I have seen the article of the Christian College Magazine reproduced in most
Indian newspapers. Recalling to my memory all the facts and incidents that have
transpired, and which have come within my own observation, I cannot hesitate for a moment
to pronounce the letters embodied in that article as fictitious outcomes of Madame
The allegations of the Coulombs (warmly resented in Madras) were left unchallenged in
Northern India, and I therefore addressed a long letter to the Pioneer, the editor
of which kindly gave it a prominent place in his issue of the 23rd. I am glad
to be able to say that the publication of this letter has had a marked effect in
Permit me to state a few facts in addition to those I have already published in the Pioneer.
I have received two letters in all from the revered Mahatma, whose name is so irreverently
dragged in the present controversy. The first I received at about ten minutes to ten on
the evening of the 15th July 1881. I copy the endorsement which I immediately
made on the back of the envelope which contained the letter: - "Received about ten
minutes to ten - a little while after Madame had retired and Baboola had left the lamp on
the table. I had just written the first two lines of a poem I was composing on the
Brothers, and was thinking how to finish the third, when I heard a sound as if a large
butterfly had fallen on the table. It was this letter. It fell from some height. The doors
of the room and shutters were closed. My gratitude and thanks. 15-7-81., S. J. P."
After I had examined the room to see that there was no trickery in the affair, and
satisfying myself that none was possible, I fell on my knees and uttered some words to
myself mentally. The following morning I saw Madame Blavatsky in her study. After some
conversation she told me she was satisfied that I was devoted to the cause, for the Master
had watched me and she proceeded to relate all that had happened in my room after I
had received the letter, startling me at the same time by reciting word for word my
unspoken thought. This letter contained an allusion to Mr. Sinnett and his wife who
were then in England.
The second letter from the Master I received somewhere about the beginning of the
following September. I must relate the history of this letter. I had composed a
philosophical elegy on the death of Baron Du Potet, which I wished to see published in the
Theosophist. It was an ambitious attempt. I forwarded it to Madame Blavatsky, who
considered it important enough to be seen by the Mahatma K. H. The Master, after reading
it, sent it with his compliments to Mr. Sinnett for his opinion. Mr. Sinnett attentively
read the poem, but was of opinion that it would be better not to publish it. This
criticism filled more than three sides and a half of the Pioneer notepaper. Mr.
Sinnett had evidently written more on some other subject, but the writing (some traces of
which are still there) was made somehow to fade away, and the Master begins his letter to
me on the last page of Mr. Sinnetts letter and adds half-a-page of notepaper of his
own. He continues Mr. Sinnetts criticism, but in a much more kindly manner.
"Your spirit," he writes, "is undoubtedly most closely akin to and
largely vivified by that of poetry, and your intellectual instinct pierces easily into all
the mysteries and abysses of nature, often giving a beautiful form, verity and harmony to
your verse, as far as I am able to judge of English poetry. A true seer is always a poet,
and a poet can never be a true one - unless he is in perfect unity with occult nature, -
a creator by right of his spiritual revelation as the great Danish poet
expresses it. I was anxious, therefore, you should learn, how far you had succeeded in
impressing others. For, it is not enough to carry the true poetic instincts within the
recesses of ones soul; these have to be so faithfully mirrored in verse or prose, as
to carry the intelligent reader away, wherever the poets fancy may wing its flight.
I sent your poem after reading it myself to Mr. Sinnett who was at one time considered in
the London literary circles as one of the best critics of the day. Writing for me, and at
my express wish, his opinion is thoroughly unbiassed, and I believe the criticism is
calculated to do you the greatest good. Take up the suggestion, and work over the poem,
for you may make of it something grand. Bear with the world and those who surround you. Be
patient and true to yourself and Fate, who was a step-mother to you, my poor young friend,
may yet change and her persecutions be changed into bounties. Whatever happens know - I am
watching over you."
I have quoted this letter at such length for several reasons. Madame Blavatsky, with
all her accomplishments, has hardly any partiality for poetry. I have never succeeded in
interesting her in any volume of verse. She, as well as Col. Olcott, has often chaffed me
about my partiality for Shelley; and I have reason to believe, from what has frequently
fallen from her lips, that she considers a poet to be a poor useless creature. But examine
the tone of this letter. The critic, whatever else he is, is himself a poet. In half a
dozen lines he surveys the whole domain of true poetry, and with all the authority of
conviction lays it down that a true poet cannot but be an occultist.
The Master advises me to bear with the world and those who surrounded me. The advice
came in good time, for I was on the point of coming to an open rupture with those that
surrounded me at the Head-quarters - the Coulombs!
The Masters watchful care has since saved me from many perils. Since my arrival
at Lucknow though receiving no favours from him, he has often helped me in the hour of
I have forgotten to relate the manner in which I received this last letter. It was
about eleven oclock in the night.
I had just left Mr. Mavalankar and proceeded upstairs to my room. The lamp was burning
on the table. I examined the bed, and lifted the curtains aside to see that no mosquitos
had got in. There was then no thing or person in the room except the usual furniture. The
house was unusually still. I went to the door and closed it. After closing the door I had
to pass the bedstead before I could reach the lamp to lower the wick. I noticed nothing.
After turning down the light I went to my bed, and lo! right at my feet lay two white
objects on the floor. A moment ago there had been nothing there, and now there was my poem
and the Mahatmas letter! In falling they had made no sound. How was it done?
S. J. Padshah,
Fellow, Theosophical Society.