[This month, JULY 2025, the Theosophical Publishing House, Adyar, will be releasing a new volume of H. P. Blavatsky’s writings containing material previously unavailable in English. The book is part of the H. P. Blavatsky Collected Writings series and marks its concluding volume as planned by the compiler, Boris de Zirkoff. Comprised of English translations of the various series that HPB wrote for the Russian papers, the volume, titled Russian Serials, offers an insightful account of American life during the author’s time there, her attendance at a reception for the new Viceroy of India, and her visit to the Blue Mountains of Madras and the mysterious tribes that inhabited it. Russian Serials can be considered a companion piece to the other previously translated volume from the Russian papers, From the Caves and Jungles of Hindostan.
The following excerpt translated from the Tiflis Messenger of 25 September (13 September in Russian old-style calendar) 1878, written under the pseudonym of the “Voice”, is exemplar of HPB’s narrative style to be found throughout this book. It is based on an actual trip HPB, Col. Olcott, and a TS member took to East Hampton, NY*, in July 1878. Olcott records in his Diary that during the time they spent at the beach, HPB “presented a most amusing appearance, paddling about in the surf with her legs, and showing an infantile glee almost to be in such splendid magnetism” (cited in Gomes’ Dawning of the Theosophical Movement, 1987, p. 184). The rest of the story is now obtainable from TPH Adyar. — Michael Gomes]
Note from the editor:
*In the late 1870’s, East Hampton, New York, was transitioning from a rural farming community to a popular summer resort destination, attracting artists and wealthy families. The extension of the railway to Bridgehampton in the 1870’s made the area more accessible. This led to the development of boarding houses and the construction of "cottages," many in the Shingle style, on former farms and pastures.
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The heat is tropical. The hot, white walls of buildings, the iron fences of the gardens, the railing of the balconies, and the wrought iron, openwork, ornamented steps of porches in downtown, make the miserable citizens ascending them hurry up on their toes. On the sixth of July, in New York alone, they counted thirty-two cases of sunstroke; and on the ninth they recorded seventy-four!
At the present moment, the centrifugal forces of city life have definitely the upper hand over the centripetal. Everything and everybody rushes away from this hot center of town. The “Voice”, drawn by this general exodus, does not set itself in opposition to the human current which bears it along. Hoarse and about to collapse for breath, it, too, climbs the high stairs that lead to the elevated railroad, some eighty feet above the street, and buys a ticket to Coney Island. Settling down in one of the luxurious coaches, on a seat made of sea grass, it waits for the railway to rush it fifteen miles to the shore of the northern river. The entire pleasure trip costs ten cents.
New York passenger steam train in the 1870's
The train speeds along carrying thousands of perspiring gentlemen and ladies who are fanning themselves. It soars high over the heads of the pedestrians; it either thunders over the roofs of lower houses, or rushes like a whirlwind but a few steps from the windows of the eighth floor of higher buildings. All their windows are open and the interior furnishings of the lodgings can be clearly seen. Their inhabitants are all more or less undressed, and sometimes rather curious and strange pictures flash before the eyes of embarrassed strangers.
Speaking of the elevated railway, which was opened to the public only six months ago, one should not fail to mention the landlords’ revolution which threatens the city. The whole of New York is beginning to be covered with such railways. They crisscross each other like a thick network over the roofs of the buildings and darken God’s light. The trains leave every quarter-of-an-hour and, as already stated, run but a few feet from the walls and windows of some of the houses, starting at four o’clock in the morning and ending half-an-hour past midnight. Imagine the situation of the unhappy inhabitants of these streets! Not to open the windows in the rooms where people are being smothered in the summer, is tantamount to slow death; open these — and the rooms are immediately filled with thick fumes and soot. The latter settles on the furniture, blackens the walls and spoils everything in the house. To complete the pleasure, for twenty-and-a-half hours, out of twenty-four, every fifteen minutes, there is the strange rumbling and whistling of the trains above the very heads of the condemned victims. These constant thunderpeals shake the houses to their foundations. The inhabitants have to shout and strain their chests as ordinary speech is completely drowned out by this infernal noise. The constant jangle to the nerves makes people go mad, and sleep becomes impossible. Thirty-eight medical men have sent a petition to the railway company on behalf of their patients. Those who could do so have moved to other parts of the city, and landlords are threatened with complete ruin.
"Settling down in one of the luxurious coaches", the Voice (HPB) writes. In spite of the first class, in that era, train rides remained very noisy, tiring and rough
In the meantime, we are rushing like a whirlwind from one end of the city to the other. Now we are on the banks of the river, at the pier where steamers take the overheated inhabitants to various islands in the vicinity of New York. Such islands are innumerable. Two of the main ones are Coney Island and Long Island. On the latter, which is one hundred and eighteen miles long and some twenty-three miles wide, are scattered a great many villages, but no single town. Coney Island is the favorite outing place for New Yorkers. Sea bathing there is wonderful; however, staying there several days in succession, one is apt to get an inflammation of the eyes, so brilliant is the glare of these immense flats covered with a silvery-white sand sparkling like snow in the sun. Huge steamers, five hundred feet in length and built like houses three stories high, leave New York for the Islands every half hour during this summer season. Right now, we ourselves are about to start on one of them.
On the shore there is shoving, noise, and shouting. On deck, you almost have to fight for a chair. Another minute, and the steamer is just one solid mass of human heads; but the happy thought that in half an hour you will be standing on the soft sand of the island, on the shore of the cool and boundless ocean, upholds your faltering strength.
A whistle, a strident hissing sound, and the steamer pulls out, calling, by the way, at eight different piers for other passengers, before it finally starts on its journey. At long last, it turns and heads out towards the open sea.
The view is really magnificent . . . the entire shore is covered with forests, luxurious parks, and villas.
The harbor of New York, according to those who know, is the most beautiful in the world, and surpasses even that of Naples. As you proceed towards the sea, the harbor takes on an even more fairylike appearance, as a limitless azure expanse. It is dotted with ships, steamers, and yachts. Huge in size, and one of the most convenient on the face of the earth, it could serve as a refuge for several mighty fleets, and still have plenty of room. Now we have passed Staten Island, a lovely island reminding one of Amalfi, near Naples, which is inhabited mainly by Germans and the fiercest of mosquitos. The entire harbor begins to be covered with a light mist through which thousands of flags with gilded tips and other decorations sparkle in the sun in a multicolored fiery play.
Little by little that too disappears and merges in the velvety, shimmering distance. We round Governor’s Island with barracks standing empty since the end of the war; then Fort Lafayette, where ruins of a once mighty fortress, intended for political criminals, sadly protrudes, overgrown with grass. In our time, such criminals have become a mere legend; they have scattered and disappeared. . . .
And now in the bluish and misty distance shine the silvery shores of Coney Island. A cool and damp whiff of air rises. A few more minutes and we are at the landing. Our feet are sinking deep in the hot sand, but a fresh sea breeze gives us new strength. The sweating crowd suddenly dries, and everybody rushes towards the bathhouses by any and every road. Without warning, the marksmen lined up for their target practice at the firing range, some people daringly cross the firing line which leads to the target. Sometimes a stray bullet reaches a live target. But this is an event that is quite customary and does not surprise anybody. . . . It interests only the coroner and insurance companies.
Women and men dressed in common beachwear, East Hampton, NY during 1870’S, on the far left a life guard
The arrangement of the bathhouses here is entirely different from that in Europe. Long rows of shanties are built some 150 feet from the sea. In them, people undress and array themselves in the most curious costumes: the men — in multi-colored tricot; and the ladies in short flannel pants and jackets. Both sexes bathe together and run along the shore and wide road half-naked and streaming with water. All this takes place very quietly and with no embarrassment whatsoever. Custom and the mode have transformed into a perfectly proper pastime which in the city would have been the very limit of indecency. Young girls of the higher — I’m sorry, of the richer — set climb with their bare legs onto the shoulders of men, and, establishing their balance, dive into the sea head first. To observe this Sodomo-Gomorrhean company is worth a trip to the island. And beyond this noisy crowd tumbling in the water, there is the ocean, the limitless blue ocean, which every summer season slyly swallows up dozens of careless swimmers.
Nothing in Nature reminds us as much of a woman as the ocean; its caprices and fantasies quickly come and go, and no one can predict their hour. The ocean receives its color from the sky, and its turbulence from the currents of air. Its very existence, with its constant flirtation with, and mirroring of, the elements, depends upon the latter; but in spite of that, just like a woman, it constantly and daringly calls them out to battle. If you throw yourself into it in a rough manner, or go too far out, it will treat you disdainfully and without pity — and like a woman will try to ruin you. But if, on the contrary, you treat it gently and cleverly, and trust yourself carefully and quietly to its treacherous waves, it will carry you along on its high crests, and will cradle you like a child upon the breast of its loving mother.
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This article was also published in The Theosophist, VOL. 146 NO. 10. JULY 2025
The Theosophist is the official organ of the International President, founded by H. P. Blavatsky on 1 Oct. 1879.
To read the JULY 2025 issue click HERE