Xul Solar

Someone once unkindly but not inaccurately described surrealism as "the rotting corpse of Western art." The surrealist fetishism of the lower realms of the human psyche was at the cost of forgetting the higher and more noble reaches of the human state. The dripping clocks and the bloated significance ascribed to the trvial contents of undistinguished dreams was the indulgence of Freudian fadism. The supposed "discovery of the unconscious" overshadowed the loss of the super-conscious. Salvador Dali, after all, was just an over-rated landscape painter. 

It is unfortunate therefore that the Argentine artist Xul Solar is usually counted as a surrealist and that the content of his work is mistaken for an exploration of the motifs of the unconscious. The prominence of Dali imposed a strong surrealist influence upon the Spanish-speaking world, no doubt, and Senor Solar would exhibit his work alongside others who fit more precisely in that category. But in fact he is not a surrealist painter in any proper sense. Stylistically, he is more akin to Kandinsky and Chagall - musicality and playfulness, respectively, are two of the strongest elements in his work - and what is mistaken for surrealist interests in his content is actually a deep and intelligent engagement with esotericism and the occult. The surrealists would sometimes exploit the esoteric and the occult but in this only achieved parody and pastiche. Xul Solar was an esoteric artist, a mystic (although technically speaking this is probably an incorrect label) and a student of the occult imagination in its more traditional sense. It is this that makes him interesting. He is not, like the surrealists proper, just a painter of nightmares. 

His intellectual interests were extensive and he shared many of them with his close friend Jorg Luis Borges. Indeed, he appears in some of Senor Borges' stories and many of the same stories celebrate their shared interests. Largely, we might describe these interests as a fascination with esoteric systems, the most fundamental of such systems being language iteself. Solar was an inventor of imaginary languages. This is reflected in his visual work as well. He develops a visual language of marks and shapes and symbols and lines and colours (without any of the randomness and denial of system that characterizes surrealism.) Where it does not have ignoble motivations the intellectual principle of system is at the root of the occult. Solar was fascinated with language, games, number systems - much to his credit he was a dedicated duodecimalist - and by extension, qabbalah, tarot and above all astrology, the occult language par excellence.  It has often been difficult for the art world to place him correctly: this is because these interests are outside of their usual purview. Fine artists are sometimes dabblers in the occult. Solar is more than that. He is not merely stealing a symbol here and there to impart a spurious aura of mystery: he is an occult artist in the fullest sense. 

His tarot cards are quite charming and are surely one of the better creative renderings of the tarot made in the XXth century. Alongside the traditional symbolism of the arcana, which he renders with a child-like Chargallesque simplicity, he has added elements of his own symbolic developments, qabbalistic and astrological. Here are some samples:

The qabbalistic background to these images is found in his many explicitly qabbalistic drawings and paintings. In Western occultism, as it is normally presented in modern times at least, the Hebrew qabbalah represents a sort of matrix for the varied and sundry symbols of a wide range of esoteric systems. It is a sort of filing system, and of interest for both Solar and Borges for exactly that reason. 

Note in these diagrams how the artist has made the qabbalistic system of ten (spheres) into a system of twelve planes - see the numbering on the sides and note that the numbers extend beyond 1 - 10. Solar was a duodecimalist - an advocate of a base 12 number system. Ordinarily, the qabbalah is a decimal system. Not for Xul Solar. 

As it happens, the present author himself departs from the modern occultists on this point - he would prefer not to match the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet to the twenty-two trumps of the tarot purely because there are twenty-two of each, for example - but that is another matter. Senor Solar stays within that modern convention, and then uses it as the core structure of his art. In his time in Paris in the 1920s, Solar became acquainted with the mad mage Aleister Crowley and his foul-breathed mistress Leah Hirsig, and for a time they groomed him to become a member of their occult 'Orders'. The qabbalistic matrix is the core of Mr Crowley's system too. Sensibly, though, Solar headed back home to South America and apart from that brief encounter was not unduly influenced by the Crowley cult. Certainly, Borges made much better company and offered a far healthier occult intellectuality. We should be thankful for this. Crowley was a parasite who destroyed many fine minds and considerable talents - Victor Neuberg, for instance - and whether he knew it or not at the time Xul Solar saved both his soul and his art by side-stepping the self-styled 'Beast'. 

The influence of Mr Crowley in the modern Western occult is so pervasive today that it is important to identify and celebrate those not under his sway. Xul Solar is one. Just as he is not properly classified as a "surrealist", neither, fortunately, is he an "occultist" in the Crowleyean sense. This is to say that just as he was not a painter of the dross of his own nightmares as were the surrealists, neither was he a cheap purveyor of the 'Dark Arts' like so many Crowley wanna-bes. His art has integrity, and his interest in esoteric systems - like that of Senor Borges - was genuine and elevated. His adopted name, Xul Solar - his real name being 'Oscar Agustín Alejandro Schulz Solari' - signals his benevolent disposition. Xul - a homonymn for 'Schulz' in Spanish - is L.U.X. backwards, the Latin for 'Light'. Xul Solar = the light of the Sun. There is nothing dark or menacing or sinister in the occult art of Xul Solar. He is not an explorer of an underworld. He is, rather, an explorer of the elevated imagination. 

Not all of his work is quite to the present author's taste, but there is a sense of joy and wimpsy and a delight in imagined worlds that characterizes his best paintings, that makes him a modern favorite. There is music and mystery. And like Borges, the city-as-labyrinth - as opposed to the over-worked city-as-distopian-hell-hole - is one of his preferred themes. 

Senor Solar was himself a practising astrologer. Often his astrological charts are exhibited alonside his watercolours and sculptures and treated as works of art in themselves. Here is one:

And here, below, is the present author's rendering of Senor Solar's natal chart according to the methods the author prefers, notably the square chart and the insistence on the seven ancient planets. Without resorting to in-depth analysis, the notable feature of the chart is, surely, the conjunction of the two lights, Sun and Moon, in the midheaven. Solar , that is to say, was born towards noon at a New Moon. As we see in his chart, this configuration is culminating.  In this sort of chart the so-called "angles" reveal all. In this case the native is indeed a 'New Moon' type, and we see at a glance why he went by the name of Xul Solar. 

Yours,

Harper McAlpine Black

The Stories of Ruskin Bond

It is merely a surmise on the part of the present writer but he supposes that his favorite Anglo-Indian writer Ruskin Bond was so named, Ruskin, after the great John Ruskin, another favorite of the present writer. It is an unconfirmed surmise, but really, why else would an English couple name their son Ruskin in 1934? In any case, true or not, it remains a comforting thought, and it always enhances the experience of reading the many tales of the voluminous Mr. Bond. Indeed, he has – they say – written no fewer than five hundred or so short stories, along with poems and travel writings, and so it is entirely proper to speak of his “many tales”. The present writer has delved into some of them during his travels around the wide lands of Hindoostan. The sole purpose of this current post is to celebrate these stories and to recommend the works of Ruskin Bond to any readers who are not thus far familiar with them.

The biography of Mr. Bond is readily available. Many of his stories are also wholly or partially autobiographical. He is not, therefore, a figure of mystery. His parents were English and lived and worked in British India. At an early age, however, they separated and his mother married an Indian gentleman and so Ruskin was raised with an Indian step-father. He is not of Anglo-Indian genetics, but he is certainly so by culture and by upbringing. This accounts for the charm of his stories. He is counted as an “Indian author of British descent” – he brings a distinctly English sensibility to a distinctly Indian experience. This is all to the good. The best things in modern India are always so. The present author, at least, has a self-confessed fondness for the synthetic fusion of things both British and Indian. Things Indian are usually much enhanced by contact with things British, and things British are certainly made more interesting by a touch of India. The British are stuffy, formal, cold. The Indians are raw, rowdy, alive. It is an unlikely coupling. That a people so reserved and utilitarian as the British should ever rule anywhere as ungovernable as India is one of the great ironies of history. Ruskin Bond is a very English writer, to be frank about it, but he is very English about India, and writes wonderful stories about the life, manners, customs and peculiarities of Hindoostani society as seen through his English eyes.

He might, perhaps, dispute this assessment, yet it is true. As one reads his stories one realizes that this is a man who – by the very circumstances of his life – cannot not be British. (How could he be anything else with a surname like Bond?) And thankfully he never attempts to be. He writes very honestly about himself and the world in which he grew up and has lived most of his years. A pervasive quality of his work is that he is a writer who is true to himself. He is very naturally both British and Indian. There is no ideological agenda, least of all a post-colonial one such as infects so much Indian fiction. He is writer who is very comfortable in his own skin, and who displays a great compassion for his characters. That is, for all their Britishness, his stories are throughly Indian as well. They are some of the best and most compelling evocations of Indian life – especially Indian boyhood - you will ever read. One can only think of someone like Rudyard Kipling as a storyteller after this pattern. Ruskin Bond stands in that company.

Where to start? Start with any of the collections of short stories. He won an award early in life for his novels, but he is essentially a short story writer – and this is very much in his favor as well. He may have written over five hundred tales, but they are short and sweet, lovely little gems. (The present author attended a bargain book sale in Enarkalum in Kerala of late and was confronted by the dozens and dozens of chunky spy-thriller novels by John Grisham, always popular with literate tourists. But, frankly, any man who writes that many long-winded novels and that many words and pages deserves to be beaten with a stick! The present writer confesses to having a long-held horror of superfluous novels and regrets living in an age beset by them. If a fiction writer has any real integrity he will recognize the short story as the essence of his art and the novel as a grotesque indulgence. Mr. Bond understands this.) Any collection of Mr. Bond’s stories – say, Potpourri, will do. Or The Best of... Or any of the themed collections. Stories and travel writings concerning the Ganges River – All Roads Lead to the Ganga, or stories concerning the Indian railways, or the jungle, or the mountains. He has been writing so long, Mr. Bond, that he has anthologized his own works according to a dozen different themes.

He is sometimes categorized as a children’s author. (Such is the fate of many short story writers. It seems that to be taken seriously as an adult writer one needs to write novels. Big books for big people.) Mr. Bond has certainly pioneered and developed the genre of children and young adult fiction in India, but the categorization is unfair if it is taken as a limitation. Readers of any age will find cause for delight in the stories of Ruskin Bond. (His books of light verse are fun as well.) Defying the label of ‘children’s writer’ is a novella entitled ‘The Sensualist’ – a study of nascent erotic obession, Mr. Bond’s most controversial work, but also one of his best. Few writers handle the erotic with as much insight and sensitivity as this. 

It was certainly a delight for the present writer to discover the works of this "Anglo-Indian" and to have them as a companion during the five and more months he has travelled from Calcutta, to the mountains, to the Ganges, to Delhi and southwards. There are, no doubt, many fine Indian writers about, but Ruskin Bond has been a steady contributor of excellent stories for many decades and surely stands as one of the great writers of modern India. Others - Salman Rushie, Arundhati Roy and co. - may be more the darlings of the Leftist literati and may tackle the supposed burning issues of our times in incendiary novels, but Ruskin Bond's unpretentious, understated tales have a directness and freshness that make him the better storyteller in the traditional sense. There is an innocent charm in the writings of Ruskin Bond not found in other contemporary Indian writers.

Readers of this blog might be aware that the present author - in another incarnation - is himself a dabbler in the short story – his own style and subject-matter is very different to that of Mr. Bond, but he nevertheless feels an affinity with him and admires him as a writer and aspires to be even remotely as lucid and prolific as he. It is a pity that he was not able to fulfill his ambition of visiting Mr. Bond in his aged solitude at Landour, near Mussoorie, amidst the hill stations north of Delhi, the familiar territory of some many of Mr. Bond’s stories. Hopefully, on some future journey. 

Yours

Harper McAlpine Black

Hashish: The Lost Legend

"Excuse me, sir, hashish?" asked the young Indian man on the corner near the small tumble-down Kali temple. The author had just been sitting in the famous Blue Lassi Cafe in the back alleys of the Benares old city, not far from the Burning Ghats, sipping on a pomegranate lassi and watching as no less than three funeral processions - groups of men carrying a body on a bamboo stretcher - hurried by down to the banks of the Ganges for the cremation. He looked over the young man. "Hashish?" he asked. "Yes sir," said the vendor. And at this the young man produced a large slab of dark brown aromatic hashish putty under which he waved a lit match so that a prospective buyer might smell the authenticity of the goods. He described it as "Afghani." He furthermore explained that the six or seven soldiers seated on the street corner two buildings back, armed with machine guns and other deadly weaponry, were only concerned with terrorists, not tourists.  "This is a holy city, sir," he said. "Bhang is sacred to Lord Shiva." The author was well aware of this fact, but also realised that it is not necessary to purchase the stuff from random Hindoos on the street when it can be procured from government approved bhang stores, of which there is one immediately across from the Blue Lassi Cafe. 

Nevertheless, the episode, and the scent of the hashish, did remind the author of a certain book that may be of interest to readers of this web log. There is, needless to relate, a small library of orientalist literature devoted to hashish, and the author has read the chief volumes. The sensuality of the drug was once synonymous with the sensuality of the east and it was celebrated in prose, poetry and the visual arts as a distinct orientalist theme. Beyond this sensuality, like opium it was renowned as a vehicle of the imagination. 

This, of course, was before prohibition, and before the advent of puritanical Mahometan nation states in the violent and chaotic catastrophe that has been the post-colonial age. Hindoo India has not been immune to this, but a city such as Benares - where the author now resides - resists change and the stupidities of modernity better than most. There has never been prohibition in Benares, although - as the street vendor said - "bhang" was and remains in a sacred rather than merely recreational context. It is a pity, it must be said, that Western hippys and ferals and the useless offspring of baby boomers frequent the city dressed as secular cheesecloth parodies of sadhoos abusing the sanctity of the herb and its celestial oils. 

The book that comes to mind, a classic of the genre, is the rare and intoxicating Hashish: the Lost Legend, by Fritz Lemmermayer, first published 1898. The present author has had the privilege of seeing a hard copy of this wonderful literary gem but was not able to purchase it at the time. Instead, he has had to read the text as an ebook, which is a travesty for such a work. One day, perhaps, when he is flush with cash, a hard copy will come his way. 

Hashish: the Lost Legend is a tale of star-crossed romance between a certain Ali and a voluptuous woman named Zuleyka. They fall in love even though they come from warring tribes. Of course. One day, however, Zuleyka bathes naked in an alleged fountain of youth and is seen by the villainous Rustan who determines to own her for himself. In a time honoured tradition, the evil Rustan raids their wedding, kills half the guests and makes off with the bride. So what is poor Ali to do? He is approached at this point by a certain "Yusuf" who introduces him to hashish, and fired by dreams, he is transformed into a passionate warrior. The story proceeds from there. It is a predictable tale of the oriental type - quasi-oriental, we might say, and an orientalist indulgence in that respect - and more like the plot of an opera than of a novel, but it is a famous book all the same and considered an orientalist treasure. In the genre of romantic hashish tales it deserves a prominent place. It celebrates the hashish dream as a mode of the romantic imagination. A very fine English edition - that rescued the text from Yiddish - was published by Process Books not long ago. 

(The other work that comes to mind here is Paul Verlaine's Hashish & Incense, but it is utterly impossible to find.)

The role of bhang in Shaivite spirituality is a matter for another post. Hashish, in fact, is a particular preparation of bhang and is preferred by the Mahometans rather than by the Hindoos. These things have a particular history and a particular affinity for certain spiritual modes, certain temperaments and certain ethnic propensities. The orientalists were struck by the powers of hashish upon the imagination, which, like all romantics, they regarded as the spiritual faculty par excellence. It does need to be said, though, that this was not a rootless and vapid imagination such as is known by the diminished rogues of our own time; it was axial and exact. Choofing on bhang - in whatever preparation - was not some idle indulgence but a method of transport to higher states. The ancient labyrinthine streets of Benares old city is perhaps the one place on earth today where this fact still seems a credible ideal.

Yours

Harper McAlpine Black

Lear in Darjeeling

Kanchenjunga from Darjeeling, painting by Edward Lear

The Five Treasures of Snow (Mount Kangchenjunga), the third tallest peak in the world, is, as the author has related in previous posts, a mere fifty or so miles from Darjeeling and stands with awesome and imposing majesty upon the northern horizon. As it happens, the days have been exceptionally clear over the last week and so the mountain and its many companions in this eastern end of the Himalayas has been highly visible every morning and throughout the day. Not surprisingly, both locals and of course tourists have been taking the opportunity to photograph the mountain, while others just stand pondering from the various vantage points in the town that afford excellent views. There is, as far as this author is aware, no other major town - Darjeeling, the Queen of the British hill stations, boasts a population of about 100,000 - in such an immediate proximity to such a substantial mountain. It is what makes Darjeeling so remarkable. The British came here to escape the heat and more especially the mosquitoes (and so malaria) of the Indian plains, but they soon came to value the location just for its extraordinary natural beauty. 

Among the notable Englishmen who have resided here (leaving aside the notorious Aleister Crowley, who has been mentioned in a previous post) is none other than Mr. Edward Lear, the reputed father of the limerick and master of English nonsense. Readers may or may not be aware that the present author is a great enthusiast for the work of Mr. Lear and indeed has modelled some aspects of his own poetry and fiction upon his. Indeed, the author - writing under yet another assumed identity - has a website where he keeps his works of fiction, principally short stories, by the Leariferous name of Runcible Highway. See here. The word "runcible", need it be said, is possibly Mr. Lear's most enduring contribution to the English language, an all-purpose neologism adaptable to all adjectival occasions. He excelled at neologisms and other nonsense and brought a much-needed sense of the silly to otherwise sombre Victorian literature. The present author's own "stranded adjective technique", so-called, owes a direct debt to Mr. Lear. This was a man who was known to introduce himself as Mr Abebika Kratoponoko Prizzikalo Kattefello Ablegorabalus Ableborinto Phashyph. 

What is less well known is that Edward Lear was also a (serious) painter of some note, and in particular he painted scenes from his various travels. At the top of this page readers will find a reproduction of  a painting he made of Mount Kanchenjunga as seen from Darjeeling during his time in the town. It is difficult to ascertain exactly from where the view was taken. The vantage point of Observation Hill has long been occupied by the Mahakal Mandir (Temple) and no temple is to be seen in Lear's painting, unless that is the standing object around which people are gathered in the left foreground. The path that leads into the distance would then be what is now called Mall Road, leading to the so-called 'Hermitage' near the Raj Bhavan. Certainly, the vegetation has changed, but the broad outlines of the topography are unfamiliar. All the same, the imposing presence of the mountain has not changed at all. 

Yours,

Harper McAlpine Black

Mr. Pallis of Kalimpong

Among the silliest things His Holiness the Dalai Lama is inclined to say to fawning cameramen these days is that Boodhism is not, whatever else it might be, a religion. No? Well, what utter nonsense! It is an assertion that is plainly and demonstrably untrue. What is one to make of a religious leader who wants to say that his religion is not a religion?

The present author was reminded of this bizarre distortion while sitting in a shared jeep on the road to Kalimpong recently, squeezed in against an overweight Tibetan monk in maroon robes on his way to the same destination. At every point that the jeep (an eight seater carrying fourteen people and two chickens travelling on precipitous roads with four bald tyres) went past any even slightly Boodhist landmark – a grave, a stupa, a flag, a monastery, a road to a monastery – the overweight monk raised his hands in a gesture of fervent prayer, closed his eyes and muttered solemn incantations in Tibetan. One wonders exactly what game the Dalai Lama is playing, but on such evidence Boodhism sure looks like a religion to this author!

Accordingly, this author was expecting Kalimpong to be a hotbed of the aforementioned religion, and the presence of the monk on the journey promised it to be so, but in fact, on arrival, the town hardly presented a Boodhist face. It so happens that the monasteries there are on hilltops well out of town, and in town itself there is little obvious evidence of the Boodhist presence. The author only had five or six hours to look around, but during that time he encountered two splendid Hindoo mandirs, an elegantly bulbous green Mahometan mosque and a stately but stern Scottish Church. There were no maroon monks about nor anything else that was overtly Boodhist save a few prayer flags here and there and an old sign to the Tibetan Medicine And Astrology Centre.

This was somewhat disappointing because the author had journeyed there under the impression that Kalimpong – about two hours drive through the hills and forests from Darjeeling – was, or is, a major Boodhist centre. It certainly has that reputation. Clearly, though, this applies to the caliber and renown of the near-by monasteries and not to the town itself. A former British hill station with its share of remaining British architecture, it is unfortunately somewhat over-run with Indian commerce. The streets are busy and congested, noisy and cluttered, much like any Indian town. Moreover, the author was there just in time to witness a large street demonstration of local rabble agitating for Kalimpong’s administrative independence from Darjeeling and West Bengal. Standard Indian stuff.

The other reason the author had reason to suppose that the town would offer a distinctly Boodhist ambience, was that it was formerly the home of the traditionalist writer on Boodhist matters, Mr. Marco Pallis. Mr. Pallis is the author of several excellent books, two of which the present author has read and very much valued, namely, Peaks & Lamas, and A Buddhist Spectrum. The former is a celebrated account of the Tibetan world that Mr. Pallis encountered in the mid-twentieth century. Rousing. Inspiring. It was one of the first authentic accounts of the Tibetan tradition written for European readers and remains one of the best. 

The latter – which this author found more useful to his particular needs – is a perspicuous and highly lucid account of the great variety and types and sects and schools of Boodhism, from the Tibetan to the Pureland. As the title suggests, Mr. Pallis proposes that Boodhist religion – yes, it’s a religion! - constitutes an entire spectrum of positions, and he sets out to inform his readers of the great wealth and variety of the same. It is a book that the present writer recommends without hesitation. Indeed, it stands as one of the very best books on Boodhism in general, in his opinion. Readers will certainly learn more from reading Mr. Pallis than from any of the volumes of sentimental tripe to which His Holiness the Dalai Lama has seen fit to attach his name in recent years. Pallis is an excellent writer. His work does due honour to the beauty and wealth of the entire Boodhist tradition and to Lamaism in particular. 

He lived in Kalimpong in the 1950s. At the time it was an enclave to which Tibetans were escaping from the overbearing moves of the communist Chinese in Lhasa and thereabouts. He there became familiar with members of the Dalai Lama’s family and other Tibetan dignitaries – he was a very well-connected man and possibly the foremost Tibetologist of his time. He was a mountain climber, too, and an accomplished musician, and a linguist, amongst other things. The Traditionalists (so-called) were not generally well-disposed to Boodhism at first, since the pneumatic leader of the Traditionalist ‘school’ Mr. Rene Guenon – a vedantist – once dismissed it as a “Hindoo heresy”. More than anyone else, Marco Pallis worked to challenge this one-sided miscalculation. One wonders what he would make of the decidedly non-traditional New Age direction in which the Fourteenth (and last?) Dalai Lama has taken Tibetan Boodhism of recent times? The present writer spent a pleasant and useful day enjoying the environs in which Mr. Pallis had lived and worked, even if the atmosphere was not nearly as Boodhist or as traditional as he had understood.

Yours,

Harper McAlpine Black

John George Lang - The Usual Compliments

A sketch by John Lang.

It is some years since I first landed in Calcutta. I was in no way connected with the Government, and was consequently an "interloper" or "adventurer." These were the terms applied by certain officials to European merchants, indigo-planters, shopkeepers, artisans, barristers, attorneys, and others. It was not long before I made up my mind to become a wanderer in the East...

Too few Australians have heard of John George Lang (1816-1864). He deserves renown as Australia’s first novelist – he was an associate of Charles Dickens - but also as a traveler, an adventurer, a pioneering journalist, an orientalist and a prominent Hindoopile. He must count as one of the most colourful Australian characters of the first half of the 19th C. and yet he remains almost unknown in his native land. His Jewish father had been sent to Botany Bay as a convict with the First Fleet for the heinous crime of stealing spoons but was later emancipated and became a free citizen of early New South Wales. The colonial-born John took William Wentworth as his model and pursued a career in law as a path to better standing. With a gift for languages, he studied Greek and Latin, which won him passage to Cambridge. After that he travelled to British Hindoostan and it was there that he made his mark. His grave is there, in the hill station of Mussorie, and has recently been relocated and restored from neglect by the noted writer Ruskin Bond who has also advanced the cause of bringing Lang’s life and work to wider attention.

It was in the Modern Book Depot in Calcutta – an esteemed establishment run by the articulate Mr Prem Prekash – that the present writer encountered the new edition of Lang’s primary volume of travel writings ‘Wanderings in India and Other Sketches of Life in Hindostan’ – first published in 1859, with sections appearing earlier in Mr. Dicken’s magazine Household Words - and has been reading it during the sticky Calcutta afternoons. It is indeed a series of sketches, largely but not completely autobiographical, relating life in India with sympathetic insights into the land and people in the period prior to the Mutiny of 1857. 

Having himself first arrived in Calcutta, Mr. Lang, not being an employee of the East India Company, found himself regarded as an interloper, and taking to the role, he immersed himself into the India of his day by quickly acquiring the Hindoostanti and Persian languages. Thereupon, he entered into adventures in both law and journalism, bringing to both fields a characteristic Australian swagger, always on the wrong side of the Company. Most famously, he represented and won a landmark case for the Mahometan princess, the Ranee of Jhansi, in her struggle against the Company’s despotic policy of land seizures under the so-called Doctrine of Lapse. Where there was no male heir the Company would seize land from Indian nobles. Mr. Lang fought this injustice on her behalf with antipodean vigor and imagination and scored a major victory against the Company’s despotism.

Similarly, his journalistic career was marked by fights with the Company and with other vested interests. He led a newspaper in Calcutta called The Optimist and then, more famously, one called The Mofussilite, founded in 1845. He used these as vehicles for his quite prolific writing – stories, poems, essays, translations - and as forums for exposes of the maddening incompetence of British authorities in their dealings with Indians. This won him enemies in high places, sure enough, and he was at one time jailed for libel. Afterwards, he travelled throughout the land, enjoying the patronage of wealthy clients. In 1851 he again defeated the East India Company in a landmark legal case, on this occasion defending the rights of Mr. Jottee Prasad who had provided for British troops during the Sikh Wars but had then been cheated of what he was owed. Mr. Prasad, like the Ranee of Jhansi in the earlier instance, showered Lang with expensive gifts which enabled him to live as he pleased, game hunting, trekking and living a life of flamboyant indulgence among Indian nobility. He was, as his volume of Wanderings attests, a great lover of the Indians, often a champion of their rights, and an attentive student of their ways and customs.

For all of that, thankfully, he fails to qualify as a multicultural relativist sop in the contemporary mode. Wanderings is not a book that will please the post-colonial intellectual of our time. Lang is a British man through and through, although an Australian one, with a typical Australian disdain for overwrought authority. His advocacy for the rights of the Indians was not politically ideological. He was no traitor to the Empire. He merely believed – in an entirely English manner – in the rule of law, with an Australian egalitarian application of the same. He disliked rogues and corruption. In his untarnished view the good peoples of Hindoostan were subjects of Her Majesty, Empress of India, and as such had rights. 

Nor, might we say, was he a great writer, although he is certainly an entertaining one, direct, light, cogent, with keen observation and a good sense of humor, usually at the expense of the natives whose company he loved to keep. Here, for example, is an excerpt from the fifth chapter of Wanderings where he describes the exchange of “compliments” with a Maharajah:

THE USUAL COMPLIMENTS

Here sat the Maharajah on a Turkey carpet, and reclining slightly on a huge bolster. In front of him were his hookah, a sword, and several nosegays. His highness rose, came forward, took my hand, led me to the carpet, and begged of me to be seated on a cane-bottomed arm-chair, which had evidently been placed ready for my especial ease and occupation. After the usual compliments had passed, the Maharajah inquired if I had eaten well. But, perhaps, the general reader would like to know what are "the usual compliments."

Native Rajah: "The whole world is ringing with the praise of your illustrious name."

Humble Sahib: "Maharaj. You are very good."

Native Rajah: "From Calcutta to Cabul—throughout the whole of Hindoostan—every tongue declares that you have no equal. Is it true?"

Humble Sahib (who, if he knows anything of Asiatic manners and customs, knows that he must not contradict his host, but eat his compliments with a good appetite). "Maharaj."

Native Rajah: "The acuteness of your perceptions, and the soundness of your understanding, have, by universal report, became as manifest as even the light of the sun itself." Then, turning to his attendants of every degree, who, by this time, had formed a circle round me and the Rajah, he put the question, "Is it true, or not?"

The attendants, one and all, declare that it was true; and inquire whether it could be possible for a great man like the Maharajah to say that which was false.

Native Rajah: "The Sahib's father is living?"

Humble Sahib: "No; he is dead, Maharaj."

Native Rajah: "He was a great man?"

Humble Sahib: "Maharaj. You have honoured the memory of my father, and exalted it in my esteem, by expressing such an opinion."

Native Rajah: "And your mother? She lives?"

Humble Sahib: "By the goodness of God, such is the case."

Native Rajah: "She is a very handsome woman?"

Humble Sahib: "On that point, Maharaj, I cannot offer an opinion."

Native Rajah: "You need not do so. To look in your face is quite sufficient. I would give a crore of rupees (one million sterling) to see her only for one moment, and say how much I admired the intelligent countenance of her son. I am going to England next year. Will the Sahib favour me with her address?"

Humble Sahib: "Maharaj."

Here the Native Rajah calls to the moonshee to bring pen, ink, and paper. The moonshee comes, sits before me, pen in hand, looks inquiringly into my eyes, and I dictate as follows, laughing inwardly all the while: "Lady Bombazine, Munnymunt, ka uper, Peccadilleemee, Bilgrave Isqueere, Sunjons wood-Cumberwill;" which signifies this: "Lady Bombazine, on the top of the Monument, in Piccadilly, Belgrave Square, St. Johns Wood, Camberwell." This mystification must be excused by the plea that the Rajah's assertions of his going to Europe are as truthful as Lady Bombazine's address.

The Maharajah then gives instructions that that document shall be preserved amongst his most important papers, and resumes the conversation.

Native Rajah: "The Sahib has eaten well?"

Humble Sahib: "Maharaj."

Native Rajah: "And drunk?"

Humble Sahib: "Maharaj."

Native Rajah: "The Sahib will smoke hookah?"

Humble Sahib: "The Maharajah is very good."

A hookah is called for by the Rajah; and then at least a dozen voices repeat the order: "Hookah lao, Sahib ke waste." (Bring a hookah for the Sahib.) Presently the hookah is brought in. It is rather a grand affair, but old, and has evidently belonged to some European of extravagant habits. Of course, no native would smoke out of it (on the ground of caste), and it is evidently kept for the use of the Sahib logue.

While I am pulling away at the hookah, the musahibs, or favourites of the Rajah, flatter me, in very audible whispers. "How well he smokes!" "What a fine forehead he has!" "And his eyes! how they sparkle!" "No wonder he is so clever!" "He will be Governor-General some day." "Khuda-kuren!" (God will have it so.)

Native Rajah: "Sahib, when you become Governor-General, you will be a friend to the poor?"

Humble Sahib (speaking from the bottom of his heart). "Most assuredly, Maharaj."

Native Rajah: "And you will listen to the petition of every man, rich and poor alike."

Humble Sahib: "It will be my duty so to do."

Native Rajah (in a loud voice): "Moonshee!"

Moonshee (who is close at hand). "Maharaj, Protector of the Poor."

Native Rajah: "Bring the petition that I have laid before the Governor-General."

The moonshee produces the petition, and at the instance of the Rajah, reads, or rather sings it aloud. The Rajah listens with pleasure to its recital of his own wrongs, and I affect to be astounded that so much injustice can possibly exist. During my rambles in India I have been the guest of some scores of rajahs, great and small, and I never knew one who had not a grievance. He had either been wronged by the government, or by some judge, whose decision had been against him. In the matter of the government, it was a sheer love of oppression that led to the evil of which he complained; in the matter of the judge, that functionary had been bribed by the other party.

It was with great difficulty that I kept my eyes open while the petition—a very long one—was read aloud...

* * * 

Yours,

Harper McAlpine Black

Tagore in Japan, 1916

The life and spirit of Calcutta are dominated by two towering figures: Mother Teresa, firstly, and secondly, Rabindranath Tagore. The latter, of course, was a native Bengali and his ancestral home, the great mansion of Jorasanko, is located in the northern suburbs of the city. It was quite by chance that the present author stumbled upon this location the other day and spent several hours wandering through the meticulously compiled and beautifully maintained museum there. He has always been somewhat ambivalent about Tagore, since some of the polymath’s political views do not always quite coincide with his own, and the literary merit of Tagore’s work is best appreciated in Bengali, and nor is he very keen on Tagore’s paintings, but there is no question that Tagore was a considerable figure in and beyond his historical context –  the Shakespeare of modern India - and a visit to Jorasanko reveals many aspects of his character and work that are not widely appreciated. Certainly, the author came away from the visit with an enhanced view of the poet and his ouvre.

One unexpected aspect of Tagore deserves particular mention, namely his connections with Japan. The present writer, at least, was wholly unaware of these until he chanced upon a series of displays at Jorasanko which had been sponsored by the Mitsubishi Corporation. These displays are lovingly assembled, very professional and entirely worthwhile. We learn there that Tagore, the internationalist, had an enduring fascination for Japan and Japanese culture and cultivated several deep friendships with Japanese artists. Indeed, we learn that he wrote some important essays on matters concerning Japan as part of his general concern for a united and revitalized Asiatic civilization. This revelation led the present author to download and read Tagore’s 1916 lecture, The Message of India to Japan, a wonderful and illuminating work. Find the link to it here.

Travelling in India and in Japan one becomes aware of their kinship. Most obviously, there is the emblem of the swastika decorating both places, and the heritage of Buddhism. What begins in India is finished, culminates and is refined in Japan. The two countries are the start and finish of one great tide of human civilization. That is how Tagore saw it, anyway. And he was impressed – as was everyone – by the miraculous ability of the Japanese to modernize so rapidly and thus show, most abruptly, that the “East” (as Tagore calls it) is not retarded and backward, forever subservient to the conquering empires of the “West”. In 1916 the Japanese had just demonstrated that it was possible for Eastern civilization to leap into the modern era and claim its own modernity. Yet this presented certain dangers, Tagore thought, and it is on both the opportunities and the dangers of the revivification of the East that he dwells in this erudite and beautifully articulate lecture. He is especially concerned – with good reason - about the dangers of a belligerent nationalism in Japan and an accompanying militarism.

Readers of these current pages are encouraged to download and read the whole lecture for themselves. It is highly recommended. The issues of which it treats are as relevant today as when it first appeared, and it serves as an excellent introduction to an aspect of Tagore not often explored anymore. The quality of his thought, and the elegance of his expression, is impressive.

It is worth remembering that he died in 1941 and did not live to see the full tragedy of the Second World War.

Here are some representative excerpts from this insightful and prescient speech by the great poet of Calcutta at the Imperial University in Tokyo:

Yours,

Harper McAlpine Black

The Wisdom of the East Series

Scouring through secondhand book stores, guided by his orientalist interests, this present author has, over the years, collected together a very modest set of a few volumes in the Wisdom of the East series. He would dearly love to collect the rest. These are a series published, mainly in the first few decades of the 20th C., and are very sturdy, nice-to-feel hardcover books in a convenient format brought to the English public through the selfless funds of the esteemed Mr. John Murray of London under the combined editorship of Mr. L. Cranmer-Byng and the English-Indian scholar Dr. S. A. Kapadia. (Shapurji Aspaniarji Kapadia). 

The stated purpose of the series is provided in a statement by the editors that would often preface the volumes:

THE object of the Editors of this Series is a very definite one. They desire above all things that, in their humble way, these books shall be the ambassadors of good-will and understanding between East and West, the old world of Thought and the new of Action. In this endeavour, and in their own sphere, they are but followers of the highest example in the land. They are confident that a deeper knowledge of the great ideals and lofty philosophy of Oriental thought may help to a revival of that true spirit of Charity which neither despises nor fears the nations of another creed and colour. Finally, in thanking press and public for the very cordial reception given to the "Wisdom of the East" Series, they wish to state that no pains have been spared to secure the best specialists for the treatment of the various subjects at hand.

There were, according to some accounts, a total number of 122 volumes published in the initial series each of which sold for the cost of five shillings. Many beyond that number were published subsequently. These days they can be found in secondhand stores for a few dollars. They were, in their day, very popular with the educated reading public and did an inestimable service in bringing oriental religious, philosophical and poetical literature within the reach of the English reading public. An advertisement for the series from the 1920s introduces the volumes in this way:

'The series and its purpose: This Series has a definite object. It is, by means of the best Oriental literature – its wisdom, philosophy, poetry, and ideals – to bring together West and East in a spirit of mutual sympathy, goodwill, and understanding. From India, China, Japan, Persia, Arabia, Palestine, and Egypt these words of wisdom have been gathered.'

The series was widely celebrated, and for good reason. Here are a few of the positive reviews offered of the series in the press of the time:

The Athenaeum. - "We wish that there were more of them; they are dreamy, lifelike, and fascinating."

St. James's Gazette - "The quaint and picturesque little 'Wisdom of the East' Series."

The Academy. - "Slim, tastefully bound little volumes." 

Manchester Courier. - "Worthy of close study by all who would penetrate to the depth of Eastern thought and feeling."

Literary Guide. - "We wish success to this little series of books."

Outlook. - "This Series is published to help in the process of renewing the spiritual and moral life of the West." 

The Scotsman. - "This Series should not fail to please readers of the more studious sort."

Southport Guardian. - "This Series will find considerable favour with all Students of Eastern Literature and Eastern Philosophy."

The Northern Weekly. - "I must confess that I am attracted by the Literature of the East. This week I have been reading the dainty little books issued by the Orient Press."

Bristol Mercury. - "We commend these little books to all who imagine that there is no knowledge worth having outside Europe and America."

Glasgow Herald, - "This new Series has a definite and lofty aim, and is deserving of support. The books are small, cheap, and well adapted for the pocket. Every page is regularly refreshing and stimulating."

North Devon Journal. - "The difference between Eastern and Western modes of thought is pointedly exemplified by this Series."

Halifax Guardian, - "They are well worth perusal and are presented to the reader in that attractive form which the Orient Press has been happy enough to hit on."

Field, - " Such books are valuable aids to the understanding of a far-off age and people, and have a great interest for the student of literature."

Irish Times. - "The volumes are charming in form, low in price, and excellent in matter."

Publishers' Circular. - "We unhesitatingly recommend them to all who can appreciate the ideal of goodness and holiness and the highest form of culture."

Public Opinion. - " These tiny books have much to commend them."

And here are several covers from the series:

The Instruction of Ptah-Hotep

The Master-Singers of Japan

The Awakening of the Soul by Ibn Tufail

Japanese No Plays

An Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry

A useful collection of works in this series in ebook format can now be found at the Sacred Text Archive. Follow the link here. 

The present author will try his best to gather together a comprehensive inventory in order of publication of the initial series on this page as accurate information comes to his notice:

The Sayings of Lao Tzu, trans. by Lionel Giles, 1905

Sad'is Scroll of Wisdom,trans. by Arthur N. Wallaston, 1906

The Book of Odes, A Selection of Ancient Chinese Poetry from the Shih Ching, trans. by L. Cranmer-Byng, 1908


The Conduct of Life, The Universal Order of Confucius, trans. by Ku Hung Ming, 1908


The Book of Filial Duty, A Translation of the Hsaio Ching, trans. by Ivan Chen, 1908

The Alchemy of Happiness, by Al-Ghazzali, trans. by Claud Field, 1909

The Confessions of Al-Ghazzali, trans. by Claud Field, 1909


Musings of a Chinese Mystic, A Collection of Texts Featuring Chuang Tsu, trans. by Lionel Giles, 1909


The Splendour of God, A Collection of Ba'hai Sacred Texts, 1909, trans. by Eric Hammond

Duties of the Heart, by Rabbi Bachye, A 12th C. Spanish Rabbi's Systematic Treatment of Ethics, trans. by Edwin Collins, 1909


The Path of Light, a translation of the Bodhicharyavatara of Santideva, a Key Mayahana Buddhist Text, trans. by L. D. Barnett, 1909.

The Teachings of Zoroaster, A Collection of Zoroastrian Texts, trans. by S. A. Kapadia, 1909


The Burden of Isis, A Translation to a Set of Hymns to the Goddess Isis, trans. by James Teackle Dennis, 1910

The Wisdom of Israel, A short Look at Jewish Wisdom Literature from the Talmud and Midrash, trans. by Edwin Collins, 1910

Ancient Jewish Proverbs, trans. by Abraham Cohen, 1911


The Bustan of Sadi, trans. by A. Hart Edwards, 1911


Sadi: The Bustan of Sadi, trans. by A. Hart, 1911


The Diwan of Abu'l-Ala, trans. by Henry Baerlein, 1911


The Religion of the Koran, by Arthur W. Wollaston, 1911


Brahma-Knowledge, A Short Exposition of Hindu Vedanta Philosophy, by L. D. Barnett, 1911


Yang Chu's Garden of Pleasure, trans. by Anton Forke, 1912


Taoist Teachings from the Book of Lieh-Tzu, trans. by Lionel Giles, 1912


Arabian Wisdom, Islamic Wisdom from the Koran, Hadith & Traditional Proverbs, by John Wortabet, 1913


The Diwan of Zeb-un-Nissa, trans. by Magan Lal & Duncan Westbrook, 1913

The Way of Contentment, by Hoshino, trans. by Kaibara Ekken, 1913


Buddhist Scriptures, A Short Collection of Buddhist Scripture, trans. by E. J. Thomas, 1913


Master Singers of Japan, An Anthology of Classical Japanese Poets, by Clara A. Walsh, 1914


The Religion of the Sikhs, by Dorothy Field, 1914


A Feast of Lanterns, A Collection of Classic Chinese Poetry, trans. by L. Cranmer-Byng, 1916

The Secret Rose Garden, of Sa'd Ud Din Mahmud Shabistari, trans. by Florence Lederer, 1920


The Buddha's Way of Virtue, A Translation of the Dhammapada, trans. by W.D.C. Wagiswara & K. J. Saunders, 1920


Ancient Egyptian Legends, trans. by Margaret Alice Murray, 1920


Buddhist Psalms, A Key Pureland Text, trans. by S. Yamabe & L. Adams Beck, 1921

An Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry, ed. by Gwendoline Goodwin, 1927

Yours,

Harper McAlpine Black