THE LEGEND OF THE BLUE LOTUS

The title of every magazine or book should have some meaning, and especially should this be the case with a
Theosophical publication. A title is supposed to express the object in view, symbolising, as it were, the
content of the paper. Since allegory is the soul of Eastern philosophy, it may be objected that nothing can be
seen in the name "Le Lotus Bleu," save that of a water plant -- the Nymphea Cerulea or Nelumbo.
Furthermore a reader of this calibre would see but the blue colour of the list of contents of our journal.
To avoid a like misunderstanding, we shall attempt to initiate our readers into the general symbolism of the
lotus and the particular symbolism of the Blue Lotus. This mysterious and sacred plant has been considered
through the ages, both in Egypt and in India, as a symbol of the Universe. Not a monument in the valley of
the Nile, not a papyrus, without this plant in an honoured place. On the capitals of the Egyptian pillars, on the
thrones and even the head-dresses of the Divine Kings, the lotus is everywhere found as a symbol of the
Universe. It inevitably became an indispensable attribute of every creative god, as of every creative goddess,
the latter being, philosophically considered, only the feminine aspect of the god, at first androgynous,
afterwards male.
It is from Padma-Yoni, "the bosom of the Lotus," from Absolute Space, or from the Universe outside time
and space, that emanates the Cosmos, conditioned and limited by time and space. The Hiranya Garbha, "the
egg" (or the womb) of gold, from which Brahma emerges, is often called the Heavenly Lotus. The God,
Vishnu, -- the synthesis of the Trimurti or Hindu Trinity -- during the "nights of Brahma" floats asleep on
the primordial waters, stretched on the blossom of a lotus. His Goddess, the lovely Lakshmi, rising from the
bosom of the waters, like Venus-Aphrodite, has a white lotus beneath her feet. It was at the churning of the
Ocean of Milk -- symbol of space and of the Milky Way -- by the Gods assembled together, that Lakshmi,
Goddess of Beauty and Mother of Love (Kama) formed of the froth of the foaming waves, appeared before
the astonished Gods, borne on a lotus, and holding another lotus in her hand.
Thus have arisen the two chief titles of Lakshmi; Padma the Lotus, and Kshirabdi-tanaya daughter of the
Ocean of Milk. Gautama the Buddha has never been degraded to the level of a god, notwithstanding the fact
that he was the first mortal within historical times fearless enough to interrogate that dumb Sphinx, which we
call the Universe, and to wrest completely therefrom the secrets of Life and Death. Though he has never been deified, we repeat, yet he has nevertheless been recognised by generations in Asia as Lord of the Universe.

This is why the conqueror and master of the world of thought and philosophy is represented as seated on a
lotus in full bloom, emblem of the Universe thought out by him. In India and Ceylon the lotus is generally of
a golden hue; amongst the Buddhists of the North, it is blue.
But there exists in one part of the world a third kind of lotus -- the Zizyphus. He who eats of it forgets of his
fatherland and those who are dear to him, so say the ancients. Let us not follow this example. Let us not
forget our spiritual home, the cradle of the human race, and the birthplace of the Blue Lotus.
Let us then raise the veil of oblivion which covers one of the most ancient allegories -- a Vedic legend
which, however, the Brahman chroniclers have preserved. Only as the chroniclers have recounted the legend
each after his own manner, aided by variations* of his own, we have given the story here -- not according to
the incomplete renderings and translations of these Eastern gentlemen but according to the popular version.
(* Cf. the history of Sunahsepha in the Bhagavata, IX, XVI, 35 and of the Ramayana, Bk. I. Cap. 60; Manu,
X, 105; Koulouka Bhatta [the Historian]; Bahwruba and the Aitareya Brahmanas; Vishnu Purana, etc., etc.
Each book gives its own version.) Thus is it that the old bards of Rajasthan sing it, when they come and seat
themselves in the verandah of the traveller's bungalow in the wet evenings of the rainy season. Let us leave
then the Orientalists to their fantastic speculations. How does it concern us whether the father of the selfish
and cowardly prince, who was the cause of the transformation of the white lotus into the blue lotus, be called
Harischandra or Ambarisha? Names have nothing to do with the naive poetry of the legend, nor with its
moral -- for there is a moral to be found if looked for well. We shall soon see that the chief episode in the
story is curiously reminiscent of another legend -- that of the story of Abraham and the sacrifice of Isaac in
the Bible. Is not this one more proof that the Secret Doctrine of the East may have good reason to maintain
that the name of the Patriarch was neither a Chaldean or a Hebrew name, but rather an epithet and a Sanskrit
surname, signifying abram, i.e., one is non-Brahman,* a debrahmanised Brahman, one who is degraded or
who has lost his caste? After this how can we avoid suspecting that we may find, among the modern Jews,
the Chaldeans of the time of the Rishi Agastya -- these makers of bricks whose persecution began from eight
hundred to a thousand years ago, but who emigrated to Chaldea four thousand years before the Christian era
-- when so many of the popular legends of Southern India resemble the Bible stories. Louis Jacolliot speaks
in several of his twenty-one volumes on Brahmanical India of this matter, and for once he is right.
* The particle a in the Sanskrit word shews this clearly. Placed before a substantive this
particle always means the negation or the opposite of the meaning of the expression that
follows. Thus Sura (god) written a -Sura, becomes non-God, or the devil, Vidya is
knowledge, and a-Vidya, ignorance or the opposite of knowledge, etc., etc.

THE BLUE LOTUS

Century after century has passed away since Ambarisha, King of Ayodhya, reigned in the city founded by the
holy Manu, Vaivasvata, the offspring of the Sun. The King was a Suryavansi (a descendant of the Solar
Race), and he avowed himself a most faithful servant of the God, Varuna, the greatest and most powerful
deity in the Rig-Veda.* But the god had denied male heirs to his worshipper, and this made the king very
unhappy.
* It is only much later in the orthodox Pantheon and the symbolical polytheism of the
Brahmans that Varuna became Poseidon or Neptune -- which he is now. In the Vedas he is
the most ancient of the Gods, identical with Ouranos of the Greek, that is to say a
personification of the celestial space and the infinite gods, the creator and ruler of heaven and
earth, the King, the Father and the Master of the world, of gods and of men. Hesiod's Uranus
and the Greek Zeus are one.

"Alas!" he wailed, every morning while performing his puja to the lesser gods, "alas! What avails it to be the
greatest king on earth when God denies me an heir of my blood. When I am dead and placed on the funeral
pyre, who will fulfil the pious duties of a son, and shatter my lifeless skull to liberate my soul from its earthly
trammels? What strange hand will at the full moon-tide place the rice of the Shraddha ceremony to do
reverence to my shade? Will not the very birds of death [Rooks and ravens] themselves turn from the funeral
feast? For, surely, my shade earthbound in its great despair will not permit them to partake of it."
* The Shradda is a ceremony observed by the nearest relatives of the deceased for the nine
days following the death. Once upon a time it was a magical ceremony. Now, however, in
addition to other practices, it mainly consists of scattering balls of cooked rice before the
door of the dead man's house. If the crows promptly eat the rice it is a sign that the soul is
liberated and at rest. If these birds which are so greedy did not touch the food, it was a proof
that the pisacha or bhut (shade) is present and is preventing them. Undoubtedly the Shradda
is a superstition, but certainly not more so than Novenas or masses for the Dead.
The King was thus bewailing, when his family priest inspired him with the idea of making a vow. If God
should send him two or more sons, he would promise God to sacrifice to Him at a public ceremony the eldest
born when he should have attained the age of puberty.
Attracted by this promise of a burnt-offering of flesh -- a savory odour very agreeable to the Great Gods --
Varuna accepted the promise of the King, and the happy Ambarisha had a son, followed by several others.
The eldest son, the heir to the throne for the time being, was called Rohita (the red) and was surnamed
Devarata -- which, literally translated, means God-given. Devarata grew up and soon became a veritable
Prince Charming, but if we are to believe the legends he was as selfish and deceitful as he was beautiful.
When the Prince had attained the appointed age, the God speaking through the mouth of the same Court
Priest, charged the King to keep his promise; but when each time Ambarisha invented some excuse to
postpone the hour of sacrifice, the God at last grew annoyed. Being a jealous and angry God, he threatened
the King with all His Divine wrath.
For a long time, neither commands nor threats produced the desired effect. As long as there were sacred cows
to be transferred from the royal cowsheds to those of the Brahmans, as long as there was money in the
Treasury to fill the Temple crypts, the Brahmans succeeded in keeping Varuna quiet. But when there were no
more cows, when there was no more money, the God threatened to overthrow the King, his palace and his
heirs, and if they escaped, to burn them alive. The poor King, finding himself at the end of his resources,
summoned his first-born and informed him of the fate which awaited him. But Devarata lent a deaf ear to
these tidings. He refused to submit to the double weight of the paternal and divine will.
So, when the sacrificial fires had been lighted and all the good towns-folk of Ayodhya had gathered together,
full of emotion, the heir-apparent was absent from the festival.
He had concealed himself in the forests of the Yogis.
Now, these forests had been inhabited by holy hermits, and Devarata knew that there be would be
unassailable and impregnable. He might be seen there, but no one could do him violence -- not even the God
Varuna Himself. It was a simple solution. The religious austerities of the Aranyakas (the holy men of the
forests) several of whom were Daityas (Titans, a race of giants and demons), gave them such dominance that
all the Gods trembled before their sway and their supernatural powers -- even Varuna, himself.
These antediluvian Yogis, it seems, had the power to destroy even the God Himself, at will -- possibly
because they had invented Him themselves.

Devarata spent several years in the forests; at last he grew tired of the life. Allowing it to be understood that
he could satisfy Varuna by finding a substitute, who would sacrifice himself in his place, provided that the
sacrificial victim was the son of a Rishi, he started on his journey and finally discovered that he sought.
In the country which lies around the flower-covered shores of the renowned Pushkara, there was once a
famine, and a very holy man, named Ajigarta,* was at the point of death from starvation, likewise all his
family. He had several sons of whom the second, Sunahsepha, a virtuous young man, was himself also
preparing to become a Rishi. Taking advantage of his poverty and thinking with good reason that a hungry
stomach would be a more ready listener than a satisfied one, the crafty Devarata made the father acquainted
with his history. After this he offered him a hundred cows in exchange for Sunahsepha, a substitute
burnt-offering on the altar of the Gods.
* Others call him Rishika and call King Ambarisha, Harischandra, the famous sovereign who
was a paragon of all the virtues.
The virtuous father refused at first point-blank, but the gentle Sunahsepha offered himself of his own accord,
and thus addressed his father: "Of what importance is the life of one man, when it can save that of many
others. This God is a great god and His pity is infinite; but He is also a very jealous god and His wrath is
swift and vengeful. Varuna is the Lord of Terror, and Death is obedient to His command. His spirit will not
for ever strive with one who is disobedient to Him. He will repent Him that He has created man, and then will
burn alive a hundred thousand lakhs* of innocent people (*A lakh is a measure of 100,000, whether men or
pieces of money be in question.), because of one man who is guilty. If His victim should escape Him, He will
surely dry up our rivers, set fire to our lands and destroy our women who are with child -- in His infinite
kindness. Let me then sacrifice myself, oh! my father, in place of this stranger who offers us a hundred cows.
That sum would prevent thee and my brothers from dying of hunger and will save thousands of others from a
terrible death. At this price the giving up of life is a pleasant thing."
The aged Rishi shed some tears, but he ended by giving his consent and began to prepare the sacrificial
pyre.*
*Manu (Book X, 105) alluding to this story remarks that Ajigarta, the holy Rishi, committed
no sin in selling the life of his son, since the sacrifice preserved his life and that of all the
family. This reminds us of another legend, more modern, that might serve as a parallel to the
older one. Did not the Count Ugolino, condemned to die of starvation in his dungeon, eat his
own children "to preserve for them a father"? The popular legend of Sunahsepha is more
beautiful than the commentary of Manu -- evidently an interpolation of some Brahmans in
falsified manuscripts.
The Pushkara lake* was one of the spots of this earth favoured by the Goddess, Lakshmi-Padma (White
Lotus); she often plunged into the fresh waters that she might visit her eldest sister, Varuni, the consort of the
God Varuna.** Lakshmi-Padma heard the proposal of Devarata, witnessed the despair of the father, and
admired the filial devotion of Sunahsepha. Filled with pity, the Mother of Love and Compassion sent for the
Rishi Visvamitra, one of the seven primordial Manus and a son of Brahma, and succeeded in interesting him
in the lot of her protege. The great Rishi promised her his aid. Appearing to Sunahsepha, but unseen by all
others, he taught him two sacred verses (mantras) of the Rig-Veda, making him promise to recite these on
the pyre. Now, he who utters these two mantras (invocations) forces the whole assembly of the Gods, with
Indra at their head, to come to his rescue, and because of this becomes a Rishi himself in this life or in his
next incarnation.
* This lake is sometimes called in our day Pokker. It is I place famous for a yearly
pilgrimage, and is charmingly situated five English miles from Ajmeer in Rajisthan.

Pushkara means "the Blue Lotus", the surface of the lake being covered as with a carpet with
these beautiful plants. But the legend avers that they were at first white. Pushkara is also the
proper name of a man, and the name of one of the seven sacred islands" in the Geography of
the Hindus, the septa dwipa.
** Varuni, Goddess of Heat (later Goddess of Wine) was also born of the Ocean of Milk. Of
the "fourteen precious objects" produced by the churning, she appeared the second and
Lakshmi the last, preceded by the Chalice of Anmita, the nectar which gives immortality.
The altar was set up on the shore of the lake, the pyre was prepared and the crowd had assembled. After he
had laid his son on the perfumed sandal wood and bound him, Ajigarta equipped himself with the knife of
sacrifice. He was just raising his trembling arm above the heart of his well-beloved son, when the boy began
to chant the sacred verses. There was again a moment of hesitation and supreme grief, and as the boy finished
his mantram, the aged Rishi plunged his knife into the breast of Sunahsepha.
But, oh! the miracle of it! At that very moment Indra, the God of the Blue Vault (the Universe) issued from
the heavens and descended right into the midst of the ceremony. Enveloping the pyre and the victim in a thick
blue mist, he loosed the ropes which held the youth captive. It seemed as if a corner of the azure heavens had
lowered itself over the spot, illuminating the whole country and colouring with a golden blue the whole
scene. Filled with terror, the crowd, and even the Rishi himself, fell on their faces, half dead with fear.
When they came to themselves, the mist had disappeared and a complete change of scene had been wrought.
The fires of the funeral pyre had rekindled of themselves, and stretched thereon was seen a hind (Rohit)*
which was none else than the Prince Rohita, Devarata, who, pierced to the heart with the knife he had
directed against another, was burning as a sacrifice for his sin.
* A play upon words. Rohit in Sanskrit is the Dame of the female of the deer, the hind, and
Rohita means "red". It was because of his cowardice and fear of death that he was changed,
according to the legend, into a hind by the Gods.
Some little way apart from the altar, also lying stretched out, but on a bed of Lotuses, peacefully slept
Sunahsepha; and in the place on his breast where the knife had descended was seen to bloom a beautiful blue
lotus. The Pushkara lake, itself, covered a moment before with white lotuses, whose petals shone in the sun
like silver cups full of Amrita's waters [The Elixir which confers Immortality.], now reflected the azure of the
heavens -- the white lotuses had become blue.
Then like to the sound of the Vina [A species of the Lute. An instrument, the invention of which is attributed
to Shiva.] rising to the air from the depth of the waters, was heard a melodious voice which uttered these
words and this curse:
"A prince who does not know how to die for his subjects is not worthy to reign over the children of the Sun.
He will be reborn in a race of red haired peoples, a barbarous and selfish race, and the nations which descend
from him will have a heritage ever on the decline. It is the younger son of a mendicant ascetic who will
become the King and reign in his stead."
A murmur of approbation set in movement the flowery carpet that overspread the lake. Opening to the golden
sunlight their hearts of blue, the lotuses smiled with joy and wafted a hymn of perfume to Surya, their Sun
and Master. All nature rejoiced, save Devarata, who was but a handful of ashes.

Then Visvamitra, the great Rishi, although he was already the father of a hundred sons, adopted Sunahsepha
as his eldest son and as a precautionary measure cursed in advance anyone who should refuse to recognise, in
the last born of the Rishi, the eldest of his children and the legitimate heir of the throne of Ambarisha.
Because of this decree, Sunahsepha was born in his next incarnation in the royal family of Ayodha and
reigned over the Solar race for 84,000 years.
With regard to Rohita -- Devarata or God-given as he was -- he fulfilled the lot which Lakshmi Padma had
vowed. He reincarnated in the family of a foreigner without caste (Mleccha-Yavana) and became the
ancestor of the barbarous and red-haired races which dwell in the West.
* * * * *
It is for the conversion of these races that the Lotus Bleu has been established.
If any of our readers should allow themselves to doubt the historical truth of this adventure of our ancestor;
Rohita, and of the transformation of the white lotus into the blue lotus, they are invited to make a journey to
Ajmeer.
Once there, they need only to go to the shores of the lake thrice blessed, named Pushkara, where every
pilgrim who bathes during the full moon time of the month of Krhktika (October-November) attains to the
highest sanctity, without other effort. There the sceptics would see with their own eyes the site where was
built the pyre of Rohita, and also the waters visited by Lakshmi in days of yore.
They might even have seen the blue lotuses, if most of these had not since been changed, thanks to a new
transformation decreed by the Gods, into sacred crocodiles which no one has the right to disturb. It is this
transformation which gives to nine out of every ten pilgrims who plunge into the waters of the lake, the
opportunity of entering into Nirvana almost immediately, and also causes the holy crocodiles to be the most
bulky of their kind.

THE CAVE OF THE ECHOES

A Strange but True Story

* This story is given from the narrative of an eye-witness, a Russian gentleman, very pious,
and fully trustworthy. Moreover, the facts are copied from the police records of P---. The
eye-witness in question attributes it, of course, partly to divine interference and partly to the
Evil One. -- H. P. B.
In one of the distant governments of the Russian empire, in a small town on the borders of Siberia, a
mysterious tragedy occurred more than thirty years ago. About six versts from the little town of P---,
famous for the wild beauty of its scenery, and for the wealth of its inhabitants -- generally proprietors of
mines and of iron foundries -- stood an aristocratic mansion. Its household consisted of the master, a rich old
bachelor and his brother, who was a widower and the father of two sons and three daughters.
It was known that the proprietor, Mr. Izvertzoff, had adopted his brother's children, and, having formed an
especial attachment for his eldest nephew, Nicolas, he made him the sole heir of his numerous estates.
Time rolled on. The uncle was getting old, the nephew was coming of age. Days and years had passed in
monotonous serenity, when, on the hitherto clear horizon of the quiet family, appeared a cloud. On an
unlucky day one of the nieces took it into her head to study the zither. The instrument being of purely
Teutonic origin, and no teacher of it residing in the neighbourhood, the indulgent uncle sent to St. Petersburg
for both. After diligent search only one Professor could be found willing to trust himself in such close
proximity to Siberia. It was an old German artist, who, sharing his affections equally between his instrument
and a pretty blonde daughter, would part with neither. And thus it came to pass that, one fine morning, the old
Professor arrived at the mansion, with his music box under one arm and his fair Munchen leaning on the
other.
From that day the little cloud began growing rapidly; for every vibration of the melodious instrument found a
responsive echo in the old bachelor's heart. Music awakens love, they say, and the work begun by the zither
was completed by Munchen's blue eyes. At the expiration of six months the niece had become an expert
zither player, and the uncle was desperately in love.
One morning, gathering his adopted family around him, he embraced them all very tenderly, promised to
remember them in his will, and wound up by declaring his unalterable resolution to marry the blue-eyed
Munchen. After this he fell upon their necks, and wept in silent rapture. The family, understanding that they
were cheated out of the inheritance, also wept; but it was for another cause. Having thus wept, they consoled
themselves and tried to rejoice, for the old gentleman was sincerely beloved by all. Not all of them rejoiced,
though. Nicolas, who had himself been smitten to the heart by the pretty German, and who found himself
defrauded at once of his belle and of his uncle's money, neither rejoiced nor consoled himself, but
disappeared for a whole day.

Meanwhile, Mr. Izvertzoff had given orders to prepare his traveling carriage on the following day, and it was
whispered that he was going to the chief town of the district, at some distance from his home, with the
intention of altering his will. Though very wealthy, he had no superintendent on his estate, but kept his books
himself. The same evening after supper, he was heard in his room, angrily scolding his servant, who had been
in his service for over thirty years. This man, Ivan, was a native of northern Asia, from Kamschatka; he had
been brought up by the family in the Christian religion, and was thought to be very much attached to his
master. A few days later, when the first tragic circumstance I am about to relate had brought all the police
force to the spot, it was remembered that on that night Ivan was drunk; that his master, who had a horror of
this vice, had paternally thrashed him, and turned him out of his room, and that Ivan had been seen reeling
out of the door, and had been heard to mutter threats.
On the vast domain of Mr. Izvertzoff there was a curious cavern, which excited the curiosity of all who
visited it. It exists to this day, and is well known to every inhabitant of P---. A pine forest, commencing a
few feet from the garden gate, climbs in steep terraces up a long range of rocky hills, which it covers with a
broad belt of impenetrable vegetation. The grotto leading into the cavern, which is known as the "Cave of the
Echoes," is situated about half a mile from the site of the mansion, from which it appears as a small
excavation in the hillside, almost hidden by luxuriant plants, but not so completely as to prevent any person
entering it from being readily seen from the terrace in front of the house. Entering the grotto, the explorer
finds at the rear a narrow cleft; having passed through which he emerges into a lofty cavern, feebly lighted
through fissures in the vaulted roof, fifty feet from the ground. The cavern itself is immense, and would easily
hold between two and three thousand people. A part of it, in the days of Mr. Izvertzoff, was paved with
flagstones, and was often used in the summer as a ball-room by picnic parties. Of an irregular oval, it
gradually narrows into a broad corridor, which runs for several miles underground, opening here and there
into other chambers, as large and lofty as the ball-room, but, unlike this, impassable otherwise than in a boat,
as they are always full of water. These natural basins have the reputation of being unfathomable.
On the margin of the first of these is a small platform, with several mossy rustic seats arranged on it, and it is
from this spot that the phenomenal echoes, which give the cavern its name, are heard in all their weirdness. A
word pronounced in a whisper, or even a sigh, is caught up by endless mocking voices, and instead of
diminishing in volume, as honest echoes do, the sound grows louder and louder at every successive
repetition, until at last it bursts forth like the repercussion of a pistol shot, and recedes in a plaintive wail
down the corridor.
On the day in question, Mr. Izvertzoff had mentioned his intention of having a dancing party in this cave on
his wedding day, which he had fixed for an early date. On the following morning, while preparing for his
drive, he was seen by his family entering the grotto, accompanied only by his Siberian servant. Half-an-hour
later, Ivan returned to the mansion for a snuff-box which his master had forgotten in his room, and went back
with it to the cave. An hour later the whole house was startled by his loud cries. Pale and dripping with water,
Ivan rushed in like a madman, and declared that Mr. Izvertzoff was nowhere to be found in the cave.
Thinking he had fallen into the lake, he had dived into the first basin in search of him and was nearly
drowned himself.
The day passed in vain attempts to find the body. The police filled the house, and louder than the rest in his
despair was Nicolas, the nephew, who had returned home only to meet the sad tidings.

A dark suspicion fell upon Ivan, the Siberian. He had been struck by his master the night before, and had
been heard to swear revenge. He had accompanied him alone to the cave, and when his room was searched a
box full of rich family jewellery, known to have been carefully kept in Mr. Izvertzoff's apartment, was found
under Ivan's bedding. Vainly did the serf call God to witness that the box had been given to him in charge by
his master himself, just before they proceeded to the cave; that it was the latter's purpose to have the jewellery
reset, as he intended it for a wedding present to his bride; and that he, Ivan, would willingly give his own life
to recall that of his master, if he knew him to be dead. No heed was paid to him, however, and he was
arrested and thrown into prison, upon a charge of murder. There he was left, for under the Russian law a
criminal cannot -- at any rate, he could not in those days -- be sentenced for a crime, however conclusive
the circumstantial evidence, unless he confessed his guilt.
After a week had passed in useless search, the family arrayed themselves in deep mourning; and as the will as
originally drawn remained without a codicil, the whole of the property passed into the hands of the nephew.
The old teacher and his daughter bore this sudden reverse of fortune with true Germanic phlegm, and
prepared to depart. Taking again his zither under one arm, the old man was about to lead away his Munchen
by the other, when the nephew stopped him by offering himself as the fair damsel's husband in the place of
his departed uncle. The change was found to be an agreeable one, and, without much ado, the young people
were married.
Ten years rolled away, and we meet the happy family once more at the beginning of 1859. The fair Munchen
had grown fat and vulgar. From the day of the old man's disappearance, Nicolas had become morose and
retired in his habits, and many wondered at the change in him, for now he was never seen to smile. It seemed
as if his only aim in life were to find out his uncle's murderer, or rather to bring Ivan to confess his guilt. But
the man still persisted that he was innocent.
An only son had been born to the young couple, and a strange child it was. Small, delicate, and ever ailing,
his frail life seemed to hang by a thread. When his features were in repose, his resemblance to his uncle was
so striking that the members of the family often shrank from him in terror. It was the pale shrivelled face of a
man of sixty upon the shoulders of a child nine years old. He was never seen either to laugh or to play, but,
perched in his high chair, would gravely sit there, folding his arms in a way peculiar to the late Mr.
Izvertzoff; and thus he would remain for hours, drowsy and motionless. His nurses were often seen furtively
crossing themselves at night, upon approaching him, and not one of them would consent to sleep alone with
him in the nursery. His father's behaviour towards him was still more strange. He seemed to love him
passionately, and at the same time to hate him bitterly. He seldom embraced or caressed the child, but with
livid cheek and staring eye, he would pass long hours watching him, as the child sat quietly in his corner, in
his goblin-like, old-fashioned way.
The child had never left the estate, and few outside the family knew of his existence.
About the middle of July, a tall Hungarian traveller, preceded by a great reputation for eccentricity, wealth
and mysterious powers, arrived at the town of P--- from the North, where, it was said, he had resided for
many years. He settled in the little town, in company with a Shaman or South Siberian magician, on whom he
was said to make mesmeric experiments. He gave dinners and parties, and invariably exhibited his Shaman,
of whom he felt very proud, for the amusement of his guests. One day the notables of P--- made an
unexpected invasion of the domains of Nicolas Izvertzoff, and requested the loan of his cave for an evening
entertainment. Nicolas consented with great reluctance, and only after still greater hesitancy was he prevailed
upon to join the party.
The first cavern and the platform beside the bottomless lake glittered with lights. Hundreds of flickering
candles and torches, stuck in the clefts of the rocks, illuminated the place and drove the shadows from the
mossy nooks and corners, where they had crouched undisturbed for many years. The stalactites on the walls
sparkled brightly, and the sleeping echoes were suddenly awakened by a joyous confusion of laughter and
conversation. The Shaman, who was never lost sight of by his friend and patron, sat in a corner, entranced as
usual. Crouched on a projecting rock, about midway between the entrance and the water, with his
lemon-yellow, wrinkled face, flat nose, and thin beard, he looked more like an ugly stone idol than a human
being. Many of the company pressed around him and received correct answers to their questions, the
Hungarian cheerfully submitting his mesmerized "subject" to cross-examination.
Suddenly one of the party, a lady, remarked that it was in that very cave that old Mr. Izvertzoff had so
unaccountably disappeared ten years before. The foreigner appeared interested, and desired to learn more of
the circumstances, so Nicolas was sought amid the crowd and led before the eager group. He was the host and
he found it impossible to refuse the demanded narrative. He repeated the sad tale in a trembling voice, with a
pallid cheek, and tears were seen glittering in his feverish eyes. The company were greatly affected, and
encomiums upon the behaviour of the loving nephew in honouring the memory of his uncle and benefactor
were freely circulating in whispers, when suddenly the voice of Nicolas became choked, his eyes started from
their sockets, and, with a suppressed groan, he staggered back. Every eye in the crowd followed with
curiosity his haggard look, as it fell and remained riveted upon a weakened little face, that peeped from
behind the back of the Hungarian.
"Where do you come from? Who brought you here, child?" gasped out Nicolas, as pale as death.
"I was in bed, papa; this man came to me, and brought me here in his arms," answered the boy simply,
pointing to the Shaman, beside whom he stood upon the rock, and who, with his eyes closed, kept swaying
himself to and fro like a living pendulum.
"That is very strange," remarked one of the guests, "for the man has never moved from his place."
"Good God! what an extraordinary resemblance!" muttered an old resident of the town, a friend of the lost
man.
"You lie, child!" fiercely exclaimed the father. "Go to bed; this is no place for you."
"Come, come," interposed the Hungarian, with a strange expression on his face, and encircling with his arm
the slender childish figure; "the little fellow has seen the double of my Shaman, which roams sometimes far
away from his body, and has mistaken the phantom for the man himself. Let him remain with us for a while."
At these strange words the guests stared at each other in mute surprise, while some piously made the sign of
the cross, spitting aside, presumably at the devil and all his works.
"By-the-bye," continued the Hungarian with a peculiar firmness of accent, and addressing the company
rather than any one in particular; "why should we not try, with the help of my Shaman, to unravel the mystery
hanging over the tragedy? Is the suspected party still lying in prison? What? he has not confessed up to now?
This is surely very strange. But now we will learn the truth in a few minutes! Let all keep silent!"
He then approached the Tehuktchene, and immediately began his performance without so much as asking the
consent of the master of the place. The latter stood rooted to the spot, as if petrified with horror, and unable to
articulate a word. The suggestion met with general approbation, save from him; and the police inspector, Col.
S---, especially approved of the idea.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the mesmerizer in soft tones, "allow me for this once to proceed otherwise than
in my general fashion. I will employ the method of native magic. It is more appropriate to this wild place, and
far more effective as you will find, than our European method of mesmerization."

Without waiting for an answer, he drew from a bag that never left his person, first a small drum, and then two
little phials -- one full of fluid, the other empty. With the contents of the former he sprinkled the Shaman,
who fell to trembling and nodding more violently than ever. The air was filled with the perfume of spicy
odours, and the atmosphere itself seemed to become clearer. Then, to the horror of those present, he
approached the Tibetan, and taking a miniature stiletto from his pocket, he plunged the sharp steel into the
man's forearm, and drew blood from it, which he caught in the empty phial. When it was half filled, he
pressed the orifice of the wound with his thumb, and stopped the flow of blood as easily as if he had corked a
bottle, after which he sprinkled the blood over the little boy's head. He then suspended the drum from his
neck, and, with two ivory drum-sticks, which were covered with magic signs and letters, he began beating a
sort of reveille, to drum up the spirits, as he said.
The bystanders, half-shocked and half-terrified by these extraordinary proceedings, eagerly crowded round
him, and for a few moments a dead silence reigned throughout the lofty cavern. Nicolas, with his face livid
and corpse-like, stood speechless as before. The mesmerizer had placed himself between the Shaman and the
platform, when he began slowly drumming. The first notes were muffled, and vibrated so softly in the air that
they awakened no echo, but the Shaman quickened his pendulum-like motion and the child became restless.
The drummer then began a slow chant, low, impressive and solemn.
As the unknown words issued from his lips, the flames of the candles and torches wavered and flickered,
until they began dancing in rhythm with the chant. A cold wind came wheezing from the dark corridors
beyond the water, leaving a plaintive echo in its trail. Then a sort of nebulous vapour, seeming to ooze from
the rocky ground and walls, gathered about the Shaman and the boy. Around the latter the aura was silvery
and transparent, but the cloud which enveloped the former was red and sinister. Approaching nearer to the
platform the magician beat a louder roll upon the drum, and this time the echo caught it up with terrific
effect! It reverberated near and far in incessant peals; one wail followed another louder and louder, until the
thundering roar seemed the chorus of a thousand demon voices rising from the fathomless depths of the lake.
The water itself, whose surface, illuminated by many lights, had previously been smooth as a sheet of glass,
became suddenly agitated, as if a powerful gust of wind had swept over its unruffled face. Another chant, and
a roll of the drum, and the mountain trembled to its foundation with the cannon-like peals which rolled
through the dark and distant corridors. The Shaman's body rose two yards in the air, and nodding and
swaying, sat, self-suspended like an apparition. But the transformation which now occurred in the boy
chilled everyone, as they speechlessly watched the scene. The silvery cloud about the boy now seemed to lift
him, too, into the air; but, unlike the Shaman, his feet never left the ground. The child began to grow, as
though the work of years was miraculously accomplished in a few seconds. He became tall and large, and his
senile features grew older with the ageing of his body. A few more seconds, and the youthful form had
entirely disappeared. It was totally absorbed in another individuality, and, to the horror of those present who
had been familiar with his appearance, this individuality was that of old Mr. Izvertzoff, and on his temple was
a large gaping wound, from which trickled great drops of blood.
This phantom moved towards Nicolas, till it stood directly in front of him, while he, with his hair standing
erect, with the look of a madman gazed at his own son, transformed into his uncle. The sepulchral silence was
broken by the Hungarian, who, addressing the child phantom, asked him, in solemn voice:
"In the name of the great Master, of Him who has all power, answer the truth, and nothing but the truth.
Restless spirit, hast thou been lost by accident, or foully murdered?"
The spectre's lips moved, but it was the echo which answered for them in lugubrious shouts: "Murdered!
mur-der-ed!! murdered!!!"

"Where? How? By whom?" asked the conjuror.
The apparition pointed a finger at Nicolas and, without removing its gaze or lowering its arms, retreated
backwards slowly towards the lake. At every step it took, the younger Izvertzoff, as if compelled by some
irresistable fascination, advanced a step towards it, until the phantom reached the lake, and the next moment
was seen gliding on its surface. It was a fearful, ghostly scene!
When he had come within two steps of the brink of the watery abyss, a violent convulsion ran through the
frame of the guilty man. Flinging himself upon his knees, he clung to one of the rustic seats with a desperate
clutch, and staring wildly, uttered a long piercing cry of agony. The phantom now remained motionless on
the water, and bending his extended finger, slowly beckoned him to come. Crouched in abject terror, the
wretched man shrieked until the cavern rang again and again: "I did not . . . No, I did not murder you!"
Then came a splash, and now it was the boy who was in the dark water, struggling for his life, in the middle
of the lake, with the same motionless stern apparition brooding over him.
"Papa! papa! Save me . . . I am drowning!" . . . cried a piteous little voice amid the uproar of the mocking
echoes.
"My boy!" shrieked Nicolas, in the accents of a maniac, springing to his feet. "My boy! Save him! Oh, save
him! . . . Yes I confess . . . I am the murderer . . . It is I who killed him!"
Another splash, and the phantom disappeared. With a cry of horror the company rushed towards the platform;
but their feet were suddenly rooted to the ground, as they saw amid the swirling eddies a whitish shapeless
mass holding the murderer and the boy in tight embrace, and slowly sinking into the bottomless lake . . .
On the morning after these occurrences, when, after a sleepless night, some of the party visited the residence
of the Hungarian gentleman, they found it closed and deserted. He and the Shaman had disappeared. Many
are among the old inhabitants of P--- who remember him; the Police Inspector, Col. S---, dying a few
years ago in the full assurance that the noble traveller was the devil. To add to the general consternation the
Izvertzoff mansion took fire on that same night and was completely destroyed. The Archbishop performed
the ceremony of exorcism, but the locality is considered accursed to this day. The Government investigated
the facts, and ordered silence.

THE LOST ATLANTIS.

THE LOST ATLANTIS.

FAIR Atlantis, peerless country !
Lulled within the Ocean s arms,
Lying beautiful and shining
Far beneath the storm s alarms;
Never has a plague come near thee ;
In thy halls were love and ease ;
Now, above thee lost Atlantis !
Roll the ever restless seas.
In those histories, half tradition,
With their mythical thread of gold,
We shall find the name and story
Of thy cities, fair and old;
Dreaming bard has told in fancy
Wandering minstrel sung of thee,
Now, above thee, lost Atlantis,
Rolls the ever restless sea.
Every heart has such a country ;
Some Atlantis loved, and lost
Where upon the gleaming sand bars
Once life s fitful ocean tost;
Mighty cities rose in splendor
Love was monarch of that clime
Now, above that lost Atlantis
Rolls the restless sea of Time.
Happy he, who looking backward
From a life of larger scope
Deems a youthful idle fancy
His lost continent of Hope ;
Or by light of love and gladness,
Find the present home sublime
Glad that over his Atlantis
Rolls the restless sea of Time.

Dallán

Dallán’s mother was murdered when he was thirteen and he never knew his father. He lived in the forest alone, surviving by using his gift with plants to grow food. Eventually he was taken in by an sorceress who helped him learn basic magic and gave him direction and purpose. In his later wanderings he came upon an ancient ruined city where he stayed and explored for a long time. One day at midsummer he bathed in the lake by which he lived, and fell asleep on its shore.

Darién, the goddess of the sun came to him as he slept. Darién had placed severe restrictions on Mendarién to limit his ability to interfere with their people. She thought Mendarién’s fathering of Dallán was merely another attempt by Mendarién to circumvent her laws by creating an avatar to do the things Mendarién was not allowed. Darién came to bind Dallán, or perhaps destroy him to punish Mendarién. However when she saw Dallán she realized that he had his own soul and purpose. She saw his potential as a free guardian of her children and decided instead to bless him with her power and enhance his natural magic. Dallán thought he was dreaming when she came to him and was more awed by her majesty than afraid.