PULLING UP THE ANCHOR
Psychic Studies--Experiments in Telepathy--My First Séances--A Curious
Test--General Drayson--Opinion on Theosophy--A. P. Sinnett--W.
T. Stead--Journey to Berlin--Koch’s Treatment--Brutality of
Bergmann--Malcolm Morris--Literary Society--Political Work--Arthur
Balfour--Our Departure.
It was in these years after my marriage and before leaving Southsea
that I planted the first seeds of those psychic studies which were
destined to revolutionize my views and to absorb finally all the
energies of my life. I had at that time the usual contempt which the
young educated man feels towards the whole subject which has been
covered by the clumsy name of Spiritualism. I had read of mediums
being convicted of fraud, I had heard of phenomena which were opposed
to every known scientific law, and I had deplored the simplicity and
credulity which could deceive good, earnest people into believing
that such bogus happenings were signs of intelligence outside our own
existence. Educated as I had been during my most plastic years in the
school of medical materialism, and soaked in the negative views of all
my great teachers, I had no room in my brain for theories which cut
right across every fixed conclusion that I had formed. I was wrong
and my great teachers were wrong, but still I hold that they wrought
well and that their Victorian agnosticism was in the interests of the
human race, for it shook the old iron-clad unreasoning Evangelical
position which was so universal before their days. For all rebuilding
a site must be cleared. There were two separate Victorian movements
towards change, the one an attempt to improve the old building and make
it good enough to carry on--as shown in the Oxford and High Church
development, the other a knocking down of ruins which could only end
in some fresh erection springing up. As I have shown my own position
was that of a respectful materialist who entirely admitted a great
central intelligent cause, without being able to distinguish what that
cause was, or why it should work in so mysterious and terrible a way in
bringing its designs to fulfilment.
From my point of view the mind (and so far as I could see the
soul, which was the total effect of all the hereditary or personal
functionings of the mind) was an emanation from the brain and entirely
physical in its nature. I saw, as a medical man, how a spicule of bone
or a tumour pressing on the brain would cause what seemed an alteration
in the soul. I saw also how drugs or alcohol would turn on fleeting
phases of virtue or vice. The physical argument seemed an overpowering
one. It had never struck me that the current of events might really
flow in the opposite direction, and that the higher faculties could
only manifest themselves imperfectly through an imperfect instrument.
The broken fiddle is silent and yet the musician is the same as ever.
The first thing which steadied me and made me reconsider my position
was the question of telepathy, which was already being discussed by
William Barrett and others, even before the appearance of Myers’
monumental work on “Human Personality”--the first book which devoted
to these psychic subjects the deep study and sustained brain power
which they demand. It may, in my opinion, take a permanent place in
human literature like the “Novum Organum” or “The Descent of Man” or
any other great root-book which has marked a date in human thought.
Having read some of the evidence I began to experiment in thought
transference, and I found a fellow-researcher in Mr. Ball, a well-known
architect in the town. Again and again, sitting behind him, I have
drawn diagrams, and he in turn has made approximately the same figure.
I showed beyond any doubt whatever that I could convey my thought
without words.
But if I could verify such conclusions up to six feet I could not
well doubt them when they gave me the evidence that the same results
could be obtained at a distance. With an appropriate subject, and some
undefined sympathy between the two individuals, it was independent of
space. So the evidence seemed to show. I had always sworn by science
and by the need of fearless following wherever truth might lie. It
was clear now that my position had been too rigid. I had compared the
thought-excretion of the brain to the bile-excretion of the liver.
Clearly this was untenable. If thought could go a thousand miles and
produce a perceptible effect then it differed entirely not only in
degree but in kind from any purely physical material. That seemed
certain, and it must involve some modification of my old views.
About this time (1886) the family of a General whom I attended
professionally became interested in table turning and asked me to come
and check their results. They sat round a dining-room table which
after a time, their hands being upon it, began to sway and finally got
sufficient motion to tap with one leg. They then asked questions and
received answers, more or less wise and more or less to the point. They
were got by the tedious process of reciting the alphabet and writing
down the letter which the tap indicated. It seemed to me that we were
collectively pushing the table, and that our wills were concerned in
bringing down the leg at the right moment. I was interested but very
sceptical. Some of these messages were not vague platitudes but were
definite and from dead friends of the family, which naturally impressed
them greatly, though it had not the same effect upon me, since I did
not know them. I have the old records before me as I write. “Don’t tell
the girls when you see them, but they will talk about me. Kiss my baby
for me. I watch her always. Francie.” This was the style of message,
mixed up with a good many platitudes. We held twenty or more of such
meetings, but I never received anything evidential to my own address,
and I was very critical as to the whole proceedings.
None the less there was a problem to be solved and I went on with
its solution, reading the pros and the cons, and asking advice from
those who had experience, especially from General Drayson, a very
distinguished thinker and a pioneer of psychic knowledge, who lived
at that time at Southsea. I had known Drayson first as an astronomer,
for he had worked out a revolutionary idea by which there is a fatal
mistake in our present idea as to the circle which is described in
the heavens by the prolonged axis of the earth. It is really a wider
circle round a different centre, and this correction enables us to
explain several things now inexplicable, and to make astronomy a more
exact science, with certain very important reactions upon geology and
the recurrent glacial epochs, the exact date of which could be fixed.
His views impressed me much at the time, and several books upholding
them have appeared since his death, notably “Draysoniana” by Admiral
de Horsey. If he makes good, as I think he will, Drayson will make a
great permanent name. His opinion therefore was not negligible upon any
subject, and when he told me his views and experiences on Spiritualism
I could not fail to be impressed, though my own philosophy was far too
solid to be easily destroyed. I was too poor to employ professional
mediums, and to work on such subjects without a medium is as if one
worked at astronomy without a telescope. Once only an old man with some
reputed psychic power came for a small fee and gave us a demonstration.
He went into a loud-breathing trance to the alarm of his audience, and
then gave each of us a test. Mine was certainly a very remarkable one,
for it was “Do not read Leigh Hunt’s book.” I was hesitating at the
time whether I should read his “Comic Dramatists of the Restoration”
or not, for on the one hand it is literature and on the other the
treatment repelled me. This then was a very final and excellent test
so far as telepathy went, but I would not fully grant that it was
more. I was so impressed, however, that I wrote an account of it to
“Light,” the psychic weekly paper, and so in the year 1887 I actually
put myself on public record as a student of these matters. That was
thirty-seven years ago, as I write, so I am a very senior student now.
From that time onwards I read and thought a great deal, though it was
not until the later phase of my life that I realized whither all this
was tending. This question I will treat in a final section by itself,
so that those to whom it is of less interest can avoid it.
I was deeply interested and attracted for a year or two by Theosophy,
because while Spiritualism seemed at that time to be chaos so far
as philosophy went, Theosophy presented a very well thought-out and
reasonable scheme, parts of which, notably reincarnation and Karma,
seemed to offer an explanation for some of the anomalies of life.
I read Sinnett’s “Occult World” and afterwards with even greater
admiration I read his fine exposition of Theosophy in “Esoteric
Buddhism,” a most notable book. I also met him, for he was an old
friend of General Drayson’s, and I was impressed by his conversation.
Shortly afterwards, however, there appeared Dr. Hodgson’s report
upon his investigation into Madame Blavatsky’s proceedings at Adyar,
which shook my confidence very much. It is true that Mrs. Besant has
since then published a powerful defence which tends to show that
Hodgson may have been deceived, but the subsequent book “A Priestess
of Isis” which contains many of her own letters leaves an unpleasant
impression, and Sinnett’s posthumous work seems to show that he also
had lost confidence. On the other hand Colonel Olcott shows that the
woman undoubtedly had real psychic powers, whatever their source. As
to Spiritualism it seems to have only interested her in its lower
phenomenal aspect. Her books show extraordinary erudition and capacity
for hard work, even if they represent the transfer of other people’s
conclusions, as they frequently do. It would be unjust, however,
to condemn the old wisdom simply because it was introduced by this
extraordinary and volcanic person. We have also had in our branch of
the occult many dishonest mediums, but we have hastened to unveil them
where we could do so, and Theosophy will be in a stronger position when
it shakes off Madame Blavatsky altogether. In any case it could never
have met my needs for I ask for severe proof, and if I have to go back
to unquestioning faith I should find myself in the fold from which I
wandered.
My life had been a pleasant one with my steadily-increasing literary
success, my practice, which was enough to keep me pleasantly occupied,
and my sport, which I treat in a later chapter. Suddenly, however,
there came a development which shook me out of my rut, and caused an
absolute change in my life and plans. One daughter, Mary, had been born
to us, our household was a happy one, and as I have never had personal
ambitions, since the simple things of life have always been the most
pleasant to me, it is possible that I should have remained in Southsea
permanently but for this new episode in my life. It arose when in 1890
Koch announced that he had discovered a sure cure for consumption and
that he would demonstrate it upon a certain date in Berlin.
A great urge came upon me suddenly that I should go to Berlin and
see him do so. I could give no clear reason for this but it was an
irresistible impulse and I at once determined to go. Had I been a
well-known doctor or a specialist in consumption it would have been
more intelligible, but I had, as a matter of fact, no great interest
in the more recent developments of my own profession, and a very
strong belief that much of the so-called progress was illusory.
However, at a few hours’ notice I packed up a bag and started off
alone upon this curious adventure. I had had an interchange of letters
with Mr. W. T. Stead over some matter and I called upon him at the
“Review of Reviews” office as I passed through London to ask him if
he could give me an introduction to Koch or to Dr. Bergmann, who was
to give the demonstration. Mr. Stead was very amiable to this big
unknown provincial doctor, and he gave me a letter for the British
Ambassador--Sir Edward Malet, if I remember right--and for Mr. Lowe,
“The Times” correspondent. He also asked me to do a character sketch
of Koch for him, adding that he would have Count Mattei as a feature
of his magazine this month and Koch the next. I said, “Then you will
have the greatest man of science and the greatest quack in Europe
following each other.” Stead glared at me angrily, for it seems that
the Mattei treatment with its blue electricity and the rest of it was
at that moment his particular fad. However, we parted amiably and all
through his life we kept in distant touch, though we came into sharp
collision at the time of the Boer war. He was a brave and honest man,
and if he was impulsive at times it was only the sudden outflame of
that fire which made him the great force for good that he was. In
psychic knowledge he was a generation before his time, though his mode
of expressing it may sometimes have been injudicious.
I went on to Berlin that night and found myself in the Continental
express with a very handsome and courteous London physician bound upon
the same errand as myself. We passed most of the night talking and I
learned that his name was Malcolm Morris and that he also had been
a provincial doctor, but that he had come to London and had made a
considerable hit as a skin specialist in Harley Street. It was the
beginning of a friendship which endured.
Having arrived at Berlin the great thing was to be present at
Bergmann’s demonstration, which was to be next day at twelve. I went
to our Ambassador, was kept long waiting, had a chilly reception and
was dismissed without help or consolation. Then I tried “The Times”
correspondent, but he could not help me either. He and his amiable wife
showed me every courtesy and invited me to dinner that night. Tickets
were simply not to be had and neither money nor interest could procure
them. I conceived the wild idea of getting one from Koch himself and
made my way to his house. While there I had the curious experience of
seeing his mail arrive--a large sack full of letters, which was emptied
out on the floor of the hall, and exhibited every sort of stamp in
Europe. It was a sign of all the sad broken lives and wearied hearts
which were turning in hope to Berlin. Koch remained a veiled prophet,
however, and would see neither me nor any one else. I was fairly at my
wit’s ends and could not imagine how I could attain my end.
Next day I went down to the great building where the address was to be
given and managed by bribing the porter to get into the outer Hall.
The huge audience was assembling in a room beyond. I tried further
bribing that I might be slipped in, but the official became abusive.
People streamed past me, but I was always the waiter at the gate.
Finally every one had gone in and then a group of men came bustling
across, Bergmann, bearded and formidable, in the van, with a tail of
house surgeons and satellites behind him. I threw myself across his
path. “I have come a thousand miles,” said I. “May I not come in?” He
halted and glared at me through his spectacles. “Perhaps you would like
to take my place,” he roared, working himself up into that strange
folly of excitement which seems so strange in the heavy German nature.
“That is the only place left. Yes, yes, take my place by all means. My
classes are filled with Englishmen already.” He fairly spat out the
word “Englishmen” and I learned afterwards that some recent quarrel
with Morel MacKenzie over the illness of the Emperor Frederick had
greatly incensed him. I am glad to say that I kept my temper and my
polite manner, which is always the best shield when one is met by
brutal rudeness. “Not at all,” I said. “I would not intrude, if there
was really no room.” He glared at me again, all beard and spectacles,
and rushed on with his court all grinning at the snub which the
presumptuous Englishman had received. One of them lingered, however--a
kindly American. “That was bad behaviour,” said he. “See here! If you
meet me at four this afternoon I will show you my full notes of the
lecture, and I know the cases he is about to show, so we can see them
together to-morrow.” Then he followed on.
So it came about that I attained my end after all, but in a roundabout
way. I studied the lecture and the cases, and I had the temerity to
disagree with every one and to come to the conclusion that the whole
thing was experimental and premature. A wave of madness had seized the
world and from all parts, notably from England, poor afflicted people
were rushing to Berlin for a cure, some of them in such advanced stages
of disease that they died in the train. I felt so sure of my ground and
so strongly about it that I wrote a letter of warning to “The Daily
Telegraph,” and I rather think that this letter was the very first
which appeared upon the side of doubt and caution. I need not say that
the event proved the truth of my forecast.
Two days later I was back in Southsea, but I came back a changed man.
I had spread my wings and had felt something of the powers within me.
Especially I had been influenced by a long talk with Malcolm Morris, in
which he assured me that I was wasting my life in the provinces and had
too small a field for my activities. He insisted that I should leave
general practice and go to London. I answered that I was by no means
sure of my literary success as yet, and that I could not so easily
abandon the medical career which had cost my mother such sacrifices and
myself so many years of study. He asked me if there was any special
branch of the profession on which I could concentrate so as to get away
from general practice. I said that of late years I had been interested
in eye work and had amused myself by correcting refractions and
ordering glasses in the Portsmouth Eye Hospital under Mr. Vernon Ford.
“Well,” said Morris, “why not specialize upon the eye? Go to Vienna,
put in six months’ work, come back and start in London. Thus you will
have a nice clean life with plenty of leisure for your literature.” I
came home with this great suggestion buzzing in my head and as my wife
was quite willing and Mary, my little girl, was old enough now to be
left with her grandmother, there seemed to be no obstacle in the way.
There were no difficulties about disposing of the practice, for it was
so small and so purely personal that it could not be sold to another
and simply had to dissolve.
The Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society gave me a God-speed
banquet. I have many pleasant and some comic reminiscences of this
Society, of which I had been secretary for several years. We kept
the sacred flame burning in the old city with our weekly papers and
discussions during the long winters. It was there I learned to face
an audience, which proved to be of the first importance for my life’s
work. I was naturally of a very nervous, backward, self-distrustful
disposition in such things and I have been told that the signal that
I was about to join in the discussion was that the whole long bench
on which I sat, with every one on it, used to shake with my emotion.
But once up I learned to speak out, to conceal my trepidations, and to
choose my phrases. I gave three papers, one on the Arctic seas, one
on Carlyle and one on Gibbon. The former gave me a quite unmerited
reputation as a sportsman, for I borrowed from a local taxidermist
every bird and beast that he possessed which could conceivably find
its way into the Arctic Circle. These I piled upon the lecture table,
and the audience, concluding that I had shot them all, looked upon me
with great respect. Next morning they were back with the taxidermist
once more. We had some weird people and incidents at these debates.
I remember one very learned discussion on fossils and the age of
the strata, which was ended by a cadaverous major-general of the
Evangelical persuasion who rose and said in a hollow voice that all
this speculation was vain, and indeed incomprehensible, since we knew
on an authority which could not possibly be questioned that the world
was made exactly five thousand eight hundred and ninety years ago. This
put the lid on the debate and we all crept home to bed.
My political work also caused me to learn to speak. I was what was
called a Liberal-Unionist, that is, a man whose general position was
Liberal, but who could not see his way to support Gladstone’s Irish
Policy. Perhaps we were wrong. However, that was my view at the time. I
had a dreadful first experience of platform speaking on a large scale,
for at a huge meeting at the Amphitheatre the candidate, Sir William
Crossman, was delayed, and to prevent a fiasco I was pushed on at a
moment’s notice to face an audience of 3,000 people. It was one of the
tight corners of my life. I hardly knew myself what I said, but the
Irish part of me came to my aid and supplied me with a torrent of more
or less incoherent words and similes which roused the audience greatly,
though it read to me afterwards more like a comic stump speech than a
serious political effort. But it was what they wanted and they were
mostly on their feet before I finished. I was amazed when I read it
next day, and especially the last crowning sentence which was: “England
and Ireland are wedded together with the sapphire wedding ring of the
sea, and what God has placed together let no man pluck asunder.” It was
not very good logic but whether it was eloquence or rodomontade I could
not even now determine.
I was acting Secretary when Mr. Balfour came down to address a great
meeting and, as such, when the Hall was full, I waited on the curb
outside to receive him. Presently his carriage drove up and out he
stepped, tall, thin and aristocratic. There were two notorious artisans
of the other side waiting for him and I warned them not to make
trouble. However, the moment Balfour appeared one of them opened a
huge mouth with the intention of emitting a howl of execration. But it
never got out, for I clapped my hand pretty forcibly over the orifice
while I held him by the neck with the other hand. His companion hit me
on the head with a stick, and was promptly knocked down by one of my
companions. Meanwhile Balfour got safely in, and we two secretaries
followed, rather dishevelled after our adventure. I met Lord Balfour
several times in after life but I never told him how I once had my hat
smashed in his defence.
What with the Literary Society and the politicians I left a gap behind
me in Portsmouth and so did my wife, who was universally popular for
her amiable and generous character. It was a wrench to us to leave so
many good friends. However, towards the end of 1890 the die was cast,
and we closed the door of Bush Villa behind us for the last time. I had
days of privation there, and days of growing success during the eight
long years that I had spent in Portsmouth. Now it was with a sense of
wonderful freedom and exhilarating adventure that we set forth upon the
next phase of our lives.