I have seen the thing working itself out in one case known to me.  A young man had a gift of mental healing; I know, because I saw it work; but it did not always work, and that was annoying.  He was penniless and had a taste for power, and to eke out his erratic endowment he got himself books of Eastern lore, and day by day as I watched him I could see him becoming more and more impressive, mysterious and forbidding.  Today he is a full-fledged wonder-worker, with the language of a dozen mystic cults at his tongue’s end, and the reverent regard of many wealthy ladies.  I have never tried to break through his guard, but I feel certain that he is a deliberate charlatan.

This is an economic process, automatic and irresistible.  Just as the manufacturer of honest foods is driven out by the adulterator, so the worker of miracles drives out the sincere investigator.  As a result we have here in America a plague of Eastern cults, with “swamis” using soft yellow robes and soft brown eyes to win the souls of idle society ladies.  These teachers of ancient Hindoo lore despise us as a race of barbarians; but they stay—­whether because of love of man or woman, I do not pretend to say.

There are the Theosophists of many brands, with schools and institutes and temples and colonies, and a doctrine as complex and detailed and fantastic as that of the Roman Catholics.  I have already referred to the writings of Madame Blavatsky, a runaway Russian army officer’s daughter, whose career reads like a tale out of the Arabian Nights.  And there is Annie Besant, who was once an ardent worker in the Social-democratic Federation; H.M.  Hyndman tells of his dismay when she went to India and walked in a procession between two white bulls!  Here in California is Madame Tingley, with a colony and a host of followers in a minature paradise.  Men work at money-lending or manufacturing sporting-goods, and when they get old and tired they make the thrilling discovery that they have souls; the theosophists cultivate these souls and they leave their money to the soul-cause, and there are lawsuits and exposes in the newspapers.  For, you see, there is ferocious rivalry in the game of cultivating millionaire souls; there are slanders and feuds, just as in soulless affairs.  “Don’t have anything to do with Madame Tingley,” whispers a Theosophist lady to my Wife; and when my wife in all innocence inquires, “Why not?” the awe-stricken answer comes, “She practices black magic!”

Let me add that I do not say that she practices black magic.  I do not believe that she #could# practice it, even if she wanted to—­I do not believe in black magic.  My purpose is merely to show how theosophists quarrel:  going back to the days of Anu and Baal and the bronze Image of the Babylonian fire-god: 

  Let them die, but let me live! 
  Let them be put under a ban, but let me prosper! 
  Let them perish, but let me increase! 
  Let them become weak, but let me wax strong!