‘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 masked ball 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, he believing 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 the _Times_ newspaper 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-fangled faith 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 a
disturbance 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. Something unfathomable, 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. Sickness and 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 placed _en rapport_ with 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
jealous she 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 each other 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 having read 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 people that 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 at the 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 his _clientèle_, 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 in similarly 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 the _tout ensemble_ a
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 the _grande passion_ seated
in Japanese teahouses, or holding loving converse beneath 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-date literature 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 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 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 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 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.’
Footnote 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 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 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 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 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.’
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 native
_littérateurs_, which sometimes were given very fanciful titles. Indeed,
Hindu literature supplied the whole world with its stories, 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 other _sarikâ_. 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
through the 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 from THE 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; the physician 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 of his 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, ‘let us 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 to divert 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]
Footnote 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 most directly 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, who had 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 and said: ‘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 which prescribes 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 father
would 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 the money-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 which his 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, of A.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 to cut 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]
Footnote 3:
Certain trees are considered the true home of the Vetâl: he is then
said ‘to live in his own house.’
This happened more than once, until the king discovered that he must
bind the corpse across his back before he came down.
And now the king encountered another difficulty; for the wily Vetâl
within the corpse which he carried began telling stories, to beguile the
fatigue of the journey he said, but in truth, because he wanted to
escape; and Vikrama could only hold him on condition of his being
absolutely silent.
The Vetâl’s plan was therefore, to put the king off his guard, and just
when his interest was excited to ask some pointed question.
Five-and-twenty times did this succeed. As soon as the king spoke the
Vetâl flew back to his tree, and the whole process had to be repeated.
The five-and-twenty stories called ‘Vetâlapanchavinsati,’ are a record
of the tales related on these occasions, which Crustnath Cassinathjee, a
modern Hindu, translated recently into English.
What ultimately became of the persecuted Vetâl we will leave to the
reader who delights to revel in Eastern fairy lore, as did Swami from
his boyhood upwards.
Magic and mystery possessed a charm for him that he could not overcome,
the result being that he too desired superhuman power, which should
astonish even the advanced scientists of the twenty-first century.