as reprinted from Theosophical Siftings - Volume 2 - of 1889-1890
STEP aside, O toiling brother, into a convenient bye-way,
and for a moment let the surging crowd pass by. Do not tremble
like a child for fear that you may be hopelessly left behind,
for you will be forced back all too soon, though, if you
really pause, and truly ponder, you will never again be so
completely identified with the pursuits of the crowd, though
you will still be a part of it. Ask of your soul: " What
are these personalities that make up the mighty human tide
so widely rushing past — this rushing tide replenished
at every instant by birth, depleted at every instant by death,
yet flowing on for ever ?" How read you this journey
from the cradle to the grave ?
Think of the countless myriads whose weary, toiling, bleeding
feet have worn deep the channels of this river of time. Listen
to the complaints of the weary, the cries of the wounded,
the groans of the despairing. Watch with pity the ashen faces
as they hear the sound of the cataract ahead, over which
they know they must plunge alone into unknown depths. Many
are resigned in the presence of fate, for there is true courage
at the heart of humanity, but how few are joyous except through
ignorance and forgetfulness, and these are the frightened
ones in the presence of the inevitable.
Listen to the loud acclaims, when in the rushing stream one
is for a moment borne aloft on the crest of a wave, and watch
the envy and even malice of those who are inevitably drawn
into the hollow of the wave as they also struggle to reach
the crest. Alas! the waves of Wealth, and Fame, and Power;
Alas ! the bubbling foam of Love. The night cometh and the
stream is still; yet even in the arms of the Brother of Death
the echoes of these mighty waves chant their requiem.
Listen
a little deeper, O brother of my soul, and hear the sound
of many voices: " What shall I eat ? What shall I drink
? and wherewithal shall I be clothed ? " and then, alas! " O,
whither do I tend ? "
And still the surging tide rolls
on. A friend is passing yonder; hail him and beckon him to
thy side. He answers: " I cannot wait; I have not time." Alas!
what hath he else but time, and the foam of the maddening
billows?
Turn now to thy companion, he who bade thee turn
aside. Canst thou stop to consider, " Is he short, or
tall, or fat, or lean, or black, or white, or man, or woman
? ". " Are his garments soiled or clean ? ". "Comes
he from the East, or from the West ? " " Hath he
letters of introduction ? " " On whose authority
did he bid thee halt ? " " Did he speak in conventional
language, and with the [Page 16] proper accent ? " “
Has his raiment the odour of the sea, or the breath of the
mountain, or the fragrance of the flowery vale?"
Be
sure it is not thy awakened soul that thus inquires, 'tis
only the voice of the stream yonder, and when thou turnest
to look for thy companion, lo! he is gone, and thou art alone,
alone with thy soul, and with the echoes of the stream. Fear
chills thy blood, and every separate hair stands on end,
and as thou rushest back into the surging stream, even thy
boon companions are terrified at thy staring eyes, and thy
death-like face.
Hast thou seen a ghost ? yea, verily, the
ghost of ghosts, the Dweller of the Threshold, and yet thou
mightest have found a friend, a teacher, a brother. Rush
back into the stream, O ! terrified, thou that fleest from
thy shadow and plunge beneath the festering waves, yet, even
as its murky waters over-
whelm thee, thy muscles creep, fear tugs at thy heart-strings.
Drain deep the cup, mount high the wave,
Tramp down the weak, envy the brave!
Bear high the bowl with dance and song,
Laugh at thy fears, shout loud and long,
“O wine of Life ! O vintage rare !
Pressed by sore feet in deep despair."
Slowly the pendulum of time
Swings to and fro, with measured chime,
The Dweller o'er on Bacchus waits,
And jealous guards the golden gates,
O ! wine of wisdom ! soul distilled,
Won from the silence, Life fulfilled.
Vain are the things of time and sense,
Who follows these finds recompense,
Yet he who turns from these and waits,
The glimmer of the golden gates
Will bless the hand, whate'er it be
That tenders chart or offers key.
Came not the Christ in humble mien ?
Poor and despised, the Nazarene,
And humble fishermen chose He
Beside the sea of Galilee;
Left not Lord Buddha throne and power
To meditate at midnight hour ?
What matters it what hand bestows
The balm of healing for our woes ?
For God is God, and Truth is Truth,
Ripe age is but immortal youth.
Let personalities alone,
Go through the gates! and reach the throne.
How many are turned aside by personalities ? How many look
to the garb of the messenger, forgetting the message, and
yet is not the message plain ? At [Page 17] one time the message comes from a manger, at another it descends
from a throne. Yet is the message ever the same. Nature and
time regard not personalities, but swallow up all alike,
yet do nature and time and destiny teach ever the same great
lesson, and he who would learn of these must both forego
and forget personalities, his own and those of others. Personalities
are but the fleeting waves on the river of time, caused by
the friction of the winds of fortune; they are thy weakness
and not thy strength. Thy strength is in thy soul, and thy
soul's strength is in the calm, and not in storm revealed.
Inquire not who or what the messenger, but study well the
message that comes to thy soul, and bears thee ban or blessing,
according as thou receivest it, and while thou waitest with
lamps untrimmed the Bridegroom passes by.
What matters it to thee what infirmities the messenger may
bear, except as thou mayest help him so to bear them that
truth may run a freer race ? Is it not enough for thee that
truth hath given him her signet ring? Judge, then, of this,
and if he falter in his speech or loiter by the way, take
up the theme in clearer tones and speak of it from thy soul
to all thy kind.
Wilt thou withhold thy blessing from the hand that bears
the gift, and covet while rejecting the very gift it bears.
If thou art so at cross purposes with thyself, how canst
thou be at one with truth ?
Truth is many-sided, speaks every
language, is clothed in every garb, yet is she ever still
the same, One, and unchangeable, now and for ever, And if
she is no respector of persons, canst thou be more select
than she ? Alas! thou canst not find her thus, but error
rather, and self-deceived rush down the stream of time, and
when thy personalities fall off then shalt thou realize that
thou didst refuse the banquet of the gods by scorning thus
their messenger. Search out, and know and love and serve
the truth, for truth's own sake. Follow it through all disguises
with scent more sure and keen than hound in search of game.
Refuse it not, though it reach thee from a dunghill, welcome
it as though straight from God's own throne, and thus shall
it ne'er escape thee, and neither love, nor hate, nor fear
shall mar thy harvests, and truth shall honour thee, as thou
hast welcomed her.
Beware of false authority, for neither pope nor priest, nor
book can of itself contain it all, and yet despise them not,
for so thou'lt miss the truth, The sole authority for truth
is truth’s own self and if thy soul is but akin to
her, thy quickened soul will recognize her every garb, by
ties more strong than blood, by kinship everlasting, and
as the waters mingle with the sea, so flows thy soul into
the bosom of the deeps whence springs afresh in thee the
everlasting Life which is the vital breath of Truth.
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