It was only when I began to study psychical research and mystical philosophy that I broke away from my father’s influence.  He had been a follower of John Stuart Mill and had grown to manhood with the scientific movement.  In this he had never been of Rossetti’s party who said that it mattered to nobody whether the sun went round the earth or the earth round the sun.  But through this new research, this reaction from popular science, I had begun to feel that I had allies for my secret thought.  Once when I was in Dowden’s drawing-room a servant announced my late head-master.  I must have got pale or red, for Dowden, with some ironical, friendly remark, brought me into another room and there I stayed until the visitor was gone.  A few months later, when I met the head-master again I had more courage.  We chanced upon one another in the street and he said, “I want you to use your influence with so-and-so, for he is giving all his time to some sort of mysticism and he will fail in his examination.”  I was in great alarm, but I managed to say something about the children of this world being wiser than the children of light.  He went off with a brusque “good morning.”  I do not think that even at that age I would have been so grandiloquent but for my alarm.  He had, however, aroused all my indignation.

My new allies and my old had alike sustained me.  “Intermediate examinations,” which I had always refused, meant money for pupil and for teacher, and that alone.  My father had brought me up never when at school to think of the future or of any practical result.  I have even known him to say, “when I was young, the definition of a gentleman was a man not wholly occupied in getting on.”  And yet this master wanted to withdraw my friend from the pursuit of the most important of all the truths.  My friend, now in his last year at school, was a show boy, and had beaten all Ireland again and again, but now he and I were reading Baron Reichenbach on Odic Force and manuals published by the Theosophical Society.  We spent a good deal of time in the Kildare Street Museum passing our hands over the glass cases, feeling or believing we felt the Odic Force flowing from the big crystals.  We also found pins blindfolded and read papers on our discoveries to the Hermetic Society that met near the roof in York Street.  I had, when we first made our society, proposed for our consideration that whatever the great poets had affirmed in their finest moments was the nearest we could come to an authoritative religion, and that their mythology, their spirits of water and wind were but literal truth.  I had read “Prometheus Unbound” with this thought in mind and wanted help to carry my study through all literature.  I was soon to vex my father by defining truth as “the dramatically appropriate utterance of the highest man.”  And if I had been asked to define the “highest” man, I would have said perhaps, “we can but find him as Homer found Odysseus when he was looking for a theme.”

My friend had written to some missionary society to send him to the South Seas, when I offered him Renan’s “Life of Christ” and a copy of “Esoteric Buddhism.”  He refused both, but a few days later while reading for an examination in Kildare Street Library, he asked in an idle moment for “Esoteric Buddhism” and came out an esoteric Buddhist.  He wrote to the missionaries withdrawing his letter and offered himself to the Theosophical Society as a chela.  He was vexed now at my lack of zeal, for I had stayed somewhere between the books, held there perhaps by my father’s scepticism.  I said, and he thought it was a great joke though I was serious, that even if I were certain in my own mind, I did not know “a single person with a talent for conviction.”  For a time he made me ashamed of my world and its lack of zeal, and I wondered if his world (his father was a notorious Orange leader) where everything was a matter of belief was not better than mine.  He himself proposed the immediate conversion of the other show boy, a clever little fellow, now a Dublin mathematician and still under five feet.  I found him a day later in much depression.  I said, “did he refuse to listen to you?” “Not at all,” was the answer, “for I had only been talking for a quarter of an hour when he said he believed.”  Certainly those minds, parched by many examinations, were thirsty.

Sometimes a professor of Oriental Languages at Trinity College, a Persian, came to our Society and talked of the magicians of the East.  When he was a little boy, he had seen a vision in a pool of ink, a multitude of spirits singing in Arabic, “woe unto those that do not believe in us.”  And we persuaded a Brahmin philosopher to come from London and stay for a few days with the only one among us who had rooms of his own.  It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.  Consciousness, he taught, does not merely spread out its surface but has, in vision and in contemplation, another motion and can change in height and in depth.  A handsome young man with the typical face of Christ, he chaffed me good-humouredly because he said I came at breakfast and began some question that was interrupted by the first caller, waited in silence till ten or eleven at night when the last caller had gone, and finished my question.