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