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time in Paris known as the Sibyl, his own "belle amie". That night they called on her; and from her 
P. discovered, for he led her in the spirit, the following remarkable facts. 
The vision at first was of little importance, then by degrees the seer was led to a house which P. 
recognized as that in which D.D.C.F. lived. He entered one of the rooms, which he also at once 
recognized; but curious to say, instead of finding D.D.C.F. and V.N.R. there, he found Theo and Mrs. 
Horos. Mr. Horos (M.S.R.) incarnated in the body of V.N.R. and Mrs. Horos (S.V.S.) in that of 
D.D.C.F. Their bodies were in orison; but their spirits were in the house of the fallen chief of the 
Golden Dawn. 
At first Frater P. was seized with horror at the sight, he knew not whether to direct a hostile 
current of will against D.D.C.F. and V.N.R., supposing them to be guilty of cherishing within their 
bodies the spirits of two disincarnated vampires, or perhaps Abra-Melin demons under the assumed 
forms of S.V.A. and M.S.R., or to warn D.D.C.F.; supposing him to be innocent, as he perhaps was, 
of so black and evil an offence. But, as he hesitated, a voice entered the body of the Sibyl and bade 
him leave matters alone, which he did. Not yet was the cup full. 
This story is typical of my magical state of the time. I was behaving like a Master of Magick, but had 
no interest in my further progress. I had returned to Europe with a sort of feeling at the back of my 
mind that I might as well resume the Abra-Melin operation, and yet the debacle of Mathers 
somehow put me off; besides which, I was a pretty thorough-going Buddhist. My essay "Science and 
Buddhism" makes this clear. I published a small private edition of "Berashith" in Paris; but my 
spiritual state was in reality very enfeebled. I am beginning to suspect myself of swelled head with 
all its cohort of ills. I'm afraid I thought myself rather a little lion on the strength of my journey, 
and the big people in the artistic world in France accepted me quite naturally as a colleague. 
In England there is no such social atmosphere. Artists and writers are either isolated or members of 
petty cliques. It is impossible to do so much as give a dinner to a distinguished man without 
upsetting the antheap, and arousing the most insanely violent and personal jealousy. A writer who 
respects himself in England is bound to become a solitary like Hardy and Conrad; the greatness of 
his art debars him utterly from taking the smallest 
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part in the artistic affairs of the moment. In a way, this is not to his disadvantage, for the supreme 
genius does not need specialized human society; he is a home in the slums or on the countryside. 
The salon stifles him. The social intercourse between artists in France tends to civilize them, to 
bring them to a common level; and thus, though the average of good writers is far higher than in 
England, we can show more men of supreme attainment; we can even make a pretty shrewd guess 
who the masters are even during their lifetime, for we instinctively persecute them. 
Any spark of individuality is in England an outrage on decency. We pick out Sir Richard Burton, 
James Thomson, John Davidson, Ernst Dowson, and heaven knows how many others, for abuse, 
slander, ostracism, starvation or imprisonment. In our anxiety to do justice, we even annoy 
perfectly harmless people. At one time Alfred Tennyson was scoffed at as "incomprehensible". 
Holman Hunt was denounced by Charles Dickens as an obscene painter, and his prosecution and 
imprisonment demanded. Jude the Obscure was nicknamed Jude the Obscene. Swinburn was 
denounced as "the poet of the trough and the sty", and his publisher withdrew the first series of 
Poems and Ballads in panic. Rossetti and Morris came in for an equal share of abuse, and we all 
remember the denunciation of Ibsen, Meredity, Nietzsche, Maeterlinck, Tolstoy, in fact, of every 
man --- also Bernard Shaw --- without exception whose name is still in our memories. 
In France one attains eminence by a less gratuitous Golgotha. Men of art and letters are respected 
and honoured by each other and by the public. Their final position in history is quietly assigned by 
time. It is only in very exceptional circumstances that a great man is awarded the distinction of a 
Calvary. Of course, Zola went through the mill; but only because he had butted into politics by his 
J'accuse; he was only denounced as obscene because any stick is good enough to beat a god with.