The Anglican Colony.--Psychic dangers.--The learned dog.--Absurd
newspaper controversy.--A backward community.--The Maori
tongue.--Their origin.--Their treatment by the Empire.--A
fiasco.--The Pa of Kaiopoi.--Dr. Thacker.--Sir Joseph Kinsey.--A
generous collector.--Scott and Amundsen.--Dunedin.--A genuine
medium.--Evidence.--The shipping strike.--Sir Oliver.--Farewell.
I am afraid that the average Britisher looks upon New Zealand as one
solid island. If he had to cross Cook's Strait to get from the northern
to the southern half, he would never forget his lesson in geography, for
it can be as nasty a bit of water as is to be found in the world, with
ocean waves, mountain winds and marine currents all combining into a
horrible chaos. Twelve good hours separate Wellington in the north from
Lyttelton, which is the port of Christchurch in the south. A very short
railway joins the two latter places. My luck held good, and I had an
excellent passage, dining in Wellington and breakfasting in
Christchurch. It is a fine city, the centre of the famous Canterbury
grazing country. Four shiploads of people calling themselves the
Canterbury Pilgrims arrived here in 1852, built a cathedral, were
practically ruled over by Bishop Selwyn, and tried the successful
experiment of establishing a community which should be as Anglican as
New England is Nonconformist. The distinctive character has now largely
disappeared, but a splendid and very English city remains as a memorial
of their efforts. When you are on the green, sloping banks of the river
Avon, with the low, artistic bridges, it would not be hard to imagine
that you were in the Backs at Cambridge.
At Christchurch I came across one of those little bits of psychic
evidence which may be taken as certainly true, and which can be
regarded, therefore, as pieces which have to be fitted into the jig-saw
puzzle in order to make the completed whole, at that far off date when a
completed whole is within the reach of man's brain. It concerns Mr.
Michie, a local Spiritualist of wide experience. On one occasion some
years ago, he practised a short cut to psychic power, acquired through a
certain method of breathing and of action, which amounts, in my opinion,
to something in the nature of self-hypnotisation. I will not give
details, as I think all such exercises are dangerous save for very
experienced students of these matters, who know the risk and are
prepared to take it. The result upon Mr. Michie, through some disregard
upon his part of the conditions which he was directed to observe, was
disastrous. He fell into an insidious illness with certain psychic
symptoms, and within a few months was reduced to skin and bone. Mr.
Michie's wife is mediumistic and liable to be controlled. One day an
entity came to her and spoke through her to her husband, claiming to be
the spirit of one, Gordon Stanley. He said: "I can sympathise with your
case, because my own death was brought about in exactly the same way. I
will help you, however, to fight against it and to recover." The spirit
then gave an account of his own life, described himself as a clerk in
Cole's Book Arcade in Melbourne, and said that his widow was living at
an address in Melbourne, which was duly given. Mr. Michie at once wrote
to this address and received this reply, the original of which I have
seen:
_"Park Street,
"Melbourne._
"DEAR SIR,--_I have just received your strange--I must say, your
very strange letter. Yes, I am Mrs. Stanley. My husband did die two
years ago from consumption. He was a clerk in Cole's Arcade. I must
say your letter gave me a great shock. But I cannot doubt after
what you have said, for I know you are a complete stranger to me._"
Shortly afterwards Mr. Stanley returned again through the medium, said
that his widow was going to marry again, and that it was with his full
approbation. The incident may be taken by our enemies as illustrating
the danger of psychic research, and we admit that there are forms of it
which should be approached with caution, but I do not think that mankind
will ever be warned off by putting a danger label upon it, so long as
they think there is real knowledge to be gained. How could the motor-car
or the aeroplane have been developed if hundreds had not been ready to
give their lives to pay the price? Here the price has been far less, and
the goal far higher, but if in gaining it a man were assured that he
would lose his health, his reason, or his life, it is none the less his
duty to go forward if he clearly sees that there is something to be won.
To meet death in conquering death is to die in victory--the ideal death.
Whilst I was at Auckland Mr. Poynton, a stipendiary magistrate there,
told me of a dog in Christchurch which had a power of thought
comparable, not merely to a human being, but even, as I understood him,
to a clairvoyant, as it would bark out the number of coins in your
pocket and other such questions. The alternative to clairvoyance was
that he was a very quick and accurate thought-reader, but in some cases
the power seemed to go beyond this. Mr. Poynton, who had studied the
subject, mentioned four learned beasts in history: a marvellous horse in
Shakespeare's time, which was burned with its master in Florence; the
Boston skipper's dog; Hans, the Russian horse, and Darkie of
Christchurch. He investigated the latter himself, as one of a committee
of three. On the first occasion they got no results. On the second,
ninety per cent. of the questions were right, and they included sums of
addition, subtraction, etc. "It was uncanny," he wrote.
I called, therefore, upon Mrs. McGibbon, the owner, who allowed me to
see the dog. He was a dark, vivacious fox terrier, sixteen years old,
blind and deaf, which obviously impaired his powers. In spite of his
blindness he dashed at me the moment he was allowed into the room,
pawing at me and trembling all over with excitement. He was, in fact so
excited that he was of little use for demonstration, as when once he
began to bark he could not be induced to stop. Occasionally he steadied
down, and gave us a touch of his true quality. When a half-crown was
placed before him and he was asked how many sixpences were in it, he
gave five barks, and four for a florin, but when a shilling was
substituted he gave twelve, which looked as if he had pennies in his
mind. On the whole the performance was a failure, but as he had raised
by exhibiting his gifts, L138 for war charities, I took my hat off to
him all the same. I will not imitate those psychic researchers who
imagine that because they do not get a result, therefore, every one else
who has reported it is a cheat or a fool. On the contrary, I have no
doubt that the dog had these powers, though age and excitement have now
impaired them.
The creature's powers were first discovered when the son of the house
remarked one day: "I will give you a biscuit if you bark three times."
He at once did it. "Now, six times." He did so. "Now, take three off."
He barked three times once again. Since then they have hardly found any
problem he could not tackle. When asked how many males in the room he
always included himself in the number, but omitted himself when asked
how many human beings. One wonders how many other dogs have human brains
without the humans being clever enough to detect it.
I had an amusing controversy in Christchurch with one of the local
papers, _The Press_, which represents the clerical interest, and, also,
the clerical intolerance of a cathedral city. It issued an article upon
me and my beliefs, severe, but quite within the limits of legitimate
criticism, quoting against me Professor Hyslop, "who," it said, "is
Professor of Logic at Columbia, etc." To this I made the mild and
obvious retort in the course of my lecture that as Professor Hyslop was
dead, _The Press_ went even further than I in saying that he "_is_
Professor at Columbia." Instead of accepting this correction, _The
Press_ made the tactical error of standing by their assertion, and
aggravated it by head-lines which challenged me, and quoted my statement
as "typical of the inaccuracy of a Spiritualist." As I rather pride
myself on my accuracy, which has seldom been challenged, I answered
shortly but politely, as follows:
"SIR,--_I am surprised that the news of the death of Professor
Hyslop has not reached New Zealand, and even more surprised that it
could be imagined that I would make such a statement on a matter so
intimately connected with the subject upon which I lecture without
being sure of my fact. I am reported as saying 'some years,' but,
if so, it was a slip of the tongue for 'some time.' The Professor
died either late last year or early in the present one._"
I should have thought that my answer was conclusive, and would have
elicited some sort of apology; but instead of this, _The Press_ called
loudly upon me in a leading article to apologise, though for what I know
not, save that they asserted I had said "some years," whereas I claim
that I actually said "some time." This drew the following rather more
severe letter from me:
"SIR,--_I am collecting New Zealand curiosities, so I will take
your leading article home with me. To get the full humour of it one
has to remember the sequence of events. In a leading article you
remarked that Professor Hyslop is Professor of Logic. I answered
with mild irony that he certainly is not, as he had been dead 'some
years' or 'some time'--which of the two is perfectly immaterial,
since I presume that in either case you would agree that he has
ceased to be Professor of Logic. To this you were rash enough to
reply with a challenging article with large head-lines, declaring
that I had blundered, and that this was typical of the inaccuracy
of Spiritualists. I wrote a gentle remonstrance to show that I had
not blundered, and that my assertion was essentially true, since
the man was dead. This you now tacitly admit, but instead of
expressing regret you ask for an apology from me. I have engaged
in much newspaper controversy, but I can truly say that I can
recall no such instance of effrontery as this._"
This led to another leader and considerable abuse.
The controversy was, however, by no means one-sided, in spite of the
shadow of the Cathedral. Mr. Peter Trolove is a man of wit as well as
knowledge, and wields a pretty pen. A strong man, also, is Dr. John
Guthrie, whose letter contains words so kindly that I must quote them:
"_Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stands above it all, not only as a
courteous gentleman, but as a fair controversialist throughout. He
is, anyhow, a chivalrous and magnanimous personality, whether or
not his beliefs have any truth. Fancy quoting authorities against a
man who has spent great part of his life studying the subject, and
who knows the authorities better than all his opponents put
together--a man who has deliberately used his great gifts in an
honest attempt to get at truth. I do think that Christchurch has
some need to apologise for its controversialists--much more need
than our distinguished visitor has to apologise for what we all
know to be his honest convictions._"
I have never met Dr. John Guthrie in the flesh, but I would thank him
here, should this ever meet his eye, for this kindly protest.
It will be gathered that I succeeded at Christchurch in performing the
feat of waking up a Cathedral City, and all the ex-sleepers were
protesting loudly against such a disturbing inrush from the outer world.
Glancing at the head-lines I see that Bishop Brodie declared it to be "A
blasphemy nurtured in fraud," the Dean of Christchurch writes it down as
"Spiritism, the abrogation of Reason," the Rev. John Patterson calls it
"an ancient delusion," the Rev. Mr. North says it is "a foolish
Paganism," and the Rev. Mr. Ready opines that it is "a gospel of
uncertainty and conjecture." Such are the clerical leaders of thought in
Christchurch in the year 1920. I think of what the wise old Chinese
Control said of similar types at the Melbourne Rescue Circle. "He good
man but foolish man. He learn better. Never rise till he learn better.
Plenty time yet." Who loses except themselves?
The enormous number of letters which I get upon psychic subjects--which
I do my best to answer--give me some curious sidelights, but they are
often confidential, and would not bear publication. Some of them are
from devout, but narrow Christians, who narrate psychic and prophetic
gifts which they possess, and at the same time almost resent them on the
ground that they are condemned by the Bible. As if the whole Bible was
not psychic and prophetic! One very long letter detailed a whole
succession of previsions of the most exact character, and wound up by
the conviction that we were on the edge of some great discovery. This
was illustrated by a simile which seemed very happy. "Have you noticed
a tree covered in spider webs during a fog? Well, it was only through
the law of the fog that we saw them. They were there all the time, but
only when the moisture came could we see them." It was a good
illustration. Many amazing experiences are detailed to me in every town
I visit, and though I have no time to verify them and go into details,
none the less they fit so accurately with the various types of psychic
cases with which I am familiar that I cannot doubt that such occurrences
are really very common. It is the injudicious levity with which they are
met which prevents their being published by those who experience them.
As an amateur philologist of a superficial type, I am greatly interested
in studying the Maori language, and trying to learn whence these
wonderful savages came before their twenty-two terrible canoes came down
upon the unhappy land which would have been safer had as many shiploads
of tigers been discharged upon its beach. The world is very old, and
these folk have wandered from afar, and by many devious paths. Surely
there are Celtic traces both in their appearance, their character and
their language. An old Maori woman smoking her pipe is the very image of
an old Celtic woman occupied the same way. Their word for water is
_wei_, and England is full of Wye and Way river names, dating from the
days before the Germans arrived. Strangest of all is their name for the
supreme God. A name never mentioned and taboo among them, is Io. "J"
is, of course, interchangeable with "I," so that we get the first two
letters of Jove and an approximation of Jehovah. Papa is parent.
Altogether there is good evidence that they are from the same root as
some European races, preferably the Celts. But on the top of this comes
a whole series of Japanese combinations of letters, Rangi, Muru, Tiki,
and so forth, so that many of the place names seem pure Japanese. What
are we to make of such a mixture? Is it possible that one Celtic branch,
far away in the mists of time, wandered east while their racial brethren
wandered west, so that part reached far Corea while the others reached
Ireland? Then, after getting a tincture of Japanese terms and word
endings, they continued their migration, taking to the seas, and finally
subduing the darker races who inhabited the Polynesian Islands, so
making their way to New Zealand. This wild imagining would at least
cover the observed facts. It is impossible to look at some of the Maori
faces without realising that they are of European stock.
I must interpolate a paragraph here to say that I was pleased, after
writing the above, to find that in my blind gropings I had come upon the
main conclusions which have been put forward with very full knowledge by
the well-known authority, Dr. McMillan Brown. He has worked out the very
fact which I surmised, that the Maoris are practically of the same stock
as Europeans, that they had wandered Japan-wards, and had finally taken
to the sea. There are two points of interest which show the date of
their exodus was a very ancient one. The first is that they have not
the use of the bow. The second is that they have no knowledge of metals.
Such knowledge once possessed would never have been lost, so it is safe
to say that they left Asia a thousand years (as a minimum) before
Christ, for at that date the use of bronze, at any rate, was widespread.
What adventures and vicissitudes this remarkable race, so ignorant in
some directions and so advanced in others, must have endured during
those long centuries. If you look at the wonderful ornaments of their
old war canoes, which carry a hundred men, and can traverse the whole
Pacific, it seems almost incredible that human patience and ingenuity
could construct the whole fabric with instruments of stone. They valued
them greatly when once they were made, and the actual names of the
twenty-two original invading canoes are still recorded.
Illustration: THE PEOPLE OF TURI'S CANOE, AFTER A VOYAGE OF GREAT
HARDSHIP, AT LAST SIGHT THE SHORES OF NEW ZEALAND. From a painting
in the Auckland Art Gallery by C. F. Goldie and L. J. Steele.
In the public gallery of Auckland they have a duplicate of one of these
enormous canoes. It is 87 feet in length and the thwarts are broad
enough to hold three or four men. When it was filled with its hundred
warriors, with the chief standing in the centre to give time to the
rowers, it must, as it dashed through the waves, have been a truly
terrific object. I should think that it represented the supreme
achievement of neolithic man. There are a series of wonderful pictures
of Maori life in the same gallery by Goldie and Steele. Of these I
reproduce, by permission, one which represents the starving crew of one
canoe sighting the distant shore. The engraving only gives a faint
indication of the effect of the vividly-coloured original.
Reference has been made to the patient industry of the Maori race. A
supreme example of this is that every man had his tikki, or image of a
little idol made of greenstone, which was hung round his neck. Now, this
New Zealand greenstone is one of the hardest objects in nature, and yet
it is worn down without metals into these quaint figures. On an average
it took ten years to make one, and it was rubbed down from a chunk of
stone into an image by the constant friction of a woman's foot.
It is said that the Tahungas, or priests, have much hereditary knowledge
of an occult sort. Their oracles were famous, and I have already quoted
an example of their seances. A student of Maori lore told me the
following interesting story. He was a student of Maori words, and on one
occasion a Maori chief let slip an unusual word, let us say "buru," and
then seemed confused and refused to answer when the Englishman asked the
meaning. The latter took it to a friend, a Tohunga, who seemed much
surprised and disturbed, and said it was a word of which a paheka or
white man should know nothing. Not to be beaten, my informant took it to
an old and wise chief who owed him a return for some favours. This chief
was also much exercised in mind when he heard the word, and walked up
and down in agitation. Finally he said, "Friend, we are both Christians.
You remember the chapter in the Bible where Jacob wrestled with an
angel. Well, this word 'buru' represents that for which they were
wrestling." He would say no more and there it had perforce to be left.
The British Empire may be proud of their treatment of the Maoris. Like
the Jews, they object to a census, but their number cannot be more than
50,000 in a population of over a million. There is no question,
therefore, of our being constrained to treat them well. Yet they own
vast tracts of the best land in the country, and so unquestioned are
their rights that when they forbade a railway to pass down the centre of
the North Island, the traffic had to go by sea from Auckland until, at
last, after many years, it was shown to the chiefs that their financial
interests would be greatly aided by letting the railway through. These
financial interests are very large, and many Maoris are wealthy men,
buying expensive motor cars and other luxuries. Some of the more
educated take part in legislative work, and are distinguished for their
eloquence. The half-castes make a particularly fine breed, especially in
their youth, for they tend as they grow older to revert to the pure
Maori type. New Zealand has no national sin upon its conscience as
regards the natives, which is more, I fear, than can be said
whole-heartedly for Australia, and even less for Tasmania. Our people
never descended to the level of the old Congo, but they have something
on their conscience none the less.
On December 18th there was some arrangement by which I should meet the
Maoris and see the historic Pa of Kaiopoi. The affair, however, was, I
am sorry to say, a fiasco. As we approached the building, which was the
village school room, there emerged an old lady--a very old lady--who
uttered a series of shrill cries, which I was told meant welcome,
though they sounded more like the other thing. I can only trust that my
informants were right. Inside was a very fine assemblage of atmospheric
air, and of nothing else. The explanation was that there had been a
wedding the night before, and that the whole community had been--well,
tired. Presently a large man in tweeds of the reach-me-down variety
appeared upon the scene, and several furtive figures, including a row of
children, materialised in corners of the big empty room. The visitors,
who were more numerous than the visited, sat on a long bench and waited
developments which refused to develop. My dreams of the dignified and
befeathered savage were drifting away. Finally, the large man, with his
hands in his pockets, and looking hard at a corner of the rafters, made
a speech of welcome, punctuated by long stops and gaps. He then, at our
request, repeated it in Maori, and the children were asked to give a
Maori shout, which they sternly refused to do. I then made a few feeble
bleats, uncertain whether to address my remarks to the level of the
large man or to that of the row of children. I ended by handing over
some books for their library, and we then escaped from this rather
depressing scene.
But it was a very different matter with the Pa. I found it intensely
interesting. You could still trace quite clearly the main lines of the
battle which destroyed it. It lay on about five acres of ground, with
deep swamp all round save for one frontage of some hundreds of yards.
That was all which really needed defence. The North Island natives, who
were of a sterner breed than those of the South, came down under the
famous Rauparaha (these Maori names are sad snags in a story) and
besieged the place. One can see the saps and follow his tactics, which
ended by piling brushwood against the palings--please observe the root
"pa" in palings--with the result that he carried the place. Massacre
Hill stands close by, and so many of the defenders were eaten that their
gnawed bones covered the ground within the memory of living men. Such
things may have been done by the father of the elderly gentleman who
passes you in his motor car with his race glasses slung across his
chest. The siege of Kaiopoi was about 1831. Even on a fine sunlit day I
was conscious of that heavy atmosphere within the enclosure which
impresses itself upon me when I am on the scene of ancient violence. So
frightful an episode within so limited a space, where for months the
garrison saw its horrible fate drawing nearer day by day, must surely
have left some etheric record even to our blunt senses.
I was indebted to Dr. Thacker, the mayor, for much kind attention whilst
in Christchurch. He is a giant man, but a crippled giant, alas, for he
still bears the traces of an injury received in a historic football
match, which left his and my old University of Edinburgh at the top of
the tree in Scotland. He showed me some curious, if ghastly, relics of
his practice. One of these was a tumour of the exact size and shape of a
boxing glove, thumb and all, which he cut out of the back of a boxer
who had lost a glove fight and taken it greatly to heart. Always on many
converging lines we come back to the influence of mind over matter.
Another most pleasant friendship which I made in Christchurch was with
Sir Joseph Kinsey, who has acted as father to several successive British
Arctic expeditions. Scott and Shackleton have both owed much to him,
their constant agent, adviser and friend. Scott's dying hand traced a
letter to him, so unselfish and so noble that it alone would put Scott
high in the gallery of British worthies. Of all modern men of action
Scott seems to me the most lofty. To me he was only an acquaintance, but
Kinsey, who knew him well as a friend, and Lady Kinsey, who had all
Arctic exploration at her finger ends, were of the same opinion.
Sir Joseph discussed the action of Amundsen in making for the pole. When
it was known that Amundsen was heading south instead of pursuing his
advertised intentions, Kinsey smelled danger and warned Scott, who,
speaking from his own noble loyalty, said, "He would never do so
dishonourable a thing. My plans are published and are known to all the
world." However, when he reached the ice, and when Pennell located the
"Fram," he had to write and admit that Kinsey was right. It was a sad
blow, that forestalling, though he took it like the man that he was.
None the less, it must have preyed upon the spirits of all his party and
weakened their resistance in that cruel return journey. On the other
hand Amundsen's expedition, which was conducted on rather less than a
sixth of the cost of the British, was a triumph of organisation, and he
had the good luck or deep wisdom to strike a route which was clear of
those great blizzards which overwhelmed Scott. The scurvy was surely a
slur upon our medical preparations. According to Stefansson, who knows
more of the matter than any living man, lime juice is useless,
vegetables are of secondary importance, but fresh animal food, be it
seal, penguin, or what you will, is the final preventive.
Sir Joseph is a passionate and discriminating collector, and has but one
fault in collecting, which is a wide generosity. You have but to visit
him often enough and express sufficient interest to absorb all his
treasures. Perhaps my protests were half-hearted, but I emerged from his
house with a didrachm of Alexander, a tetradrachm of some Armenian
monarch, a sheet of rare Arctic stamps for Denis, a lump of native
greenstone, and a small nugget of gold. No wonder when I signed some
books for him I entered the date as that of "The Sacking of Woomeroo,"
that being the name of his dwelling. The mayor, in the same spirit of
hospitality, pressed upon me a huge bone of the extinct Moa, but as I
had never failed to impress upon my wife the extreme importance of
cutting down our luggage, I could not face the scandal of appearing with
this monstrous impedimentum.
Leaving Christchurch in the journalistic uproar to which allusion has
been made, our engagements took us on to Dunedin, which is reached by
rail in a rather tiring day's journey. A New Zealand train is excellent
while it is running, but it has a way of starting with an epileptic
leap, and stopping with a bang, which becomes wearisome after a while.
On the other hand this particular journey is beguiled by the fact that
the line runs high for two hours round the curve of the hills with the
Pacific below, so that a succession of marvellous views opens out before
you as you round each spur. There can be few more beautiful lines.
Dunedin was founded in 1848 by a group of Scotsmen, and it is modelled
so closely upon Edinburgh that the familiar street names all reappear,
and even Portobello has its duplicate outside the town. The climate,
also, I should judge to be about the same. The prevailing tone of the
community is still Scottish, which should mean that they are sympathetic
with my mission, for nowhere is Spiritualism more firmly established now
than in Scotland, especially in Glasgow, where a succession of great
mediums and of earnest workers have built up a considerable
organisation. I soon found that it was so, for nowhere had I more
private assurances of support, nor a better public reception, the
theatre being filled at each lecture. In the intervals kind friends put
their motors at my disposal and I had some splendid drives over the
hills, which look down upon the winding estuary at the head of which the
town is situated.
At the house of Mr. Reynolds, of Dunedin, I met one of the most powerful
clairvoyants and trance mediums whom I have tested. Her name is Mrs.
Roberts, and though her worldly circumstances are modest, she has never
accepted any money for her wonderful psychic gifts. For this I honour
her, but, as I told her, we all sell the gifts which God has given us,
and I cannot see why, and within reason, psychic gifts should not also
be placed within the reach of the public, instead of being confined to a
favoured few. How can the bulk of the people ever get into touch with a
good medium if they are debarred from doing so in the ordinary way of
business?
Mrs. Roberts is a stout, kindly woman, with a motherly manner, and a
sensitive, expressive face. When in touch with my conditions she at once
gave the names of several relatives and friends who have passed over,
without any slurring or mistakes. She then cried, "I see an elderly lady
here--she is a beautifully high spirit--her name is Selina." This rather
unusual name belonged to my wife's mother, who died nearly two years
ago. Then, suddenly, becoming slightly convulsed, as a medium does when
her mechanism is controlled by another, she cried with an indescribable
intensity of feeling, "Thank God! Thank God to get in touch again! Jean!
Jean! Give my dear love to Jean!" Both names, therefore, had been got
correctly, that of the mother and the daughter. Is it not an affront to
reason to explain away such results by wild theories of telepathy, or by
anything save the perfectly plain and obvious fact that spirit communion
is indeed true, and that I was really in touch with that dead lady who
was, even upon earth, a beautifully high and unselfish spirit. I had a
number of other communications through Mrs. Roberts that night, and at a
second interview two days later, not one of which erred so far as names
were concerned. Among others was one who professed to be Dr. Russell
Wallace. I should be honoured, indeed, to think that it was so, but I
was unable to hit on anything which would be evidential. I asked him if
his further experience had taught him anything more about reincarnation,
which he disputed in his lifetime. He answered that he now accepted it,
though I am not clear whether he meant for all cases. I thanked him for
any spiritual help I had from him. His answer was "Me! Don't thank me!
You would be surprised if you knew who your real helpers are." He added,
"By your work I rise. We are co-workers!" I pray that it be so, for few
men have lived for whom I have greater respect; wise and brave, and
mellow and good. His biography was a favourite book of mine long before
I understood the full significance of Spiritualism, which was to him an
evolution of the spirit on parallel lines to that evolution of the body
which he did so much to establish.
Now that my work in New Zealand was drawing to a close a very grave
problem presented itself to Mr. Smythe and myself, and that was how we
were to get back to our families in Australia. A strike had broken out,
which at first seemed a small matter, but it was accentuated by the
approach of Christmas and the fact that many of the men were rather
looking for an excuse for a holiday. Every day things became blacker.
Once before Mr. Smythe had been held up for four months by a similar
cause, and, indeed, it has become a very serious consideration for all
who visit New Zealand. We made a forced march for the north amid
constant rumours that far from reaching Australia we could not even get
to the North Island, as the twelve-hour ferry boats were involved in the
strike. I had every trust in my luck, or, as I should prefer to say, in
my helpers, and we got the _Maori_ on the last ferry trip which she was
sure to take. Up to the last moment the firemen wavered, and we had no
stewards on board, but none the less, to our inexpressible relief we got
off. There was no food on the ship and no one to serve it, so we went
into a small hostel at Lyttleton before we started, to see what we could
pick up. There was a man seated opposite to me who assumed the air of
laboured courtesy and extreme dignity, which is one phase of alcoholism.
"'Scuse me, sir!" said he, looking at me with a glassy stare, "but you
bear most 'straordinary resemblance Olver Lodge."
I said something amiable.
"Yes, sir--'straordinary! Have you ever seen Olver Lodge, sir?"
"Yes, I have."
"Well, did you perceive resemblance?"
"Sir Oliver, as I remember him, was a tall man with a grey beard."
He shook his head at me sadly.
"No, sir--I heard him at Wellington last week. No beard. A moustache,
sir, same as your own."
"You're sure it was Sir Oliver?"
A slow smile came over his face.
"Blesh my soul--Conan Doyle--that's the name. Yes, sir, you bear truly
remarkable resemblance Conan Doyle."
I did not say anything further so I daresay he has not discovered yet
the true cause of the resemblance.
All the nerve-wracking fears of being held up which we endured at
Lyttleton were repeated at Wellington, where we had taken our passages
in the little steamer _Paloona_. In any case we had to wait for a day,
which I spent in clearing up my New Zealand affairs while Mr. Smythe
interviewed the authorities and paid no less than L141 war tax upon the
receipts of our lectures--a heavy impost upon a fortnight's work. Next
morning, with our affairs and papers all in order, we boarded our little
craft.
Up to the last moment we had no certainty of starting. Not only was the
strike in the air, but it was Christmas Eve, and it was natural enough
that the men should prefer their own homes to the stokehole of the
_Paloona_. Agents with offers of increased pay were scouring the docks.
Finally our complement was completed, and it was a glad moment when the
hawsers were thrown off, and after the usual uncomfortable preliminaries
we found ourselves steaming in a sharp wind down the very turbulent
waters of Cook's Strait.
The place is full of Cook's memory. Everywhere the great man has left
his traces. We passed Cook's Island where the _Endeavour_ actually
struck and had to be careened and patched. What a nerve the fellow had!
So coolly and deliberately did he do his work that even now his charting
holds good, I understand, in many long stretches of coast. Tacking and
wearing, he poked and pried into every estuary, naming capes, defining
bays, plotting out positions, and yet all the while at the mercy of the
winds, with a possible lee shore always before him, with no comrade
within hail, and with swarms of cannibals eyeing his little ship from
the beach. After I have seen his work I shall feel full of reverence
every time I pass that fine statue which adorns the mall side of the
great Admiralty building.
And now we are out in the open sea, with Melbourne, Sydney and love in
front of our prow. Behind the sun sets in a slur of scarlet above the
olive green hills, while the heavy night fog, crawling up the valleys,
turns each of them into a glacier. A bright star twinkles above. Below a
light shines out from the gloom. Farewell, New Zealand! I shall never
see you again, but perhaps some memory of my visit may remain--or not,
as God pleases.
Anyhow, my own memory will remain. Every man looks on his own country as
God's own country if it be a free land, but the New Zealander has more
reason than most. It is a lovely place, and contains within its moderate
limits the agricultural plains of England, the lakes and hills of
Scotland, the glaciers of Switzerland, and the fiords of Norway, with a
fine hearty people, who do not treat the British newcomer with ignorant
contempt or hostility. There are so many interests and so many openings
that it is hard to think that a man will not find a career in New
Zealand. Canada, Australia and South Africa seem to me to be closely
balanced so far as their attractions for the emigrant goes, but when one
considers that New Zealand has neither the winter of Canada, the
droughts of Australia, nor the racial problems of Africa, it does surely
stand supreme, though it demands, as all of them do, both labour and
capital from the newcomer.