Chapter XXXIII: Part I: Ralph’s Story (1)

“It was after this manner, as they say,” began Ralph, swinging himself on to a bench and pouring out for himself a tankard of our good home-brewed, as I crouched in the hay opposite to him. “Two centuries agone and thirty years or so, there dwelt in this very house which I serve—and which one day, young master, you shall rule!—Sir Gilbert de Troyes, your ancestor, and his lady, and four fair sons, and a lovely daughter. Of these sons, twain were at the wars, one was in his nurse’s lap, and another was gone to Italy, to finish his studies at Parma. Thus did the old nobles use to ruin their sons!

“This young foregoer of yours (a goodly youth!) fell in with the usual temptations of Satan. He held, with the poets, that the world is the best book for men to read; and he studied it, I ween, with diligence. Now there was a certain damsel, winsome enough, I doubt not, in the Italian style, with black hair and the devil—save the mark!—in her wandering eyes. So it came to pass that Master Gilbert, younger, wooed her for his bride, like an honest gentleman, as the old tales say he was; and so great is the power of one upright soul amongst others, that the young witch—she was but young, poor soul! and teachable—was charmed herself from her Italian ways, and vowed to love and follow only him; and the day before their marriage, she was walking with him in the streets of Parma, by night—for Master Gilbert had a governor along with him in Italy, who must be hoodwinked—when there chanced to espy them one Pietro Rinucci, a clerkly fellow (with a curse upon him!) who was even studying also at Parma, and who loved the Italian witch himself.

“This Rinucci had been favoured of the girl, and only when she saw the Englishman, with his blue eyes and his honest ways, had she scorned her countryman and left him. Rinucci, after the manner of his race-fellows, then dogged her steps, tracked her to her early meetings with young Gilbert de Troyes, who was his unsuspecting friend, and listened to their innocent ravings of love conjoined to virtue.

“Afterward, had he gone to the damsel’s poor lodging and there, with Heaven knows what direful threats! conjured her to renounce her honest lover and return to himself. The signorina was not like an English girl—she neither stormed nor yielded—she cajoled and blinded him. ‘If he would go, she would consider; perchance she did not love the Briton truly; perchance it was a whim; she knew not. Might she but think? it was a whirl, and her heart, alas! was o’er susceptible; ’twould pass; he must leave her now, at least, and she would see. Meantime Pietruccino should wear this pretty crimson ribbon of hers till they met again.’ After even such words, and for a kiss, he left her. But the cunning villain was more than her match, and waited all the next day round the corners, whence he could see her goings out and comings in. He saw her glide to her trysting-place; he followed cautiously; he heard her give a signalling whispered call; he heard it answered by a short, low whistle; young Gilbert de Troyes swung merrily round the corner and fell into his Italian sweetheart’s arms.

“He met his death, poor, noble young fellow! ’Tis an old tale repeated. I need scarce have wasted all these words upon it—but that one’s heart must needs ache at these things. In the course of nature that Italian snake, Rinucci, was bound to finish his rival there and then. So he got behind the unwary schoolboy—for the lad was, indeed, little more—and stabbed him, all too deep, in the back of the neck.

“Folk say Rinucci triumphed as he set his foot on his dying college-mate, and wiped his dagger, with a laugh, before the horror-stricken girl. Myself can scarcely believe it; he was too young in murder then for that.

“Be this as it may, certain it is that he dragged away the mourning damsel from the corpse of the man who would have saved her soul, and took her back to himself.

“A sickening story, boy. Wilt thou have more, young master? Yea? Why, there is worse to come. For Mistress Italiana—no tradition tells her name—was spirited as any gipsy woman, and full of crafty lore, such as her race delight in. She broke her heart over her English lover’s corpse; but she had still the Southern amusement left her of revenge. She concocted an evil greenish powder, and coloured Signor Pietro’s sweetmeats with it.

“The fellow ate largely, praising the daintiness of the confection. It was deadly enough, I daresay, in all conscience, but it killed him not. These reptiles live on poison; morally, ’tis certain, belike, and also physically it agreed with him. Perchance he may have felt a qualm or two, though tradition says nought of it. Anyway, the next fytte of this story shows us the mysterious disappearance of the Italian girl, of whom no word hath ever since been told.

“She left behind her, whether willingly or no, a quantity of the false seasoning, which Master Pietro had caused to be analysed, and which he seems to have carefully preserved.

“Some time after these events, we find Signor Pietro Rinucci entered into the Monastery of Dominicans at Brescia, a repentant neophyte. He had turned remorseful, no doubt, and in good time! The fellow had ever strong imaginations. He was received in due time as a brother; wore the garb of the Order, and cast his eyes down. Tradition saith he was in great turmoil of soul at this time—judge for yourself, young master, by what followed.

“One fine morning Brother Petrus was missing from his small, damp cell, and none could tell what had become of him. None, that is, save the poverty-stricken ropemaker who had supplied him with cords to scale the monastery walls; and his discretion had been paid for. The fact being, I doubt not, that discipline being ever repugnant to our young bravo’s manners, he had fled it.

“In the meantime, the news of Gilbert de Troyes’ death had been brought to these very doors, and certainly the grooms who then tended the good horses of your ancestors must, even in this saddle-room, have spent their sorrow in each other’s company. But Ambrose de Troyes, newly back from the wars, and second-born of the family, rose in his wrath, and swore to avenge his brother. For all might know that the death blow had been dealt by one Pietro Rinucci, fellow-scholar of Gilbert’s, whose absence afterward from the University had puzzled the doctors and caused inquisition into the matter.

“So away went Ambrose, the soldier, to Parma. And mind ye, Ambrose was no careless school-boy, no mean foe to a man, but a great, staunch fellow who had seen service, and who was, moreover, by Nature something stern and hard of purpose.

“But at Parma they told him Rinucci was escaped into a monastery which they named, and showed a painted portrait of him, and did so minutely, point by point, describe the man, that Ambrose swore he should know him, should he meet him in Heaven. And that was a strong assertion, note ye.

“Well, Ambrose journeyed on towards the secluded spot where the Monastery of Dominicans lay, and was enforced to rest one night at the village of Santa Rosa on his road. Having stabled his steed, refreshed it and himself, and practised his arm some moments with the good sharp sword, he slung the weapon round him and went forth for a stroll to pass the time.

“He came to the equivalent of what would be to us in England an ale-house, but some way out of the village, meet for travellers to pause and rest a moment on their way. Ambrose went in to look about him and ordered drink for himself. He lacked a companion to pledge, but looking round the little room saw no one but a moody man who seemed lost in thought, though enjoying some passing sour wine. Ambrose himself could stomach neither the fare nor the company, so he quickly got him on his way a little further; when, meeting with a simple shrine to the Virgin, the God-fearing soldier took his rosary from under his baldrick, and knelt him down to pray. For something had sore perplexed him; he had seemed to see in the features of that morose comrade at the inn the most exact resemblance of Rinucci. But Rinucci was safe at the Monastery, waiting till his time should come, and the avenger should denounce him. But even as he rose from prayer did Ambrose see a mounted messenger speeding to him, who told him breathlessly the news had just reached Santa Rosa that the Monk Petrus was escaped and roaming at large somewhere in the country.

“Then Ambrose de Troyes knew he had his man; and natheless, like the large-hearted fellow he was, he would but meet him quite alone. So he rewarded the newsbringer and sent him away. Once more he fell on his knees before our Lady’s image, and besought that his cause might find Heaven’s favour, and his action in it be in every point just and serviceable. (For he looked upon himself as sent to do such things as might cause his brother’s soul to rest in peace.) Then he went rapidly retracing his steps towards the inn again, and, led by Destiny, out came Pietro Rinucci, unarmed, to meet him. Ambrose de Troyes looked into the assassin’s eyes and knew him. Stranger still, the piercing eyes of the cunning Italian saw, in the traits of this bronzed warrior, relationship to the Gilbert who had been his friend and victim.

“‘I arrest thee, Pietro Rinucci, for the murder of my brother, Gilbert de Troyes, and, though I may not draw upon a tonsured monk (yea, I know thee through all thy false disguises!), yet, before I hale thee to the ecclesiastical courts, I will show thee, snake, what I think of thee, and of all such!’

“And Ambrose de Troyes smote the villain a shameful blow upon the face.

“Even at that instant, the monk whips me Ambrose’s sword from its scabbard, and, with the fatal dexterity of his race, ran in upon the stately Englishman and laid him, bleeding quick to death, upon the hot white road.

“‘Oh Margaret, my sister Margaret!’ the dying man raved, as if he thirsted for help from the hand that had been kind to him.

“‘A right pestilent breed of Britons! but easy to kill—easy to kill,’ quoth the Monk, as he laid down the red sword by the dying man’s side and left him alone in his agony.

“This scene was witnessed by a terrified young country-girl, who crouched behind a heap of stones, meanwhile, until the murderer’s flight, and then ran to assist De Troyes, who thought she was his sister Margaret, and said marvellous tender words, of home and of her kindness, and of the little brother he had left in the nursery.

“After this, there comes a period of Rinucci’s life of which we know but little. He seems to have raced about the country, in hiding always, but doing little harm for him. Italy, however, is debateable ground for one of her own recreant monks, so we find Messer Pietro fleeing Justice and coming over here to England. Whether he had had some of his heart-searchings that he knew so often, I know not, but deem it very likely. Here is the flaw, to my mind, in the foreigners’ constitutions. They recognize their sins as such, not so we English! We say our evil deeds are fate, congenital infirmity, ignorance, negligence, or even virtues; they say their sins are sins, and yet they do them. Had I but half the talent of sinning that Messer Pietro seems to have owned, my faith, I would have gloried in it! So did not he, however; he went to a father confessor, fell on the earth, and implored absolution—for life was still sweet to him, he said, and he would not die yet awhile.

“The father sent him for penance to travel as a pilgrim, in a white penitential garb to England, there to walk to the shrine of St. Thomas à Becket, foully slain on earth by violence.

“The father did well for his mother-country, but evilly for us.

“The monk Petrus performed at all points the penalty enjoined him, and afterward, having no especial call to Italy again, he followed his roving instincts and wandered about England, even till chance brought him to this, our, town. In this country he knew no men well enough to desire to kill them; besides, at this period, one of his fits of penitence seems to have been on him. Certes, he wore the monkish habit, only different in its white colour from that of other fraternities, and the folk grew acquainted with his white figure as he roamed the land in deepest meditation, with his eyes bent upon the ground.

“Now, one day, say the chronicles (which are made up of village tales), the White Monk, as our townsfolk called him, was sitting in a thicket by a brook in which he was bathing his travelled feet, when there came by the sister of his victims, even Mistress Margaret de Troyes herself, and walked the pleasant fringes of the forest, very near to where the wanderer sat, on the further side the elders. She was accompanied by her mother and by another lady, both of whom were pressing the claims of some noble suitor upon her.

“The other ladies were in deepest mourning for Gilbert and for Ambrose, and Mistress Margaret herself, though she wore no such signs of grief, was most plainly clad in a pale, pure garb of lavender. She listened quietly to all they urged, then spoke and said:

“‘My mother, he is a light, false man. I care not for him.’

“It was protested to her, her high birth, the respect in which he would hold her for herself; above all, her fair beauty, would all ensure his faithfulness. But Margaret said:

“‘I beseech ye, press me no further. Heaven knows I wish the gentleman much good, and that he may aspire to higher things. I will pray for him, weep for him if need be; but, ladies, though I be but a simple English maiden, I hold myself all too good for such as he to marry and draw down, perchance, to like thoughts with himself. I hate all evil—not the doers, mother; but the evil. We are all weak and changeable, and I dare not come in contact of my free will with evil influence. God might punish me by weakness of resolve against infection.’

“They urged her yet once more; she might triumph and convert a soul.

“‘In truth,’ confessed fair Margaret de Troyes, ‘ye wound me sorely, dearest ladies mine! At such a time, when good Ambrose de Troyes is scarce cold in his grave, to bid his sister make her choice amongst his townsfolk; and celebrate the marriage feast with a breaking heart! My Ambrose—to think that thou, who, if I but spake of a moment’s weariness, would quickly place a cushion for my head, and sit by the hour on our window-seat chafing my feet, that thou should’st be bleeding in the death-struggles, on the hard, parched road, in a foreign land, and I be far away, not able so much as to raise thy dear head upon my knee! Oh, I loved him so tenderly, strong brother of mine! I gloried in my brown-maned soldier. We prayed together the night before he left on his sacred errand, and, at his entreaty, I laid my hand upon his head and blessed him in Our Lady’s name. He was a grave, good man; and you would have me turn my thoughts from him to that other! What though I know Ambrose to be now one of God’s angels; yet he hath left me behind him on the earth—the first unkindness he hath ever done me! And his mother and mine would have me think of wedlock!’

“The fair, pale Englishwoman bent her head, and Pietro heard her weeping.

“Well, it is but guesswork thenceforth. Folk say, in their coarse way of speaking, that the White Monk ‘loved’ the lady Margaret. Forfend! The love of such a man were an insult all too gross to offer to the memory of any Damoiselle de Troyes. Say, rather, he kindled to the worship of goodness in that form first of all.

“We know that from that hour when he first saw and heard her, Rinucci, the stained wretch, wandered ever where there was a chance to see her, even from afar. Once, indeed he even spoke with her. Under the favour of his sacred garment he dared to near her, and asked:

“‘Maiden, how say you? Is there mercy in Heaven for the worst sinners, or no?’

“‘Nay, holy father,” answered the damsel, smiling, ‘thou must be better seen in these high mysteries than I who dwell in the world, where we all need mercy. We can but hope that our God is more pitiful than are our fellow creatures to our faults.’

“‘Maiden,’ besought the White Monk further, ‘can such as thou look pityingly upon a vice-stained fellow man?’

“But Margaret wept, and answered him:

“‘Oh, father, search me not over this problem. I have lost the dearest to me in the world, two brothers, by an assassin’s hand. If that man stood before me, tell me, _could_ I look at him forgivingly? Oh, never, father! Human nature is too weak.’

“The rencounter was over, for Pietro dared speak no more. But, according to the custom of that day, Mistress Margaret bent her fair head to receive the blessing of the holy father.

“The monk started back in horror; even he was not too base to feel that. But as the maiden still stood humbly waiting, he was forced to stretch his hands forth from the distance, and murmur: ‘Benedicite!’

“The days went by and the townsfolk noted how the White Monk wasted, and how strange he was. He would mutter to himself like a madman. He never said a word of holy import to the cottagers with whom he lodged at small cost. He ate almost nothing and appeared to spend his days in solitary musing. His conduct smacked so oddly of mania that Giles Hughson, his landlord, took to watching whither he went and what he did. He saw him always following Margaret, but seeking to avoid her if she turned where she might see him. He seemed to dread her greatly, yet, to worship her, or, at least to follow her like a lost soul looking after the light from some vanishing angel’s wing.

“Once Margaret turned and saw him, but recognised him not as the man she had spoken withal. She, taking him for a _frère quetant_, silently, without looking upon him, pressed into his hand money, which he took, and which was found on him when he died, as you shall hear.”

PERCY ROSS.

(_To be continued._)

The following remarkable passage was published some five years ago in the _Theosophist_, of Madras (1883); and it is needless to call attention in more detail to the fidelity with which it is being since then verified.

Protesting against the arbitrary chronology of the Sanskritists in the question of Indian antiquity who make it dependent on the Greeks and Chandragupta—whose date is represented as “the sheet-anchor of Indian chronology” that “nothing will ever shake” (Prof. Max Müller and Weber), the author of the prophecy remarks that “it is to be feared that as regards India, the chronological ship of the Sanskritists has already broken from her moorings and gone adrift with all her precious freight of conjectures and hypotheses.” And then adds:—

“We are at the end of a cycle—geological and other—and at the beginning of another. Cataclysm is to follow cataclysm. The pent-up forces are bursting out in many quarters; and not only will men be swallowed up or slain by thousands, “new” land appear and “old” subside, volcanic eruptions and tidal waves appal; but secrets of an unsuspected past will be uncovered to the dismay of Western theorists and the humiliation of an imperious science. This drifting ship, if watched, may be seen to ground upon the upheaved vestiges of ancient civilisations, and fall to pieces. We are not emulous of the prophet’s honours: but still, let this stand as a prophecy.” (See also “_Five Years of Theosophy_,” p. 388.)

LOVE WITH AN OBJECT.

Some distinguished contributors to theosophical literature have of late been describing what qualities are necessary to constitute a perfect man, _i.e._, an Adept. They said that among other things it was absolutely and indispensably necessary, that such a being should possess Love—and not merely Love in the abstract—but love regarding some object or objects. What can they possibly mean by speaking of “love with an object,” and could there possibly be love without any object at all? Can that feeling be called love, which is directed solely to the Eternal and Infinite, and takes no cognizance of earthly illusions? Can that be love which has no object or—in other words—is the love of forms or objects the true love at all? If a man loved all things in the universe alike, without giving any preference to any of them, would not such a love be practically without any object; would it not be equal to loving nothing at all; because in such a case the individuality of any single object would be lost to sight?

A love which is directed towards all things alike, an universal love, is beyond the conception of the mortal mind, and yet this kind of love, which bestows no favours upon any one thing, seems to be that eternal love, which is recommended by all the sacred books of the East and the West; because as soon as we begin to love one thing or one being more than another, we not only detract from the rest an amount of love which the rest may rightfully claim; but we also become attached to the object of our love, a fate against which we are seriously warned in various pages of these books.

The _Bhagavad Gita_ teaches that we should not love or hate any object of sense whatsoever, nor be attached to any object or thing, but renounce all projects and fix our thoughts solely on It, the Eternal, which is no-thing and no object of cognition for us, but whose presence can be only subjectively experienced by, and within ourselves. It says: “He is esteemed, who is equal-minded to companions, friends, enemies, strangers, neutrals, to aliens and kindred, yea to good and evil men” (Cap. vi., 14); and further on it says: “He whose soul is united by devotion, seeing the same in all around, sees the soul in everything and everything in the soul. He who sees Me (Brahmâ) everywhere and everything in Me, him I forsake not and he forsakes not me.... He who sees the same in everything—Arjuna!—whether it be pleasant or grievous, from the self-resemblance, is deemed to be a most excellent Yogin” (Cap. vi., 29, 32).

On almost every page of the _Bhagavad Gita_ we are instructed only to direct our love to that which is eternal in every form, and let the form itself be a matter of secondary consideration. “He must be regarded as a steadfast renouncer, who neither hates nor desires.”... “In a learned and modest Brahman, in a cow, in an elephant, in a dog, and a Swapāka; they who have knowledge see the same thing.”... “Let no man rejoice in attaining what is pleasant, nor grieve in attaining what is unpleasant; being fixed in mind, untroubled, knowing Brahma and abiding in Brahma.”... “He who is happy in himself, pleased with himself, who finds also light in himself, this Yogin, one with Brahmâ, finds _Nirvana_ in Him.”

The great _Hermes Trismegistus_ teaches the same identical doctrine; for he says: “Rise and embrace me with thy whole being, and I will teach thee whatsoever thou desirest to know.” The _Bible_ also tells us that “God is Love” (1. John iv., 8), and that we should love Him with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our mind (Math. xxii., 37), and while it teaches that we should love nothing else but God (Math. xx., 37), who is All in All (Ephes. i., 23), yet it affirms, that this God is omnipresent, eternal and incomprehensible to the finite understanding of mortals (1. Timoth. vi., 16). It teaches this love to be the most important of all possessions, without which all other possessions are useless (1. Corinth, xiii., 2), and yet this God, whom we are to love, is not an “object” (John i., 5), but everywhere. He is in us and we in Him (Rom. xii., 5). We are to leave all objects of sense and follow Him alone (Luc. v., 2), although we have no means of intellectually knowing or perceiving Him, the great Unknown, for whose sake we are to give up house and brethren, sisters, father, mother, wife, children and lands (Mark x., 29).

What can all this mean, but that love itself is the legitimate object of love? It is a divine, eternal, and infinite power, a light, which reflects itself in every object while it seeks not the object, but merely its own reflection therein. It is an indestructible fire and the brighter it burns, the stronger will be the light and the clearer will its own image appear. Love falls in love with nothing but its own self, it is free from all other attractions. A love which becomes attached to objects of sense, ceases to be free, ceases to be love, and becomes mere desire. Pure and eternal love asks for nothing, but gives freely to all who are willing to take. Earthly love is attracted to persons and things, but Divine spiritual love seeks only that which is divine in everything, and this can be nothing else but love, for love is the supreme power of all. It holds together the worlds in space, it clothes the earth in bright and beautiful colours, it guides the instincts of animals and links together the hearts of human beings. Acting upon the lower planes of existence it causes terrestrial things to cling to each other with fond embrace; but love on the spiritual plane is free. Spiritual love is a goddess, who continually sacrifices herself for herself and who accepts no other sacrifice but her own self, giving for whatever she may receive, herself in return. Therefore the _Bhagavad Gita_ says: “Nourish ye the gods by this and let the gods nourish you. Thus nourishing each other ye shall obtain the highest good” (Cap. iii., ii.,); and the Bible says: “To him who has still more shall be given, and from him who has not, even what he has shall be taken away” (Luke xix., 26).

Love is an universal power and therefore immortal, it can never die. We cannot believe that even the smallest particle of love ever died, only the instruments through which it becomes manifest change their form; nor will it ever be born, for it exists from eternity, only the bodies into which it shines are born and die and are born again. A Love which is not manifest is non-existent for us, to come into existence means to become manifest. How then could we possibly imagine a human being possessed of a love which never becomes manifest; how can we possibly conceive of a light which never shines and of a fire which does not give any heat?

But “as the sun shines upon the lands of the just and the unjust, and as the rain descends upon the acres of the evil-minded as well as upon those of the good”; likewise divine love manifesting itself in a perfect man is distributed alike to every one without favour or partiality. Wherever a good and perfect human being exists, there is divine love manifest; and the degree of man’s perfection will depend on the degree of his capacity to serve as an instrument for the manifestation of divine love. The more perfect he is, the more will his love descend upon and penetrate all who come within his divine influence. To ask favours of God is to conceive of Him as an imperfect being, whose love is not free, but subject to the guidance of, and preference to, mortals. To expect favours of a Mahatma is to conceive him as an _imperfect_ man.

True, “prayer,” _i.e._ the elevation and aspiration of the soul “in spirit and in truth” (John xiv., 14), is useful, not because it will persuade the light to come nearer to us, but because it will assist us to open our eyes for the purpose of seeing the light that was already there. Let those who desire to come into contact with the Adepts enter their sphere by following their doctrines; seeking for love, but not for an object of love, and when they have found the former, they will find a superabundance of the latter throughout the whole extent of the unlimited universe; they will find it in everything that exists, for love is the foundation of all existence and without love nothing can possibly continue to exist.

Love—divine love—is the source of life, of light, and happiness. It is the creative principle in the Macrocosm and in the Microcosm of man. It is _Venus_, the mother of all the gods, because from her alone originates Will and Imagination and all the other powers by which the universe was evolved. It is the germ of divinity which exists in the heart of man, and which may develop into a life-giving sun, illuminating the mind and sending its rays to the centre of the universe; for it originates from that centre and to that centre it will ultimately return. It is a divine messenger, who carries Light from Heaven down to the Earth and returns again to Heaven loaded with sacrificial gifts.

It is worshipped by all, some adore it in one form and some in another, but many perceive only the form and do not perceive the divine spirit. Nevertheless the spirit alone is real, the form is an illusion. Love can exist without form, but no form can exist without love. It is pure Spirit, but if its light is reflected in matter, it creates desire and desire is the producer of forms. Thus the visible world of perishable things is created. “But above this visible nature there exists another, unseen and eternal, which, when all created things perish, does not perish” (Bh. G. viii. 20), and “from which they who attain to it never return.” This is the supreme abode of Love without any object, unmanifested and imperishable, for there no object exists. There love is united to love, enjoying supreme and eternal happiness within her own self and that peace, of which the mortal mind, captivated by the illusion of form, cannot conceive. Non-existent for us, and yet existing in that Supreme _Be-ness_, in which all things dwell, by which the universe has been spread out, and which may be attained to by an exclusive devotion.

EMANUEL.

SELF MASTERY.

(A SONNET.)

O! for the power to lay this burden low!
This weight of self; to kill all vain desire
To clasp to our outer selves the scorching fire,
So that the God within shall live and grow!
O! for the strength to face the hidden foe,
To raise our being higher still and higher,
To breathe the breath that Holy ones inspire,
To break the bonds that bind to Earth below!

Great, Infinite Soul! that broodeth o’er us ever,
Say, can the human will _unaided_ win
The Victor’s crown (and earthly bondage sever),
—A Heavenly flight, triumphant over sin?
O Human and Divine, forsake us never,
Thine is the power by which we enter in!

DUM SPIRO, SPERO.

=Reviews.=

A MODERN MAGICIAN. A ROMANCE, by J. Fitzgerald Molloy, in Three
Volumes. Ward & Downey, 12, York Street, Covent Garden.

Opinions may be greatly divided as to the merits of this book; and to those who look for unexceptionable literary style as a primary element in fiction, it may not be satisfactory. But to all those who regard ideas as the first requisite, this work will probably prove of great interest. It has been somewhat curious to note the reception with which Mr. Molloy has met. The _Pall Mall Gazette_, for instance, devotes considerable length to him, and somewhat smartly calls him “a novelist born, but not made”; after which it proceeds, with more apparent animus than judiciousness, to criticise the pedantic style of conversation and narrative which the author occasionally makes use of. Curiously enough, the critic selects for his worst blows the phrases used by the chief inspector of the detectives. Now, if there is one thing more common than another, it is to find the half educated, but uncultured, men of the class from which police inspectors are drawn, using the longest words and phrases, not so much as a proof of their culture, as with the object of impressing their hearers. The reviewer was perhaps right to assail Mr. Molloy for sending his hero to Scotland Yard to hunt up news of his erring wife, who, as he was perfectly aware, had fled with another man. But this, and other trifling mistakes of similar character, are venial errors, and could only be so strongly animadverted upon in a paper which devotes itself to hunting plagiarisms in impossible places, through envy of successful authors; or by a reviewer who is a personal enemy of the author. As Macintosh well said: “The critic who is discerning in nothing but faults, may care little to be told that this is the mark of unenviable disposition, but he might not feel equally easy, were he convinced that he thus gives absolute proofs of ignorance and want of taste.” To make matters worse, and more interesting to LUCIFER, the reviewer is plainly a partisan of the Society for Psychical Research, to which Mr. Molloy somewhat unfeelingly alludes as the “Society of Scientific Cackle.” The review in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ starts with smartness and intelligence, but allows itself to run off into partisanship and prejudice. But all that is in strict keeping with the tone of a “Gazette” which generally starts useful work well, continues it badly, and ends by throwing mud out of the gutter at anybody or anything which happens to run counter to it. For instance, here is a specimen of the reviewer:

“As a story teller he (the author) is the Bobadil of fashionable
mysticism: as a literary workman he is a pretentious bungler: his
syntax is inconceivable, his dialogue impossible, his style a
desperately careful expression of desperately slovenly thinking,
his notions of practical affairs absurd, and his conception of
science and philosophy a superstitious guess; yet he has an
indescribable flourish, a dash of half-ridiculous poetry, a
pathetic irresponsibility, a captivating gleam of Irish
imagination, and, above all, an unsuspicious good nature, that
compel a humane public to read his books rather than mortify him
by a neglect which he has done nothing malicious to deserve.”

Such criticism can only be met from the point of view of the reviewer, by “Set a thief to catch a thief,” and from that of Mr. Molloy, by “Heaven save me from the penny-a-liners, actuated by personal animus!”

The reviewer may be allowed to have pointed out a few glaring errors in Mr. Molloy’s style and syntax, but we add that, in pointing these out, he has only exposed himself.

As regards the central figure of Benoni, the adept in the book, LUCIFER may, perhaps, say a few words. Slightly as the character is drawn, and startling as are the deeds of this personage, there is a majesty about him which commands respect, and we may congratulate Mr. Molloy on his effort. We do not entirely accord with the author in the deeds which he sets Benoni to do, but with regard to the words and precepts which he puts into the adept’s mouth, we do absolutely agree, and recommend our readers, and especially all the Theosophists, to read Mr. Molloy’s book. Here the _Pall Mall_ reviewer—being, as said, an admiring follower of the Society for Psychical Research—again falls foul of Mr. Molloy; but we may safely quote the impressive and truthful words of Benoni, and leave the rest to others.

Amerton, the hero of the book, reproaches the adept with having seen trouble approaching him, and with having neglected to warn him. Benoni replies:

“That is true. It was not permitted that I should serve you then;
to test your strength it was necessary that you should bear the
trial unaided. When, some years ago. you came to me in Africa, and
asked me to solve experiences which perplexed you, and later
besought Amuni, the faithful One, to show you the pathway leading
towards light, you but obeyed a dictate of your nature impossible
to resist. That within you urged you forward to seek the sacred
mysteries of life and death. But these cannot be obtained by those
who are not prepared to endure with patience, and grow strong in
spirit. You have suffered, and thus taken the first step towards
the attainment of your desires.”

“But, surely,” said Philip, “you might have warned me.”

“I should have but inflicted additional pain on you.”

“Was there no escape?”

“None, indeed,” replied the mystic.

“Then I was destined to meet humiliation and pain.”

Benoni looked at him with mingled pity and affection in his gaze.

“A child,” he said, in his low, sonorous voice, “is grieved for a
broken toy, or is humiliated by correction.”

“But you don’t compare my wrongs to a child’s grievances?”

“His sorrows are as real and bitter to him as your afflictions are
to you. It is only when time has passed, he reviews his distress
with wonder, seeing the pettiness of its cause. So will it be with
you. Ten years hence, you will regard this grief, desolating your
life, with equanimity; forty years later, you will remember it
with indifference, as an item in your fate. Then shall you look
back upon the brightness and darkness of your existence as one
regards the lights and shadows chequering his pathway through
woods in spring. How futile seem woe and joy, weighed with the
consideration that all men are as shadows that fade, and as
vapours which flee away.... Think, my friend,” continued the
mystic earnestly, “of your existence but as a journey towards a
goal, on which hardships must be suffered by the way. You are now
but working out the fulfillment of your fate. Remember, those who
would ascend must suffer; affliction is the flame which purifies;
pain teaches compassion.” (pp. 89, 90. Vol. III.)

When asked of himself, Benoni replies:

“Misfortune cannot compass, distress overwhelm, nor
disappointments assail me, because the things of the world are as
naught to my senses, and man’s life seems but a dream. Before this
stage affliction must have crucified the senses; self must be
conquered, slain, and entombed.” (p. 91, Vol. III.)

There are other passages equally true from the occult standpoint, and we trust their readers will benefit by them and appreciate them.

As regards Amerton’s character, we see the natural, born, mystic turning aside and voluntarily taking upon himself, though warned, the bonds of married life. These become intolerable to him, and the unhappiness of two persons results. Occultism is a jealous mistress, and, once launched on that path, it is necessary to resolutely refuse to recognise any attempt to draw one back from it. Amerton wanted to crush out his natural tendencies to occultism, and failed. It is as hard to draw back from them, and turn attention solely to the things of the world, as it is, when studying occultism, to turn our attention solely to the invisible regions, and neglect absolutely the physical world.

The other characters in the novel make it light, graceful and pleasant reading. The interest is ever preserved from the first to the last scene, and certainly no one could find, in all the three volumes, one dull page in them. Moreover, Mr. Fitzgerald Molloy seems an acute observer. Some of his secondary heroes, such as the wealthy widow, Mrs. Henry Netley, a plebeian enamoured of rank and title, and Lord Pompey Rokeway, “a gay, though ancient, personage,” who uses rouge, wig, and corsets, and imagines every woman in love with him—are portraits from nature, to one who knows anything of modern society. In short, “The Modern Magician,” as a work of fiction, can fearlessly bear comparison with any of the modern productions written lately upon occult subjects, with the solitary exception of Rider Haggard’s “She,” and surpasses some in unabated interest. We might be more exacting and severe, perhaps, were it a purely theosophical work. As it stands, however, we must congratulate Mr. Molloy in having clothed the subject of mysticism in such graceful robes; had he been as good a literary workman as he is an excellent constructor of plots, the book should have met with unqualified approval. Meanwhile, we wish it the greatest success.

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“THE TWIN SOUL: A PSYCHOLOGICAL AND REALISTIC ROMANCE,” in two
volumes, by an Anonymous Author. Ward & Downey, 12, York Street,
Covent Garden.

This is quite another kind of literary production than the “Modern Magician,” just reviewed. It aspires to more serious and philosophical mysticism, but fails rather ungloriously. There are passages in it which, taken out of the work, especially at the beginning of Volume I., might be made the subjects of short and rather useful little treatises upon mystic theories; but, as a whole, the book is one of the most disappointing novels published for some time. It begins well, goes on from bad to worse, promises much, holds nothing, and ends nowhere, seeming to be written not as a work of fiction, but simply to ventilate the author’s ideas. These—the work being anonymous—have to be judged by the novel alone. It is rumoured that the “Twin Soul” is the occasional work of twelve years’ labour, and the disconnected character of its events bears out the rumour. Its style is pedantic, though good in writing, while the matter and plot are heavy, and delivered in a long-winded and didactic manner.

The story is that of one Mr. Rameses, an exceedingly virtuous, learned, and solemn Oriental millionaire, whose real nationality remains to the end a mystery, and whose story is narrated by a somewhat cynical English philosopher, called De Vere. The latter tells the story in the style which suits him best, and is perfectly natural. He is humorous and amusing, even if slightly ponderous. But alas for the reader! Mr. De Vere suddenly stops short at an early stage, and the story is taken up, without any apparent cause or reason, by a man unknown, who “had less sympathy with Mr. Rameses,” and who has all the defects of Mr. De Vere’s qualities, and a good many of his own besides, for he is even more ponderous and more cynical, without his humour. Mr. Rameses is a peculiar character, but, as sketched, he is quite in keeping with his Oriental origin. He believes in many theories: re-incarnation, socialism, certain occult doctrines, the possibility of recovering the memory of past incarnations, and, as a matter of course, the modern craze of the day, the theory of “twin souls.” He is perpetually in search of his “twin,” and hunts her with the pertinacity of a sleuth-hound under all forms, and in all places. Mr. De Vere is the possessor of an Assyrian collection, Egyptian papyri, and also of two female mummies—Amenophra and Lurulâ, the first the daughter of a Pharaoh, the second a priestess of Isis—of which the sarcophagi are covered with hieroglyphics, which Mr. Rameses reads with most surprising ease. The hero, claiming his memory as a palimpsest, which by certain processes clearly discovers the obliterated record of his past incarnations, cannot, in spite of this, make up his mind which of the two mummies was formerly the body of his twin-soul. Finally, he solves the doubt by declaring them both to have been the mortal casket of his beloved—with Lurulâ for choice. The reader here has great hopes held out to him that there will be a grand ceremony, at which the mummies are to be unrolled, and at which the soul of the deceased mummy will be summoned back to shuffle on a mortal coil again. Alas! such hopes are fallacious; for the ceremony never takes place, owing to Mr. Rameses falling in love with the sister of a Hindu lady married to an English baronet. After much hesitation the lady so honoured by his choice is also declared to be the vehicle of his twin-soul, _i.e._, to save appearances—to be a re-incarnation of the ego which formerly dwelt in the mummy or mummies. Finally, after a long-winded oration over the mystic properties of a magnificent present of jewels, Mr. Rameses wins “the fair Niona,” as she is called—who, although a Hindu, is a Zoroastrian Sun-worshipper. They are married, notwithstanding their “paganism,” according to Roman Catholic rites, and the pair start to spend the honeymoon in Egypt, where, in the Temple of Isis at Thebes, they are to be again united according to the—to them—more sacred ritual of Sun-worship. After a very interesting dream about the Deluge, which broke through an isthmus uniting Gibraltar to North Africa, and destroyed a vast civilization which occupied the floor of the present Mediterranean Sea, they arrive safely in Egypt. Here the fair Hindu of Zoroastrian persuasion and Italian name, has another interesting psychic vision, an interview with the Sphinx, which makes her incontinently faint, and lose consciousness. Then they proceed to Thebes, and, after due care, make selection of the site of the Temple of Isis. They build their bonfire and ignite it, but at the supreme moment Niona gives a gasp, faints, and this time dies outright, with as little reason for it as every other incident in the novel has. The return to Cairo is immediately commenced, and here Niona, in strict keeping with Mr. Rameses’s habits, is at once converted into a mummy. It must be rather interesting to possess the body of three defunct twin souls, and reflect upon their virtues.

The rest of the book is occupied by various disquisitions of the author, disguised flimsily under conversations of his characters on the social and political customs of the Nineteenth century. Read carefully, the conversations contain ideas, but are likely to offend on account of their length and ponderousness. As regards the construction of the book and the characters, Mr. Rameses is interesting, in spite of his solemnity and his love of mummies, and Mr. De Vere is amusing. The other _dramatis personæ_ seem to have been created merely as pegs upon which to hang the author’s opinions. What, for instance, is the object of entering into detail upon the passionate episodes in the career of Mr. Rameses’s secretary, or the mercenary marriage of Lady Gwendoline Pierrepoint with “Old Methusaleh”? Their only excuse can be that they may serve to increase the contrast between such marriages and that with a twin soul. Taken as a whole, the ideas are interesting, and the mystic utterances in the first volume almost correct from the orthodox occult point. But the manner in which they are displayed is irritating, and this chiefly because the reader is perpetually being brought up to a point of interest, and as perpetually left disappointed.

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POSTHUMOUS HUMANITY.[129]

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Footnote 129:

_Posthumous Humanity_, a study of Phantoms, by Adolphe d’Assier,
Member of the Bordeaux Academy of Sciences. Translated and
annotated by Henry S. Olcott, President of the Theosophical
Society. George Redway, London, 1887. 8vo. pp. 360.

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This is a translation from the French by Colonel H. S. Olcott, President of the Theosophical Society, of the remarkable work of that name, by a well-known _savant_, Adolphe d’Assier. The original work appeared a few years ago, and produced a stir both in the sceptical public and unbelieving science, and an outcry among the spiritists of France, whose pet theories about the “spirits” of the dead it upset. “Posthumous Humanity” was not only a singularly interesting work, but it was one of the first, and perhaps the loudest, of the bugle notes that heralded the last act of the fierce battle between materialistic science and spiritualism; for it ended in the virtual defeat of the former, at any rate, upon one line: it forced the hand of the majority of sceptics in the recognition of what is called in mysticism the “astral body” of man and animal, and by more pretentious than wise investigators “the _phantasms_ of the living,” forgetting those of the dead.

That a learned member of an academy of science should, of all men, write a serious book on the phenomena of “the Borderland,” accepting as facts in nature such things as ghostly appearances, and the projection of the double, is almost a phenomenon in itself. And what makes the case the more remarkable as an indication of a new current in public opinion, is the fact that these things, which it has hitherto been the fashion to consign with a laugh or a shudder to the limbo of exploded superstitions, are treated by the author in a perfectly scientific spirit. He accounts for them, not by the usual supposition of hallucination or stupidity on the part of observers, but by an exceedingly ingenious and plausible postulation of forces at work in us, and around us, which are as little “supernatural” as any of the recognised forces of nature, or portions of man’s constitution. Not only has M. d’Assier the courage to face the probable ridicule of the wiseacres, but he has the audacity to turn the tables upon “men of science,” by actually making fun of their unmeasured pretensions, and twitting them mercilessly about their past mistakes. Not the least remarkable feature in the case is the fact that the author, who started into these researches an ardent positivist, has come out of them an ardent positivist still. He believes that what he has accomplished is to extend the reign of matter into a region previously believed to belong to spirit, thus planting the standard of positivism in a wider and more fruitful region, which he has happily reclaimed from the winds and tides of superstition. But the fact is, that although our author has gone a good deal further than most of those who start out “on their own hook” to explore the realms of the Occult, he cannot be said to have penetrated very far into the mysteries of being. He has peeped in at the door of the psychic antechamber to the spiritual world proper—the ante-chamber in which the members of Psychical Research Societies amuse themselves and others by playing blindman’s buff with hypothesis—and his interesting volume tells us of the wonderful things that go on there. The result of his researches, as he says in his _Preface_, is the conclusion that “posthumous humanity is, in fact, but a special example of posthumous animality, and that the latter presents itself as the immediate consequence of the living world.” Every tyro in theosophy knows that this conclusion is a fair approximation to the truth, and were man nothing but an animal of high degree, it might possibly be the whole truth. But man is an animal, plus _something_, and this something _more_, is precisely what M. d’Assier leaves entirely out of sight, as indeed he could hardly help doing if he attached any importance to remaining a Positivist. It is this _something more_, of whose very existence our author seems profoundly unconscious, that has the chief interest for us, for that is the spiritual and eternal part of man, in contradistinction to the psychic portion which fades away and disappears after a time, as M. d’Assier very justly declares.