Madame Blavatsky is in trouble with the Theosophical Society. She is accused, and the charge appears well sustained, of arranging fraudulent miracles, in India, if not in England. Some years ago I knew Madame quite well, and found her an exceedingly clever woman, who smoked cigarettes in true Oriental style, and told wonderful stories of her peregrinating experiences, and of her observations in the realms of black and white magic in Hindostan and Africa. Her friend, Colonel Olcott, used to receive marvellous letters from far-off regions, though there was always suspicion that Madame might have sent them thither to be re-mailed to him. She could write with great power, understanding the full force of the words she chose; and an evening in her parlors meant a triplet of hours spent in agreeable intellectual fields, for the company was always unique. For instance, one evening, the Jewish Kabballa was expounded there. Madame was always a delightful woman to meet, though she impressed one not only with a sense of her strength, but of doubt whether she herself believed the occult theories of which she spoke so warmly. When she said that flying in dreams was the same thing as flying in mid-air, the statement carried with it a tinge of skepticism as to her belief in the triumph of mind over matter. Would that the life of this grand, even though delusive, woman could be fully and dispassionately written.
In the department of Sermonettes will be found a few paragraphs from the pen of Mrs. M. Williams, of Columbus, Wisconsin. In the leading paper of that city, The Democrat, is a column from her pen, from which we would gladly make long extracts, did space permit, for she touches her subject strongly.
