\nbetter audience, and it was their sympathy which helped me through, for\nI was very weary that night. But however weary you may be, when you\nclimb upon the platform to talk about this subject, you may be certain\nthat you will be less weary when you come off. That is my settled\nconviction after a hundred trials.\n\nOn the morning after my lecture I found myself half a mile nearer to\ndear Old England, for I descended the Unity mine, and they say that the\nworkings extend to that depth. Perhaps I was not at the lowest level,\nbut certainly it was a long journey in the cage, and reminded me of my\nfriend Bang's description of the New York elevator, when he said that\nthe distance to his suburban villa and his town flat was the same, but\nthe one was horizontal and the other perpendicular.\n\nIt was a weird experience that peep into the profound depths of the\ngreat gold mine. Time was when the quartz veins were on the surface for\nthe poor adventurer to handle. Now they have been followed underground,\nand only great companies and costly machinery can win it. Always it is\nthe same white quartz vein with the little yellow specks and threads\nrunning through it. We were rattled down in pitch darkness until we came\nto a stop at the end of a long passage dimly lit by an occasional\nguttering candle. Carrying our own candles, and clad in miner's costume\nwe crept along with bent heads until we came suddenly out into a huge\ncircular hall which might have sprung from Dore's imagination. The\nplace was draped with heavy black shadows, but every here and there was\na dim light. Each light showed where a man was squatting toad-like, a\nheap of broken debris in front of him, turning it over, and throwing\naside the pieces with clear traces of gold. These were kept for special\ntreatment, while the rest of the quartz was passed in ordinary course\nthrough the mill. These scattered heaps represented the broken stuff\nafter a charge of dynamite had been exploded in the quartz vein. It was\nstrange indeed to see these squatting figures deep in the bowels of the\nearth, their candles shining upon their earnest faces and piercing eyes,\nand to reflect that they were striving that the great exchanges of\nLondon and New York might be able to balance with bullion their output\nof paper. This dim troglodyte industry was in truth the centre and\nmainspring of all industries, without which trade would stop. Many of\nthe men were from Cornwall, the troll among the nations, where the tools\nof the miner are still, as for two thousand years, the natural heritage\nof the man. Dr. Stillwell, the geologist of the company, and I had a\nlong discussion as to where the gold came from, but the only possible\nconclusion was that nobody knew. We know now that the old alchemists\nwere perfectly right and that one metal may change into another. Is it\npossible that under some conditions a mineral may change into a metal?\nWhy should quartz always be the matrix? Some geological Darwin will come\nalong some day and we shall get a great awakening, for at present we\nare only disguising our own ignorance in this department of knowledge. I\nhad always understood that quartz was one of the old igneous primeval\nrocks, and yet here I saw it in thin bands, sandwiched in between clays\nand slates and other water-borne deposits. The books and the strata\ndon't agree.\n\nThese smaller towns, like the Metropolis itself, are convulsed with the\ngreat controversy between Prohibition and Continuance, no reasonable\ncompromise between the two being suggested. Every wall displays posters,\non one side those very prosperous-looking children who demand that some\nrestraint be placed upon their daddy, and on the other hair-raising\nstatements as to the financial results of restricting the publicans. To\nthe great disgust of every decent man they have run the Prince into it,\nand some remark of his after his return to England has been used by the\nliquor party. It is dangerous for royalty to be jocose in these days,\nbut this was a particularly cruel example of the exploitation of a\nharmless little joke. If others felt as I did I expect it cost the\nliquor interest many a vote.\n\nWe had another seance, this time with Mrs. Knight MacLellan, after my\nreturn from Bendigo. She is a lady who has grown grey in the service of\nthe cult, and who made a name in London when she was still a child by\nher mediumistic powers. We had nothing of an evidential character that\nevening save that one lady who had recently lost her son had his\ndescription and an apposite message given. It was the first of several\ntests which we were able to give this lady, and before we left Melbourne\nshe assured us that she was a changed woman and her sorrow for ever\ngone.\n\nOn October 18th began a very delightful experience, for my wife and I,\nleaving our party safe in Melbourne, travelled up country to be the\nguests of the Hon. Agar Wynne and his charming wife at their station of\nNerrin-Nerrin in Western Victoria. It is about 140 miles from Melbourne,\nand as the trains are very slow, the journey was not a pleasant one. But\nthat was soon compensated for in the warmth of the welcome which awaited\nus. Mr. Agar Wynne was Postmaster-General of the Federal Government, and\nauthor of several improvements, one of which, the power of sending long\nletter-telegrams at low rates during certain hours was a triumph of\ncommon sense. For a shilling one could send quite a long communication\nto the other end of the Continent, but it must go through at the time\nwhen the telegraph clerk had nothing else to do.\n\nIt was interesting to us to find ourselves upon an old-established\nstation, typical of the real life of Australia, for cities are much the\nsame the world over. Nerrin had been a sheep station for eighty years,\nbut the comfortable verandahed bungalow house, with every convenience\nwithin it, was comparatively modern. What charmed us most, apart from\nthe kindness of our hosts, was a huge marsh or lagoon which extended for\nmany miles immediately behind the house, and which was a bird\nsanctuary, so that it was crowded with ibises, wild black swans, geese,\nducks, herons and all sorts of fowl. We crept out of our bedroom in the\ndead of the night and stood under the cloud-swept moon listening to the\nchorus of screams, hoots, croaks and whistles coming out of the vast\nexpanse of reeds. It would make a most wonderful hunting ground for a\nnaturalist who was content to observe and not to slay. The great morass\nof Nerrin will ever stand out in our memories.\n\nNext day we were driven round the borders of this wonderful marsh, Mr.\nWynne, after the Australian fashion, taking no note of roads, and going\nright across country with alarming results to anyone not used to it.\nFinally, the swaying and rolling became so terrific that he was himself\nthrown off the box seat and fell down between the buggy and the front\nwheel, narrowly escaping a very serious accident. He was able to show us\nthe nests and eggs which filled the reed-beds, and even offered to drive\nus out into the morass to inspect them, a proposal which was rejected by\nthe unanimous vote of a full buggy. I never knew an answer more\ndecidedly in the negative. As we drove home we passed a great gum tree,\nand half-way up the trunk was a deep incision where the bark had been\nstripped in an oval shape some four foot by two. It was where some\nsavage in days of old had cut his shield. Such a mark outside a modern\nhouse with every amenity of cultured life is an object lesson of how two\nsystems have over-lapped, and how short a time it is since this great\ncontinent was washed by a receding wave, ere the great Anglo-Saxon tide\ncame creeping forward.\n\nApart from the constant charm of the wild life of the marsh there did\nnot seem to be much for the naturalist around Nerrin. Opossums bounded\nupon the roof at night and snakes were not uncommon. A dangerous\ntiger-snake was killed on the day of our arrival. I was amazed also at\nthe size of the Australian eels. A returned soldier had taken up fishing\nas a trade, renting a water for a certain time and putting the contents,\nso far as he could realise them, upon the market. It struck me that\nafter this wily digger had passed that way there would not be much for\nthe sportsman who followed him. But the eels were enormous. He took a\ndozen at a time from his cunning eel-pots, and not one under six pounds.\nI should have said that they were certainly congers had I seen them in\nEngland.\n\nI wonder whether all this part of the country has not been swept by a\ntidal wave at some not very remote period. It is a low coastline with\nthis great lava plain as a hinterland, and I can see nothing to prevent\na big wave even now from sweeping the civilisation of Victoria off the\nplanet, should there be any really great disturbance under the Pacific.\nAt any rate, it is my impression that it has actually occurred once\nalready, for I cannot otherwise understand the existence of great\nshallow lakes of salt water in these inland parts. Are they not the\npools left behind by that terrible tide? There are great banks of sand,\ntoo, here and there on the top of the lava which I can in no way\naccount for unless they were swept here in some tremendous world-shaking\ncatastrophe which took the beach from St. Kilda and threw it up at\nNerrin. God save Australia from such a night as that must have been if\nmy reading of the signs be correct.\n\n     Illustration: A TYPICAL AUSTRALIAN BACK-COUNTRY SCENE. By H. J.\n     Johnstone, a great painter who died unknown. (Painting in Adelaide\n     National Gallery.)\n\nOne of the sights of Nerrin is the shearing of the sheep by electric\nmachinery. These sheep are merinos, which have been bred as\nwool-producers to such an extent that they can hardly see, and the wool\ngrows thick right down to their hoofs. The large stately creature is a\npoor little shadow when his wonderful fleece has been taken from him.\nThe electric clips with which the operation is performed, are, I am\ntold, the invention of a brother of Garnet Wolseley, who worked away at\nthe idea, earning the name of being a half-crazy crank, until at last\nthe invention materialised and did away with the whole slow and clumsy\nprocess of the hand-shearer. It is not, however, a pleasant process to\nwatch even for a man, far less a sensitive woman, for the poor creatures\nget cut about a good deal in the process. The shearer seizes a sheep,\nfixes him head up between his knees, and then plunges the swiftly-moving\nclippers into the thick wool which covers the stomach. With wonderful\nspeed he runs it along and the creature is turned out of its covering,\nand left as bare as a turkey in a poulterer's window, but, alas, its\nwhite and tender skin is too often gashed and ripped with vivid lines of\ncrimson by the haste and clumsiness of the shearer. It was worse, they\nsay, in the days of the hand-shearer. I am bound to say, however, that\nthe creature makes no fuss about it, remains perfectly still, and does\nnot appear to suffer any pain. Nature is often kinder than we know, even\nto her most humble children, and some soothing and healing process seems\nto be at work.\n\nThe shearers appear to be a rough set of men, and spend their whole time\nmoving in gangs from station to station, beginning up in the far north\nand winding up on the plains of South Australia. They are complete\nmasters of the situation, having a powerful union at their back. They\nnot only demand and receive some two pounds a day in wages, but they\nwork or not by vote, the majority being able to grant a complete\nholiday. It is impossible to clip a wet sheep, so that after rain there\nis an interval of forced idleness, which may be prolonged by the vote of\nthe men. They work very rapidly, however, when they are actually at it,\nand the man who tallies most fleeces, called \"the ringer,\" receives a\nsubstantial bonus. When the great shed is in full activity it is a\nsplendid sight with the row of stooping figures, each embracing his\nsheep, the buzz of the shears, the rush of the messengers who carry the\nclip to the table, the swift movements of the sorters who separate the\nperfect from the imperfect wool, and the levering and straining of the\npackers who compress it all into square bundles as hard as iron with 240\npounds in each. With fine wool at the present price of ninety-six pence\na pound it is clear that each of these cubes stands for nearly a hundred\npounds.\n\nThey are rich men these sheep owners--and I am speaking here of my\ngeneral inquiry and not at all of Nerrin. On a rough average, with many\nlocal exceptions, one may say that an estate bears one sheep to an acre,\nand that the sheep may show a clear profit of one pound in the year.\nThus, after the first initial expense is passed, and when the flock has\nreached its full, one may easily make an assessment of the owner's\nincome. Estates of 10,000 acres are common, and they run up to 50,000\nand 60,000 acres. They can be run so cheaply that the greater part of\nincome is clear profit, for when the land is barb-wired into great\nenclosures no shepherds are needed, and only a boundary rider or two to\nsee that all is in order. These, with a few hands at lambing time, and\ntwo or three odd-job men at the central station, make up the whole\nstaff. It is certainly the short cut to a fortune if one can only get\nthe plant running.\n\nCan a man with a moderate capital get a share of these good things?\nCertainly he can if he have grit and a reasonable share of that luck\nwhich must always be a factor in Nature's processes. Droughts, floods,\ncyclones, etc., are like the zero at Monte Carlo, which always may turn\nup to defeat the struggling gamester. I followed several cases where\nsmall men had managed to make good. It is reckoned that the man who gets\na holding of from 300 to 500 acres is able on an average in three years\nto pay off all his initial expenses and to have laid the foundations of\na career which may lead to fortune. One case was a London baker who knew\nnothing of the work. He had 300 acres and had laid it out in wheat,\ncows, sheep and mixed farming. He worked from morning to night, his wife\nwas up at four, and his child of ten was picking up stones behind the\nfurrow. But he was already making his L500 a year. The personal equation\nwas everything. One demobilised soldier was doing well. Another had come\nto smash. Very often a deal is made between the small man and the large\nholder, by which the latter lets the former a corner of his estate,\ntaking a share, say one-third, of his profits as rent. That is a plan\nwhich suits everyone, and the landlord can gradually be bought out by\nthe \"cockatoo farmer,\" as he is styled.\n\nThere is a great wool-clip this year, and prices in London are at record\nfigures, so that Australia, which only retains 17 per cent. of her own\nwool, should have a very large sum to her credit. But she needs it. When\none considers that the debt of this small community is heavier now than\nthat of Great Britain before the war, one wonders how she can ever win\nthrough. But how can anyone win through? I don't think we have fairly\nrealised the financial problem yet, and I believe that within a very few\nyears there will be an International Council which will be compelled to\nadopt some such scheme as the one put forward by my friend, Mr.\nStilwell, under the name of \"The Great Plan.\" This excellent idea was\nthat every nation should reduce its warlike expenditure to an absolute\nminimum, that the difference between this minimum and the 1914 pre-war\nstandard should be paid every year to a central fund, and that\ninternational bonds be now drawn upon the security of that fund,\nanticipating not its present amount but what it will represent in fifty\nyears' time. It is, in fact, making the future help the present, exactly\nas an estate which has some sudden great call upon it might reasonably\nanticipate or mortgage its own development. I believe that the salvation\nof the world may depend upon some such plan, and that the Council of the\nLeague of Nations is the agency by which it could be made operative.\n\nAustralia has had two plants which have been a perfect curse to her as\ncovering the land and offering every impediment to agriculture. They are\nthe Spinnifex in the West and the Mallee scrub in the East. The latter\nwas considered a hopeless proposition, and the only good which could be\nextracted from it was that the root made an ideal fire, smouldering long\nand retaining heat. Suddenly, however, a genius named Lascelles\ndiscovered that this hopeless Mallee land was simply unrivalled for\nwheat, and his schemes have now brought seven million acres under the\nplough. This could hardly have been done if another genius, unnamed, had\nnot invented a peculiar and ingenious plough, the \"stump-jump plough,\"\nwhich can get round obstacles without breaking itself. It is not\ngenerally known that Australia really heads the world for the ingenuity\nand efficiency of her agricultural machinery. There is an inventor and\nmanufacturer, MacKay, of Sunshine, who represents the last word in\nautomatic reapers, etc. He exports them, a shipload at a time, to the\nUnited States, which, if one considers the tariff which they have to\nsurmount, is proof in itself of the supremacy of the article. With this\nwealth of machinery the real power of Australia in the world is greater\nthan her population would indicate, for a five-million nation, which, by\nartificial aid, does the work normally done by ten million people,\nbecomes a ten-million nation so far as economic and financial strength\nis concerned.\n\nOn the other hand, Australia has her hindrances as well as her helps.\nCertainly the rabbits have done her no good, though the evil is for the\nmoment under control. An efficient rabbiter gets a pound a day, and he\nis a wise insurance upon any estate, for the creatures, if they get the\nupper-hand, can do thousands of pounds' worth of damage. This damage\ntakes two shapes. First, they eat on all the grass and leave nothing at\nall for the sheep. Secondly, they burrow under walls, etc., and leave\nthe whole place an untidy ruin. Little did the man who introduced the\ncreature into Australia dream how the imprecations of a continent would\ndescend upon him.\n\nAlas! that we could not linger at Nerrin; but duty was calling at\nMelbourne. Besides, the days of the Melbourne Cup were at hand, and not\nonly was Mr. Wynne a great pillar of the turf, but Mr. Osborne, owner of\none of the most likely horses in the race, was one of the house-party.\nTo Melbourne therefore we went. We shall always, however, be able in our\ndreams to revisit that broad verandah, the low hospitable facade, the\nlovely lawn with its profusion of scented shrubs, the grove of towering\ngum trees, where the opossums lurked, and above all the great marsh\nwhere with dark clouds drifting across the moon we had stolen out at\nnight to hear the crying of innumerable birds. That to us will always be\nthe real Australia.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n     The Melbourne Cup.--Psychic healing.--M. J. Bloomfield.--My own\n     experience.--Direct healing.--Chaos and Ritual.--Government House\n     Ball.--The Rescue Circle again.--Sitting with Mrs. Harris.--A good\n     test case.--Australian botany.--The land of myrtles.--English\n     cricket team.--Great final meeting in Melbourne.\n\n\nIt was the week of weeks in Melbourne when we returned from Nerrin, and\neverything connected with my mission was out of the question. When the\nwhole world is living vividly here and now there is no room for the\nhereafter. Personally, I fear I was out of sympathy with it all, though\nwe went to the Derby, where the whole male and a good part of the female\npopulation of Melbourne seemed to be assembled, reinforced by\ncontingents from every State in the Federation. A fine handsome body of\npeople they are when you see them _en masse_, strong, solid and capable,\nif perhaps a little lacking in those finer and more spiritual graces\nwhich come with a more matured society. The great supply of animal food\nmust have its effect upon the mind as well as the body of a nation. Lord\nForster appeared at the races, and probably, as an all round sportsman,\ntook a genuine interest, but the fate of the Governor who did not take\nan interest would be a rather weary one--like that kind-hearted Roman\nEmperor, Claudius, if I remember right, who had to attend the\ngladiatorial shows, but did his business there so as to distract his\nattention from the arena. We managed to get out of attending the famous\nMelbourne Cup, and thereby found the St. Kilda Beach deserted for once,\nand I was able to spend a quiet day with my wife watching the children\nbathe and preparing for the more strenuous times ahead.\n\nOne psychic subject which has puzzled me more than any other, is that of\nmagnetic healing. All my instincts as a doctor, and all the traditional\nteaching of the profession, cry out against unexplained effects, and the\nopening which their acceptance must give to the quack. The man who has\npaid a thousand pounds for his special knowledge has a natural distaste\nwhen he sees a man who does not know the subclavian artery from the\npineal gland, effecting or claiming to effect cures on some quite\nunconventional line. And yet ... and yet!\n\nThe ancients knew a great deal which we have forgotten, especially about\nthe relation of one body to another. What did Hippocrates mean when he\nsaid, \"The affections suffered by the body the soul sees with shut\neyes?\" I will show you exactly what he means. My friend, M. J.\nBloomfield, as unselfish a worker for truth as the world can show, tried\nfor nearly two years to develop the medical powers of a clairvoyant.\nSuddenly the result was attained, without warning. He was walking with a\nfriend in Collins Street laughing over some joke. In an instant the\nlaugh was struck from his lips. A man and woman were walking in front,\ntheir backs towards Bloomfield. To his amazement he saw the woman's\ninner anatomy mapped out before him, and especially marked a rounded\nmass near the liver which he felt intuitively should not be there. His\ncompanion rallied him on his sudden gravity, and still more upon the\ncause of it, when it was explained. Bloomfield was so certain, however,\nthat the vision was for a purpose, that he accosted the couple, and\nlearned that the woman was actually about to be operated on for cancer.\nHe reassured them, saying that the object seemed clearly defined and not\nto have widespread roots as a cancer might have. He was asked to be\npresent at the operation, pointed out the exact place where he had seen\nthe growth, and saw it extracted. It was, as he had said, innocuous.\nWith this example in one's mind the words of Hippocrates begin to assume\na very definite meaning. I believe that the surgeon was so struck by the\nincident that he was most anxious that Bloomfield should aid him\npermanently in his diagnoses.\n\nI will now give my own experience with Mr. Bloomfield. Denis had been\nsuffering from certain pains, so I took him round as a test case.\nBloomfield, without asking the boy any questions, gazed at him for a\ncouple of minutes. He then said that the pains were in the stomach and\nhead, pointing out the exact places. The cause, he said, was some slight\nstricture in the intestine and he proceeded to tell me several facts of\nDenis's early history which were quite correct, and entirely beyond his\nnormal knowledge. I have never in all my experience of medicine known so\naccurate a diagnosis.\n\nAnother lady, whom I knew, consulted him for what she called a \"medical\nreading.\" Without examining her in any way he said: \"What a peculiar\nthroat you have! It is all pouched inside.\" She admitted that this was\nso, and that doctors in London had commented upon it. By his clairvoyant\ngift he could see as much as they with their laryngoscopes.\n\nMr. Bloomfield has never accepted any fees for his remarkable gifts.\nLast year he gave 3,000 consultations. I have heard of mediums with\nsimilar powers in England, but I had never before been in actual contact\nwith one. With all my professional prejudices I am bound to admit that\nthey have powers, just as Braid and Esdaile, the pioneers of hypnotism,\nhad powers, which must sooner or later be acknowledged.\n\nThere are, as I understand it, at least two quite different forms of\npsychic healing. In such cases as those quoted the result may be due\nonly to subtle powers of the human organism which some have developed\nand others have not. The clairvoyance and the instinctive knowledge may\nboth belong to the individual. In the other cases, however, there are\nthe direct action and advice of a wise spirit control, a deceased\nphysician usually, who has added to his worldly stock of knowledge. He\ncan, of course, only act through a medium--and just there, alas, is the\ndangerous opening for fraud and quackery. But if anyone wishes to study\nthe operation at its best let him read a tiny book called \"One thing I\nknow,\" which records the cure of the writer, the sister of an Anglican\ncanon, when she had practically been given up by doctors of this world\nafter fifteen years of bed, but was rescued by the ministrations of Dr.\nBeale, a physician on the other side. Dr. Beale received promotion to a\nhigher sphere in the course of the treatment, which was completed by his\nassistant and successor. It is a very interesting and convincing\nnarrative.\n\nWe were invited to another spiritual meeting at the Auditorium.\nIndividuality runs riot sometimes in our movement. On this occasion a\nconcert had been mixed up with a religious service and the effect was\nnot good, though the musical part of the proceedings disclosed one young\nviolinist, Master Hames, who should, I think, make a name in the world.\nI have always been against ritual, and yet now that I see the effect of\nbeing without it I begin to understand that some form of it, however\nelastic, is necessary. The clairvoyance was good, if genuine, but it\noffends me to see it turned off and on like a turn at a music hall. It\nis either nonsense or the holy of holies and mystery of mysteries.\nPerhaps it was just this conflict between the priest with his ritual and\nthe medium without any, which split the early Christian Church, and\nended in the complete victory of the ritual, which meant the extinction\nnot only of the medium but of the living, visible, spiritual forces\nwhich he represented. Flowers, music, incense, architecture, all tried\nto fill the gap, but the soul of the thing had gone out of it. It must,\nI suppose, have been about the end of the third century that the process\nwas completed, and the living thing had set into a petrifaction. That\nwould be the time no doubt when, as already mentioned, special\ncorrectors were appointed to make the gospel texts square with the\nelaborate machinery of the Church. Only now does the central fire begin\nto glow once more through the ashes which have been heaped above it.\n\nWe attended the great annual ball at the Government House, where the\nGovernor-General and his wife were supported by the Governors of the\nvarious States, the vice-regal party performing their own stately\nquadrille with a dense hedge of spectators around them. There were few\nchaperons, and nearly every one ended by dancing, so that it was a\ncheerful and festive scene. My friend Major Wood had played with the\nGovernor-General in the same Hampshire eleven, and it was singular to\nthink that after many years they should meet again like this.\n\nSocial gaieties are somewhat out of key with my present train of\nthought, and I was more in my element next evening at a meeting of the\nRescue Circle under Mr. Tozer. Mr. Love was the medium and it was\ncertainly a very remarkable and consistent performance. Even those who\nmight imagine that the different characters depicted were in fact\nvarious strands of Mr. Love's subconscious self, each dramatising its\nown peculiarities, must admit that it was a very absorbing exhibition.\nThe circle sits round with prayer and hymns while Mr. Love falls into a\ntrance state. He is then controlled by the Chinaman Quong, who is a\nperson of such standing and wisdom in the other world, that other lower\nspirits have to obey him. The light is dim, but even so the\ncharacteristics of this Chinaman get across very clearly, the rolling\nhead, the sidelong, humorous glance the sly smile, the hands crossed and\nburied in what should be the voluminous folds of a mandarin's gown. He\ngreets the company in somewhat laboured English and says he has many who\nwould be the better for our ministrations. \"Send them along, please!\"\nsays Mr. Tozer. The medium suddenly sits straight and his whole face\nchanges into an austere harshness. \"What is this ribald nonsense?\" he\ncries. \"Who are you, friend?\" says Tozer. \"My name is Mathew Barret. I\ntestified in my life to the Lamb and to Him crucified. I ask again: What\nis this ribald nonsense?\" \"It is not nonsense, friend. We are here to\nhelp you and to teach you that you are held down and punished for your\nnarrow ideas, and that you cannot progress until they are more\ncharitable.\" \"What I preached in life I still believe.\" \"Tell us,\nfriend, did you find it on the other side as you had preached?\" \"What do\nyou mean?\" \"Well, did you, for example, see Christ?\" There was an\nembarrassed silence. \"No, I did not.\" \"Have you seen the devil?\" \"No, I\nhave not.\" \"Then, bethink you, friend, that there may be truth in what\nwe teach.\" \"It is against all that I have preached.\" A moment later the\nChinaman was back with his rolling head and his wise smile. \"He good\nman--stupid man. He learn in time. Plenty time before him.\"\n\nWe had a wonderful succession of \"revenants.\" One was a very dignified\nAnglican, who always referred to the Control as \"this yellow person.\"\nAnother was an Australian soldier. \"I never thought I'd take my orders\nfrom a 'Chink,'\" said he, \"but he says 'hist!' and by gum you've got to\n'hist' and no bloomin' error.\" Yet another said he had gone down in the\n_Monmouth_. \"Can you tell me anything of the action?\" I asked. \"We never\nhad a chance. It was just hell.\" There was a world of feeling in his\nvoice. He was greatly amused at their \"sky-pilot,\" as he called the\nchaplain, and at his confusion when he found the other world quite\ndifferent to what he had depicted. A terrifying Ghurkha came along, who\nstill thought he was in action and charged about the circle, upsetting\nthe medium's chair, and only yielding to a mixture of force and\npersuasion. There were many others, most of whom returned thanks for the\nbenefit derived from previous meetings. \"You've helped us quite a lot,\"\nthey said. Between each the old Chinese sage made comments upon the\nvarious cases, a kindly, wise old soul, with just a touch of mischievous\nhumour running through him. We had an exhibition of the useless\napostolic gift of tongues during the evening, for two of the ladies\npresent broke out into what I was informed was the Maori language,\nkeeping up a long and loud conversation. I was not able to check it, but\nit was certainly a coherent language of some sort. In all this there\nwas nothing which one could take hold of and quote as absolutely and\nfinally evidential, and yet the total effect was most convincing. I have\nbeen in touch with some Rescue Circles, however, where the identity of\nthe \"patients,\" as we may call them, was absolutely traced.\n\nAs I am on the subject of psychic experiences I may as well carry on, so\nthat the reader who is out of sympathy may make a single skip of the\nlot. Mrs. Susanna Harris, the American voice-medium, who is well known\nin London, had arrived here shortly after ourselves, and gave us a\nsitting. Mrs. Harris's powers have been much discussed, for while on the\none hand she passed a most difficult test in London, where, with her\nmouth full of coloured water, she produced the same voice effects as on\nother occasions, she had no success in Norway when she was examined by\ntheir Psychic Research Committee; but I know how often these\nintellectuals ruin their own effects by their mental attitude, which\nacts like those anti-ferments which prevent a chemical effervescence. We\nmust always get back to the principle, however, that one positive result\nis more important than a hundred negative ones--just as one successful\ndemonstration in chemistry makes up for any number of failures. We\ncannot command spirit action, and we can only commiserate with, not\nblame, the medium who does not receive it when it is most desired.\nPersonally I have sat four times with Mrs. Harris and I have not the\nfaintest doubt that on each of these occasions I got true psychic\nresults, though I cannot answer for what happens in Norway or\nelsewhere.\n\n     Illustration: AT MELBOURNE TOWN HALL, NOVEMBER 12TH, 1920.\n\n\nShortly after her arrival in Melbourne she gave us a seance in our\nprivate room at the hotel, no one being present save at my invitation.\nThere were about twelve guests, some of whom had no psychic experience,\nand I do not think there was one of them who did not depart convinced\nthat they had been in touch with preternatural forces. There were two\ncontrols, Harmony, with a high girlish treble voice, and a male control\nwith a strong decisive bass. I sat next to Mrs. Harris, holding her hand\nin mine, and I can swear to it that again and again she spoke to me\nwhile the other voices were conversing with the audience. Harmony is a\ncharming little creature, witty, friendly and innocent. I am quite ready\nto consider the opinion expressed by the Theosophists that such controls\nas Harmony with Mrs. Harris, Bella with Mrs. Brittain, Feda with Mrs.\nLeonard, and others are in reality nature-spirits who have never lived\nin the flesh but take an intelligent interest in our affairs and are\nanxious to help us. The male control, however, who always broke in with\nsome final clinching remark in a deep voice, seemed altogether human.\n\nWhilst these two controls formed, and were the chorus of the play, the\nreal drama rested with the spirit voices, the same here as I have heard\nthem under Mrs. Wriedt, Mrs. Johnson or Mr. Powell in England, intense,\nlow, vibrating with emotion and with anxiety to get through. Nearly\neveryone in the circle had communications which satisfied them. One\nlady who had mourned her husband very deeply had the inexpressible\nsatisfaction of hearing his voice thanking her for putting flowers\nbefore his photograph, a fact which no one else could know. A voice\nclaiming to be \"Moore-Usborne Moore,\" came in front of me. I said,\n\"Well, Admiral, we never met, but we corresponded in life.\" He said,\n\"Yes, and we disagreed,\" which was true. Then there came a voice which\nclaimed to be Mr. J. Morse, the eminent pioneer of Spiritualism. I said,\n\"Mr. Morse, if that is you, you can tell me where we met last.\" He\nanswered, \"Was it not in '_Light_' office in London?\" I said, \"No,\nsurely it was when you took the chair for me at that great meeting at\nSheffield.\" He answered, \"Well, we lose some of our memory in passing.\"\nAs a matter of fact he was perfectly right, for after the sitting both\nmy wife and I remembered that I had exchanged a word or two with him as\nI was coming out of _Light_ office at least a year after the Sheffield\nmeeting. This was a good test as telepathy was excluded. General Sir\nAlfred Turner also came and said that he remembered our conversations on\nearth. When I asked him whether he had found the conditions beyond the\ngrave as happy as he expected he answered, \"infinitely more so.\"\nAltogether I should think that not less than twenty spirits manifested\nduring this remarkable seance. The result may have been the better\nbecause Mrs. Harris had been laid up in bed for a week beforehand, and\nso we had her full force. I fancy that like most mediums, she habitually\noverworks her wonderful powers. Such seances have been going on now for\nseventy years, with innumerable witnesses of credit who will testify, as\nI have done here, that all fraud or mistake was out of the question. And\nstill the men of no experience shake their heads. I wonder how long they\nwill succeed in standing between the world and the consolation which God\nhas sent us.\n\nThere is one thing very clear about mediumship and that is that it bears\nno relation to physical form. Mrs. Harris is a very large lady, tall and\nJunoesque, a figure which would catch the eye in any assembly. She has,\nI believe, a dash of the mystic Red Indian blood in her, which may be\nconnected with her powers. Bailey, on the other hand, is a little,\nginger-coloured man, while Campbell of Sydney, who is said to have\napport powers which equal Bailey, is a stout man, rather like the late\nCorney Grain. Every shape and every quality of vessel may hold the\npsychic essence.\n\nI spend such spare time as I have in the Melbourne Botanical Gardens,\nwhich is, I think, absolutely the most beautiful place that I have ever\nseen. I do not know what genius laid them out, but the effect is a\nsuccession of the most lovely vistas, where flowers, shrubs, large trees\nand stretches of water, are combined in an extraordinary harmony. Green\nswards slope down to many tinted groves, and they in turn droop over\nstill ponds mottled with lovely water plants. It is an instructive as\nwell as a beautiful place, for every tree has its visiting card attached\nand one soon comes to know them. Australia is preeminently the Land of\nthe Myrtles, for a large proportion of its vegetation comes under this\none order, which includes the gum trees, of which there are 170\nvarieties. They all shed their bark instead of their leaves, and have a\ngenerally untidy, not to say indecent appearance, as they stand with\ntheir covering in tatters and their white underbark shining through the\nrents. There is not the same variety of species in Australia as in\nEngland, and it greatly helps a superficial botanist like myself, for\nwhen you have learned the ti-tree, the wild fig tree and the gum trees,\nyou will be on terms with nature wherever you go. New Zealand however\noffers quite a fresh lot of problems.\n\nThe Melbourne Cricket Club has made me an honorary member, so Denis and\nI went down there, where we met the giant bowler, Hugh Trumble, who left\nso redoubtable a name in England. As the Chela may look at the Yogi so\ndid Denis, with adoring eyes, gaze upon Trumble, which so touched his\nkind heart that he produced a cricket ball, used in some famous match,\nwhich he gave to the boy--a treasure which will be reverently brought\nback to England. I fancy Denis slept with it that night, as he certainly\ndid in his pads and gloves the first time that he owned them.\n\nWe saw the English team play Victoria, and it was pleasant to see the\nwell-known faces once more. The luck was all one way, for Armstrong was\non the sick list, and Armstrong is the mainstay of Victorian cricket.\nRain came at a critical moment also, and gave Woolley and Rhodes a\nwicket which was impossible for a batsman. However, it was all good\npractice for the more exacting games of the future. It should be a fine\neleven which contains a genius like Hobbs, backed by such men as the\nbustling bulldog, Hendren, a great out-field as well as a grand bat, or\nthe wily, dangerous Hearne, or Douglas, cricketer, boxer, above all\nwarrior, a worthy leader of Englishmen. Hearne I remember as little more\nthan a boy, when he promised to carry on the glories of that remarkable\nfamily, of which George and Alec were my own playmates. He has ended by\nproving himself the greatest of them all.\n\nMy long interval of enforced rest came at last to an end, when the race\nfever had spent itself, and I was able to have my last great meeting at\nthe Town Hall. It really was a great meeting, as the photograph of it\nwill show. I spoke for over two hours, ending up by showing a selection\nof the photographs. I dealt faithfully with the treatment given to me by\nthe _Argus_. I take the extract from the published account. \"On this,\nthe last time in my life that I shall address a Melbourne audience, I\nwish to thank the people for the courtesy with which we have been\nreceived. It would, however, be hypocritical upon my part if I were to\nthank the Press. A week before I entered Melbourne the _Argus_ declared\nthat I was an emissary of the devil (laughter). I care nothing for that.\nI am out for a fight and can take any knocks that come. But the _Argus_\nrefused to publish a word I said. I came 12,000 miles to give you a\nmessage of hope and comfort, and I appeal to you to say whether three or\nfour gentlemen sitting in a board-room have a right to say to the people\nof Melbourne, 'You shall not listen to that man nor read one word of\nwhat he has to say.' (Cries of 'Shame!') You, I am sure, resent being\nspoon-fed in such a manner.\" The audience showed in the most hearty\nfashion that they did resent it, and they cheered loudly when I pointed\nout that my remarks did not arise, as anyone could see by looking round,\nfrom any feeling on my part that my mission had failed to gain popular\nsupport. It was a great evening, and I have never addressed a more\nsympathetic audience. The difficulty always is for my wife and myself to\nescape from our kind well-wishers, and it is touching and heartening to\nhear the sincere \"God bless you!\" which they shower upon us as we pass.\n\nThis then was the climax of our mission in Melbourne. It was marred by\nthe long but unavoidable delay in the middle, but it began well and\nended splendidly. On November 13th we left the beautiful town behind us,\nand embarked upon what we felt would be a much more adventurous period\nat Sydney, for all we had heard showed that both our friends and our\nenemies were more active in the great seaport of New South Wales.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n     Great reception at Sydney.--Importance of Sydney.--Journalistic\n     luncheon.--A psychic epidemic.--Gregory.--Barracking.--Town Hall\n     reception.--Regulation of Spiritualism.--An ether apport.--Surfing\n     at Manly.--A challenge.--Bigoted opponents.--A disgruntled\n     photographer.--Outing in the Harbour.--Dr. Mildred Creed.--Leon\n     Gellert.--Norman Lindsay.--Bishop Leadbeater.--Our relations with\n     Theosophy.--Incongruities of H.P.B.--Of D.D. Home.\n\n\nWe had a wonderful reception at Sydney. I have a great shrinking from\nsuch deputations as they catch you at the moment when you are exhausted\nand unkempt after a long journey, and when you need all your energies to\ncollect your baggage and belongings so as to make your way to your\nhotel. But on this occasion it was so hearty, and the crowd of faces\nbeamed such good wishes upon us that it was quite a pick-me-up to all of\nus. \"God bless you!\" and \"Thank God you have come!\" reached us from all\nsides. My wife, covered with flowers, was hustled off in one direction,\nwhile I was borne away in another, and each of the children was the\ncentre of a separate group. Major Wood had gone off to see to the\nluggage, and Jakeman was herself embedded somewhere in the crowd, so at\nlast I had to shout, \"Where's that little girl? Where's that little\nboy?\" until we reassembled and were able, laden with bouquets, to reach\nour carriage. The evening paper spread itself over the scene.\n\n\"When Sir Conan Doyle, his wife and their three children arrived from\nMelbourne by the express this morning, an assembly of Spiritualists\naccorded them a splendid greeting. Men swung their hats high and\ncheered, women danced in their excitement, and many of their number\nrushed the party with rare bouquets. The excitement was at its highest,\nand Sir Conan being literally carried along the platform by the pressing\ncrowds, when a digger arrived on the outskirts. 'Who's that?' he asked\nof nobody in particular. Almost immediately an urchin replied, 'The\nbloke that wrote \"Sherlock Holmes.\"' When asked if the latter gentleman\nwas really and irretrievably dead the author of his being remarked,\n'Well, you can say that a coroner has never sat upon him.'\"\n\nIt was a grand start, and we felt at once in a larger and more vigorous\nworld, where, if we had fiercer foes, we at least had warm and\nwell-organised friends. Better friends than those of Melbourne do not\nexist, but there was a method and cohesion about Sydney which impressed\nus from the first day to the last. There seemed, also, to be fewer of\nthose schisms which are the bane of our movement. If Wells' dictum that\norganisation is death has truth in it, then we are very much alive.\n\nWe had rooms in Petty's Hotel, which is an old-world hostel with a very\nquiet, soothing atmosphere. There I was at once engaged with the usual\nsuccession of journalists with a long list of questions which ranged\nfrom the destiny of the human soul to the chances of the test match.\nWhat with the constant visitors, the unpacking of our trunks, and the\nsettling down of the children, we were a very weary band before evening.\n\nI had no idea that Sydney was so great a place. The population is now\nvery nearly a million, which represents more than one-sixth of the whole\nvast Continent. It seems a weak point of the Australian system that 41\nper cent. of the whole population dwell in the six capital cities. The\nvital statistics of Sydney are extraordinarily good, for the death rate\nis now only twelve per thousand per annum. Our standard in such matters\nis continually rising, for I can remember the days when twenty per\nthousand was reckoned to be a very good result. In every civic amenity\nSydney stands very high. Her Botanical Gardens are not so supremely good\nas those of Melbourne, but her Zoo is among the very best in the world.\nThe animals seem to be confined by trenches rather than by bars, so that\nthey have the appearance of being at large. It was only after Jakeman\nhad done a level hundred with a child under each arm that she realised\nthat a bear, which she saw approaching, was not really in a state of\nfreedom.\n\nAs to the natural situation of Sydney, especially its harbour, it is so\nworld-renowned that it is hardly necessary to allude to it. I can well\nimagine that a Sydney man would grow homesick elsewhere, for he could\nnever find the same surroundings. The splendid landlocked bay with its\nnumerous side estuaries and its narrow entrance is a grand playground\nfor a sea-loving race. On a Saturday it is covered with every kind of\ncraft, from canoe to hundred-tonner. The fact that the water swarms with\nsharks seems to present no fears to these strong-nerved people, and I\nhave found myself horrified as I watched little craft, manned by boys,\nheeling over in a fresh breeze until the water was up to their gunwales.\nAt very long intervals some one gets eaten, but the fun goes on all the\nsame.\n\nThe people of Sydney have their residences (bungalows with verandahs)\nall round this beautiful bay, forming dozens of little townlets. The\nsystem of ferry steamers becomes as important as the trams, and is\nextraordinarily cheap and convenient. To Manly, for example, which lies\nsome eight miles out, and is a favourite watering place, the fare is\nfivepence for adults and twopence for children. So frequent are the\nboats that you never worry about catching them, for if one is gone\nanother will presently start. Thus, the whole life of Sydney seems to\nconverge into the Circular Quay, from which as many as half a dozen of\nthese busy little steamers may be seen casting off simultaneously for\none or another of the oversea suburbs. Now and then, in a real cyclone,\nthe service gets suspended, but it is a rare event, and there is a\nsupplementary, but roundabout, service of trams.\n\nThe journalists of New South Wales gave a lunch to my wife and myself,\nwhich was a very pleasant function. One leading journalist announced,\namid laughter, that he had actually consulted me professionally in my\ndoctoring days, and had lived to tell the tale, which contradicts the\nbase insinuation of some orator who remarked once that though I was\nknown to have practised, no _living_ patient of mine had ever yet been\nseen.\n\nNothing could have been more successful than my first lecture, which\nfilled the Town Hall. There were evidently a few people who had come\nwith intent to make a scene, but I had my audience so entirely with me,\nthat it was impossible to cause real trouble. One fanatic near the door\ncried out, \"Anti-Christ!\" several times, and was then bundled out.\nAnother, when I described how my son had come back to me, cried out that\nit was the devil, but on my saying with a laugh that such a remark\nshowed the queer workings of some people's minds, the people cheered\nloudly in assent. Altogether it was a great success, which was repeated\nin the second, and culminated in the third, when, with a hot summer day,\nand the English cricketers making their debut, I still broke the record\nfor a Town Hall matinee. The rush was more than the officials could cope\nwith, and I had to stand for ten long minutes looking at the audience\nbefore it was settled enough for me to begin. Some spiritualists in the\naudience struck up \"Lead, Kindly Light!\" which gave the right note to\nthe assemblage. Mr. Smythe, with all his experience, was amazed at our\nresults. \"This is no longer a mere success,\" he cried. \"It is a triumph.\nIt is an epidemic!\" Surely, it will leave some permanent good behind it\nand turn the public mind from religious shadows to realities.\n\nWe spent one restful day seeing our cricketers play New South Wales.\nAfter a promising start they were beaten owing to a phenomenal\nfirst-wicket stand in the second innings by Macartney and Collins, both\nbatsmen topping the hundred. Gregory seemed a dangerous bowler, making\nthe ball rise shoulder high even on that Bulli wicket, where midstump is\nas much as an ordinary bowler can attain. He is a tiger of a man,\nputting every ounce of his strength and inch of his great height into\nevery ball, with none of the artistic finesse of a Spofforth, but very\neffective all the same. We have no one of the same class; and that will\nwin Australia the rubber unless I am--as I hope I am--a false prophet. I\nwas not much impressed either by the manners or by the knowledge of the\ngame shown by the barrackers. Every now and then, out of the mass of\npeople who darken the grass slopes round the ground, you hear a raucous\nvoice giving advice to the captain, or, perhaps, conjuring a fast bowler\nto bowl at the wicket when the man is keeping a perfect length outside\nthe off stump and trying to serve his three slips. When Mailey went on,\nbecause he was slow and seemed easy, they began to jeer, and, yet, you\nhad only to watch the batsman to see that the ball was doing a lot and\nkept him guessing. One wonders why the neighbours of these bawlers\ntolerate it. In England such men would soon be made to feel that they\nwere ill-mannered nuisances, I am bound to testify, however, that they\nseem quite impartial, and that the English team had no special cause for\ncomplaint. I may also add that, apart from this cricketing peculiarity,\nwhich is common to all the States, the Sydney crowd is said to be one of\nthe most good-humoured and orderly in the world. My own observation\nconfirms this, and I should say that there was a good deal less\ndrunkenness than in Melbourne, but, perhaps the races gave me an\nexaggerated impression of the latter.\n\nOn Sunday, 28th, the spiritualists gave the pilgrims (as they called us)\na reception at the Town Hall. There was not a seat vacant, and the sight\nof these 3,500 well-dressed, intelligent people must have taught the\npress that the movement is not to be despised. There are at least 10,000\nprofessed spiritualists in Sydney, and even as a political force they\ndemand consideration. The seven of us were placed in the front of the\nplatform, and the service was very dignified and impressive. When the\ngreat audience sang, \"God hold you safely till we meet once more,\" it\nwas almost overpowering, for it is a beautiful tune, and was sung with\nreal feeling. In my remarks I covered a good deal of ground, but very\nparticularly I warned them against all worldly use of this great\nknowledge, whether it be fortune telling, prophecies about races and\nstocks, or any other prostitution of our subject. I also exhorted them\nwhen they found fraud to expose it at once, as their British brethren\ndo, and never to trifle with truth. When I had finished, the whole\n3,500 people stood up, and everyone waved a handkerchief, producing a\nreally wonderful scene. We can never forget it.\n\nOnce more I must take refuge behind the local Observer. \"The scene as\nSir Arthur rose will be long remembered by those who were privileged to\nwitness it. A sea of waving handkerchiefs confronted the speaker,\nacclaiming silently and reverently the deep esteem in which he was held\nby all present. Never has Sir Arthur's earnestness in his mission been\nmore apparent than on this occasion as he proceeded with a heart to\nheart talk with the spiritualists present, offering friendly criticisms,\nsound advice, and encouragement to the adherents of the great movement.\n\n\"'He had got,' he said, 'so much into the habit of lecturing that he was\ngoing to lecture the spiritualists.' With a flash of humour Sir Arthur\nadded: 'It does none of us any harm to be lectured occasionally. I am a\nmarried man myself' (laughter). 'I would say to the spiritualists', \"For\nHeaven's sake keep this thing high and unspotted. Don't let it drop into\nthe regions of fortune telling and other things which leave such an ugly\nimpression on the public mind, and which we find it so difficult to\njustify. Keep it in its most religious and purest aspect.\" At the same\ntime, I expressed my view that there was no reason at all why a medium\nshould not receive moderate payment for work done, since it is\nimpossible, otherwise, that he can live.\n\nEvery solid spiritualist would, I am sure, agree with me that our whole\nsubject needs regulating, and is in an unsatisfactory condition. We\ncannot approve of the sensation mongers who run from medium to medium\n(or possibly pretended medium) with no object but excitement or\ncuriosity. The trouble is that you have to recognise a thing before you\ncan regulate it, and the public has not properly recognised us. Let them\nfrankly do so, and take us into counsel, and then we shall get things on\na solid basis. Personally, I would be ready to go so far as to agree\nthat an inquirer should take out a formal permit to consult a medium,\nshowing that it was done for some definite object, if in return we could\nget State recognition for those mediums who were recommended as genuine\nby valid spiritual authorities. My friends will think this a reactionary\nproposition, but none the less I feel the need of regulation almost as\nmuch as I do that of recognition.\n\nOne event which occurred to me at Sydney I shall always regard as an\ninstance of that fostering care of which I have been conscious ever\nsince we set forth upon our journey. I had been over-tired, had slept\nbadly and had a large meeting in the evening, so that it was imperative\nthat I should have a nap in the afternoon. My brain was racing, however,\nand I could get no rest or prospect of any. The second floor window was\nslightly open behind me, and outside was a broad open space, shimmering\nin the heat of a summer day. Suddenly, as I lay there, I was aware of a\nvery distinct pungent smell of ether, coming in waves from outside. With\neach fresh wave I felt my over-excited nerves calming down as the sea\ndoes when oil is poured upon it. Within a few minutes I was in a deep\nsleep, and woke all ready for my evening's work. I looked out of the\nwindow and tried to picture where the ether could have come from; then I\nreturned thanks for one more benefit received. I do not suppose that I\nam alone in such interpositions, but I think that our minds are so\ncentred on this tiny mud patch, that we are deaf and blind to all that\nimpinges on us from beyond.\n\nHaving finished in Sydney, and my New Zealand date having not yet\narrived, we shifted our quarters to Manly, upon the sea coast, about\neight miles from the town. Here we all devoted ourselves to\nsurf-bathing, spending a good deal of our day in the water, as is the\ncustom of the place. It is a real romp with Nature, for the great\nPacific rollers come sweeping in and break over you, rolling you over on\nthe sand if they catch you unawares. It was a golden patch in our\nrestless lives. There were surf boards, and I am told that there were\nmen competent to ride them, but I saw none of Jack London's Sun Gods\nriding in erect upon the crest of the great rollers. Alas, poor Jack\nLondon! What right had such a man to die, he who had more vim and\npassion, and knowledge of varied life than the very best of us? Apart\nfrom all his splendid exuberance and exaggeration he had very real roots\nof grand literature within him. I remember, particularly, the little\nepisodes of bygone days in \"The Jacket.\" The man who wrote those could\ndo anything. Those whom the American public love die young. Frank\nNorris, Harold Frederic, Stephen Crane, the author of \"David Harum,\" and\nnow Jack London--but the greatest of these was Jack London.\n\nThere is a grand beach at Manly, and the thundering rollers carry in\nsome flotsam from the great ocean. One morning the place was covered\nwith beautiful blue jelly-fish, like little Roman lamps with tendrils\nhanging down. I picked up one of these pretty things, and was just\nmarvelling at its complete construction when I discovered that it was\neven more complete than I supposed, for it gave me a violent sting. For\na day or two I had reason to remember my little blue castaway, with his\nup-to-date fittings for keeping the stranger at a distance.\n\nI was baited at Sydney by a person of the name of Simpson, representing\nChristianity, though I was never clear what particular branch of\nreligion he represented, and he was disowned by some leaders of\nChristian Thought. I believe he was president of the Christian Evidence\nSociety. His opposition, though vigorous, and occasionally personal, was\nperfectly legitimate, but his well-advertised meeting at the Town Hall\n(though no charge was made for admission) was not a success. His\nconstant demand was that I should meet him in debate, which was, of\ncourse, out of the question, since no debate is possible between a man\nwho considers a text to be final, and one who cannot take this view. My\nwhole energies, so much needed for my obvious work, would have been\nfrittered away in barren controversies had I allowed my hand to be\nforced. I had learned my lesson, however, at the M'Cabe debate in\nLondon, when I saw clearly that nothing could come from such\nproceedings. On the other hand, I conceived the idea of what would be a\nreal test, and I issued it as a challenge in the public press. \"It is\nclear,\" I said, \"that one single case of spirit return proves our whole\ncontention. Therefore, let the question be concentrated upon one, or, if\nnecessary, upon three cases. These I would undertake to prove, producing\nmy witnesses in the usual way. My opponent would act the part of hostile\ncounsel, cross-examining and criticising my facts. The case would be\ndecided by a majority vote of a jury of twelve, chosen from men of\nstanding, who pledged themselves as open-minded on the question. Such a\ntest could obviously only take place in a room of limited dimensions, so\nthat no money would be involved and truth only be at stake. That is all\nthat I seek. If such a test can be arranged I am ready for it, either\nbefore I leave, or after I return from New Zealand.\" This challenge was\nnot taken up by my opponents.\n\nMr. Simpson had a long tirade in the Sydney papers about the evil\nreligious effects of my mission, which caused me to write a reply in\nwhich I defined our position in a way which may be instructive to\nothers. I said:--\n\n\"The tenets which we spiritualists preach and which I uphold upon the\nplatform are that any man who is deriving spirituality from his creed,\nbe that creed what it may, is learning the lesson of life. For this\nreason we would not attack your creed, however repulsive it might seem\nto us, so long as you and your colleagues might be getting any benefit\nfrom it. We desire to go our own way, saying what we know to be true,\nand claiming from others the same liberty of conscience and of\nexpression which we freely grant to them.\n\n\"You, on the other hand, go out of your way to attack us, to call us\nevil names, and to pretend that those loved ones who return to us are in\ntruth devils, and that our phenomena, though they are obviously of the\nsame sort as those which are associated with early Christianity, are\ndiabolical in their nature. This absurd view is put forward without a\nshadow of proof, and entirely upon the supposed meaning of certain\nancient texts which refer in reality to a very different matter, but\nwhich are strained and twisted to suit your purpose.\n\n\"It is men like you and your colleagues who, by your parody of\nChristianity and your constant exhibition of those very qualities which\nChrist denounced in the Pharisees, have driven many reasonable people\naway from religion and left the churches half empty. Your predecessors,\nwho took the same narrow view of the literal interpretation of the\nBible, were guilty of the murder of many thousands of defenceless old\nwomen who were burned in deference to the text, 'Suffer no witch to\nlive.' Undeterred by this terrible result of the literal reading, you\nstill advocate it, although you must be well aware that polygamy,\nslavery and murder can all be justified by such a course.\n\n\"In conclusion, let me give you the advice to reconsider your position,\nto be more charitable to your neighbours, and to devote your redundant\nenergies to combating the utter materialism which is all round you,\ninstead of railing so bitterly at those who are proving immortality and\nthe need for good living in a way which meets their spiritual wants,\neven though it is foreign to yours.\"\n\nA photographer, named Mark Blow, also caused me annoyance by announcing\nthat my photographs were fakes, and that he was prepared to give L25 to\nany charity if he could not reproduce them. I at once offered the same\nsum if he could do so, and I met him by appointment at the office of the\nevening paper, the editor being present to see fair play. I placed my\nmoney on the table, but Mr. Blow did not cover it. I then produced a\npacket of plates from my pocket and suggested that we go straight across\nto Mr. Blow's studio and produce the photographs. He replied by asking\nme a long string of questions as to the conditions under which the Crewe\nphotographs were produced, noting down all my answers. I then renewed my\nproposition. He answered that it was absurd to expect him to produce a\nspirit photograph since he did not believe in such foolish things. I\nanswered that I did not ask him to produce a spirit photograph, but to\nfulfil his promise which was to produce a similar result upon the plate\nunder similar conditions. He held out that they should be his own\nconditions. I pointed out that any school boy could make a half-exposed\nimpression upon a plate, and that the whole test lay in the conditions.\nAs he refused to submit to test conditions the matter fell through, as\nall such foolish challenges fall through. It was equally foolish on my\npart to have taken any notice of it.\n\nI had a conversation with Mr. Maskell, the capable Secretary of the\nSydney spiritualists, in which he described how he came out originally\nfrom Leicester to Australia. He had at that time developed some power of\nclairvoyance, but it was very intermittent. He had hesitated in his mind\nwhether he should emigrate to Australia, and sat one night debating it\nwithin himself, while his little son sat at the table cutting patterns\nout of paper. Maskell said to his spirit guides, mentally, \"If it is\ngood that I go abroad give me the vision of a star. If not, let it be a\ncircle.\" He waited for half an hour or so, but no vision came, and he\nwas rising in disappointment when the little boy turned round and said,\n\"Daddy, here is a star for you,\" handing over one which he had just cut.\nHe has had no reason to regret the subsequent decision.\n\nWe had a very quiet, comfortable, and healthy ten days at the Pacific\nHotel at Manly, which was broken only by an excursion which the Sydney\nspiritualists had organised for us in a special steamer, with the\nintention of showing us the glories of the harbour. Our party assembled\non Manly Pier, and the steamer was still far away when we saw the\nfluttering handkerchiefs which announced that they had sighted us. It\nwas a long programme, including a picnic lunch, but it all went off with\ngreat success and good feeling. It was fairly rough within the harbour,\nand some of the party were sea sick, but the general good spirits rose\nabove such trifles, and we spent the day in goodly fellowship. On Sunday\nI was asked to speak to his congregation by Mr. Sanders, a very\nintelligent young Congregational Minister of Manly, far above the level\nof Australasian or, indeed, British clerics. It was a novel experience\nfor me to be in a Nonconformist pulpit, but I found an excellent\naudience, and I hope that they in turn found something comforting and\nnew.\n\nOne of the most interesting men whom I met in Australia was Dr. Creed,\nof the New South Wales Parliament, an elderly medical man who has held\nhigh posts in the Government. He is blessed with that supreme gift, a\nmind which takes a keen interest in everything which he meets in life.\nHis researches vary from the cure of diabetes and of alcoholism (both of\nwhich he thinks that he has attained) down to the study of Australian\nAborigines and of the palaeontology of his country. I was interested to\nfind the very high opinion which he has of the brains of the black\nfellows, and he asserts that their results at the school which is\ndevoted to their education are as high as with the white Australians.\nThey train into excellent telegraphic operators and other employments\nneeding quick intelligence. The increasing brain power of the human race\nseems to be in the direction of originating rather than of merely\naccomplishing. Many can do the latter, but only the very highest can do\nthe former. Dr. Creed is clear upon the fact that no very ancient\nremains of any sort are to be found anywhere in Australia, which would\nseem to be against the view of a Lemurian civilisation, unless the main\nseat of it lay to the north where the scattered islands represent the\nmountain tops of the ancient continent. Dr. Creed was one of the very\nfew public men who had the intelligence or the courage to admit the\nstrength of the spiritual position, and he assured me that he would help\nin any way.\n\nAnother man whom I was fortunate to meet was Leon Gellert, a very young\npoet, who promises to be the rising man in Australia in this, the\nsupreme branch of literature. He served in the war, and his verses from\nthe front attain a very high level. His volume of war poems represents\nthe most notable literary achievement of recent years, and its value is\nenhanced by being illustrated by Norman Lindsay, whom I look upon as one\nof the greatest artists of our time. I have seen three pictures of his,\n\"The Goths,\" \"Who Comes?\" and \"The Crucifixion of Venus,\" each of which,\nin widely different ways, seemed very remarkable. Indeed, it is the\nversatility of the man that is his charm, and now that he is turning\nmore and more from the material to the spiritual it is impossible to say\nhow high a level he may attain. Another Australian whose works I have\ngreatly admired is Henry Lawson, whose sketches of bush life in \"Joe\nWilson\" and other of his studies, remind one of a subdued Bret Harte. He\nis a considerable poet also, and his war poem, \"England Yet,\" could\nhardly be matched.\n\nYet another interesting figure whom I met in Sydney was Bishop\nLeadbeater, formerly a close colleague of Mrs. Besant in the\nTheosophical movement, and now a prelate of the so-called Liberal\nCatholic Church, which aims at preserving the traditions and forms of\nthe old Roman Church, but supplementing them with all modern spiritual\nknowledge. I fear I am utterly out of sympathy with elaborate forms,\nwhich always in the end seem to me to take the place of facts, and to\nbecome a husk without a kernel, but none the less I can see a definite\nmission for such a church as appealing to a certain class of mind.\nLeadbeater, who has suffered from unjust aspersion in the past, is a\nvenerable and striking figure. His claims to clairvoyant and other\noccult powers are very definite, and so far as I had the opportunity of\nobserving him, he certainly lives the ascetic life, which the\nmaintenance of such power demands. His books, especially the little one\nupon the Astral Plane, seem to me among the best of the sort.\n\nBut the whole subject of Theosophy is to me a perpetual puzzle. I asked\nfor proofs and spiritualism has given them to me. But why should I\nabandon one faith in order to embrace another one? I have done with\nfaith. It is a golden mist in which human beings wander in devious\ntracks with many a collision. I need the white clear light of knowledge.\nFor that we build from below, brick upon brick, never getting beyond\nthe provable fact. There is the building which will last. But these\nothers seem to build from above downwards, beginning by the assumption\nthat there is supreme human wisdom at the apex. It may be so. But it is\na dangerous habit of thought which has led the race astray before, and\nmay again. Yet, I am struck by the fact that this ancient wisdom does\ndescribe the etheric body, the astral world, and the general scheme\nwhich we have proved for ourselves. But when the high priestess of the\ncult wrote of this she said so much that was against all our own\nspiritual experience, that we feel she was in touch with something very\ndifferent from our angels of light. Her followers appreciate that now,\nand are more charitable than she, but what is the worth of her occult\nknowledge if she so completely misread that which lies nearest to us,\nand how can we hope that she is more correct when she speaks of that\nwhich is at a distance?\n\nI was deeply attracted by the subject once, but Madame Blavatsky's\npersonality and record repelled me. I have read the defence, and yet\nHodgson and the Coulombs seem to me to hold the field. Could any\nconspiracy be so broad that it included numerous forged letters, trap\ndoors cut in floors, and actually corroborative accounts in the books of\na flower seller in the bazaar? On the other hand, there is ample\nevidence of real psychic powers, and of the permanent esteem of men like\nSinnett and Olcott, whom none could fail to respect. It is the attitude\nof these honourable men which commends and upholds her, but sometimes\nit seems hard to justify it. As an example, in the latter years of her\nlife she wrote a book, \"The Caves and Jungles of Hindustan,\" in which\nshe describes the fearsome adventures which she and Olcott had in\ncertain expeditions, falling down precipices and other such escapes.\nOlcott, like the honest gentleman he was, writes in his diary that there\nis not a word of truth in this, and that it is pure fiction. And yet,\nafter this very damaging admission, in the same page he winds up, \"Ah,\nif the world ever comes to know who was the mighty entity, who laboured\nsixty years under that quivering mask of flesh, it will repent its cruel\ntreatment of H. P. B., and be amazed at the depth of its ignorance.\"\nThese are the things which make it so difficult to understand either her\nor the cult with which she was associated. Had she never lived these men\nand women would, as it seems to me, have been the natural leaders of the\nspiritualist movement, and instead of living in the intellectual\nenjoyment of far-off systems they would have concentrated upon the\nall-important work of teaching poor suffering humanity what is the\nmeaning of the dark shadow which looms upon their path. Even now I see\nno reason why they should not come back to those who need them, and help\nthem forward upon their rocky road.\n\nOf course, we spiritualists are ourselves vulnerable upon the subject of\nthe lives of some of our mediums, but we carefully dissociate those\nlives from the powers which use the physical frame of the medium for\ntheir own purposes, just as the religious and inspired poetry of a\nVerlaine may be held separate from his dissipated life. Whilst upon this\nsubject I may say that whilst in Australia I had some interesting\nletters from a solicitor named Rymer. All students of spiritualism will\nremember that when Daniel Home first came to England in the early\nfifties he received great kindness from the Rymer family, who then lived\nat Ealing. Old Rymer treated him entirely as one of the family. This\nBendigo Rymer was the grandson of Home's benefactor, and he had no love\nfor the great medium because he considered that he had acted with\ningratitude towards his people. The actual letters of his father, which\nhe permitted me to read, bore out this statement, and I put it on record\nbecause I have said much in praise of Home, and the balance should be\nheld true. These letters, dating from about '57, show that one of the\nsons of old Rymer was sent to travel upon the Continent to study art,\nand that Home was his companion. They were as close as brothers, but\nwhen they reached Florence, and Home became a personage in society\nthere, he drifted away from Rymer, whose letters are those of a splendid\nyoung man. Home's health was already indifferent, and while he was laid\nup in his hotel he seems to have been fairly kidnapped by a\nstrong-minded society lady of title, an Englishwoman living apart from\nher husband. For weeks he lived at her villa, though the state of his\nhealth would suggest that it was rather as patient than lover. What was\nmore culpable was that he answered the letters of his comrade very\nrudely and showed no sense of gratitude for all that the family had done\nfor him. I have read the actual letters and confess that I was chilled\nand disappointed. Home was an artist as well as a medium, the most\nunstable combination possible, full of emotions, flying quickly to\nextremes, capable of heroisms and self-denials, but also of vanities and\nill-humour. On this occasion the latter side of his character was too\napparent. To counteract the effect produced upon one's mind one should\nread in Home's Life the letter of the Bavarian captain whom he rescued\nupon the field of battle, or of the many unfortunates whom he aided with\nunobtrusive charity. It cannot, however, be too often repeated--since it\nis never grasped by our critics--that the actual character of a man is\nas much separate from his mediumistic powers, as it would be from his\nmusical powers. Both are inborn gifts beyond the control of their\npossessor. The medium is the telegraph instrument and the telegraph boy\nunited in one, but the real power is that which transmits the message,\nwhich he only receives and delivers. The remark applies to the Fox\nsisters as much as it does to Home.\n\nTalking about Home, it is astonishing how the adverse judgment of the\nVice-Chancellor Gifford, a materialist, absolutely ignorant of psychic\nmatters, has influenced the minds of men. The very materialists who\nquote it, would not attach the slightest importance to the opinion of an\northodox judge upon the views of Hume, Payne, or any free-thinker. It is\nlike quoting a Roman tribune against a Christian. The real facts of the\ncase are perfectly clear to anyone who reads the documents with care.\nThe best proof of how blameless Home was in the matter is that of all\nthe men of honour with whom he was on intimate terms--men like Robert\nChambers, Carter Hall, Lord Seaton, Lord Adare and others--not one\nrelaxed in their friendship after the trial. This was in 1866, but in\n1868 we find these young noblemen on Christian-name terms with the man\nwho would have been outside the pale of society had the accusations of\nhis enemies been true.\n\nWhilst we were in Sydney, a peculiar ship, now called the \"Marella,\" was\nbrought into the harbour as part of the German ship surrender. It is\ncommonly reported that this vessel, of very grandiose construction, was\nbuilt to conduct the Kaiser upon a triumphal progress round the world\nafter he had won his war. It is, however, only of 8,000 tons, and,\npersonally, I cannot believe that this would have had room for his\nswollen head, had he indeed been the victor. All the fittings, even to\nthe carpet holders, are of German silver. The saloon is of pure marble,\neighty by fifty, with beautiful hand-painted landscapes. The smoke-room\nis the reproduction of one in Potsdam Palace. There is a great swimming\nbath which can be warmed. Altogether a very notable ship, and an index,\nnot only of the danger escaped, but of the danger to come, in the form\nof the super-excellence of German design and manufacture.\n\nOur post-bag is very full, and it takes Major Wood and myself all our\ntime to keep up with the letters. Many of them are so wonderful that I\nwish I had preserved them all, but it would have meant adding another\ntrunk to our baggage. There are a few samples which have been rescued.\nMany people seemed to think that I was myself a wandering medium, and I\ngot this sort of missive:\n\n     \"DEAR SIR,--_I am very anxious to ask you a question, trusting you\n     will answer me. What I wish to know I have been corresponding with\n     a gentleman for nearly three years. From this letter can you tell\n     me if I will marry him. I want you to answer this as I am keeping\n     it strictly private and would dearly love you to answer this\n     message if possible, and if I will do quite right if I marry him.\n     Trusting to hear from you soon. Yours faithfully----._\n\n       _P.S.--I thoroughly believe in Spirit-ualism._\"\n\nHere is another.\n\n     \"HONORED SIR,--_Just a few lines in limited time to ask you if you\n     tell the future. If so, what is your charges? Please excuse no\n     stamped and ad. envelope--out of stamps and in haste to catch mail.\n     Please excuse._\"\n\nOn the other hand, I had many which were splendidly instructive and\nhelpful. I was particularly struck by one series of spirit messages\nwhich were received in automatic writing by a man living in the Bush in\nNorth Queensland and thrown upon his own resources. They were\ndescriptive of life in the beyond, and were in parts extremely\ncorroborative of the Vale Owen messages, though they had been taken long\nprior to that date. Some of the points of resemblance were so marked and\nso unusual that they seem clearly to come from a common inspiration. As\nan example, this script spoke of the creative power of thought in the\nbeyond, but added the detail that when the object to be created was\nlarge and important a band of thinkers was required, just as a band of\nworkers would be here. This exactly corresponds to the teaching of Vale\nOwen's guide.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n     Dangerous fog.--The six photographers.--Comic\n     advertisements.--Beauties of Auckland.--A Christian\n     clergyman.--Shadows in our American relations.--The Gallipoli\n     Stone.--Stevenson and the Germans.--Position of De Rougemont.--Mr.\n     Clement Wragge.--Atlantean theories.--A strange\n     psychic.--Wellington the windy.--A literary Oasis.--A Maori\n     Seance.--Presentation.\n\n\nMy voyage to New Zealand in the _Maheno_ was pleasant and uneventful,\ngiving me four days in which to arrange my papers and look over the many\nmanuscripts which mediums, or, more often, would-be mediums, had\ndischarged at me as I passed. Dr. Bean, my Theosophic friend, who had\nbeen somewhat perturbed by my view that his people were really the\nofficers of our movement who had deserted their army, formed an\nofficers' corps, and so taken the money and brains and leadership away\nfrom the struggling masses, was waiting on the Sydney Quay, and gave me\ntwelve books upon his subject to mend my wicked ways, so that I was\nequipped for a voyage round the world. I needed something, since I had\nleft my wife and family behind me in Manly, feeling that the rapid\njourney through New Zealand would be too severe for them. In Mr. Carlyle\nSmythe, however, I had an admirable \"cobber,\" to use the pal phrase of\nthe Australian soldier.\n\nMr. Smythe had only one defect as a comrade, and that was his\nconversation in a fog. It was of a distinctly depressing character, as I\nhad occasion to learn when we ran into very thick weather among the\nrocky islands which make navigation so difficult to the north of\nAuckland. Between the screams of the siren I would hear a still small\nvoice in the bunk above me.\n\n\"We are now somewhere near the Three Kings. It is an isolated group of\nrocks celebrated for the wreck of the _Elingamite_, which went ashore on\njust such a morning as this.\" (Whoo-ee! remarked the foghorn). \"They\nwere nearly starved, but kept themselves alive by fish which were caught\nby improvised lines made from the ladies' stay-laces. Many of them\ndied.\"\n\nI lay digesting this and staring at the fog which crawled all round the\nport hole. Presently he was off again.\n\n\"You can't anchor here, and there is no use stopping her, for the\ncurrents run hard and she would drift on to one of the ledges which\nwould rip the side out of her.\" (Whoo-ee! repeated the foghorn). \"The\nislands are perpendicular with deep water up to the rocks, so you never\nknow they are there until you hit them, and then, of course, there is no\nreef to hold you up.\" (Whoo-ee!) \"Close by here is the place where the\n_Wairarapa_ went down with all hands a few years ago. It was just such a\nday as this when she struck the Great Barrier----\"\n\nIt was about this time that I decided to go on deck. Captain Brown had\nmade me free of the bridge, so I climbed up and joined him there,\npeering out into the slow-drifting scud.\n\nI spent the morning there, and learned something of the anxieties of a\nsailor's life. Captain Brown had in his keeping, not only his own career\nand reputation, but what was far more to him, the lives of more than\nthree hundred people. We had lost all our bearings, for we had drifted\nin the fog during those hours when it was too thick to move. Now the\nscud was coming in clouds, the horizon lifting to a couple of miles, and\nthen sinking to a few hundred yards. On each side of us and ahead were\nknown to be rocky islands or promontories. Yet we must push on to our\ndestination. It was fine to see this typical British sailor working his\nship as a huntsman might take his horse over difficult country, now\nspeeding ahead when he saw an opening, now waiting for a fogbank to get\nahead, now pushing in between two clouds. For hours we worked along with\nthe circle of oily lead-coloured sea around us, and then the grey veil,\nrising and falling, drifting and waving, with danger lurking always in\nits shadow. There are strange results when one stares intently over such\na sea, for after a time one feels that it all slopes upwards, and that\none is standing deep in a saucer with the rim far above one. Once in the\nrifts we saw a great ship feeling her way southwards, in the same\ndifficulties as ourselves. She was the _Niagara_, from Vancouver to\nAuckland. Then, as suddenly as the raising of a drop-curtain, up came\nthe fog, and there ahead of us was the narrow path which led to safety.\nThe _Niagara_ was into it first, which seemed to matter little, but\nreally mattered a good deal, for her big business occupied the Port\nAuthorities all the evening, while our little business was not even\nallowed to come alongside until such an hour that we could not get\nashore, to the disappointment of all, and very especially of me, for I\nknew that some of our faithful had been waiting for twelve hours upon\nthe quay to give me a welcoming hand. It was breakfast time on the very\nmorning that I was advertised to lecture before we at last reached our\nhotel.\n\nHere I received that counter-demonstration which always helped to keep\nmy head within the limits of my hat. This was a peremptory demand from\nsix gentlemen, who modestly described themselves as the leading\nphotographers of the city, to see the negatives of the photographs which\nI was to throw upon the screen. I was assured at the same time by other\nphotographers that they had no sympathy with such a demand, and that the\nothers were self-advertising busybodies who had no mandate at all for\nsuch a request. My experience at Sydney had shown me that such\nchallenges came from people who had no knowledge of psychic conditions,\nand who did not realise that it is the circumstances under which a\nphotograph is taken, and the witnesses who guarantee such circumstances,\nwhich are the real factors that matter, and not the negative which may\nbe so easily misunderstood by those who have not studied the processes\nby which such things are produced. I therefore refused to allow my\nphotographs to pass into ignorant hands, explaining at the same time\nthat I had no negatives, since the photographs in most cases were not\nmine at all, so that the negatives would, naturally, be with Dr.\nCrawford, Dr. Geley, Lady Glenconnor, the representatives of Sir William\nCrookes, or whoever else had originally taken the photograph. Their\nchallenge thereupon appeared in the Press with a long tirade of abuse\nattached to it, founded upon the absurd theory that all the photos had\nbeen taken by me, and that there was no proof of their truth save in my\nword. One gets used to being indirectly called a liar, and I can answer\narguments with self-restraint which once I would have met with the toe\nof my boot. However, a little breeze of this sort does no harm, but\nrather puts ginger into one's work, and my audience were very soon\nconvinced of the absurdity of the position of the six dissenting\nphotographers who had judged that which they had not seen.\n\nAuckland is the port of call of the American steamers, and had some of\nthat air of activity and progress which America brings with her. The\nspirit of enterprise, however, took curious shapes, as in the case of\none man who was a local miller, and pushed his trade by long\nadvertisements at the head of the newspapers, which began with abuse of\nme and my ways, and ended by a recommendation to eat dessicated corn, or\nwhatever his particular commodity may have been. The result was a comic\njumble which was too funny to be offensive, though Auckland should\ndiscourage such pleasantries, as they naturally mar the beautiful\nimpression which her fair city and surroundings make upon the visitor. I\nhope I was the only victim, and that every stranger within her gates is\nnot held up to ridicule for the purpose of calling attention to Mr.\nBlank's dessicated corn.\n\nI seemed destined to have strange people mixed up with my affairs in\nAuckland, for there was a conjuror in the town, who, after the fashion\nof that rather blatant fraternity, was offering L1,000 that he could do\nanything I could do. As I could do nothing, it seemed easy money. In any\ncase, the argument that because you can imitate a thing therefore the\nthing does not exist, is one which it takes the ingenuity of Mr.\nMaskelyne to explain. There was also an ex-spiritualist medium\n(so-called) who covered the papers with his advertisements, so that my\nlittle announcement was quite overshadowed. He was to lecture the night\nafter me in the Town Hall, with most terrifying revelations. I was\nfascinated by his paragraphs, and should have liked greatly to be\npresent, but that was the date of my exodus. Among other remarkable\nadvertisements was one \"What has become of 'Pelorus Jack'? Was he a lost\nsoul?\" Now, \"Pelorus Jack\" was a white dolphin, who at one time used to\npilot vessels into a New Zealand harbour, gambolling under the bows, so\nthat the question really did raise curiosity. However, I learned\nafterwards that my successor did not reap the harvest which his\ningenuity deserved, and that the audience was scanty and derisive. What\nthe real psychic meaning of \"Pelorus Jack\" may have been was not\nrecorded by the press.\n\nFrom the hour I landed upon the quay at Auckland until I waved my last\nfarewell my visit was made pleasant, and every wish anticipated by the\nRev. Jasper Calder, a clergyman who has a future before him, though\nwhether it will be in the Church of England or not, time and the Bishop\nwill decide. Whatever he may do, he will remain to me and to many more\nthe nearest approach we are likely to see to the ideal Christian--much\nas he will dislike my saying so. After all, if enemies are given full\nplay, why should not friends redress the balance? I will always carry\naway the remembrance of him, alert as a boy, rushing about to serve\nanyone, mixing on equal terms with scallywags on the pier, reclaiming\ncriminals whom he called his brothers, winning a prize for breaking-in a\nbuckjumper, which he did in order that he might gain the respect of the\nstockmen; a fiery man of God in the pulpit, but with a mind too broad\nfor special dispensations, he was like one of those wonderfully virile\ncreatures of Charles Reade. The clergy of Australasia are stagnant and\nnarrow, but on the other hand, I have found men like the Dean of Sydney,\nStrong of Melbourne, Sanders of Manly, Calder of Auckland, and others\nwhom it is worth crossing this world to meet.\n\nOf my psychic work at Auckland there is little to be said, save that I\nbegan my New Zealand tour under the most splendid auspices. Even Sydney\nhad not furnished greater or more sympathetic audiences than those\nwhich crowded the great Town Hall upon two successive nights. I could\nnot possibly have had a better reception, or got my message across more\nsuccessfully. All the newspaper ragging and offensive advertisements had\nproduced (as is natural among a generous people) a more kindly feeling\nfor the stranger, and I had a reception I can never forget.\n\nThis town is very wonderfully situated, and I have never seen a more\nmagnificent view than that from Mount Eden, an extinct volcano about 900\nfeet high, at the back of it. The only one which I could class with it\nis that from Arthur's Seat, also an extinct volcano about 900 feet high,\nas one looks on Edinburgh and its environs. Edinburgh, however, is for\never shrouded in smoke, while here the air is crystal clear, and I could\nclearly see Great Barrier Island, which is a good eighty miles to the\nnorth. Below lay the most marvellous medley of light blue water and\nlight green land mottled with darker foliage. We could see not only the\nwhole vista of the wonderful winding harbour, and the seas upon the east\nof the island, but we could look across and see the firths which\nconnected with the seas of the west. Only a seven-mile canal is needed\nto link the two up, and to save at least two hundred miles of dangerous\nnavigation amid those rock-strewn waters from which we had so happily\nemerged. Of course it will be done, and when it is done it should easily\npay its way, for what ship coming from Australia--or going to it--but\nwould gladly pay the fees? The real difficulty lies not in cutting the\ncanal, but in dredging the western opening, where shifting sandbanks\nand ocean currents combine to make a dangerous approach. I see in my\nmind's eye two great breakwaters, stretching like nippers into the\nPacific at that point, while, between the points of the nippers, the\ndredgers will for ever be at work. It will be difficult, but it is\nneeded and it will be done.\n\nThe Australian Davis Cup quartette--Norman Brooks, Patterson, O'Hara\nWood and another--had come across in the _Maheno_ with us and were now\nat the Grand Hotel. There also was the American team, including the\nformidable Tilden, now world's champion. The general feeling of\nAustralasia is not as cordial as one would wish to the United States for\nthe moment. I have met several men back from that country who rather\nbitterly resent the anti-British agitation which plays such a prominent\npart in the American press. This continual nagging is, I am sorry to\nsay, wearing down the stolid patience of the Britisher more than I can\never remember, and it is a subject on which I have always been sensitive\nas I have been a life-long advocate of Anglo-American friendship,\nleading in the fullness of time to some loose form of Anglo-American\nUnion. At present it almost looks as if these racial traitors who make\nthe artificial dissensions were succeeding for a time in their work of\ndriving a wedge between the two great sections of the English-speaking\npeoples. My fear is that when some world crisis comes, and everything\ndepends upon us all pulling together, the English-speakers may\nneutralise each other. There lies the deadly danger. It is for us on\nboth sides to endeavour to avoid it.\n\nEveryone who is in touch with the sentiment of the British officers in\nFlanders knows that they found men of their own heart in the brave,\nunassuming American officers who were their comrades, and often their\npupils. It is some of the stay-at-home Americans who appear to have such\na false perspective, and who fail to realise that even British\nDominions, such as Canada and Australia, lost nearly as many men as the\nUnited States in the war, while Britain herself laid down ten lives for\nevery one spent by America. This is not America's fault, but when we see\napparent forgetfulness of it on the part of a section of the American\npeople when our wounds are still fresh, it cannot be wondered at that we\nfeel sore. We do not advertise, and as a result there are few who know\nthat we lost more men and made larger captures during the last two years\nof the war than our gallant ally of France. When we hear that others won\nthe war we smile--but it is a bitter smile.\n\nStrange, indeed, are some of the episodes of psychic experience. There\ncame to me at my hotel in Auckland two middle-aged hard-working women,\nwho had come down a hundred miles from the back country to my lecture.\nOne had lost her boy at Gallipoli. She gave me a long post-mortem\naccount from him as to the circumstances of his own death, including the\nmilitary operations which led up to it. I read it afterwards, and it\nwas certainly a very coherent account of the events both before and\nafter the shell struck him. Having handed me the pamphlet the country\nwoman then, with quivering fingers, produced from her bosom a little\nsilver box. Out of this she took an object, wrapped in white silk. It\nwas a small cube of what looked to me like sandstone, about an inch each\nway. She told me it was an apport, that it had been thrown down on her\ntable while she and her family, including, as I understood, the friend\nthen present, were holding a seance. A message came with it to say that\nit was from the boy's grave at Gallipoli. What are we to say to that?\nWas it fraud? Then why were they playing tricks upon themselves? If it\nwas, indeed, an apport, it is surely one of the most remarkable for\ndistance and for purpose recorded of any private circle.\n\nA gentleman named Moors was staying at the same hotel in Auckland, and\nwe formed an acquaintance. I find that he was closely connected with\nStevenson, and had actually written a very excellent book upon his\ncomradeship with him at Samoa. Stevenson dabbled in the politics of\nSamoa, and always with the best motives and on the right side, but he\nwas of so frank and impetuous a nature that he was not trusted with any\ninside knowledge. Of the German rule Mr. Moors says that for the first\ntwelve years Dr. Solf was as good as he could be, and did fair justice\nto all. Then he went on a visit to Berlin, and returned \"bitten by the\nmilitary bug,\" with his whole nature changed, and began to \"imponieren\"\nin true Prussian fashion. It is surely extraordinary how all the\nscattered atoms of a race can share the diseases of the central organism\nfrom which they sprang. I verily believe that if a German had been alone\non a desert island in 1914 he would have begun to dance and brandish a\nclub. How many cases are on record of the strange changes and wild deeds\nof individuals?\n\nMr. Moors told me that he dropped into a developing circle of\nspiritualists at Sydney, none of whom could have known him. One of them\nsaid, \"Above your head I see a man, an artist, long hair, brown eyes,\nand I get the name of Stephens.\" If he was indeed unknown, this would\nseem fairly evidential.\n\nI was struck by one remark of Mr. Moors, which was that he had not only\nseen the natives ride turtles in the South Sea lagoons, but that he had\nactually done so himself, and that it was by no means difficult. This\nwas the feat which was supposed to be so absurd when De Rougemont\nclaimed to have done it. There are, of course, some gross errors which\nare probably pure misuse of words in that writer's narrative, but he\nplaces the critic in a dilemma which has never been fairly faced. Either\nhe is a liar, in which case he is, beyond all doubt, the most realistic\nwriter of adventure since Defoe, or else he speaks the truth, in which\ncase he is a great explorer. I see no possible avoidance of this\ndilemma, so that which ever way you look at it the man deserves credit\nwhich he has never received.\n\nWe set off, four of us, to visit Mr. Clement Wragge, who is the most\nremarkable personality in Auckland--dreamer, mystic, and yet very\npractical adviser on all matters of ocean and of air.\n\nOn arriving at the charming bungalow, buried among all sorts of\nbroad-leaved shrubs and trees, I was confronted by a tall, thin figure,\nclad in black, with a face like a sadder and thinner Bernard Shaw, dim,\ndreamy eyes, heavily pouched, with a blue turban surmounting all. On\nrepeating my desire he led me apart into his study. I had been warned\nthat with his active brain and copious knowledge I would never be able\nto hold him to the point, so, in the dialogue which followed, I\nperpetually headed him off as he turned down bye paths, until the\nconversation almost took the form of a game.\n\n\"Mr. Wragge, you are, I know, one of the greatest authorities upon winds\nand currents.\"\n\n\"Well, that is one of my pursuits. When I was young I ran the Ben Nevis\nObservatory in Scotland and----\"\n\n\"It was only a small matter I wished to ask you. You'll excuse my\ndirectness as I have so little time.\"\n\n\"Certainly. What is it?\"\n\n\"If the Maoris came, originally, from Hawaii, what prevailing winds\nwould their canoes meet in the 2,000 miles which they crossed to reach\nNew Zealand?\"\n\nThe dim eyes lit up with the joy of the problem, and the nervous fingers\nunrolled a chart of the Pacific. He flourished a pair of compasses.\n\n\"Here is Hawaii. They would start with a north-westerly trade wind. That\nwould be a fair wind. I may say that the whole affair took place far\nfurther back than is usually supposed. We have to get back to astronomy\nfor our fixed date. Don't imagine that the obliquity of the ecliptic was\nalways 23 degrees.\"\n\n\"The Maoris had a fair wind then?\"\n\nThe compasses stabbed at the map.\n\n\"Only down to this point. Then they would come on the Doldrums--the calm\npatch of the equator. They could paddle their canoes across that. Of\ncourse, the remains at Easter Island prove----\"\n\n\"But they could not paddle all the way.\"\n\n\"No; they would run into the south-easterly trades. Then they made their\nway to Rarotonga in Tahiti. It was from here that they made for New\nZealand.\"\n\n\"But how could they know New Zealand was there?\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, how did they know?\"\n\n\"Had they compasses?\"\n\n\"They steered by the stars. We have a poem of theirs which numbers the\nstar-gazer as one of the crew. We have a chart, also, cut in the rocks\nat Hawaii, which seems to be the plot of a voyage. Here is a slide of\nit.\" He fished out a photo of lines and scratches upon a rock.\n\n\"Of course,\" said he, \"the root of the matter is that missionaries from\nAtlantis permeated the Pacific, coming across Central America, and left\ntheir traces everywhere.\"\n\nAh, Atlantis! I am a bit of an Atlantean myself, so off we went at\nscratch and both enjoyed ourselves greatly until time had come to rejoin\nthe party and meet Mr. Wragge's wife, a charming Brahmin lady from\nIndia, who was one of the most gracious personalities I have met in my\nwanderings. The blue-turbaned, eager man, half western science, half\neastern mystic, and his dark-eyed wife amid their profusion of flowers\nwill linger in my memory. Mrs. Wragge was eager that I go and lecture in\nIndia. Well, who knows?\n\nI was so busy listening to Mr. Wragge's Atlantean theories that I had no\nchance of laying before him my own contribution to the subject, which\nis, I think, both original and valid. If the huge bulk of Atlantis sank\nbeneath the ocean, then, assuredly, it raised such a tidal wave as has\nnever been known in the world's history. This tidal wave, since all sea\nwater connects, would be felt equally all over the world, as the wave of\nKrakatoa was in 1883 felt in Europe. The wave must have rushed over all\nflat coasts and drowned every living thing, as narrated in the biblical\nnarrative. Therefore, since this catastrophe was, according to Plato's\naccount, not very much more than 10,000 years ago there should exist\nample evidence of a wholesale destruction of life, especially in the\nflatter lands of the globe. Is there such evidence? Think of Darwin's\naccount of how the pampas of South America are in places one huge\ngrave-yard. Think, also, of the mammoth remains which strew the Tundras\nof Siberia, and which are so numerous that some of the Arctic islands\nare really covered with bones. There is ample evidence of some great\nflood which would exactly correspond with the effect produced by the\nsinking of Atlantis. The tragedy broadens as one thinks of it. Everyone\neverywhere must have been drowned save only the hill-dwellers. The\nobject of the catastrophe was, according to some occult information, to\nremove the Atlantean race and make room for the Aryan, even as the\nLemurian had been removed to make room for the Atlantean. How long has\nthe Aryan race to run? The answer may depend upon themselves. The great\nwar is a warning bell perhaps.\n\nI had a talk with a curious type of psychic while I was in Auckland. He\nclaimed to be a psychologist who did not need to be put _en rapport_\nwith his object by any material starting point. A piece of clothing is,\nas a rule, to a psychometrist what it would be to a bloodhound, the\nstarting point of a chase which runs down the victim. Thus Van Bourg,\nwhen he discovered by crystal gazing the body of Mr. Foxhall (I quote\nthe name from memory) floating in the Thames, began by covering the\ntable with the missing man's garments. This is the usual procedure which\nwill become more familiar as the public learn the full utility of a\npsychic.\n\nThis gentlemen, Mr. Pearman, was a builder by trade, a heavy, rather\nuneducated man with the misty eye of a seer. He told me that if he\ndesired to turn his powers upon anything he had only to sit in a dim\nroom and concentrate his thought upon the matter, without any material\nnexus. For example, a murder had been done in Western Australia. The\npolice asked his help. Using his power, he saw the man, a stranger, and\nyet he _knew_ that it was the man, descending the Swan River in a boat.\nHe saw him mix with the dockmen of Fremantle. Then he saw him return to\nPerth. Finally, he saw him take train on the Transcontinental Railway.\nThe police at once acted, and intercepted the man, who was duly\nconvicted and hanged. This was one of several cases which this man told\nme, and his stories carried conviction with them. All this, although\npsychic, has, of course, nothing to do with spiritualism, but is an\nextension of the normal, though undefined, powers of the human mind and\nsoul.\n\nThe reader will be relieved to hear that I did not visit Rotorua. An\nitinerant lecturer upon an unpopular cause has enough hot water without\nseeking out a geyser. My travels would make but an indifferent guide\nbook, but I am bound to put it upon record that Wellington is a very\nsingular city plastered upon the side of a very steep hill. It is said\nthat the plan of the city was entirely drawn up in England under the\nimpression that the site was a flat one, and that it was duly carried\nout on the perpendicular instead of the horizontal. It is a town of fine\nbuildings, however, in a splendid winding estuary ringed with hills. It\nis, of course, the capital, and the centre of all officialdom in New\nZealand, but Auckland, in the north, is already the greater city.\n\nI had the opportunity of spending the day after my arrival with Dr.\nMorrice, who married the daughter of the late Premier, Sir R. Seddon,\nwhom I had known in years gone by. Their summer house was down the Bay,\nand so I had a long drive which gave me an admirable chance of seeing\nthe wonderful panorama. It was blowing a full gale, and the road is so\nexposed that even motors are sometimes upset by the force of the wind.\nOn this occasion nothing more serious befell us than the loss of Mr.\nSmythe's hat, which disappeared with such velocity that no one was able\nto say what had become of it. It simply was, and then it was not. The\nyellow of the foreshore, the green of the shallows, the blue mottled\nwith purple of the deep, all fretted with lines of foam, made an\nexhilarating sight. The whole excursion was a brief but very pleasant\nbreak in our round of work. Another pleasant experience was that I met\nDr. Purdey, who had once played cricket with me, when we were very\nyoung, at Edinburgh University. _Eheu fugaces!_ I had also the pleasure\nof meeting Mr. Massey, the Premier, a bluff, strong, downright man who\nimpresses one with his force and sincerity.\n\nI had the privilege when I was at Wellington of seeing the first edition\nof \"Robinson Crusoe,\" which came out originally in three volumes. I had\nno idea that the three-decker dated back to 1719. It had a delightful\nmap of the island which would charm any boy, and must have been drawn up\nunder the personal guidance of Defoe himself. I wonder that map has not\nbeen taken as an integral part of the book, and reproduced in every\nedition, for it is a fascinating and a helpful document.\n\nI saw this rare book in the Turnbull Library, which, under the loving\ncare of Mr. Anderson (himself no mean poet), is a fine little collection\nof books got together by a Wellington man of business. In a raw young\nland such a literary oasis is like a Gothic Cathedral in the midst of a\nsuburb of modern villas. Anyone can come in to consult the books, and if\nI were a Wellingtonian I would certainly spend a good deal of time\nthere. I handled with fitting reverence a first edition of \"Lyrical\nBallads,\" where, in 1798, Coleridge and Wordsworth made their entry hand\nin hand into poetical literature. I saw an original Hakluyt, the book\nwhich has sent so many brave hearts a-roving. There, too, was a precious\nKelmscott \"Chaucer,\" a Plutarch and Montaigne, out of which Shakespeare\nmight have done his cribbing; Capt. Cook's manuscript \"Diary,\" written\nin the stiff hand of a very methodical man; a copy of Swinburne's \"Poems\nand Ballads,\" which is one of twenty from a recalled edition, and many\nother very rare and worthy volumes carefully housed and clad. I spent a\nmellow hour among them.\n\nI have been looking up all the old books upon the Maoris which I could\nfind, with the special intent of clearing up their history, but while\ndoing so I found in one rather rare volume \"Old New Zealand,\" an account\nof a Maori seance, which seems to have been in the early forties, and,\ntherefore, older than the Hydesville knockings. I only wish every honest\nmaterialist could read it and compare it with the experiences which we\nhave, ourselves, independently reported. Surely they cannot persist in\nholding that such identical results are obtained by coincidence, or that\nfraud would work in exactly the same fashion in two different\nhemispheres.\n\nA popular young chief had been killed in battle. The white man was\ninvited to join the solemn circle who hoped to regain touch with him.\nThe seance was in the dark of a large hut, lit only by the ruddy glow of\na low fire. The white man, a complete unbeliever, gives his evidence in\ngrudging fashion, but cannot get past the facts. The voice came, a\nstrange melancholy sound, like the wind blowing into a hollow vessel.\n\"Salutation! Salutation to you all! To you, my tribe! Family, I salute\nyou! Friends, I salute you!\" When the power waned the voice cried,\n\"Speak to me, the family! Speak to me!\" In the published dialogue\nbetween Dr. Hodgson after his death and Professor Hyslop, Hodgson cries,\n\"Speak, Hyslop!\" when the power seemed to wane. For some reason it would\nappear either by vibrations or by concentrating attention to help the\ncommunicator. \"It is well with me,\" said the chief. \"This place is a\ngood place.\" He was with the dead of the tribe and described them, and\noffered to take messages to them. The incredulous white man asked where\na book had been concealed which only the dead man knew about. The place\nwas named and the book found. The white man himself did not know, so\nthere was no telepathy. Finally, with a \"Farewell!\" which came from high\nin the air, the spirit passed back to immaterial conditions.\n\nThis is, I think, a very remarkable narrative. If you take it as\nliterally true, which I most certainly do, since our experience\ncorroborates it, it gives us some points for reflection. One is that the\nprocess is one known in all the ages, as our Biblical reading has\nalready told us. A second is that a young barbarian chief with no\nadvantages of religion finds the next world a very pleasant place, just\nas our dead do, and that they love to come back and salute those whom\nthey have left, showing a keen memory of their earth life. Finally, we\nmust face the conclusion that the mere power of communication has no\nelevating effect in itself, otherwise these tribes could not have\ncontinued to be ferocious savages. It has to be united with the Christ\nmessage from beyond before it will really help us upon the upward path.\n\nBefore I left Wellington the spiritualists made me a graceful\npresentation of a travelling rug, and I was able to assure them that if\nthey found the rug I would find the travelling. It is made of the\nbeautiful woollen material in which New Zealand is supreme. The\npresentation was made by Mrs. Stables, the President of the New Zealand\nAssociation, an energetic lady to whom the cause owes much. A greenstone\npenholder was given to me for my wife, and a little charm for my small\ndaughter, the whole proceedings being marked with great cordiality and\ngood feeling. The faithful are strong in Wellington, but are much\ndivided among themselves, which, I hope, may be alleviated as a\nconsequence of my visit. Nothing could have been more successful than my\ntwo meetings. The Press was splendidly sympathetic, and I left by a\nnight boat in high heart for my campaign in the South Island.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n     The Anglican Colony.--Psychic dangers.--The learned dog.--Absurd\n     newspaper controversy.--A backward community.--The Maori\n     tongue.--Their origin.--Their treatment by the Empire.--A\n     fiasco.--The Pa of Kaiopoi.--Dr. Thacker.--Sir Joseph Kinsey.--A\n     generous collector.--Scott and Amundsen.--Dunedin.--A genuine\n     medium.--Evidence.--The shipping strike.--Sir Oliver.--Farewell.\n\n\nI am afraid that the average Britisher looks upon New Zealand as one\nsolid island. If he had to cross Cook's Strait to get from the northern\nto the southern half, he would never forget his lesson in geography, for\nit can be as nasty a bit of water as is to be found in the world, with\nocean waves, mountain winds and marine currents all combining into a\nhorrible chaos. Twelve good hours separate Wellington in the north from\nLyttelton, which is the port of Christchurch in the south. A very short\nrailway joins the two latter places. My luck held good, and I had an\nexcellent passage, dining in Wellington and breakfasting in\nChristchurch. It is a fine city, the centre of the famous Canterbury\ngrazing country. Four shiploads of people calling themselves the\nCanterbury Pilgrims arrived here in 1852, built a cathedral, were\npractically ruled over by Bishop Selwyn, and tried the successful\nexperiment of establishing a community which should be as Anglican as\nNew England is Nonconformist. The distinctive character has now largely\ndisappeared, but a splendid and very English city remains as a memorial\nof their efforts. When you are on the green, sloping banks of the river\nAvon, with the low, artistic bridges, it would not be hard to imagine\nthat you were in the Backs at Cambridge.\n\nAt Christchurch I came across one of those little bits of psychic\nevidence which may be taken as certainly true, and which can be\nregarded, therefore, as pieces which have to be fitted into the jig-saw\npuzzle in order to make the completed whole, at that far off date when a\ncompleted whole is within the reach of man's brain. It concerns Mr.\nMichie, a local Spiritualist of wide experience. On one occasion some\nyears ago, he practised a short cut to psychic power, acquired through a\ncertain method of breathing and of action, which amounts, in my opinion,\nto something in the nature of self-hypnotisation. I will not give\ndetails, as I think all such exercises are dangerous save for very\nexperienced students of these matters, who know the risk and are\nprepared to take it. The result upon Mr. Michie, through some disregard\nupon his part of the conditions which he was directed to observe, was\ndisastrous. He fell into an insidious illness with certain psychic\nsymptoms, and within a few months was reduced to skin and bone. Mr.\nMichie's wife is mediumistic and liable to be controlled. One day an\nentity came to her and spoke through her to her husband, claiming to be\nthe spirit of one, Gordon Stanley. He said: \"I can sympathise with your\ncase, because my own death was brought about in exactly the same way. I\nwill help you, however, to fight against it and to recover.\" The spirit\nthen gave an account of his own life, described himself as a clerk in\nCole's Book Arcade in Melbourne, and said that his widow was living at\nan address in Melbourne, which was duly given. Mr. Michie at once wrote\nto this address and received this reply, the original of which I have\nseen:\n\n                                                _\"Park Street,\n                                                         \"Melbourne._\n\n     \"DEAR SIR,--_I have just received your strange--I must say, your\n     very strange letter. Yes, I am Mrs. Stanley. My husband did die two\n     years ago from consumption. He was a clerk in Cole's Arcade. I must\n     say your letter gave me a great shock. But I cannot doubt after\n     what you have said, for I know you are a complete stranger to me._\"\n\nShortly afterwards Mr. Stanley returned again through the medium, said\nthat his widow was going to marry again, and that it was with his full\napprobation. The incident may be taken by our enemies as illustrating\nthe danger of psychic research, and we admit that there are forms of it\nwhich should be approached with caution, but I do not think that mankind\nwill ever be warned off by putting a danger label upon it, so long as\nthey think there is real knowledge to be gained. How could the motor-car\nor the aeroplane have been developed if hundreds had not been ready to\ngive their lives to pay the price? Here the price has been far less, and\nthe goal far higher, but if in gaining it a man were assured that he\nwould lose his health, his reason, or his life, it is none the less his\nduty to go forward if he clearly sees that there is something to be won.\nTo meet death in conquering death is to die in victory--the ideal death.\n\nWhilst I was at Auckland Mr. Poynton, a stipendiary magistrate there,\ntold me of a dog in Christchurch which had a power of thought\ncomparable, not merely to a human being, but even, as I understood him,\nto a clairvoyant, as it would bark out the number of coins in your\npocket and other such questions. The alternative to clairvoyance was\nthat he was a very quick and accurate thought-reader, but in some cases\nthe power seemed to go beyond this. Mr. Poynton, who had studied the\nsubject, mentioned four learned beasts in history: a marvellous horse in\nShakespeare's time, which was burned with its master in Florence; the\nBoston skipper's dog; Hans, the Russian horse, and Darkie of\nChristchurch. He investigated the latter himself, as one of a committee\nof three. On the first occasion they got no results. On the second,\nninety per cent. of the questions were right, and they included sums of\naddition, subtraction, etc. \"It was uncanny,\" he wrote.\n\nI called, therefore, upon Mrs. McGibbon, the owner, who allowed me to\nsee the dog. He was a dark, vivacious fox terrier, sixteen years old,\nblind and deaf, which obviously impaired his powers. In spite of his\nblindness he dashed at me the moment he was allowed into the room,\npawing at me and trembling all over with excitement. He was, in fact so\nexcited that he was of little use for demonstration, as when once he\nbegan to bark he could not be induced to stop. Occasionally he steadied\ndown, and gave us a touch of his true quality. When a half-crown was\nplaced before him and he was asked how many sixpences were in it, he\ngave five barks, and four for a florin, but when a shilling was\nsubstituted he gave twelve, which looked as if he had pennies in his\nmind. On the whole the performance was a failure, but as he had raised\nby exhibiting his gifts, L138 for war charities, I took my hat off to\nhim all the same. I will not imitate those psychic researchers who\nimagine that because they do not get a result, therefore, every one else\nwho has reported it is a cheat or a fool. On the contrary, I have no\ndoubt that the dog had these powers, though age and excitement have now\nimpaired them.\n\nThe creature's powers were first discovered when the son of the house\nremarked one day: \"I will give you a biscuit if you bark three times.\"\nHe at once did it. \"Now, six times.\" He did so. \"Now, take three off.\"\nHe barked three times once again. Since then they have hardly found any\nproblem he could not tackle. When asked how many males in the room he\nalways included himself in the number, but omitted himself when asked\nhow many human beings. One wonders how many other dogs have human brains\nwithout the humans being clever enough to detect it.\n\nI had an amusing controversy in Christchurch with one of the local\npapers, _The Press_, which represents the clerical interest, and, also,\nthe clerical intolerance of a cathedral city. It issued an article upon\nme and my beliefs, severe, but quite within the limits of legitimate\ncriticism, quoting against me Professor Hyslop, \"who,\" it said, \"is\nProfessor of Logic at Columbia, etc.\" To this I made the mild and\nobvious retort in the course of my lecture that as Professor Hyslop was\ndead, _The Press_ went even further than I in saying that he \"_is_\nProfessor at Columbia.\" Instead of accepting this correction, _The\nPress_ made the tactical error of standing by their assertion, and\naggravated it by head-lines which challenged me, and quoted my statement\nas \"typical of the inaccuracy of a Spiritualist.\" As I rather pride\nmyself on my accuracy, which has seldom been challenged, I answered\nshortly but politely, as follows:\n\n     \"SIR,--_I am surprised that the news of the death of Professor\n     Hyslop has not reached New Zealand, and even more surprised that it\n     could be imagined that I would make such a statement on a matter so\n     intimately connected with the subject upon which I lecture without\n     being sure of my fact. I am reported as saying 'some years,' but,\n     if so, it was a slip of the tongue for 'some time.' The Professor\n     died either late last year or early in the present one._\"\n\nI should have thought that my answer was conclusive, and would have\nelicited some sort of apology; but instead of this, _The Press_ called\nloudly upon me in a leading article to apologise, though for what I know\nnot, save that they asserted I had said \"some years,\" whereas I claim\nthat I actually said \"some time.\" This drew the following rather more\nsevere letter from me:\n\n     \"SIR,--_I am collecting New Zealand curiosities, so I will take\n     your leading article home with me. To get the full humour of it one\n     has to remember the sequence of events. In a leading article you\n     remarked that Professor Hyslop is Professor of Logic. I answered\n     with mild irony that he certainly is not, as he had been dead 'some\n     years' or 'some time'--which of the two is perfectly immaterial,\n     since I presume that in either case you would agree that he has\n     ceased to be Professor of Logic. To this you were rash enough to\n     reply with a challenging article with large head-lines, declaring\n     that I had blundered, and that this was typical of the inaccuracy\n     of Spiritualists. I wrote a gentle remonstrance to show that I had\n     not blundered, and that my assertion was essentially true, since\n     the man was dead. This you now tacitly admit, but instead of\n     expressing regret you ask for an apology from me. I have engaged\n     in much newspaper controversy, but I can truly say that I can\n     recall no such instance of effrontery as this._\"\n\nThis led to another leader and considerable abuse.\n\nThe controversy was, however, by no means one-sided, in spite of the\nshadow of the Cathedral. Mr. Peter Trolove is a man of wit as well as\nknowledge, and wields a pretty pen. A strong man, also, is Dr. John\nGuthrie, whose letter contains words so kindly that I must quote them:\n\n     \"_Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stands above it all, not only as a\n     courteous gentleman, but as a fair controversialist throughout. He\n     is, anyhow, a chivalrous and magnanimous personality, whether or\n     not his beliefs have any truth. Fancy quoting authorities against a\n     man who has spent great part of his life studying the subject, and\n     who knows the authorities better than all his opponents put\n     together--a man who has deliberately used his great gifts in an\n     honest attempt to get at truth. I do think that Christchurch has\n     some need to apologise for its controversialists--much more need\n     than our distinguished visitor has to apologise for what we all\n     know to be his honest convictions._\"\n\nI have never met Dr. John Guthrie in the flesh, but I would thank him\nhere, should this ever meet his eye, for this kindly protest.\n\nIt will be gathered that I succeeded at Christchurch in performing the\nfeat of waking up a Cathedral City, and all the ex-sleepers were\nprotesting loudly against such a disturbing inrush from the outer world.\nGlancing at the head-lines I see that Bishop Brodie declared it to be \"A\nblasphemy nurtured in fraud,\" the Dean of Christchurch writes it down as\n\"Spiritism, the abrogation of Reason,\" the Rev. John Patterson calls it\n\"an ancient delusion,\" the Rev. Mr. North says it is \"a foolish\nPaganism,\" and the Rev. Mr. Ready opines that it is \"a gospel of\nuncertainty and conjecture.\" Such are the clerical leaders of thought in\nChristchurch in the year 1920. I think of what the wise old Chinese\nControl said of similar types at the Melbourne Rescue Circle. \"He good\nman but foolish man. He learn better. Never rise till he learn better.\nPlenty time yet.\" Who loses except themselves?\n\nThe enormous number of letters which I get upon psychic subjects--which\nI do my best to answer--give me some curious sidelights, but they are\noften confidential, and would not bear publication. Some of them are\nfrom devout, but narrow Christians, who narrate psychic and prophetic\ngifts which they possess, and at the same time almost resent them on the\nground that they are condemned by the Bible. As if the whole Bible was\nnot psychic and prophetic! One very long letter detailed a whole\nsuccession of previsions of the most exact character, and wound up by\nthe conviction that we were on the edge of some great discovery. This\nwas illustrated by a simile which seemed very happy. \"Have you noticed\na tree covered in spider webs during a fog? Well, it was only through\nthe law of the fog that we saw them. They were there all the time, but\nonly when the moisture came could we see them.\" It was a good\nillustration. Many amazing experiences are detailed to me in every town\nI visit, and though I have no time to verify them and go into details,\nnone the less they fit so accurately with the various types of psychic\ncases with which I am familiar that I cannot doubt that such occurrences\nare really very common. It is the injudicious levity with which they are\nmet which prevents their being published by those who experience them.\n\nAs an amateur philologist of a superficial type, I am greatly interested\nin studying the Maori language, and trying to learn whence these\nwonderful savages came before their twenty-two terrible canoes came down\nupon the unhappy land which would have been safer had as many shiploads\nof tigers been discharged upon its beach. The world is very old, and\nthese folk have wandered from afar, and by many devious paths. Surely\nthere are Celtic traces both in their appearance, their character and\ntheir language. An old Maori woman smoking her pipe is the very image of\nan old Celtic woman occupied the same way. Their word for water is\n_wei_, and England is full of Wye and Way river names, dating from the\ndays before the Germans arrived. Strangest of all is their name for the\nsupreme God. A name never mentioned and taboo among them, is Io. \"J\"\nis, of course, interchangeable with \"I,\" so that we get the first two\nletters of Jove and an approximation of Jehovah. Papa is parent.\nAltogether there is good evidence that they are from the same root as\nsome European races, preferably the Celts. But on the top of this comes\na whole series of Japanese combinations of letters, Rangi, Muru, Tiki,\nand so forth, so that many of the place names seem pure Japanese. What\nare we to make of such a mixture? Is it possible that one Celtic branch,\nfar away in the mists of time, wandered east while their racial brethren\nwandered west, so that part reached far Corea while the others reached\nIreland? Then, after getting a tincture of Japanese terms and word\nendings, they continued their migration, taking to the seas, and finally\nsubduing the darker races who inhabited the Polynesian Islands, so\nmaking their way to New Zealand. This wild imagining would at least\ncover the observed facts. It is impossible to look at some of the Maori\nfaces without realising that they are of European stock.\n\nI must interpolate a paragraph here to say that I was pleased, after\nwriting the above, to find that in my blind gropings I had come upon the\nmain conclusions which have been put forward with very full knowledge by\nthe well-known authority, Dr. McMillan Brown. He has worked out the very\nfact which I surmised, that the Maoris are practically of the same stock\nas Europeans, that they had wandered Japan-wards, and had finally taken\nto the sea. There are two points of interest which show the date of\ntheir exodus was a very ancient one. The first is that they have not\nthe use of the bow. The second is that they have no knowledge of metals.\nSuch knowledge once possessed would never have been lost, so it is safe\nto say that they left Asia a thousand years (as a minimum) before\nChrist, for at that date the use of bronze, at any rate, was widespread.\nWhat adventures and vicissitudes this remarkable race, so ignorant in\nsome directions and so advanced in others, must have endured during\nthose long centuries. If you look at the wonderful ornaments of their\nold war canoes, which carry a hundred men, and can traverse the whole\nPacific, it seems almost incredible that human patience and ingenuity\ncould construct the whole fabric with instruments of stone. They valued\nthem greatly when once they were made, and the actual names of the\ntwenty-two original invading canoes are still recorded.\n\n     Illustration: THE PEOPLE OF TURI'S CANOE, AFTER A VOYAGE OF GREAT\n     HARDSHIP, AT LAST SIGHT THE SHORES OF NEW ZEALAND. From a painting\n     in the Auckland Art Gallery by C. F. Goldie and L. J. Steele.\n\nIn the public gallery of Auckland they have a duplicate of one of these\nenormous canoes. It is 87 feet in length and the thwarts are broad\nenough to hold three or four men. When it was filled with its hundred\nwarriors, with the chief standing in the centre to give time to the\nrowers, it must, as it dashed through the waves, have been a truly\nterrific object. I should think that it represented the supreme\nachievement of neolithic man. There are a series of wonderful pictures\nof Maori life in the same gallery by Goldie and Steele. Of these I\nreproduce, by permission, one which represents the starving crew of one\ncanoe sighting the distant shore. The engraving only gives a faint\nindication of the effect of the vividly-coloured original.\n\nReference has been made to the patient industry of the Maori race. A\nsupreme example of this is that every man had his tikki, or image of a\nlittle idol made of greenstone, which was hung round his neck. Now, this\nNew Zealand greenstone is one of the hardest objects in nature, and yet\nit is worn down without metals into these quaint figures. On an average\nit took ten years to make one, and it was rubbed down from a chunk of\nstone into an image by the constant friction of a woman's foot.\n\nIt is said that the Tahungas, or priests, have much hereditary knowledge\nof an occult sort. Their oracles were famous, and I have already quoted\nan example of their seances. A student of Maori lore told me the\nfollowing interesting story. He was a student of Maori words, and on one\noccasion a Maori chief let slip an unusual word, let us say \"buru,\" and\nthen seemed confused and refused to answer when the Englishman asked the\nmeaning. The latter took it to a friend, a Tohunga, who seemed much\nsurprised and disturbed, and said it was a word of which a paheka or\nwhite man should know nothing. Not to be beaten, my informant took it to\nan old and wise chief who owed him a return for some favours. This chief\nwas also much exercised in mind when he heard the word, and walked up\nand down in agitation. Finally he said, \"Friend, we are both Christians.\nYou remember the chapter in the Bible where Jacob wrestled with an\nangel. Well, this word 'buru' represents that for which they were\nwrestling.\" He would say no more and there it had perforce to be left.\n\nThe British Empire may be proud of their treatment of the Maoris. Like\nthe Jews, they object to a census, but their number cannot be more than\n50,000 in a population of over a million. There is no question,\ntherefore, of our being constrained to treat them well. Yet they own\nvast tracts of the best land in the country, and so unquestioned are\ntheir rights that when they forbade a railway to pass down the centre of\nthe North Island, the traffic had to go by sea from Auckland until, at\nlast, after many years, it was shown to the chiefs that their financial\ninterests would be greatly aided by letting the railway through. These\nfinancial interests are very large, and many Maoris are wealthy men,\nbuying expensive motor cars and other luxuries. Some of the more\neducated take part in legislative work, and are distinguished for their\neloquence. The half-castes make a particularly fine breed, especially in\ntheir youth, for they tend as they grow older to revert to the pure\nMaori type. New Zealand has no national sin upon its conscience as\nregards the natives, which is more, I fear, than can be said\nwhole-heartedly for Australia, and even less for Tasmania. Our people\nnever descended to the level of the old Congo, but they have something\non their conscience none the less.\n\nOn December 18th there was some arrangement by which I should meet the\nMaoris and see the historic Pa of Kaiopoi. The affair, however, was, I\nam sorry to say, a fiasco. As we approached the building, which was the\nvillage school room, there emerged an old lady--a very old lady--who\nuttered a series of shrill cries, which I was told meant welcome,\nthough they sounded more like the other thing. I can only trust that my\ninformants were right. Inside was a very fine assemblage of atmospheric\nair, and of nothing else. The explanation was that there had been a\nwedding the night before, and that the whole community had been--well,\ntired. Presently a large man in tweeds of the reach-me-down variety\nappeared upon the scene, and several furtive figures, including a row of\nchildren, materialised in corners of the big empty room. The visitors,\nwho were more numerous than the visited, sat on a long bench and waited\ndevelopments which refused to develop. My dreams of the dignified and\nbefeathered savage were drifting away. Finally, the large man, with his\nhands in his pockets, and looking hard at a corner of the rafters, made\na speech of welcome, punctuated by long stops and gaps. He then, at our\nrequest, repeated it in Maori, and the children were asked to give a\nMaori shout, which they sternly refused to do. I then made a few feeble\nbleats, uncertain whether to address my remarks to the level of the\nlarge man or to that of the row of children. I ended by handing over\nsome books for their library, and we then escaped from this rather\ndepressing scene.\n\nBut it was a very different matter with the Pa. I found it intensely\ninteresting. You could still trace quite clearly the main lines of the\nbattle which destroyed it. It lay on about five acres of ground, with\ndeep swamp all round save for one frontage of some hundreds of yards.\nThat was all which really needed defence. The North Island natives, who\nwere of a sterner breed than those of the South, came down under the\nfamous Rauparaha (these Maori names are sad snags in a story) and\nbesieged the place. One can see the saps and follow his tactics, which\nended by piling brushwood against the palings--please observe the root\n\"pa\" in palings--with the result that he carried the place. Massacre\nHill stands close by, and so many of the defenders were eaten that their\ngnawed bones covered the ground within the memory of living men. Such\nthings may have been done by the father of the elderly gentleman who\npasses you in his motor car with his race glasses slung across his\nchest. The siege of Kaiopoi was about 1831. Even on a fine sunlit day I\nwas conscious of that heavy atmosphere within the enclosure which\nimpresses itself upon me when I am on the scene of ancient violence. So\nfrightful an episode within so limited a space, where for months the\ngarrison saw its horrible fate drawing nearer day by day, must surely\nhave left some etheric record even to our blunt senses.\n\nI was indebted to Dr. Thacker, the mayor, for much kind attention whilst\nin Christchurch. He is a giant man, but a crippled giant, alas, for he\nstill bears the traces of an injury received in a historic football\nmatch, which left his and my old University of Edinburgh at the top of\nthe tree in Scotland. He showed me some curious, if ghastly, relics of\nhis practice. One of these was a tumour of the exact size and shape of a\nboxing glove, thumb and all, which he cut out of the back of a boxer\nwho had lost a glove fight and taken it greatly to heart. Always on many\nconverging lines we come back to the influence of mind over matter.\n\nAnother most pleasant friendship which I made in Christchurch was with\nSir Joseph Kinsey, who has acted as father to several successive British\nArctic expeditions. Scott and Shackleton have both owed much to him,\ntheir constant agent, adviser and friend. Scott's dying hand traced a\nletter to him, so unselfish and so noble that it alone would put Scott\nhigh in the gallery of British worthies. Of all modern men of action\nScott seems to me the most lofty. To me he was only an acquaintance, but\nKinsey, who knew him well as a friend, and Lady Kinsey, who had all\nArctic exploration at her finger ends, were of the same opinion.\n\nSir Joseph discussed the action of Amundsen in making for the pole. When\nit was known that Amundsen was heading south instead of pursuing his\nadvertised intentions, Kinsey smelled danger and warned Scott, who,\nspeaking from his own noble loyalty, said, \"He would never do so\ndishonourable a thing. My plans are published and are known to all the\nworld.\" However, when he reached the ice, and when Pennell located the\n\"Fram,\" he had to write and admit that Kinsey was right. It was a sad\nblow, that forestalling, though he took it like the man that he was.\nNone the less, it must have preyed upon the spirits of all his party and\nweakened their resistance in that cruel return journey. On the other\nhand Amundsen's expedition, which was conducted on rather less than a\nsixth of the cost of the British, was a triumph of organisation, and he\nhad the good luck or deep wisdom to strike a route which was clear of\nthose great blizzards which overwhelmed Scott. The scurvy was surely a\nslur upon our medical preparations. According to Stefansson, who knows\nmore of the matter than any living man, lime juice is useless,\nvegetables are of secondary importance, but fresh animal food, be it\nseal, penguin, or what you will, is the final preventive.\n\nSir Joseph is a passionate and discriminating collector, and has but one\nfault in collecting, which is a wide generosity. You have but to visit\nhim often enough and express sufficient interest to absorb all his\ntreasures. Perhaps my protests were half-hearted, but I emerged from his\nhouse with a didrachm of Alexander, a tetradrachm of some Armenian\nmonarch, a sheet of rare Arctic stamps for Denis, a lump of native\ngreenstone, and a small nugget of gold. No wonder when I signed some\nbooks for him I entered the date as that of \"The Sacking of Woomeroo,\"\nthat being the name of his dwelling. The mayor, in the same spirit of\nhospitality, pressed upon me a huge bone of the extinct Moa, but as I\nhad never failed to impress upon my wife the extreme importance of\ncutting down our luggage, I could not face the scandal of appearing with\nthis monstrous impedimentum.\n\nLeaving Christchurch in the journalistic uproar to which allusion has\nbeen made, our engagements took us on to Dunedin, which is reached by\nrail in a rather tiring day's journey. A New Zealand train is excellent\nwhile it is running, but it has a way of starting with an epileptic\nleap, and stopping with a bang, which becomes wearisome after a while.\nOn the other hand this particular journey is beguiled by the fact that\nthe line runs high for two hours round the curve of the hills with the\nPacific below, so that a succession of marvellous views opens out before\nyou as you round each spur. There can be few more beautiful lines.\n\nDunedin was founded in 1848 by a group of Scotsmen, and it is modelled\nso closely upon Edinburgh that the familiar street names all reappear,\nand even Portobello has its duplicate outside the town. The climate,\nalso, I should judge to be about the same. The prevailing tone of the\ncommunity is still Scottish, which should mean that they are sympathetic\nwith my mission, for nowhere is Spiritualism more firmly established now\nthan in Scotland, especially in Glasgow, where a succession of great\nmediums and of earnest workers have built up a considerable\norganisation. I soon found that it was so, for nowhere had I more\nprivate assurances of support, nor a better public reception, the\ntheatre being filled at each lecture. In the intervals kind friends put\ntheir motors at my disposal and I had some splendid drives over the\nhills, which look down upon the winding estuary at the head of which the\ntown is situated.\n\nAt the house of Mr. Reynolds, of Dunedin, I met one of the most powerful\nclairvoyants and trance mediums whom I have tested. Her name is Mrs.\nRoberts, and though her worldly circumstances are modest, she has never\naccepted any money for her wonderful psychic gifts. For this I honour\nher, but, as I told her, we all sell the gifts which God has given us,\nand I cannot see why, and within reason, psychic gifts should not also\nbe placed within the reach of the public, instead of being confined to a\nfavoured few. How can the bulk of the people ever get into touch with a\ngood medium if they are debarred from doing so in the ordinary way of\nbusiness?\n\nMrs. Roberts is a stout, kindly woman, with a motherly manner, and a\nsensitive, expressive face. When in touch with my conditions she at once\ngave the names of several relatives and friends who have passed over,\nwithout any slurring or mistakes. She then cried, \"I see an elderly lady\nhere--she is a beautifully high spirit--her name is Selina.\" This rather\nunusual name belonged to my wife's mother, who died nearly two years\nago. Then, suddenly, becoming slightly convulsed, as a medium does when\nher mechanism is controlled by another, she cried with an indescribable\nintensity of feeling, \"Thank God! Thank God to get in touch again! Jean!\nJean! Give my dear love to Jean!\" Both names, therefore, had been got\ncorrectly, that of the mother and the daughter. Is it not an affront to\nreason to explain away such results by wild theories of telepathy, or by\nanything save the perfectly plain and obvious fact that spirit communion\nis indeed true, and that I was really in touch with that dead lady who\nwas, even upon earth, a beautifully high and unselfish spirit. I had a\nnumber of other communications through Mrs. Roberts that night, and at a\nsecond interview two days later, not one of which erred so far as names\nwere concerned. Among others was one who professed to be Dr. Russell\nWallace. I should be honoured, indeed, to think that it was so, but I\nwas unable to hit on anything which would be evidential. I asked him if\nhis further experience had taught him anything more about reincarnation,\nwhich he disputed in his lifetime. He answered that he now accepted it,\nthough I am not clear whether he meant for all cases. I thanked him for\nany spiritual help I had from him. His answer was \"Me! Don't thank me!\nYou would be surprised if you knew who your real helpers are.\" He added,\n\"By your work I rise. We are co-workers!\" I pray that it be so, for few\nmen have lived for whom I have greater respect; wise and brave, and\nmellow and good. His biography was a favourite book of mine long before\nI understood the full significance of Spiritualism, which was to him an\nevolution of the spirit on parallel lines to that evolution of the body\nwhich he did so much to establish.\n\nNow that my work in New Zealand was drawing to a close a very grave\nproblem presented itself to Mr. Smythe and myself, and that was how we\nwere to get back to our families in Australia. A strike had broken out,\nwhich at first seemed a small matter, but it was accentuated by the\napproach of Christmas and the fact that many of the men were rather\nlooking for an excuse for a holiday. Every day things became blacker.\nOnce before Mr. Smythe had been held up for four months by a similar\ncause, and, indeed, it has become a very serious consideration for all\nwho visit New Zealand. We made a forced march for the north amid\nconstant rumours that far from reaching Australia we could not even get\nto the North Island, as the twelve-hour ferry boats were involved in the\nstrike. I had every trust in my luck, or, as I should prefer to say, in\nmy helpers, and we got the _Maori_ on the last ferry trip which she was\nsure to take. Up to the last moment the firemen wavered, and we had no\nstewards on board, but none the less, to our inexpressible relief we got\noff. There was no food on the ship and no one to serve it, so we went\ninto a small hostel at Lyttleton before we started, to see what we could\npick up. There was a man seated opposite to me who assumed the air of\nlaboured courtesy and extreme dignity, which is one phase of alcoholism.\n\n\"'Scuse me, sir!\" said he, looking at me with a glassy stare, \"but you\nbear most 'straordinary resemblance Olver Lodge.\"\n\nI said something amiable.\n\n\"Yes, sir--'straordinary! Have you ever seen Olver Lodge, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have.\"\n\n\"Well, did you perceive resemblance?\"\n\n\"Sir Oliver, as I remember him, was a tall man with a grey beard.\"\n\nHe shook his head at me sadly.\n\n\"No, sir--I heard him at Wellington last week. No beard. A moustache,\nsir, same as your own.\"\n\n\"You're sure it was Sir Oliver?\"\n\nA slow smile came over his face.\n\n\"Blesh my soul--Conan Doyle--that's the name. Yes, sir, you bear truly\nremarkable resemblance Conan Doyle.\"\n\nI did not say anything further so I daresay he has not discovered yet\nthe true cause of the resemblance.\n\nAll the nerve-wracking fears of being held up which we endured at\nLyttleton were repeated at Wellington, where we had taken our passages\nin the little steamer _Paloona_. In any case we had to wait for a day,\nwhich I spent in clearing up my New Zealand affairs while Mr. Smythe\ninterviewed the authorities and paid no less than L141 war tax upon the\nreceipts of our lectures--a heavy impost upon a fortnight's work. Next\nmorning, with our affairs and papers all in order, we boarded our little\ncraft.\n\nUp to the last moment we had no certainty of starting. Not only was the\nstrike in the air, but it was Christmas Eve, and it was natural enough\nthat the men should prefer their own homes to the stokehole of the\n_Paloona_. Agents with offers of increased pay were scouring the docks.\nFinally our complement was completed, and it was a glad moment when the\nhawsers were thrown off, and after the usual uncomfortable preliminaries\nwe found ourselves steaming in a sharp wind down the very turbulent\nwaters of Cook's Strait.\n\nThe place is full of Cook's memory. Everywhere the great man has left\nhis traces. We passed Cook's Island where the _Endeavour_ actually\nstruck and had to be careened and patched. What a nerve the fellow had!\nSo coolly and deliberately did he do his work that even now his charting\nholds good, I understand, in many long stretches of coast. Tacking and\nwearing, he poked and pried into every estuary, naming capes, defining\nbays, plotting out positions, and yet all the while at the mercy of the\nwinds, with a possible lee shore always before him, with no comrade\nwithin hail, and with swarms of cannibals eyeing his little ship from\nthe beach. After I have seen his work I shall feel full of reverence\nevery time I pass that fine statue which adorns the mall side of the\ngreat Admiralty building.\n\nAnd now we are out in the open sea, with Melbourne, Sydney and love in\nfront of our prow. Behind the sun sets in a slur of scarlet above the\nolive green hills, while the heavy night fog, crawling up the valleys,\nturns each of them into a glacier. A bright star twinkles above. Below a\nlight shines out from the gloom. Farewell, New Zealand! I shall never\nsee you again, but perhaps some memory of my visit may remain--or not,\nas God pleases.\n\nAnyhow, my own memory will remain. Every man looks on his own country as\nGod's own country if it be a free land, but the New Zealander has more\nreason than most. It is a lovely place, and contains within its moderate\nlimits the agricultural plains of England, the lakes and hills of\nScotland, the glaciers of Switzerland, and the fiords of Norway, with a\nfine hearty people, who do not treat the British newcomer with ignorant\ncontempt or hostility. There are so many interests and so many openings\nthat it is hard to think that a man will not find a career in New\nZealand. Canada, Australia and South Africa seem to me to be closely\nbalanced so far as their attractions for the emigrant goes, but when one\nconsiders that New Zealand has neither the winter of Canada, the\ndroughts of Australia, nor the racial problems of Africa, it does surely\nstand supreme, though it demands, as all of them do, both labour and\ncapital from the newcomer.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n     Christian origins.--Mithraism.--Astronomy.--Exercising boats.--Bad\n     news from home.--Futile strikes.--Labour Party.--The blue\n     wilderness.--Journey to Brisbane.--Warm reception.--Friends and\n     foes.--Psychic experience of Dr. Doyle.--Birds.--Criticism on\n     Melbourne.--Spiritualist Church.--Ceremony.--Sir Matthew\n     Nathan.--Alleged repudiation of Queensland.--Billy tea.--The bee\n     farm.--Domestic service in Australia.--Hon. John Fihilly.--Curious\n     photograph by the state photographer.--The \"Orsova.\"\n\n\nThe voyage back from New Zealand to Melbourne was pleasant and\nuneventful, though the boat was small and there was a sea rough enough\nto upset many of the passengers. We were fortunate in our Captain,\nDoorby, who, I found, was a literary confrere with two books to his\ncredit, one of them a record of the relief ship _Morning_, in which he\nhad served at the time of Scott's first expedition, the other a little\nbook, \"The Handmaiden of the Navy,\" which gave some of his adventures\nand experiences in the merchant service during the great war. He had\nbeen torpedoed once, and had lost, on another occasion, nearly all his\ncrew with plague, so that he had much that was interesting to talk\nabout. Mr. Blake, of the _Strand Magazine_, was also on board. A\nUnitarian Minister, Mr. Hale, was also a valuable companion, and we had\nmuch discussion over the origins of Christianity, which was the more\ninteresting to me as I had taken advantage of the voyage to re-read the\nActs and Paul's Epistles. There are no documents which can be read so\noften and yet reveal something new, the more so when you have that\noccult clue which is needful before Paul can be understood. It is\nnecessary also to know something of Mythra worship and the other\nphilosophies which Paul had learned, and woven into his Christianity. I\nhave stated elsewhere my belief that all expressions about redemption by\nblood, the blood of the lamb, etc., are founded upon the parallel of the\nblood of the bull which was shed by the Mythra-worshippers, and in which\nthey were actually baptised. Enlarging upon this, Mr. Hale pointed out\non the authority, if I remember right, of Pfleiderer's \"Christian\nOrigins,\" that in the Mythra service something is placed over the\ncandidate, a hide probably, which is called \"putting on Mythra,\" and\ncorresponds with Paul's expression about \"putting on Christ.\" Paul, with\nhis tremendous energy and earnestness, fixed Christianity upon the\nworld, but I wonder what Peter and those who had actually heard Christ's\nwords thought about it all. We have had Paul's views about Christ, but\nwe do not know Christ's views about Paul. He had been, as we are told by\nhimself, a Jewish Pharisee of the strictest type in his youth at\nJerusalem, but was a Roman citizen, had lived long at Tarsus, which was\na centre of Mithraism, and was clearly famous for his learning, since\nFestus twitted him with it. The simple tenets of the carpenter and the\nfishermen would take strange involved forms in such a brain as that. His\nepistles are presumably older than the gospels, which may, in their\nsimplicity, represent a protest against his confused theology.\n\nIt was an enjoyable voyage in the little _Paloona_, and rested me after\nthe whirlwind campaign of New Zealand. In large liners one loses in\nromance what one gains in comfort. On a small ship one feels nearer to\nNature, to the water and even to the stars. On clear nights we had\nmagnificent displays of the Southern heaven. I profited by the\nastronomical knowledge of Mr. Smythe. Here first I was introduced to\nAlpha Centauri, which is the nearest fixed star, and, therefore, the\ncobber to the sun. It is true that it is distant 3-1/2 years of light\ntravel, and light travels at about 182,000 miles a second, but when one\nconsiders that it takes centuries for average starlight to reach us, we\nmay consider Alpha as snuggling close up to us for companionship in the\nlonely wastes of space. The diamond belt of Orion looks homely enough\nwith the bright solitaire Sirius sparkling beside it, but there are the\nMagellanic clouds, the scattered wisps torn from the Milky Way, and\nthere is the strange black space called the Coalsack, where one seems to\nlook right past all created things into a bottomless void. What would\nnot Galileo and all the old untravelled astronomers have given to have\none glimpse of this wondrous Southern display?\n\nCaptain Doorby, finding that he had time in hand, ran the ship into a\nsmall deserted bay upon the coast, and, after anchoring, ordered out\nall the boats for the sake of practice. It was very well done, and yet\nwhat I saw convinced me that it should be a Board of Trade regulation,\nif it is not one already, that once, at least, near the beginning of\nevery long voyage, this should be compulsory. It is only when you come\nto launch them that you really realise which of the davits is rusted up,\nand which block is tangled, or which boat is without a plug. I was much\nimpressed by this idea as I watched the difficulties which were\nencountered even in that secluded anchorage.\n\nThe end of my journey was uneventful, but my joy at being reunited with\nmy family was clouded by the news of the death of my mother. She was\neighty-three years of age, and had for some years been almost totally\nblind, so that her change was altogether a release, but it was sad to\nthink that we should never see the kind face and gracious presence again\nin its old material form. Denis summed up our feelings when he cried,\n\"What a reception Grannie must have had!\" There was never any one who\nhad so broad and sympathetic a heart, a world-mother mourning over\neverything which was weak or oppressed, and thinking nothing of her own\ntime and comfort in her efforts to help the sufferers. Even when blind\nand infirm she would plot and plan for the benefit of others, thinking\nout their needs, and bringing about surprising results by her\nintervention. For my own psychic work she had, I fear, neither sympathy\nnor understanding, but she had an innate faith and spirituality which\nwere so natural to her that she could not conceive the needs of others\nin that direction. She understands now.\n\nWhilst in the Blue Mountains I was forced to reconsider my plans on\naccount of the strike which has paralysed all coastal trade. If I should\nbe able to reach Tasmania I might be unable to return, and it would,\nindeed, be a tragic situation if my family were ready to start for\nEngland in the _Naldera_, and I was unable to join them. I felt,\ntherefore, that I was not justified in going to Tasmania, even if I were\nable, which is very doubtful. It was sad, as it spoiled the absolute\ncompleteness of my tour, but on the other hand I felt sure that I should\nfind plenty of work to do on the mainland, without taking so serious a\nrisk.\n\nIt is a terrible thing to see this young country, which needs every hour\nof time and every ounce of energy for its speedy development frittering\nitself away in these absurd conflicts, which never give any result to\ncompare with the loss. One feels that in the stern contests of nations\none will arise which has economic discipline, and that none other could\nstand against it. If the training of reorganised Germany should take\nthis shape she will conquer and she will deserve to conquer. It is a\nmonstrous abuse that Compulsory Arbitration Courts should be\nestablished, as is the case in Australia, and that Unions should either\nstrike against their decisions, or should anticipate their decisions, as\nin the case of these stewards, by forcing a strike. In such a case I\nhold that the secretary and every other official of the Union should be\nprosecuted and heavily fined, if not imprisoned. It is the only way by\nwhich the community can be saved from a tyranny which is quite as real\nas that of any autocrat. What would be said, for example, of a king who\ncut off the islands of Tasmania and New Zealand from communication with\nthe outer world, deranging the whole Christmas arrangements of countless\nfamilies who had hoped to reunite? Yet this is what has been done by a\nhandful of stewards with some trivial grievance. A fireman who objects\nto the cooking can hold up a great vessel. There is nothing but chaos in\nfront of a nation unless it insists upon being master in its own house,\nand forbids either employed or employer to do that which is for the\ncommon scathe. The time seems to be coming when Britons, the world over,\nwill have to fight for liberty against licence just as hard as ever they\nfought for her against tyranny. This I say with full sympathy for the\nLabour Party, which I have often been tempted to join, but have always\nbeen repelled by their attempt to bully the rest of the State instead of\nusing those means which would certainly ensure their legitimate success,\neven if it took some years to accomplish. There are many anomalies and\ninjustices, and it is only a people's party which can set them right.\nHereditary honours are an injustice, lands owned by feudal or royal gift\nare an injustice, increased private wealth through the growth of towns\nis an injustice, coal royalties are an injustice, the expense of the law\nis a glaring injustice, the support of any single religion by the State\nis an injustice, our divorce laws are an injustice--with such a list a\nreal honest Labour Party would be a sure winner if it could persuade us\nall that it would not commit injustices itself, and bolster up labour\nartificially at the expense of every one else. It is not organised\nlabour which moves me, for it can take care of itself, but it is the\nindigent governesses with thirty pounds a year, the broken people, the\npeople with tiny pensions, the struggling widows with children--when I\nthink of all these and then of the man who owns a county I feel that\nthere is something deeply, deeply wrong which nothing but some great\nstrong new force can set right.\n\nOne finds in the Blue Mountains that opportunity of getting alone with\nreal Nature, which is so healing and soothing a thing. The wild scrub\nflows up the hillsides to the very grounds of the hotels, and in a very\nfew minutes one may find oneself in the wilderness of ferns and gum\ntrees unchanged from immemorial ages. It is a very real danger to the\nyoung or to those who have no sense of direction, for many people have\nwandered off and never come back alive--in fact, there is a specially\nenrolled body of searchers who hunt for the missing visitor. I have\nnever in all my travels seen anything more spacious and wonderful than\nthe view from the different sandstone bluffs, looking down into the huge\ngullies beneath, a thousand feet deep, where the great gum trees look\nlike rows of cabbages. I suppose that in water lies the force which, in\nthe course of ages, has worn down the soft, sandy rock and formed these\ncolossal clefts, but the effects are so enormous that one is inclined to\nthink some great earth convulsion must also have been concerned in their\nproduction. Some of the cliffs have a sheer drop of over one thousand\nfeet, which is said to be unequalled in the world.\n\nThese mountains are so precipitous and tortuous, presenting such a maze\nto the explorer, that for many years they were a formidable barrier to\nthe extension of the young Colony. There were only about forty miles of\narable land from the coast to the great Hawkesbury River, which winds\nround the base of the mountains. Then came this rocky labyrinth. At\nlast, in 1812, four brave and persevering men--Blaxland, Evans,\nWentworth and Lawson--took the matter in hand, and after many\nadventures, blazed a trail across, by which all the splendid hinterland\nwas opened up, including the gold fields, which found their centre in\nthe new town of Bathurst. When one reflects that all the gold had to be\nbrought across this wilderness, with unexplored woodlands fringing the\nroad, it is no wonder that a race of bushrangers sprang into existence,\nand the marvel is that the police should ever have been able to hunt\nthem down. So fresh is all this very vital history in the development of\na nation, that one can still see upon the trees the marks of the\nexplorers' axes, as they endeavoured to find a straight trail among the\ncountless winding gullies. At Mount York, the highest view-point, a\nmonument has been erected to them, at the place from which they got the\nfirst glimpse of the promised land beyond.\n\nWe had been told that in the tropical weather now prevailing, it was\nquite vain for us to go to Queensland, for no one would come to listen\nto lectures. My own belief was, however, that this subject has stirred\npeople very deeply, and that they will suffer any inconvenience to learn\nabout it. Mr. Smythe was of opinion, at first, that my audiences were\ndrawn from those who came from curiosity because they had read my\nwritings, but when he found that the second and the third meetings were\nas full as the first, he was forced to admit that the credit of success\nlay with the matter rather than with the man. In any case I reflected\nthat my presence in Brisbane would certainly bring about the usual Press\ncontroversy, with a free ventilation of the subject, so we determined to\ngo. Mr. Smythe, for once, did not accompany us, but the very capable\nlady who assists him, Miss Sternberg, looked after all arrangements.\n\nIt was a very wearisome train journey of twenty-eight hours; tropically\nhot, rather dusty, with a change in the middle, and the usual stuffiness\nof a sleeper, which was superior to the ordinary American one, but below\nthe British standard. How the Americans, with their nice sense of\ndecency, can stand the awful accommodation their railway companies give\nthem, or at any rate, used to give them, is incomprehensible, but public\nopinion in all matters asserts itself far less directly in America than\nin Britain. Australia is half-way between, and, certainly, I have seen\nabuses there in the management of trains, posts, telegrams and\ntelephones, which would have evoked loud protests at home. I think that\nthere is more initiative at home. For example, when the railway strike\nthreatened to throttle the country, the public rose to the occasion and\nimprovised methods which met the difficulty. I have not heard of\nanything of the kind in the numerous strikes with which this community\nis harassed. Any individual action arouses attention. I remember the\namusement of the Hon. Agar Wynne when, on arriving late at Melbourne, in\nthe absence of porters, I got a trolley, placed my own luggage on it,\nand wheeled it to a cab. Yet we thought nothing of that when labour was\nshort in London.\n\nThe country north of Sydney is exactly like the Blue Mountains, on a\nlesser scale--riven ranges of sandstone covered with gum trees. I cannot\nunderstand those who say there is nothing worth seeing in Australia, for\nI know no big city which has glorious scenery so near it as Sydney.\nAfter crossing the Queensland border, one comes to the Darling Downs,\nunsurpassed for cattle and wheat. Our first impressions of the new State\nwere that it was the most naturally rich of any Australian Colony, and\nthe longer we were in it, the more did we realise that this was indeed\nso. It is so enormous, however, that it is certain, sooner or later, to\nbe divided into a South, Middle, and North, each of which will be a\nlarge and flourishing community. We observed from the railway all sorts\nof new vegetable life, and I was especially interested to notice that\nour English Yellow Mullein was lining the track, making its way\ngradually up country.\n\nEven Sydney did not provide a warmer and more personal welcome than that\nwhich we both received when we at last reached Brisbane. At Toowoomba,\nand other stations on the way, small deputations of Spiritualists had\nmet the train, but at Brisbane the platform was crowded. My wife was\ncovered with flowers, and we were soon made to realise that we had been\nmisinformed in the south, when we were told that the movement was\nconfined to a small circle.\n\nWe were tired, but my wife rose splendidly to the occasion. The local\npaper says: \"Carefully concealing all feelings of fatigue and tiredness\nafter the long and wearisome train journey from Sydney, Lady Doyle\ncharmed the large gathering of Spiritualists assembled at the Central\nRailway Station on Saturday night, to meet her and her husband. In\nvivacious fashion, Lady Doyle responded to the many enthusiastic\ngreetings, and she was obviously delighted with the floral gifts\npresented to her on her arrival. To a press representative, Lady Doyle\nexpressed her admiration of the Australian scenery, and she referred\nenthusiastically to the Darling Downs district and to the Toowoomba\nRange. During her husband's absence in New Zealand, Lady Doyle and her\nchildren spent a holiday in the Blue Mountains (New South Wales), and\nwere delighted with the innumerable gorgeous beauty spots there.\"\n\nAfter a short experience, when we were far from comfortable, we found\nour way to the Bellevue Hotel, where a kindly old Irish proprietress,\nMrs. Finegan, gave us greater attention and luxury than we had found\nanywhere up to then on the Australian continent.\n\nThe usual press discussion was in full swing. The more bigoted clergy in\nBrisbane, as elsewhere, were very vituperative, but so unreasonable and\nbehind their own congregations in knowledge and intelligence, that they\nmust have alienated many who heard them. Father Lane, for example,\npreaching in the cathedral, declared that the whole subject was \"an\nabomination to the Lord.\" He does not seem to have asked himself why the\nLord gave us these powers if they are an abomination. He also declared\nthat we denied our moral responsibility to God in this life, a\nresponsibility which must have weighed rather lightly upon Father Lane\nwhen he made so false a statement. The Rev. L. H. Jaggers, not to be\noutdone in absurdity by Father Lane, described all our fellow-mortals of\nIndia, China and Japan as \"demoniacal races.\" Dr. Cosh put forward the\nPresbyterian sentiment that I was Anti-Christ, and a serious menace to\nthe spiritual life of Australia. Really, when I see the want of all\ntruth and charity shown by these gentlemen, it does begin to convince me\nof the reality of diabolical interference in the affairs of mankind, for\nI cannot understand why, otherwise, such efforts should be made to\nobscure, by falsehood and abuse, the great revelation and comfort which\nGod has sent us. The opposition culminated in an open letter from Dr.\nCosh in the _Mail_, demanding that I should define my exact views as to\nthe Trinity, the Atonement, and other such mysteries. I answered by\npointing out that all the religious troubles of the past had come from\nthe attempt to give exact definitions of things which were entirely\nbeyond the human power of thought, and that I refused to be led along so\ndangerous a path. One Baptist clergyman, named Rowe, had the courage to\nsay that he was on my side, but with that exception I fear that I had a\nsolid phalanx against me.\n\nOn the other hand, the general public were amazingly friendly. It was\nthe more wonderful as it was tropical weather, even for Brisbane. In\nthat awful heat the great theatre could not hold the people, and they\nstood in the upper galleries, packed tightly, for an hour and a half\nwithout a movement or a murmur. It was a really wonderful sight. Twice\nthe house was packed this way, so (as the Tasmanian venture was now\nhopeless, owing to the shipping strike) I determined to remain in our\nvery comfortable quarters at the Bellevue Hotel, and give one more\nlecture, covering fresh ground. The subject opens up so that I am sure I\ncould lecture for a week without repeating myself. On this occasion the\nhouse was crowded once more. The theatrical manager said, \"Well, if it\nwas comic opera in the season, it could not have succeeded better!\" I\nwas rather exhausted at the end, for I spoke, as usual, with no\nchairman, and gave them a full ninety minutes, but it was nearing the\nend of my work, and the prospect of the quiet time ahead of us helped\nme on.\n\nI met a kinsman, Dr. A. A. Doyle, who is a distinguished skin\nspecialist, in Brisbane. He knew little of psychic matters, but he had\nmet with a remarkable experience. His son, a splendid young fellow, died\nat the front. At that moment his father woke to find the young soldier\nstooping over him, his face quite close. He at once woke his wife and\ntold her that their son, he feared, was dead. But here comes a fine\npoint. He said to the wife, \"Eric has had a return of the acne of the\nface, for which I treated him years ago. I saw the spots.\" The next post\nbrought a letter, written before Eric's death, asking that some special\nointment should be sent, as his acne had returned. This is a very\ninstructive case, as showing that even an abnormal thing is reproduced\nat first upon the etheric body. But what has a materialist to say to the\nwhole story? He can only evade it, or fall back upon his usual theory,\nthat every one who reports such occurrences is either a fool or a liar.\n\nWe had a pleasant Sunday among the birds of Queensland. Mr. Chisholm, an\nenthusiastic bird-lover, took us round to see two very large aviaries,\nsince the haunt of the wild birds was beyond our reach. Birds in\ncaptivity have always saddened me, but here I found them housed in such\ngreat structures, with every comfort included, and every natural enemy\nexcluded, that really one could not pity them. One golden pheasant\namused us, for he is a very conceited bird when all is well with him,\nand likes to occupy the very centre of the stage, with the spot light\nupon him, and a chorus of drab hens admiring him from the rear. We had\ncaught him, however, when he was moulting, and he was so conscious of\nhis bedraggled glories that he dodged about behind a barrel, and\nscuttled under cover every time we tried to put him out. A fearful thing\nhappened one day, for a careless maid left the door ajar, and in the\nmorning seventy of the inmates were gone. It must have been a cruel blow\nto Mr. Baldwin, who is devoted to his collection. However, he very\nwisely left the door open, after securing the remaining birds, and no\nless than thirty-four of the refugees returned. The fate of the others\nwas probably tragic, for they were far from the mountains which are\ntheir home.\n\nMr. Farmer Whyte, the very progressive editor of the _Daily Mail_, who\nis miles ahead of most journalists in psychic knowledge, took us for an\ninteresting drive through the dense woods of One Tree Hill. Here we were\ncourteously met by two of the original owners, one of them an iguana, a\ngreat, heavy lizard, which bolted up a tree, and the other a kangaroo,\nwho stood among the brushwood, his ears rotating with emotion, while he\ngazed upon our halted car. From the summit of the hill one has a\nwonderful view of the ranges stretching away to the horizon in all\ndirections, while at one's feet lies the very wide spread city. As\nnearly every dwelling house is a bungalow, with its own little ground,\nthe Australian cities take up great space, which is nullified by their\nvery excellent tram services. A beautiful river, the Brisbane, rather\nwider than the Thames, winds through the town, and has sufficient depth\nto allow ocean steamers to come within cab-drive of the hotels.\n\nAbout this time I had the usual experience which every visitor to the\nStates or to the Dominions is liable to, in that his own utterances in\nhis letters home get into print, and boomerang back upon him. My own\nfeelings, both to the Australian people and their country, have been so\nuniformly whole-hearted that I should have thought no mischief could be\nmade, but at the same time, I have always written freely that which I\nwas prepared to stand by. In this case, the extract, from a private\nletter, removed from all modifying context, came through as follows:\n\n     \"Sir Conan Doyle, quoted in the _International Psychic Gazette_, in\n     referring to his 'ups and downs' in Australia, says: 'Amid the\n     \"downs\" is the Press boycott, caused partly by ignorance and want\n     of proportion, partly by moral cowardice and fear of finding out\n     later that they had backed the wrong horse, or had given the wrong\n     horse fair play. They are very backward, and far behind countries\n     like Iceland and Denmark in the knowledge of what has been done in\n     Spiritualism. They are dear folk, these Australians, but, Lord,\n     they want Spirituality, and dynamiting out of their grooves! The\n     Presbyterians actually prayed that I might not reach the country.\n     This is rather near murder, if they thought their rotten prayers\n     would avail. The result was an excellent voyage, but it is the\n     spiritual deadness of this place which gets on my nerves.'\"\n\nThis was copied into every paper in Australia, but it was soon\nrecognised that \"this place\" was not Australia, but Melbourne, from\nwhich the letter was dated. I have already recorded how I was treated by\nthe leading paper in that city, and my general experience there was\nfaithfully reflected in my remarks. Therefore, I had nothing to\nwithdraw. My more extended experience taught me that the general level\nof intelligence and of spirituality in the Australasian towns is as high\nas in the average towns of Great Britain, though none are so far\nadvanced as towns like Manchester or Glasgow, nor are there the same\nnumber of professional and educated men who have come forward and given\ntestimony. The thirst for information was great, however, and that\nproved an open mind, which must now lead to a considerable extension of\nknowledge within the churches as well as without.\n\nMy remarks had been caused by the action of the _Argus_, but the _Age_,\nthe other leading Melbourne paper, seemed to think that its honour was\nalso touched, and had a very severe leading article upon my\ndelinquencies, and my alleged views, which was, as usual, a wild\ntravesty of my real ones. It began this article by the assertion that,\napparently, I still thought that Australia was inhabited by the\naborigines, before I ventured to bring forward such theories. Such a\nremark, applied to a subject which has won the assent in varying degrees\nof every one who has seriously examined it, and which has its foundation\nresting upon the labours of some of the greatest minds in the world, did\nnot help me to recover my respect for the mentality and breadth of view\nof the journals of Melbourne. I answered, pointing out that David Syme,\nthe very distinguished founder of the paper, by no means shared this\ncontempt to Spiritualism, as is shown by two long letters included in\nhis published Life.\n\nThis attitude, and that of so many other objectors, is absolutely\nunintelligible to me. They must know that this cult is spreading and\nthat many capable minds have examined and endorsed it. They must know,\nalso, that the views we proclaim, the continuance of happy life and the\npractical abolition of death are, if true, the grandest advance that the\nhuman race has ever made. And yet, so often, instead of saying, \"Well,\nhere is some one who is supposed to know something about the matter. Let\nus see if this grand claim can possibly be established by evidence and\nargument,\" they break into insults and revilings as if something\noffensive had been laid before them. This attitude can only arise from\nthe sluggish conservatism of the human brain, which runs easily in\ncertain well-worn grooves, and is horrified by the idea that something\nmay come to cause mental exertion and readjustment.\n\n     Illustration: LAYING FOUNDATION STONE OF SPIRITUALIST CHURCH AT\n     BRISBANE.\n\nI am bound to add that the general public went out of their way to\nshow that their Press did not represent their views. The following\npassage is typical of many: \"The criticism which you have so justly\nresented is, I am sure, not in keeping with the views of the majority of\nthe Australian people. In my own small sphere many of my friends have\nbeen stirred deeply by your theories, and the inspiration in some cases\nhas been so marked that the fact should afford you satisfaction. We are\nnot all spiritually defunct. Many are quite satisfied that you are\ngiving your best for humanity, and believe that there is a tremendous\nrevelation coming to this weary old world.\"\n\nThe Spiritualists of Brisbane, greatly daring, have planned out a church\nwhich is to cost L10,000, trusting to those who work with us on the\nother side to see the enterprise through. The possible fallacy lies in\nthe chance that those on the other side do not desire to see this\nimmense movement become a separate sect, but are in favour of the\npeaceful penetration of all creeds by our new knowledge. It is on record\nthat early in the movement Senator Talmadge asked two different spirit\ncontrols, in different States of the Union, what the ultimate goal of\nthis spiritual outburst might be, and received exactly the same answer\nfrom each, namely, that it was to prove immortality and to unify the\nChurches. The first half has been done, so far as survival implies\nimmortality, and the second may well come to pass, by giving such a\nlarge common platform to each Church that they will learn to disregard\nthe smaller differences.\n\nBe this as it may, one could not but admire the faith and energy of Mr.\nReinhold and the others who were determined to have a temple of their\nown. I laid the foundation stone at three in the afternoon under so\ntropical a sun that I felt as if the ceremony was going to have its\nimmemorial accompaniment of a human sacrifice and even of a whole-burned\noffering. The crowd made matters worse, but a friendly bystander with an\numbrella saved me from heat apoplexy. I felt the occasion was a solemn\none, for it was certainly the first Spiritual Church in the whole of\nQueensland, and I doubt if we have many anywhere in Australia, for among\nour apostolic gifts poverty is conspicuous. It has always amazed me how\nTheosophists and Christian Scientists get their fine halls and\nlibraries, while we, with our zeal and our knowledge, have some bare\nschoolroom or worse as our only meeting place. It reflects little credit\nupon the rich people who accept the comforts we bring, but share none of\nthe burdens we bear. There is a kink in their souls.\n\nI spoke at some length, and the people listened with patience in spite\nof the great heat. It was an occasion when I could, with propriety, lay\nemphasis upon the restraint and charity with which such a church should\nbe run. The Brisbane paper reports me as follows: \"I would emphasise\nthree things. Mind your own business; go on quietly in your own way; you\nknow the truth, and do not need to quarrel with other people. There are\nmany roads to salvation. The second point I would urge is that you\nshould live up to your knowledge. We know for certain that we live on\nafter death, that everything we do in this world influences what comes\nafter; therefore, we can afford to be unselfish and friendly to other\nreligions. Some Spiritualists run down the Bible, whereas it is from\ncover to cover a spiritual book. I would like to see the Bible read in\nevery Spiritualistic Church with particular attention paid to the\npassages dealing with occultism. The third point I would emphasise is\nthat you should have nothing to do with fortune-telling or anything of\nthat kind. All fortune-telling is really a feeling out in the dark. If\ngood things are going to happen to you be content to wait for them, and\nif evil is to come nothing is to be gained by attempting to anticipate\nit. My sympathies are with the police in their attitude to\nfortune-tellers, whose black magic is far removed from the services of\nour mediums in striving to bring comfort to those whose loved ones have\ngone before. If these three things are lived up to, this church will be\na source of great brightness and happiness.\"\n\nOur work was pleasantly broken by an invitation to lunch with Sir\nMatthew Nathan, at Government House. Sir Matthew impresses one as a man\nof character, and as he is a financial authority he is in a position to\nhelp by his advice in restoring the credit of Queensland. The matter in\ndispute, which has been called repudiation, does not, as it seems to me,\ndeserve so harsh a term, as it is one of those cases where there are two\nsides to the question, so equally balanced that it is difficult for an\noutsider to pronounce a judgment. On the one hand the great squatters\nwho hold millions of acres in the State had received the land on\nconsiderable leases which charged them with a very low rent--almost a\nnominal one--on condition of their taking up and developing the country.\nOn the other hand, the Government say these leases were granted under\nvery different circumstances, the lessees have already done very well\nout of them, the war has made it imperative that the State raise funds,\nand the assets upon which the funds can be raised are all in the hands\nof these lessees, who should consent to a revision of their agreements.\nSo stands the quarrel, so far as I could understand it, and the State\nhas actually imposed the increased rates. Hence the cry that they have\nrepudiated their own contract. The result of the squatters' grievance\nwas that Mr. Theodore, the Premier, was unable to raise money in the\nLondon market, and returned home with the alternative of getting a\nvoluntary loan in the Colony, or of raising a compulsory loan from those\nwho had the money. The latter has an ugly sound, and yet the need is\ngreat, and if some may be compelled to serve with their bodies I do not\nsee why some may not also be compelled to serve with their purses. The\nassets of the Colony compare very favourably, I believe, with others,\nfor while these others have sold their lands, the Government of\nQueensland has still the ownership of the main tracts of the gloriously\nfertile country. Therefore, with an issue at 6-1/2 per cent., without\ntax, one would think that they should have no difficulty in getting any\nreasonable sum. I was cinemaed in the act of applying for a small share\nin the issue, but I think the advertisement would have been of more\nvalue to the loan, had they captured some one of greater financial\nstability.\n\nThe more one examines this alleged \"repudiation\" the less reason appears\nin the charge, and as it has assuredly injured Queensland's credit, it\nis well that an impartial traveller should touch upon it. The squatters\nare the richer folk and in a position to influence the public opinion of\nthe world, and in their anxiety to exploit their own grievance they seem\nto have had little regard for the reputation of their country. It is\nlike a man burning down his house in the hope of roasting some other\ninmate of whom he disapproves. A conservative paper (the _Producer's\nReview_, January 10th, 1921), says: \"No living man can say how much\nQueensland has been damaged by the foolish partisan statements that have\nbeen uttered and published.\" The article proceeds to show in very\nconvincing style, with chapter and verse, that the Government has always\nbeen well within its rights, and that a Conservative Government on a\nprevious occasion did the same thing, framing a Bill on identical lines.\n\nOn January 12th my kinsman, Dr. Doyle, with his charming wife, took us\nout into the bush for a billy tea--that is, to drink tea which is\nprepared as the bushmen prepare it in their tin cans. It was certainly\nexcellent, and we enjoyed the drive and the whole experience, though\nuninvited guests of the mosquito tribe made things rather lively for\nus. I prayed that my face would be spared, as I did not wish to turn up\nat my lecture as if I had been having a round with Dr. Cosh, and I react\nin a most whole-hearted way to any attentions from an insect. The result\nwas certainly remarkable, be it coincidence or not, for though my hands\nwere like boxing-gloves, and my neck all swollen, there was not a mark\nupon my face. I fancy that the hardened inhabitants hardly realise what\nnew chums endure after they are bitten by these pests. It means to me\nnot only disfigurement, but often a sleepless night. My wife and the\nchildren seem to escape more lightly. I found many objects of interest\nin the bush--among others a spider's web so strong that full-sized\ndragon flies were enmeshed in it. I could not see the creature itself,\nbut it must have been as big as a tarantula. Our host was a large\nlandowner as well as a specialist, and he talked seriously of leaving\nthe country, so embittered was he by the land-policy of the Government.\nAt the same time, the fact that he could sell his estate at a fair price\nseemed to imply that others took a less grave view of the situation.\nMany of the richer classes think that Labour is adopting a policy of\ndeliberate petty irritation in order to drive them out of the country,\nbut perhaps they are over-sensitive.\n\nSo full was our life in Brisbane that there was hardly a day that we had\nnot some memorable experience, even when I had to lecture in the\nevening. Often we were going fourteen and fifteen hours a day, and a\ntropical day at that. On January 14th we were taken to see the largest\nbee-farm in Australia, run by Mr. H. L. Jones. Ever since I consigned\nMr. Sherlock Holmes to a bee farm for his old age, I have been supposed\nto know something of the subject, but really I am so ignorant that when\na woman wrote to me and said she would be a suitable housekeeper to the\nretired detective because she could \"segregate the queen,\" I did not\nknow what she meant. On this occasion I saw the operation and many other\nwonderful things which make me appreciate Maeterlinck's prose-poem upon\nthe subject. There is little poetry about Mr. Jones however, and he is\nseverely practical. He has numbers of little boxes with a store of\nbee-food compressed into one end of them. Into each he thrusts a queen\nwith eight attendants to look after her. The food is enough to last two\nmonths, so he simply puts on a postage stamp and sends it off to any one\nin California or South Africa who is starting an apiary. Several hives\nwere opened for our inspection with the precaution of blowing in some\nsmoke to pacify the bees. We were told that this sudden inrush of smoke\ngives the bees the idea that some great cataclysm has occurred, and\ntheir first action is to lay in a store of honey, each of them, as a man\nmight seize provisions in an earthquake so as to be ready for whatever\nthe future might bring. He showed us that the queen, fed with some\nspecial food by the workers, can lay twice her own weight of eggs in a\nday, and that if we could find something similar for hens we could hope\nfor an unbroken stream of eggs. Clever as the bee is it is clearly an\ninstinctive hereditary cleverness, for man has been able to make many\nimprovements in its methods, making artificial comb which is better than\nthe original, in that it has cells for more workers and fewer drones.\nAltogether it was a wonderful demonstration, which could be viewed with\ncomfort under a veil with one's hands in one's pockets, for though we\nwere assured they would not sting if they knew we would not hurt them, a\nmisunderstanding was possible. One lady spectator seemed to have a\nsudden ambition to break the standing jump record, and we found that she\nhad received two stings, but Mr. Jones and his assistants covered their\nhands with the creatures and were quite immune. A half-wild wallaby\nappeared during our visit, and after some coyness yielded to the\nfascination which my wife exercises over all animals, and fed out of her\nhand. We were assured that this had never before occurred in the case of\nany visitor.\n\nWe found in Brisbane, as in every other town, that the question of\ndomestic service, the most important of all questions to a householder,\nwas very acute. Ladies who occupied leading positions in the town\nassured us that it was impossible to keep maids, and that they were\ncompelled now to give it up in despair, and to do all their own house\nwork with such casual daily assistance as they could get. A pound a week\nis a common wage for very inefficient service. It is a serious matter\nand no solution is in sight. English maids are, I am sorry to say,\nlooked upon as the worst of all, for to all the other faults they add\nconstant criticism of their employers, whom they pronounce to be \"no\nladies\" because they are forced to do many things which are not done at\nhome. Inefficiency plus snobbishness is a dreadful mixture. Altogether\nthe lot of the Australian lady is not an easy one, and we admired the\nbrave spirit with which they rose above their troubles.\n\nThis servant question bears very directly upon the Imperial puzzle of\nthe northern territory. A white man may live and even work there, but a\nwhite woman cannot possibly run a household unless domestic labour is\nplentiful. In that climate it simply means absolute breakdown in a year.\nTherefore it is a mad policy which at present excludes so rigorously the\nChinese, Indians or others who alone can make white households possible.\nWhite labour assumes a dog in the manger policy, for it will not, or\ncannot, do the work itself, and yet it shuts out those who could do it.\nIt is an impossible position and must be changed. How severe and\nunreasonable are the coloured immigrant laws is shown by the fact that\nthe experienced and popular Commander of the _Naldera_, Captain\nLewellin, was fined at Sydney a large sum of money because three Goa\nIndians deserted from his ship. There is a great demand for Indian camel\ndrivers in the north, and this no doubt was the reason for the\ndesertion, but what a _reductio ad absurdum_ of the law which comes\nbetween the demand and the supply, besides punishing an innocent victim.\n\nAs usual a large number of psychic confidences reached us, some of\nwhich were very interesting. One lady is a clairaudient, and on the\noccasion of her mother falling ill she heard the words \"Wednesday--the\nfifteenth.\" Death seemed a matter of hours, and the date far distant,\nbut the patient, to the surprise of the doctors, still lingered. Then\ncame the audible message \"She will tell you where she is going.\" The\nmother had lain for two days helpless and comatose. Suddenly she opened\nher eyes and said in a clear strong voice, \"I have seen the mansions in\nmy father's house. My husband and children await me there. I could not\nhave imagined anything so exquisitely lovely.\" Then she breathed her\nlast, the date being the 15th.\n\nWe were entertained to dinner on the last evening by the Hon. John\nFihilly, acting Premier of the Colony, and his wife. He is an Irish\nlabour leader with a remarkable resemblance to Dan O'Connell in his\nyounger days. I was pleased to see that the toast of the King was given\nthough it was not called for at a private dinner. Fihilly is a member of\nthe Government, and I tackled him upon the question of British emigrants\nbeing enticed out by specious promises on the part of Colonial Agents in\nLondon, only to find that no work awaited them. Some deplorable cases\nhad come within my own observation, one, an old Lancashire Fusilier,\nhaving walked the streets for six months. He assured me that the\narrangements were now in perfect order, and that emigrants were held\nback in the old country until they could be sure that there was a place\nfor them. There are so many out of work in Australia that one feels some\nsympathy with those labour men who are against fresh arrivals.\n\nAnd there lies the great problem which we have not, with all our\nexperience, managed to master. On the one side illimitable land calling\nfor work. On the other innumerable workers calling for land. And yet the\ntwo cannot be joined. I remember how it jarred me when I saw Edmonton,\nin Western Canada, filled with out-of-workers while the great land lay\nuninhabited. The same strange paradox meets one here. It is just the\nconnecting link that is missing, and that link lies in wise prevision.\nThe helpless newcomer can do nothing if he and his family are dumped\ndown upon a hundred acres of gum trees. Put yourself in their position.\nHow can they hope with their feeble hands to clear the ground? All this\nearly work must be done for them by the State, the owner repaying after\nhe has made good. Let the emigrant move straight on to a cleared farm,\nwith a shack-house already prepared, and clear instructions as to the\nbest crops, and how to get them. Then it seems to me that emigration\nwould bring no want of employment in its train. But the State must blaze\nthe trail and the public follow after. Such arrangements may even now\nexist, but if so they need expansion and improvement, for they do not\nseem to work.\n\nBefore leaving Brisbane my attention was drawn to the fact that the\nState photographer, when he took the scene of the opening of the loan,\nhad produced to all appearance a psychic effect. The Brisbane papers\nrecorded it as follows: --\n\n\"'It is a remarkable result, and I cannot offer any opinion as to what\ncaused it. It is absolutely mystifying.' Such was the declaration made\nyesterday by the Government photographer, Mr. W. Mobsby, in regard to\nthe unique effect associated with a photograph he took on Thursday last\nof Sir A. Conan Doyle. Mr. Mobsby, who has been connected with\nphotography since boyhood, explained that he was instructed to take an\nofficial photograph of the function at which Sir A. Conan Doyle handed\nover his subscription to the State Loan organiser. When he arrived, the\nentrance to the building was thronged by a large crowd, and he had to\nmount a stepladder, which was being used by the _Daily Mail_\nphotographer, in order to get a good view of the proceedings. Mr. Mobsby\ntook only one picture, just at the moment Sir A. Conan Doyle was\nmounting the steps at the Government Tourist Bureau to meet the Acting\nPremier, Mr. J. Fihilly. Mr. Mobsby developed the film himself, and was\namazed to find that while all the other figures in the picture were\ndistinct the form of Sir A. Conan Doyle appeared enveloped in mist and\ncould only be dimly seen. The photograph was taken on an ordinary film\nwith a No. 3a Kodak, and careful examination does not in any way\nindicate the cause of the sensational result.\" I have had so many\npersonal proofs of the intervention of supernormal agencies during\nthe time that I have been engaged upon this task that I am prepared to\naccept the appearance of this aura as being an assurance of the presence\nof those great forces for whom I act as a humble interpreter. At the\nsame time, the sceptic is very welcome to explain it as a flawed film\nand a coincidence.\n\n     Illustration: CURIOUS PHOTOGRAPHIC EFFECT REFERRED TO IN THE TEXT.\n     Taken by the Official Photographer, Brisbane, \"Absolutely\n     mystifying\" is his description.\n\nWe returned from Brisbane to Sydney in the Orient Liner \"Orsova,\" which\nis a delightful alternative to the stuffy train. The sea has always been\na nursing mother to me, and I suppose I have spent a clear two years of\nmy life upon the waves. We had a restful Sunday aboard the boat,\ndisturbed only by the Sunday service, which left its usual effect upon\nmy mind. The Psalms were set to some unhappy tune, very different from\nthe grand Gregorian rhythm, so that with its sudden rise to a higher\nlevel it sounded more like the neighing of horses than the singing of\nmortals. The words must surely offend anyone who considers what it is\nthat he is saying--a mixture of most unmanly wailing and spiteful\nthreats. How such literature has been perpetuated three thousand years,\nand how it can ever have been sacred, is very strange. Altogether from\nfirst to last there was nothing, save only the Lord's Prayer, which\ncould have any spiritual effect. These old observances are like an iron\nball tied to the leg of humanity, for ever hampering spiritual progress.\nIf now, after the warning of the great war, we have not the mental\nenergy and the moral courage to get back to realities, we shall deserve\nwhat is coming to us.\n\nOn January 17th we were back, tired but contented, in the Medlow Bath\nHotel in the heart of the Blue Mountains--an establishment which I can\nheartily recommend to any who desire a change from the summer heats of\nSydney.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n     Medlow Bath.--Jenolan Caves.--Giant skeleton.--Mrs. Foster Turner's\n     mediumship.--A wonderful prophecy.--Final results.--Third sitting\n     with Bailey.--Failure of State Control.--Retrospection.--Melbourne\n     presentation.--Crooks.--Lecture at Perth.--West\n     Australia.--Rabbits, sparrows and sharks.\n\n\nWe recuperated after our Brisbane tour by spending the next week at\nMedlow Bath, that little earthly paradise, which is the most restful\nspot we have found in our wanderings. It was built originally by Mr.\nMark Foy, a successful draper of Sydney, and he is certainly a man of\ntaste, for he has adorned it with a collection of prints and of\npaintings--hundreds of each--which would attract attention in any city,\nbut which on a mountain top amid the wildest scenery give one the idea\nof an Arabian Nights palace. There was a passage some hundreds of yards\nlong, which one has to traverse on the way to each meal, and there was a\ncertain series of French prints, representing events of Byzantine\nhistory, which I found it difficult to pass, so that I was often a late\ncomer. A very fair library is among the other attractions of this\nremarkable place.\n\nBefore leaving we spent one long day at the famous Jenolan Caves, which\nare distant about forty-five miles. As the said miles are very\nup-and-down, and as the cave exploration involves several hours of\nclimbing, it makes a fairly hard day's work. We started all seven in a\nmotor, as depicted by the wayside photographers, but Baby got sick and\nhad to be left with Jakeman at the half-way house, where we picked her\nup, quite recovered, on our return. It was as well, for the walk would\nhave been quite beyond her, and yet having once started there is no\nreturn, so we should have ended by carrying her through all the\nsubterranean labyrinths. The road is a remarkably good one, and\nrepresents a considerable engineering feat. It passes at last through an\nenormous archway of rock which marks the entrance to the cave\nformations. These caves are hollowed out of what was once a coral reef\nin a tropical sea, but is now sixty miles inland with a mountain upon\nthe top of it--such changes this old world has seen. If the world were\nformed only that man might play his drama upon it, then mankind must be\nin the very earliest days of his history, for who would build so\nelaborate a stage if the play were to be so short and insignificant?\n\n     Illustration: OUR PARTY EN ROUTE TO THE JENOLAN CAVES, JANUARY\n     20TH, 1921, IN FRONT OF OLD COURT HOUSE IN WHICH BUSHRANGERS WERE\n     TRIED.\n\nThe caves are truly prodigious. They were discovered first in the\npursuit of some poor devil of a bushranger who must have been hard put\nto it before he took up his residence in this damp and dreary retreat. A\nbrave man, Wilson, did most of the actual exploring, lowering himself by\na thin rope into noisome abysses of unknown depth and charting out\nthe whole of this devil's warren. It is so vast that many weeks would be\nneeded to go through it, and it is usual at one visit to take only a\nsingle sample. On this occasion it was the River Cave, so named because\nafter many wanderings you come on a river about twenty feet across and\nforty-five feet deep which has to be navigated for some distance in a\npunt. The stalactite effects, though very wonderful, are not, I think,\nsuperior to those which I have seen in Derbyshire, and the caves have\nnone of that historical glamour which is needed in order to link some\nlarge natural object to our own comprehension. I can remember in\nDerbyshire how my imagination and sympathy were stirred by a Roman\nlady's brooch which had been found among the rubble. Either a wild beast\nor a bandit knew best how it got there. Jenolan has few visible links\nwith the past, but one of them is a tremendous one. It is the complete,\nthough fractured, skeleton of a very large man--seven foot four said the\nguide, but he may have put it on a little--who was found partly imbedded\nin the lime. Many ages ago he seems to have fallen through the roof of\nthe cavern, and the bones of a wallaby hard by give some indication that\nhe was hunting at the time, and that his quarry shared his fate. He was\nof the Black fellow type, with a low-class cranium. It is remarkable the\nproportion of very tall men who are dug up in ancient tombs. Again and\nagain the bogs of Ireland have yielded skeletons of seven and eight\nfeet. Some years ago a Scythian chief was dug up on the Southern\nSteppes of Russia who was eight feet six. What a figure of a man with\nhis winged helmet and his battle axe! All over the world one comes upon\nthese giants of old, and one wonders whether they represented some race,\nfurther back still, who were all gigantic. The Babylonian tradition in\nour Bible says: \"And there were giants in those days.\" The big primeval\nkangaroo has grown down to the smaller modern one, the wombat, which was\nan animal as big as a tapir, is now as small as a badger, the great\nsaurians have become little lizards, and so it would seem not\nunreasonable to suppose that man may have run to great size at some\nunexplored period in his evolution.\n\nWe all emerged rather exhausted from the bowels of the earth, dazed with\nthe endless succession of strange gypsum formations which we had seen,\nminarets, thrones, shawls, coronets, some of them so made that one could\nimagine that the old kobolds had employed their leisure hours in\nfashioning their freakish outlines. It was a memorable drive home in the\nevening. Once as a bird flew above my head, the slanting ray of the\ndeclining sun struck it and turned it suddenly to a vivid scarlet and\ngreen. It was the first of many parrots. Once also a couple of kangaroos\nbounded across the road, amid wild cries of delight from the children.\nOnce, too, a long snake writhed across and was caught by one of the\nwheels of the motor. Rabbits, I am sorry to say, abounded. If they would\nconfine themselves to these primeval woods, Australia would be content.\n\nThis was the last of our pleasant Australian excursions, and we left\nMedlow Bath refreshed not only by its charming atmosphere, but by\nfeeling that we had gained new friends. We made our way on January 26th\nto Sydney, where all business had to be settled up and preparations made\nfor our homeward voyage.\n\nWhilst in Sydney I had an opportunity of examining several phases of\nmediumship which will be of interest to the psychic reader. I called\nupon Mrs. Foster Turner, who is perhaps the greatest all-round medium\nwith the highest general level of any sensitive in Australia. I found a\nmiddle-aged lady of commanding and pleasing appearance with a dignified\nmanner and a beautifully modulated voice, which must be invaluable to\nher in platform work. Her gifts are so many that it must have been\ndifficult for her to know which to cultivate, but she finally settled\nupon medical diagnosis, in which she has, I understand, done good work.\nHer practice is considerable, and her help is not despised by some of\nthe leading practitioners. This gift is, as I have explained previously\nin the case of Mr. Bloomfield, a form of clairvoyance, and Mrs. Foster\nTurner enjoys all the other phases of that wonderful power, including\npsychometry, with its application to detective work, the discerning of\nspirits, and to a very marked degree the gift of prophecy, which she has\ncarried upon certain occasions to a length which I have never known\nequalled in any reliable record of the past.\n\nHere is an example for which, I am told, a hundred witnesses could be\ncited. At a meeting at the Little Theatre, Castlereagh Street, Sydney,\non a Sunday evening of February, 1914, Mrs. Turner addressed the\naudience under an inspiration which claimed to be W. T. Stead. He ended\nhis address by saying that in order to prove that he spoke with a power\nbeyond mortal, he would, on the next Sunday, give a prophecy as to the\nfuture of the world.\n\nNext Sunday some 900 people assembled, when Mrs. Turner, once more under\ncontrol, spoke as follows. I quote from notes taken at the time. \"Now,\nalthough there is not at present a whisper of a great European war at\nhand, yet I want to warn you that before this year, 1914, has run its\ncourse, Europe will be deluged in blood. Great Britain, our beloved\nnation, will be drawn into the most awful war the world has ever known.\nGermany will be the great antagonist, and will draw other nations in her\ntrain. Austria will totter to its ruin. Kings and kingdoms will fall.\nMillions of precious lives will be slaughtered, but Britain will finally\ntriumph and emerge victorious. During the year, also, the Pope of Rome\nwill pass away, and a bomb will be placed in St. Paul's Church, but will\nbe discovered in time and removed before damage is done.\"\n\nCan any prophecy be more accurate or better authenticated than that? The\nonly equally exact prophecy on public events which I can recall is when\nEmma Hardinge Britten, having been refused permission in 1860 to deliver\na lecture on Spiritualism in the Town Hall of Atlanta, declared that,\nbefore many years had passed, that very Town Hall would be choked up\nwith the dead and the dying, drawn from the State which persecuted her.\nThis came literally true in the Civil War a few years later, when\nSherman's army passed that way.\n\nMrs. Foster Turner's gift of psychometry is one which will be freely\nused by the community when we become more civilised and less ignorant.\nAs an example of how it works, some years ago a Melbourne man named\nCutler disappeared, and there was a considerable debate as to his fate.\nHis wife, without giving a name, brought Cutler's boot to Mrs. Turner.\nShe placed it near her forehead and at once got _en rapport_ with the\nmissing man. She described how he left his home, how he kissed his wife\ngood-bye, all the succession of his movements during that morning, and\nfinally how he had fallen or jumped over a bridge into the river, where\nhe had been caught under some snag. A search at the place named revealed\nthe dead body. If this case be compared with that of Mr. Foxhall,\nalready quoted, one can clearly see that the same law underlies each.\nBut what an ally for our C.I.D.!\n\nThere was one pleasant incident in connection with my visit to Mrs.\nFoster Turner. Upon my asking her whether she had any psychic impression\nwhen she saw me lecturing, she said that I was accompanied on the\nplatform by a man in spirit life, about 70 years of age, grey-bearded,\nwith rugged eyebrows. She searched her mind for a name, and then said,\n\"Alfred Russell Wallace.\" Doctor Abbott, who was present, confirmed\nthat she had given that name at the time. It will be remembered that\nMrs. Roberts, of Dunedin, had also given the name of the great\nSpiritualistic Scientist as being my coadjutor. There was no possible\nconnection between Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Roberts. Indeed, the\nintervention of the strike had made it almost impossible for them to\ncommunicate, even if they had known each other--which they did not. It\nwas very helpful to me to think that so great a soul was at my side in\nthe endeavour to stimulate the attention of the world.\n\nTwo days before our departure we attended the ordinary Sunday service of\nthe Spiritualists at Stanmore Road, which appeared to be most reverently\nand beautifully conducted. It is indeed pleasant to be present at a\nreligious service which in no way offends one's taste or one's\nreason--which cannot always be said, even of Spiritualistic ones. At the\nend I was presented with a beautifully illuminated address from the\nfaithful of Sydney, thanking me for what they were pleased to call \"the\nsplendidly successful mission on behalf of Spiritualism in Sydney.\" \"You\nare a specially chosen leader,\" it went on, \"endowed with power to\ncommand attention from obdurate minds. We rejoice that you are ready to\nconsecrate your life to the spread of our glorious gospel, which\ncontains more proof of the eternal love of God than any other truth yet\nrevealed to man.\" So ran this kindly document. It was decorated with\nAustralian emblems, and as there was a laughing jackass in the corner,\nI was able to raise a smile by suggesting that they had adorned it with\nthe picture of a type of opponent with whom we were very familiar, the\nmore so as some choice specimens had been observed in Sydney. There are\nsome gentle souls in our ranks who refrain from all retort--and morally,\nthey are no doubt the higher--but personally, when I am moved by the\nmalevolence and ignorance of our opponents, I cannot help hitting back\nat them. It was Mark Twain, I think, who said that, instead of turning\nthe other cheek, he returned the other's cheek. That is my unregenerate\ninstinct.\n\nI was able, for the first time, to give a bird's-eye view of my tour and\nits final results. I had, in all, addressed twenty-five meetings,\naveraging 2,000 people in each, or 50,000 people in all. I read aloud a\nletter from Mr. Carlyle Smythe, who, with his father, had managed the\ntours of every lecturer of repute who had come to Australia during the\npast thirty years. Mr. Smythe knew what success and failure were, and he\nsaid: \"For an equal number of lectures, yours has proved the most\nprosperous tour in my experience. No previous tour has won such\nconsistent success. From the push-off at Adelaide to the great boom in\nNew Zealand and Brisbane, it has been a great dynamic progression of\nenthusiasm. I have known in my career nothing parallel to it.\"\n\nThe enemies of our cause were longing for my failure, and had, indeed,\nin some cases most unscrupulously announced it, so it was necessary\nthat I should give precise details as to this great success, and to the\nproof which it afforded that the public mind was open to the new\nrevelation. But, after all, the money test was the acid one. I had taken\na party of seven people at a time when all expenses were doubled or\ntrebled by the unnatural costs of travel and of living, which could not\nbe made up for by increasing the price of admission. It would seem a\nmiracle that I could clear this great bill of expenses in a country like\nAustralia, where the large towns are few. And yet I was able to show\nthat I had not only done so, after paying large sums in taxation, but\nthat I actually had seven hundred pounds over. This I divided among\nSpiritual funds in Australia, the bulk of it, five hundred pounds, being\ndevoted to a guarantee of expenses for the next lecturer who should\nfollow me. It seemed to me that such a lecturer, if well chosen, and\nproperly guaranteed against loss, might devote a longer time than I, and\nvisit the smaller towns, from which I had often the most touching\nappeals. If he were successful, he need not touch the guarantee fund,\nand so it would remain as a perpetual source of active propaganda. Such\nwas the scheme which I outlined that night, and which was eventually\nadopted by the Spiritualists of both Australia and New Zealand.\n\n     Illustration: DENIS WITH A BLACK SNAKE AT MEDLOW BATH.\n\nOn my last evening at Sydney, I attended a third seance with Charles\nBailey, the apport medium. It was not under test conditions, so that it\ncan claim no strict scientific value, and yet the results are worth\nrecording. It had struck me that a critic might claim that there was\nphosphorescent matter inside the spectacle case, which seemed to be the\nonly object which Bailey took inside the cabinet, so I insisted on\nexamining it, but found it quite innocent. The usual inconclusive\nshadowy appearance of luminous vapour was evident almost at once, but\nnever, so far as I could judge, out of reach of the cabinet, which was\nsimply a blanket drawn across the corner of the room. The Hindoo control\nthen announced that an apport would be brought, and asked that water be\nplaced in a tin basin. He (that is, Bailey himself, under alleged\ncontrol) then emerged, the lights being half up, carrying the basin over\nhis head. On putting it down, we all saw two strange little young\ntortoises swimming about in it. I say \"strange,\" because I have seen\nnone like them. They were about the size of a half-crown, and the head,\ninstead of being close to the shell, was at the end of a thin neck half\nas long as the body. There were a dozen Australians present, and they\nall said they had never seen any similar ones. The control claimed that\nhe had just brought them from a tank in Benares. The basin was left on\nthe table, and while the lights were down, the creatures disappeared. It\nis only fair to say that they could have been removed by hand in the\ndark, but on examining the table, I was unable to see any of those\nsloppings of water which might be expected to follow such an operation.\n\nShortly afterwards there was a great crash in the dark, and a number of\ncoins fell on to the table, and were handed to me by the presiding\ncontrol as a parting present. They did not, I fear, help me much with my\nhotel bill, for they were fifty-six Turkish copper pennies, taken \"from\na well,\" according to our informant. These two apports were all the\nphenomena, and the medium, who has been working very hard of late,\nshowed every sign of physical collapse at the close.\n\nApart from the actual production in the seance room, which may be\ndisputed, I should like to confront the honest sceptic with the\nextraordinary nature of the objects which Bailey produces on these\noccasions. They cannot be disputed, for hundreds have handled them,\ncollections of them have been photographed, there are cases full at the\nStanford University at California, and I am bringing a few samples back\nto England with me. If the whole transaction is normal, then where does\nhe get them? I had an Indian nest. Does anyone import Indian nests? Does\nanyone import queer little tortoises with long, thin necks? Is there a\ndepot for Turkish copper coins in Australia? On the previous sitting, he\ngot 100 Chinese ones. Those might be explained, since the Chinaman is\nnot uncommon in Sydney, but surely he exports coins, rather than imports\nthem. Then what about 100 Babylonian tablets, with legible inscriptions\nin Assyrian, some of them cylindrical, with long histories upon them?\nGranting that they are Jewish forgeries, how do they get into the\ncountry? Bailey's house was searched once by the police, but nothing was\nfound. Arabic papers, Chinese schoolbooks, mandarins' buttons, tropical\nbirds--all sorts of odd things arrive. If they are not genuine, where do\nthey come from? The matter is ventilated in papers, and no one comes\nforward to damn Bailey for ever by proving that he supplied them. It is\nno use passing the question by. It calls for an answer. If these\narticles can be got in any normal way, then what is the way? If not,\nthen Bailey has been a most ill-used man, and miracles are of daily\noccurrence in Australia. This man should be under the strict, but\npatient and sympathetic, control of the greatest scientific observers in\nthe world, instead of being allowed to wear himself out by promiscuous\nseances, given in order to earn a living. Imagine our scientists\nexpending themselves in the examination of shells, or the classification\nof worms, when such a subject as this awaits them. And it cannot await\nthem long. The man dies, and then where are these experiments? But if\nsuch scientific investigation be made, it must be thorough and\nprolonged, directed by those who have real experience of occult matters,\notherwise it will wreck itself upon some theological or other snag, as\ndid Colonel de Rochas' attempt at Grenoble.\n\nThe longer one remains in Australia, the more one is struck by the\nfailure of State control. Whenever you test it, in the telephones, the\ntelegraphs and the post, it stands for inefficiency, with no possibility\nthat I can see of remedy. The train service is better, but still far\nfrom good. As to the State ventures in steamboat lines and in banking, I\nhave not enough information to guide me. On the face of it, it is\nevident that in each case there is no direct responsible master, and\nthat there is no real means of enforcing discipline. I have talked to\nthe heads of large institutions, who have assured me that the conduct of\nbusiness is becoming almost impossible. When they send an urgent\ntelegram, with a letter confirming it, it is no unusual thing for the\nletter to arrive first. No complaint produces any redress. The maximum\ncompensation for sums lost in the post is, I am told, two pounds, so\nthat the banks, whose registered letters continually disappear, suffer\nheavy losses. On the other hand, if they send a messenger with the\nmoney, there is a law by which all bullion carried by train has to be\ndeclared, and has to pay a commission. Yet the public generally, having\nno standard of comparison, are so satisfied with the wretched public\nservices, that there is a continued agitation to extend public control,\nand so ruin the well conducted private concerns. The particular instance\nwhich came under my notice was the ferry service of Sydney harbour,\nwhich is admirably and cheaply conducted, and yet there is a clamour\nthat it also should be dragged into this morass of slovenly\ninefficiency. I hope, however, that the tide will soon set the other\nway. I fear, from what I have seen of the actual working, that it is\nonly under exceptional conditions, and with very rigorous and\nhigh-principled direction, that the State control of industries can be\ncarried out. I cannot see that it is a political question, or that the\ndemocracy has any interest, save to have the public work done as well\nand as economically as possible. When the capitalist has a monopoly, and\nis exacting an undue return, it is another matter.\n\nAs I look back at Australia my prayers--if deep good wishes form a\nprayer--go out to it. Save for that great vacuum upon the north, which a\nwise Government would strive hard to fill, I see no other external\ndanger which can threaten her people. But internally I am shadowed by\nthe feeling that trouble may be hanging over them, though I am assured\nthat the cool stability of their race will at last pull them through it.\nThere are some dangerous factors there which make their position more\nprecarious than our own, and behind a surface of civilisation there lie\npossible forces which might make for disruption. As a people they are\nrather less disciplined than a European nation. There is no large middle\nor leisured class who would represent moderation. Labour has tried a\nLabour Government, and finding that politics will not really alter\neconomic facts is now seeking some fresh solution. The land is held in\nmany cases by large proprietors who work great tracts with few hands, so\nthere is not the conservative element which makes the strength of the\nUnited States with its six million farmers, each with his stake in the\nland. Above all, there is no standing military force, and nothing but a\nsmall, though very efficient, police force to stand between organised\ngovernment and some wild attempt of the extremists. There are plenty of\nsoldiers, it is true, and they have been treated with extreme\ngenerosity by the State, but they have been reabsorbed into the civil\npopulation. If they stand for law and order then all is well. On the\nother hand, there are the Irish, who are fairly numerous, well organised\nand disaffected. There is no Imperial question, so far as I can see,\nsave with the Irish, but there is this disquieting internal situation\nwhich, with the coming drop of wages, may suddenly become acute. An\nAustralian should be a sober-minded man for he has his difficulties\nbefore him. We of the old country should never forget that these\ndifficulties have been partly caused by his splendid participation in\nthe great war, and so strain every nerve to help, both by an enlightened\nsympathy and by such material means as are possible.\n\nPersonally, I have every sympathy with all reasonable and practical\nefforts to uphold the standard of living in the working classes. At\npresent there is an almost universal opinion among thoughtful and\npatriotic Australians that the progress of the country is woefully\nhampered by the constant strikes, which are declared in defiance of all\nagreements and all arbitration courts. The existence of Labour\nGovernments, or the State control of industries, does not seem to\nalleviate these evil conditions, but may rather increase them, for in\nsome cases such pressure has been put upon the Government that they have\nbeen forced to subsidise the strikers--or at least those sufferers who\nhave come out in sympathy with the original strikers. Such tactics must\ndemoralise a country and encourage labour to make claims upon capital\nwhich the latter cannot possibly grant, since in many cases the margin\nof profit is so small and precarious that it would be better for the\ncapitalist to withdraw his money and invest it with no anxieties. It is\nclear that the tendency is to destroy the very means by which the worker\nearns his bread, and that the position will become intolerable unless\nthe older, more level-headed men gain control of the unions and keep the\nignorant hot-heads in order. It is the young unmarried men without\nresponsibilities who create the situations, and it is the married men\nwith their women and children who suffer. A table of strikes prepared\nrecently by the _Manchester Guardian_ shows that more hours were lost in\nAustralia with her five or six million inhabitants than in the United\nKingdom with nearly fifty million. Surely this must make the Labour\nleaders reconsider their tactics. As I write the stewards' strike, which\ncaused such extended misery, has collapsed, the sole result being a loss\nof nearly a million pounds in wages to the working classes, and great\ninconvenience to the public. The shipowners seem now in no hurry to\nresume the services, and if their delay will make the strikers more\nthoughtful it is surely to be defended.\n\nOn February 1st we started from Sydney in our good old \"Naldera\" upon\nour homeward voyage, but the work was not yet finished. On reaching\nMelbourne, where the ship was delayed two days, we found that a Town\nHall demonstration had been arranged to give us an address from the\nVictorian Spiritualists, and wish us farewell. It was very short notice\nand there was a tram strike which prevented people from getting about,\nso the hall was not more than half full. None the less, we had a fine\nchance of getting in touch with our friends, and the proceedings were\nvery hearty. The inscription was encased in Australian wood with a\nsilver kangaroo outside and beautiful illuminations within. It ran as\nfollows:\n\n\"We desire to place on permanent record our intense appreciation of your\nzealous and self-sacrificing efforts, and our deep gratitude for the\ngreat help you have given to the cause to which you have consecrated\nyour life. The over-flowing meetings addressed by you bear evidence of\nthe unqualified success of your mission, and many thousands bless the\nday when you determined to enter this great crusade beneath the Southern\nCross.... In all these sentiments we desire to include your loyal and\nmost devoted partner, Lady Doyle, whose self-sacrifice equals or exceeds\nyour own.\"\n\nPersonally, I have never been conscious of any self-sacrifice, but the\nwords about my wife were in no way an over-statement. I spoke in reply\nfor about forty minutes, and gave a synopsis of the state of the faith\nin other centres, for each Australian State is curiously self-centred\nand realises very little beyond its own borders. It was good for\nMelbourne to know that Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide and New Zealand were\nquite as alive and zealous as themselves.\n\nAt the end of the function I gave an account of the financial results\nof my tour and handed over L500 as a guarantee fund for future British\nlecturers, and L100 to Mr. Britton Harvey to assist his admirable paper,\n_The Harbinger of Light_. I had already expended about L100 upon\nspiritual causes, so that my whole balance came to L700, which is all\nnow invested in the Cause and should bring some good spiritual interest\nin time to come. We badly need money in order to be able to lay our case\nmore fully before the world.\n\nI have already given the written evidence of Mr. Smythe that my tour was\nthe most successful ever conducted in his time in Australia. To this I\nmay add the financial result recorded above. In view of this it is worth\nrecording that _Life_, a paper entirely under clerical management, said:\n\"The one thing clear is that Sir Conan Doyle's mission to Australia was\na mournful and complete failure, and it has left him in a very\nexasperated state of mind.\" This is typical of the perverse and\nunscrupulous opposition which we have continually to face, which\nhesitates at no lie in order to try and discredit the movement.\n\nOne small incident broke the monotony of the voyage between Adelaide and\nFremantle, across the dreaded Bight.\n\nThere have been considerable depredations in the coastal passenger trade\nof Australia, and since the State boats were all laid up by the strike\nit was to be expected that the crooks would appear upon the big liners.\nA band of them came on board the _Naldera_ at Adelaide, but their\nmethods were crude, and they were up against a discipline and an\norganisation against which they were helpless. One ruffian entered a\nnumber of cabins and got away with some booty, but was very gallantly\narrested by Captain Lewellin himself, after a short hand-to-hand\nstruggle. This fellow was recognised by the detectives at Fremantle and\nwas pronounced to be an old hand. In the general vigilance and search\nfor accomplices which followed, another passenger was judged to be\nsuspicious and he was also carried away by the detectives on a charge of\nprevious forgery. Altogether the crooks came out very badly in their\nencounter with the _Naldera_, whose officers deserve some special\nrecognition from the Company for the able way in which the matter was\nhandled.\n\nAlthough my formal tour was now over, I had quite determined to speak at\nPerth if it were humanly possible, for I could not consider my work as\ncomplete if the capital of one State had been untouched. I therefore\nsent the message ahead that I would fit in with any arrangements which\nthey might make, be it by day or night, but that the ship would only be\nin port for a few hours. As matters turned out the _Naldera_ arrived in\nthe early morning and was announced to sail again at 3 p.m., so that the\nhours were awkward. They took the great theatre, however, for 1 p.m.,\nwhich alarmed me as I reflected that my audience must either be starving\nor else in a state of repletion. Everything went splendidly, however.\nThe house was full, and I have never had a more delightfully keen set of\npeople in front of me. Of all my experiences there was none which was\nmore entirely and completely satisfactory, and I hope that it brought a\nvery substantial sum into the local spiritual treasury. There was quite\na scene in the street afterwards, and the motor could not start for the\ncrowds who surrounded it and stretched their kind hands and eager faces\ntowards us. It was a wonderful last impression to bear away from\nAustralia.\n\nIt is worth recording that upon a clairvoyante being asked upon this\noccasion whether she saw any one beside me on the platform she at once\nanswered \"an elderly man with very tufted eyebrows.\" This was the marked\ncharacteristic of the face of Russell Wallace. I was told before I left\nEngland that Wallace was my guide. I have already shown that Mrs.\nRoberts, of Dunedin, gave me a message direct from him to the same\neffect. Mrs. Foster Turner, in Sydney, said she saw him, described him\nand gave the name. Three others have described him. Each of these has\nbeen quite independent of the others. I think that the most sceptical\nperson must admit that the evidence is rather strong. It is naturally\nmore strong to me since I am personally conscious of his intervention\nand assistance.\n\nApart from my spiritual mission, I was very sorry that I could not\ndevote some time to exploring West Australia, which is in some ways the\nmost interesting, as it is the least developed, of the States in the\nFederation. One or two points which I gathered about it are worth\nrecording, especially its relation to the rabbits and to the sparrows,\nthe only hostile invaders which it has known. Long may they remain so!\n\nThe battle between the West Australians and the rabbits was historical\nand wonderful. After the creatures had become a perfect pest in the East\nit was hoped that the great central desert would prevent them from ever\nreaching the West. There was no water for a thousand miles. None the\nless, the rabbits got across. It was a notable day when the West\nAustralian outrider, loping from west to east, met the pioneer rabbit\nloping from east to west. Then West Australia made a great effort. She\nbuilt a rabbit-proof wire screen from north to south for hundreds of\nmiles from sea to sea, with such thoroughness that the northern end\nprojected over a rock which fringed deep water. With such thoroughness,\ntoo, did the rabbits reconnoitre this obstacle that their droppings were\nseen upon the far side of that very rock. There came another day of doom\nwhen two rabbits were seen on the wrong side of the wire. Two dragons of\nthe slime would not have alarmed the farmer more. A second line was\nbuilt, but this also was, as I understand, carried by the attack, which\nis now consolidating, upon the ground it has won. However, the whole\nsituation has been changed by the discovery elsewhere that the rabbit\ncan be made a paying proposition, so all may end well in this curious\nstory.\n\nA similar fight, with more success, has been made by West Australia\nagainst the sparrow, which has proved an unmitigated nuisance\nelsewhere. The birds are slowly advancing down the line of the\nContinental Railway and their forward scouts are continually cut off.\nCaptain White, the distinguished ornithologist, has the matter in hand,\nand received, as I am told, a wire a few weeks ago, he being in\nMelbourne, to the effect that two sparrows had been observed a thousand\nmiles west of where they had any rights. He set off, or sent off,\ninstantly to this way-side desert station in the hope of destroying\nthem, with what luck I know not. I should be inclined to back the\nsparrows.\n\nThis Captain White is a man of energy and brains, whose name comes up\nalways when one enquires into any question of bird or beast. He has made\na remarkable expedition lately to those lonely Everard Ranges, which lie\nsome distance to the north of the desolate Nularbor Plain, through which\nthe Continental Railway passes. It must form one of the most dreadful\nwastes in the world, for there are a thousand miles of coast line,\nwithout one single stream emerging. Afforestation may alter all that. In\nthe Everard Ranges Captain White found untouched savages of the stone\nage, who had never seen a white man before, and who treated him with\nabsolute courtesy and hospitality. They were a fine race physically,\nthough they lived under such conditions that there was little solid food\nsave slugs, lizards and the like. One can but pray that the Australian\nGovernment will take steps to save these poor people from the sad fate\nwhich usually follows the contact between the higher and the lower.\n\nFrom what I heard, West Australian immigrants are better looked after\nthan in the other States. I was told in Perth that nine hundred\nex-service men with their families had arrived, and that all had been\nfitted into places, permanent or temporary, within a fortnight. This is\nnot due to Government, but to the exertions of a peculiar local Society,\nwith the strange title of \"The Ugly Men.\" \"Handsome is as handsome\ndoes,\" and they seem to be great citizens. West Australia calls itself\nthe Cinderella State, for, although it covers a third of the Continent,\nit is isolated from the great centres of population. It has a very\nindividual life of its own, however, with its gold fields, its shark\nfisheries, its pearlers, and the great stock-raising plain in the north.\nAmong other remarkable achievements is its great water pipe, which\nextends for four hundred miles across the desert, and supplies the\npressure for the electric machinery at Kalgurli.\n\nBy a coincidence, the _Narkunda_, which is the sister ship of the\n_Naldera_, lay alongside the same quay at Fremantle, and it was an\nimpressive sight to see these two great shuttles of Empire lying for a\nfew hours at rest. In their vastness and majesty they made me think of a\ndaring saying of my mother's, when she exclaimed that if some works of\nman, such as an ocean-going steamer, were compared with some works of\nGod, such as a hill, man could sustain the comparison. It is the divine\nspark within us which gives us the creative power, and what may we not\nbe when that is fully developed!\n\nThe children were fishing for sharks, with a line warranted to hold\neighteen pounds, with the result that Malcolm's bait, lead, and\neverything else was carried away. But they were amply repaid by actually\nseeing the shark, which played about for some time in the turbid water,\na brown, ugly, varminty creature, with fine lines of speed in its\ntapering body. \"It was in Adelaide, daddy, not Fremantle,\" they protest\nin chorus, and no doubt they are right.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n     Pleasing letters.--Visit to Candy.--Snake and Flying Fox.--Buddha's\n     shrine.--The Malaya.--Naval digression.--Indian\n     trader.--Elephanta.--Sea snakes.--Chained to a tombstone.--Berlin's\n     escape.--Lord Chetwynd.--Lecture in the Red Sea.--Marseilles.\n\n\nIt was on Friday, February 11th, that we drew away from the Fremantle\nwharf, and started forth upon our long, lonely trek for Colombo--a huge\nstretch of sea, in which it is unusual to see a single sail. As night\nfell I saw the last twinkling lights of Australia fade away upon our\nstarboard quarter. Well, my job is done. I have nothing to add, nor have\nI said anything which I would wish withdrawn. My furrow gapes across two\nyoung Continents. I feel, deep in my soul, that the seed will fall in\ndue season, and that the reaping will follow the seed. Only the work\nconcerns ourselves--the results lie with those whose instruments we are.\n\nOf the many kindly letters which bade us farewell, and which assured us\nthat our work was not in vain, none was more eloquent and thoughtful\nthan that of Mr. Thomas Ryan, a member of the Federal Legislature. \"Long\nafter you leave us your message will linger. This great truth, which we\nhad long thought of as the plaything of the charlatan and crank, into\nthis you breathed the breath of life, and, as of old, we were forced to\nsay, 'We shall think of this again. We shall examine it more fully.'\nGive us time--for the present only this, we are sure that this thing was\nnot done in a corner. Let me say in the few moments I am able to snatch\nfrom an over-crowded life, that we realise throughout the land how deep\nand far-reaching were the things of which you spoke to us. We want time,\nand even more time, to make them part of ourselves. We are glad you have\ncome and raised our thoughts from the market-place to the altar.\"\n\nBishop Leadbeater, of Sydney, one of the most venerable and picturesque\nfigures whom I met in my travels, wrote, \"Now that you are leaving our\nshores, let me express my conviction that your visit has done great good\nin stirring up the thought of the people, and, I hope, in convincing\nmany of them of the reality of the other life.\" Among very many other\nletters there was none I valued more than one from the Rev. Jasper\nCalder, of Auckland. \"Rest assured, Sir Arthur, the plough has gone\ndeep, and the daylight will now reach the soil that has so long been in\nthe darkness of ignorance. I somehow feel as if this is the beginning of\nnew things for us all.\"\n\nIt is a long and weary stretch from Australia to Ceylon, but it was\nsaved from absolute monotony by the weather, which was unusually\nboisterous for so genial a region. Two days before crossing the line we\nran into a north-western monsoon, a rather rare experience, so that the\ndoldrums became quite a lively place. Even our high decks were wet with\nspindrift and the edge of an occasional comber, and some of the cabins\nwere washed out. A smaller ship would have been taking heavy seas. In\nall that great stretch of ocean we never saw a sail or a fish, and very\nfew birds. The loneliness of the surface of the sea is surely a very\nstrange fact in nature. One would imagine, if the sea is really so\npopulous as we imagine, that the surface, which is the only fixed point\nin very deep water, would be the gathering ground and trysting place for\nall life. Save for the flying fish, there was not a trace in all those\nthousands of miles.\n\nI suppose that on such a voyage one should rest and do nothing, but how\ndifficult it is to do nothing, and can it be restful to do what is\ndifficult? To me it is almost impossible. I was helped through a weary\ntime by many charming companions on board, particularly the Rev. Henry\nHoward, reputed to be the best preacher in Australia. Some of his\nsermons which I read are, indeed, splendid, depending for their effect\nupon real thought and knowledge, without any theological emotion. He is\nignorant of psychic philosophy, though, like so many men who profess\nthemselves hostile to Spiritualism, he is full of good stories which\nconclusively prove the very thing he denies. However, he has reached\nfull spirituality, which is more important than Spiritualism, and he\nmust be a great influence for good wherever he goes. The rest he will\nlearn later, either upon this side, or the other.\n\nAt Colombo I was interested to receive a _Westminster Gazette_, which\ncontained an article by their special commissioner upon the Yorkshire\nfairies. Some correspondent has given the full name of the people\nconcerned, with their address, which means that their little village\nwill be crammed with chars-a-banc, and the peace of their life ruined.\nIt was a rotten thing to do. For the rest, the _Westminster_ inquiries\nseem to have confirmed Gardner and me in every particular, and brought\nout the further fact that the girls had never before taken a photo in\ntheir life. One of them had, it seems, been for a short time in the\nemploy of a photographer, but as she was only a child, and her duties\nconsisted in running on errands, the fact would hardly qualify her, as\n_Truth_ suggests, for making faked negatives which could deceive the\ngreatest experts in London. There may be some loophole in the direction\nof thought forms, but otherwise the case is as complete as possible.\n\nWe have just returned from a dream journey to Candy. The old capital is\nin the very centre of the island, and seventy-two miles from Colombo,\nbut, finding that we had one clear night, we all crammed ourselves (my\nwife, the children and self) into a motor car, and made for it, while\nMajor Wood and Jakeman did the same by train. It was a wonderful\nexperience, a hundred and forty miles of the most lovely coloured\ncinema reel that God ever released. I carry away the confused but\nbeautiful impression of a good broad red-tinted road, winding amid all\nshades of green, from the dark foliage of overhanging trees, to the\nlight stretches of the half-grown rice fields. Tea groves, rubber\nplantations, banana gardens, and everywhere the coconut palms, with\ntheir graceful, drooping fronds. Along this great road streamed the\npeople, and their houses lined the way, so that it was seldom that one\nwas out of sight of human life. They were of all types and colours, from\nthe light brown of the real Singalese to the negroid black of the\nTamils, but all shared the love of bright tints, and we were delighted\nby the succession of mauves, purples, crimsons, ambers and greens. Water\nbuffaloes, with the resigned and half-comic air of the London landlady\nwho has seen better days, looked up at us from their mudholes, and\njackal-like dogs lay thick on the path, hardly moving to let our motor\npass. Once, my lord the elephant came round a corner, with his soft,\neasy-going stride, and surveyed us with inscrutable little eyes. It was\nthe unchanged East, even as it had always been, save for the neat little\npolice stations and their smart occupants, who represented the gentle,\nbut very efficient, British Raj. It may have been the merit of that Raj,\nor it may have been the inherent virtue of the people, but in all that\njourney we were never conscious of an unhappy or of a wicked face. They\nwere very sensitive, speaking faces, too, and it was not hard to read\nthe thoughts within.\n\nAs we approached Candy, our road ran through the wonderful Botanical\nGardens, unmatched for beauty in the world, though I still give\nMelbourne pride of place for charm. As we sped down one avenue an\nelderly keeper in front of us raised his gun and fired into the thick\nfoliage of a high tree. An instant later something fell heavily to the\nground. A swarm of crows had risen, so that we had imagined it was one\nof these, but when we stopped the car a boy came running up with the\nvictim, which was a great bat, or flying fox, with a two-foot span of\nleathery wing. It had the appealing face of a mouse, and two black,\nround eyes, as bright as polished shoe buttons. It was wounded, so the\nboy struck it hard upon the ground, and held it up once more, the dark\neyes glazed, and the graceful head bubbling blood from either nostril.\n\"Horrible! horrible!\" cried poor Denis, and we all echoed it in our\nhearts. This intrusion of tragedy into that paradise of a garden\nreminded us of the shadows of life. There is something very intimately\nmoving in the evil fate of the animals. I have seen a man's hand blown\noff in warfare, and have not been conscious of the same haunting horror\nwhich the pains of animals have caused me.\n\nAnd here I may give another incident from our Candy excursion. The boys\nare wild over snakes, and I, since I sat in the front of the motor, was\nimplored to keep a look-out. We were passing through a village, where a\nlarge lump of concrete, or stone, was lying by the road. A stick, about\nfive feet long, was resting against it. As we flew past, I saw, to my\namazement, the top of the stick bend back a little. I shouted to the\ndriver, and we first halted, and then ran back to the spot. Sure enough,\nit was a long, yellow snake, basking in this peculiar position. The\nvillage was alarmed, and peasants came running, while the boys, wildly\nexcited, tumbled out of the motor. \"Kill it!\" they cried. \"No, no!\"\ncried the chauffeur. \"There is the voice of the Buddhist,\" I thought, so\nI cried, \"No! no!\" also. The snake, meanwhile, squirmed over the stone,\nand we saw it lashing about among the bushes. Perhaps we were wrong to\nspare it, for I fear it was full of venom. However, the villagers\nremained round the spot, and they had sticks, so perhaps the story was\nnot ended.\n\nCandy, the old capital, is indeed a dream city, and we spent a long,\nwonderful evening beside the lovely lake, where the lazy tortoises\npaddled about, and the fireflies gleamed upon the margin. We visited\nalso the old Buddhist temple, where, as in all those places, the\natmosphere is ruined by the perpetual demand for small coins. The few\nmosques which I have visited were not desecrated in this fashion, and it\nseems to be an unenviable peculiarity of the Buddhists, whose\nyellow-robed shaven priests have a keen eye for money. Beside the\ntemple, but in ruins, lay the old palace of the native kings.\n\nI wish we could have seen the temple under better conditions, for it is\nreally the chief shrine of the most numerous religion upon earth,\nserving the Buddhist as the Kaaba serves the Moslem, or St. Peter's the\nCatholic. It is strange how the mind of man drags high things down to\nits own wretched level, the priests in each creed being the chief\nculprits. Buddha under his boh tree was a beautiful example of sweet,\nunselfish benevolence and spirituality. And the upshot, after two\nthousand years, is that his followers come to adore a horse's tooth\n(proclaimed to be Buddha's, and three inches long), at Candy, and to\ncrawl up Adam's Peak, in order to worship at a hole in the ground which\nis supposed to be his yard-long footstep. It is not more senseless than\nsome Christian observances, but that does not make it less deplorable.\n\nI was very anxious to visit one of the buried cities further inland, and\nespecially to see the ancient Boh tree, which must surely be the doyen\nof the whole vegetable kingdom, since it is undoubtedly a slip taken\nfrom Buddha's original Boh tree, transplanted into Ceylon about two\nhundred years before Christ. Its history is certain and unbroken. Now, I\nunderstand, it is a very doddering old trunk, with withered limbs which\nare supported by crutches, but may yet hang on for some centuries to\ncome. On the whole, we employed our time very well, but Ceylon will\nalways remain to each of us as an earthly paradise, and I could imagine\nno greater pleasure than to have a clear month to wander over its\nbeauties. Monsieur Clemenceau was clearly of the same opinion, for he\nwas doing it very thoroughly whilst we were there.\n\nFrom Colombo to Bombay was a dream of blue skies and blue seas. Half\nway up the Malabar coast, we saw the old Portuguese settlement of Goa,\nglimmering white on a distant hillside. Even more interesting to us was\na squat battleship making its way up the coast. As we came abreast of it\nwe recognised the _Malaya_, one of that famous little squadron of Evan\nThomas', which staved off the annihilation of Beatty's cruisers upon\nthat day of doom on the Jutland coast. We gazed upon it with the\nreverence that it deserved. We had, in my opinion, a mighty close shave\nupon that occasion. If Jellicoe had gambled with the British fleet he\nmight have won a shattering victory, but surely he was wise to play\nsafety with such tremendous interests at stake. There is an account of\nthe action, given by a German officer, at the end of Freeman's book\n\"With the _Hercules_ to Kiel,\" which shows clearly that the enemy\ndesired Jellicoe to close with them, as giving them their only chance\nfor that torpedo barrage which they had thoroughly practised, and on\nwhich they relied to cripple a number of our vessels. In every form of\nforesight and preparation, the brains seem to have been with them--but\nthat was not the fault of the fighting seamen. Surely an amateur could\nhave foreseen that, in a night action, a star shell is better than a\nsearchlight, that a dropping shell at a high trajectory is far more\nlikely to hit the deck than the side, and that the powder magazine\nshould be cut off from the turret, as, otherwise, a shell crushing the\none will explode the other. This last error in construction seems to\nhave been the cause of half our losses, and the _Lion_ herself would\nhave been a victim, but for the self-sacrifice of brave Major Harvey of\nthe Marines. All's well that ends well, but it was stout hearts, and not\nclear heads, which pulled us through.\n\nIt is all very well to say let bygones be bygones, but we have no\nguarantee that the old faults are corrected, and certainly no one has\nbeen censured. It looks as if the younger officers had no means of\nbringing their views before those in authority, while the seniors were\nso occupied with actual administration that they had no time for\nthinking outside their routine. Take the really monstrous fact that, at\nthe outset of a war of torpedoes and mines, when ships might be expected\nto sink like kettles with a hole in them, no least provision had been\nmade for saving the crew! Boats were discarded before action, nothing\nwooden or inflammable was permitted, and the consideration that\nlife-saving apparatus might be non-inflammable does not seem to have\npresented itself. When I wrote to the Press, pointing this out with all\nthe emphasis of which I was capable--I was ready to face the charge of\nhysteria in such a cause--I was gravely rebuked by a leading naval\nauthority, and cautioned not to meddle with mysteries of which I knew\nnothing. None the less, within a week there was a rush order for\nswimming collars of india rubber. _Post hoc non propter_, perhaps, but\nat least it verified the view of the layman. That was in the days when\nnot one harbour had been boomed and netted, though surely a shark in a\nbathing pool would be innocuous compared to a submarine in an anchorage.\nThe swimmers could get out, but the ships could not.\n\nBut all this comes of seeing the white _Malaya_, steaming slowly upon\ndeep blue summer seas, with the olive-green coast of Malabar on the\nhorizon behind her.\n\nI had an interesting conversation on psychic matters with Lady Dyer,\nwhose husband was killed in the war. It has been urged that it is\nsingular and unnatural that our friends from the other side so seldom\nallude to the former occasions on which they have manifested. There is,\nI think, force in the objection. Lady Dyer had an excellent case to the\ncontrary--and, indeed, they are not rare when one makes inquiry. She was\nmost anxious to clear up some point which was left open between her\nhusband and herself, and for this purpose consulted three mediums in\nLondon, Mr. Vout Peters, Mrs. Brittain, and another. In each case she\nhad some success. Finally, she consulted Mrs. Leonard, and her husband,\nspeaking through Feda, under control, began a long conversation by\nsaying, \"I have already spoken to you through three mediums, two women\nand a man.\" Lady Dyer had not given her name upon any occasion, so there\nwas no question of passing on information. I may add that the intimate\npoint at issue was entirely cleared up by the husband, who rejoiced\ngreatly that he had the chance to do so.\n\nBombay is not an interesting place for the casual visitor, and was in a\nstate of uproar and decoration on account of the visit of the Duke of\nConnaught. My wife and I did a little shopping, which gave us a glimpse\nof the patient pertinacity of the Oriental. The sum being 150 rupees, I\nasked the Indian's leave to pay by cheque, as money was running low. He\nconsented. When we reached the ship by steam-launch, we found that he,\nin some strange way, had got there already, and was squatting with the\ngoods outside our cabin door. He looked askance at Lloyd's Bank, of\nwhich he had never heard, but none the less he took the cheque under\nprotest. Next evening he was back at our cabin door, squatting as\nbefore, with a sweat-stained cheque in his hand which, he declared, that\nhe was unable to cash. This time I paid in English pound notes, but he\nlooked upon them with considerable suspicion. As our ship was lying a\ngood three miles from the shore, the poor chap had certainly earned his\nmoney, for his goods, in the first instance, were both good and cheap.\n\nWe have seen the Island of Elephanta, and may the curse of Ernulphus,\nwhich comprises all other curses, be upon that old Portuguese Governor\nwho desecrated it, and turned his guns upon the wonderful stone\ncarvings. It reminds me of Abou Simbel in Nubia, and the whole place has\nan Egyptian flavour. In a vast hollow in the hill, a series of very\nelaborate bas reliefs have been carved, showing Brahma, Vishnu and Siva,\nthe old Hindoo trinity, with all those strange satellites, the bulls,\nthe kites, the dwarfs, the elephant-headed giants with which Hindoo\nmythology has so grotesquely endowed them. Surely a visitor from some\nwiser planet, examining our traces, would judge that the human race,\nthough sane in all else, was mad the moment that it touched religion,\nwhether he judged it by such examples as these, or by the wearisome\niteration of expressionless Buddhas, the sacred crocodiles and\nhawk-headed gods of Egypt, the monstrosities of Central America, or the\nlambs and doves which adorn our own churches. It is only in the\nMohammedan faith that such an observer would find nothing which could\noffend, since all mortal symbolism is there forbidden. And yet if these\nstrange conceptions did indeed help these poor people through their\njourney of life--and even now they come from far with their\nofferings--then we should morally be as the Portuguese governor, if we\nwere to say or do that which might leave them prostrate and mutilated in\ntheir minds. It was a pleasant break to our long voyage, and we were\ngrateful to our commander, who made everything easy for us. He takes the\nhumane view that a passenger is not merely an article of cargo, to be\nconveyed from port to port, but that his recreation should, in reason,\nbe considered as well.\n\nElephanta was a little bit of the old India, but the men who conveyed us\nthere from the launch to the shore in their ancient dhows were of a far\ngreater antiquity. These were Kolis, small, dark men, who held the\ncountry before the original Aryan invasion, and may still be plying\ntheir boats when India has become Turanian or Slavonic, or whatever its\nnext avatar may be. They seem to have the art of commerce well\ndeveloped, for they held us up cleverly until they had extracted a rupee\neach, counting us over and over with great care and assiduity.\n\nAt Bombay we took over 200 more travellers.\n\nWe had expected that the new-comers, who were mostly Anglo-Indians whose\nleave had been long overdue, would show signs of strain and climate, but\nwe were agreeably surprised to find that they were a remarkably healthy\nand alert set of people. This may be due to the fact that it is now the\nend of the cold weather. Our new companions included many native\ngentlemen, one of whom, the Rajah of Kapurthala, brought with him his\nSpanish wife, a regal-looking lady, whose position must be a difficult\none. Hearne and Murrell, the cricketers, old playmates and friends, were\nalso among the new-comers. All of them seemed perturbed as to the unrest\nin India, though some were inclined to think that the worst was past,\nand that the situation was well in hand. When we think how splendidly\nIndia helped us in the war, it would indeed be sad if a serious rift\ncame between us now. One thing I am very sure of, that if Great Britain\nshould ever be forced to separate from India, it is India, and not\nBritain, which will be the chief sufferer.\n\nWe passed over hundreds of miles of absolute calm in the Indian Ocean.\nThere is a wonderful passage in Frank Bullen's \"Sea Idylls,\" in which\nhe describes how, after a long-continued tropical calm, all manner of\nnoxious scum and vague evil shapes come flickering to the surface.\nColeridge has done the same idea, for all time, in \"The Ancient\nMariner,\" when \"the very sea did rot.\" In our case we saw nothing so\ndramatic, but the ship passed through one area where there was a great\nnumber of what appeared to be sea-snakes, creatures of various hues,\nfrom two to ten feet long, festooned or slowly writhing some feet below\nthe surface. I cannot recollect seeing anything of the kind in any\nmuseum. These, and a couple of Arab dhows, furnished our only break in a\nthousand miles. Certainly, as an entertainment the ocean needs cutting.\n\nIn the extreme south, like a cloud upon the water, we caught a glimpse\nof the Island of Socotra, one of the least visited places upon earth,\nthough so near to the main line of commerce. What a base for submarines,\nshould it fall into wrong hands! It has a comic-opera Sultan of its own,\nwith 15,000 subjects, and a subsidy from the British Government of 200\ndollars a year, which has been increased lately to 360, presumably on\naccount of the higher cost of living. It is a curious fact that, though\nit is a great place of hill and plain, seventy miles by eighteen, there\nis only one wild animal known, namely the civet cat. A traveller, Mr.\nJacob, who examined the place, put forward the theory that one of\nAlexander the Great's ships was wrecked there, the crew remaining, for\nhe found certain Greek vestiges, but what they were I have been unable\nto find out.\n\nAs we approached Aden, we met the _China_ on her way out. Her\nmisadventure some years ago at the Island of Perim, has become one of\nthe legends of the sea. In those days, the discipline aboard P. & O.\nships was less firm than at present, and on the occasion of the birthday\nof one of the leading passengers, the officers of the ship had been\ninvited to the festivity. The result was that, in the middle of dinner,\nthe ship crashed, no great distance from the lighthouse, and, it is\nsaid, though this is probably an exaggeration, that the revellers were\nable to get ashore over the bows without wetting their dress shoes. No\nharm was done, save that one unlucky rock projected, like a huge spike,\nthrough the ship's bottom, and it cost the company a good half-million\nbefore they were able to get her afloat and in service once more.\nHowever, there she was, doing her fifteen knots, and looking so saucy\nand new that no one would credit such an unsavoury incident in her past.\n\nEarly in February I gave a lantern lecture upon psychic phenomena to\npassengers of both classes. The Red Sea has become quite a favourite\nstamping ground of mine, but it was much more tolerable now than on that\nterrible night in August when I discharged arguments and perspiration to\na sweltering audience. On this occasion it was a wonderful gathering, a\nmicrocosm of the world, with an English peer, an Indian Maharajah, many\nnative gentlemen, whites of every type from four great countries, and a\nfringe of stewards, stewardesses, and nondescripts of all sorts,\nincluding the ship's barber, who is one of the most active men on the\nship in an intellectual sense. All went well, and if they were not\nconvinced they were deeply interested, which is the first stage.\nSomewhere there are great forces which are going to carry on this work,\nand I never address an audience without the feeling that among them\nthere may be some latent Paul or Luther whom my words may call into\nactivity.\n\nI heard an anecdote yesterday which is worth recording. We have a\nboatswain who is a fine, burly specimen of a British seaman. In one of\nhis short holidays while in mufti, in Norfolk, he had an argument with a\nNorfolk farmer, a stranger to him, who wound up the discussion by\nsaying: \"My lad, what you need is a little travel to broaden your mind.\"\n\nThe boatswain does his 70,000 miles a year. It reminded me of the doctor\nwho advised his patient to take a brisk walk every morning before\nbreakfast, and then found out that he was talking to the village\npostman.\n\nA gentleman connected with the cinema trade told me a curious story\nwithin his own experience. Last year a psychic cinema story was shown in\nAustralia, and to advertise it a man was hired who would consent to be\nchained to a tombstone all night. This was done in Melbourne and Sydney\nwithout the person concerned suffering in any way. It was very different\nin Launceston. The man was found to be nearly mad from terror in the\nmorning, though he was a stout fellow of the dock labourer type. His\nstory was that in the middle of the night he had heard to his horror the\nsound of dripping water approaching him. On looking up he saw an\nevil-looking shape with water streaming from him, who stood before him\nand abused him a long time, frightening him almost to death. The man was\nso shaken that the cinema company had to send him for a voyage. Of\ncourse, it was an unfair test for any one's nerves, and imagination may\nhave played its part, but it is noticeable that a neighbouring grave\ncontained a man who had been drowned in the Esk many years before. In\nany case, it makes a true and interesting story, whatever the\nexplanation.\n\nI have said that there was an English peer on board. This was Lord\nChetwynd, a man who did much towards winning the war. Now that the storm\nis over the public knows nothing, and apparently cares little, about the\nmen who brought the ship of State through in safety. Some day we shall\nget a more exact sense of proportion, but it is all out of focus at\npresent. Lord Chetwynd, in the year 1915, discovered by his own personal\nexperiments how to make an explosive far more effective than the one we\nwere using, which was very unreliable. This he effected by a particular\ncombination and treatment of T.N.T. and ammonia nitrate. Having\nconvinced the authorities by actual demonstration, he was given a free\nhand, which he used to such effect that within a year he was furnishing\nthe main shell supply of the army. His own installation was at\nChilwell, near Nottingham, and it turned out 19,000,000 shells, while\nsix other establishments were erected elsewhere on the same system.\nWithin his own works Lord Chetwynd was so complete an autocrat that it\nwas generally believed that he shot three spies with his own hand.\nThinking the rumour a useful one, he encouraged it by creating three\ndummy graves, which may, perhaps, be visited to this day by pious\npro-Germans. It should be added that Lord Chetwynd's explosive was not\nonly stronger, but cheaper, than that in previous use, so that his\nlabours saved the country some millions of pounds.\n\nIt was at Chilwell that the huge bombs were filled which were destined\nfor Berlin. There were 100 of them to be carried in twenty-five Handley\nPage machines. Each bomb was capable of excavating 350 tons at the spot\nwhere it fell, and in a trial trip one which was dropped in the central\ncourtyard of a large square building left not a stone standing around\nit. Berlin was saved by a miracle, which she hardly deserved after the\nirresponsible glee with which she had hailed the devilish work of her\nown Zeppelins. The original hundred bombs sent to be charged had the\ntails removed before being sent, and when they were returned it was\nfound to be such a job finding the right tail for the right bomb, the\npermutations being endless, that it was quicker and easier to charge\nanother hundred bombs with tails attached. This and other fortuitous\nmatters consumed several weeks. Finally, the bombs were ready and were\nactually on the machines in England, whence the start was to be made,\nwhen the Armistice was declared. Possibly a knowledge of this increased\nthe extreme haste of the German delegates. Personally, I am glad it was\nso, for we have enough cause for hatred in the world without adding the\ndeath of 10,000 German civilians. There is some weight, however, in the\ncontention of those who complain that Germans have devastated Belgium\nand France, but have never been allowed to experience in their own\npersons what the horrors of war really are. Still, if Christianity and\nreligion are to be more than mere words, we must be content that Berlin\nwas not laid in ruins at a time when the issue of the war was already\ndecided.\n\nHere we are at Suez once again. It would take Loti or Robert Hichens to\ndescribe the wonderful shades peculiar to the outskirts of Egypt. Deep\nblue sea turns to dark green, which in turn becomes the very purest,\nclearest emerald as it shallows into a snow-white frill of foam. Thence\nextends the golden desert with deep honey-coloured shadows, stretching\naway until it slopes upwards into melon-tinted hills, dry and bare and\nwrinkled. At one point a few white dwellings with a group of acacias\nmark the spot which they call Moses Well. They say that a Jew can pick\nup a living in any country, but when one surveys these terrible wastes\none can only imagine that the climate has greatly changed since a whole\nnomad people were able to cross them.\n\nIn the Mediterranean we had a snap of real cold which laid many of us\nout, myself included. I recall the Lancastrian who complained that he\nhad swallowed a dog fight. The level of our lives had been disturbed for\nan instant by a feud between the children and one of the passengers who\nhad, probably quite justly, given one of them a box on the ear. In\nreturn, they had fixed an abusive document in his cabin which they had\nended by the words, \"With our warmest despisings,\" all signing their\nnames to it. The passenger was sportsman enough to show this document\naround, or we should not have known of its existence. Strange little\nsouls with their vivid hopes and fears, a parody of our own. I gave baby\na daily task and had ordered her to do a map of Australia. I found her\nweeping in the evening. \"I did the map,\" she cried, between her sobs,\n\"but they all said it was a pig!\" She was shaken to the soul at the\nslight upon her handiwork.\n\nIt was indeed wonderful to find ourselves at Marseilles once more, and,\nafter the usual unpleasant _douane_ formalities, which are greatly\nameliorated in France as compared to our own free trade country, to be\nat temporary rest at the Hotel du Louvre.\n\nA great funeral, that of Frederic Chevillon and his brother, was\noccupying the attention of the town. Both were public officials and both\nwere killed in the war, their bodies being now exhumed for local honour.\nA great crowd filed past with many banners, due decorum being observed\nsave that some of the mourners were smoking cigarettes, which \"was not\nhandsome,\" as Mr. Pepys would observe. There was no sign of any\nreligious symbol anywhere. It was a Sunday and yet the people in the\nprocession seemed very badly dressed and generally down-at-heel and\nslovenly. I think we should have done the thing better in England. The\nsimplicity of the flag-wrapped coffins was however dignified and\npleasing. The inscriptions, too, were full of simple patriotism.\n\nI never take a stroll through a French town without appreciating the\ngulf which lies between us and them. They have the old Roman\ncivilisation, with its ripe mellow traits, which have never touched the\nAnglo-Saxon, who, on the other hand, has his raw Northern virtues which\nmake life angular but effective. I watched a scene to-day inconceivable\nunder our rule. Four very smart officers, captains or majors, were\nseated outside a cafe. The place was crowded, but there was room for\nfour more at this table on the sidewalk, so presently that number of\nnegro privates came along and occupied the vacant seats. The officers\nsmiled most good humouredly, and remarks were exchanged between the two\nparties, which ended in the high falsetto laugh of a negro. These black\ntroops seemed perfectly self-respecting, and I never saw a drunken man,\nsoldier or civilian, during two days.\n\nI have received English letters which announce that I am to repeat my\nAustralian lectures at the Queen's Hall, from April 11th onwards. I\nseem to be returning with shotted guns and going straight into action.\nThey say that the most dangerous course is to switch suddenly off when\nyou have been working hard. I am little likely to suffer from that.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n     The Institut Metaphysique.--Lecture in French.--Wonderful musical\n     improviser.--Camille Flammarion.--Test of materialised hand.--Last\n     ditch of materialism.--Sitting with Mrs. Bisson's medium,\n     Eva.--Round the Aisne battlefields.--A tragic\n     intermezzo.--Anglo-French Rugby match.--Madame Blifaud's\n     clairvoyance.\n\n\nOne long stride took us to Paris, where, under the friendly and\ncomfortable roof of the Hotel du Louvre, we were able at last to unpack\nour trunks and to steady down after this incessant movement. The first\nvisit which I paid in Paris was to Dr. Geley, head of the Institut\nMetaphysique, at 89, Avenue Niel. Now that poor Crawford has gone,\nleaving an imperishable name behind him, Geley promises to be the\ngreatest male practical psychic researcher, and he has advantages of\nwhich Crawford could never boast, since the liberality of Monsieur Jean\nMeyer has placed him at the head of a splendid establishment with\nlaboratory, photographic room, lecture room, seance room and library,\nall done in the most splendid style. Unless some British patron has the\ngenerosity and intelligence to do the same, this installation, with a\nman like Geley to run it, will take the supremacy in psychic advance\nfrom Britain, where it now lies, and transfer it to France. Our nearest\napproach to something similar depends at present upon the splendid\nprivate efforts of Mr. and Mrs. Hewat MacKenzie, in the Psychic College\nat 59, Holland Park, which deserve the support of everyone who realises\nthe importance of the subject.\n\nI made a _faux pas_ with the Geleys, for I volunteered to give an\nexhibition of my Australian slides, and they invited a distinguished\naudience of men of science to see them. Imagine my horror when I found\nthat my box of slides was in the luggage which Major Wood had taken on\nwith him in the \"Naldera\" to England. They were rushed over by\naeroplane, however, in response to my telegram, and so the situation was\nsaved.\n\nThe lecture was a private one and was attended by Mr. Charles Richet,\nMr. Gabrielle Delanne, and a number of other men of science. Nothing\ncould have gone better, though I fear that my French, which is\nexecrable, must have been a sore trial to my audience. I gave them\nwarning at the beginning by quoting a remark which Bernard Shaw made to\nme once, that when he spoke French he did not say what he wanted to say,\nbut what he could say. Richet told me afterwards that he was deeply\ninterested by the photographs, and when I noted the wonder and awe with\nwhich he treated them--he, the best known physiologist in the world--and\ncompared it with the attitude of the ordinary lay Press, it seemed a\ngood example of the humility of wisdom and the arrogance of ignorance.\nAfter my lecture, which covered an hour and a quarter, we were favoured\nby an extraordinary exhibition from a medium named Aubert. This\ngentleman has had no musical education whatever, but he sits down in a\nstate of semi-trance and he handles a piano as I, for one, have never\nheard one handled before. It is a most amazing performance. He sits with\nhis eyes closed while some one calls the alphabet, striking one note\nwhen the right letter sounds. In this way he spells out the name of the\nparticular composer whom he will represent. He then dashes off, with\ntremendous verve and execution, upon a piece which is not a known\ncomposition of that author, but is an improvisation after his manner. We\nhad Grieg, Mendelssohn, Berlioz and others in quick succession, each of\nthem masterly and characteristic. His technique seemed to my wife and me\nto be not inferior to that of Paderewski. Needles can be driven through\nhim as he plays, and sums can be set before him which he will work out\nwithout ceasing the wonderful music which appears to flow through him,\nbut quite independently of his own powers or volition. He would\ncertainly cause a sensation in London.\n\nI had the honour next day of meeting Camille Flammarion, the famous\nastronomer, who is deeply engaged in psychic study, and was so\ninterested in the photos which I snowed him that I was compelled to\nleave them in his hands that he might get copies done. Flammarion is a\ndear, cordial, homely old gentleman with a beautiful bearded head which\nwould delight a sculptor. He entertained us with psychic stories all\nlunch time. Madame Bisson was there and amused me with her opinion upon\npsychic researchers, their density, their arrogance, their preposterous\ntheories to account for obvious effects. If she had not been a great\npioneer in Science, she might have been a remarkable actress, for it was\nwonderful how her face took off the various types. Certainly, as\ndescribed by her, their far-fetched precautions, which irritate the\nmedium and ruin the harmony of the conditions, do appear very\nridiculous, and the parrot cry of \"Fraud!\" and \"Fake!\" has been sadly\noverdone. All are agreed here that spiritualism has a far greater chance\nin England than in France, because the French temperament is essentially\na mocking one, and also because the Catholic Church is in absolute\nopposition. Three of their bishops, Beauvais, Lisieux and Coutances,\nhelped to burn a great medium, Joan of Arc, six hundred years ago,\nasserting at the trial the very accusations of necromancy which are\nasserted to-day. Now they have had to canonise her. One would have hoped\nthat they had learned something from the incident.\n\nDr. Geley has recently been experimenting with Mr. Franek Kluski, a\nPolish amateur of weak health, but with great mediumistic powers. These\ntook the form of materialisations. Dr. Geley had prepared a bucket of\nwarm paraffin, and upon the appearance of the materialised figure, which\nwas that of a smallish man, the request was made that the apparition\nshould plunge its hand into the bucket and then withdraw it, so that\nwhen it dematerialised a cast of the hand would be left, like a glove\nof solidified paraffin, so narrow at the wrist that the hands could not\nhave been withdrawn by any possible normal means without breaking the\nmoulds. These hands I was able to inspect, and also the plaster cast\nwhich had been taken from the inside of one of them. The latter showed a\nsmall hand, not larger than a boy's, but presenting the characteristics\nof age, for the skin was loose and formed transverse folds. The\nmaterialised figure had also, unasked, left an impression of its own\nmouth and chin, which was, I think, done for evidential purposes, for a\ncurious wart hung from the lower lip, which would mark the owner among a\nmillion. So far as I could learn, however, no identification had\nactually been effected. The mouth itself was thick-lipped and coarse,\nand also gave an impression of age.\n\nTo show the thoroughness of Dr. Geley's work, he had foreseen that the\nonly answer which any critic, however exacting, could make to the\nevidence, was that the paraffin hand had been brought in the medium's\npocket. Therefore he had treated with cholesterin the paraffin in his\nbucket, and this same cholesterin reappeared in the resulting glove.\nWhat can any sceptic have to say to an experiment like that save to\nignore it, and drag us back with wearisome iteration to some real or\nimaginary scandal of the past? The fact is that the position of the\nmaterialists could only be sustained so long as there was a general\nagreement among all the newspapers to regard this subject as a comic\nproposition. Now that there is a growing tendency towards recognising\nits overwhelming gravity, the evidence is getting slowly across to the\npublic, and the old attitude of negation and derision has become\npuerile. I can clearly see, however, that the materialists will fall\nback upon their second line of trenches, which will be to admit the\nphenomena, but to put them down to material causes in the unexplored\nrealms of nature with no real connection with human survival. This\nchange of front is now due, but it will fare no better than the old one.\nBefore quitting the subject I should have added that these conclusions\nof Dr. Geley concerning the paraffin moulds taken from Kluski's\nmaterialisation are shared by Charles Richet and Count de Gramont of the\nInstitute of France, who took part in the experiments. How absurd are\nthe efforts of those who were not present to contradict the experiences\nof men like these.\n\nI was disappointed to hear from Dr. Geley that the experiments in\nEngland with the medium Eva had been largely negative, though once or\ntwice the ectoplasmic flow was, as I understand, observed. Dr. Geley put\nthis comparative failure down to the fantastic precautions taken by the\ncommittee, which had produced a strained and unnatural atmosphere. It\nseems to me that if a medium is searched, and has all her clothes\nchanged before entering the seance room, that is ample, but when in\naddition to this you put her head in a net-bag and restrict her in other\nways, you are producing an abnormal self-conscious state of mind which\nstops that passive mood of receptivity which is essential. Professor\nHyslop has left it on record that after a long series of rigid tests\nwith Mrs. Piper he tried one sitting under purely natural conditions,\nand received more convincing and evidential results than in all the\nothers put together. Surely this should suggest freer methods in our\nresearch.\n\nI have just had a sitting with Eva, whom I cannot even say that I have\nseen, for she was under her cloth cabinet when I arrived and still under\nit when I left, being in trance the whole time. Professor Jules Courtier\nof the Sorbonne and a few other men of science were present. Madame\nBisson experiments now in the full light of the afternoon. Only the\nmedium is in darkness, but her two hands protrude through the cloth and\nare controlled by the sitters. There is a flap in the cloth which can be\nopened to show anything which forms beneath. After sitting about an hour\nthis flap was opened, and Madame Bisson pointed out to me a streak of\nectoplasm upon the outside of the medium's bodice. It was about six\ninches long and as thick as a finger. I was allowed to touch it, and\nfelt it shrink and contract under my hand. It is this substance which\ncan, under good conditions, be poured out in great quantities and can be\nbuilt up into forms and shapes, first flat and finally rounded, by\npowers which are beyond our science. We sometimes call it Psychoplasm in\nEngland, Richet named it Ectoplasm, Geley calls it Ideoplasm; but call\nit what you will, Crawford has shown for all time that it is the\nsubstance which is at the base of psychic physical phenomena.\n\nMadame Bisson, whose experience after twelve years' work is unique, has\nan interesting theory. She disagrees entirely with Dr. Geley's view,\nthat the shapes are thought forms, and she resents the name ideoplasm,\nsince it represents that view. Her conclusion is that Eva acts the part\nwhich a \"detector\" plays, when it turns the Hertzian waves, which are\ntoo short for our observation, into slower ones which can become\naudible. Thus Eva breaks up certain currents and renders them visible.\nAccording to her, what we see is never the thing itself but always the\nreflection of the thing which exists in another plane and is made\nvisible in ours by Eva's strange material organisation. It was for this\nreason that the word Miroir appeared in one of the photographs, and\nexcited much adverse criticism. One dimly sees a new explanation of\nmediumship. The light seems a colourless thing until it passes through a\nprism and suddenly reveals every colour in the world.\n\nA picture of Madame Bisson's father hung upon the wall, and I at once\nrecognised him as the phantom which appears in the photographs of her\nfamous book, and which formed the culminating point of Eva's mediumship.\nHe has a long and rather striking face which was clearly indicated in\nthe ectoplasmic image. Only on one occasion was this image so developed\nthat it could speak, and then only one word. The word was \"Esperez.\"\n\nWe have just returned, my wife, Denis and I, from a round of the Aisne\nbattlefields, paying our respects incidentally to Bossuet at Meaux,\nFenelon at Chateau Thierry, and Racine at La Ferte Millon. It is indeed\na frightful cicatrix which lies across the brow of France--a scar which\nstill gapes in many places as an open wound. I could not have believed\nthat the ruins were still so untouched. The land is mostly under\ncultivation, but the houses are mere shells, and I cannot think where\nthe cultivators live. When you drive for sixty miles and see nothing but\nruin on either side of the road, and when you know that the same thing\nextends from the sea to the Alps, and that in places it is thirty miles\nbroad, it helps one to realise the debt that Germany owes to her\nvictims. If it had been in the Versailles terms that all her members of\nparliament and journalists should be personally conducted, as we have\nbeen, through a sample section, their tone would be more reasonable.\n\nIt has been a wonderful panorama. We followed the route of the thousand\ntaxi-cabs which helped to save Europe up to the place where Gallieni's\nmen dismounted and walked straight up against Klueck's rearguard. We saw\nBelleau Wood, where the 2nd and 46th American divisions made their fine\ndebut and showed Ludendorff that they were not the useless soldiers he\nhad so vainly imagined. Thence we passed all round that great heavy sack\nof Germans which had formed in June, 1918, with its tip at Dormans and\nChateau Thierry. We noted Bligny, sacred to the sacrifices of Carter\nCampbell's 51st Highlanders, and Braithwaite's 62nd Yorkshire division,\nwho lost between them seven thousand men in these woods. These British\nepisodes seem quite unknown to the French, while the Americans have very\nproperly laid out fine graveyards with their flag flying, and placed\nengraved tablets of granite where they played their part, so that in\ntime I really think that the average Frenchman will hardly remember that\nwe were in the war at all, while if you were to tell him that in the\ncritical year we took about as many prisoners and guns as all the other\nnations put together, he would stare at you with amazement. Well, what\nmatter! With a man or a nation it is the duty done for its own sake and\nthe sake of its own conscience and self-respect that really counts. All\nthe rest is swank.\n\nWe slept at Rheims. We had stayed at the chief hotel, the Golden Lion,\nin 1912, when we were en route to take part in the Anglo-German\nmotor-car competition, organised by Prince Henry. We searched round, but\nnot one stone of the hotel was standing. Out of 14,000 houses in the\ntown, only twenty had entirely escaped. As to the Cathedral, either a\nmiracle has been wrought or the German gunners have been extraordinary\nmasters of their craft, for there are acres of absolute ruin up to its\nvery walls, and yet it stands erect with no very vital damage. The same\napplies to the venerable church of St. Remy. On the whole I am prepared\nto think that save in one fit of temper upon September 19th, 1914, the\nguns were never purposely turned upon this venerable building. Hitting\nthe proverbial haystack would be a difficult feat compared to getting\nhome on to this monstrous pile which dominates the town. It is against\nreason to suppose that both here and at Soissons they could not have\nleft the cathedrals as they left the buildings around them.\n\nNext day, we passed down the Vesle and Aisne, seeing the spot where\nFrench fought his brave but barren action on September 13th, 1914, and\nfinally we reached the Chemin des Dames--a good name had the war been\nfought in the knightly spirit of old, but horribly out of place amid the\nferocities with which Germany took all chivalry from warfare. The huge\nbarren countryside, swept with rainstorms and curtained in clouds,\nlooked like some evil landscape out of Vale Owen's revelations. It was\nsown from end to end with shattered trenches, huge coils of wire and\nrusted weapons, including thousands of bombs which are still capable of\nexploding should you tread upon them too heavily. Denis ran wildly\nabout, like a terrier in a barn, and returned loaded with all sorts of\ntrophies, most of which had to be discarded as overweight. He succeeded,\nhowever, in bringing away a Prussian helmet and a few other of the more\nportable of his treasures. We returned by Soissons, which interested me\ngreatly, as I had seen it under war conditions in 1916. Finally we\nreached Paris after a really wonderful two days in which, owing to Mr.\nCook's organisation and his guide, we saw more and understood more,\nthan in a week if left to ourselves. They run similar excursions to\nVerdun and other points. I only wish we had the time to avail ourselves\nof them.\n\nA tragic intermezzo here occurred in our Paris experience. I suddenly\nheard that my brother-in-law, E. W. Hornung, the author of \"Raffles\" and\nmany another splendid story, was dying at St. Jean de Luz in the\nPyrenees. I started off at once, but was only in time to be present at\nhis funeral. Our little family group has been thinned down these last\ntwo years until we feel like a company under hot fire with half on the\nground. We can but close our ranks the tighter. Hornung lies within\nthree paces of George Gissing, an author for whom both of us had an\naffection. It is good to think that one of his own race and calling\nkeeps him company in his Pyrennean grave.\n\nHornung, apart from his literary powers, was one of the wits of our\ntime. I could brighten this dull chronicle if I could insert a page of\nhis sayings. Like Charles Lamb, he could find humour in his own physical\ndisabilities--disabilities which did not prevent him, when over fifty,\nfrom volunteering for such service as he could do in Flanders. When\npressed to have a medical examination, his answer was, \"My body is like\na sausage. The less I know of its interior, the easier will be my mind.\"\nIt was a characteristic mixture of wit and courage.\n\nDuring our stay in Paris we went to see the Anglo-French Rugby match at\nCoulombes. The French have not quite got the sporting spirit, and there\nwas some tendency to hoot whenever a decision was given for the English,\nbut the play of their team was most excellent, and England only won by\nthe narrow margin of 10 to 6. I can remember the time when French Rugby\nwas the joke of the sporting world. They are certainly a most adaptive\npeople. The tactics of the game have changed considerably since the days\nwhen I was more familiar with it, and it has become less dramatic, since\nground is gained more frequently by kicking into touch than by the\nindividual run, or even by the combined movement. But it is still the\nking of games. It was like the old lists, where the pick of these two\nknightly nations bore themselves so bravely of old, and it was an object\nlesson to see Clement, the French back, playing on manfully, with the\nblood pouring from a gash in the head. Marshal Foch was there, and I\nhave no doubt that he noted the incident with approval.\n\nI had a good look at the famous soldier, who was close behind me. He\nlooks very worn, and sadly in need of a rest. His face and head are\nlarger than his pictures indicate, but it is not a face with any marked\nfeature or character. His eyes, however, are grey, and inexorable. His\nkepi was drawn down, and I could not see the upper part of the head, but\njust there lay the ruin of Germany. It must be a very fine brain, for in\npolitical, as well as in military matters, his judgment has always been\njustified.\n\nThere is an excellent clairvoyante in Paris, Madame Blifaud, and I look\nforward, at some later date, to a personal proof of her powers, though\nif it fails I shall not be so absurd as to imagine that that disproves\nthem. The particular case which came immediately under my notice was\nthat of a mother whose son had been killed from an aeroplane, in the\nwar. She had no details of his death. On asking Madame B., the latter\nreplied, \"Yes, he is here, and gives me a vision of his fall. As a proof\nthat it is really he, he depicts the scene, which was amid songs, flags\nand music.\" As this corresponded with no episode of the war, the mother\nwas discouraged and incredulous. Within a short time, however, she\nreceived a message from a young officer who had been with her son when\nthe accident occurred. It was on the Armistice day, at Salonica. The\nyoung fellow had flown just above the flags, one of the flags got\nentangled with his rudder, and the end was disaster. But bands, songs\nand flags all justified the clairvoyante.\n\nNow, at last, our long journey drew to its close. Greatly guarded by the\nhigh forces which have, by the goodness of Providence, been deputed to\nhelp us, we are back in dear old London once more. When we look back at\nthe 30,000 miles which we have traversed, at the complete absence of\nillness which spared any one of seven a single day in bed, the\nexcellence of our long voyages, the freedom from all accidents, the\nundisturbed and entirely successful series of lectures, the financial\nsuccess won for the cause, the double escape from shipping strikes, and,\nfinally, the several inexplicable instances of supernormal, personal\nhappenings, together with the three-fold revelation of the name of our\nimmediate guide, we should be stocks and stones if we did not realise\nthat we have been the direct instruments of God in a cause upon which He\nhas set His visible seal. There let it rest. If He be with us, who is\nagainst us? To give religion a foundation of rock instead of quicksand,\nto remove the legitimate doubts of earnest minds, to make the invisible\nforces, with their moral sanctions, a real thing, instead of mere words\nupon our lips, and, incidentally, to reassure the human race as to the\nfuture which awaits it, and to broaden its appreciation of the\npossibilities of the present life, surely no more glorious message was\never heralded to mankind. And it begins visibly to hearken. The human\nrace is on the very eve of a tremendous revolution of thought, marking a\nfinal revulsion from materialism, and it is part of our glorious and\nassured philosophy, that, though we may not be here to see the final\ntriumph of our labours, we shall, none the less, be as much engaged in\nthe struggle and the victory from the day when we join those who are our\ncomrades in battle upon the further side.\n\n_Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham_\n\n\n\"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has given us a classic.\"--Sir W. Robertson\nNicoll\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The First Volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's\nHistory of the War_\n\n=THE BRITISH CAMPAIGN in FRANCE\nand FLANDERS     1914=\n\n=With Maps, Plans and Diagrams. FOURTH EDITION=\n\n\"After reading every word of this most fascinating book, the writer of\nthis notice ventures, as a professional soldier, to endorse the author's\nclaim, and even to suggest that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has understated\nthe value of a book which will be of enormous help to the student of\nthis wondrous war as a reliable framework for his further\ninvestigations.\"--Colonel A. M. Murray, C.B., in the _Observer_.\n\n\"A book which should appeal to every Briton and should shame those who\nwish to make of none effect the deeds and sacrifices recounted in its\npages.\"--Professor A. F. Pollard in the _Daily Chronicle_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The Second Volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's\nHistory of the War_\n\n=THE BRITISH CAMPAIGN in FRANCE\nand FLANDERS      1915=\n\n=With Maps, Plans and Diagrams. SECOND EDITION=\n\n\"If any student of the war is in search of a plain statement, accurate\nand chronological, of what took place in these dynamic sequences of\nonslaughts which have strewn the plain of Ypres with unnumbered dead,\nand which won for the Canadians, the Indians, and our own Territorial\ndivisions immortal fame, let him go to this volume. He will find in it\nfew dramatic episodes, no unbridled panegyric, no purple patches. But he\nwill own himself a much enlightened man, and, with greater knowledge,\nwill be filled with much greater pride and much surer\nconfidence.\"--_Daily Telegraph_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The Third Volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's\nHistory of the War_\n\n=THE BRITISH CAMPAIGN in FRANCE\nand FLANDERS      1916=\n\n=With Maps, Plans and Diagrams=\n\n\"We gave praise, and it was high, to the first and second volumes of\n'The British Campaign in France and Flanders.' We can give the same to\nthe third, and more, too. For the whole of this volume is devoted to the\npreliminaries and the full grapple of the Battle of the Somme--a theme\nfar surpassing everything that went before in magnitude and\ndreadfulness, but also in inspiration for our own race and in profound\nhuman import of every kind.\"--_Observer_\n\n\n\n_The Fourth Volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's\nHistory of the War_\n\n=THE BRITISH CAMPAIGN in FRANCE\nand FLANDERS      1917=\n\n=With Maps, Plans and Diagrams=\n\n\"If Sir Arthur can complete the remaining two volumes with the same zest\nand truth as is exhibited here, it will indeed be a work which every\nstudent who fought in France in the Great War will be proud to possess\non his shelves.\"--_Sunday Times_\n\n\"It will find with others of the series a permanent place in all\nmilitary libraries as a reliable work of reference for future students\nof the war.\"--_Observer_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The Fifth Volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's\nHistory of the War_\n\n=THE BRITISH CAMPAIGN in FRANCE\nand FLANDERS January to July,      1918=\n\n=With Maps, Plans and Diagrams=\n\n\"The history shows no abatement in vigour and readableness, but rather\nthe opposite, and a final volume describing the great counter-attack of\nthe Allies, leading to their final victory, will bring to a close a\nseries which, on its own lines, is unsurpassable.\"--_Scotsman_\n\n\"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has stuck to his great work with admirable\nassiduity.... He has produced an accurate and concise record of a\ncampaign the most glorious and the most deadly in all the history of the\nBritish race, and a record well qualified to live among the notable\nbooks of the language.\"--_Edinburgh Evening Dispatch_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The Sixth Volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's\nHistory of the War_\n\n=THE BRITISH CAMPAIGN in FRANCE\nand FLANDERS     July to November, 1918=\n\n=With Maps, Plans and Diagrams=\n\n\"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's concluding volume of the interim history of\nthe British Campaign on the West Front is as good as any of its\npredecessors.\"--_Morning Post_\n\n\"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'History of the British Campaign in France and\nFlanders' is an authoritative work, which is destined for\nimmortality.... With full confidence in the historian, with\ncongratulations on a noble task accomplished, we open the sixth and\nfinal volume.\"--_British Weekly_\n\nHODDER & STOUGHTON LTD., Warwick Square, London, E.C.4","title":"The Wanderings of a Spiritualist","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":83517}