THE FLAKE OF ETHER 37 



is for the protection of his soul. Having no selfish end in view he 

 is ready to believe and to worship. To the western mind, belief and 

 worship are as yet undreamed of. Instead of the silence of Om and the 

 perfect rest of Nirvana, you hope for more business, more action, more 

 pain, more unrest. The physical plane is the goal of life and the 

 six planes above it are valueless assets of dreamland, unless they can be 

 laid out into city lots. Turn your faces to the East, Europeans, and 

 learn of the patient, restful millions whose dreams, daily and nightly, 

 bring more truth than all your struggles and your science of two 

 thousand years. The religion of the West has long since lost its hold on 

 thoughtful men and soulful women. The only reality in your lives is 

 pain. The light of your old altar-fires is growing dim and when 

 again it is relighted it must be in the name of the master of renuncia- 

 tion whose servant and follower you behold in me. It shall be for the 

 worship of the suffering unconscious to whom pain and pleasure are 

 dreams alike, mere floating shadows which dim for the moment the 

 perfect serenity of perfected being. 



After the conclusion of this passage, Madame Hhatch asked the 

 privilege of a final word. She spoke of the learned Swami so far from 

 his home and drew a pathetic picture of his life of renunciation and 

 his vow of poverty. His heart yearns for Bombay and the light of his 

 own altar-fires where the sweet sandalwood burns in its temples of per- 

 fection, which are symbolized in the mouth-closing word Om. Yet he 

 is forced to earn his bread on the other side of the earth teaching 

 people who can not understand him and whose every contact raises 

 blisters on his astral skin. It is our duty to open the way to his return 

 to that which is dearer to him than life. 



So at the instance of Mr. Abram Gridley, the schoolmaster, we took 

 up a generous collection which the young Brahmin received in patient 

 silence. 



As he passed out, Miss Violet Dreeme, of Fideletown, who is a 

 poetess and suspected of jealousy toward Madame Hhatch, uttered the 

 sole syllable of discord. " I read every word of that," she said, " in one 

 of Mrs. Tingley's little books of Hindu Poetry." This Swami is the 

 very man who was at the Midwinter Fair out at Golden Gate Park. 

 He etches your portraits on cardboard with his fingers while you wait 

 and he cheated me with a bad half-dollar. Why, Madame Silva, who 

 told fortunes in the next booth, says that he got a reporter for the 

 San Francisco Clarion to write this speech, and it was a whole month 

 before he had it learned so that he could go through it straight. 



" The fact is, I am told, the Hindu in America has but one article of 

 faith. More precious than rubies is the woman of leisure seeking for 

 a new religion. The real ' Secret Doctrine of the Brahmins ' is this : 

 ' So beg that you will seem rather to grant than to receive a favor.' " 



