Let me say in conclusion, most emphatically, that I do not myself accept any of those axioms of General von Bernhardi which are the foundation-stones of his argument I do not think that war is in itself a good thing, though a dishonorable peace may be a worse one. I do not believe that an Anglo-German war is necessary. I am convinced that we should never, of our own accord, attack Germany, nor would we assist France if she made an unprovoked attack upon that Power. I do not think that as the result of such a war, Germany could in any way extend her flag so as to cover a larger white population. Every one of his propositions I dispute. But that is all beside the question. We have not to do with his argument, but with its results. Those results are that he, a man whose opinion is of weight and a member of the ruling class in Germany, tells us frankly that Germany will attack us the moment she sees a favorable opportunity. I repeat that we should be mad if we did not take very serious notice of the warning.
THE END
THE FUTURE OF CANADIAN LITERATURE
A lectured delivered to the Canadian club in Montreal on June 4, 1914
Published to mark the Canadian Club’s Toronto Conference of 1994
I have often heard friends from this side speak about the interest and veneration they felt when they approached the great historical centres of Europe; but I can assure you that I, who am soaked in Canadian history, felt that same feeling when yesterday we came along the old line of invasions, when we examined the site of that Fort William Henry around which so many hostile scenes have centred; when we saw the partly destroyed Fort Ticonderoga, and when we come down the line of the old Iroquois war trail, down the Richelieu River, where every yard of advance seemed to have the glamour of history. As I approached this great city I recollected the time when only a line of frail palisades lay between its population and utter barbarism, and when a sudden wild rush of savages might have driven Europe entirely from these parts. I assure you that I felt as much veneration as I know you feel when you approach the historical centres of Europe.
I might say that I have fallen under the spell of Francis Parkman, the historian – not so much under his spell as under the spell of the heroes and martyrs who he commemorated, and if there is any part of the world that is steeped in the glamour of history it is just this part upon which we stand. I talk of the glamour of history – the moment that history has left the land it seems to me that the very spirit has gone out of it – it has become mere rock and material, soil and water. It is the spirit of the land and the spirit of history that makes the land and it is just that that makes this comer of America the most interesting in the whole of the vast continent.
I had some difficulty in choosing a subject on which to address you because my interests are somewhat wide; but I recollected that if you were good enough to ask me here to speak to you it is probably because some of you have been kind enough to read my books, and it is as a literary man that I am here to-day. If I had not been a writer I should probably still have been sending up the death rate in some obscure corner of the world. Therefore it is on the subject of Literature and of a Literary career that I venture to say a few words; and, when I speak of literature I allude more to the imaginative style of literature, fiction, poetry and the drama with which I myself am best acquainted.
People often ask me what our literary crop in Great Britain is likely to produce. I think that is a question which can only be answered twenty-five years after the event. I can remember very well when I was a young man beginning to write, how all the critics were bewailing the fact that all the great men had passed away. Now when I look back and remember that among the men of that time were such dramatists like as Bernard Shaw, such novelists as Kipling and such humorists as Barrie when I consider all these and how they have come to fruition, I think the critics at the time were a little hard. And so it may be at the present time – many great trees may grow up – mere saplings may in time become great oaks. We have such men as Masefield, who I think will develop into a great poet, Galsworthy, with his broad humanitarianism and Arnold Bennett, who will worthily uphold the traditions of British literature. The very closest connection exists now between writers of fiction and the practical affairs of life. A very great impetus is given to public causes by the interest which is taken in them by these Men who can put them in the proper form. Who has developed Imperialism more than any man? It is surely the novelist Kipling. Who is to the ordinary public the mouthpiece of socialism? It is Wells. Who makes men think more than any one else, although he makes them angry? It is Bernard Shaw. Who stands for Zionism? It is Zangwill. Hardly a man who takes a mere money-making view – who does not venture out into life and employ his talents for the public good.
People sometimes ask me whether a man can learn to write. I am afraid one must be born a writer. I can remember as a boy a class in school which was called a poetry class, and in this class everyone whether they had the talent or not, had to turn out a poem, although it might be difficult to recognise it as such. I remember on one occasion we were given the Biblical story of Judith and Holofernes to write a poem on, and one of our young fellows boiled it all down into two short lines: —
She looked to heaven, her sword she drew,
And she cut Holofernes head in two.
Well, the master could not pass that and said that he really must come back and make another effort. The second time he appeared he wrote: —
Her sword she drew, she looked on high,
And she cut his throat from eye to eye.
These are shocking examples of making literature where no literature exists. One must surely have that in-born instinct, one must thrill to the music of the words.
Great literature cannot be taught. It is entirely beyond the reach of all man-fashioned laws. But what can be taught is style, and the vocabulary call be extended. Given the in-born instinct we can improve it by studying the great masters and adding constantly to our vocabulary – which is really, after all, our box of tools. In the matter of style nobody can do better than to follow Stevenson, who has helped many a lame dog into a style.
One must understand the use of words. When a new word is found, keep it, hold it and use it discreetly. I think the Elizabethans and Stevenson had extraordinary power over large vocabularies – an instinct for using the unlikely word, which word, when used expressed the thought exactly. One such on record was the Scottish Ambassador’s description of Queen Elizabeth’s dancing; he said:—”She danced high and disposedly.” Then an author, apart from these things, must cultivate his general stock of knowledge. A small-minded man is going to do no good in literature. One must have wide sympathies, a readiness to throw out tendrils in every direction, know the relation of one set of facts to another. After all this is accomplished, he must have an immense amount of good humoured patience during all those years in which he is playing ping pong with the editors. You ping out literature, he pongs it back and you must be patient. I know I wrote for ten years and pinged my literature to the editors while they ponged it back to me. I can recollect pictures being sent to me with a request to write a story to correspond to the pictures. They were pretty bad pictures, and my story certainly did correspond to them.
Another thing is his attitude towards criticism. One should not fear criticism – it is much better than flattery which makes you believe you have nothing else to learn Over-praise is apt to bring ruin upon a man – he does not try to do any better – and that is an awful thing for a young man in any profession but worst of all to anyone in the literary profession. Many a promising man has been ruined by over-praise. The safest maxim is:-
“Do your best. Having done it, think no more of it, push on to some other task and let the world decide whether you have done well or ill.”
I used to have a card hung up over my desk which I sometimes found to be a source of comfort. It had on it these lines: —
Critics flatter, no matter,
Critics curse, none the worse
Critics kind, never mind
Do your best, hang the rest.
Another thing which one needs very much in literature also, and of which, perhaps, we do not always in the rush give ourselves sufficient, is quiet detachment. You cannot put a good cargo out if you do not take a good cargo in. You have not got an endless stock of ideas, an endless stock of knowledge; the wise man is the one who remembers that, and who from time to time leaves everything and goes out into the quiet places with his books, and there takes weeks and months to build himself up, improving his own education; and then, I think, when he comes back he may possibly give the public something worthy of them and of himself. If ever a young author is dissatisfied with his reception, if he feels he has not had proper recognition, he must remember how long the great men have waited for any recognition. He must remember George Meredith who published the first edition of his Richard Feverel in 1859; the second edition was not called for till 1881, yet he knew well the value of his own work. That book is packed with beautiful passages, I was in his presence once when a young man praised one of those passages – it was the aphorism:—”Who rises from prayer a better man his prayer is answered.” Meredith remarked:—”I wrote that twenty-five years ago and you are the first man who has ever spoken to me about it.”
I feel gentlemen here in Canada that I am standing at a place which must in the process of time produce a very great literature. When I put it in the future I do not mean that it has not yet done so, but what I mean is that it will be a great volume of literature which in time to come may well influence the literature of the world. But I should be sorry to see Canada turning her whole thoughts towards such matters. It seems to me that for a strong young country with enormous practical work lying in front of it there are better things to do than dream. There is such a call for the virile upbuilding of the country that it will be unwise of it to go back to dreaming. Great deeds are better than great sonnets and Canada’s call to her sons is a stirring one to action; for the poetry of action exists just as does the poetry of words and the great deed that is accomplished is more glorious than the great sonnet. The nations that have been building themselves up have never at any time produced literature while they have been doing it. In Rome it was five hundred years after the birth of Rome before Roman literature made its appearance. They spent their energies in the great struggles against surrounding countries. In your case it is against the vast forces of nature which have got to be subdued. Always there is a long seed time before the real harvest can arrive. I might cite as an example the State of New England. So long as New England was the great seat of activities there was no new literature; but when the seat of activities of America flowed Westward, New England became the back water, and you had your Longfellows in that little corner of the world. And so I prophesy that it will be here.
THE END
THE NEW REVELATION
CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER I.
THE SEARCH
CHAPTER II.
THE REVELATION
CHAPTER III.
THE COMING LIFE
CHAPTER IV.
PROBLEMS AND LIMITATIONS
Dedication
To all the brave men and women, humble or learned, who have the moral courage during seventy years to face ridicule or worldly disadvantage in order to testify to an all-important truth.
March, 1918
THE NEW REVELATION
PREFACE
Many more philosophic minds than mine have thought over the religious side of this subject and many more scientific brains have turned their attention to its phenomenal aspect. So far as I know, however, there has been no former attempt to show the exact relation of the one to the other. I feel that if I should succeed in making this a little more clear I shall have helped in what I regard as far the most important question with which the human race is concerned.
A celebrated Psychic, Mrs. Piper, uttered, in the year 1899 words which were recorded by Dr. Hodgson at the time. She was speaking in trance upon the future of spiritual religion, and she said: “In the next century this will be astonishingly perceptible to the minds of men. I will also make a statement which you will surely see verified. Before the clear revelation of spirit communication there will be a terrible war in different parts of the world. The entire world must be purified and cleansed before mortal can see, through his spiritual vision, his friends on this side and it will take just this line of action to bring about a state of perfection. Friend, kindly think of this.” We have had “the terrible war in different parts of the world.” The second half remains to be fulfilled.
A. C. D.
1918.
CHAPTER I.
THE SEARCH
The subject of psychical research is one upon which I have thought more and about which I have been slower to form my opinion, than upon any other subject whatever. Every now and then as one jogs along through life some small incident happens which very forcibly brings home the fact that time passes and that first youth and then middle age are slipping away. Such a one occurred the other day. There is a column in that excellent little paper, Light, which is devoted to what was recorded on the corresponding date a generation — that is thirty years — ago. As I read over this column recently I had quite a start as I saw my own name, and read the reprint of a letter which I had written in 1887, detailing some interesting spiritual experience which had occurred in a seance. Thus it is manifest that my interest in the subject is of some standing, and also, since it is only within the last year or two that I have finally declared myself to be satisfied with the evidence, that I have not been hasty in forming my opinion. If I set down some of my experiences and difficulties my readers will not, I hope, think it egotistical upon my part, but will realise that it is the most graphic way in which to sketch out the points which are likely to occur to any other inquirer. When I have passed over this ground, it will be possible to get on to something more general and impersonal in its nature.
When I had finished my medical education in 1882, I found myself, like many young medical men, a convinced materialist as regards our personal destiny. I had never ceased to be an earnest theist, because it seemed to me that Napoleon’s question to the atheistic professors on the starry night as he voyaged to Egypt: “Who was it, gentlemen, who made these stars?” has never been answered. To say that the Universe was made by immutable laws only put the question one degree further back as to who made the laws. I did not, of course, believe in an anthropomorphic God, but I believed then, as I believe now, in an intelligent Force behind all the operations of Nature — a force so infinitely complex and great that my finite brain could get no further than its existence. Right and wrong I saw also as great obvious facts which needed no divine revelation. But when it came to a question of our little personalities surviving death, it seemed to me that the whole analogy of Nature was against it. When the candle burns out the light disappears. When the electric cell is shattered the current stops. When the body dissolves there is an end of the matter. Each man in his egotism may feel that he ought to survive, but let him look, we will say, at the average loafer — of high or low degree — would anyone contend that there was any obvious reason why THAT personality should carry on? It seemed to be a delusion, and I was convinced that death did indeed end all, though I saw no reason why that should affect our duty towards humanity during our transitory existence.
This was my frame of mind when Spiritual phenomena first came before my notice. I had always regarded the subject as the greatest nonsense upon earth, and I had read of the conviction of fraudulent mediums and wondered how any sane man could believe such things. I met some friends, however, who were interested in the matter, and I sat with them at some table-moving seances. We got connected messages. I am afraid the only result that they had on my mind was that I regarded these friends with some suspicion. They were long messages very often, spelled out by tilts, and it was quite impossible that they came by chance. Someone then, was moving the table. I thought it was they
. They probably thought that I did it. I was puzzled and worried over it, for they were not people whom I could imagine as cheating — and yet I could not see how the messages could come except by conscious pressure.
About this time — it would be in 1886 — I came across a book called The Reminiscences of Judge Edmunds. He was a judge of the U.S. High Courts and a man of high standing. The book gave an account of how his wife had died, and how he had been able for many years to keep in touch with her. All sorts of details were given. I read the book with interest, and absolute scepticism. It seemed to me an example of how a hard practical man might have a weak side to his brain, a sort of reaction, as it were, against those plain facts of life with which he had to deal. Where was this spirit of which he talked? Suppose a man had an accident and cracked his skull; his whole character would change, and a high nature might become a low one. With alcohol or opium or many other drugs one could apparently quite change a man’s spirit. The spirit then depended upon matter. These were the arguments which I used in those days. I did not realise that it was not the spirit that was changed in such cases, but the body through which the spirit worked, just as it would be no argument against the existence of a musician if you tampered with his violin so that only discordant notes could come through.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 1269