CHAPTER VIII

‘As atom unto atom firmly lies,Obeying blindly that great law which makesSubservient even lifeless matter; wakesAn energy, a force, whose hidden tiesBind animate or inanimate in wiseTrue, order.... Thus are we twain commingled....’Idylls, Legends and Lyrics.

‘As atom unto atom firmly lies,

Obeying blindly that great law which makes

Subservient even lifeless matter; wakes

An energy, a force, whose hidden ties

Bind animate or inanimate in wise

True, order.... Thus are we twain commingled....’

Idylls, Legends and Lyrics.

Perhaps the most wonderful of all the discoveries of this period was that of psycho-magnetic sympathy, or psychic-energy, which was found to pervade the nerve-centres of all human beings, in a greater or lesser degree. In all ages the unseen bond that linked mankind together, with more or less hidden force, had baffled the researches of psychologists, and physiologists to such a degree, that at length the pursuit was abandoned, and left for Charlatans to play with.

Each epoch of the world’s history saw the development of some absurdity; but these were in reality the fructification of the seedling;or infant gropings after that higher knowledge which evidence the spiritual aspirations of the human soul.

In the very early stages of man’s history we find him in full belief of fairies, gnomes, and hobgoblins, which eventually ripened into a literature and folklore dealing with their doings, of quite ample dimensions. And after all, who would like to make away with those delightful stories that inspired his imagination in childhood’s days, filling his mind with awe and wonder, while yet it was all receptive, and when credulity was paramount?

Then followed the belief in the wizards, witch, and magician, who were held to have gotten their supernatural powers from the arch-magician, Satan, himself: and every ill that nature sent humanity was ascribed to the infernal agency of witchcraft.

In these days handsome incomes were occasionally realised by courtly magicians who unfolded the future to the high-born ladies that invoked their aid. Did not Anne Boleyn see her future husband in the magician’s mirror, when quite a girl, and as yet she knew nothing of him? The scene of a maskedball in which King Henry the Eighth was the central figure, and all the people paying him courtly homage, was found reflected in the magic mirror, and the monarch pointed out as her future husband. Still time went rolling onwards bringing its developments of man’s highest aspirations—the desire to fathom that mystery of which he caught but a glimmering.

Then followed Mesmer’s discovery to which was attributed certain psychological developments; these the Charlatan utilised to his own advantage by claiming the power of second sight for some fair sleeper whom he always took care to be provided with.

Side by side with mesmerism grew another new idea which went infinitely further than the mesmerised thought-reader. It was named Spiritualism, the votaries of which professed to call up at will the departed spirits of friends, enemies, and even of persons unknown to them in life.

This new faith, for it developed into a religion seeing that once a person got thoroughly soaked with it he wanted no church to teach him the way to Heaven, hebelieving he had found a more direct passage than what all the parsons in Christendom could show him.

Revelations from Spirit-land were sought not only by the lower, and partially educated classes, but also by the educated members of society; practical business men being found in considerable numbers attending spirit-rapping circles. Even the editor of theTimesnewspaper in 1880 was claimed by the Spiritualists to be one of them.

Eventually, Spiritualism becoming unpopular by reason of its adoption by the ignorant, together with the numerous exposures of fraud on the part of its leading exponents, a new belief was found necessary for the intellectual and cultured ones of the nineteenth century.

This was borrowed from the East, the beliefs of Ancient India being pressed into service and made to appear under a new form and given the title of Theosophy.

The whole series of superstitions under whatever name they might appear—witchcraft, fortune-telling, mesmerism, spirit rapping, Mahatma power, or the new-fangledfaith of Theosophy, were in reality the deep workings of the human mind, striving to fathom the secrets of nature.

The physiology and psychology of the twenty-first century explained it. It was indeed, simple enough, for everything is easy when you know it.

It was found that a subtle fluid somewhat of the nature of electricity, which was altogether imperceptible to sight, but whose presence was indicated by a very delicate gauge called a psychometer pervaded the nerve centres of all human beings. It imparted to them such a highly sensitive condition that wherever the fluid was in great abundance it gave to its possessor a corresponding amount of attraction, or influence over others.

The influence of this essence was not limited to a short distance, for propinquity was not altogether necessary for its action; for a highly endowed person could throw out an invisible stream of psycho-magnetic sympathy that would find its way for hundreds of miles till it reached the corresponding fluid of the person desired, causing such adisturbance in his nerve-centres that immediately he would commence thinking of his friend, mistress, or acquaintance, as the case might be.

From this cause came into being that well known saying—‘Talk of the Devil and he’s sure to show himself.’

The poet in every age, although knowing nothing of physiology, being endowed with a superabundance of this wonderful essence, divined its existence, calling it the unseen chains that bound humanity together.

In fact, this was the source from which the true poet, novelist, orator, and thought-reader derived his power. All these were endowed bountifully with this subtle energy, putting it to the use for which their individual talents led them.

The actress who nightly enchained her auditory by her clever impersonation of some ideal character, did not owe her triumph solely to the influence of her splendid rhetoric, or histrionic art, but mainly to this force which she unconsciously scattered broadcast around her, the waves of which being caught up by the innumerable nerve-centres,which responded with ready receptivity.

The same force, but of a higher order, and more spiritual essence fired the imagination of the poet, giving him burning words, and tender sympathies that found their way into every heart.

It inspired him also with prophetic insight; giving him the power of seeing into the very heart of things, whether of the past, present, or future. The ancients saw this and averred that poets are born not made; for it was owing to the highly sensitive quality of this psychic-energy that he possessed his gift of poesy.

It comes into the life of a few to meet with some exquisitely charming woman who excites love and admiration wherever she turns. All who come in contact with her unite in declaring her to be the sweetest woman that ever lived. No one can definitely tell you why she exercises so much charm over him; she is admittedly not more beautiful, nor more talented than others; nevertheless, she casts some indefinable, yet irresistible spell over all around her. Somethingunfathomable, unknowable dwells in her countenance, giving it an expression that haunts you. She sees into your very heart, as it were; she knows exactly what to say, and what to do to please and gratify you.

She utters your thought for you, expressing it so beautifully and perfectly that you are delighted with yourself, for she throws such a glamour over you that you imagine you have given the happy expression to the idea. What is this power she wields with such fascinating force? It is the subtle fluid that is unconsciously emanating from her. This secret, unseen energy profoundly stirs every nerve within you, sending thrills of pleasure through your frame, and imparting warmth and life, and love to all who come within its influence.

Little children love her, and nestle in her skirts; not only the animals of her own household, but the strange dog and cat look at her with longing eyes, wishful for the pat, and kind word that will certainly be granted. Each living thing feels the subtle influence and acknowledges it unhesitatingly. Sicknessand suffering can hardly diminish it, for only death itself can annihilate it.

The orator holds his audience spell bound apparently, by his splendid eloquence; the whole audience which may consist of several thousands are moved by one great emotion. Every pulse beats as one; only one feeling pervades that vast assembly—perfect union of thought with the speaker. He is exercising a spell over the multitude powerful as that of the magician.

The following day the speech appears in cold print, and strange to say, there is nothing very remarkable about it. What was it that produced such deep emotions in the breast of that great concourse of people?

It was the wonderful influence of the speaker’s personality; it was the abundant psychic-energy that spread itself in thought-waves all through the multitude, making their hearts glow and swell with happiness.

Such are the men who win great battles, for their soldiers are ready to rush into any danger under the influence of their leader’s powerful soul-energy. Mark how these great warriors attract women. He who fights well,loves well, all chroniclers know that fact, and the unseen mind-force with which Nature has so lavishly endowed him, gives him the successful conquest of women’s hearts, equally as of men’s.

At this time thought-reading was a perfected science, and only those endowed with an extraordinary gift of psychic energy could pose with any measure of success as a professional.

So great was the perfection reached in this branch of science that a professor of thought-reading was expected to describe not only the thought of the inquirer, but also reveal the thoughts and motives of the person who formed the subject of the inquiry. Nothing less than this could satisfy the soul of the twenty-first century individual.

Once the Professor was placeden rapportwith the person to be analysed and reported upon, he was expected to give every particular of his life, habits, attainments, thoughts and actions. In point of fact, he had to keep a mental diary of the watched man’s doings. Woe betide the silly swain who tried to run two sweethearts; if one of them grew jealousshe had but to tell her case to the thought-reader, and with a good fee set his brain agoing, when soon she would be in possession of every particular of her lover’s perfidy.

As soon as the presence of this essence in all persons was clearly demonstrated and established, it became the ambition of the food-chemist to discover some phosphate that would increase the supply that nature had given already. Numerous were the nostrums proposed for which were claimed the power of imparting an augmented supply to man.

The newspapers teemed with advertisements of these tabloids, some of which were frequently headed with the legend ‘Ye are not men but Gods!’ And indeed, if the virtues of these chemical preparations attained only half what was claimed for them, men would have been nearly gods by this time. For the inherent desire of man to obtain power, by whatever name it might be known, prompts him to accept any theories that promise this desirable gift.

For a time large fortunes were accumulated by the manufacture of psychic-energy tabloids; enterprising chemists rivalling eachother in the production of the most excellent. Notwithstanding all these deserving efforts on the part of mankind to raise himself, he remained pretty much the same as nature formed him, save by the slower processes of evolution.

Of all the persons who laid claim to the gift of thought-reading there was none so highly sensitive as the great Anglo-Indian, Dayanand Swami. It was said of him that he almost lived upon a wonderful elixir of his own manufacture, the preparation of which had been handed down to him from his Mahatma forefather some generations back.

In the solitude of the Indian jungle a hundred years previously his fore-elder had discovered this wonderful plant, which not only physically sustained him to a great extent, but furnished him with an extraordinary supply of the mystic fluid.

This ancient Mahatma was literally saturated with wisdom, without going through the painful processes that men of that class are usually compelled in the attainment of their ascetic ambition. By the agency of this psychic gift he could unfold, without havingread its history, the glories of India in its ancient days; describing the magnificence of its rulers; their pomp; their immense retinues, which were on such a scale that the passage through his dominion by their Sovereign caused a famine in the parts traversed. Only two classes existed in those good old times, the very rich and the very poor.

He could conjure up pictures of the workmen dropping down dead from hunger and exhaustion who were engaged upon the erection of the loveliest mausoleum that the world has ever seen; more like an exquisite marble palace of fairy land than a resting place for the dead. Art had indeed attained its highest perfection in those far off days, the monuments of which the Eastern still gazes upon with pride and affection.

Or he could project his thought till it reached the mind of ministers in England, when he could produce a mental negative, so to speak, of the thought of the ministers respecting the policy they intended carrying out which would affect India; for it was only on the occasion of some great national question stirring the mind of the peoplethat he cared to put out his thought in this direction.

Moreover, he possessed the power of seeing into futurity, for he foretold that in one hundred years India would have her own supreme Sovereign, one who would be of their own unbiassed choice, who lived among them, and studied the happiness of her people. One who was loved and reverenced throughout the world. Whose rule would bring honour, dignity and renown to their beautiful and beloved India; and this unrivalled potentate would be a woman, young, beautiful and talented.

New, this prophecy of the old Mahatma could not refer to Victoria, the first English Empress of India, for she was gathered to her forefathers at that time, and King Albert, the First, reigned in her stead.

The descendant of this wonderful Mahatma resided in London, his father having been appointed by Government to the post of Collector, a position of some importance in the Civil Service. But the son elected to follow a profession that was more in accordance with the traditions of his ancestors, and atthe same time would supply a want in his own generation, that was called into existence by the exigencies of the times.

The worn-out theories of Theosophy which deemed nirvana the highest attainable condition of the human soul, had no attraction for him; but he regarded it with some amount of reverence, inspired by the traditions of an ancient religion, which cannot fail to cast a halo round it, even when discarded by the more advanced modern.

Dayanand Swami surrounded himself with the gorgeous luxuries of an Eastern prince, although dwelling in the English metropolis, and displayed his Eastern descent, by following Eastern customs as far as English conventionalities would permit. Nevertheless, he kept in touch with the times, accommodating himself to the requirements of the people among whom he had made his home.

The carriages of titled ladies might have been seen daily at his door; for love troubles, and court troubles disturbed the peace of great dames even in the twenty-first century.

Native servants waited obsequiously on these noble visitors who formed chiefly hisclientèle, and whose rich fees sustained the splendours of his household.

Upon the arrival of a visitor the great door would be folded back, revealing a courtyard arranged in a style of true Eastern magnificence. The floor was formed of mosaics of elegant design cut from costly marbles. Shrubs, flowers, and trees of exotic birth filled convenient parterres, while a fountain played its crystal waters in feathery spray, giving the scene a refreshing sense of coolness. Birds of beautiful plumage disported themselves amongst the trees, adding colour, as well as life to the picture. The tiny humming-bird, like a moving flower-bud hung on the branches of beautiful shrubs, or basked in the sunshine of this artificial Eastern clime; for the whole was covered with a high dome of glass of considerable area, which was supported by graceful pillars of manufactured marbles erected in regular succession. The tropical temperature obtained by the conservation of solar heat, being evenly sustained the year through, independently of the changes of weather.

The apartments within were arranged insimilarly luxurious style. The walls were hung with crimson satin, embroidered richly in gold, but the colours were varied according to the character of the apartments.

While the wall draperies of one room were composed of crimson satin, those of another were pale blue, another yellow, and so on, all of which were embroidered in richest hues, intermingled with gold. The couches and curiously carved stools were upholstered in rich materials that were in character with the decorations of the walls, and window draperies; while Persian carpets of the softest velvet pile sank like turf beneath the tread.

Costly ornaments of Eastern manufacture adorned the side tables, or were arranged on beautifully carved ivory brackets; while native Japanese paintings, encased in richest frames gave thetout ensemblea decidedly oriental appearance. The picturesque delineations of the Jap, whose ideas of art were totally different from those of the Western world, made their paintings real curiosities to the English mind. These represented lovers in nearly all stages of thegrande passionseated in Japanese teahouses, or holding loving conversebeneath the shade of luxurious trees, whose branches seemed to reach the deep blue skies. In another apartment portraits of great Eastern potentates, celebrated Hindus, and venerable Mahatmas gave the English visitor an idea of the former prestige of the Indian Empire.

In the lady’s withdrawing-room containing the Japanese pictures, strains of sweetest music were set agoing at will, given apparently by a stringed band of automatic performers, made to imitate an orchestra of little men; who looked excruciatingly comic, as they moved their arms up and down, and waved about their funny little heads. The whole arrangement was set in motion by the same energy that gave heat to the apartments, conservatory, and cooking apparatus.

In his ‘room of contemplation,’ or studio, was daily seated at stated hours the highly gifted Swami, surrounded by his ‘silent servants’—his books of Eastern lore. Tier upon tier of carved framework contained works from the most remote antiquity, dating backwards nearly four thousand years; and so on, through all the centuries, till quite up-to-dateliterature of the various epochs was represented. Rare manuscripts of the ancient Rig Veda, with plays, love stories, and fables, together with works on medicine, philosophy, mathematics, astronomy, and magic arts, all of very ancient date, filled the shelves of the library. While gorgeously-bound volumes of poetry, part of which were in the original Sanskrit, and part translated into English, were strewed on the elegantly designed coffee-tables, or stands, with which the drawing-room was furnished.

Here is a graphic description of the drought in an Indian summer, taken from a poem by Kâlidhâsa, of great antiquity, entitled—

The Ritu-Sanhara, or, The Seasons.[1]‘Now the burning summer sunHath unchallenged empire won;And the scorching winds blow freeBlighting every herb and tree.Should the longing exile try,Watching with a lover’s eyeWell-remembered scenes to trace—Vainly would he scan the place,For the dust with shrouding veilWraps it in a mantle pale.Lo, the lion,—forest king—Through the wood is wandering;By the maddening thirst opprestCeaseless heaves his panting chest.Though the elephant pass byScarcely turns his languid eyeBleeding mouth and failing limb,What is now his prey to him?Where the sparkling lake beforeFilled its bed from shore to shore,Roots and twisting fibres wind,Dying fish in nets to bind;There the cranes in anguish seekWater with the thirsty beak.Elephants all mad with thirstFrom the woods in fury burst:From their mountain-caverns seeBuffaloes rush furiously.With hanging tongue and foam-fleck’d hide,Tossing high their nostrils wide,Eager still their sides to coolIn the thick and shrunken pool.’

The Ritu-Sanhara, or, The Seasons.[1]

‘Now the burning summer sunHath unchallenged empire won;And the scorching winds blow freeBlighting every herb and tree.Should the longing exile try,Watching with a lover’s eyeWell-remembered scenes to trace—Vainly would he scan the place,For the dust with shrouding veilWraps it in a mantle pale.

‘Now the burning summer sun

Hath unchallenged empire won;

And the scorching winds blow free

Blighting every herb and tree.

Should the longing exile try,

Watching with a lover’s eye

Well-remembered scenes to trace—

Vainly would he scan the place,

For the dust with shrouding veil

Wraps it in a mantle pale.

Lo, the lion,—forest king—Through the wood is wandering;By the maddening thirst opprestCeaseless heaves his panting chest.Though the elephant pass byScarcely turns his languid eyeBleeding mouth and failing limb,What is now his prey to him?

Lo, the lion,—forest king—

Through the wood is wandering;

By the maddening thirst opprest

Ceaseless heaves his panting chest.

Though the elephant pass by

Scarcely turns his languid eye

Bleeding mouth and failing limb,

What is now his prey to him?

Where the sparkling lake beforeFilled its bed from shore to shore,Roots and twisting fibres wind,Dying fish in nets to bind;There the cranes in anguish seekWater with the thirsty beak.

Where the sparkling lake before

Filled its bed from shore to shore,

Roots and twisting fibres wind,

Dying fish in nets to bind;

There the cranes in anguish seek

Water with the thirsty beak.

Elephants all mad with thirstFrom the woods in fury burst:From their mountain-caverns seeBuffaloes rush furiously.With hanging tongue and foam-fleck’d hide,Tossing high their nostrils wide,Eager still their sides to coolIn the thick and shrunken pool.’

Elephants all mad with thirst

From the woods in fury burst:

From their mountain-caverns see

Buffaloes rush furiously.

With hanging tongue and foam-fleck’d hide,

Tossing high their nostrils wide,

Eager still their sides to cool

In the thick and shrunken pool.’

1. Translated by Griffiths.

Here is an equally graphic description of rain, from the same poem:—

‘Who is this that driveth near,Heralded by sounds of fear?Red his flag the lightning’s glareFlashing through the murky air.Pealing thunder for his drums—Royally the monarch comes.See! he rides amid the crowd,On his elephant of cloudMarshalling his kingly train:Welcome, oh, thou lord of rain.Gathered clouds, as black as nightHide the face of heaven from sight:Sailing on their airy roadSinking with their watery load.See, the peacocks hail the rain,Spreading wide their jewelled train,They will revel, dance and playIn their wildest joy to-day!’

‘Who is this that driveth near,

Heralded by sounds of fear?

Red his flag the lightning’s glare

Flashing through the murky air.

Pealing thunder for his drums—

Royally the monarch comes.

See! he rides amid the crowd,

On his elephant of cloud

Marshalling his kingly train:

Welcome, oh, thou lord of rain.

Gathered clouds, as black as night

Hide the face of heaven from sight:

Sailing on their airy road

Sinking with their watery load.

See, the peacocks hail the rain,

Spreading wide their jewelled train,

They will revel, dance and play

In their wildest joy to-day!’

Coming down to a period as late as the twelfth century of our era were works representative of the Hindu poet of that time. Here is a translation of a poem, a pastoral drama, by Jayadeva, of which it is said ‘the exquisite melody of the verse can only be appreciated by those who can enjoy the original Sanskrit.’

Krishna, the herdsman, loves Râdhâ, the shepherdess, but has wandered from her to amuse himself with other maidens. Nanda, Krishna’s foster father, gives her warning, saying:—

‘Go, gentle Râdhâ, seek thy wand’ring love;Dusk are the woodlands,—black the sky above.Bring thy dear wanderer home, and bid him restHis weary head upon thy faithful breast.’

‘Go, gentle Râdhâ, seek thy wand’ring love;

Dusk are the woodlands,—black the sky above.

Bring thy dear wanderer home, and bid him rest

His weary head upon thy faithful breast.’

Then Râdhâ makes anxious search for him, pressing through forest and tangled bushes, until a friend tells her in sheer pity that Krishna will not be found in lonely forest shades, and thus sings to her:—

‘In this love-tide of spring, when the amorous breezeHas kissed itself sweet on the beautiful trees,And the humming of numberless bees, as they throngTo the blossoming shrubs swells the kokila’s song:—‘In this love-tide of spring when the spirit is glad,And the parted, yes, only the parted, are sad;Thy lover, thy Krishna is dancing in gleeWith troops of young maidens forgetful of thee.Dispensing rich odours the sweet madhavîWith its lover-like wreathings encircles the tree;And oh, e’en a hermit must yield to the power—The ravishing scent of the malika flower.‘Saffron robes his body grace;Flowery wreaths his limbs entwine;There’s a smile upon his face,And his ears with jewels shine.In that youthful company,Amorous felon! revels he;False to all—most false to thee.’

‘In this love-tide of spring, when the amorous breeze

Has kissed itself sweet on the beautiful trees,

And the humming of numberless bees, as they throng

To the blossoming shrubs swells the kokila’s song:—

‘In this love-tide of spring when the spirit is glad,And the parted, yes, only the parted, are sad;Thy lover, thy Krishna is dancing in gleeWith troops of young maidens forgetful of thee.Dispensing rich odours the sweet madhavîWith its lover-like wreathings encircles the tree;And oh, e’en a hermit must yield to the power—The ravishing scent of the malika flower.

‘In this love-tide of spring when the spirit is glad,

And the parted, yes, only the parted, are sad;

Thy lover, thy Krishna is dancing in glee

With troops of young maidens forgetful of thee.

Dispensing rich odours the sweet madhavî

With its lover-like wreathings encircles the tree;

And oh, e’en a hermit must yield to the power—

The ravishing scent of the malika flower.

‘Saffron robes his body grace;Flowery wreaths his limbs entwine;There’s a smile upon his face,And his ears with jewels shine.In that youthful company,Amorous felon! revels he;False to all—most false to thee.’

‘Saffron robes his body grace;

Flowery wreaths his limbs entwine;

There’s a smile upon his face,

And his ears with jewels shine.

In that youthful company,

Amorous felon! revels he;

False to all—most false to thee.’

In the end Krishna, although faithless for a time, discovers the vanity of all other loves, and returns with sorrow and longing to his own darling Râdhâ.

In Swami’s library were books containing collections of Hindu stories that had been handed down for hundreds of years, and repeated orally by each generation until at length various collections were made by nativelittérateurs, which sometimes were given very fanciful titles. Indeed, Hindu literature supplied the whole world with itsstories, even the Persians stole from it considerably.

The following is an ancient Sanskrit love story by an author of repute, of the name of Subandhu. The chief beauties of this tale lie in its alliterations, double meaning of phrases, and puns, which bristle everywhere, all of which are of necessity lost in the translation. The plot is peculiar.

A king who lived somewhere on the Ganges, was a follower of Siva, and ruled his kingdom so admirably that impiety was unknown, proof by ordeal never needed, and violence never practised.

This king had a son, who was the delight of all who sought his protection, his sagacity always securing him from deception. His religious feeling was shown by marked devotion to cows, and to Brahmans; and being comely as the god of love, (who by the way is furnished with his bow and arrows, showing that the idea may have been borrowed by the ancient Greeks,) he was admired by all maidens, far and near. The extraordinary fact, was however, that the maiden with whom alone he fell in love, was one that appeared to him in a dream.

He longed to dream again, but the fervour of his emotion prevented sleep.

He shut himself up in solitude, and refused nourishment. Then a faithful friend persuaded him that travelling might bring relief. They pursued their way to the Vindhya Hills; the sun was about to set as they entered a wilderness.

The friend collected roots and fruits, and the young prince fell asleep on a couch, made up of branches from the trees; but not for long. For he was awakened by the conversation of two birds who nestled in the jambu tree above him.

The female bird was reproaching the male for coming home so late, fearing that he must have been dangling after some othersarikâ. The male bird replies solemnly that he has been attending to a transaction most unprecedented.

He then relates that in the city of Kusumapura, (probably Patna) there is a lovely princess, named, Vasavadattâ. Being of full age, the king, her father, invited ‘the high-born heirs of many principalities,’ that she might choose a husband.

The suitors came, and the damsel took her place upon a daïs to survey them; but no one pleased her, and she and they withdrew in disappointment.

At night, the young prince who had fallen in love with her in a dream, appeared to her in a vision; and she felt at once that he was her destined husband.

The vision made known his name, which was Kandarpaketu; but she suffers torments of love and grief from not knowing how to meet with him.

Under these circumstances her confidante volunteers to go in search for him, and says the bird, she arrived here when I did, and is at this moment beneath our tree.

The lovesick prince no sooner heard this welcome intelligence than he introduced himself to the confidante, talked with her for twenty-four hours, (much too long, one would think) and then went with her to Kusumapura.

Here he found the lovely Vasavadattâ in a garden-house of ivory. On seeing each other they faint for joy, and afterwards rehearse their past sufferings.

The confidante speaks for the princess, and says that ‘if the heavens were a tablet, the sea an inkstand, the longevous Brahma an amanuensis, and the king of serpents the narrator, only a trifling part of those agonies could be told.’

They next resolve on what we should call a ‘runaway match;’ and this they effect by mounting a magic steed which carries them to the Vindhya forests in the twinkling of an eye. They sleep soundly in a bower of flowery creepers, but when the sun is at meridian height the prince awakes, and finds Vasavadattâ missing. He bitterly laments and wonders what can have caused so dreadful an affliction. Poor Vasavadattâ having been the first to awaken, and seeing her bridegroom looking pale and emaciated, for the sickness of love had greatly reduced him, hastened away to gather fruits and food to restore him. In the midst of this loving occupation she was surprised by huntsmen and so frightened that eventually she lost her way, and found herself unable to return to her sorrowing bridegroom. After many dangers and difficulties were gone throughthe prince at length discovers her; she is conducted back to his father’s palace, and they live in the greatest love and happiness ever after.

Carved upon the oak panels that lined the walls of Dayanand Swami’s ‘room of contemplation’ were Sanskrit texts taken fromThe Rig Veda, the ancient Hindu Scriptures;

The portions selected had reference chiefly to the sun; the light of day being considered typical of the light of learning. The following are the English rendering of these short quotations from four thousand years old poems.

‘His coursers bear on high the divine, all-knowing Sun that he may be seen by all worlds.’

‘At the approach of the all illuminating Sun the constellations depart with the night, like thieves.’

‘His illuminating rays behold men in succession like blazing fires.’

‘Thou outstrippest all in speed; thou art visible to all; thou art the source of light; thou shinest throughout the entire firmament.’

‘The divine Savitri displays his banner on high, diffusing light through all worlds.’

‘Contemplating all things, the Sun has filled heaven and earth and the firmament with his rays.’

‘The tremulous rays of the Sun throw off the darkness, which is spread like a skin over the firmament.’

‘Oh, divine Sun, thou proceedest with most powerful horses, spreading thy web of rays and cutting down the black abode of night!’

These texts being carved in the original tongue—Sanskrit—Swami’s English visitors were very little the wiser for having gazed upon them. Indeed, many persons imagined them to convey some deep mystic meaning that the great man would have been most unwilling to reveal. After all, if they could have looked over his shoulder and have seen how he spent his moments of relaxation, they would have discovered him perusing sundry very harmless works in his native language, for even collections of fables and fairy tales, which was a favourite form of literature in the East, served occasionally to relieve the weariness of his tired brain.

Here is a story of a Jaina ascetic, taken from a work named ‘The Panchatantra,’ a collection of fables and tales that long ago found their way into Persia. Nûshîrvân, the King of Persia sent a physician to India in search of medical knowledge and books; thephysician not only brought back medical books, but collections of fables also, which, being translated into Pehlevi went forth to the world as the fables of Pilpay.

The book opens by stating that a certain king was concerned at finding that his sons were growing up without knowledge. He called a council at which the necessity of acquiring knowledge was discussed, and also the length of time required for the acquisition of such kinds of knowledge that was considered indispensable.

The conclusion at which the councillors arrived was that the king must be advised to entrust his sons to a Brahman named Vishnusarman, who undertook to teach them nîti in six months. This being arranged, Vishnusarman took the young princes to his house, and composed for their benefit a series of fables—the ‘Panchatantra,’ so called from ‘pancha,’ five, and ‘tantra,’ section—namely, five narratives. They are stories within stories, woven most intricately one within the other; here is a short one, treating of the cunning ascetic.

A certain king who reigned in Ayodhyâ,the capital of Kosala, sent his minister to subdue a rebellion among some of the Rajahs in the hills. Whilst the minister was absent a religious mendicant came to Kosala, who by his skill in divination, his knowledge of hours, omens, aspects, and ascensions; his dexterity in solving numbers, answering questions, and detecting things covertly concealed, and his proficiency in all similar branches of knowledge, acquired such fame and influence that it might be said he had purchased the country, and it was his own.

The fame of this man at last reached the king, who sent for him, and found his conversation so agreeable that he wanted him constantly beside him. One day, however, the mendicant did not appear, and when he next came, he accounted for his absence by stating that he had been upon a visit to Paradise, and that the deities sent their compliments to the king. The king was simple enough to believe him and was filled with astonishment and delight.

His admiration of this marvellous faculty so engrossed his thought, that the duties ofhis state and the pleasures of his palace, were equally neglected.

But after awhile his minister returned, having subdued the king’s enemies in the hills, and is amazed and disgusted to find his king in close conference with a naked mendicant, instead of occupying himself as formerly with his appointed duties.

He quickly ascertains the pretensions of the ascetic, and asked the king if what he had heard of the mendicant’s celestial visit was true.

The king assured him that it was, and the ascetic offered to satisfy the general’s apparent scepticism, by departing for Swarga in his presence.

With this intent the king and his courtiers accompanied the Sramanaka to his cell, which he entered, and closed the door.

After some delay, the general asked the king when they would see him again. The king answered, ‘Have patience, on these occasions the sage quits his earthly body and assumes an ethereal form in which alone he can enter Indra’s heaven.’

‘If this be the case,’ said the general, ‘letus burn his cell, and thus prevent his reassuming his earthly body; your majesty will then have constantly an angelic person in your presence.’

To reconcile the king to this mode of proceeding the general tells him a story which has reference to the serpent, or Nâga tribes of ancient India.

‘A Brahman named Devasarman had no child, which denial made his wife miserable. At length, however, owing to some mystic words, a son is promised, but what was the surprise of the mother, and the horror of the attendants, when the child so eagerly desired proved to be a snake.

‘The assistants wished to destroy the monster, but maternal affection prevailed, and the snake was reared with all possible care and affection.

‘At the proper age the mother entreated her husband to provide a suitable wife for their son. He said he would if he could gain admission to Patâla, where Vasuki, the Serpent King, reigns over the Nâgas, and might grant such a request.

‘But his wife was so distressed that todivert her thoughts he consented to travel. After some months they arrived at a city in which a Brahman offered his own beautiful daughter as a wife for the serpent.

‘The girl consented to the marriage and performed her duties admirably. After a time her serpent-husband changed one night into a man, intending in the morning to reassume his serpent form: but the girl’s father discovering that the snake body was abandoned, seized the deserted skin and threw it into the fire.

‘The consequence of which was, that his son-in law ever remained in the figure of a man, to the pride of his parents, and the happiness of his wife.’

After hearing this narrative the king no longer hesitated. The mendicant’s cell was set on fire; the mendicant perished in the flames, and the king was as his general desired, released from the thraldom of a cunning ascetic.[2]

2. From ‘Ancient and Mediæval India.’—Manning.

When Swami was a boy, his youthful imagination was fired by these ancient Hindu stories, but the one which tended mostdirectly in forming his ambition, giving him the desire to become a mind-reader, was the following, taken from the ‘Vetala-Panchavinasati;’ or, ‘Twenty-five Tales told by a Vetâl.’ A Vetâl may be the spirit of a deceased person, or that of a living person who enters the body of another, leaving its own, and taking possession of that of a corpse.

A certain Brahman, named Shantil, gave up the world and lived in the woods as a hermit, or ascetic. He had already become a magician by Yogi-practice. But ordinary magic did not meet his full ambition. He coveted universal superhuman power; and for this he required the co-operation of an able pupil, carefully instructed, who should be qualified to assist in the sacrifice of a specially indicated human being.

Whilst Shantil pursued his ascetic practice, and sat cross-legged, Yogi-fashion, in his forest dwelling, a severe famine occurred in the district of Delhi, or near Hastinapura. The distressed inhabitants dispersed in search of food, and a Brahman, whose wife had died of hunger, wandered with his two sons, whohad not yet attained manhood, into what is called a foreign country.

Afar off they perceived a ‘forest surrounded by various trees, loaded with ripe fruits; the symmetry, the neatness, and the admirable order of the trees, and the abundance and diversity of a thousand sorts of fruits,’ proved most captivating to the hungry men.

Presently they found themselves in front of an edifice, stately as a palace, although built with common materials. Within sat the dreadful magician Shantil.

To the weary wanderers he merely appeared as a holy ascetic; seated on the customary sacred darbha grass, and holding in his hand the usual string of holy beads, which consists of one hundred and eight of the beautifully carved nuts, or seed vessels of the Eleocarpus, here called in Sanskrit Rudrâksha. The travellers approached prostrating themselves, and showing all imaginable reverence.

Shantil returned their salutation, and inquired the object of their journey. Having heard their story he turned to the father andsaid: ‘Oh, Brahman, be not afraid: I will take care of your sons until the famine is over: but on one condition, that you give me one of your boys, whichever you like.’

The father, feeling he had no alternative, consented to the arrangement, and after feasting on dainties for three days, he embraced his sons with many tears, and departed. Shantil was a magician skilled in all arts and sciences: nothing, indeed, was unknown to him.

He lost no time in setting the boys tasks to exercise their faculties, and prepare them also for the acquisition of magic.

He soon ascertained that the younger boy had the higher capacity, and of him he determined to possess himself: he never, therefore, allowed him to go out of his sight. He taught him grammar, divinity, law, astronomy, philosophy, physiognomy, alchemy, geography, the power of transferring the soul to a dead body; the giving it animation, and several other arts, amongst which was included astrology, or the art of foretelling future events. In short, the law whichprescribes that a preceptor shall teach all that he knows to his pupil, if he be wise, and desirous of knowledge, was fully obeyed.

In this case, the diligent and accomplished preceptor, was striving to secure an accomplice in a pupil. But, cunning as he was, he outwitted himself; for wishing that the father should prefer the elder lad, he fed him plentifully, and clothed him handsomely, whilst he kept his younger and more promising pupil half starved, and poorly clad.

As might be expected, the younger pupil became in consequence anxious to escape, and being already master of the science which prognosticates future events, he perceived that the famine had ceased, and that his father was coming to claim one of his sons and carry him home.

He knew also, that his father would be most attracted by his elder brother, who looked fat, and was covered with jewels. Making use, therefore, of his power of transporting himself to distant places, he went to his father, and revealed to him the wicked character and intentions of the Yogin, and obtained a solemn promise that his fatherwould choose him, and not his decorated brother, as the son to be taken home.

The father duly arrived at the hermitage, and though he experienced much difficulty he at length induced the Yogin to part with his gifted pupil, and with him he went away.

But the father and son had not proceeded far before the son felt certain that his tyrant was in pursuit, and for protection he felt it necessary to change himself into a horse. At the same time, he charged his father to sell him at a neighbouring fair; but for no consideration to part with him to anyone in whose presence he should neigh, or paw the ground.

As the young man apprehended, so it happened. Shantil, the Yogin, tracked them, and discovering the disguise presented himself at the fair, and offered so large a sum that the father, dazzled by the sight of an enormous heap of gold, sold his son to his dreaded enemy.

In vain the poor horse had neighed, over and over, and pawed the ground to show his displeasure at the sale, but this only confirmed Shantil in his desire to have him, so that themoney-loving father was prevailed upon to sell him.

Shantil then rides his captive back to his hermitage keeping him under severe restraint: but after a few days the imprisoned horse is able to make himself known to his brother, who loosens his bonds, when he bounds away.

Again Shantil pursues, and again the fugitive escapes. On this occasion assuming the form of a pigeon, he flies in at the open window of the king’s palace and is protected and concealed for a time by a lovely princess.

But Shantil was his master in the arts of magic, and every disguise was discovered. Upon his father he could not depend, for his father had sold him for gold. One refuge alone remained; Shantil had no power over Vetâls—the spirits which animate dead bodies, and despairing of other refuge, the young Brahman Yogin rushed into a corpse which was hanging on a tree in a public cemetery.

This obliged Shantil to seek for a man with sufficient nerve and resolution to go alone to the cemetery at night, cut down the body which contained the Vetâl into whichhis pupil had entered, and bring corpse and Vetâl to an appointed shrine, at which he would await them.

The man of dauntless courage and resolution was found in King Vikrama. Now, we do not know which Vikrama is meant, he of Ougein,A.D.65, or Harsha Vikrama, ofA.D.500, but it does not signify, but the city is called Dhara, to the south of the river Godavery.

In Hindu poetry and fiction Vikrama continually figures as the representative of victorious courage. In this work he is described as handsome as the god of love, a devotee in religious worship, deferential to priests, hermits, and persons who disgusted with worldliness and contumely of relatives, had given themselves up to think of God.

He was skilled in sacred sciences; warlike, though merciful; a cherisher of the poor, and a comforter of his subjects; whom he loved as if they were his children.

The palace of King Vikrama was large and magnificent. It contained the most splendid and costly articles: it was constantly sprinkled with aloes water, and every article of furniture was adorned by precious stones.

One day whilst Vikrama sat as usual on his throne, Shantil, the Yogin, presented himself, and so holy did he appear that the king received him with the utmost reverence, and coming down from his throne entreated his guest to take his seat. He then stood with clasped hands and paid him adoration.

Shantil presented an artificial fruit which he had brought, gave the benediction and went away. For several successive days the same thing was repeated, until on one occasion the king happened to drop the fruit which had been presented to him, a pet monkey broke it open, and a splendid ruby was seen within.

Thereupon the king desired to have all the other fruits which the holy man had presented, brought into his presence, and each fruit, when opened was found to contain rubies. The jewels were of the utmost rarity. Indeed, the smallest were of such value, that the largest could only be considered as beyond all price.

‘Hermit,’ said the king, ‘with what intention didst thou present me with such treasures; hast thou anything to ask of me?’

Shantil did not at once acknowledge what it was he wanted, but gradually revealed that he was engaged in rites for obtaining superhuman faculties, and that for their completion he required the personal assistance of the king.

He had travelled over the greater part of the world, he said, vainly seeking such a person as would suit his enterprise. ‘At length,’ he continued, ‘I came to your court, and have found in your Majesty the physiognomy of a person fitted to act as assistant in the intended sacrifice.’

The king did not give him time to say more, but eagerly promised to do whatever was required.

Shantil then explained that a certain Vetâl must be captured and given into his possession.

‘On the 14th of Aswin,’ said he, ‘at midnight, your Majesty must go alone to the cemetery on the banks of the Godavery, beyond the town: you must be clothed in black and bear in your hand a naked sword.’

When the appointed day arrived a certain tree was pointed out from which he was tocut down the required corpse, and having thrown it across his shoulders carry it in perfect silence to Shantil.

Vikrama went and found this burial-ground filled with smoke from burning corpses, and resounding with piercing cries of devils, which were coming from all regions.

At length King Vikrama found the tree, and climbing into it, he cut the cord by which the corpse was suspended and threw it on the ground; but just as he put out his hands to capture the Vetâl it jumped up, and suspended itself as before, high up in the tree.[3]

Back to Index Next