rmy that had battled for me so bravely, the friends who
through all brutality of social ostracism had held me dear and true?
And he, the strongest and truest friend of all, whose confidence I had
shaken by my Socialism--must he suffer the pang of seeing his
co-worker, his co-fighter, of whom he had been so proud, to whom he
had been so generous, go over to the opposing hosts, and leave the
ranks of Materialism? What would be the look in Charles Bradlaugh's
eyes when I told him that I had become a Theosophist? The struggle was
sharp and keen, but with none of the anguish of old days in it, for
the soldier had now fought many fights and was hardened by many
wounds. And so it came to pass that I went again to Lansdowne Road to
ask about the Theosophical Society. H.P. Blavatsky looked at me
piercingly for a moment. "Have you read the report about me of the
Society for Psychical Research?" "No; I never heard of it, so far as I
know." "Go and read it, and if, after reading it, you come
back--well." And nothing more would she say on the subject, but
branched off to her experiences in many lands.

I borrowed a copy of the Report, read and re-read it. Quickly I saw
how slender was the foundation on which the imposing structure was
built. The continual assumptions on which conclusions were based; the
incredible character of the allegations; and--most damning fact of
all--the foul source from which the evidence was derived. Everything
turned on the veracity of the Coulombs, and they were self-stamped as
partners in the alleged frauds. Could I put such against the frank,
fearless nature that I had caught a glimpse of, against the proud
fiery truthfulness that shone at me from the clear, blue eyes, honest
and fearless as those of a noble child? Was the writer of "The Secret
Doctrine" this miserable impostor, this accomplice of tricksters, this
foul and loathsome deceiver, this conjuror with trap-doors and sliding
panels? I laughed aloud at the absurdity and flung the Report aside
with the righteous scorn of an honest nature that knew its own kin
when it met them, and shrank from the foulness and baseness of a lie.
The next day saw me at the Theosophical Publishing Company's office at
7, Duke Street, Adelphi, where Countess Wachtmeister--one of the
lealest of H.P.B.'s friends--was at work, and I signed an
application to be admitted as fellow of the Theosophical Society.

On receiving my diploma I betook myself to Lansdowne Road, whe