By search we found that there was a vessel, The Marion Macintyre, but the name “Molleson” was not connected with it. There was, however, a vessel named Mary with “Morrison” as the master’s name, in 1846. Her subsequent movements could not be traced. The tonnage seemed to be excessive for those days. It has been suggested that “Gorleston” which is a seaside village from which a sailor might well originate, is the right name and Bolderstone a mistake. This, however, seems a little far-fetched. On the whole we must admit that my search has not been successful in identifying John Coke.
Only one other case remains to be examined. It was that of Zoe, a lady of light virtue who claims to have met her death two years ago at Tours. She was stabbed or shot by her lover. I made some inquiries from a friend at Tours, but here again I was unable to verify the facts. Zoe, judging by her dialogue, was an amusing and rather impertinent person. Her remarks took the form of rather broad chaff of the people in the circle. Once again we have to admit there is nothing evidential.
One very curious thing about this series of cases is the number of them who died by violence. Zoe was murdered, John was murdered, Nicholas was executed, Overman died in a motor smash, Coke was drowned. The death of Harriette Wilson, is in my opinion, extremely doubtful. Therefore quite a large proportion of the cases came to their end in an untimely way. Whether this determined their presence in the particular stratum which this circle seems to have tapped is more than we can say. Apparently it was not one stratum alone, since about half of the communicants said that they were happy and the other half miserable, half being in light and the other half in gloom. Though, of course, in this world we do find happy and unhappy people living in close proximity. I give the facts as reported and I give my analysis as far as I have been able to make it, and while there is much which is unsatisfactory, there is a great deal which is plausible and which was entirely outside the knowledge of the circle. It is just possible that this publication may bring some fresh evidence on one point or another, and such evidence would be very welcome to me. When compared with other such records there is enough in common to give us good reason to believe that we are, in some sort of dim fashion, gaining an actual glimpse of the conditions of life in a certain section of the purgatorial world.
The Autobiography
Conan Doyle on the French Front, 1918
MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
First published in 1924, this autobiography of Conan Doyle blends his memories and adventures with accounts of his many different interests and achievements in life and literature. Conan Doyle views his life primarily from the Spiritualist perspective of his later years, which was also influenced by his ‘Western Wanderings’. The memoir also includes a series of sketches of America and Canada, as well as fascinating accounts of life on the Front in the Great War.
Conan Doyle, close to the time of publication
CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER I. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS
CHAPTER II. UNDER THE JESUITS
CHAPTER III. RECOLLECTIONS OF A STUDENT
CHAPTER IV. WHALING IN THE ARCTIC OCEAN
CHAPTER V. THE VOYAGE TO WEST AFRICA
CHAPTER VI. MY FIRST EXPERIENCES IN PRACTICE
CHAPTER VII. MY START AT SOUTHSEA
CHAPTER VIII. MY FIRST LITERARY SUCCESS
CHAPTER IX. PULLING UP THE ANCHOR
CHAPTER X. THE GREAT BREAK
CHAPTER XI. SIDELIGHTS ON SHERLOCK HOLMES
CHAPTER XII. NORWOOD AND SWITZERLAND
CHAPTER XIII. EGYPT IN 1896
CHAPTER XIV. ON THE EDGE OF A STORM
CHAPTER XV. AN INTERLUDE OF PEACE
CHAPTER XVI. THE START FOR SOUTH AFRICA
CHAPTER XVII. DAYS WITH THE ARMY
CHAPTER XVIII. FINAL EXPERIENCES IN SOUTH AFRICA
CHAPTER XIX. AN APPEAL TO THE WORLD’S OPINION
CHAPTER XX. MY POLITICAL ADVENTURES
CHAPTER XXI. THE YEARS BETWEEN THE WARS
CHAPTER XXII. THE YEARS BETWEEN THE WARS
CHAPTER XXIII. SOME NOTABLE PEOPLE
CHAPTER XXIV. SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF SPORT
CHAPTER XXV. TO THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS IN 1914
CHAPTER XXVI. THE EVE OF WAR
CHAPTER XXVII. A REMEMBRANCE OF THE DARK YEARS
CHAPTER XXVIII. EXPERIENCES ON THE BRITISH FRONT
CHAPTER XXIX. EXPERIENCES ON THE ITALIAN FRONT
CHAPTER XXX. EXPERIENCES ON THE FRENCH FRONT
CHAPTER XXXI. BREAKING THE HINDENBURG LINE
CHAPTER XXXII. THE PSYCHIC QUEST
PREFACE
I HAVE had a life which, for variety and romance, could, I think, hardly be exceeded. I have known what it was to be a poor man and I have known what it was to be fairly affluent. I have sampled every kind of human experience. I have known many of the most remarkable men of my time. I have had a long literary career after a medical training which gave me the M.D. of Edinburgh. I have tried my hand at very many sports, including boxing, cricket, billiards, motoring, football, aeronautics and skiing, having been the first to introduce the latter for long journeys into Switzerland. I have travelled as Doctor to a whaler for seven months in the Arctic and afterwards in the West Coast of Africa. I have seen something of three wars, the Soudanese, the South African and the German. My life has been dotted with adventures of all kinds. Finally I have been constrained to devote my latter years to telling the world the final result of thirty-six years’ study of the occult, and in endeavouring to make it realise the overwhelming importance of the question. In this mission I have already travelled more than 50,000 miles and addressed 300,000 people, besides writing seven books upon the subject. Such is the life which I have told in some detail in my Memories and Adventures.
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
Crowborough, June, 1924.
CHAPTER I. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS
Extraction—”H. B.” — Four Remarkable Brothers — My Mother’s Family Tree — An Unrecognised Genius — My First Knockout — Thackeray — The Fenians — Early Reading — My First Story.
I WAS born on May 22, 1859, at Picardy Place, Edinburgh, so named because in old days a colony of French Huguenots had settled there. At the time of their coming it was a village outside the City walls, but now it is at the end of Queen Street, abutting upon Leith Walk. When last I visited it, it seemed to have degenerated, but at that time the flats were of good repute.
My father was the youngest son of John Doyle, who under the nom de crayon of “H. B.” made a great reputation in London from about 1825 to 1850. He came from Dublin about the year 1815 and may be said to be the father of polite caricature, for in the old days satire took the brutal shape of making the object grotesque in features and figure. Gilray and Rowlandson had no other idea. My grandfather was a gentleman, drawing gentlemen for gentlemen, and the satire lay in the wit of the picture and not in the misdrawing of faces. This was a new idea, but it has been followed by most caricaturists since and so has become familiar. There were no comic papers in those days, and the weekly cartoon of “H. B.” was lithographed and distributed. He exerted, I am told, quite an influence upon politics, and was on terms of intimacy with many of the leading men of the day. I can remember him in his old age, a very handsome and dignified man with features of the strong Anglo-Irish, Duke of Wellington stamp. He died in 1868.
My grandfather was left a widower with a numerous family, of which four boys and one girl survived. Each of the boys made a name for himself, for all inherited the artistic powers of their father. The elder, James Doyle, wrote “The Chronicles of England,” illustrated with coloured pictures by himself — examples of colour-printing which beat any subsequent work that I have ever seen. He also spent thirteen years in doing “The Official Baronage of England,” a wonderful monument of industry and learning. Another brother was Henry Doyle, a great judge of old paintings, and in later years the manager of the National Gallery in Dublin, where he earned his C.B. The third son was Richard Doyle, whose whimsical humo
ur made him famous in “Punch,” the cover of which with its dancing elves is still so familiar an object. Finally came Charles Doyle, my father.
The Doyle family seem to have been fairly well-to-do, thanks to my grandfather’s talents. They lived in London in Cambridge Terrace. A sketch of their family life is given in “Dicky Doyle’s Diary.” They lived up to their income, however, and it became necessary to find places for the boys. When my father was only nineteen a seat was offered him in the Government Office of Works in Edinburgh, whither he went. There he spent his working life, and thus it came about that I, an Irishman by extraction, was born in the Scottish capital.
The Doyles, Anglo-Norman in origin, were strong Roman Catholics. The original Doyle, or D’Oil, was a cadet-branch of the Staffordshire Doyles, which has produced Sir Francis Hastings Doyle and many other distinguished men. This cadet shared in the invasion of Ireland and was granted estates in County Wexford, where a great clan rose of dependants, illegitimate children and others, all taking the feudal lord’s name, just as the de Burghs founded the clan of Burke. We can only claim to be the main stem by virtue of community of character and appearance with the English Doyles and the unbroken use of the same crest and coat-of-arms.
My forbears, like most old Irish families in the south, kept to the old faith at the Reformation and fell victims to the penal laws in consequence. These became so crushing upon landed gentry that my great-grandfather was driven from his estate and became a silk-mercer in Dublin, where “H. B.” was born. This family record was curiously confirmed by Monsignor Barry Doyle, destined, I think, for the highest honours of the Roman Church, who traces back to the younger brother of my great-grandfather.
I trust the reader will indulge me in my excursion into these family matters, which are of vital interest to the family, but must be tedious to the outsider. As I am on the subject, I wish to say a word upon my mother’s family, the more so as she was great on archaeology, and had, with the help of Sir Arthur Vicars, Ulster King of Arms, and himself a relative, worked out her descent for more than five hundred years, and so composed a family tree which lies before me as I write and on which many of the great ones of the earth have roosted.
Her father was a young doctor of Trinity College, William Foley, who died young and left his family in comparative poverty. He had married one Katherine Pack, whose death-bed — or rather the white waxen thing which lay upon that bed — is the very earliest recollection of my life. Her near relative — uncle, I think — was Sir Denis Pack, who led the Scottish brigade at Waterloo. The Packs were a fighting family, as was but right since they were descended in a straight line from a major in Cromwell’s army who settled in Ireland. One of them, Anthony Pack, had part of his head carried off at the same battle, so I fear it is part of our family tradition that we lose our heads in action. His brain was covered over by a silver plate and he lived for many years, subject only to very bad fits of temper, which some of us have had with less excuse.
But the real romance of the family lies in the fact that about the middle of the seventeenth century the Reverend Richard Pack, who was head of Kilkenny College, married Mary Percy, who was heir to the Irish branch of the Percys of Northumberland. By this alliance we all connect up (and I have every generation by name, as marked out by my dear mother) with that illustrious line up to three separate marriages with the Plantagenets. One has, therefore, some strange strains in one’s blood which are noble in origin and, one can but hope, are noble in tendency.
But all this romance of ancestry did not interfere with the fact that when Katherine Pack, the Irish gentlewoman, came in her widowhood to Edinburgh, she was very poor. I have never been clear why it was Edinburgh for which she made. Having taken a flat she let it be known that a paying-guest would be welcome. Just at this time, 1850 or thereabouts, Charles Doyle was sent from London with a recommendation to the priests that they should guard his young morals and budding faith. How could they do this better than by finding him quarters with a wellborn and orthodox widow? Thus it came about that two separate lines of Irish wanderers came together under one roof.
I have a little bundle of my father’s letters written in those days, full of appreciation of the kindness which he met with and full, also, of interesting observations on that Scottish society, rough, hard-drinking and kindly, into which he had been precipitated at a dangerously early age, especially for one with his artistic temperament. He had some fine religious instincts, but his environment was a difficult one. In the household was a bright-eyed, very intelligent younger daughter, Mary, who presently went off to France and returned as a very cultivated young woman. The romance is easily understood, and so Charles Doyle in the year 1855 married Mary Foley, my mother, the young couple still residing with my grandmother.
Their means were limited, for his salary as a Civil Servant was not more than about £240. This he supplemented by his drawings. Thus matters remained for practically all his life, for he was quite unambitious and no great promotion ever came his way. His painting was done spasmodically and the family did not always reap the benefit, for Edinburgh is full of water-colours which he had given away. It is one of my unfulfilled schemes to collect as many as possible and to have a Charles Doyle exhibition in London, for the critics would be surprised to find what a great and original artist he was — far the greatest, in my opinion, of the family. His brush was concerned not only with fairies and delicate themes of the kind, but with wild and fearsome subjects, so that his work had a very peculiar style of its own, mitigated by great natural humour. He was more terrible than Blake and less morbid than Wiertz. His originality is best shown by the fact that one hardly knows with whom to compare him. In prosaic Scotland, however, he excited wonder rather than admiration, and he was only known in the larger world of London by pen and ink book-illustrations which were not his best mode of expression. The prosaic outcome was that including all his earnings my mother could never have averaged more than £300 a year on which to educate a large family. We lived in the hardy and bracing atmosphere of poverty and we each in turn did our best to help those who were younger than ourselves. My noble sister Annette, who died just as the sunshine of better days came into our lives, went out at a very early age as a governess to Portugal and sent all her salary home. My younger sisters, Lottie and Connie, both did the same thing; and I helped as I could. But it was still my dear mother who bore the long, sordid strain. Often I said to her, “When you are old, Mammie, you shall have a velvet dress and gold glasses and sit in comfort by the fire.” Thank God, it so came to pass. My father, I fear, was of little help to her, for his thoughts were always in the clouds and he had no appreciation of the realities of life. The world, not the family, gets the fruits of genius.
Of my boyhood I need say little, save that it was Spartan at home and more Spartan at the Edinburgh school where a tawse-brandishing schoolmaster of the old type made our young lives miserable. From the age of seven to nine I suffered under this pock-marked, one-eyed rascal who might have stepped from the pages of Dickens. In the evenings, home and books were my sole consolation, save for week-end holidays. My comrades were rough boys and I became a rough boy, too. If there is any truth in the idea of reincarnation — a point on which my mind is still open — I think some earlier experience of mine must have been as a stark fighter, for it came out strongly in youth, when I rejoiced in battle. We lived for some time in a cul de sac street with a very vivid life of its own and a fierce feud between the small boys who dwelt on either side of it. Finally it was fought out between two champions, I representing the poorer boys who lived in flats and my opponent the richer boys who lived in the opposite villas. We fought in the garden of one of the said villas and had an excellent contest of many rounds, not being strong enough to weaken each other. When I got home after the battle, my mother cried, “Oh, Arthur, what a dreadful eye you have got! “To which I replied, “You just go across and look at Eddie Tulloch’s eye!”
I met a well-deserved setback on one
occasion when I stood forward to fight a bootmaker’s boy, who had come into our preserve upon an errand. He had a green baize bag in his hand which contained a heavy boot, and this he swung against my skull with a force which knocked me pretty well senseless. It was a useful lesson. I will say for myself, however, that though I was pugnacious I was never so to those weaker than myself and that some of my escapades were in the defence of such. As I will show in my chapter on Sport, I carried on my tastes into a later period of my life.
One or two little pictures stand out which may be worth recording. When my grandfather’s grand London friends passed through Edinburgh they used, to our occasional embarrassment, to call at the little flat “to see how Charles is getting on.” In my earliest childhood such a one came, tall, white-haired and affable. I was so young that it seems like a faint dream, and yet it pleases me to think that I have sat on Thackeray’s knee. He greatly admired my dear little mother with her grey Irish eyes and her vivacious Celtic ways — indeed, no one met her without being captivated by her.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 1395
