HPB-SB-8-115

H. P. Blavatsky Scrapbooks

from Adyar archives of the International Theosophical Society

T i

vol. 8, p. 115	volume 8, page 115 vol. title: Vol Four of The Theosophical Society of The Arya Samaj of Arya-wart vol. period: Sept 1878 – Sept 1879 pages in vol.: 350
Legend HPB note HPB highlighted HPB underlined HPB crossed out <Editors note> <Archivist note> Lost or unclear SBT, DT Restored

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eng • рус

The Theosophists in Bombay

The mystic card which we here reproduce for the benefit of all mystics and believers in the mystical has a value in the history of modern thought which would hardly be suspected by the casual observer. To the Hindoo scholars among our readers it is unnecessary to explain that it is the announcement of an entertainment in the Elphinstone Theatre, in Bombay, given in honor of the devoted band of Theosophists who left New York in December last to further the fraternal relations between their society in this city and the great Arya Samaj of India. For the benefit of those few among our subscribers who may not be well versed in Hindustanee we append a translation. It reads as follows:

Special Entertainment for Ladies and Gentlemen.

Come, See and Greet

The distinguished American Theosophists, Colonel Olcott, Countess Blavatsky and others, in whose presence will be performed, by the

Nitidarshak Natak Mandati, An interesting drama, entitled Sita Haran (The Abduction of Sita), Sunday, February 23, 1879, At Elphinstone Theatre.

At this forty-fourth performance will be shown a portion of the “Ramayan,” with wonderful scenery.

Tickets: Box, reserved, 1 rupee 8 annas. First class, 1 rupee. Second class, 12 annas. Third class, 8 annas. Fourth class, 4 annas. To be had at the door. Smoking strictly prohibited. Doors open at half-past seven. Performance begins at a quarter to nine.

The Nitidarshak Natak Mandati, it is hardly necessary to explain to those who keep posted in dramatic matters, is the company established by that munificent patron of the stage, the learned Pandit Gutulalji Shanashanji, and the sublime poem of the Ramayana is well known by all Indian scholars to be the original of Homer’s “Iliad.”

It was known in New York early last week that the distinguished party had reached Bombay safely, and from letters received since that time by Mr. Curtis, the Corresponding Secretary of the Theosophical Society, full details of the party’s reception have been learned. They arrived in Bombay on February 22, after a tedious voyage of twenty-nine days from Liverpool. Arragements had been made by the hospitable Arya Samajans to go in a throng to the wharf and shower flowers upon the pilgrims as they landed, but with his well-known modesty and dislike of ostentation Colonel Olcott sent word from London that he would greatly prefer that no public reception should be given, and that Mme. Blavatsky joined him in the request.

The Hindoos, however, were not to be balked entirely, and within forty-eight hours of their arrival deputations of Hindoos, Parsees, Jains and others called on the pilgrims. Some of the holiest of the Sannyassis, gosseins and priests showered blessings upon them, while the native pandits, astronomers, mathematicians, physicians and philologists called with their wives and children (an almost unprecedented honor to foreigners). The party was escorted on a visit to the ancient cave of Elephanta, where the great annual festival of Shiva was in progress, and were shown the principal lions of Bombay. Colonel Olcott was invited to distribute prizes in the High School and to lecture before the Library Association and the National Indian Association, and some of the richer of the natives offered to erect a tabernacle in which he should conduct a religious revival, a la Moody.

At the theatre a full house did honor to them. A private box was placed at their disposal and garlands of jessamine buds and roses were hung about their necks.

Whom Shall We Worship?

We have received the following letter:—

To the Editor of “The Spiritualist.”

Rear Sir,—I notice a suggestion in the last number of The Spiritualist for united religious services among those who profess and call themselves Spiritualists; but there is a lion in the path of no phantom kind. Can we agree as to the Worthy One to whom we shall render this homage, or what form the rendering itself shall take? Are we to adore sublimated matter, omnipotent force, fortuitous concurrence, or limiting ourselves to become Pantheistic, Brahministic, awe-struck venerators of the angel “John King?” or fusing all minor differences, to be content with mystic gazing into the infinite moonshine of the future?

Are we to worship round a dissecting table, a spiritually wrecked music stool, a test-tube of blue sky, in an oak grove, before the unveiled Isis, or in Lamb’s Conduit-street, on our heads or our heels? Are our prophets to be decently schooled, or is Milton to be allowed to have his grammar muddled, as I have too often heard it muddled, by “speakers with tongues,” and “pythonesses,” on various “progressive” platforms? Finally, if the guides Shakespeare and Milton should differ on “fundamentals,” do we take our choice, or fight it out?—I am, sir, yours ever,

No Matter Who

.

Our reply to the above letter is, “Worship God.”

If our correspondent asks for a more precise definition of The Master who is to be adored, the following committee might be appointed to give it—viz., the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, the Pope of Rome, the Sultan of Turkey, the Patriarch of the Greek Church, the chief representatives of the Brahminical and Buddhist Churches, and the President of the National Association of Spiritualists, likewise those worshippers of the Unknown God, Professor Huxley and Professor Tyndall, whose “position” is that they are unacquainted with the Deity, and under no obligation to define Him. Furthermore, Mr. Bradlaugh might be appointed to represent Atheism. Our correspondent, after making affirmation that he has no undue prejudice or bias for or against any of the sections of religious thought represented by the rest of the members of the committee, should be appointed chairman.

If these heads of religious thought cannot agree among themselves as to whom we shall worship, even under the guidance of their unprejudiced chairman, why ask for a decision through the public press?

Would he repudiate the definition arrived at by this representative committee, and appeal for an answer to the multitude, to the tens of thousands of preachers in the tens of thousands of the pulpits of the world? Would he appeal to the myriads of teachers of those millions of different religions which probably prevail on other planets than ours? If so, a Spiritualistic preacher has perhaps as much right to be heard as any other, therefore we bring one of the inspirational sermons of Lizzie Doten, the American trance medium, to the front. Her text was, “And I saw no temple therein.” (Rev. xxi. 22):—

’Twas the ominous month of October— How the memories rise in my soul! How they swell like a sea in my soul!— When a spirit, sad, silent, and sober, Whose glance was a word of control, Drew me down to the dark Lake Avernus, In the desolate Kingdom of Death— To the mist-covered Lake of Avernus, In the ghoul-haunted Kingdom of Death. And there, as I shivered and waited, I talked with the Souls of the Dead— With those whom the living call dead; The lawless, the lone, and the hated, Who broke from their bondage and fled— From madness and misery fled. Each word was a burning eruption That leapt from a crater of flame— A red, lava-tide of corruption, That out of life’s sediment came, From the scoriae natures God gave them, Compounded of glory and shame. “Aboard!” cries our pilot and leader; Then wildly we rush to embark, We recklessly rush to embark; And forth in our ghostly Ellida,* We swept in the silence and dark— O God! on that black Lake Avernus, Where vampyres drink even the breath, On that terrible Lake of Avernus, Leading down to the whirlpool of Death! It was there the Eumenides found us, In sight of no shelter or shore— No beacon or light from the shore. They lashed up the white waves around us, We sank in the waters’ wild roar; But not to the regions infernal, Through the billows of sulphurous flame, But unto the City Eternal, The home of the Blessed, we came. To the gates of the Beautiful City, All fainting and weary we pressed, Impatient and hopeful we pressed. “O Heart of the Holy, take pity, And welcome us home to our rest! Pursued by the Fates and the Furies, In darkness and danger we fled— From the pitiless Fates and the Furies, Through the desolate realms of the Dead.” “Jure Dvino, I here claim admission!” Exclaimed a proud prelate, who rushed to the gate; “Ave Santissimo, hear my petition, Holy Saint Peter; O why should I wait? O fans pietatis, O glorious flood, My soul is washed clean in the Lamb’s precious blood.” Like the song of a bird that yet lingers, When the wide-wandering warbler has flown; Like the wind-harp by Æolus blown, As if touched by the lightest of fingers, The portal wide open was thrown; And we saw—not the holy Saint Peter, Not even an angel of light, But a vision far dearer and sweeter, Not brilliant nor blindingly bright, But marvellous unto the sight! In the midst of the mystical splendour, Stood a beautiful, beautiful child— A golden-haired, azure-eyed child. With a look that was touching and tender, She stretched out her white hand and smiled: “Ay, welcome, thrice welcome, poor mortals, O why do ye linger and wait? Come fearlessly in at these portals— No warder keeps watch at the gate!” “Gloria Deo! Te Deum laudamus!” Exclaimed the proud prelate, “I’m safe into Heaven; Through the blood of the Lamb, and the martyrs who claim us, My soul has been purchased, my sins are forgiven! I tread where the saints and the martyrs have trod— Lead on, thou fair child, to the temple of God!” The child stood in silence and wonder, Then bowed down her beautiful head, And even as fragrance is shed From the lily the waves have swept under, She meekly and tenderly said— So simply and truthfully said: “In vain do ye seek to behold Him; He dwells in no temple apart; The height of the heavens cannot hold Him, And yet He is here in my heart— He is here, and He will not depart.” Then out from the mystical splendour, The swift-changing, crystalline light, The rainbow-hued, scintillant light, Gleamed faces more touching and tender Than ever had greeted our sight— Our sin-blinded, death-darkened sight; And they sang: “Welcome home to the Kingdom, Ye earth-born and serpent-beguiled; The Lord is the light of this Kingdom, And His temple the heart of a child; Of a trustful and teachable child, Ye are born to the life of the Kingdom— Receive, and believe, as a child.”

* The dragon ship of the Norse mythology.

A Hindoo Theatrical Announcement

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Fools and Philosophers

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Editor's notes

Sources

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  London Spiritualist, No. 331, December 27, 1878, pp. 301-2