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130 And at last comes the plaintive tenderness of that call to Mary:

There are numerous shorter poems in both volumes treating of the same subject: notably those powerful lines "To Parnell," and the elegy beginning,

But "for a' that and a' that," Lionel Johnson was no Celtic poet. One critic has asserted that in him the Irish revival lost "its poet of firmest fibre and its most resonant voice—the only voice in which there was the cordial of a great courage." But when all is said, it was a voice from without. Perhaps the clearest way to draw this distinction is to set side by side Johnson's treatment of a Celtic theme with, for instance, that of Mr. Yeats. The latter's poem on the "Death of Cuhoolin" ends thus:

This is by no means a superlative example of the Irish poet's work, but it has caught something of the crude, epic, dream-like simplicity of a primitive saga. Now in "Cyhiraeth," Johnson has embodied the story of Llewellyn of Llanarmon

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Rh and the strange summons that came to him from the Ghostly Gate. In lines of weird beauty he describes the "dolour and the dirge" which swept upon the land one cold midnight, the "bitterness of wounding fire which pierced the chieftain's heart." Then

The power of such poetry is undeniable: but is one not conscious of the long vista of time and art through which our bard looks back upon his subject? The Celtic inspiration was in truth a precious and powerful factor in Lionel Johnson's poetry; one is not so certain that it was an inevitable or an inalienable one.

On the other hand, any divorce between the poet and his religious lyrics would be quite inconceivable. His early lines to "Our Lady of the Snows" are one of the most beautiful expressions of the contemplative ideal to be found in English poetry: while his "Visions" of Hell, Purgatory and Heaven are notable alike for extreme delicacy of touch and extreme power. But it was reserved for the second volume to prove this scholarly young convert one of the loveliest of our devotional poets. It is seldom possible to wander far among the lily-beds of English sacred lyrics without meeting traces of Crashaw, the ever-fragrant; and in Lionel Johnson the affinity is quite manifest. Indeed, many of his Catholic

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132 poems are altogether worthy of a place beside the master's. Such is that hymn of exquisite beauty, "Our Lady of the May":

And this is scarcely more beautiful than a dozen others which follow or precede. "Te Martyrum Candidatus" has been one of the most frequently quoted; and lines like—

illustrate how admirably its metre reproduces the triumphant onward rush of those White Horsemen, the "fair chivalry of Christ." All this is merely a further instance of the poet's mastery over technical form; this time in a department where, perhaps more than in any other division of verse, purely artistic excellence is prone to be neglected. Yet every reader must be aware that

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It was heavy hap for that hero young on his lord beloved to look and find him lying on earth with life at end, sorrowful sight. But the slayer too, awful earth-dragon, empty of breath, lay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure, could the writhing monster rule it more. For edges of iron had ended its days, hard and battle-sharp, hammers’ leaving; and that flier-afar had fallen to ground hushed by its hurt, its hoard all near, no longer lusty aloft to whirl at midnight, making its merriment seen, proud of its prizes: prone it sank by the handiwork of the hero-king. Forsooth among folk but few achieve, —though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me, and never so daring in deed of valor,— the perilous breath of a poison-foe to brave, and to rush on the ring-hoard hall, whenever his watch the warden keeps bold in the barrow. Beowulf paid the price of death for that precious hoard; and each of the foes had found the end of this fleeting life. Befell erelong that the laggards in war the wood had left,


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Rh the religious sincerity of Johnson's poems did not suffer by his formal precision. What could be more tender, more straightforward, than "Sursum Corda," lines addressed to his contemporary poet, Francis Thompson?

But as an expression of pure spiritual yearning, Lionel Johnson has scarcely left us a gift of more haunting beauty than the short poem, "De Profundis":

So far, we recognize the spiritual exaltation, the lyric loveliness of Crashaw and the older Catholic hymnists. But listen:

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146 trothbreakers, cowards, ten together, fearing before to flourish a spear in the sore distress of their sovran lord. Now in their shame their shields they carried, armor of fight, where the old man lay; and they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he sat at his sovran’s shoulder, shieldsman good, to wake him with water. Nowise it availed. Though well he wished it, in world no more could he barrier life for that leader-of-battles nor baffle the will of all-wielding God. Doom of the Lord was law o’er the deeds of every man, as it is to-day. Grim was the answer, easy to get, from the youth for those that had yielded to fear! Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan,— mournful he looked on those men unloved:— “Who sooth will speak, can say indeed that the ruler who gave you golden rings and the harness of war in which ye stand —for he at ale-bench often-times bestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate, lord to liegemen, the likeliest gear which near or far he could find to give,— threw away and wasted these weeds of battle, on men who failed when the foemen came!


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134

There we catch the voice of our own Lionel Johnson, the poet of austere ideals, bruised and forespent by the battle; the poet of faith through an age incredulous. Bravely he faced the conflict, but no longer joyously: the maladie du siècle had touched him.

In approaching his more personal poems, we shall have to face the most serious charge ever brought against Johnson's poetry—the charge that it is lacking in true emotional quality. We are told that his lyrics spring from and express a thought rather than a feeling; and to admit this unreservedly is to imply that Johnson should have confined himself to prose. But can one admit it? The plaintive, eerie melody of "Morfydd" goes sighing through the mind:

One remembers, too, the splendid climax of those later lines, "To Morfydd Dead"—

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Rh Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms venture to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder, God, gave him grace that he got revenge sole with his sword in stress and need. To rescue his life, ’twas little that I could serve him in struggle; yet shift I made (hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman. Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck that fatal foe, and the fire less strongly flowed from its head.—Too few the heroes in throe of contest that thronged to our king! Now gift of treasure and girding of sword, joy of the house and home-delight shall fail your folk; his freehold-land every clansman within your kin shall lose and leave, when lords highborn hear afar of that flight of yours, a fameless deed. Yea, death is better for liegemen all than a life of shame!”

That battle-toil bade he at burg to announce, at the fort on the cliff, where, full of sorrow, all the morning earls had sat, daring shieldsmen, in doubt of twain: would they wail as dead, or welcome home, their lord belovéd? Little kept back of the tidings new, but told them all, the herald that up the headland rode.— “Now the willing-giver to Weder folk


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216 mass, which was great, exceptionally uninspired. Such metrical effort, quite as much as Einhart's consciously classicizing Latin prose, represents a survival of the antique excited to recrudescence in forms which, if they were not classical, at least had not become anything else. Stylistically, and perhaps temperamentally, it represented the ending of what had nearly passed away, rather than the beginning of the more organic development which was to come.

Among these men, Alcuin and Rabanus broadly represent at once the intellectual interests of the period and the first stage in the process of the mediaeval appropriation of the patristic and antique material. The affectionate and sympathetic personality of the former appears throughout his voluminous correspondence with Charles and others, which shows, among other matters, the interest of the time in elementary points of Latinity, and the alertness of the mind of the great king, who put so many questions to his genial instructor upon grammar, astronomy, and such like knowledge. An examination of the works of Alcuin will indicate the range and character of the educational and more usual intellectual interests of the epoch. In fact, they are outlined in a simple fashion suited to youthful minds in his treatise upon Grammar. Its opening colloquy presents a sort of programme and justification of elementary secular studies.

"We have heard you saying," begins Discipulus, "that philosophy is the teacher (magistra) of all virtues, and that she alone of secular riches has never left the possessor miserable. Lend a hand, good Master,"—and the pupil becomes self-deprecatory. "Flint has fire within, which comes out only when struck; so the light of knowledge exists by nature in human minds, but a teacher is needed to knock it out."

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Rh and they do not seem to speak of frigid formalism. Neither do the odes to "Winchester," nor the wonderfully tender poems on friendship to be found in both volumes. The truth of the charge is probably this: all the world loves a lover (at least, theoretically), and Lionel Johnson did not show the usual predilection toward interpreting this master passion. His love poems are few in number. But if any reader be tempted to doubt this poet's capacity for the very white heat of emotion, we would commend to his perusal "The Destroyer of a Soul," or those passionately beautiful lines, "A Proselyte":

Deeper still may we pierce to the heart-pleading of that early and tragic poem "Darkness"—even to the vehement self-revelation of "The Dark Angel," and its companion-piece, "To Passions":

Such lines are more convincing to some of us than the melodramatic outpourings of a Byron. As for "The Dark Angel"—perhaps the most famous of all Lionel Johnson's work—that is a poem of quintessential power, a very flash-light upon the bitter and eternal conflict which had its rise in Eden:

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136

There is something well-nigh intolerable in the verisimilitude of the poem, in its frightful arraignment of this "venomous spirit" who broods over the world of Nature and art, tormenting the land of dreams, blackening the face of spring and youth and life itself. The lines would be almost sinister were it not for the splendid courage of those final stanzas:—

The man who wrote those lines felt, indeed; but upon his lips lay the seal of culture and of temperamental repression. This was the veil of his heart's inner sanctuary—that "Precept of Silence" which one of his most characteristic poems has immortalised:

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By no means insignificant is the "criticism of life" throughout this poetry. Lionel Johnson was one of a little band who through all the turmoil of late nineteenth-century thought—through the storms of rationalism and materialism and so-called realism—kept their faces steadfastly toward the East. Truth and Beauty shone as twin stars before his quiet gaze; it was his supreme achievement to create works of art which "suffice the eye and save the soul beside." His message, all along, was one of reconciliation. He contrived to be at once the apostle of culture and of devotion, of art and of nature, of modernity and of the ancient. His love for Catholicity and for Ireland nowise lessened his joy in England; nor did his exultation in the forest wilds dull his ears to the call of London's thoroughfares. One marvels, seeing the gracious harmony of his pages, where the imagined hostility could have lain. Now, of course, one cause of this comprehensive view was the aloofness of his attitude. His sensitiveness was very exquisite, his sympathy with human experience was very keen; but he stood a little apart from life. His was the attitude of philosopher and contemplative; although never that of the mere academician. Perhaps his own interior struggle served to obviate a natural tendency toward exclusiveness, and to unite the poet with his great labouring and suffering brotherhood. It is never easy for a temperament like Johnson's to overcome its intolerance for many aspects of human nature. It is never easy to recognise that the spirit is willing and the flesh

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138 weak, without despising the flesh. But if there be one line of development perceptible throughout our poet's work, it is an increasing tendency toward the human and concrete. It is a long, long cry from the "proud and lonely scorn" of temptation that goes singing through his youthful "Ideal," to the humbled yet resolute wrestling of his "Dark Angel." For the rest, we shall have to admit that Lionel Johnson's song was for the few rather than the many—that the nun-like delicacy and austerity of his muse made any popular recognition quite improbable.

As critic, Johnson has met with a more liberal appreciation. The Art of Thomas Hardy, upon which that reputation rests mainly, is universally recognised as one of the sanest and most scholarly pieces of work called forth by recent fiction. The subject of this first volume testifies very clearly to its author's singular openness of mind: "I remember," he says, "but few of Mr. Hardy's general sentiments, about the meaning of the unconscious universe, or of conscious mankind, with which I do not disagree his tone of thought neither charms nor compels me to acquiesce; but it is because I am thus averse from the attitude of a disciple, that I admire Mr. Hardy's art so confidently." Here, in truth, is the perfect critical temper—leading the artist to whom spiritual laws were the prime realities to lay his tribute at the shrine of another artist, of another philosophy. But in Hardy, Lionel Johnson recognised the essential humanist, the legitimate descendant of a noble line of English novelists, a master of constructive art, and a truthful portrayer of Wessex life and thought.

"He dwells, in a dramatic meditation, upon the earth's antiquity, the thought of the world's grey fathers,' and, in particular, upon certain tracts

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Rh of land, with which he has an intimacy old names, and old houses lingering in decay  pagan impulses, the spirit of material and natural religion, the wisdom and the simplicity, the blind and groping thoughts of a living peasantry still primitive He loves to contemplate the entrance of new social ways and forms, into a world of old social preference and tradition; to show how there is waged, all the land over, a conflict between street and field, factory and farm, or between the instincts of blood and the capacities of brain; to note how a little leaven of fresh learning may work havoc among the weighty mass of ancient, customary thought  to build up, touch by touch, stroke upon stroke, the tragedy of such collision, the comedy of such contrast, the gentle humour or the heartless satire of it all, watched and recorded by an observant genius."

Such passages, as sonorous as they are sympathetic, bring all of us to the deeper understanding of Hardy's work. But the book is even broader in scope, tracing the history of the English novel from the time of Defoe, and characterising with rare insight its different developments. "The modern novel," observes Johnson, "differs from its predecessors mainly in this: that it is concerned, not with the storm and stress of great, clear passions and emotions, but with the complication of them: there is a sense of entanglement Psychology, to use that ambitious term, supplies the novelist with studies and materials; not only the free and open aspect of life itself." A sense of entanglement! Could any other one phrase so aptly have summed up the strength and weakness of latter-day fiction, from George Meredith or George Eliot to Henry James?

It was characteristic of Lionel Johnson that his

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140 appeal should have been ever to the past. "That inestimable debt of reverence, of fidelity, of under-standing" which modern scholarship owes antiquity—less a debt, after all, than "a grace sought and received"—was never far from his consciousness. Classicist he always was, from those days at old Winchester; "purist and precisian" in style, with slight interest in spelling-reform or other utilitarian devices. Inevitably then, past greatness, the best that had been known and thought, became for him, as for Arnold, the touchstone by which to try all present achievement, "About contemporary voices there is an element of uncertainty not undelightful, but forbidding the perfection of faith." Johnson wrote in one of his sage little articles in the Academy: "We prophesy and wait." Yet, although the personal equation inclined thus to the "serene classics," the critic's attitude toward a living genius was one of wistful appreciation. His every sense was keen in the search for beauty, and he welcomed it in whatever guise: Lucretius and Fielding, Pope and Wordsworth, Renan and Hawthorne—all of these shared his sympathy and his comprehension.

The discerning had great hopes of Johnson, with his Celtic dreams, his scholarly and exquisite methods, his unwavering faith in spiritual realities. And they were never fully realised. Without pain—at least, without protest—he passed on to the mansion prepared from eternity for these "inheritors of unfulfilled renown." Of that supreme work which he had contemplated, a beautiful, final, reconciling study of Catholic art and Catholic life, a philosophy merging ethics and æsthetics into one harmonious whole, no word whatever remains. But is there not a danger of carrying this regret too far—of urging the artist's possibilities at the expense of his actual achievement? The work Johnson has

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Rh left is superlatively excellent: it needs neither apology nor explanation; it simply needs to be read. That, indeed, is the prime difficulty; for the world is busy about many things, and Lionel Johnson spoke with so gentle a sweetness, so modest a serenity. In prose and verse alike, he was stranger to the jealousies and impatiences of mere ambition. Securus judicat orbis terrarum, he was fond of quoting—"sure and sound is the whole world's judgment"; and to Time, that judge so deliberate and so infallible, he committed all. It is pleasant and reassuring to remember |James Russell Lowell|Lowell's words concerning the two kinds of literary genius. "The first and highest," he tells us, "may be said to speak out of the eternal to the present, and must compel its age to understand it; the second understands its age, and tells it what it wishes to be told."

Lionel Johnson, quite obviously, was not of this latter type; but one has strong hope that his place is with the higher company.

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CHAP. X "It is easy," responds the Master, "to show you wisdom's path, if only you will pursue it for the sake of God, for the sake of the soul's purity and to learn the truth, and also for its own sake, and not for human praise and honor."

We confess, answers little Discipulus, that we love happiness, but know not whether it can exist in this world. And the dialogue rambles on in discursive comment upon the superiority of the lasting over the transitory, with some feeble echoing of notes from Boëthius's De consolatione. There is talk to show that man, a rational animal, the image of his Creator, and immortal in his better part, should seek what is truly of himself, and not what is alien, the abiding and not the fugitive. In fine, one should adorn the soul, which is eternal, with wisdom, the soul's true lasting dignity. There is some coy demurring over the steepness of the way; but the pupil is ardent, and the Master confident that with the aid of Divine Grace they will ascend the seven grades of philosophy, by which philosophers have gained honour brighter than that of kings, and the holy doctors and defenders of our Catholic Faith have triumphed over all heresiarchs. "Through these paths, dearest son, let your youth run its daily course, until its completed years and strengthened mind shall attain to the heights of the Holy Scriptures upon which you and your like shall become armed defenders of the Faith and invincible assertors of its truth." This means, of course, that the Liberal Arts are the proper preparation for the study of Scripture, that is, theology. But Alcuin's discourse seems to tarry with those studies as if detained by some love of them for their own sake.

The body of this treatise is in form a disputation between two youthful pupils, a Frank and a Saxon. A Magister makes a third interlocutor, and sets the subject of the argument. These personae discuss letters and syllables in definitions taken from Donatus, Priscian, or Isidore; and whenever Alcuin permits any one of them to stray from the words of those authorities, the language shows at once his own confused ideas regarding the parts of speech. He uses terms without adequately comprehending them, and

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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Taney, Roger Brooke

TANEY, tâ-nĭ, Roger Brooke, American jurist: b. Calvert County, Md., 17 March 1777; d. Washington, D. C., 12 Oct. 1864. He was descended from a leading Roman Catholic family, was graduated in 1795 from Dickinson College, read law in Annapolis, began practice in 1799 and was immediately elected to the house of delegates as a Federalist. Defeated in 1801 and again in 1803, he returned to the practice of law. He was married in 1806 to Anne Phœbe Charlton Key, a Protestant, the sister of Francis Scott Key. Though a Federalist, he supported the government during the War of 1812 and was an unsuccessful candidate for Congress. In 1816 he was elected to the State senate. From 1815 to 1831 as one of Maryland's leading lawyers he was engaged in many of the important cases that came before the United States Supreme Court. After the break up of his party, he became a Democrat. In 1827 he was attorney-general of Maryland; and in 1831 was appointed Attorney-General of the United States and was the trusted adviser of Jackson.

During the Bank controversy the Secretary of the Treasury refusing to remove the government deposits from the United States Bank, Taney, who had advised the removal, was transferred (1833) to the office of Secretary of the Treasury. He then removed the deposits and for this was fiercely criticised as being a “tool” of Jackson, the Senate in 1834 refusing to confirm his nomination, the first instance of the rejection of a Cabinet officer. In 1835 Jackson nominated him for associate justice of the Supreme Court, but again the Senate refused to confirm. In 1836 the personnel of the Senate having changed, Taney was nominated and confirmed as chief justice to succeed John Marshall, but not without strong opposition from Henry Clay and others. Taney at once showed tendencies toward strict construction and reversed several of Marshall's decisions. This angered the associate justices, some of whom threatened to resign. Taney was a strict constructionist rather than a States rights lawyer and judge. In the case of Prigg v. Pennsylvania the chief justice for the first time declared a State law unconstitutional. This was one of the “personal liberty” laws. In 1850, a similar law of Wisconsin was declared invalid. These decisions of the Supreme Court called forth States rights expressions from Northern legislatures. Taney's best-known decision was made in the Dred Scott case. The only point really decided was that Dred Scott was a slave, but the opinion of the court written by Taney also declared: (1) that negroes had not been regarded as citizens by the framers of the Constitution and hence could not become citizens of the United States nor have a standing in Federal courts; (2) that the Missouri Compromise was unconstitutional because Congress was bound to protect property, and the Constitution having recognized slaves as property, Congress was bound to protect slavery in the Territories. During the Civil War the Supreme Court ceased to have influence. Taney in the Merryman case (1861) denied the power of the President to suspend the writ of habeas corpus, and during the next three years opposed with no effect the arbitrary methods of the administration. As a lawyer, Taney never avoided the unpopular side. In 1811 he made himself disliked by defending Gen. James Wilkinson. In 1819 he defended a Northern Methodist minister indicted for inciting slaves to insurrection. During the trial of this case he said: “A hard necessity compels us to endure the evil of slavery for a time; yet while it continues it is a blot on our national character.” He emancipated his slaves, providing for their welfare. As chief justice, he brought system into the procedure of the Supreme Court which it had lacked under Marshall. Weak sight and bad health made writing difficult for him and the opinions of the court were usually written by one of his ambitious associates. He retained his mental powers to the last, in spite of wretched health. In person he was tall and thin, with an appearance of great physical weakness; in disposition quite, cheerful and studious, devoted to his family and friends. Consult Van Santvoord, ‘Sketches of the Lives and Judicial Services of the Chief Justice of the United States’ (1853); Tyler, S., ‘Memoir of Roger Brooke Taney’ (1876). Taney wrote an autobiography,

which ended with 1801 and forms chapter I of Tyler's Memoir.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Tanjeff, Serge Ivanovitch

TANJEFF, Serge Ivanovitch, Russian composer: b. 1856; d. Petrograd, 20 June 1915. He was son of a Russian government official and, while quite young, was studying the pianoforte at Moscow Conservatory under Lange. He was next sent to the public school but later it was decided to continue his music studies under Nicholas Rubinstein. He studied fugue under Hubert, leaving the conservatory (1875) with the award of the first gold medal. He played in Paris 1877-78, then performed through the Baltic provinces, next returning to Moscow, where he was appointed professor of instrumentation, succeeding Tschaikowsky (q.v.). On Rubinstein's death he became professor of the pianoforte but displayed his talents rarely before the public. He composed ‘Oresteia’ a trilogy in eight acts (1895); ‘John of Damascus,’ a cantata (1884), many choruses, some symphonies and quartets. He arranged for the piano works of Tschaikowsky, Glazounoff, Arinsky and others.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Tandy, James Napper

TANDY, James Napper, Irish patriot: b. 1740; d. Bordeaux, France, 1803. As a Protestant leader of the popular movement he took zealous action in corporation politics, free trade agitation and volunteering affairs, and was elected the first secretary to the United

Irishmen of Dublin. In 1792 he sent a challenge to the solicitor-general, Toler, and was condemned to prison till the close of the session by the House of Commons. As the viceroy had offered a reward for his arrest, he raised a formal action for illegality against him and his privy-councillors, which was dismissed at the final hearing. For distributing in County Louth a seditious pamphlet, he was about to be tried in 1793, when the government discovered that he had met the Defenders and taken their oath, with the view of effecting a coalition between them and the United Irishmen. Tandy fled to the United States, but crossed to France in 1798, where he was raised to the rank of a general of division in the French army. He joined the ill-fated invasion of Ireland, and made a futile landing at Rutland Island 16 Sept. 1798. He escaped to Hamburg, the senate of which city handed him over to the English government. On 12 Feb. 1800, he was put on trial at Dublin, and acquitted. He was again put on trial (1801) for the treasonable landing on Rutland Island. This time he was sentenced to death, but, from motives of policy, was permitted to make his way to France, where he spent the rest of his days. He was the hero of the familiar Irish song, ‘The Wearing of the Green.’


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The Inner Life, v. II/Sixth Section/I

THE BUILDING OF THE SYSTEM OUR solar system has seven planes which, when taken together, form the lowest of the great cosmic planes. There was a time when this cosmic plane consisted only of what was to it atomic matter, that is to say, of the bubbles in koilon. That was the condition existing on what we may call the site of the solar system. When the Solar LOGOS chose to manifest Himself, when He came forth out of eternity into time, and wished to form this system, He commenced first of all by defining an area, the limit perhaps of His own aura. Within that area He began His work upon the bubbles in koilon (which seem to have been already constructed, probably by some still greater LOGOS) using them as the atoms of our highest plane, and creating the universe in seven breaths. For example, He did not make the physical-plane matter directly from the astral-plane matter, but withdrew into Himself some of the matter of the astral plane and then breathed it out again in a new combination. Thus there is what is sometimes called a fresh tanmatra as well as a fresh tattwa for each plane. The shortest and clearest definition of these words which I have ever heard was given by the late T. Subba Rao. He said: “The tanmatra is the modification in the consciousness of the LOGOS, and the tattwa is the effect produced in matter by that modification. You have seen how on a sandy shore a little wave comes quietly in, runs up on the sand and retires. But it has left behind it a tiny ridge to mark its limit. If the tide is rising, the next wave which comes in goes a little further up the beach, makes its mark in turn and then retires. You may think of the tanmatra as imaged by that wave, which is the temporary modification of the ocean, and you may think of the little ridge made in the sand as symbolising the tattwa.” The meaning of the word tattwa appears to be “thatness,” or “inherent quality.” Though the atoms of the various planes as we descend are thus not made directly from one another it is nevertheless true that the atoms of the lower planes could not be made as they are unless the bubbles of which they are composed had already had the experience of passing through all the others above. The atom of the second plane already consists of forty-nine of these bubbles, and the atom of the third or nirvanic plane of two thousand four hundred and one. This proportion persists all the way down, so that the same energy which makes forty-nine astral atoms makes only one physical atom, the bubbles being arranged differently. If we could take a physical atom and put it back plane by plane up to the highest, it would be found to consist of about fourteen thousand million of these bubbles. But when the LOGOS is making the planes, the matter of one plane is drawn up and disintegrated down to the original bubbles, and then recombined to make the matter of the next lower plane. It is probable that the force by which some greater LOGOS formed the bubbles in koilon is what Madame Blavatsky calls fohat, for you remember that that is spoken of as digging holes in space, and the holes may be these infinitesimal bubbles, instead of solar systems, as we at first supposed. I do not know whether each bubble is rotating round its own axis or not. Remember, it is not like a soap-bubble, which is a film of water with an outer and inner surface, enclosing air inside it; it is like a bubble in soda-water, which has only one surface, where the air meets the water. To the highest sight that we can as yet bring to bear upon it, it appears to be absolutely empty, so we cannot tell whether there is any interior motion going on in it or not. It seems to have no proper motion of its own, but it can be moved as a whole from without, singly or en masse, by an exertion of the will. No two of these bubbles ever under any circumstances touch each other. The drawing of the physical atom which is given in the frontispiece to The Ancient Wisdom is not quite accurate; it is far too flat — too much like a locket in appearance. The drawing given in Occult Chemistry is far better. The atom in reality is nearly globular, and its projecting points lie almost on the surface of a sphere. It looks somewhat like a wire cage, composed of ten endless wires, which lie completely separate and never touch one another — that is, if any one of them were taken out and uncoiled, and laid out flat, it would be a circle. The arrangement is rather complicated, and a diagram is necessary in order to make it clear. A model would be still better, but no one has yet had the time or the patience to make one. By reference to the illustration in Occult Chemistry it will be seen that three of these ten wires are thicker than the rest, for in them the seven sets of spirillae do not fit accurately over one another (as they do in the other wires), because in every seven hundred turns there are four more atoms. This means an increase of one in every one hundred and seventy-five bubbles, and it is this which makes those three seem larger than the rest. A scientific man, in criticising the Koilon article, said that in dealing with such minute particles it was impossible to be so accurate, but that is only because he did not understand that it is a mere question of counting and comparison. The atom has three movements of its own: (1) rotation on its axis; (2) an orbital motion, for it is continually running round in a small circle; (3) a pulsation like a heart, a constant expansion and contraction. These three movements are always going on, and are unaffected by any force from outside. A force from outside — a ray of light for example — will set the atom as a whole moving violently up and down, the phase of this movement being proportional to the intensity of the light, and its wave-length being determined by the colour of the light. A curious feature is that when this happens one of the seven minor wires of the atom begins to glow — the which corresponds to the colour of the light which is setting the whole atom in motion. The atom exists because of the force which the LOGOS is pouring through it, precisely as a little revolving column of dust and leaves, at the corner of the street, exists because of the whirling wind which made it. The existence of matter depends therefore absolutely upon the continuance of an idea in the mind of the LOGOS; if He chose to withdraw His force from the physical plane — to cease thinking it — every physical atom would instantly disintegrate, and the whole physical plane would disappear in an instant like the light of a candle when it is blown out. Besides this force which holds the atom together in its spiral form, a number of the forces of the LOGOS are also playing round its coils — or perhaps we should rather say, one of His forces is playing at a number of different levels. There are seven orders of this force, which are eventually, at the end of the seventh round, to play fully round the seven sets of spirillae; but some of them are not yet in activity, since this is only the fourth round. There is some reason to believe that what the scientific people call electrons may be what we call astral atoms, for they have said that in a chemical atom of hydrogen there are probably somewhere between seven hundred and a thousand of these electrons. Now it happens that in a chemical atom of hydrogen there are eight hundred and eighty-two astral atoms. This may of course be only a coincidence, but that seems somewhat improbable. If this suggestion be true it follows that in some of their experiments our scientific men must be actually disintegrating physical matter, and throwing it back on to the astral plane; in which case it would seem that they must presently be forced to admit the existence of astral matter, though they will naturally think of it as nothing but a further subdivision of physical matter. I do not know whether in such cases the disintegrated physical atoms re-form themselves; but in our experiments, when by an effort of the will the physical atom is broken up into astral or mental atoms, it means only that for a moment the human will is set against the divine will which formed that atom. It requires a distinct effort to hold the atom temporarily in a different form, and the moment that the human will is withdrawn the divine will re-asserts itself and the physical atom is there once more. This, however, seems to apply only to the breaking up of the ultimate atoms of the plane; when for experimental purposes we break up a chemical atom into physical ultimate atoms, it remains in that condition, and does not return to its original state. In interstellar space (between solar systems) we are given to understand that atoms lie far apart and equidistant; and I believe that that is their normal condition when undisturbed. That is what is meant by speaking of the atoms as free. Within the atmosphere of a planet they are never found in at all that state, for even when not grouped in forms, they are at any rate enormously compressed by the force of attraction. A man has a causal body on the atomic mental plane, but the mental atoms composing it will be crushed together by attraction into a very definite and quite dense shape, even though they are in no way altered in themselves, and are not grouped into molecules. Such a body could exist comfortably on its own atomic plane in the neighbourhood of a planet, where the atomic matter is in the compressed condition; but it would not at all be able to move or function in this far-away space where the atoms remain absolutely free and uncompressed. The conditions in interplanetary space are probably not exactly the same as in interstellar space, for there may be a great deal of disturbance due to cometic and meteoric matter, and also the tremendous attraction of the sun produces a considerable compression within the limits of his system. Indeed, the vortex made in the first place by the LOGOS is of course still in action; and part of its action was to draw in matter from the surrounding space and compress it. I have no information upon the question as to whether atoms floating within the limits of the solar system would or would not be necessarily all vivified by elemental essence. It seems to me most probable, however, that only those atoms which make the mental, astral and physical bodies (the latter of course, including the atmosphere and the lower varieties of ether) of the sun and the various planets and comets would be so vivified. At any rate, as we began by saying, the LOGOS chooses His area — an area of size stupendous beyond our comprehension. Astronomy tells us that the distance between solar systems is so enormous as to be out of all proportion to the systems themselves. It is nevertheless probable that the LOGOI of those systems are actually in touch with one another, and that the solar system existing in the centre of each of these inconceivably vast spheres represents the condensation of matter which was originally scattered throughout the whole of that prodigious area, in a condition of the minutest possible subdivision — perhaps in the condition of the ultimate bubbles which are atoms of our highest plane. At a certain stage in that condensation or compressed — a stage when the radius of His globe still extent far beyond the orbit of the outermost planet of our system as it is to-day — He sets up within it a whirling motion accompanied by intense electrical action, thus making a kind of colossal vortex in many dimensions. The compression of the whirling mass is continued through what to us would be untold ages, in the course of which He breathes the seven breaths of which we have previously spoken, and thereby groups the bubbles into the atomic matter of the various planes. Eventually there comes a point at which He sends through it a kind of electrical shock, which precipitates it into a lower condition of matter, so that instead of being a mere aggregation of atoms it becomes definitely a combination of then, usually a mass of glowing hydrogen. Here we have the nebular stage, through which various systems in our universe are at this moment passing, as may be seen by means of any large telescope. As our nebula revolved round its axis it gradually cooled, contracted and flattened down, so that eventually it became rather a huge revolving disc than a sphere. Presently fissures appeared in this disc and it broke into rings, presenting somewhat the appearance of the planet Saturn and its surroundings, but on a gigantic scale. At a chosen point in each of these rings a subsidiary vortex was set up, and gradually much of the matter of the ring was gathered into this. The concussion of the fragments generated an amount of heat which reduced them to a gaseous condition and thus formed a huge glowing ball, which gradually, as it cooled, condensed into a planet. The planet formed upon the ring in this particular part of the system was, however, not the earth but the moon. We think of the moon as the satellite of the earth, comparing it in our minds with the satellites of Mars, Jupiter or Saturn; but in reality the comparison is unfair, for the moon is more companion planet than a satellite. No other satellite in the solar system bears at all the same proportion to its primary as the moon does to the earth, even though it is now much smaller than it used to be, as will be presently explained. It was the one physical planet of the lunar chain, and our present humanity inhabited it in the distant past, although we were then a stage further back, and were in the animal kingdom. The earth came into existence when the active life of the moon was already over. A new vortex was set up not far away from the moon, and the rest of the matter of the ring was gradually gathered into it. The resultant collisions once more produced a ball of glowing gas, which enfolded the body of the moon and very soon reduced it to a similar condition. As this combined mass gradually cooled, condensation took place round the two vortices, but by far the larger part of the matter was attracted to the new one which became the earth, leaving the moon a much smaller body than it had been and altogether denuded of air and water. The moon was still, from the intense heat, in a plastic condition like hot mud, and the earth in its earlier stages was subject to the most tremendous volcanic convulsions. In the course of these, enormous masses of rock, often many miles in diameter, were thrown up into space to vast distances in all directions. The majority of these fell back upon the earth, but some of them struck the moon while still in its plastic condition and produced upon it many of those huge depressions which we now call lunar craters. Any one who will take the trouble of throwing a few small pebbles into mud at the right stage of consistency will find that be obtains in that way an effect precisely similar to that which we observe upon the surface of the moon. Some of the lunar craters are really craters, but not many. The moon is now like a vast cinder, hard but porous, of a consistency not unlike that of pumice-stone, though harder. Hardly any physical action of any sort is now taking place upon the surface of the moon. It is probably slowly disintegrating, and we are told that in the course of our seventh round it will break up altogether, and its matter will be used (with presumably some of our own) to build a new world which will be the only physical globe of the next incarnation of our chain. To that new globe whatever remains of the earth will act as a satellite. The moon has often been described in Theosophical literature as the eighth sphere, because it is not one of the seven planets of our chain upon which evolution is taking place. It is therefore what is called a “dead end,” a place where only refuse gathers, and it is a kind of a dust-heap or waste-paper-basket to the system — a kind of astral cesspool into which are thrown decaying fragments of various sorts, such as the lost personality which has torn itself away from the ego, who has allowed it to slip out of his grasp in the manner which I explained in the first volume of this book, in the article on Lost Soul.

title: The Inner Life, v. II/Sixth Section/I


text:
The Inner Life, v. II/Sixth Section/II

THE PLANETARY CHAINS Our solar system at the present moment contains ten chains, each consisting of seven globes, and these are evolving side by side, though at different stages. Seven of them are represented upon the physical level by one or more globes, but the three others exist only on higher levels. The number of globes on the physical plane which a chain has at any given time depends upon the stage of its evolution. The globes of each chain present us with a small cycle of evolution descending into denser matter and then ascending out of it, and in an exactly analogous manner the successive incarnations of a chain also descend into denser matter and then ascend out of it. Our own chain is at the present moment at its lowest level of materiality, so that of its seven planets three are on the physical plane, two on the astral and two on the lower mental. We usually employ the letters of the alphabet to denote these globes in their order; so we should represent the present condition of affairs by saying that globes A and G are on the lower mental plane; globes B and F on the astral, and globes C, D, and E upon the physical level, C and E being smaller than D. It will be observed that in travelling round the chain the life-wave is steadily involving itself more and more in matter as it descends from A to D, but is rising again and casting off successive veils of matter as it passes from D to G. This is the condition of affairs during the fourth and most material incarnation of each chain. But in the third and fifth incarnations each chain has its first and seventh planets on the higher mental, its second and sixth on the lower mental, its third and fifth on the astral, and only one planet, the fourth, on the physical plane. The second and sixth incarnations of each chain are one stage higher; their fourth planet is upon the astral plane, while the third and fifth are upon the lower mental, the second and sixth upon the higher mental and the first and seventh at the buddhic level. The first and seventh incarnations of a chain are one stage higher still, in that their lowest planets are on the lower mental plane and their first and seventh planets at the stage which we call nirvanic. It is not easy for us to attach any meaning to the idea of a planet upon planes so exalted as the nirvanic or buddhic, and we are perhaps scarcely justified in using the term. All that we mean is that there is a certain location in space where the evolution of certain groups of monads is taking place through agencies which work on those exalted levels. Each of these seventy planets may be regarded as having a definite location in space and as revolving round, or in some way depending upon, our sun. Of these seventy planets only twelve are physical, and even of those twelve one is not yet recognised by science and two others have only lately been discovered. The existence of Vulcan was accepted by some astronomers a century ago, but as it cannot now be found, the scientific men of the present day hold that the earlier observations were incorrect. No astronomer had dreamt of the two planets beyond the orbit of Neptune at the time when they were first mentioned in Theosophical writings, but now their existence is admitted in consequence of the deflections which they have produced in certain cometary orbits. Madame Blavatsky says that Neptune is not in our solar system, but there can be no question that it revolves round our sun. Madame Blavatsky therefore must have been speaking in some occult or symbolical sense when she used those words. From the occult point of view also, the Neptunian chain is clearly part of our system, being one of the ten chains which compose it; so we are unable at the moment to attach any meaning to Madame Blavatsky's statement. That does not in the least imply that it is really meaningless or inaccurate. We have frequently found that passages in her writings, which we had been for a long time compelled to put aside as incomprehensible and apparently contrary to known facts, had nevertheless a definite meaning and a certain sense in which they were true, though these were discoverable only when (by penetrating to higher planes) fresh aspects of the subject were brought into view. No doubt in due time this will prove to be the case with this enigmatical statement about Neptune. Besides those on the seventy planets of which we have spoken, there are other evolutions taking place, every inch of place being utilised. Even in the koilon itself there may be an evolution going on of which we know nothing and can imagine nothing. We know as yet so little of this marvellous system to which we belong; all this teaching of Theosophy which has so changed our lives is but the lifting of a tiny corner of the veil. All space is filled with life, and there are even lower orders than that of the physical plane. It sometimes happens that a human being comes into touch with that lower evolution, but that is always undesirable. Yet it would be a great mistake to speak of the inhabitants of this lower world as wicked. Certainly that evolution brings harm to us if we become entangled with it, but that is because it is not meant for us. Of the seven chains that have physical planets, taking them in order, beginning with the nearest to the sun and working outwards, we have first Vulcan, with only one physical planet, which is small and must be very hot. The Vulcan chain is in its third incarnation, but we are given to understand that its scheme of evolution is not destined to bring the entities concerned with it to as high a level as will be ultimately attained by the inhabitants of our own planet. Mercury is the next planet, and belongs to the earth-chain. Venus is the only physical planet of the chain of which it is a part. It is in the seventh round of its fifth incarnation, and it represents the most advanced degree of evolution yet attained by humanity in this solar system. Being so far advanced, it has been to able to afford assistance to other and less developed evolutions; from it, as we know, descended the Lords of the Flame, who gave so great a stimulus to the progress of humanity in the middle of our third root-race. It is a remarkable fact that the astronomers of a hundred and fifty years ago recorded several observations of a satellite of Venus, whereas now it is quite certain that no such orb exists. The usual supposition is that those earlier astronomers erred. But this is scarcely likely in view of the number and character of the witnesses, and also their repeated observations. It was seen by astronomers as well known as Cassini and Short, in 1761, and that not once but many times, and with different telescopes. It was observed by Scheuten during the whole of its transit along with Venus in the same year; it was seen four times by Montaigne, and again in 1764 by Rödkier, Horrebow and Montbaron. It was estimated to have a diameter of about two thousand miles. It is surely more probable that all these astronomers were right in their observations, for we are told that in our seventh round the moon will disintegrate and we shall be left without a satellite. It may be only a coincidence that Venus is in its seventh round, but it is a curious one. The next planets are our Earth and Mars, and these two, along with Mercury, are the three physical planets of a chain which is in its fourth incarnation. Our Earth is the lowest and most material of the series — planet D, while Mars is our planet C and Mercury our planet E. A good many of the more advanced members of our present humanity were not upon the planet Mars when the life-wave last swept over it, as will be explained later; but the great bulk of the human race has certainly passed through a series of incarnations on that planet, and we have left behind us many traces of our occupation, of which the present inhabitants are abundantly availing themselves. When our present occupancy of the earth ends for a time, we shall all pass on to the somewhat less material life of the planet Mercury, where the average level of consciousness may be somewhat more extended than it is here, since ordinary humanity will then possess what is now called etheric sight. There are no grounds whatever, so far as I know, for the statement made by a recent writer that the real names of Mercury and Venus have been interchanged. Indeed, we know a great deal about these planets which makes the idea inconceivable. Next come the asteroids — material which will make a world some time; but we do not count them now. The giant of the solar system, Jupiter, has a chain of its own. It is in an early stage of its evolution, being very much too hot for life, such as we know, to exist on its surface; but its satellites are inhabited. Its surface has seas of molten metals, and similar conditions exist on all the outside giant planets. It has a density about that of water, if you take the whole mass; but what we see is really the outside of a mass of cloud thousands of miles in depth — so we get a false estimate of the actual size of the planet itself. The Jupiter scheme is at present in the second round of its third incarnation. We are told that this system will eventually raise its humanity to an extremely high level. Next we come to Saturn, with its wonderful system of rings and satellites. It is the only physical planet of its chain. It also is in an early round of its third incarnation, and we understand that the development connected with it is slower than most of the others, but that it will ultimately reach exalted levels. As to the schemes to which the outer planets Uranus and Neptune belong, we have but little information, though we know that the latter is in its fourth incarnation, because of the fact that to it belong also the two other physical planets whose orbits lie outside its own. The conditions existing on all these gigantic outer members of the solar systems must be altogether so entirely different from those on the small inner planets that it is practically impossible to form any idea of the sort of life which must be lived by their inhabitants, even in the future when the globes have cooled down.

title: The Inner Life, v. II/Sixth Section/II


text:
The Inner Life, v. II/Sixth Section/III

SUCCESSIVE LIFE-WAVES The conception of the successive life-waves which pour out from the LOGOS should not be a difficult one, yet it frequently happens that some confusion seems to arise in the mind of the student in connection with it. Perhaps this comes partially from the fact that the term “life-wave” has been employed in our literature in three distinct senses. First, it has been used to denote the three great outpourings of Divine Life by means of which our solar system came into existence — by which its evolution is carried on. Secondly, it has been applied to the successive impulsions of which the second outpouring is formed; and it is in this sense principally that I shall employ the term now. Thirdly, the expression has been accepted as signifying the transference of life from one planet of our chain to another in the course of evolution. A life-wave of this third type does not at all correspond to the life-wave of the second type, but consists of synchronous portions of seven of the latter, treated as though they constituted a single entity. As we all know, we have with us at the present time seven kingdoms in manifestation — the human, the animal, the vegetable, the mineral, and the three elemental kingdoms which precede the mineral. We must realise that all these are manifestations of the same life — the one life of the LOGOS manifesting in that second great outpouring which comes from His second aspect after the primitive matter has been prepared for its reception by the action of the first outpouring which comes from the third aspect (see The Christian Creed, p. 40). That second outpouring comes forth in a series of successive waves, following one another as the waves of the sea follow one another. Each of these waves has reached its present stage by passing through all the earlier stages, and in each of those it has spent a period of time corresponding to the life of a chain of seven worlds, sometimes called a manvantara. This Sanskrit word manvantara literally means the period between two Manus, and so it might be applied at various levels. We see from The Secret Doctrine that each root-race has its Manu, a great adept who takes charge of it, and superintends its formation and growth. But there is also a Manu for the world-period which includes the seven root-races; and yet again there is a still greater Manu who superintends the progress of the life-wave (using that term in its third sense) through all the seven planets of the chain; and since one complete journey through all those seven globes has been called a round, He is spoken of as the Round-Manu. Seven such rounds complete one life-period for a planetary chain — one incarnation of the chain, as it were; and over this enormous period there is a Great One who presides, and to Him also this title of Manu is accorded. Higher still there is One who presides over the seven successive chains, which may be regarded as the seven incarnations of our chain, making one complete scheme of evolution; but He is usually spoken of not as a Manu, but as the LOGOS of seven chains, or sometimes as the Planetary LOGOS. So we have here a graduated hierarchy of mighty adepts, extending up to Divinity itself. It is obvious, therefore, that the term manvantara might indicate various periods of time, corresponding to the levels at which it was employed; but in our Theosophical literature it has generally been used to indicate the duration of one chain — the time occupied by the life-wave in making seven rounds. To the greater period of the seven successive incarnations of the chain, the name of mahamanvantara (which means simply great manvantara) has sometimes been given. The following table may be of use to our students, as summarizing the system of evolution:

7 Branch Races make —— One Sub-race.

7 Sub-races make —— One Root-race.

7 Root-races make —— One World-period.

7 World-periods make —— One Round.

7 Rounds make —— One Chain-period.

7 Chain-periods make —— One Planetary Scheme.

10 Planetary Schemes make —— Our Solar system.

It is scarcely practical for us at present to endeavour to estimate in years the exact length of these enormous expanses of time. In exoteric Hindu books definite numbers are given, but Madame Blavatsky tell us that it is impossible to rely fully upon these, as other and esoteric considerations are involved, which the writers do not take into account. We have no direct information upon these points, but there is some reason to suspect that the time of the rounds is not an invariable quantity, but that some are shorter than others. It has been thought that those in front of us will probably not be so long as those through which we have passed; but here again we have no certain information, and it seems useless to speculate. At all these stages there are always seven life-waves in action. In every one of these chains is a human kingdom, and it is always accompanied by its brothers, an animal, a vegetable and a mineral kingdom. But each of these is steadily evolving; so that the life-wave which is ensouling the animal kingdom of the present day will in the next chain have arrived at the human level and will provide the causal bodies for the humanity of that chain. In the same way the life-wave which ensouls our vegetable kingdom now will ensoul the animal kingdom then, and so on.

It of course follows from this that we were the animal kingdom of the moon-chain, and the vegetable kingdom of the chain previous to that, That is not precisely an accurate method of expression, because we as separate egos did not exist then; but that wave of essence which in the first chain ensouled the mineral kingdom, in the second chain the vegetable, and in the third chain the animal, has now been employed in the formation of those causal bodies which we are inhabiting at the present day. What then will be the future progress of that wave, and how will it appear in the next chain? It will not appear there at all, for we must remember that at the close of this human evolution man finds always before him the seven paths which open the way to still further development. I have tried to explain these, so far as they may at present be described, in the concluding chapter of Invisible Helpers. I need not repeat here what I then wrote, but I may add to it a fragment of information which has since come to my knowledge. One of those paths, which we had then to leave blank, leads to what we have called a staff appointment. Every general has, quite apart from the regular officers who hold various commands under him, a special set of officers who form his staff, whose duty it is to be in personal attendance upon him, and to be ready at any moment to do anything that he may require, or to fill any vacancy that may occur. The Solar LOGOS also has His staff — a number of adepts who are not in the service of any particular chain, yet ever prepared to be sent to the aid of any that need assistance. To join this body is one of the seven possibilities which lie before him who has “reached the further shore.” When the time comes for our chain to disintegrate and for the life from it to pass into the fifth chain, we shall already have moved on to a stage beyond the human, along one or other of these seven paths. Consequently the humanity which will commence as primitive man in the fifth chain will not be ourselves at all, but will be the wave next behind us — that which is ensouling our present animal kingdom. In the same way our vegetable monad will have evolved a stage higher, and will ensoul the animal kingdom of that new chain; while the life-wave which is now animating the mineral kingdom will by that time have risen to the level of the vegetable kingdom. Thus we see that of the seven life-waves which we now know, six will be present in the fifth chain, but each will have gained a stage in its development. Our present human life-wave, having obtained the object of its immersion into matter, has passed out of this series of chains altogether, though some of those who were its members may still retain a voluntary connection with it for the purpose of helping its evolution. But since each of our waves has moved on a stage, how is the place of the hindmost supplied? Are we to suppose that the first elemental kingdom will no longer be represented in the new chain? By no means; for we find that a fresh life-wave from the LOGOS is following close behind the others, and so this new influx completes the seven. Precisely the same process has taken place in connection with each chain in succession. In each of them one life-wave has attained its goal, and passed off through seven channels to some entirely higher form of manifestation; and each of those behind it has moved forward one stage, and place of the hindmost has in each case been filled by a fresh influx of life from the LOGOS. Each of these waves enters in each chain-period at the lowest level of the kingdom which it is ensouling, and passes out of that kingdom at its highest point. A fresh influx of life from the LOGOS enters the first elemental kingdom in each chain, and there are six such influxes in our scheme, so that we have altogether thirteen successive life-waves at work in this scheme of seven chains, though never more than seven of them are in operation simultaneously. All are moving steadily onward but always preserving the same distance between them, and we can take up any particular wave at any point in its progress and follow it backwards or forwards as we desire. Take for example the seventh of these waves. It enters into the first incarnation of the chain as the first elemental kingdom; in the second chain it has reached the level of the second elemental kingdom, and in the lunar chain it ensouls the third. In our present chain it animates our mineral kingdom, while in the fifth and sixth chains it will ensoul respectively the vegetable and animal kingdoms. In the seventh chain it will arrive at the level of humanity, and will then pass off through its seven channels, as the other humanities have done. We have then the complete history of this life-wave before us, from the time when it emerged into manifestation in the first elemental kingdom, until it is again attaining divine levels at the end of its appointed evolution. We have not before us in our scheme the complete evolution of any other wave than this. If, for example, we trace back our own life-wave, we shall find that it ensouled the animal kingdom in the moon-chain, the vegetable kingdom in the second chain, and the mineral kingdom in the first chain. Where then did it gain the evolution of the three elemental kingdoms? For it must obviously have advanced through those stages before it manifested as the mineral. It has passed through them in some previous scheme of chains — we know not where or when. It is evident that the only entirely new impulse is that first chain of our scheme was the seventh life-wave, for all the others which form part of that first chain had already gone through some portion of their evolution in anterior schemes of worlds. Its humanity must evidently have passed through the six antecedent stages in that unknown past, and it came here only to acquire the finishing touch to its education which prepared it to pass off along the seven paths which lay open before it. But our life-waves stretch onward into the future as well as back into the past. The eighth wave, for example, which entered for the first time in the second chain as a fresh impulse from the Divine Life, has no time in our scheme of evolution to reach the human level. In our present chain it is ensouling the third elemental kingdom, and causing us a great deal of trouble in the shape of desire-elementals. In the seventh chain that wave will be ensouling the animal kingdom, and it will therefore attain humanity in the first chain of some unknown scheme of globes, hidden at present in the womb of the future. Naturally the remaining waves, from the ninth to the thirteenth, are also unfinished, so that out of all the waves which use our scheme as the theatre of their evolution only one finds time to complete all its stages — a fact which, if we can realise all that it involves, gives us a deeply impressive illustration of the vastness of the resources of nature, a glimpse into the illimitable eternities through which, never hastening yet never resting, her unfoldment proceeds with such splendid precision. Now that we have clearly in our minds the steady progress of these life-waves, we must immediately proceed to modify our conception by the introduction into it of another important factor. In each case of transference from one kingdom to another, there is always a certain part of the life-waves which does not succeed in passing, and is therefore left behind. We may perhaps understand that most easily if we begin by thinking of the future of our own humanity. We know that the goal set before us is the attainment of that level of initiation which has been called adeptship — the position of the asekha, “the one who has no more to learn” with regard to our planetary chain. But we also know that it will not be the whole of humanity that will succeed in this lofty aim, but only a certain part of it. We are told that in the middle of the next round a separation will occur between those souls who are strong enough to undertake the higher stages of evolution and those who are not. This separation has been prefigured by the many legends of a “last judgment” at which the future destiny of the souls for this aeon would be decided. The diseased imagination of the mediaeval monk, always seeking an opportunity to introduce grotesquely exaggerated horrors into his creed in order to terrify an incredibly ignorant peasantry into more liberal donations for the support of Mother-Church, distorted into “eternal damnation” the perfectly simple idea of aeonian suspension. Those who are left behind at this period have sometimes been described as “the failures of the fifth round,” though perhaps even this is somewhat too harsh a term. There may well be some among them who by greater exertion might have qualified themselves to pass onward, and these are rightly spoken of as failures; but the majority will be left behind simply because they are too young to go on, and so not strong enough for the more difficult work. The facts of the case may be stated quite simply. The lower classes of monads passed only gradually from the animal kingdom into the human during the earlier half of our present chain-period. Some of them are still, consequently, at an early stage of the human evolution, and are therefore exceedingly unlikely to overtake the classes which are so far in advance of them. We have been given to understand that it is just possible for even the lowest savage to reach before the middle of the fifth round the level necessary for continued evolution, but in order to do this he must never once fail to take advantage of each opportunity as it is offered to him, and the number who will do this will be infinitesimally small. It is calculated that the proportion who will be prepared to go on will amount to about three-fifths of the total population of the earth (not merely of the physical population, it will be understood, but of the total number of egos who constitute the human life-wave evolving through this chain) while the remaining two-fifths will be left behind. The surroundings in the world at that time will be specially adapted for the rapid progress of the more advanced egos, and will therefore be wholly unsuitable for entities at a much lower stage of evolution, as the gross vibrations of violent passion and of strong coarse feelings which are necessary for the development of the inert and half-formed astral body of the savage will be no longer available. We can easily imagine many ways in which this unsuitability would show itself. In a world of high intellectual and spiritual development, where war and the slaughter of animals have long been things of the past, the existence of savage races, full of undisciplined passions and desire for conflict, would obviously introduce many serious difficulties and complications; and though no doubt means might be devised for their repression, that very repression would debar them from the activities requisite for their early stage of evolution. Obviously, therefore, the kindest and best thing to do with those who are thus backward is simply to drop them out from this evolution, and let them prepare to take their place in next year's class — in the next planetary chain. Such entities will not suffer in any way; they will simply have a very prolonged period of rest in such heaven-life as they may be capable of appreciating, and no doubt, even though their consciousness during this period will probably be but partially awakened, a certain amount of inner progress will be going on. From that condition they will descend into the earlier stages of the evolution of the next chain, and will be among the leaders of primitive humanity there. We should not think of them as in any way put back, but merely as assigned to the position to which they really belong, where their progress is easy and certain. It is to this class that Madame Blavatsky referred when she spoke of vast numbers of “lost souls”; though this term “lost souls,” when employed in this connection, sometimes misleads students who have not yet grasped the full splendour and certainty of the evolutionary scheme. We may think then of each life-wave in its passage through the chain as breaking up into wavelets. Consider what will be the progress made by our own life-wave. Broadly speaking, this represents the animal kingdom of the moon, though the failures of the lunar humanity have naturally joined it, and may be expected to be among its leaders. The whole of the wave which ensouled that lunar animal kingdom should theoretically have entered humanity during the earlier part of this chain, and should by the end of the seventh round attain the goal appointed for it. We who are now human beings in this chain ought all of us to attain adeptship, and pass away from this scheme of evolution altogether by one of the seven paths which open before the adept, while what is now our animal kingdom ought by the end of this chain to attain individualisation, and therefore to be ready to furnish the humanity for the next chain, the fifth of the scheme. We know, however, that two-fifths of our humanity will fall out in the middle of the fifth round, because it is obviously too far behind the rest to enable it even with the greatest efforts to attain the goal during this chain. This two-fifths will enter the next chain along with the members of our present animal kingdom, and will therefore constitute part of that future humanity. One of the great reasons why the division between the more advanced and the less advanced must be made in the middle of the fifth round is that the later races will be in much closer touch with the adepts and the great devas than we are now. It will therefore be necessary for them to hold themselves always in an impressible condition, in readiness to receive and respond to an outpouring of influences. This in its turn requires that they shall live a peaceful and contemplative life, which would be an impossibility if there were still left in the world savage races who would attack and kill the man in a state of contemplation. The more powerful vibrations of that time would not rouse the higher nature of the savage, but would only stimulate and intensify his lower passions, so that he would gain nothing by being on earth at that period, while he would make impossible the progress of the more developed people. But the other three-fifths of our present humanity, which may be described as successful in so far as it does not drop out at the day of judgment in the fifth round, will yet not all of it succeed, in the sense of attaining the asekha level. It is thought that probably about one-fifth of the whole number (that is to say, one-third of those who have not dropped out) will fully achieve; but that means that two-thirds of the successes will still at the end of our chain of worlds have further work to do, before they have reached the level intended for them. They also will have to enter the next chain, though they will not need the earlier stages of its evolution: so they will probably appear at about its middle point, much as the higher classes of monads who came over from the moon entered our present evolution at its middle point. The matter will, however, be complicated for them by the fact that, just as on this chain the point set before us for attainment is higher than that of the moon-chain, so will the level of achievement expected on the fifth chain be higher than ours. With that, however, we have no concern for the moment. The actual distribution at the end of our planetary chain will probably be into several well-defined classes, somewhat as follows; though obviously each of these might be further subdivided: 1. Those who, having intelligently studied evolution and determined to take the shorter and steeper Path to the goal, have already attained adeptship in previous rounds. 2. Those who attain the asekha level in the seventh round. These are the highest class of the men who have moved along with the ordinary stream of evolution — the vanguard of those who have followed the usual path. They may be taken as corresponding, for our chain, to the first class of the moon-men. 3. Those who have fallen short of this perfect attainment, but yet have succeeded in reaching the arhat level in the seventh round. They correspond for our chain to the second class of the moon-men, and will need very few births in the next incarnation of the chain before they also gain the level of liberation. 4. Those who, while they passed the examination at the middle of the fifth round, have not yet succeeded in raising themselves above the three lower levels of the Path Proper. These may perhaps be taken to correspond for our chain with the animal-men of the moon, who had only just contrived to separate themselves from the animal kingdom, and consequently had much preparatory work to do in the new chain. 5. Those who, while they succeeded in attaining humanity in our earth-chain, yet failed to raise themselves sufficiently to justify their continuance in that chain after the middle of the fifth round. There will, no doubt, be several subdivisions or classes among these. 6. Those who have failed altogether to gain the level of humanity. These will be some of the very lowest of the monads, who had only just reached the animal kingdom on the moon, and have been slowly rising during the earth-chain, but have not succeeded in attaining individualisation. It is not only in the case of humanity that we find this failure to attain the destined level. The same thing appears to happen in connection with every kingdom all through the course of evolution. While the majority of each wave of monads fulfil the destiny appointed for them, there is in each a minority who fall behind, and a much smaller minority who run far in advance of that destiny. For example, just as a few men are now rising far above their fellows and attaining adeptship, so a few animals are even already breaking away from their group-souls and becoming individualised, though the great body of the animal life-wave will arrive at individualisation only towards the end of the seventh round, and will form the humanity of the fifth chain. The men who are approaching adeptship are always those who are in close touch with the existing adepts as Their pupils; the animals who are approaching humanity are usually those who are in close touch with the existing humanity as pets specially developed in affection and intelligence. In the earlier days of the Theosophical teaching we supposed that even if an animal by specially rapid development should become individualised here and now, he would still have to wait until the next chain before he could secure a human body. Later investigations, however, have shown us that exceptions to this rule are at this stage still possible, and that animals who are fortunate enough to attain individualisation during this present world-period may be accommodated with primitive human bodies at the commencement of the occupation by our life-wave of the next planet in our present chain. It is obvious that the number of animals prepared to take advantage of this (which, so far as we can see, appears likely to be their final opportunity of entering the human life of this chain) must be relatively exceedingly small; but still it is a possibility which we must take into account if we wish correctly to comprehend the course of evolution. I have once seen a case in which there were special features that made an even earlier incarnation possible — a case of an animal which had shown in earth-life not only great intelligence, but also unusually strong devotion to his human friend, a devotion which of course continued in the astral life and was even stronger there than ever. The animal's power of definite thought was such that during life he frequently travelled great distances in his astral body when asleep, to visit his master on his journeys. In this case definite progress was made in the astral life after death, and the response to our efforts was much greater than we had hoped, for the astral life gave us a better opportunity than was possible on the physical plane to grasp the exact limits of the animal's lines of thought. They were few, narrow and curiously limited; but yet they extended much further along their lines than one would suppose. Certain new lines of thought opened up in the astral life, and the developments were exceedingly interesting. An almost immediate incarnation in this world was clearly possible, but there were some curious combinations which made the matter difficult to arrange. The animal would have been a primitive savage in many ways, and yet could only have been incarnated in immediate personal relation with his master, for whom his attachment was so strong that it would have been impossible to keep him away from him This presented serious difficulties, but still they might somehow have been overcome, but for the fact that it was impossible to guarantee the sex of the savage! Presumably among the animals that succeed there will also be various classes, corresponding in a general way in this evolution to the various classes of monads in the lunar evolution; and some of the animal essence at present ensouling the lowest forms of life will certainly fail to attain the human level in this chain, and will therefore correspond in the animal kingdom to our “failures of the fifth round.” As to whether these forms also will disappear from the earth at that same period in the fifth round we have no direct information, but analogy would seem to require that this should be so. The same differentiation into classes, according to the measure of success achieved, has been observed in connection with all the lower kingdoms, so that in reality each life-wave ought to be symbolised as breaking up constantly into ripples or wavelets, some of which in time join the preceding or succeeding waves, though the majority move steadily along their appointed course. The seven life-waves which ensoul our seven kingdoms have always for their principal field of action the planet to which the attention of the LOGOS is for the moment directed; but a certain small proportion of their action is always manifesting in the other worlds of the chain also. Thus, although the attention of the Planetary LOGOS is now fixed upon our earth, there are yet representatives of all the kingdoms simultaneously existing upon every one of the six other globes of our chain. These are often described as the seed from which the forms will develope when the life-wave reaches the planet — that is to say, when the special attention of the Planetary LOGOS is turned to it once more. These forms have remained in existence upon their respective planets ever since they were first filled by the lunar animal-men in the first round, and in this way the trouble of what might be called fresh creation for each globe in each round is avoided. The life ensouling these forms during the comparative obscuration of those planets is still part of the great wave, and is still moving onward in connection with it. It serves other functions besides that of providing the seed for the incoming wave, since it is also employed as a means of more rapid evolution for certain classes of monads. It is by the special treatment thus given that it is possible for the second-class monad to overtake the first class and become one of its members. Under certain conditions of strong desire for advancement, if he is seen to be striving with exceptional vigour to improve himself, he may be separated from the great masses of his fellows on this planet, and passed by the authorities into what is called the Inner Round, and may take his next incarnation among the limited population of Mercury. In that case he will spend there about the same time that he would otherwise have devoted to incarnations in one root-race, and will then pass on to the astral planet F. After a similar stay there he will be transferred to globes G, A and B successively, and then to Mars and to the Earth. As in each of these spheres he will have made a stay about equivalent to the normal period of a root-race, the life-wave will have left the Earth before his return, but he will overtake it upon the planet Mercury, and will then join the ranks of the first-class monads and share the remainder of their evolution and their varied opportunities of more rapid development. Entities engaged upon this special line of evolution form the majority of the small population of Mercury and Mars at the present time. In the latter planet there is also a certain residuum of primitive mankind which was unprepared to pass on when the life-wave left for the Earth — a race which represents a stage of humanity lower than any at present existing within our cognisance. It will probably be extinct long before we reach Mars in the fifth round, since there appear to be no other egos needing manifestation at that level for the moment. In the same way we find that all the kingdoms are represented upon the astral and mental globes. It is not very easy for us to grasp with our physical consciousness what can be the condition of the life of the lower kingdoms on these higher planes; the idea of the evolution of a mineral on the mental plane, for example, suggests nothing readily comprehensible to the ordinary mind. We may perhaps help ourselves towards the understanding of it by remembering that every mineral must have its astral and mental counterparts, and that the special types of matter which form these are also on their respective planes manifestations of the mineral monad, and we may suppose that through such manifestations that monad is evolving during its existence on these loftier levels. The group-soul must always contain within itself latent possibilities connected with the higher planes through which it has descended; and it may be that in those stages of evolution these potentialities are being developed by some method quite outside those with which we are familiar. Without the unfolding of psychic faculties we cannot expect to understand in detail the hidden growth in these exalted spheres of finer matter; the important point is that we should realise that although the great life-wave resides only upon one globe of our group at a given time, the remaining planets are by no means dormant, and useful progress is continually being made in every part of our chain. I have tried to make the above description of the successive life-waves as clear as possible; but lest it should still present some difficulties to the mind of a reader unaccustomed to the study of this system of cosmogony, I append a little diagram which I think may be of assistance. The vertical columns indicate the successive incarnations of the chain; the horizontal divisions represent the various kingdoms of nature; the diagonal arrows are the successive waves of evolution which have come forth from the LOGOS. The Roman numbers attached to each of these arrows apply to those arrows only, and not to the squares in which they happen to come. It will be seen that there are thirteen of these arrows. Their length appears to vary, but that is only because we are regarding them solely from the point of view of our own scheme of evolution. Within the limits of that scheme arrow No.I appears to cross only one kingdom — the human. That does not at all mean that the wave represented by that arrow has not passed through the six previous stages; it means only that those six previous stages have been experienced in some other scheme. Just the same thing is true at the opposite corner of the diagram. Arrow No.XIII crosses only one kingdom — the first elemental; it will inevitably in due course have to pass through all the other kingdoms, but it cannot do so in this scheme of evolution, because that is already at an end. So far as our diagram is concerned it appears in that one kingdom only. If we take the column representing any one chain — let us say the fourth, which denotes our present stage of evolution — we shall find in running the eye down it that seven arrows pass through it, indicating the seven kingdoms now existing around us. We can follow any one of those arrows either backwards or forwards, and so can trace any of our kingdoms either in the past or in the future. We should note that waves No. I to No.VI come to us from some other scheme of evolution, while waves No.VII to No.XIII are fresh emanations from the LOGOS.

title: The Inner Life, v. II/Sixth Section/III


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Author talk:John Monteith

Potential match on WorldCat
It's not definite but this John Monteith (1833-1918) was active at the right time and has a somewhat appropriate bibliography. - AdamBMorgan (talk) 17:11, 25 May 2012 (UTC)

title: Author talk:John Monteith


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Tandubato

TANDUBATO, tän-doo-bä-tō', Philippines, one of the smaller islands of the Tawi Tawi group, of the Sulu Archipelago, lying off the northeast coast of the island of Tawi Tawi; length, north and south, six miles; greatest width, five miles. The island is mountainous, Tandubato peak being the highest point. See Tawi Tawi.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Tandolanos

TANDOLANOS, tän-dō-lä'nōs, a wild Philippine tribe of Malay origin living on the west coast of Palawan, between Punta Diente and Punta Tularan.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Tancred

TANCRED, tăng'krĕd, soldier and Crusader: b. about 1068; d. 5 Dec. 1112. His father was a Sicilian or Italian marquis named Odo or Ottobonus; his mother the sister of the celebrated Norman, Robert Guiscard, whose eldest son, Bohemond, was the friend and brother-in-arms of Tancred. (See ). In 1096 the two heroes embarked for Epirus, and thence marched to Macedonia. At the siege of Nicæa (1097) Tancred first appears among the heroes who directed the course of events, and he also took a conspicuous part in the battle of Dorylæum (July 1097). He now advanced, with Godfrey's brother Baldwin, over the Taurus toward Jerusalem. Tancred first pentrated through the passes of the mountains, and obtained possession of Tarsus by capitulation. The perfidious conduct of Baldwin caused a quarrel between him and Tancred, but it terminated in the reconciliation of the chiefs, who now joined the main army which was then marching upon Antioch. On the march to Jerusalem, Tancred had command of the advance guard, and he was the first to storm the walls of the town. During the scenes of horror which attended the capture of Jerusalem (July 1099) he conducted himself with humanity. The Sultan of Egypt advanced to attempt the recovery of Jerusalem, but was totally defeated by Godfrey of Bouillon and Tancred before Ascalon (12 August). Tancred captured Tiberias, besieged Jaffa and, after the death of Godfrey, endeavored to effect the election of Bohemond as king of Jerusalem; but the unworthy Baldwin obtained the throne. Tancred subsequently conducted the defense of Antioch, and after Bohemond's death in 1111 obtained that principality. He is represented by Tasso in the ‘Jerusalem Delivered’ as a brilliant and blameless hero. He is also celebrated in Rossini's opera ‘Tancredi’ (1813). Consult Guizot, ‘Collection des Memoires-Gesta Tancredi’; Delabarre, ‘Histoire de Tancrède’ (1822).