men — men, mind you, and not brutes. How many men — unselfish and thorough-
going men — is Madras ready to supply, who will struggle unto death to bring about a
new state of things — sympathy for the poor, bread for hungry mouths, enlightenment
for the people at large, who have been brought to the level of beasts by the tyranny of
your forefathers?'
From Yokohama he crossed the Pacific Ocean and arrived in Vancouver, British
Columbia. Next he travelled by train to Chicago, the destination of his journey and the
meeting-place of the Parliament of Religions.
The first sight of Chicago, the third largest city of the New Continent, the great civic
queen of the Middle West, enthroned on the shore of Lake Michigan, with its teeming
population and strange way of life — a mixture of the refinement of the Eastern coast
and the crudities of the backwoods — must have bewildered, excited, and terrified the
young visitor from India. Swami Vivekananda walked through the spacious grounds of
the World's Fair and was speechless with amazement. He marvelled at what the
Americans had achieved through hard work, friendly co-operation with one another,
and the application of scientific knowledge. Not too many years before, Chicago had
consisted of only a few fishermen's huts, and now at the magic touch of human
ingenuity, it was turned into a fairyland. Never before had the Swami seen such an
accumulation of wealth, power, and inventive genius in a nation. In the fair-grounds he
attracted people's notice. Lads ran after him, fascinated by his orange robe and turban.
Shopkeepers and porters regarded him as a Maharaja from India and tried to impose
upon him. On the Swami's part, his first feeling was one of unbounded admiration. But
a bitter disillusionment was to come.
Soon after his arrival in Chicago, he went one day to the information bureau of the
Exposition to ask about the forthcoming Parliament of Religions. He was told that it
had been put off until the first week of September (it was then only the end of July)
and that no one without credentials from a bona fide organization would be accepted as
a delegate. He was told also that it was then too late for him to be registered as a
delegate. All this had been unexpected by the Swami; for not one of his friends in India
— the enthusiastic devotees of Madras, the Raja of Khetri, the Raja of Ramnad, and
the Maharaja of Mysore, the Ministers of the native states, and the disciples who had
arranged his trip to America — had taken the trouble to make any inquiries concerning
the details of the Parliament. No one had known what were to be the dates of the
meetings or the conditions of admission. Nor had the Swami brought with him any
letter of authority from a religious organization. All had felt that the young monk
would need no letter of authorization, his personality being testimonial enough.
'The Swami himself,' as his Irish disciple, Sister Nivedita, wrote some years later, 'was
as simple in the ways of the world as his disciples, and when he was once sure that he
was divinely called to make this attempt, he could see no difficulties in the way.
Nothing could have been more typical of the lack of organizedness of Hinduism itself
than this going forth of its representative unannounced, and without formal credentials,
to enter the strongly guarded door of the world's wealth and power.'