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# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 8/Epistles - Fourth Series/XLV Sister

XLV
To Miss Mary Hale
(Written on birch bark)
PERCY N. H.,
17 June, 1895.
DEAR SISTER,
Going tomorrow to the Thousand Islands care Miss Dutcher's, Thousand Island Park, N.Y. Where are you now? Where will you all be in summer? I have a chance of going to Europe in August, I will come to see you before I go. So write to me. Also I expect books and letters from India. Kindly send them care Miss Phillips, 19 W. 38th Street, N.Y. This is the bark in which all holy writings are written in India. So I write Sanskrit: May the husband of Uma (Shiva) protect you always.
May you all be blessed ever and ever.
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 8/Epistles - Fourth Series/XL Friend

XL
To Mr. E. T. Sturdy
54 W. 33RD STREET,
NEW YORK,
24th April, 1895.
DEAR FRIEND,
I am perfectly aware that although some truth underlies the mass of mystical thought which has burst upon the Western world of late, it is for the most part full of motives, unworthy, or insane. For this reason, I have never had anything to do with these phases of religion, either in India or elsewhere, and mystics as a class are not very favourable to me. . . .
I quite agree with you that only the Advaita philosophy can save mankind, whether in East or West, from "devil worship" and kindred superstitions, giving tone and strength to the very nature of man. India herself requires this, quite as much or even more than the West. Yet it is hard uphill work, for we have first to create a taste, then teach, and lastly proceed to build up the whole fabric.
Perfect sincerity, holiness, gigantic intellect, and an all-conquering will. Let only a handful of men work with these, and the whole world will be revolutionised. I did a good deal of platform work in this country last year, and received plenty of applause, but found that I was only working for myself. It is the patient upbuilding of character, the intense struggle to realise the truth, which alone will tell in the future of humanity. So this year I am hoping to work along this line — training up to practical Advaita realisation a small band of men and women. I do not know how far I shall succeed. The West is the field for work if a man wants to benefit humanity, rather than his own particular sect or country. I agree perfectly as to your idea of a magazine. But I have no business capacity at all to do these things. I can teach and preach, and sometimes write. But I have intense faith in Truth. The Lord will send help and hands to work with me. Only let me be perfectly pure, perfectly sincere, and perfectly unselfish.
"Truth alone triumphs, not untruth; through truth alone stretches the way to the Lord" (Atharva-Veda). He who gives up the little self for the world will find the whole universe his. . . . I am very uncertain about coming to England. I know no one there, and here I am doing some work. The Lord will guide, in His own time.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 8/Epistles - Fourth Series/XVI Sisters

XVI
To the Hale Sisters
DETROIT,
12th March, 1894.
DEAR SISTERS,
I am now living with Mr. Palmer. He is a very nice gentleman. He gave a dinner the night before last to a group of his old friends, each more than 60 years of age, which he calls his "old boys' club". I spoke at an opera house for two hours and a half. People were very much pleased. I am going to Boston and New York. I will get here sufficient to cover my expenses there. I have forgotten the addresses of both Flagg and Prof. Wright. I am not going to lecture in Michigan, Mr. Holden tried to persuade me this morning to lecture in Michigan but I am quite bent upon seeing a little of Boston and New York. To tell you the truth, the more I am getting popularity and facility in speaking, the more I am getting fed up. My last address was the best I ever delivered. Mr. Palmer was in ecstasies and the audience remained almost spellbound, so much so that it was after the lecture that I found I had spoken so long. A speaker always feels the uneasiness or inattention of the audience. Lord save me from such nonsense, I am fed up. I would take rest in Boston or New York if the Lord permits. My love to you all. May you ever be happy!
Your affectionate brother,
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 8/Epistles - Fourth Series/XXII Mother

XXII
To Mrs. George W. Hale
C/O Dr. E. Guernsey,
FISHKILL LANDING, N.Y.,
July, 1894.
DEAR MOTHER,
I came yesterday to this place, and shall remain here a few days. I received in New York a letter from you but did not receive any Interior, for which I am glad, because I am not perfect yet, and knowing the "unselfish love" the Presbyterian priests, especially the Interior has for "me", I want to keep aloof from rousing bad feelings towards these "sweet Christian gentlemen" in my heart.
Our religion teaches that anger is a great sin, even if it is "righteous". Each must follow his own religion. I could not for my soul distinguish ever the distinction between "religious anger" and "commonplace anger", "religious killing" and "commonplace killing", "religious slandering and irreligious", and so forth. Nor may that "fine" ethical distinction ever enter into the ethics of our nation! Jesting apart, Mother Church, I do not care the least for the gambols these men play, seeing as I do through and through the insincerity, the hypocrisy, and love of self and name that is the only motive power in these men.
As to the photographs, the first time the Babies got a few copies, and the second time you brought a few copies; you know they are to give 50 copies in all. Sister Isabelle knows better than I.
With my sincerest love and respects for you and Father Pope.
I remain,
Yours,
VIVEKANANDA.
PS. How are you enjoying the heat? I am bearing the heat very well here. I had an invitation to Swampscott on the sea from a very rich lady whose acquaintance I made last winter in New York, but I declined with thanks. I am very careful not to take the hospitality of anybody here, especially the rich. I had a few other invitations from some very rich people here. I refused; I have by this time seen the whole business through. Lord bless you and yours, Mother Church, for your sincerity. Oh! it is so rare in this world.
Yours affectionately,
V.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 8/Epistles - Fourth Series/XVIII Sister Mary

XVIII
To Miss Mary Hale
DETROIT,
18th March, 1894.
DEAR SISTER MARY,
My heartfelt thanks for your kindly sending me the letter from Calcutta. It was from my brethren at Calcutta, and it is written on the occasion of a private invitation to celebrate the birthday of my Master about whom you have heard so much from me — so I send it over to you. The letter says that Mazoomdar has gone back to Calcutta and is preaching that Vivekananda is committing every sin under the sun in America. . . . This is your America's wonderful spiritual man! It is not their fault; until one is really spiritual, that is, until one has got a real insight into the nature of one's own soul and has got a glimpse of the world of the soul, one cannot distinguish chaff from seed, tall talk from depth, and so on. I am sorry for poor Mazoomdar that he should stoop so low! Lord bless the old boy!
The address inside the letter is in English and is my old, old name as written by a companion of my childhood who has also taken orders. It is a very poetic name. That written in the letter is an abbreviation, the full name being Narendra meaning the "Chief of men" ("nara" means "man", and "indra" stands for "ruler", "chief") — very ludicrous, isn't it? But such are the names in our country; we cannot help, but I am glad I have given that up.
I am all right. Hoping it is same with you.
I remain your brother,
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Rendition

THE RENDITION
On the 2d of June, 1854, Anthony Burns, a fugitive slave from Virginia, after being under arrest for ten days in the Boston Court House, was remanded to slavery under the Fugitive Slave Act, and taken down State Street to a steamer chartered by the United States Government, under guard of United States troops and artillery, Massachusetts militia and Boston police. Public excitement ran high, a futile attempt to rescue Burns having been made during his confinement, and the streets were crowded with tens of thousands of people, of whom many came from other towns and cities of the State to witness the humiliating spectacle.
I heard the train’s shrill whistle call, I saw an earnest look beseech, And rather by that look than speech My neighbor told me all.
And, as I thought of Liberty Marched handcuffed down that sworded street, The solid earth beneath my feet Reeled fluid as the sea.
I felt a sense of bitter loss,— Shame, tearless grief, and stifling wrath, And loathing fear, as if my path A serpent stretched across.
All love of home, all pride of place, All generous confidence and trust, Sank smothering in that deep disgust And anguish of disgrace.
Down on my native hills of June, And home’s green quiet, hiding all, Fell sudden darkness like the fall Of midnight upon noon!
And Law, an unloosed maniac, strong, Blood-drunken, through the blackness trod, Hoarse-shouting in the ear of God The blasphemy of wrong.
“O Mother, from thy memories proud, Thy old renown, dear Commonwealth, Lend this dead air a breeze of health, And smite with stars this cloud.
“Mother of Freedom, wise and brave, Rise awful in thy strength,” I said; Ah me! I spake but to the dead; I stood upon her grave!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Pressed Gentian

THE PRESSED GENTIAN
The time of gifts has come again, And, on my northern window-pane, Outlined against the day’s brief light, A Christmas token hangs in sight. The wayside travellers, as they pass, Mark the gray disk of clouded glass; And the dull blankness seems, perchance, Folly to their wise ignorance.
They cannot from their outlook see The perfect grace it hath for me; For there the flower, whose fringes through The frosty breath of autumn blew, Turns from without its face of bloom To the warm tropic of my room, As fair as when beside its brook The hue of bending skies it took.
So from the trodden ways of earth, Seem some sweet souls who veil their worth, And offer to the careless glance The clouding gray of circumstance. They blossom best where hearth-fires burn, To loving eyes alone they turn The flowers of inward grace, that hide Their beauty from the world outside.
But deeper meanings come to me, My half-immortal flower, from thee! Man judges from a partial view, None ever yet his brother knew; The Eternal Eye that sees the whole May better read the darkened soul, And find, to outward sense denied, The flower upon its inmost side!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Pumpkin

THE PUMPKIN
Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, Like that which o’er Nineveh’s prophet once grew, While he waited to know that his warning was true, And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold; Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling, When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a caudle within! When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon, Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam, In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking, than thine! And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkinvine grow, And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Red River Voyageur

THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR
[Suggested by reading the following passage in Minnesota and its Resources, by J. Wesley Bond: “As I pass slowly along the lonely road that leads me from thee; Selkirk, mine eyes do turn continually to gaze upon thy smiling, golden fields, and thy lofty towers, now burnished with the rays of the departing sun, while the sweet vesper bell reverberates afar and strikes so mournfully pleasant upon mine ear. I feel satisfied that, though absent thousands of weary miles, my thoughts will always dwell on thee with rapturous emotions.” At midnight, with the last stroke of the clock ushering in the 17th of December, 1891, the 84th anniversary of Whittier’s birth, the bells of St. Boniface rang a joyous peal.]
Out and in the river is winding The links of its long, red chain, Through belts of dusky pine-land And gusty leagues of plain.
Only, at times, a smoke-wreath With the drifting cloud-rack joins,— The smoke of the hunting-lodges Of the wild Assiniboins!
Drearily blows the north-wind From the land of ice and snow; The eyes that look are weary, And heavy the hands that row.
And with one foot on the water, And one upon the shore, The Angel of Shadow gives warning That day shall be no more.
Is it the clang of wild-geese? Is it the Indian’s yell, That lends to the voice of the north-wind The tones of a far-off bell?
The voyageur smiles as he listens To the sound that grows apace; Well he knows the vesper ringing Of the bells of St. Boniface.
The bells of the Roman Mission, That call from their turrets twain, To the boatman on the river, To the hunter on the plain!
Even so in our mortal journey The bitter north-winds blow, And thus upon life’s Red River Our hearts, as oarsmen, row.
And when the Angel of Shadow Rests his feet on wave and shore, And our eyes grow dim with watching And our hearts faint at the oar,
Happy is he who heareth The signal of his release In the bells of the Holy City, The chimes of eternal peace!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Quakers are out

THE QUAKERS ARE OUT
[A campaign song written to be sung at a Republican Mass Meeting held in Newburyport, Mass., October 11, 1860.]
Not vainly we waited and counted the hours, The buds of our hope have all burst into flowers. No room for misgiving—no loop-hole of doubt,— We ’ve heard from the Keystone! The Quakers are out.
The plot has exploded—we ’ve found out the trick; The bribe goes a-begging; the poison won’t stick. When the Wide-awake lanterns are shining about, The rogues stay at home, and the true men are out!
The good State has broken the cords for her spun; Her oil-springs and water won’t fuse into one; The Dutchman has seasoned with Freedom his krout, And slow, late, but certain, the Quakers are out!
Give the flags to the winds! set the hills all aflame! Make way for the man with the Patriarch’s name! Away with misgiving—away with all doubt, For Lincoln goes in, when the Quakers are out!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Quaker of the Olden Time

SONGS OF LABOR AND REFORM
THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME
The Quaker of the olden time! How calm and firm and true, Unspotted by its wrong and crime, He walked the dark earth through. The lust of power, the love of gain, The thousand lures of sin Around him, had no power to stain The purity within.
With that deep insight which detects All great things in the small, And knows how each man’s life affects The spiritual life of all, He walked by faith and not by sight, By love and not by law; The presence of the wrong or right He rather felt than saw.
He felt that wrong with wrong partakes, That nothing stands alone, That whoso gives the motive, makes His brother’s sin his own. And, pausing not for doubtful choice Of evils great or small, He listened to that inward voice Which called away from all.
O Spirit of that early day, So pure and strong and true, Be with us in the narrow way Our faithful fathers knew. Give strength the evil to forsake, The cross of Truth to bear, And love and reverent fear to make Our daily lives a prayer!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Relic

THE RELIC
Written on receiving a cane wrought from a fragment of the wood-work of Pennsylvania Hall which the fire had spared.
Token of friendship true and tried, From one whose fiery heart of youth With mine has beaten, side by side, For Liberty and Truth; With honest pride the gift I take, And prize it for the giver’s sake.
But not alone because it tells Of generous hand and heart sincere; Around that gift of friendship dwells A memory doubly dear; Earth’s noblest aim, man’s holiest thought, With that memorial frail inwrought!
Pure thoughts and sweet like flowers unfold, And precious memories round it cling, Even as the Prophet’s rod of old In beauty blossoming: And buds of feeling, pure and good, Spring from its cold unconscious wood.
Relic of Freedom’s shrine! a brand Plucked from its burning! let it be Dear as a jewel from the hand Of a lost friend to me! Flower of a perished garland left, Of life and beauty unbereft!
Oh, if the young enthusiast bears, O’er weary waste and sea, the stone Which crumbled from the Forum’s stairs, Or round the Parthenon; Or olive-bough from some wild tree Hung over old Thermopylæ:
If leaflets from some hero’s tomb, Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary; Or faded flowers whose sisters bloom On fields renowned in story; Or fragment from the Alhambra’s crest, Or the gray rock by Druids blessed;
Sad Erin’s shamrock greenly growing Where Freedom led her stalwart kern, Or Scotia’s “rough bur thistle” blowing On Bruce’s Bannockburn; Or Runnymede’s wild English rose, Or lichen plucked from Sempach’s snows!
If it be true that things like these To heart and eye bright visions bring, Shall not far holier memories To this memorial cling? Which needs no mellowing mist of time To hide the crimson stains of crime!
Wreck of a temple, unprofaned; Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod Lifting on high, with hands unstained, Thanksgiving unto God; Where Mercy’s voice of love was pleading For human hearts in bondage bleeding!
Where, midst the sound of rushing feet And curses on the night-air flung, That pleading voice rose calm and sweet From woman’s earnest tongue; And Riot turned his scowling glance, Awed, from her tranquil countenance!
That temple now in ruin lies! The fire-stain on its shattered wall, And open to the changing skies Its black and roofless hall, It stands before a nation’s sight, A gravestone over buried Right!
But from that ruin, as of old, The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying, And from their ashes white and cold Its timbers are replying! A voice which slavery cannot kill Speaks from the crumbling arches still!
And even this relic from thy shrine, O holy Freedom! hath to me A potent power, a voice and sign To testify of thee; And, grasping it, methinks I feel A deeper faith, a stronger zeal.
And not unlike that mystic rod, Of old stretched o’er the Egyptian wave, Which opened, in the strength of God, A pathway for the slave, It yet may point the bondman’s way, And turn the spoiler from his prey.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Reward

THE REWARD
Who, looking backward from his manhood’s prime, Sees not the spectre of his misspent time? And, through the shade Of funeral cypress planted thick behind, Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind From his loved dead?
Who bears no trace of passion’s evil force? Who shuns thy sting, O terrible Remorse? Who does not cast On the thronged pages of his memory’s book, At times, a sad and half-reluctant look, Regretful of the past?
Alas! the evil which we fain would shun We do, and leave the wished-for good undone: Our strength to-day Is but to-morrow’s weakness, prone to fall; Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all Are we alway.
Yet who, thus looking backward o’er his years, Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears, If he hath been Permitted, weak and sinful as he was,
To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause, His fellow-men?
If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin; If he hath lent Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need, Over the suffering, mindless of his creed Or home, hath bent;
He has not lived in vain, and while he gives The praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives, With thankful heart; He gazes backward, and with hope before, Knowing that from his works he nevermore Can henceforth part.
# The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night/Hatim et Taï: His Generosity After Death

First-level story, told by Shehrzad
HATIM ET TAÏ: HIS GENEROSITY AFTER DEATH.
It is told of Hatim et Taï, that when he died, they buried him on the top of a mountain and set over his grave two troughs hewn out of two rocks and stone figures of women with dishevelled hair. At the foot of the hill was a stream of running water, and when wayfarers camped there, they heard loud crying in the night, from dark till daybreak; but when they arose in the morning, they found nothing but the girls carved in stone. Now when Dhoulkeraa, King of Himyer, going forth of his tribe, came to the valley, he halted to pass the night there and drawing near the mountain, heard the crying and said, Night cclxx.‘What lamenting is that on yonder hill?’ They answered him, saying, ‘This is the tomb of Hatim et Taï, over which are two troughs of stone and stone figures of girls with dishevelled hair; and all who camp in this place by night hear this crying and lamenting.’ So he said jestingly, ‘O Hatim et Taï, we are thy guests this night, and we are lank with hunger.’ Then sleep overcame him, but presently he awoke in affright and cried out, saying, ‘Help, O Arabs! Look at my beast!’ So they came to him and finding his she-camel struggling in the death-agony, slaughtered it and roasted its flesh and ​ate. Then they asked him what had happened and he said, ‘When I closed my eyes, I saw in my sleep Hatim et Taï, who came to me with a sword in his hand and said to me, “Thou comest to us and we have nothing by us.” Then he smote my she-camel with his sword, and she would have died, though ye had not come to her and cut her throat.’ Next morning the prince mounted the beast of one of his companions and taking the latter up behind him, set out and fared on till midday, when they saw a man coming towards them, mounted on a camel and leading another, and said to him, ‘Who art thou?’ ‘I am Adi, son of Hatim et Taï,’ answered he. ‘Where is Dhoulkeraa, prince of Himyer?’ ‘This is he,’ replied they, and he said to the prince, ‘Take this camel in place of thine own, which my father slaughtered for thee.’ ‘Who told thee of this?’ asked Dhoulkeraa, and Adi answered, ‘My father appeared to me in a dream last night and said to me, “Harkye, Adi; Dhoulkeraa, King of Himyer, sought hospitality of me and I, having nought to give him, slaughtered him his she-camel, that he might eat: so do thou carry him a she-camel to ride, for I have nothing.”’ And Dhoulkeraa took her, marvelling at the generosity of Hatim et Taï, alive and dead.
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