THE BIG STICK
A DREAMER'S TALES. By LORD DUNSANY.
Lord Dunsany's prose is like Baudelaire's. I can only criticise five of
these tales; for the others I have not yet read forty times!
"Poltarnees" is the best tale ever written of the lure of the Sea. I wish
I could think that my "Anima Lunae" helped to inspire it.
"Bethmoora" and "The Hashish Man" are really one tale. Words really fail
me here; if I quote one half sentence all who really understand English will
know that this is the perfection of the sublime in its simplicity. "Away we
went from that small, pale, "heinous" man."
"Pore Ole Bill" seems derived from "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" and
"the Yarn of the Nancy Bell." Mixed. What could be more ridiculous? Yet I
read it again and again, and the oftener I read it the keener does its
fascination grip me.
And what shall I say of "The Sword and the Idol"? Only this; that it is
true. Lord Dunsany has really beheld the dawn of the Iron Age, and the
conquest of the King by the Priest. G. W. Foote ought to publish this tale as
an atheistic pamphlet; it is the best ever written. And yet to me "The
Silence of Ged" (Oh bold my Lord Dunsany!) came as a voice in the wood at
midnight, when the sword-holder raises his steel against Ged. Ged neither hit
nor shrank --- in the end the sword was laid as an offering upon his knees.
So let the adept sit smiling through all that may befall him; then those
that hate him shall wonder at his strength; in the end they shall worship him.
And He, an He speak, shall by speaking save; an He yet keep silence, shall by
keeping silence, bless. Amen. ALEISTER CROWLEY.
THE MESSAGE OF THUBA MLEEN
I
Far beyond Utnar V�hi, far beyond
The Hills of Hap,
Sits the great Emperor crowned with diamond,
Twitching the rosary in his lap --- {144}
The rosary whose every bead well-conned
With sleek unblinking bliss
Was once the eyeball of an unborn child of his.
II
He drank the smell of living blood, that hissed
On flame-white steel.
He tittered while his mother's limbs were kissed
By the fish-hooks on the Wheel
That shredded soul and shape, more fine than mist
Is torn by the bleak wind
That blows from Kragua and the unknown lands behind.
III
As the last flesh was flicked, he wearied; slaves
From bright Bethmoora
Sprang forward with carved bowls whose crimson craves
Green wine of hashish, black wine of datura,
Like the Yann's earlier and its latter waves!
These wines soothed well the spleen
Of the Desert's bastard brother Thuba Mleen.
IV
He drank, and eyed the slaves. "'Mwass, Dagricho,
Xu-XCulgulura,
Saddle your mules!" he whispered, "ride full slow
Unto Bethmoora
And bid the people of the city know
That that most ancient snake,
The Crone of Utnar V�hi, is awake."
V
Thus twisted he his dagger in the hearts
Of those two slaves
That bore him wine; for they knew well the arts
Of Utnar V�hi --- what the grey Crone craves! ---
Knew how their kindred in the vines and marts
Of bright Bethmoora, thus accurst,
Would rush to the mercy of the Desert's thirst. {145}
VI
I would that Mana-Yood-Sushai would lean
And listen, and hear
The tittering , thin-bearded, epicene,
Dwarf, fringed with fear,
Of the Desert's bastard brother Thuba Mleen!
For He would wake, and scream
Aloud the Word to annihilate the dream.
THE TRIUMPH OF PAN. By VICTOR B. NEUBURG. The Equinox 5"s"
Shame, Mr Neuburg! Also fie! and tut!
No dog-nosed and blue-faced baboon in rut
Feels as you feel; or if he does, God's mercies
Deny him power to tell his thoughts in verses.
This is a most regrettable collection
Of songs; they deal with unrestrained affection
Unlicensed by the Church and State; what's worse
There's no denying they are first-rate verse.
It surely cannot be that Pan's in clover
And England's days of Sunday-school are over!
PERCY FLAGE.
THE GRACES OF INTERIOR PRAYER. FATHER POULAIN, S. J.
It would be easy, and was tempting, to dismiss Father Pulain and his 650
pages with a jest --- I have done harder things --- for the mountains of his
prejudice are difficult to approach across the abyss of his ignorance.
For example, he devotes just a paragraph to "Yogis." These persons he
describes as "Hindu Buddhists" who are "Pantheists," and endeavour to produce
"a state of stupefaction" in "their mental powers which are very low" and a
"comatose condition" of their body, whose joints they dislocate. How well
this describes such people as the Buddha and the author of the Bhagavadgita!
What a ring fence is Romanism against not merely truth but information!
We then examine Father Poulain on the scientific side. How does levitation
of the Saints take place?
"The simplest explanation, and that most in conformity with the order of
Providence, consists in saying: Since the angels have power to move corporeal
bodies, God makes use of their ministry, so as to avoid intervening Himself
without necessity." {146}
(This is not the translator's blundering, though perhaps much more may be
hoped from a lady who says that "Socrates remained for twenty-four hours lost
in thought in the camp the Potidaea was besieging." It was Potidaea's way of
doing her back hair that made her so generally admired.)
No; this is the real Poulain, 50 per cent. above proof.
I am sorry for this hobble-skirted Atalanta. He must not study mystic
facts; all he is allowed to do is to arrange, invent, delete as may suit
dogma. He is obliged to accept the nymphomaniac nun Gertrude, and treat her
blasphemous maunderings with reverence, or ascribe some peculiarly foul
outburst to an "early temptation." He must accept every orthodox levitation,
and explain it by weight-lifting competitions among the angels; he must deny
every heterodox levitation, or explain it by demonic power. And as one's
bitterest enemies are always one's nearest relations, so his bitterest
polemics are against the Quietists who are absolutely indistinguishable from
the orthodox, and in favour at Rome until the intrigues of the beast of blood
of the Society of Jesus destroyed Molinos. Father Poulain even repeats the
Catholic Truths about Molinos's confession. But Father Poulain is a Jesuit.
At this stage a reviewer wants to get up and stamp such people into pulp.
But the hour is not yet, though Ferrer's blood adds its cry to that of his
fellow-martyrs. Rather let us consider the good points in Father Poulain's
poultice.
He understand the mysticism of his own system fairly well, and his book
forms a most useful document in comparative Occultism. A. C.
ALCHEMY, ANCIENT AND MODERN. By H. STANLEY REDGRAVE.
A most admirable treatise on the little-understood and misunderstood
science of Alchemy. More, the only treatise. Clarity and good sense mark
every line. A book entirely essential to anyone who wishes to study the
subject, and to understand, (1) how the alchemists conceived of hierarchical
monism, (2) how they preserved mysticism, (3) how they made chemistry
possible.
The book is a complete refutation alike of the Pooh-Pooh and the Holy
Timmie schools of critics. LEO VIRIDIS.
LOTUS LEAVES. By ALICE l. HEAD. Elkin Mathews.
I really enjoyed these charming poems.
Now, you know, I don't often say a thing like that! ALICE L. FOOTE.
AN ADVENTURE. Anonymous.
This little book appears to be the production of an extremely clever young
man. {147}
But he should have taken more pains to make the literary style of "Miss
Morrison" different from that of "Miss Lamond"; and he should have shown the
MS. to a lady. The most improbable event recorded is this: one of two modern
ladies, walking at Versailles, sees a woman dressed in the clothes of the
period of Louis XVI. --- and makes no remark!
I don't think! S. HOLMES.
The Porch. Vol. I. NO. 5. John G. Gichtel (Extracts).
Outside 21 Cecil Court I don't suppose one could find a holier man than
John G. Gichtel.
He writes likes a Magister Templi, does John G.; and does indeed
communicate a little that may be of use to an Adeptus of any kind. But there
is nothing for naughty Neophytes, or for poor putrid Probationers. Why
doesn't Mr. Watkins issue easy simple straightforward instructions, like the
EQUINOX? PROBATIONER.
Ib. No. 6. THE SEVEN VALLEYS. by FARIDUDDIN ATTAR. 3"d".
A man of good repute who loved God saw Majnun sifting earth in the middle
of the road, and said to him: "Oh Majnunj! What art thou seeking thus?" "I
seek Laylah." "Can a pearl so pure be found in that dust?" "I seek Laylah
everywhere, in the hope of finding her one day somewhere."
This was my toil, and the reward is mine.
Of such gems the volume is full. A. C.
Ib. No. 7. A SERMON FOR WHIT SUNDAY. By JOHN TAULER.
Awful good, but awful dull. Mr Crowley's "Pentecost" is much livelier.
H. G.
SPIRITISM AND INSANITY. By Dr MARCEL VIOLLET.
The worst type of cocksure medical dogmatising rendered into pitiably
Frenchified English. This is (I am told) not the fault of the translator, but
of Dr Viollet's arrogance. Good English is not good enough for him. It
sounds to me like incipient G.P.I. TARR, M.B.
DIVORCE PROBLEMS OF TO-DAY. E. S. P. HAYNES.
Divorce Law Reform Union. 1"s."
These papers are learned and acute, but also wise and broad-minded.
Mr. Haynes' suggestions go about as far as practical politics allow.
Polygynous Monogamy is the natural state of the Briton, and we cannot sweep it
away to pleas a few idealistic cranks. And marriage is a matter too serious
to be treated as Houdini treats handcuffs, popping in and out at will. On the
other hand, {148} everybody is not a Houdini, and we must help the weaker
brethren. No life should be irrevocably accurst. Marriage bonds should be
bonds of roses; and if the roses fade, they should be thrown away.
As for me, I feel at present like a cross between Galahad and St Paul.
Henry VIII. is but a memory.
MOHAMMED (dated from his suspended coffin).
THE HISTORY OF A SOUL. By GEORGE RAFFALOVICH. The Equinox.
3"s." 6"d."
this admirable study of a modern temperament, a thoughtful and generous
mind at sea in the whirl of these new forces, so difficult to understand at
all, so impossible to rate at their real value is a monument of our late
colleague's earlier manner.
The book is almost as abstract as Kant, more abstract than Erewhon. Mr
Raffalovich when he wrote this had not that lightning flash, the concentration
of infinite light into a single lucid symbol, which distinguishes his later
work.
The light is calm and cool. If I had to compare this book to another, I
should select one of Jane Austen's; and if it is pointed out that I have never
read any of Jane Austen's I can retort that neither have I read "The History
of a Soul." ALEISTER CROWLEY.
PSYCHISM. By M. HUME.
Mrs Hume is a female M......h S....r. She begins by a long hypothesis full
of big words whose meaning she shows no sign of understanding, though the
sentence "Lunatics abound" can hardly be denied. The body of the book is made
up of rambling statements (unsupported by any sort of evidence) of psychic
powers that she possesses, the least of which, if substantiated, would be
sufficient to overturn the entire universe; and still more Starry are the
"inspirational" poems which disconnectedly impregnate the other rubbish.
"Nay, take her up gently,
Dry thou her tears,
Wind thine arm round her,
Soothe thou her fears."
This seems as obviously borrowed from Hood as her great male analogue
borrows from any book that he has been reading recently.
"Nature's law rules supreme
Because it is God's.
He framed it,
It must be,
And men are his 'lords.'" {149}
At this point, as Mrs Hume observes, "the strong man reeled in his
anguish." N. W.
THE HUMAN CHORD. By ALGERNON BLACKWOOD.
If we were right in suggestion as de did in September, that Mr Edgar Jepson
had stolen fire from Mr Blackwood, we must now admit that Mr Blackwood has got
more than even. For the "Human Chord" has a plot so like that of No. 19 that
we can hardly help thinking that Mr Blackwood must have been studying the
methods of William Somerset Maugham, Esq., M.D. In both books we have a
lonely place, and a strong man of the magician type, and the beautiful young
lady, and the nice young gentleman, who agree after a little experience that
it is much better to give up any aspiration higher than that of checking race
suicide. Even the incidents in the "Human Chord" suggest "No,. 19." The
horrible creature coming out of the dark is very like Mr Blackwood's
personified sounds, and the final smash-up if of very much the sametype. Mr
Blackwood's other sources are the Qabalah, which he appears to have taken from
the preface to Mathers, and if he had only added to his library a shilling
handbook on sound, he would have avoided some of the more absurd blunders.
The distinguishing difference between "No. 19" and the "Human Chord," is that
Edgar Jepson is a first-rate story-teller, while Algernon Blackwood is
suffering from indigestion brought on be a surfeit of ill-cooked Theosophy.
The theories spring up and choke the narrative, and it becometh unfruitful.
GEORGOS.
THE DEUCE AND ALL. By GEORGE RAFFLOVICH. Published by the EQUINOX.
Price 3"s." 6"d." and 1"s." net.
I can find no words of any known language strong and emphatic enough to
express my admiration of this extraordinary volume. Twelve tales! The twelve
Pointed Star of Genius! An introduction that is a Revelation! Magical
knowledge thrown away! Psychology never at fault! Truly the Book to read
again and again.
But, mind you, do not let it fall into the hands of elderly people. "They"
"would never die." GEORGE RAFFALOVICH.
POEMS. By VICTOR RATCLIFFE. Cambridge, 1910.
The title of this little volume is misleading. CANTAB.
BRACKEN. By JOHN TREVENA.
This is a very fine study of west country life. Jaspar Ramridge is a
schoolmaster, and can see nothing but discipline.
Cuthbert Orton is a schoolboy, and can see nothing but revolt against that
discipline. {150}
Neither grows up. So when they start to create, the boy produces a
creature of naked emotion and no more; the man a creature of naked intellect
and no more. The first is an animal, the second a devil.
This is our own doctrine; but never have I seen it better expressed.
It is not the province of man to create, but to beget. The father of the
girl who is in turn obsessed by Orton and Ramridge is a perfect ass; but he
made a very good job once in his life.
Let this admirable book be a warning to all those who seek magical power,
or to teach pupils.
If you obtain magical powers, as is easy, you can only use it to destroy
both yourself and your victims, unless by a greater miracle than the magic
itself. If you seek to teach, your pupils are almost sure to misunderstand.
The alternative is to initiate; and this can only be done by those who are
no longer men or magicians.
Let me congratulate Mr Trevena upon a most enthralling and instructive
book. O. H.
THE WHIRLPOOL. By ETHEL ARCHER. The Equinox. 1"s." net.
I can add nothing to the appreciation which I have written for preface to
this volume, which all should read. ALEISTER CROWLEY.
Look at the cover, and shudder!
In this masterpiece of illustration dwells the very soul of the book, ---
the virgin emaciated with insatiable passion; the verminous, illicit night-
bird of a prehistoric age (the only conceivable steed for such an one!); the
turbid waters of imagery; the lurid sky to which tentacular arms appeal to
loves too luscious for this world, are all embodied in this simple design.
The artist has seized the loathsome horror of the book, --- I feared even to
sign it.
Look at the cover and shudder; then read it if you dare!
E. J. WIELAND
The obsurer phases of love, the more mystic side of passion, have never
been more enchantingly delineated than they are by Ether Archer, in this
delightfully vicious book.
Terrible in its na�vet�, astounding in its revelations, "The Whirlpool" is
the complete morbid expression of that infinite disease of the spirit spoken
of in Thelema.
For my own personal opinion I refer readers to my exquisite introductory
sonnet to the volume. VICTOR.
The first thing one wishes to know on completing this extraordinary volume
is: --- What is the author's definition of Art? Some say that the definition
of Art is to please; I say Art is artifice; Phil May said something which
conveys nothing {151} if translated into Latin, and is unprintable in English.
If the author holds Phil Mar's opinion she has, of course, ever right to
continue printing such books; if, however, her idea of Art is to please, then
Ether Archer's idea of pleasure is as warped as her nature.
To the Philistine Public this book will have but one use --- it contains
just sufficient paper to set the drawing-room fire agoing in event of
returning home after the domestics have retire to rest. Those, however, who
appreciate good verse, with find just sufficient warmth therein to read it
though the fire be out. BUNCO.
Especially after a last glance at the wonderful cover, I think that The
World's Pool of Sound suggests itself as an alternative title to this thin
volume. This but bony --- nor could sweeter marrow be found elsewhere. The
volume has, I am afraid, an unfortunate horoscope, owing no doubt to some
affliction in Virgo, with no correspondingly strong influence from the house
of Taurus. Let use leave it at that. GEORGE RAFFALOVICH.
Babes of the Abyss! behold Form without Soul! Of womanhood (philosophical
Weininger-womanhood!) Ether Archer is the supreme expression. She is passion
� rebours; L�-bas in excelsis. One can imagine her writhing away from even
the infamies and hysterics of Canon Docre; or, having won her broomstick,
declining to go to the Sabbath. hers is the glass fruit of Murano, with its
tinkling bells; hers that obscene chastity which blasphemes love and holds the
candle to vice. Hers is the prudery and respectability which can pass through
all fires unscorched, unwarmed. Hers is the soul of the real succuba, as that
was before man idealised it away into a vampire of voluptuousness.
Miss Archer (God help her!) is still young; her verse halts and her
technique is faulty; it is amateurish. But she only needs a little hard work
and experience to produce the vilest ravings that ever foamed upon the
fleshless lips of a lost soul.
Unless that work redeems her. For she is as idle as she is vicious. The
book is a masterpiece of horror, in its way; every one should read it and
shudder. LAURA GRAHAME.
HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE!
ETHEL ARCHER. {152}
THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA, etc. BERNARD SHAW.
The preface to the first of these plays is a pointless hotchpotch of
ignorant balderdash, the eavesdropping of a doctor's flunky translated to a
suburban layman. sometimes it hits the marks; the law of chance provides for
this event.
The play is even worse rubbish.
Follows a dull, dirty stupid, prolix, foolish farrago about marriage. "By
George!" cried Somerset, "Three days of you have transformed me into an
ancient Roman!" Bernard Shaw is the nearest approach to the redoubtable Zero
that seems possible. I have had doubts about marriage,and troubles in
marriage; but Shaw has made me feel partly like St Paul and partly like Queen
Victoria.
But there is no need to take Shaw seriously. He has lived so long as cock-
of-the-walk of his mattoid dunghill of sexless and parasexual degenerates that
he has lost sight of the world altogether. Probably a sewer-rat thinks that
fresh air smells nasty. Nor, one may add, is much consideration due to a
person so ignorant as to write "dumbfoundered" for "dumfoundered" and
"laudatores tempori acti." "Til" for "till" is doubtless only a foolish
faddism intended to irritate, like the Old Philadelphia Lady in the "New York"
"Herald," but he has not here sense of humour.
There is some ground, though, for hoping that the "Doctor's Dilemma" and
"Getting Married" merely mark the temporary eclipse of a great mind. for the
remarks on the Censor are quite informed and sensible, and Blanco Posnet is
really quite good. The characters are human and living --- a welcome change
indeed from the dogmatic dummies of the other two plays. A. C.
CAGLIOSTRO. By W. H. TROWBRIDGE.
I have a prejudice against memoirs of a century ago. They are usually
pornographic tittle-tattle, absolutely pointless, the favourite reading of a
Colonel Glumley. One expects to see them in a still-life whose other
ingredients are birches tied up with blue ribbons, and imitations of the
Inimitable.
What, then, was my pleasure in finding this study of Cagliostro a well-
written and profoundly interesting book!
The man problem of Cagliostro's identity is discussed with marvellous power
and fascination.
Mr Trowbridge's review of eighteenth-century occultism is strikingly sane
and intelligent. Knowing nothing of the causes � priori, he has judged by the
effects, and these have not betrayed him. Indeed, had Mr Trowbridge sworn
secrecy to the modern Illuminati, I am afraid that he might have his s...l
{153} s..n across, and his b....s exposed to the s........g r..s of the s.n
before now!
I think Mr Trowbridge is too ready to assume that the initiations of
Egyptian Masonry were ridiculous. On what documents does he base his
description? It is always open to a Mason to reply to an "exposure" that
those who tell don't know, and those who know don't tell. My own small
knowledge of the matter assures me that the accounts given on pp. 111 and 112,
120 and 121 are entirely foreign to that knowledge and � priori most unlikely.
It is incredible that one to whom so many impressive rites were accessible
should found his system on tomfoolery.
I wish Mr Trowbridge could have found time to study intimately fro a month
the life of a modern master.
As it is, the most natural phenomena perturb him. The periodical
disappearances of his hero annoy the historian; yet this is the first
condition of the life of a Magus, like the disappearance of salmon from
rivers. Unless one went back to the sea pretty often, those silver scales
would blacken.
Many other matter, too, would have suggested their own explanation.
However, the historian's native with has gone very far to supply him with
motives for Cagliostro. What puzzles fools, whether they be Jewish, Russian,
French, or naturalised Englishmen, in estimating the actions of an adept, is
this; they have not the smallest notion of what he loves, or even of what he
sees. Cagliostro is fortunate in finding a student with good sense and
perspicacity. It is only a step from Cagliostro's vindication (successfully
accomplished in this book) to his triumph. Mr Trowbridge will come one day to
see that his high mission was not a failure, recognise that Dumas is the most
illuminated of historians as well as the most fascinating of novelists.
ALEISTER CROWLEY.
THE WAY OF THE SOUL, a legend in line and verse. By WILLIAM T. HORTON.
A little while ago I begged the Deity to forbid that William T. Horton
should become vocal. My prayer was not heard.
Again, William T. Horton begged the Deity not to let the Equinox review his
book.
His prayer has not been heard.
Enough to shake anybody's faith!
There is a most illuminated forward by Ralph Shirley, a thing I could wish
to have written myself.
And now for the Reverse of the Medal.
The principal subject of illustration is a series of accordion-pleated
cliffs {154} made of Sunlight soap, waters made of vermicelli, suns indicated
by circles drawn with a compass surrounded by lines drawn with a very unsteady
hand to represent rays --- surely a ruler would have been neater? --- moons
cut out of cardboard probably by his little sister, trees rather well done as
they are accurately copied from Morris & Co., flaming swords like fly-
switches, roses and stars and the rest, all conceived and executed with
inconceivable coarseness, banality, and an absolute lack of any sense of
beauty on the one hand and technical skill on the other. Such drawing would
be rejected by the vulgarest comic papers; the best examples do not reach the
standard of Ally Sloper, though the feeling approximates to that journal's at
its nadir.
I did not mention that there are numerous attempts to represent divine,
angelic, and human forms; the subject is beyond my power of expression.
As it is, I can only beg my readers to buy this book, for these drawings
must be seen to be believed. And even then? Their existence is incompatible
with that of god.
The only other way to save my credit is to quote (without comment; I am
only human) the "verse"; it is better tan the drawings, but it will give an
idea of what William T. Horton really can do.
Isis-Osiris, Lo! on Thy throne
Two-in-One, apart, alone,
Breathe on us of Thy might;
Ruler of Love an Light
Isis-Osiris on Thy golden throne
Two-in-One, apart, alone.
. . . .
The Future hid,
The Soul, in Love,
Goes where 'tis bid.
By Love above.
. . . . . .
Within a cold and barren land,
Whereon, at times, a moon doth shine
A tree of Life doth upright stand,
Close by a gap, near a deep mine.
. . . . . .
I know that over there,
Behind the crescent moon,
There waits for me somewhere,
One I shall meet full soon.
. . . . . . {155}
Thy heart shall weary
And thy Soul shall cry,
Till thou findest me,
Thy Bride from on high.
. . . . .
Star of my Hope to thee I call
Upon the way I stumbling fall
Shine thou upon my weary soul
Disperse the clouds that o'er me roll.
I faint for thee with dear desire
My heart with longing oft doth tire
To thee I climb --- ah! shine on me
Disclose thyself, revealed be.
Why hidest thou from me thy face?
Come forth, thy hand in mine, Sweet, place;
I stand where many coss roads meet
Oh! guide and guard my faltering feet
. . . . . .
Within it's Crystal House the Soul,
Made perfect, sits enthroned in joy,
Around it all Earth's clouds may roll,
But nought can harm it, or annoy.
. . . . . .
Isis, Mother of all the gods,
By Thee th' aspiring Soul doth rise;
No more on Earth it blindly plods
But, Spirit-freed, mounts to the skies.
. . . . . .
The late Leonard Smithers once told me an anecdote, for whose truth I do
not vouch.
William T. Horton was walking across a moor (I think it was Clapham
Common) at night to be an architect, when he heard a voice,
"Turn again, Hor-ton,
Ar-tist of Lon-don!"
He turned. But I don't agree with Leonard Smithers' comment that William T.
Horton could have made a good architect; I prefer the sober judgment of Ethel
Archer that he might have been trained to be a bricklayer.
ALEISTER CROWLEY {156}
NEW EVIDENCES IN PSYCHICAL RESEARCH. By J. ARTHUR HILL.
A very interesting record, written fairly and conceived clearly. There is
absolutely none of the sentimentality which degrades 99.9 per cent. of
Spiritistic "research."
I must confess that "Watson" does not impress me. He is too terribly
correct in his facts. To admit the supernormal hypothesis here would be to
betray all good sense. However unlikely it may appear, Watson must have known
the facts.
For otherwise, if he can describe and name some fifteen relatives of "F.
K.," he ought --- in the course of a lifetime --- to do as much for many
others. But he doesn't
The argument is this. Suppose my aeroplane does just manage to leave the
ground for a few yards, one can explain it away. But if I fly from London to
New York, I show such power that it is reasonable to insist on my flying at
least a few miles to order.
I challenge Watson to give me the name of one relative of a stranger that I
bring him.
the cross-correspondences are more satisfactory. But the hypothesis of
spirits is quite unnecessary.
If we admit, as any Pantheist would admit, that subliminal Mrs Verral is
identical with or in communication with subliminal Mrs Piper, there is no
mystery left, no suggestion of Myers to pit against the blank failure of the
sealed letter test. Further, I distrust "Mrs Holland." I cannot believe that
any one is so imbecile as not to solve the Hodgson cipher at a single glance.
But a grande hyst�rique forging the script might pretend to be unable to
decipher it.
I have seen more fraud from the vanity of amateurs than from the cupidity
of professionals. So, in the end, to this record as to all others, I enter
the Scotch verdict. A. C.
THE ALTAR IN THE WILDERNESS. By ETHELBERT JOHNSON.
A charming little book, a book of understanding. But this one thing he
does not understand, that He who should come hath indeed come. "For we have
seen His Star in the West, and are come to worship Him." L. T. {157}