losing their own dignity, and one of them was Swami Vivekananda. Sister Nivedita
described him aptly as a Plato in thought and a modern Savonarola in his fearless
outspokenness. William James of Harvard addressed him as 'Master' and referred to
him in Varieties of Religious Experience as the 'paragon of Vedantists.'
A pleasant surprise awaited Swami Vivekananda on his arrival in London. Swami
Saradananda had already come and was staying as the guest of Mr. Sturdy. The two
Swamis had not seen each other in a very long time. Swami Vivekananda was told all
the news of his spiritual brothers at the Alambazar monastery and their activities in
India. It was a most happy occasion.
Swami Vivekananda soon plunged into a whirlwind of activity. From the beginning of
May he conducted five classes a week and a Friday session for open discussion. He
gave a series of three Sunday lectures in one of the galleries of the Royal Institute of
Painters in Water-Colours, in Piccadilly, and also lectured at Princes' Hall and the
Lodge of Annie Besant, in addition to speaking at many clubs, and in educational
institutions and drawing-rooms. His audiences consisted mostly of intellectual and
serious-minded people. His speeches on jnana-yoga, containing the essence of the
Vedanta philosophy, were mostly given in England. Canon Wilberforce held a
reception in the Swami's honour, to which he invited many distinguished people.
At one of the meetings, at the close of his address, a white-haired and well-known
philosopher said to the Swami: 'You have spoken splendidly, sir, but you have told us
nothing new.' Quick came the Swami's reply: 'Sir, I have told you the Truth. That, the
Truth is as old as the immemorial hills, as old as humanity, as old as creation, as old as
the Great God. If I have told you in such words as will make you think, make you live
up to your thinking, do I not do well in telling it?' Loud applause greeted him at the
end of these remarks.
The Swami was quick in repartee. During the question period a man who happened to
be a native of Scotland, asked, 'What is the difference between a baboo and a baboon?
'Oh, not much,' was the instantaneous reply of the Swami. 'It is like the difference
between a sot and a Scot — just the difference of a letter.'
In one of his public lectures in England he paid the most touching tribute to his master,
Sri Ramakrishna. He said that he had not one little word of his own to utter, not one
infinitesimal thought of his own to unfold; everything, every single thing, all that he
was himself, all that he could be to others, all that he might do for the world, came
from that single source, from that pure soul, from that illimitable inspiration, from him
who, seated 'there in my beloved India, had solved the tremendous secret, and
bestowed the solution on all, ungrudgingly and with divine prodigality.' The Swami's
own self was utterly forgotten, altogether ignored. 'I am what I am, and what I am is
always due to him; whatever in me or in my words is good and true and eternal came
to me from his mouth, his heart, his soul. Sri Ramakrishna is the spring of this phase of
the earth's religious life, of its impulses and activities. If I can show the world one
glimpse of my Master, I shall not have lived in vain.'