CONTENTS

About the Book

‘I journeyed Eastwards in search of the Yogis … I wandered along the banks of India’s holy rivers in this quest. I circled the country. India took me to her heart …’

Paul Brunton was one of the twentieth century’s greatest explorers of the spiritual traditions of the East. He was also a journalist with a healthy regard for critical impartiality and for commonsense. These characteristics, together with a rich inner life, made him a superb writer on the spirituality of the Orient.

A Search in Secret India is one of the great classics of spiritual travel writing. With a keen eye for detail combined with a generosity of view, Paul Brunton describes taking a circular journey round India: living amongst yogis, mystics and gurus, seeking the one who would give him the peace and tranquillity that come with self-knowledge.

His vividly told search ends at Arunachala, with Sri Ramana Maharshi: ‘The indigo sky is strewn with stars, which cluster in countless thousands close over our heads. The rising moon is a thin crescent disc of silver light. On our left the evening fireflies are making the compound grove radiant, and above them the plumed heads of tall palms stand out in black silhouette against the sky. My adventure in self-metamorphosis is over …’

About the Author

Born in 1898, Paul Brunton travelled extensively in the East and published thirteen books between 1935 and 1952. He is generally recognized as having introduced yoga and meditation to the West, and for presenting their philosophical background in nontechnical language. He died in Switzerland (where he lived for 20 years) in 1981.

By the same author

THE SECRET PATH

A SEARCH IN SECRET EGYPT

A MESSAGE FROM ARUNACHALA

A HERMIT IN THE HIMALAYAS

THE QUEST FOR THE OVERSELF

THE INNER REALITY

THE HIDDEN TEACHING BEYOND YOGA

THE WISDOM OF THE OVERSELF

THE SPIRITUAL CRISIS OF MAN

THE NOTEBOOKS OF PAUL BRUNTON
(in sixteen volumes)

ESSAYS ON THE QUEST

MEDITATIONS FOR PEOPLE IN CHARGE

MEDITATIONS FOR PEOPLE IN CRISIS

WHAT IS KARMA?

Praise for Paul Brunton

‘Paul Brunton was surely one of the finest mystical flowers to grow on the wasteland of our secular civilization. What he has to say is important to us all.’ – Georg Feuerstein

‘… a great gift to us Westerners who are seeking the spiritual.’ – Charles T. Tart

‘A person of rare intelligence … thoroughly alive, and whole in the most significant, “holy” sense of the word.’ – Yoga Journal

‘Paul Brunton was a great original and got to a place of personal evolution that illumines the pathways of a future humanity.’ – Jean Houston

‘A simple, straightforward guide to how philosophical insights of the East and West can help to create beauty, joy, and meaning in our lives … His keynote is balance, and his uplifting message encompasses all phases of human experience.’ – East West Journal

‘… sensible and compelling. His work can stand beside that of such East-West bridges as Merton, Huxley, Suzuki, Watts, and Radhakrishnan. It should appeal to anyone concerned personally and academically with issues of spirituality.’ – Choice

‘Any serious man or woman in search of spiritual ideas will find a surprising challenge and an authentic source of inspiration and intellectual nourishment in the writings of Paul Brunton.’ – Jacob Needleman

‘It is to the likes of Brunton, Vivekananda, and A.E. Burt that I bow in gratitude for early initiations.’ – Stephen Levine

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Epub ISBN: 9781473527836
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Rider, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

Rider is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

Copyright © Paul Brunton 1934

First published by Rider in 1934
Eighteenth impression 1957
Second edition 1970
Third edition 1983
This edition published 2003

www.eburypublishing.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781844130436

INTRODUCTION TO THE NEW EDITION

From the early days of the twentieth century, Paul Brunton journeyed across the major continents in search of people of high spiritual attainment, regardless of tradition. He travelled by boat, on horseback or donkey or camel and on foot, lugged heavy trunks with pack animals or bearers – without the conveniences, accommodation, places to eat, and modes of communication that make travelling abroad the relatively simple task it is today.

Like the geographers before him, Paul Brunton contributed to a new and vitally important mapping of the world – a map of the spirit, of the greater and small traditions, and of their leaders. When now we set forth for Karnak, Delhi or Dharamsala, we have some foreknowledge and familiarity with what we will find, and what we may hope to contact with our hearts through such journeys.

During his journeys, Paul Brunton (‘P.B.’ to his friends) met many types of people associated with formal and informal spiritual traditions. Some were sincere, some merely professional; some were out-and-out fakes, and some were authentic in their accomplishments. How can one tell them apart? And, upon the occasion of finding an individual of genuine spiritual insight, how can one determine if that person is to be one’s own teacher? These questions arise again and again along our spiritual journey. Sometimes we will believe that they have been answered once and for all; sometimes we may believe that they can never be answered. The reality lies somewhere in between for most questers.

In A Search in Secret India, P.B. has accomplished two tasks at once. First, he has chronicled part of his own spiritual journey; second, he has organized the encounters in this book to stand as true examples which help us answer the aforementioned questions.

As to his own journey, P.B. began following the inward trail to wisdom somewhere in his teens; by the time of the travels chronicled in A Search in Secret India (1931), he was already an accomplished meditator and student of what were then considered the exotic ideas of the East. Although there was much still to learn, at least he knew what he was looking for – and that he must look for it. What he found changed his own life, and opened India to the West at the same time. Within a few years of its publication in 1934, Secret India had sold a quarter of a million copies, and made the names of Ramana Maharshi and Shankaracarya famous throughout the global spiritual community.

When read as such, Secret India is certainly an interesting book, capturing much of the flavour of pre-war India, and telling us a little of Brunton’s own journey. However, it is much more than that. It is a careful – and vitally important – parable of the quest itself. P.B. tells us how to look for teachers, and how to find them; he shows us the difference between the religious, the magical and the spiritual. Finally, he reveals the means by which one may recognize – and be recognized by – one’s own spiritual guide. This is the real secret of Secret India, and it is as helpful today as it was when P.B. first put pen to paper, all those years ago.

We hope you will be inspired and assisted by your study of this book and, like P.B., we wish to dedicate this edition to those great lights of twentieth-century India: Ramana Maharshi and Shankaracarya of Kanchipuram.

Timothy Smith

Paul Brunton Philosophic Foundation

For information about Paul Brunton, his writings, and the latest publications based on his work, visit http://www.paulbrunton.org. For reviews, excerpts and a complete detailed table of contents of his posthumously published The Notebooks of Paul Brunton and other works, visit http://www.larsonpublications.com.

You can also receive information by e-mail from Books@LarsonPublications.com, or by mail from the Paul Brunton Philosophic Foundation, 4936 NYS Route 414, Burdett, New York 14818, USA.

FOREWORD

by

SIR FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND, K.C.I.E., K.C.S.I., C.I.E.

“SACRED INDIA” would be as apt a title for this book. For it is a quest for that India which is only secret because it is so sacred. The holiest things in life are not bruited abroad in public. The sure instinct of the human soul is to keep them withdrawn in the inmost recesses accessible to few—perhaps to none. Certainly only to those who care for spiritual things.

And with a country as with an individual. The most sacred things a country keeps secret. It would not be easy for a stranger to discover what England holds most sacred. And it is the same with India. The most sacred part of India is the most secret.

Now secret things require much searching for; but those who seek will find. Those who seek with their whole heart and with the real determination to find will at last discover the secret.

Mr. Brunton had that determination, and he did in the end find. The difficulties were very great though. For in India, as everywhere else, there is much spurious spirituality through which a way must be forced before the true can be found. There is an innumerable crowd of mental acrobats and contortionists through which the seeker after pure spirituality must elbow his way. These men have trained their mental as well as bodily muscles till they are extraordinarily efficient. They have exercised powers of concentration till they have nearly complete control over their mental processes. Many of them have developed what we call occult powers.

These are all interesting enough in their way and are well worth study by scientific men interested in psychic phenomena. But they are not the real thing. They are not the springs whence spirituality comes gushing.

They do not form the secret sacred India that Mr. Brunton was seeking. He saw them. He noted them. He describes them. But he pushed through them. Spiritually at its finest and purest is what he wanted. And this he found at last.

Remote from the haunts of men, deep in the jungles to which—or to the Himalayas—the holiest men in India always return, Mr. Brunton found the very embodiment of all that India holds most sacred. The Maharishee—the Great Sage—was the man who made most appeal to Mr. Brunton. He is not the only one of his kind. Up and down India others—not many, but a very, very few—may be found. They represent the true genius of India, and it is through them that the Mighty Genius of the Universe manifests Himself in peculiar degree.

They, therefore, are among the objects most worth searching for on this earth. And in this book we have the results of one such quest.

FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND

CHAPTER I

WHEREIN I BOW TO THE READER

THERE IS AN obscure passage in the yellowed book of Indian life which I have endeavoured to elucidate for the benefit of Western readers. Early travellers returned home to Europe with weird tales of the Indian faqueers and even modern travellers occasionally bring similar stories.

What is the truth behind those legends which come ever and anon to our ears, concerning a mysterious class of men called Yogis^fn1 by some and faqueers by others? What is the truth behind the fitful hints which reach us intimating that there exists in India an old wisdom that promises the most extraordinary development of mental powers to those who practise it? I set out on a long journey to find it and the following pages summarize my report.

“Summarize” I say, because the inexorable exigencies of space and time required me to write of one Yogi where I had met more. Therefore I have selected a few who interested me most, and who seemed likely to interest the Western world. One heard much of certain so-called holy men who possessed repute of having acquired deep wisdom and strange powers; so one travelled through scorching days and sleepless nights to find them—only to find well-intentioned fools, scriptural slaves, venerable know-nothings, money-seeking conjurers, jugglers with a few tricks, and pious frauds. To fill my pages with the records of such people would be worthless to the reader and is a distasteful task to me. Therefore I omit the tale of time wasted upon them.

I feel quite humbly that I have been privileged to see a remote aspect of India seldom seen and less understood by ordinary travellers. Among the English residents in that vast land only an infinitesimal fraction has cared to study this aspect, and of this fraction very few were free enough to examine it more deeply and give their report, for official dignity must needs be respected. Therefore, English writers who have touched on this subject swing over to a hearty scepticism which, by its very nature, renders many sources of native knowledge not readily available to them, and which causes the Indian who really knows something about the less superficial side of the matter to shrink from discussing it with them. The white man will, in most cases, possess but an imperfect acquaintance with the Yogis, if he knows them at all, and certainly not with the best of them. The latter are now but a mere handful in the very country of their origin. They are exceedingly rare, are fond of hiding their true attainment from the public, and prefer to pose as ignoramuses. In India, in Tibet and in China, they get rid of the Western traveller who may happen to blunder in upon their privacy, by maintaining a studied appearance of insignificance and ignorance. Perhaps they would see some sense in Emerson’s abrupt phrase: “To be great is to be misunderstood”; I do not know. Anyway, they are mostly recluses who do not care to mingle with mankind. Even when met with they are unlikely to break their reserve except after some period of acquaintance. Hence little has been written in Western continents about the strange life of these Yogis and even that little remains vague.

The reports of Indian writers are indeed available, but they must be read with great care. It is an unfortunate fact that the Hindus lack any critical approach to these matters and will mix hearsay with fact quite indiscriminately. Therefore such reports diminish greatly in truth as documentary records. When I saw the cataract of credulity which covers so many Eastern eyes, I thanked Heaven for such scientific training as the West has given me and for the common sense attitude which journalistic experience had instilled in me. For in the Orient I found that the wish was not merely father to the thought, but also the willing parent of a multitude of events which never happened. I was compelled to keep a critical but not hostile eye widely open wherever I went. Those who learned that I was interested in the mystical and miraculous, apart from my philosophical concerns, applied liberal paint and plentiful varnish to their few facts; many would think nothing of indulging in breath-taking exaggerations. I might have spent my time trying to teach them that Truth is so strong she can stand upon her own legs without falling to the ground, but I had other things to do. I felt glad, however, that I had preferred to gain my knowledge of Oriental wonders at first hand, just as I prefer Christ’s wisdom to his commentators’ ignorance. I searched through a welter of crass superstitions, incredible impostures and ancient pretensions for those things which are true, which will stand the acid test of thorough investigation. I flatter myself that I could never have done this did I not contain within my complex nature the two elements of scientific scepticism and spiritual sensitivity, elements which usually range themselves in sharp conflict and flagrant opposition.

I have titled this book Secret India because it tells of an India which has been hidden from prying eyes for thousands of years, which has kept itself so exclusive that to-day only its rapidly disappearing remnants are left. The manner in which the Yogis kept their knowledge so esoteric may appear selfish to us in these democratic days, but it helps to account for their gradual disappearance from visible history. Thousands of Englishmen live in India and hundreds visit it each year. Yet few know anything of what may one day prove more worthy to the world than even the prized pearls and valuable stones which ships bring us from India. Fewer still have taken the trouble to go out of their way to find the adepts in Yoga,^fn2 while not one Englishman in a thousand is prepared to prostrate himself before a brown, half-naked figure in some lonely cave or in a disciple-filled room. Such is the inevitable barrier imposed by this form of caste that even men of generous character and developed intellect, if suddenly taken from their habitations in the British quarters and set down in such a cave, would find a Yogi’s company uncongenial and his ideas unintelligible.

Yet the Englishman in India, whether soldier, civil servant, business man or traveller, is not to be blamed because he is too proud to squat on the mat of the Yogi. Quite apart from the business of upholding British prestige, doubtless an important and necessary procedure, the kind of holy man he usually encounters is more likely to repel than attract. It is certainly no loss to avoid such a man. Nevertheless it is a pity that after a sojourn of many years the English resident will often leave the country in blameless ignorance of what lies behind the frontal brain of an Indian sage.

I plainly remember my interview with a Cockney under the shadow of Trichinopoly’s gigantic rock fort. For over twenty years he had held a responsible post on the Indian railways. It was inevitable that I should ply him with many questions about his life in this sunburnt land. Finally I trotted out my pet interrogation, “Have you met any Yogis?”

He looked at me somewhat blankly and then replied:

“Yogis? What are they? Some kind of animal?”

Such ignorance would have been perfectly pardonable had he stayed at home within the sound of Bow Bells; now, after twenty-six years’ residence in the country, it was perfectly blissful. I permitted it to remain undisturbed.

Because I put pride underfoot in moving among the varied peoples who inhabit Hindustan; because I gave them a ready understanding and an intellectual sympathy, a freedom from finicky prejudice and a regard for character irrespective of colour; and because I had sought Truth all my life and was prepared to accept whatsoever Truth brought in its train, I am able to write this record. I picked my way through a crowd of superstitious fools and self-styled faqueers in order to sit at the feet of true sages, there to learn at first hand the real teachings of Indian Yoga. I squatted on the floor in many a secluded hermitage, surrounded by brown faces and hearing strange dialects. I sought out those reserved and reclusive men, the best Yogis, and listened humbly to their oracular instruction. I talked for hours with the Brahmin pundits of Benares, discussing the age-old questions of philosophy and belief which have tormented the mind and troubled the heart of man since he first began to think. I stopped now and then to divert myself with the magician and wonder-worker, and strange incidents crossed my trails.

I wanted to gather the real facts about the Yogis of to-day by the method of first-hand investigation. I prided myself that experience as a journalist fitted me to draw out, with the least possible delay, much of the information which I sought; that sitting at the editorial desk and curtly wielding the blue pencil had trained me to become ruthlessly critical in separating wheat from chaff; and that the contact with men and women in every grade of life which the profession generally gives, with ragged mendicants as well as well-fed millionaires, would help me move just a little more smoothly through the variegated masses of India, among whom I searched for those strange men, the Yogis.

On the other side of the sheet I had lived an inner life totally detached from my outward circumstance. I spent much of my spare time in the study of recondite books and in little-known bypaths of psychological experiment. I delved into subjects which always have been wrapped in Cimmerian mystery. To these items must be added an inborn attraction towards things Oriental. The East, before my first visit, threw out vast tentacles that gripped my soul; ultimately they drew me to study the sacred books of Asia, the learned commentaries of her pundits and the inscribed thoughts of her sages, so far as English translations could be procured.

This dual experience proved of great value. It taught me never to permit my sympathy with Oriental methods of probing life’s mysteries, subvert my scientific desire of critically and impartially finding the facts. Without that sympathy I could never have gone among people and into places where the average Englishman in India may disdain to tread. Without that strict, scientific attitude I might have been led away into the wilderness of superstition, as so many Indians seem to have been led away. It is not easy to conjoin qualities which are usually held to be contradictory, but I sincerely tried to hold them in sane balance.

§

That the West has little to learn from present-day India, I shall not trouble to deny, but that we have much to learn from Indian sages of the past and from the few who live to-day, I unhesitatingly assert. The white tourist who “does” the chief cities and historical sights and then steams away with disgust at the backward civilization of India is doubtless justified in his depreciation of it. Yet a wiser kind of tourist shall one day arise who will seek out, not the crumbling ruins of useless temples, nor the marbled palaces of dissipated kings long dead, but the living sages who can reveal a wisdom untaught by our universities.

Are these Indians mere idlers sprawling in the fierce tropic sun? Have they done nothing, thought nothing that is of worth to the rest of the world? The traveller who can see only their material degeneration and mental flabbiness has not seen far. Let him substitute consideration for his contempt and he may open sealed lips and hidden doors.

Grant that India has nodded and snored for centuries; grant that even to-day there exist millions of peasants in this land who suffer the same illiteracy, share the same outlook blended of puerile superstition and kindergarten religion as did English peasants of the fourteenth century. Grant further that the Brahmin pundits in native centres of learning waste their useless years splitting sacerdotal hairs and drawing metaphysical wire as subtly as our own medieval scholastics ever did. Yet there still remains a small but priceless residue of culture classified under the generic term Yoga, which proffers benefits to mankind as valuable in their own way as any proffered by the Western sciences. It can bring our bodies nearer the healthy condition which Nature intended them to possess; it can bestow one of modern civilization’s most urgent needs—a flawless serenity of mind; and it can open the way to enduring treasures of the spirit to those who will labour for them. I admit that this great wisdom hardly belongs to India’s present, but to her past; that this guarded knowledge of Yoga flourishes little to-day when once it must have had worthy professors and faithful students. It may be that the secrecy in which it was carefully enshrouded succeeded in killing all spread of this ancient science; I do not know.

It is perhaps not amiss, then, if one asks one’s Western fellows to look Eastward, not for a new faith, but for a few pebbles of knowledge to cast upon our present heap. When Orientalists like Burnouf, Colebrooke and Max Muller appeared upon learning’s scene and brought us some of the literary treasures of India, the savants of Europe began to understand that the heathens who inhabited that country were not so stupid as our own ignorance had presumed. Those clever people who profess to find Asiatic learning empty of useful thoughts for the West thereby prove their own emptiness. Those practical persons who would fling the epithet “stupid” at its study, succeed only in flinging it at their own narrow-mindedness. If our ideas about life are to be wholly determined by a mere accident of space, by the chance that we were born in Bristol instead of Bombay, then we are not worthy the name of civilized man. Those who close their minds to the entrance of all Eastern ideas, close them also to fine thoughts, deep truths and worth-while psychological knowledge. Whoever will poke about among this musty lore of the Orient in the hope of finding some precious gems of strange fact and stranger wisdom, will find his quest no vain one.

§

I journeyed Eastwards in search of the Yogis and their hermetic knowledge. The thought of finding a spiritual light and diviner life was also entertained, though it was not my primary purpose. I wandered along the banks of India’s holy rivers—the quiet, grey-green Ganges, the broad Jumna and the picturesque Godavari—in this quest. I circled the country. India took me to her heart and the vanishing remnant of her sages opened many a door for the unfamiliar Westerner.

I can say only that in India I found my faith restored. Not so long ago I was among those who regard God as a hallucination of human fancy, spiritual truth as a mere nebula and providential justice as a confection for infantile idealists. I, too, was somewhat impatient of those who construct theological paradises and who then confidently show you round with an air of being God’s estate agents. I had nothing but contempt for what seemed to be the futile, fanatical efforts of uncritical theorisers.

If, therefore, I have begun to think a little differently about these matters, rest assured that good cause has been given me. Yet I did not arrive at paying allegiance to any Eastern creed; indeed, those which matter I had already studied intellectually much earlier. I did arrive at a new acceptance of the Divine. This may seem quite an insignificant and personal thing to do, but as a child of this modern generation, which relies on hard facts and cold reason, and which lacks enthusiasm for things religious, I regard it as quite an achievement. This faith was restored in the only way a sceptic could have it restored, not by argument, but by the witness of an overwhelming experience. And it was a jungle sage, an unassuming hermit who had formerly lived for six years in a mountain cave, who promoted this vital change in my thinking. It is quite possible that he could not pass a matriculation examination, yet I am not ashamed to record in the closing chapters of this book my deep indebtedness to this man. The production of such sages provides India with sufficient credentials to warrant attention from intelligent Westerners. The secret India’s spiritual life still exists, despite the storms of political agitation which now hide it, and I have tried to give authentic record of more than one adept who has attained a strength and serenity for which we lesser mortals wistfully yearn.

I have borne witness in the book to other things also, things marvellous and weird. They seem incredible now, as I sit and type my narrative through the inked ribbon amid the matter-of-fact surroundings of English country-side; indeed, I wonder at my temerity in writing them down for a sceptical world to read. But I do not believe the present materialistic ideas which dominate the world will remain for all time; already one can perceive heraldic indications of a coming change of thought. Yet quite frankly I do not believe in miracles. Neither do most men of my generation. But I do believe that our knowledge of Nature’s laws is incomplete, and that when the advance guard of scientists who are pushing forward into unexplored territory have found out a few more of those laws, we shall then be able to do things which are tantamount to miracles.

^fn1 Pronounced Yogees.

^fn2 Pronounced Yohg. Its spelling is unphonetic.

CHAPTER II

A PRELUDE TO THE QUEST

THE GEOGRAPHY MASTER takes a long, tapering pointer and moves over to the large, varnished linen map which hangs before a half-bored class. He indicates a triangular red patch which juts down to the Equator, and then makes a further attempt to stimulate the obviously lagging interest of his pupils. He begins in a thin, drawling voice and with the air of one about to make a hierophantic revelation:

“India has been called the brightest jewel in the British crown….”

At once a boy with moody brow, half wrapt in reverie, gives a sudden start and draws his far-flung imagination back into the stolid, brick-walled building which constitutes his school. The sound of this word INDIA falling on the tympanum of his ears, or the sight of it caught up by the optic nerve of his eyes from a printed page, carries thrilling and mysterious connotations of the unknown. Some inexplicable current of thought brings it repeatedly before him.

When the mathematics master believes that this pupil is laboriously working at an algebraical problem, little does he know that the young rascal uses the school’s desk for ulterior purposes. For under the cover of skilfully arrayed books he rapidly sketches turbaned heads, dusky faces and spice-laden ships being loaded from flat junks.

The youthful years pass, but this interest in Hindustan remains undimmed. Nay, it spreads and embraces all Asia within its eager tentacles.

Ever and anon he makes wild projects to go there. He will run away to sea. Surely it would then be a mere matter of enterprise to get some brief glimpse of India? Even when these projects come to nought, he talks rhetorically to his schoolmates until one of them falls an easy victim to his immature enthusiasm.

Thereafter they conspire in silence and move in secret. They plan an adventurous tramp across the face of Europe; it is then to continue into Asia Minor and Arabia until the port of Aden is reached. The reader, contemplating the innocent boldness of that long walk, will smile. They believe that a friendly ship’s captain could be approached at Aden. He would undoubtedly prove a kindly, sympathetic man. He would take them aboard his steamer and a week later they would begin to explore India.

Preparations for this protracted excursion go on apace. Money is thriftily collected, and what they naively imagine to be an explorer’s outfit is secretly brought together. Maps and guide-books are carefully consulted, the coloured pages and attractive photographs raising their wanderlust to fever heat. Finally they are able to fix the date when they intend to snap their fingers at destiny and leave the country. Who knows what lies around the corner?

They might have saved some of their youthful energy and conserved some of their early optimism. For on an unfortunate day the second boy’s guardian discovers the preparations, elicits further details of the affair, and comes down with a stern hand. What they suffer as a result is not to be related! The enterprise is reluctantly abandoned.

The desire to view India never leaves the promoter of that unfortunate expedition. The dawn of manhood, however, brings bonds in the form of other interests and holds his feet with enchaining duties. That desire has to be put regretfully in the background.

Time turns page after page of the calendar of years until he meets unexpectedly with a man who gives a temporary but vivid life to the old ambition. For the stranger’s face is dusky, his head is turbaned, and he comes from the sun-steeped land of Hindustan.

§

I fling out the fine net of remembrance to sweep the past years for pictures of that day when he steps into my life. The tide of autumn is fast ebbing, for the air is foggy and a bitter cold creeps through my clothing. Clammy fingers of depression strive hard to grip my failing heart.

I wander into a brightly-lit café and seek the borrowed comfort of its warmth. A cup of hot tea—so potent at other times—fails to restore my serenity. I cannot banish the heavy atmosphere which surrounds me. Melancholy has determined to make me serve her dark ends. Black curtains cover the entrance to my heart.

This restlessness is difficult to endure and it ends by driving me from the café into the open street. I walk without aim and follow old tracks until I find myself in front of a small bookshop which I know well. It is an ancient building and harbours equally ancient books. The proprietor^fn1 is a quaint man, a human relic surviving from an earlier century. This hustling epoch has little use for him, but he has just as little use for this epoch. He deals only in rare tomes and early editions, while specializing in curious and recondite subjects. He possesses a remarkable knowledge—so far as books can give it—of learning’s bypaths and out-of-the-way matters. From time to time, I like to wander into the old shop and discuss them with him.

I enter the place and greet him. For a while I finger the yellowed pages of calf-bound volumes or peer closely into faded folios. One ancient book engages my attention; it seems somewhat interesting and I examine it more carefully. The bespectacled bookseller notes my interest and, as is his wont, commences what he imagines to be an argument anent the book’s subject—metempsychosis.

The old man follows habit and keeps the discussion to his own side. He talks at length, appearing to know the pros and cons of that strange doctrine better than my author, while the classic authorities who have written about it are at his finger-tips. In this way I glean much curious information.

Suddenly, I hear a man stirring at the far end of the shop and, turning, I behold a tall figure emerge from the shadows which hide a little inner room where the costlier books are kept.

The stranger is an Indian. He walks toward us with an aristocratic bearing and faces the bookseller.

“My friend,” he says quietly, “pardon me for intruding. I could not help overhearing you, while the subject you discussed is of great interest to me. Now you quote the classical authors who first mention this idea of man’s continual rebirth upon this earth. The deeper minds among those philosophic Greeks, wise Africans and early Christian Fathers understood this doctrine well, I agree. But where, do you think, did it really originate?”

He pauses for a moment, but gives no time for a reply.

“Permit me to tell you,” he continues, smiling. “You must look to India for the first acceptance of metempsychosis in the Old World. It was a cardinal tenet among the people of my land, even in remote antiquity.”

The speaker’s face fascinates me. It is unusual; it would be distinguished-looking among a hundred Indians. Power kept in reserve—this is my reading of his character. Piercing eyes, a strong jaw and a lofty forehead make up the catalogue of his features. His skin is darker than that of the average Hindu. He wears a magnificent turban, the front of which is adorned with a sparkling jewel. For the rest, his clothes are European and finely tailored withal.

His slightly didactic statement does not appeal to the old gentleman behind the counter; in fact, vigorous opposition is offered to it.

“How can that be,” comes the sceptical observation, “when the East Mediterranean cities were flourishing centres of culture and civilization in the pre-Christian era? Did not the greatest intellects of antiquity live in the area which embraced Athens and Alexandria? So, surely their ideas were carried Southward and Eastward until India was reached?”

The Indian smiles tolerantly.

“Not at all,” is his immediate reply. “What really happened was quite the reverse of your assertion.”

“Indeed! You seriously suggest that the progressive West had to receive its philosophy from the laggard East? No, sir!” expostulates the bookseller.

“Why not? Read your Apuleius again, my friend, and learn how Pythagoras came to India, where he was instructed by the Brahmins. Then notice how he began to teach the doctrine of metempsychosis after his return to Europe. This is but a single instance. I can find others. Your reference to the laggard East makes me smile. Thousands of years ago our sages were pondering over the deepest problems while your own countrymen were not even aware that such problems existed.”

He stops curtly, looks intently at us, and waits for his words to sink into our minds. I fancy the old bookseller is a little perplexed. Never before have I seen him so struck into silence or so obviously impressed by another man’s intellectual authority.

I have listened quietly to the other customer’s words and make no attempt to offer a remark. Now there arises a conversational lull which all of us seem to recognize and to respect. Soon the Indian turns abruptly and retires to the inner room, only to emerge a couple of minutes later with a costly folio which he has selected from the shelves. He pays for the book and prepares to leave the shop. He reaches the door, whilst I stare wonderingly at his departing figure.

Suddenly, he turns again and approaches me. He draws a wallet out of his pocket and selects a visiting card.

“Would you care to pursue this conversation with me?” he asks, half smiling. I am taken by surprise, but gladly agree. He offers me the card, adding an invitation to dinner.

§

I set out toward evening to find the stranger’s house, a task not without its discomfort, for I am companioned by an unpleasant fog which has descended thickly upon the streets. An artist, I presume, would find a touch of romantic beauty in these fogs which sometimes brood over the town and dim its lights. My mind, however, is so intent upon the forthcoming meeting that I see no beauty and feel no unpleasantness in the surrounding atmosphere.

A terminus is set to my travels by a massive gateway which suddenly looms up. Two large lamps, as in greeting, are held out by iron brackets. My entry into the house is followed by a delightful surprise. For the Indian has given no hint of this unique interior, upon which he has obviously lavished a fine taste and free purse.

Let it suffice that I find myself in a great room, which might be part of some Asiatic palace for aught I know, so exotically is it furnished and so colourful are its gorgeous decorations. With the closing of the outer door I leave behind the grey, bleak Western world. The room has been decorated in a quaint combination of Indian and Chinese styles. Red, black and gold are the predominating colours. Resplendent tapestries, bearing sprawling Chinese dragons, stretch across the walls. Carved green dragon heads glare fiercely from all the corners, where they support brackets which carry costly pieces of handicraft. Two silken mandarin coats adorn both sides of the doorway. Boldly patterned Indian rugs repose on the parquet floor, one’s shoes sinking delightfully into their thick pile. A gigantic tiger skin stretches its full length in front of the hearth.

My eyes meet a small lacquered table which stands in one corner. Upon it rests a black ebony shrine with gilded folding doors. I glimpse the figure of some Indian god within the recess. It is probably a Buddha, for the face is calm and inscrutable and the two unwinking eyes gaze down at its nose.

My host greets me cordially. He is impeccably dressed in a black dinner suit. Such a man would look distinguished in any company in the world, I reflect. A few minutes later we both sit down to dinner. Some delightful dishes are brought to the table, and it is here that I receive my initiation into the pleasures of curry, thus acquiring a taste which is never to leave me. The servant who attends on us provides a picturesque note, for he wears a white jacket and trousers, a golden sash and spotless turban.

During the course of the meal our talk is superficial and general, yet whatever my host says, whatever subject he touches, his words invariably carry an air of finality. His statements are so phrased that they leave one with little ground for argument; his accents are so confident that his talk sounds like the last word upon the matter. I cannot help being impressed by his air of quiet assurance.

Over the coffee cups he tells me a little about himself. I learn that he has travelled widely and that he possesses some means. He regales me with vivid impressions of China—where he has spent a year, of Japan—whose amazing future he tersely predicts, of America, Europe and—strangest of all—of life in a Christian monastery in Syria, where he had once spent a period of retirement.

When we light our cigarettes he touches on the subject which was mentioned at the bookshop. But it is evident that he desires to talk of other things, for he soon leads the way to larger issues, and broaches the subject of India’s ancient wisdom.

“Some of the doctrines of our sages have already reached the West,” he remarks impressively, “but in most cases the real teachings have been misunderstood; in a few instances they have somehow been falsified. However, it is not for me to complain. What is India to-day? She is no longer representative of the lofty culture of her past. The greatness has gone out of her. It is sad, very sad. The masses hold on to a few ideals at the cost of being enmeshed in a fussy tangle of pseudo-religious fetters and unwise customs.”

“What is the cause of this degeneration?” I ask him.

My host is silent. A minute slowly passes. I watch him while his eyes begin to narrow until they are half-closed; then he quietly breaks the silence.

“Alas, my friend! Once there were great seers in my land, men who had penetrated the mysteries of life. Their advice was sought by king and commoner. Under their inspiration Indian civilization reached its zenith. To-day, where are they to be found? Two or three may remain—unknown, unrecorded and far from the main stream of modern life. When those great sages—Rishees, we call them—began to withdraw from society, then our own decline also began.”

His head droops till the chest must support his chin. A sorrowful note has entered his voice with the last sentence. For a while he seems withdrawn from me, his soul wrapped in melancholy meditation.

His personality impresses me again as being provocatively interesting and decidedly attractive. Eyes, dark and flashing, reveal a keen mentality; voice, soft and sympathetic, reflects a kindly heart. I feel anew that I like him.

The servant noiselessly enters the room and approaches the lacquered table. He lights a joss stick and a blue haze rises to the ceiling. The strange perfume of some Eastern incense spreads around the room. It is not unpleasant.

Suddenly my host raises his head and looks at me.

“Did I tell you that two or three still remain?” he asks queerly. “Ah, yes! I said that. Once I knew a great sage. It was a privilege about which I rarely speak to others now. He was my father, guide, master and friend. He possessed the wisdom of a god. I loved him as if I were really his own son. Whenever I stayed with him at fortunate intervals, I knew then that life at its heart is good. Such was the effect of his wonderful atmosphere. I, who have made art my hobby and beauty my ideal, learnt from him to see the divine beauty in men who were leprous, destitute or deformed; men from whom I formerly shrank in horror. He lived in a forest hermitage far from the towns. I stumbled upon his retreat seemingly by accident. From that day I paid him several visits, staying with him as long as I could. He taught me much. Yes—such a man could give greatness to any country.”

“Then why did he not enter public life and serve India?” I question frankly.

The Indian shakes his head.

“It is difficult enough for us to understand the motives of such an unusual man. It would be doubly difficult for you, a Westerner, to understand him. His answer might probably be that service can be rendered in secret through the telepathic power of the mind; that influence can be exerted from a distance in an unseen yet no less potent manner. He might also say that a degenerate society must suffer its destiny until the fated hour of relief strikes.”

I confess to being puzzled by this answer.

“Quite so, my friend, I expected that,” observes the other.

§

After that memorable evening I visit the Indian’s home many times, drawn by the lure of his unusual knowledge as much as by the attractiveness of his exotic personality. He touches some coiled spring among my ambitions and releases into urgency the desire to fathom life’s meaning. He stimulates me, less to satisfy intellectual curiosity than to win a worthwhile happiness.

One evening our conversation takes a turn which is destined to have important results for me. He describes on occasions the queer customs and peculiar traditions of his countrymen; sometimes he portrays in words a few of the types who people his amazing land. He drops a remark this evening anent a strange type, the Yogi. I possess but a vague and incoherent idea of what the term really means. It has come to my notice a few times during the course of my reading, but on each occasion the terms of reference differ so much from the others that confusion is the natural result. So, when I hear my friend use the word I stop him short and beg for further information.

“That I shall do with pleasure,” he answers, “but I can hardly tell you, in a single definition, what constitutes a Yogi. No doubt, a dozen of my countrymen will define the word in a dozen different ways. For instance, there are thousands of wandering beggars who pass by this name. They swarm through the villages and attend the periodic religious fairs in droves. Many are only lazy tramps and others vicious ones, while most are totally illiterate men, unaware of the history and doctrines of the science of Yoga, under whose shelter they masquerade.”

He pauses to flick the ash off his cigarette.

“Go, however, to some place like Rishikesh, over which the mighty Himalayas keep eternal guard. There you will find a totally different class of men. They live in humble huts or caves, eat little food and constantly pray to God. Religion is their breath; it occupies their minds day and night. They are mostly good men studying our sacred books and chanting prayers. Yet they, too, are called Yogis. But what have they in common with the beggars who prey on the ignorant masses? You see how elastic the term is! Between these two classes there are others who partake of the nature of both.”

“And yet there seems to be much made of the mysterious powers possessed by Yogis,” I remark.

“Ah! now you must listen to a further definition,” he laughs back at me. “There are strange individuals in solitary retreats far from the big cities, in the seclusion of lonely jungles or mountain caves, men who devote their entire existence to practices which they believe will bring marvellous powers. Some of these men will eschew all mention of religion and scorn it; others, however, are highly religious; but all of them unite in the struggle to wrest from Nature a mastery over forces invisible and intangible. You see, India has never been without her traditions of the mysterious, the occult, and many are the stories told of those adepts who could perform miraculous feats. Now these men, too, are called Yogis.”

“Have you met such men? Do you believe these traditions?” I ask innocently.

The other man is silent. He seems to be ruminating over the form in which to couch his reply.

My eyes turn to the shrine which stands upon the lacquered table. I fancy, in the soft light which fills our room, that the Buddha is smiling benignantly at me from its lotus throne of gilt wood. For half a minute I am ready to believe that there is something uncanny in its atmosphere; and then the Indian’s clear voice breaks into my thoughts and arrests my wandering fancies.

“Look!” he says quietly, holding something out for my inspection. He has loosed it from under his collar. “I am a Brahmin. This is my sacred thread. Thousands of years of strict segregation have made certain qualities of character instinctive in my caste. Western education and Western travelling can never remove them. Faith in a higher power, belief in the existence of supernatural forces, recognition of a spiritual evolution among men—these things were born in me as a Brahmin. I could not destroy them if I would, while reason is overpowered by them whenever the issue comes to battle. So, although I am quite in sympathy with the principles and methods of your modern sciences, what other answer can I give you, except this—I believe!”