多多读书

手机浏览器扫描二维码访问

第63部分（第1页）

ests　were　less　known；　and　those　who　devoted　themselves　to　this　chase　were　few　in　number　and　supremely　qualified　for　the　business。　Now　travelling　is　cheap；　hundreds　handle　the　；　and　all　e　home　with　something　that　is　offered　for　sale　under　the　ancient　label。

It　is　curious　how　often　imagination　is　verified　by　fact　—　perhaps；　as　I　said　at　the　beginning　of　this　screed；　because　the　lines　in　which　it　must　work　are　narrow　and　after　all　based　on　fact；　perhaps　because　it　does　possess　some　spiritual　insight　of　its　own。　Many　instances　have　e　within　my　own　experience　of　which　I　will　quote　a　few　that　I　chance　to　remember。

I　pass　over　“King　Solomon’s　Mines；”　a　work　of　pure　imagination；　for　in　my　day　very　little　was　known　of　the　regions　wherein　its　scenes　were　laid；　many　details　of　which　have　been　verified　by　subsequent　discovery。　In　its　sequel；　“Allan　Quatermain；”　however；　occurs　a　fine　example　of　the　literary　coincidence。　In　this　book　I　invented　a　mission　station　at　an　unexplored　spot　on　the　Tana　River；　which　station　I　caused　to　be　attacked　by　the　Masai。　In　subsequent　editions　of　the　work　I　inserted　the　following　note；　which　explains　itself：

By　a　very　strange　and　sad　coincidence；　since　the　above　was　written；　the　Masai；　in　April　1886；　massacred　a　missionary　and　his　wife；　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Houghton　—　on　this　same　Tana　River；　and　at　the　spot　described。　These　are；　I　believe；　the　first　white　people　who　are　known　to　have　fallen　victims　to　this　cruel　tribe。

Again；　in　a　tale　called　“Maiwa’s　Revenge；”　I　gave　an　elaborate　description　of　a　certain　escape　of　Allan　Quatermain　from　pursuing　savages；　who　hunted　him　up　the　face　of　a　cliff　and　seized　hold　of　his　ankles。　He　freed　himself　from　their　attentions　by　firing　down　on　them　along　the　line　of　his　leg　with　a　pistol。　Some　years　later　a　gentleman　arrived　at　this　house　whose　name；　I　think；　was　Ebbage；　and　on　whose　card　was　printed　the　vague　and　remote　address；　“Matabeleland。”　He　informed　me　that　he　had　travelled　specially　from　London　to　inquire　how　on　earth　I　had　learned　the　details　of　his　escape　from　certain　savages；　as　he　had　never　mentioned　them　to　a　single　soul。　Before　he　left　I　satisfied　myself　that　his　adventure　and　that　invented　by　myself　and　described　in　the　tale；　which　I　had　thought　one　of　a　somewhat　original　sort；　were　in　every　particular　identical。

Again；　in　“Mr。　Meeson’s　Will”　I　set　out　very　fully　indeed；　the　circumstances　under　which　a　new　and　splendid　liner　was　lost　at　sea；　and　the　great　majority　of　those　on　board　of　her　were　drowned　owing　to　lack　of　boats　to　acmodate　them。　In　a　preface　to　this　story；　written　in　the　year　1888；　I　make　the　following　remark：

The　only　part　of　this　humble　skit；　however；　that　is　meant　to　be　taken　seriously　is　the　chapter　which　tells　of　the　loss　of　the　R。M。S。　Kangaroo。　I　believe　it　to　be　a　fair　and；　in　the　main；　accurate　account　of　what　must　and　one　day　will　happen　upon　a　large　and　crowded　liner　in　the　event　of　such　a　collision　as　that　described；　or　of　her　rapid　foundering　from　any　other　cause。　It　is　a　remarkable　thing　that　people　who　for　the　most　part　set　a　sufficient　value　on　their　lives；　daily　consent　to　go　to　sea　in　ships　the　boats　of　which　could　not　on　emergency　possibly　contain　half　their　number。

During　the　present　year　this　prophecy；　and　indeed　the　whole　scene　of　the　sinking　of　the　Kangaroo；　has　been　fearfully　fulfilled　in　the　instance　of　the　great　White　Star　liner　Titanic。　If　I　could　think　of　and　foresee　such　things；　how　is　it　that　those　who　are　responsible　for　the　public　safety　have　proved　themselves　so　lacking　in　prevision　—　that　section　of　the　Board　of　Trade；　for　instance；　whose　duty　it　is　to　attend　to　such　matters？

I　fear　we　must　seek　the　answer　in　the　character　of　our　nation；　whose　peculiarity　it　is　to　ignore　or　underrate　dangers　that　are　not　immediately　visible；　and　therefore　never　be　ready　to　meet　them。　If　anyone　doubts　this；　let　him　study　the　history　of　our　wars　during　the　last　sixty　years　or　so；　and　even　earlier。　The　Crimea；　the　Abyssinian　Expedition；　the　first　Boer　War；　the　Zulu　War；　the　second　Boer　War；　which　was　the　child　of　the　last　two；　the　Egyptian　Wars；　have　all　told　the　same　tale。　With　the　details　of　three　of　these　I　have　been　acquainted；　and　they　are　awful。　Only　our　wealth　has　brought　us　out　of　them　—　I　will　not　say　with　honour；　but　in　safety。　We　declare　proudly　that　“we　always　muddle　through；”　but　this；　after　all；　is　a　boast　that　only　fits　the　lips　of　the　inpetent。　What　will　happen　when　we　are　called　upon　to　meet　a　nation；　or　nations；　of　equal　or　greater　strength；　that　are　petent？24　One　can　only　hope　for　the　best；　and　that　the　genius　of　our　people；　or　of　individuals　among　them；　may　carry　us　through　in　the　future　as　it　has　done　in　the　past。　Meanwhile　we　blunder　on。　England；　in　lives　and　treasure；　pays　the　bill　out　of　her　ample　but　not　bottomless　pocket；　and　everything　ends　in　a　rocket…burst　of　decorations　conferred　amid　the　shouts　of　the　devotees　of　music…halls。

23　This　was　written　in　1912；　and　has　been　lying　in　Messrs。　Longmans’　safe　without　the　author　having　access　to　it　since　that　date。　—　Ed。

Probably　the　blame　is　to　be　laid　at　the　door　of　our　national　lack　of　imagination：　we　cannot　embody　in　our　minds　or　provide　against　that　of　which　we　have　had　no　recent　experience。　We　live　from　hand　to　mouth；　and　think　more　of　the　next　elections　than　of　our　future　as　a　people　and　a　great　Empire；　refusing　to　bear　those　small　burdens　that　would　make　us　safe；　and　to　support　statesmen　rather　than　politicians。　Any　who　point　out　these　things　are　cried　down　as　alarmists；　or　as　persons　seeking　some　personal　or　party　end；　since　the　petty　and　the　mean　always　see　their　own　colours　reflected　in　the　eyes　of　others。　Like　the　large　farmer　who　confided　to　him　his　conviction　that　I　was　travelling　on　my　tour　of　agricultural　investigation　through　England　in　search　of　“free　drinks；”　these　judge　by　their　own　low　standards。　“Free　drinks；”　or　their　equivalent；　is　what　they　want；　and　therefore　must　be　what　you　want；　since　otherwise　why　would　anyone　work　for　nothing？　And　here　es　the　sorrow。　The　little　minds；　Shakespeare’s　multitude　who　“suckle　fools　and　chronicle　small　beer；”　are　in　the　vast　majority。　They　have　the　votes　and　give　power　to　their　chosen。　The　rest　are　but　voices　crying　in　the　wilderness。　Well；　there　it　is；　and　doubtless　God　Almighty　knows　the　way　out。　At　any　rate；　it　must　be　a　part　of　His　plan；　so　why　should　we　grumble？

Another　small　instance　of　imagination　being　justified　in　my　own　case　is　to　be　found　in　my　tale；　“Stella　Fregelius；”　where；　for　the　purposes　of　that　mystical　story；　I　invented　an　instrument　which　I　called　the　“aerophone；”　whereby　people　could　speak　with　each　other　across　a　space　of　empty　air。　When　I　wrote　this　story；　about　the　year　1898；　neither　I　nor　anyone　else　had　heard　of　such　a　machine。　Now　I　learn　that　it　is　working　and　patented　under　the　same　title；　namely；　“aerophone；”　and　doubtless　ere　long　it　will　be　in　general　use。　It　is　right；　however；　that；　per　contra；　I　should　chronicle　a　prophetic　failure。　In　“Doctor　Therne”　I　ventured　to　suggest　that　our　general　neglect　of　vaccination　would　bring　about　some　outburst　of　smallpox　such　as　in　past　days　swept　away　our　forefathers　by　the　thousand；　and　still　sweeps　away　uninstructed　peoples。　As　yet　this　has　not　happened；　but　who　can　be　bold　enough　to　assert　that　it　will　never　happen？

Perhaps　the　most　curious　example　of　a　literary　coincidence　with　which　I　have　been　personally　concerned　is　to　be　found　in　the　case　of　my　story；　“Fair　Margaret。”　As　it　is　fully　and　concisely　set　out　in　the　issue　of　the　Spectator　of　October　19；　1907；　I　y　letter　published　in　that　journal；　leaving　the　reader　to　form　his　own　opinion　on　the　matter。

Sir；　—　The　following　instance　of　imagination　being　verified　by　fact　may　interest　students　of　such　matters。　Two　years　or　so　ago　I　wrote　an　historical　romance　which　has　recently　appeared　under　the　title　of　“Fair　Margaret。”　In　that　romance　the　name　of　the　hero　is　Peter　Brome。　The　father　of　this　Peter　Brome　is　represented　in　the　tale　as　having　been　killed　at　Bosworth　Field。　After　the　appearance　of　the　book　I　received　a　letter　from　Colonel　Peter　Brome　Giles；　the　High　Sheriff　of　Bucks；　asking　me　where　I　obtained　the　particulars　concerning　the　said　Peter　Brome。　I　answered　—　out　of　my　own　head。　Indeed；　I　distinctly　remember　inventing　the　name　as　being　one　that　I　had　never　heard；　and　the　fact　of　the　father’s　death　on　Bosworth　Field　I　introduced　to　suit　the　exigences　of　the　story。　In　reply　to　my　request　for　further　particulars；　Colonel　Brome　Giles　kindly　sent　me　a　letter；　from　which；　in　view　of　the　curious　interest　of　the　matter；　I　am　sure　he　will　forgive　me　for　publishing　the　following　extracts：

“Your　hero’s　father　was　the　son　of　Sir　Thomas　Brome；　the　Secretary　of　Henry　VI。　He　was；　as　you　relate；　killed　at　Bosworth；　but　I　never　heard　they　had　property　in　Essex；　but　had　in　Suffolk25　and　Norfolk。　。　。　。　One　branch　of　the　family　took　the　bird”　＇that　is；　as　a　coat…of…arms＇　“as　you　describe。　。　。　。　The　father　of　your　hero　was　the　first　Peter；　and　was　born　1437；　and　was　50　when　killed。　。　。　。　Since　the　Peter　of　1437　there　have　always　been　Peter　Bromes：　my　father　was；　I　am；　and　so　is　my　boy。　We　assumed　Giles　in　1761。”

To　this　I　sent　the　following　answer：

“All　I　can　say　is　that　the　coincidence　is　extremely　curious

（for　I　knew　nothing　of　all　this）；　so　much　so　indeed　that；

taken　in　conjunction　with　some　similar　instances　which　have

occurred　to　me；　almost　do　I　begin　to　believe　in　retrospective

second　sight。”

If　I　may　judge　from　my　own　experience；　such　coincidences　（and；　as　anyone　who　has　read　the　tale　in　question　will　admit；　this　is　a　very　remarkable　coincidence）　are　by　no　means　unmon。　Although　the　particulars　are　too　long　to　set　out；　four　times　at　the　very　least　have　they　happened　to　myself　in　the　case　of　my　own　works　of　imagination。　I　do　not　know　if　any　of　your　readers　can　suggest　an　explanation。　The　odds　against　such　exact　similitudes　seem　so　tremendous　that　I　confess　I　am　unable　to　do　so。　I　am；　Sir；　etc。；

H。　Rider　Haggard。

（It　almost　looks　as　if　Mr。　Rider　Haggard　when　he　thought　he　was　inventing　was　unconsciously　receiving　random　and　accidental　brain…waves；　a　la　Marconi；　from　Colonel　Brome　Giles。　Was　Colonel　Brome　Giles；　we　wonder；　e　when　Mr。　Rider　Haggard　was　planning　his　novel？　—　Ed。；　Spectator。）

24　My　hero’s　property　was　at　Dedham；　in　Essex；　a　few　miles　over　the　Suffolk　border。　—　H。　R。　H。

Another　very　curious　imaginative　parallel　occurs　in　my　novel；　“The　Way　of　the　Spirit。”　In　this　tale；　the　scene　of　which　is　laid　in　Egypt　of　today；　I　introduced　five　weird　native　musicians；　whom　I　named　the　Wandering　Players；　three　of　whom　performed　on　pipes　and　two　upon　drums。　Thrice　did　the　hero；　Rupert　Ullershaw；　meet　this　band　in　the　deserts　of　the　Sudan；　but　never　could　he　speak　with　them；　since　they　would　answer　no　questions　and　accept　no　baksheesh。　They　simply　appeared　and　disappeared　mysteriously；　and　the　sound　of　their　sad　music　always　proved　the　herald　of　misfortune　to　poor　Rupert　—　the　suggestion　being　that　they　were　not　quite　canny　in　their　origin。　These　musicians　were　a　pure　effort　of　invention　so　far　as　I　am　concerned。　I　had　never　read　or　heard　that　any　such　folk　were　supposed　to　haunt　this　very　desert　of　which　I　was　writing。

Imagine；　therefore；　my　a