Theos-Talk Archives (March 2007 Message tt00145)

I am sending this because AB mentions Leadbeater birthdate. And note her obvious respect and love for Leadbeater.
 
ON THE WATCH-TOWER
Excerpts from the February 1919 issue of The Theosophist, Volume XL, No. 5
 
IN the month of February two events happened on the same day of the month, the 17th, that bore much on the fortunes of the Theosophical Society. On February 17th, 1847, there was born into the world a baby form, which was to be the physical encasement of the ego we called in that encasement Charles W. Leadbeater. On February 17th, 1907, passed out of his physical body the ego we called in that body Henry Steele Olcott. Both were servants of the Masters they love with unchanging fidelity, and right well they served Them in their consecrated lives. Both were, therefore, devoted to the Theosophical Society, the latest Messenger to the world from the White Brotherhood.
 
The life begun down here on February 17th has been a varied and a difficult one, from the physical tragedy of its boyhood to the cruel persecution of its late maturity. A life of singular purity—I have heard men who knew him intimately say that they had never heard from him the lightest coarseness of jest, such as most men make at times, trenching on absolute cleanliness of thought; of unchanging service to all who stood in need of help; of flawless serenity and cheerfulness under the foulest accusations; of utmost patience and kindness when misunderstood; of unshaken love and faithfulness when wronged; of perfect forgivingness; of unwavering affection when met with ingratitude; of boundless compassion for the erring and the sinful; I have known on earth no spirit more Christlike than that dwelling among us as Charles Leadbeater. “Of whom the world was not worthy.”
 
H. P. Blavatsky’s life-long co-worker, Henry Steele Olcott, threw off his physical body, as just said, on February 17th, 1907. At Adyar, in the room which is now my bedroom, he entered into the Peace, and many will remember how his body lay at rest in the Hall he had built, how men and women of diverse Faiths stood round, and recited words from the Sacred Books they revered, and how friends, rich and poor, high caste and outcaste, passed in long files by his bier, casting thereon fragrant flowers, until all save the calm face, touched with Death’s whiteness, was hidden under the blossoms that spoke of love and gratitude. 
 
So the 17th February is to us, verily, a sacred day, a day of sweet and poignant memories. And strangely enough, on that same day, in the year 1600, Giordano Bruno, that child of fire, went in a fiery chariot from the Campo dei Fiori to his Master’s home in the Abode of Snow.
 
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