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a scientific definition of the word "essence." Her strictures on Mr. Sinnett's use of the words "matter" and "motion," clearly show that she has woefally misconceived the nature of both, and that all her animadversions in this connection hang—like those of her co-worker—upon her own misconceptions.
There is no portion of Mrs. Kingsford's and Mr. Maitland's objections which is so full of erroneous notions, as that relating to the Dhyan Chohans. Mrs. Kingsford, on page 7 of the pamphlet under notice, says:—"There is no doctrine in his (Mr. Sinnett's) book which is more repugnant to common sense, and to the intuitive perception of the fitness of things, than that which attributes the physical creation of the worlds to perfected men or Dhyan Chohans. We are told that they and they alone, are the artificers of the planets and the reconstructors of the Universe." Here, if nowhere else, we find the gifted President unable to rise entirely above the peculiarities of her sex. This is, indeed, an instance of what Shakespeare calls a "lady's reason." Before dealing with that lady's statement, I shall correct a slight inaccuracy into which she has fallen. Mr. Sinnett does not attribute "physical creation" to the Dhyan Chohans. His words are perfectly unequivocal:—"All things are accounted for by law, working on matter in its diverse forms, plus the guiding and modifying influence of the highest intelligences associated with the Solar System, the Dhyan Chohans." Does this endow the Dhyan Chohans with the privilege of creation, physical or otherwise? Further on, Mr. Sinnett says, "they (the Dhyan Chohans) can only work through the principle of evolution," &c. This certainly shows that the Dhyan Chohans are not creators at all, at any rate, not in the ordinary sense of that word. Nevertheless, the first objection that she levels against the doctrine is its repugnance "to common sense." Common sense is, no doubt, a very elastic word, as deceitful as the Greek god Proteus, but I have never yet heard it being appealed to as an arbiter, on the transcendental plane, where admittedly our every day experience has no room to stand
