HOW SISTER PHOEBE FOLLOWS THE MASTER

NZ Truth, Issue 1200, 29 November 1928, Page 7

HOW SISTER PHOEBE FOLLOWS THE MASTER

American Woman, Who Says She Can Cure Anything, Puts Wellington Converts Through Quaint Health Stunt

AND NO WONDER SHE LOVES NEW ZEALAND!

(From "N.Z. Truth's" Special Wellington Representative)

IF Wellington, in the past few months, hasn't been healed of all its diseases, real and imaginary, don't blame Lady Phoebe Marie Holmes— or, as modestly prefers to be called, Big Sister Phoebe". Where a medical man would get busy with his stethoscope, Phoebe prefers orange juice She has her health stunt m Wellington, and as many as 600 persons of both sexes have listened more or less enraptured to her admonitions. "Truth" listened in at one of her lectures and saw some weird evolutions carried out by her adherents.

TWO months ago Phoebe decided that the Midland Hotel, Wellington, would be a nice place at which to stay. So she stayed there. Lady Phoebe Holmes, psychological healer, teacher of dietetics, and advocate of quaint nostrums has, although she "follows the Master in all things," as she explained to "N.Z. Truth," contrived to do so by a very smoothly-paved route. It is not recorded that the Master expressed any particular taste for the best hotels and most expensive conveyances. Nor was five guineas the fee charged for the lessons of healing expounded near the shores of Galilee. Still, apparently, the Master does not object to Sister Phoebe's mode of life, for, as she told a "Truth" representative, "Jesus is always with me. He works through me and has come with me to every city I've ever been in. He's been seen several times in Wellington, standing on the platform beside me." Asked whether the rumor which designates her as a Lady of title is true. Sister Phoebe blushed, smiled and said, "Oh, yes. But I never use that. I just want to be called Sister — to be a big sister to you all. "You know, I just love New Zealand. I've found all the folks so wonderful, so loving." The last bit is, as the poets say, too true. Let us investigate some of the forms m which 600 good souls in Wellington, and 500 in Auckland, have shown the depths of their love for Sister Phoebe. Two months ago, a natty little lady arrived from the north, where she had gone from Los Angeles, chartered rooms at the Midland Hotel for herself and her secretary — who is referred to by her employer as "Darling" — and started a course of psycho-health lectures in the commodious rooms of the Trades Hall. Soap-box healers have come and gone this way before. The laying on of hands — particularly in the region of the pocket is no new thing for Wellington. In several cases the city wakened up to the fact that all was not as it should be, and a little gentle but very salubrious laying- on of feet has been indicated. A few bottles of medicine have changed hands, a few health-formulas, cheap imitations of the Coue slogan, have been gambled over until forgotten by the easily-led minds which learned them. Now, when a lady enters this city, claiming to be able to cure such diseases as miners' pthithis, cancer, Brights' disease, and arthritis, by means of diet, faith and exercise, we to see very definite proofs of her ability before adopting the little brother attitude for which. Sister Fhoelje's soul seems to yearn. The principles of her healthclass course— consisting of fourteen lessons, seven of them "spiritual" and seven dealing purely with physical matters — are quite simply expounded. Another simple thing is the way in which each student passes up five of the brightest and best guineas — three for the spiritual course, two for the other. "I teach the basic principles of Christian psychology — the teachings of the Master" said Sister Phoebe to "Truth," when interviewed. "Mine is the science of the soul. I can cure anything. "Several people who were given up to die, in Auckland, are now 100 per cent. fit. One man who had suffered twenty years from heart trouble is completely cured — and another who has suffered twelve years from arthritis and almost everything, is out of pain for the first time in ten years." That "almost everything" phrase is delightfully vague. The basic factors of the course are an "elimination diet" and our old friend, solar plexus breathing. For from one to four weeks, the candidate for perfect health is induced to eat nothing but six oranges, three lemons and three grape-fruit a day. After that, diet is adjusted to suit the case — or Sister Phoebe. This diet, while it might benefit certain people, suffering chiefly from overeating and under-working, might do incalculable damage to growing children, and subjects exposed to nervous or physical strain. "With solar plexus breathing," says Sister Phoebe, "you can climb five nights of stairs as easily as walking across a room. I don't care how heavy you are. "The exercises which I teach my class are a splendid mode of elimination in themselves. But the biggest part of my course is the spiritual side. It's just all soul — you see?" Asked how she would cure a case of miners' pthithis, Sister Phoebe replied, "Just as I would cure neuritis — or anything else." An expert on miners' pthithis has this to say, about it: "Once the disease has taken a grip it is utterly impossible to cure miners' pthithis. The lungs simply fall to pieces. It is an incurable complaint, which the doctors cannot help, and is 'beyond the province of quack healing-mongers, and

it is a disgrace to Wellington, and to New Zealand, that any woman should be allowed to come here, raising fruitless hopes among men doomed to a cruel death."' A prominent Wellington medical man, when questioned by a "Truth" representative as to the possibility of curing such diseases as miners' pthlthis, cancer, Brights' Disease and arthritis with diet, "faith" and exercise, said: "It is absolutely impossible. The curing of cancer by a healing balm is also a physical impossibility, and the maker, or whoever is responsible for such stuff being on the market is guilty of criminal quackery. The whole thing seems to me like charlatanism of the worst description." However, Sister Phoebe never says die. Nor do her friends. At Colorado Springs there lives a gentleman by the name of Schaefer, who has invented an oil which he terms "Sacred Healing Balm." This, at ten shillings a jar, is one of the remedies which Sister Phoebe has been strongly recommending to the people who have filled her halls, and her pockets. This woman is advertising as a sure cure for cancer and Brights' Disease the "Sacred Healing Balm." Before an audience of fully 500 people, she stated that it would cure, not only cancer of the face, but inoperable internal cancers. How Brights' Disease, an ailment of an entirely different nature, can be logically linked with cancer in any treatment only Phoebe knows. Her audiences were given the address of this strangely unknown Schaefer, and told also the price at which they might be relieved of their dread disease. As a result, no doubt, a few ten-shilling postal orders will help swell the American mail. A salve, prepared by this same Schaefer and bearing the name of Curatite, is recommended as an equally certain cure for ulcers, burns and blood-poisoning. According to Sister Phoebe, it has saved several lives despaired of by the medical profession, particularly those of many women brought to the brink of the grave by sepsis. Another remedy is a "positive cure"

[Aspiration and Perspiration]

for all forms, and for the most hopeless cases, of certain diseases of an intimate character. Doctor David H. Reeder, President of the Home Health Club, an American body, is the gentleman named by Sister Phoebe for this. If Sister Phoebe is right, the medical world will soon ring with the fame of the doctor's discovery. "Truth" looked in on one of Sister Phoebe's "health classes," fourteen of which represent a full five guineas' worth. There is a buzz of excitement. Footlights flash behind the blue and gold curtains, and out trips a dainty form — Sister Phoebe, nimble of foot, bright of smile and glib of tongue. In spite of her statement that "I take nothing, and give all to the Master, "almost every night saw a different creation adorning Sister Phoebe's well-got-up person. On the occasion of "Truth's" visit, she wore a gleaming coat of many-colored brocade, opened to show a flame-colored georgette frock, its flared skirt bedight with tinsel embroideries. A graceful Bertha of lace was fastened around her shoulders. Beautiful silver hair, excellently done, was puffed, waved and curled into a multitude of shining ripples. Beneath this crowning glory smiled a smooth, well-powdered face — owing as much to rouge as to raisins — from which bright, brown eyes watched every movement of the audience. A hand was waved to the crowd, a voice with a marked American accent said: "Now, then!" and the lecture was under way. Sister Holmes began her disquisition harmlessly enough — with a recipe for cottage cheese, one of Sister Phoebe's pet "eliminators." Gliding on easily, she delved into the realm of the unseen. , "When my blessed Mother Passed Out" said Phoebe, "I was thousands of miles away, in the State of Maine. Three weeks after, I dreamed that I I visited her in her new home. We walked miles and miles and miles, suspended miles over the earth. A description followed of how Sister Phoebe, holding her Mother's hand, saw the Celestial City. Saint John was perfectly right — the streets were gold and everything in the garden was lovely. Phoebe became a frequent visitor, her Mother remaining in a little fourroomed cottage. An incident was described when Phoebe was required by her Mother to make some pea soup, which, as she graphically put it, "I could eat till the cows come home." At the requisite moment, a huge iron kettle appeared on a table. "That kettle," said Phoebe, "was just as concrete as the table I'm touching now. Everything is real, once the veil of materiality is rent. When the New

Testament says, after the crucifixion of Christ, that the graves opened and the dead walked about the city, it is wrong. "What really happened is that the veil of "Materiality" was rent, and people could see the dead. Naturally, they walked about the city. "I was there," came the final interesting statement, "so I know." Even more interesting was an account of what happened when Phoebe's husband departed this life. "My girl friend," says Phoebe, "came to the house where the casket was. My husband met her at the door, took her hand, led her upstairs, and showed her himself, lying in the casket." A more interesting example of seeing double could scarcely be imagined. However, the peculiar psychic faculties of Mrs. Holmes' girl friends and the wandering propensities, of her late husband can't do very much harm to the Wellington public, unless the late lamented starts frequenting graveyards at the witching hour, which might be a trifle puzzling for the police. The second part of Phoebe's programme consisted of exercise. "Take off your coats and undo your shirts," Phoebe commanded her male population. Some very harassed-looking husbands solemnly unbuttoned themselves and stood shivering in the breeze, waiting for orders. The hall was then cleared for action. Up went Phoebe's arms. Her eyes closed, her face assumed an expression which might be ecstasy, and might, again, be illness, as she murmured in a far-away voice: "I am serenity — I am pause — I am tranquility — I am peace." Five hundred of Wellington's elect, smoothing the wrinkles from their brow and the - bagginess from their waistcoats, repeated after her the bit about serenity and peace. "Now, then," said Phoebe, and the entire assemblage unto the third and fourth generation, trotted around the hall, waving their arms aloft and exclaiming: "To-day I will be happy, To-day I will be glad, In every way I'll make to-day The best day I have had." Even the solar plexus breathing did not prevent some of the unfortunates from looking somewhat scant of breath when the hall had been encircled for the third or fourth time. But Sister Phoebe was ready with a remedy. Deep - breathing exercises of various kind were indulged in. Grunts, gurgles and groans betokened the fact that the "veil of materiality" had not been rent sufficiently for some of Wellington's older and more hardened cases to recover their wind as they might have done a score of years ago. However, they persevered grimly with the "To-day I will be happy" slogan. At the end of ten minutes' deep breathing, Sister Phoebe sprang another surprise. Patting herself violently all over, she announced, "I am vitality— l am energy— l am force — I am strength," and she gave a passable imitation of a dynamo in action. "I am vitality," gasped some of the old Wellingtonians there, looking like the last rose of summer. "I am energy — I am force — I am strength." (Gasp.) The dynamic buzz is taken up by the entire room. Strong men pounded their solar plexuses. Weak women assaulted their own ribs. If it does nothing else, this sort of thing must induce a copious flow of perspiration. And this, at any rate, does some good. The entire concourse being reduced to a state of limp and collarless collapse, Sister Phoebe gave them a respite. "You may send up questions now," she announced. Up went various pathetic slips of paper, asking for relief from corns and cancer alike. Little, if anything, appeared to stump Sister Phoebe, who, according to her own statement, has cured a cancer of five years' growth in a fortnight. This week, she purposes to depart for Christchurch, where a Mission, similar to that with which Wellington was favored, will soon be under way — if the Cathedral City is as soft as the Capital has proved. According to her own statement, made to "Truth," she has made 600 converts m Wellington, more than she can accommodate in the Trades Hall. The hat was handed around at a recent meeting, for purposes of a presentation to herself and her secretary, "Darling," a lady with tortoise-shell glasses and a businesslike air. A farewell social was also announced to which the guests were invited to take their own sandwiches and cakes. Sister Holmes' record, before her New Zealand visit, is rather vague. According to herself, she attended the. Woman's Suffrage Congress in Italy in 1923, and since then has travelled twice round the world, "following the Master." In a man, the exploitation of human suffering is disgusting. In a woman, it seems worse. Sister Phoebe, with her cancer cure, her miners' pthithis remedies and the salves which she vouches for, must show a list of actual recoveries from proven ailments before she can be regarded as a desirable visitor to New Zealand.