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The Cloud of Longing
The Cloud of Longing
A New Translation and Eco-​Aesthetic
Study of Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta

E . H . R IC K JA R OW

1
 3
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© Oxford University Press 2021

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and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kālidāsa. author. | Jarow, Rick, translator author of commentary.
Title: The cloud of longing : a new translation and
eco-aesthetic study of Kalidasa’s Meghaduta /
[translation and commentary by] E.H. Rick Jarow.
Other titles: Meghadūta. English
Description: New York : Oxford University Press, 2021. |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021003940 (print) | LCCN 2021003941 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780197566633 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197566640 (paperback) |
ISBN 9780197566664 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Kālidāsa. Meghadūta.
Classification: LCC PK3796. M6 J37 2021 (print) |
LCC PK3796. M6 (ebook) | DDC 891/.21—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021003940
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021003941

DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566633.001.0001

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Paperback printed by Marquis, Canada
Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America
 For Barbara Stoler Miller, Who Planted the Seed
For Śrīpāda Baba, Who Watered It
For Newman, Who Resides in My Heart of Absence
 Contents

Acknowledgments  ix
Abbreviations  xi
Translation and Transliteration  xiii

Introduction: Why Kālidāsa, Why Now?  1

1. The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa  11
2. Liquid Meaning in Sanskrit Poetics  37
3. Clouds  45
4. Vastunirdeśa  59
5. The Argument  67
6. The Cloud’s Way  77
7. Meteorology and Metaphor  92
8. Alakā  103
9. Critical Considerations  112

Notes  139
Bibliography  173
Index  181
 Acknowledgments

This project spanned many incarnations. Many people were wonderfully

helpful. Thank you to those mentioned and not mentioned here.
Bishvanath Bhattacharya spent his good time with me on his front porch
in Varanasi, discussing Kālidāsa and the Meghadūta, reciting it by rote when
his failing eyes would no longer allow him to read the text.
Paul Sherbow and Frederick Smith both read over the manuscript nu-
merous times and offered cogent suggestions.
Michael Lockaby and Boo Taubman helped lift me out of a paralyzing
painful illness and into functionality.
Michel Taft helped me through, lit a fire under me to bring this work to
completion, and offered numerous helpful suggestions.
Norris Suzanne Carlson went over the translation with me, offered
most helpful critiques and comments, and rearranged word orders toward
intelligibility.
Christopher Key Chapple showed me where this manuscript might find
a home.
The American Institute of Indian Studies offered a grant that allowed me
to pursue commentaries on the Meghadūta.
Shrivatsa Goswami engaged me in ongoing discussions on the relation-
ship between kāvya and bhakti.
Esalen Institute offered me a scholars-​in-​residence fellowship, where the
project in its final form was reborn.
Carioca Freitas and the Living Love Circle reacquainted me with the music
of Pachamama.
Bonnie Ann Burnett, Roselyn Myers, and Skip Schukmann opened the
door to the wonders of the earth, introducing me to the beings in the garden.
Oxford University Press graciously took on the publication of this work.
 Abbreviations

AIOC All India Oriental Conference

AV Atharva Veda
BG Bhagavadgītā
BHP Bhāgavatapurāṇa
Dhvan. Dhvanyāloka
JOIB Journal of the Orientl Institute of Baroda
MBH Mahābhārata
MANU The Law Code of Manu (Manava Dharmaśāstra)
Megh. Meghadūta
MW Sanskrit-​English Dictionary by Sir M. Monier-​Williams
NS Nāṭyaśāstra
VR Vālmīki-​Rāmȳaṇa
YS Yoga-​Sūtra of Patañjali
 Translation and Transliteration

Translations of passages in this volume are credited either with endnote

references or in parentheses immediately following the text. Unless other-
wise indicated, all translations are mine.
I have omitted the diacritics for retroflex consonants in all proper names
for the sake of the English reader. All transliterated words are italicized with
the exception of capitalized proper names, places, well-​known texts, and
words that are used as English adjectives (e.g., Vedic, Purāṇic, etc.).
 Introduction
Why Kālidāsa, Why Now?

There are two post-​Kālidāsa narratives that I know of about a person going
into a deep state of ex-​stasis at the sight of a cloud. I use the Greek “ex-​tasis,”
as opposed to the English “ecstasy” in order to tune both the word and the
situation to a somewhat different pitch; it is not clear exactly what emotions
and contexts are at play. The first belongs to Mādhavendra Purī, an associate
of the 1500s saint Caitanya, who was considered by his followers to be an in-
carnation of Krishna, in the mood of his premiere devotee and manifestation
of his “bliss-​energy” (hlādinī śakti), Rādhā.
Mādhavendra Purī saw the rain cloud as blue-​black, as śyāma, having
the same color as Krishna, and thus fell into a swoon of remembrance.
A few hundred years later, a young Gadadhar Chatterjee (later known as
Ramakrishna) fainted at the site of a dark storm cloud, whether it was from
its beauty or from pure remembrance is not clear, but the Welsh poet Robert
Graves’s commentary on the incident may be telling.1 Graves, in his opus,
The White Goddess, sees Ramakrishna as a pure ecstatic who was colonized
by the Brahminical hierarchy to further cement its authority and influence,
noting, like William Blake did before him, how the purity of poetic genius
can become entrapped in theologies and their power-​based structures.
A number of winters ago, I gave my first public presentation at an an-
nual meeting of the American Academy of Religion held in San Francisco
(speaking of poetic cities). I gave a paper on Hanumān’s (“Voyage by the Mind
through a Sea of Stars”) journey to Śrī Laṅkā in the Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki.
The designated respondent commented, not in an outright derogatory tone,
that I was seemingly “transported” while reciting what he considered to be
another version of Eliade’s “Magical Flight” archetype (the voyaging, sha-
manic Hanumān being compared to a shape-​shifting cloud). I responded, “If
one is not transported by this material, what is the point in working with it?”
Perhaps this anecdote exemplifies how the overwhelming scholarship on
India tends toward the prosaic, for this arena has been the Western area of

The Cloud of Longing. E.H. Rick Jarow, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566633.003.0001
2 The Cloud of Longing

strength and understanding (as well as colonization). The poetic and aes-
thetic darshans, or viewpoints, of India have been catalogued and classified,
but there almost seems to be an embarrassment around their ex-​tasis, their
“hyperbolic” emotion (as the prominent Sanskrit scholar, A. A. Macdonell
put it when he spoke of the “lovelorn damsels in Sanskrit literature”).2 My
charge here is to open and intrinsically explore this aesthetic dimension, this
experience of rasa, the liquid mellow of aesthetic ex-​tasis, which from the be-
ginning of the classical Indian tradition was said to be the goal of any valuable
work of art. This work is neither a history nor a critical study of the vast arena
of Indian aesthetics; rather, it is a journey into the experience of rasa through
one classical Sanskrit poem. It is written for lovers of literature in general (as
opposed to Indologists or Sanskritists) and seeks to claim a place for Sanskrit
aesthetics and its variant sensibilities in the arena of world literatures. In ad-
dition to this, and perhaps most importantly, it seeks to articulate a vision of
nature that can add depth, richness, subtlety, and even transformation to our
culture’s habitual way of viewing and experiencing the natural world.
At the center of this project is the remarkable experience of rasa, a flow
of expanded feeling—​envisioned not merely as a spontaneous outburst of
expression but also as a sensitive-​hearted response that could be cultivated
through caring discipline. Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta, an entire poem whose pro-
tagonist is a cloud, has long been considered a major work capable of engen-
dering such an aesthetic experience in someone who has taken the time and
energy to work with it. Let us therefore open to a text and a tradition that is
not only formally intricate and grand but that can be savored in the here and
now as well, for such is the intention of this volume. With all respect to the
tremendous work that has been done in cataloging and exploring the im-
mense field of Sanskrit literature, I specifically focus here on a sustained close
reading of the Meghadūta in order to share how it may speak to contempo-
rary readers as well as to concerns about the experience of the natural world.
We hold traces of Kāvya (classical Indian court poetry) through
manuscripts, printed books, and in digital archives. The way and context
in which these genres were produced are not fully clear to contemporary
scholars or to residents of South Asia. There are varieties of conjectures about
Kāvya based on manuscript evidence (not minimal, but not overwhelming)
that do make some sense, but it is sobering to realize how little actually re-
mains from the classical tradition.3 From this, contemporary scholars and
critics have identified a skeletal canon of authors and their poetic and dra-
matic works, depicting classical India through a combination of received epic
 Introduction 3

narratives, mythic compendiums (Purāṇa), and court poems of linguistic

virtuosity (Kāvya). Periodic attempts to revive traditions of Sanskrit drama
in India come and go; the great film versions of epic and dramatic literatures
on television and in cinema, however, have had significant mass impact and
may now be primary vehicles for the transmission of classical Sanskrit texts.
The fact remains, however, that we do not fully know what Sanskrit poetry
and drama might have been in their day. That is, the historical and social con-
text of their creation and performance is obscure. The majority of historians
and scholars do generally agree, however, that Kālidāsa was active during the
reign of Chandragupta II, who ruled most of northern India from circa 375
ce to 415 ce . Kālidāsa is believed to have been a court poet, receiving royal
patronage and articulating the “high-​cultural” Sanskritic norms of his epoch.
The earliest actual references to the poet are found in a Sanskrit inscription
dated 473 ce, at Mandsaur’s sun temple in Madhya Pradesh, with verses that
imitate both the Meghadūta and Ṛtusaṃhāra.4 An inscription on the shrine
of Aihole (634 ce), praising him as a “great poet,” establishes his latest pos-
sible date.5
The evolution of Kāvya through later languages can certainly be (and has
been) documented, and we can make relatively educated suppositions about
their contexts and functions. As the tradition developed, the texts of Kālidāsa
were considered “classics.”6 Such a label already indicates a significant con-
textual shift from previous interpretive communities as the texts morphed
through time and space.
Kālidāsa traveled West through the translations and writings of Sir William
Jones, H. H. Wilson, and Goethe, becoming known as the “Shakespeare of
India”—​an emblem of an imagined high culture, an icon.7 Such “great works”
now appear in a new context: required reading for Indian literature courses,
and occasionally, perhaps, in a “world classics” compendium.
Kālidāsa serves as a standard of literary virtuosity and depth, but the
world he wrote about has faded into the shadows of collective memory (or
rather, forgetfulness). This world may have been portrayed as an ideal one,
and perhaps it never existed at any time. Kāvya, like the bear-​hunting ritual
described by Jonathan Z. Smith, may in fact depict more of a paradigmatic
vision of how things could or should be than one with any phenomenological
accuracy.8
My mentor, from Banaras Hindu University, Bishvanath Bhattacharya,
once remarked that one cannot find the “fine stuccoed roofs of Ujjain”
described in the Meghadūta no matter how hard one looks for them.
4 The Cloud of Longing

Nevertheless, Kālidāsa’s world lives on and morphs through one context after
another. Hence, when I use the word “Kālidāsa,” I am not referring to an in-
dividual but rather to an emblem on a series of texts that may reflect a collec-
tive integration of Indian classical culture. Indeed, there are some scholars of
Indian literature who have put forth theories of “multiple Kālidāsas.”9
The later commentaries, and much later theories of literature that make
extensive use of verses from Kālidāsa, may also fall—​if not under—​certainly
alongside this label. The way in which such ideals live and morph is cru-
cial to this project, for it is not so much that I may be taking Kālidāsa out of
context—​his works are already out of context—​as that I am taking them out
of their currently accustomed frames of discourse in order to establish what
I believe to be one of significant relevance. All of this, then, leads to the ques-
tion, “Why Kālidāsa, why now?”
I would be most disingenuous if I professed the academic project to be
free of its times and concerns; be it history, politics, or economies. The early
Orientalists who dug into the mine of Sanskrit literature had their agendas,
as have the following generations of Indologists, scholars of Sanskrit, and
contemporary scholars of religion and literature. In most of these cases,
Indian poetics and drama have been left in the background, with philosophy,
religion, linguistics, and social ethnography occupying the foreground. So,
why pay attention to this Kāvya, and why now? After all, the Meghadūta of
Kālidāsa is not unknown or new. It is most likely a fourth-​century work and
has been translated numerous times into English and other languages. There
is H. H. Wilson’s poetic flight in the 1800s; M. R. Kale’s chock-​full of notes
edition for students first published in 1916; Franklin Edgerton’s literal trans-
lation in the 1940s; S. K. De’s scholarly critical edition of the text in the 1950s;
and, in the 1970s, Leonard Nathan’s credible and poetically breathtaking ver-
sion, which is the most figuratively if not literally accurate translation I know
of.10 Lately, one can find some really good, and some not so good, versions of
the text on line. These translations have been preceded by scores of Sanskrit
commentaries from Dakṣiṇāvartanātha, to Mallinātha, to a most unusual
Bengali commentary, the Tātparyadīpikā, attributed to the Vaishnava the-
ologian Sanātana Gosvāmin.11 Most recently, the industry of translating
classical Indian texts has been inspired by competing publishing companies,
who want their version of the current “Great Books of the East” or now “Asia”
to spread. Perhaps the recent work of Sheldon Pollock and others to trans-
late and present a much larger corpus of Indian literatures may be a major
departure from this. My focus, here, will be solely on the Meghadūta as an
 Introduction 5

icon of the classical aesthetic sensibility. Still, Kālidāsa’s work rarely makes
it onto anyone’s short list. Rather it sits like most Kāvyas on bookshelves as
some sort of quaint curio, a beautiful but irrelevant artifact of an aristocratic
culture that is generally out of favor with both the left-​leaning hallways of
the academy and the right-​leaning government institutes of Sanskrit studies.
While it is used as a text to study in some Sanskrit classes (because of its
sheer beauty and manageability of volume) its figurative detail and extended
metaphorical complexity reward sustained retroactive reading. Moreover,
working with the text requires a more than basic knowledge of Sanskrit, as
well as a familiarity with the Indian epics and the cultural mythos that pro-
duced them.12
I doubt that anyone can claim to be cognizant of their complete agenda
in engaging such materials, but I think it is incumbent upon one to give an
open and serious account of the why and wherefore. I believe one can make
a contemporary case, if not for Kāvya in general, then for Kālidāsa and the
Meghadūta in particular. Hence let me outline the rationale of this study. I go
back to the fourth century because the poetry of Kālidāsa remains unpar-
alleled; because there has been little critical work published on Kāvya out-
side of the commentarial traditions (much more work has been done on
drama or Nāṭya than poetry and poetics); and because it offers a vision of the
relationships between language, emotive feeling, and the natural world that
can speak to and even educate contemporary sensibilities. Kāvya, which may
be thought of as literature as art, predates and postdates Kālidāsa, of course,
and appears in a number of languages as well as regions. Likewise, critical
discussions on poetics both predate and continue as a part of the process of
engaging Kāvya.13 Kālidāsa, however, resides in the middle of all this, almost
like a fulcrum that balances a very particular sensibility.
The study of and attention given to the Meghadūta need not be then a
part of a quaint Orientalism that wants to laud an India of old or exalt the
beauty and wisdom of the past. Such projects have their own rationales
and arenas of function. If one pays attention to classical Indian categories,
however, it is understood that what was, comes around again.14 This is ar-
guably the case with the Meghadūta, and perhaps with the Ṛtusaṁhāra and
Kumārasambhava (other poetic works of Kālidāsa) as well, for the darshans
(darśanas, or visions) of nature offered in these texts are extraordinary in
their breadth and sensibility. The Meghadūta in particular, envisions the nat-
ural world as something much more than a backdrop for human subjects
to live out their lives. Its sense of nature, moreover, is more integrated than
6 The Cloud of Longing

in romantic notions of paradisiac beauty or of abject terror projected onto

landscapes. Rather, nature, as experienced through Meghadūta, is a tapestry
of myth, memory, substance, feeling, form, and space. The landscape is si-
multaneously the mindscape, meteorology is metaphor, and neither psyche
nor soma is absolutely apart from one another. In, around, and throughout
this, as Barbara Stoler Miller astutely remarked, is the “unmanifest cosmic
unity” of Śiva.15 While this “unity” is rarely depicted literally (a doctrinal im-
possibility in any case), its presence pervades the landscapes, mindscapes,
and mythscapes of the text. Let me say, at the outset, that this mytho-​cosmic
sensibility that pervades the poetic realms of Kālidāsa is not an exception but
the rule. To call it “religious” or even “spiritual” would reduce the wondrous
complexity and interweaving of imagination, epic history, and immanent di-
vinity that make up this narrative.
For those not familiar with the text, the Meghadūta, or Cloud Messenger,
is a short lyric poem (Kaṇḍa-​Kāvya) about a lovelorn Yaksha (a somewhat
minor spirit being) living in a mountainous exile separated from his mate. In
a fever of emotional anguish, he spies a floating cloud and asks it to deliver a
message to his beloved. Addressing the Cloud as a person, the Yaksha then
describes, in amazing detail, the route the Cloud will have to take to get to his
home, the city of Alakā; the abode of Kubera, keeper of the wealth of the gods
and lord of the Yakshas. The first and longer part of the poem describes the
various landscapes that the Cloud will travel through, while the second part
of the poem describes the city of Alakā itself and the imagined delivery of the
message to his beloved.
The poetic envisioning of the landscapes, as well as its amazing integra-
tion of feeling and form, is my prime reason for reintroducing this work of
Kālidāsa (whom it has been my pleasure and privilege to read for decades)
into the conversations of the literary humanities. In a world that has moved
toward cultural connectedness, a contemporary person educated in the
Western humanities, who has read Homer, Shakespeare, and Milton, should
ideally also have read Kālidāsa.
The Meghadūta, however, has significance beyond being a major work of
classical India’s most iconic literary figure. It offers more than a lyrical look
at the life and times of a poet or of a culture; it also offers a way of looking
through nature that can inform and inspire our efforts to reorient ourselves
in the natural world. This is a primary value and focus that will be explored in
detail in this volume.16
 Introduction 7

As a contemporary Western reader, I have no choice but to filter my

reading of Kālidāsa through a postmodern lens, but I have done my best
to not use the work of the poet to prove any particular contemporary con-
tention. The translations are done scrupulously and thoroughly. The major
Indian commentators have been consulted in every instance, and more ob-
scure commentaries have been consulted as well. I do reserve the right, how-
ever, to translate in a less than literal way when necessary. To my mind, this
preserves and transmits the sensibility of the text much more than choppy
literal translations that do not read well in English. On the other hand, any
place where I have taken license can be clearly justified by and found in the
actual text (and discussed in the notes). This is translation, not transcreation,
although a good argument can be made that any serious translation is a
transcreation.
Still, my intention here is not to present Kālidāsa as he was heard in the
royal courts of the Guptas, for I do not think that is possible, and it holds
no more than academic interest for me. Rather I present Kālidāsa because
he speaks to me in a way that very few Western poets have. Through the
Meghadūta, I have learned to look at and experience the natural world in
a radically different way, and this is what I seek to convey in this translation
and reflection. For its sheer beauty; for its remarkable discourse on ecolog-
ical poetics; for its instruction in integrating sound, cadence, sense, and sen-
sibility; and for its “tantric” perspective, the Meghadūta may be unparalleled.
I will discuss the “tantric” perspective in detail later on. Let me briefly expli-
cate what I mean by this much used (and often maligned) Indian word that
has entered the contemporary lexicon.
The “tantric” sensibility (versus a particular lineage of practice) is one
of transcendence within immanence. It does not privilege a disembodied
consciousness existing beyond the phenomenal world. Rather it weaves (to
weave,√tan, being at the root of the word tantra) a vision of the world and
awareness as non-​different. And yet difference remains. When I first began to
read and study the Meghadūta with Bishvanath Bhattacharya, he remarked
about the text one day, “How can you deny multiplicity?”
Indeed, the weaving of unity and multiplicity, presence and absence, may
be the great triumph of the Meghadūta. There have been numerous Indian
philosophical positions that declare the non-​duality of duality, from the
Mādhyamika’s rūpaṁ śūnyataiva śūnyataiva rūpam (form is emptiness, emp-
tiness is form) to Gauḍīya theologian Jīva Gosvāmin’s acintya-​bhedābheda-​
tattva (inconceivably one and different), but Kālidāsa puts meat on these
8 The Cloud of Longing

bones. He illustrates and demonstrates the interpenetration of awareness

and phenomena and, in doing so, exposes many of the pitfalls of falling to
one side of this notion. One may argue that Kālidāsa’s world is fundamen-
tally dualistic, but figuration of any kind already begins to bend categories of
separateness. Moreover, the fact that Kālidāsa explicitly challenges the reality
of literal representation places him in the rasa-​dhvani aesthetics camp, one
which offers aesthetic rapture, to borrow Masson and Patwardhan’s term, as
a way through realms of temporality and incompleteness. To be clear, I am
not claiming any particular spiritual agenda or formal affiliation for Kālidāsa
(even though Śiva is clearly the dominant divinity in his work). He is writing
as a poet, not as a philosopher or spiritual teacher. It is just this, however, “the
aesthetic,” that has been chronically and characteristically shortchanged, and
the point of rasa theory is to exalt the aesthetic and acknowledge its spiritual
dimensions. Citra-​kāvya, or “ornamentation for its own sake,” or for the sake
of virtuosity, is constantly disparaged by the Sanskrit poeticians as inferior.
Rasa, on the other hand, is seen as the central transformation of emotion to
sublime heights, and, in this sense, it carries on the Vedic trope of rasa as im-
mortal nectar.17
In any case, one can say from the invocation at the beginning of Śākuntala
that Kālidāsa was a worshipper of Śiva, in his manifest forms; and one can
say from the denouements of his plays that the redeeming presence of Śakti,
of the feminine, is ubiquitous in his work, but Kālidāsa’s tantric sensibility
exceeds arguments of linear history or textual content because they are largely
stylistic: the collapsing of contraries through sustained metaphor; the thrill
of the sights, sounds, tastes, and touches of the sensory world; the depiction
of mountains and rivers in erotic congress; and the awareness of nature in
divinity, as well as divinity in nature, all point toward tantric leanings.18 Here
is where literary studies and intrinsic literary studies in particular can make
a contribution to discussions of oneness and difference. They can combat the
dominance of unqualified historicism and the concomitant assumption that
its chronological logic stands above, or informs, other forms of discourse.
While the question of when the plays were written, under what dynasty, and
the like are not unimportant, they are ultimately extrinsic to the work, which
operates through an associative trans-​textual logic. This sense also allows
one to understand the way such a text may morph through different inter-
pretive communities in different times and places. Just as Harold Bloom can
declare that, ultimately, there is only an oral Torah, prevailing notions of just
what is intrinsic or extrinsic may depend on how a particular community
 Introduction 9

receives a text. Rawson’s popular work on tantra speaks to this when he

discusses the tantric view of time as one that openly faces the maw of dissolu-
tion rather than seeks some separated vantage point of observation.19 Hence,
the method I argue for here is to read Kālidāsa closely as a “you” versus an “it”
to borrow Martin Buber’s terminology.20
Most importantly perhaps, Kālidāsa’s poetic sensibility offers a specific vi-
sion of the natural world that we may do well to revisit. It is one that does
not separate the word from the tongue, la parole from la langue. It does not
seek to de-​shroud the word of its mystery to reveal “meaning.” Rather, mys-
tery, erotic mystery in particular, is at the very core of language, which is at
the very core of the natural world. To separate language from love is to move
from the poetic to the prosaic; and while works of this kind are necessarily
prosaic, I try to frame this one in a way that least violates the precincts of the
poetic.
After all, this is the crux of the Meghadūta’s argument. Those afflicted by
love no longer distinguish the animate from the inanimate, no longer con-
sent to the atrophy of the imagination. Their world flows through the heart,
as well as through the mind, and their words consequently are to be “tasted,”
not interpreted. The idea of language as purely conventional could only occur
to someone like Descartes; that is, to someone living locked away in a room.
From a tantric point of view, the movement to withdraw from the senses is
not any different than being captivated by them, for ultimately, the world we
see is the world we are.
The Meghadūta sees a world at play, but it is not necessarily free play. The
text is well aware of the tug of the opposites. There is fear and danger as well as
openness and freedom; there is display as well as shame, flights of fancy, and
flights away from predators. Because all of this is moving in time, nothing
stands still; no vision of the natural world is ultimate, just as no season can
last forever. Moreover, the entire landscape of the Meghadūta is imagined; it
is seen through the mind of the protagonist, an exiled Yaksha.
On the one hand, the imprint of nature is extraordinary. How could
someone have such a finely tuned memory where every detail of sight
and sound—​the dew drops in the wind, the rumbling of different types of
thunder, throngs of birds floating by on their way—​are perfectly remem-
bered? Maybe there is a faculty of seeing here that we are generally not ac-
customed to. The twentieth-​century magician Aleister Crowley is said to
have trained his visualizing capacities by playing two games of chess with
two different people at once, thus learning to envision every piece on the two
10 The Cloud of Longing

boards without his physical presence. This is again, however, assuming the
primacy of matter. What if, as from the Platonic perspective, the ideas are
primary? What if the imagined tree is just as substantial as the physical tree?
Texts like the Yoga Vāsiṣṭha, in India, constantly challenge the notion that
physical reality is fundamentally different than imagined reality. From the
point of view of death, both a dream and a life are said to be qualitatively
similar. All this is to iterate the aesthetic perspective that imagination is not
necessarily a detour or a modality to help enforce moral truths. And the lan-
guage of the Meghadūta is not as much about something (representation) as
it is, itself, something—​working with meter, sonoric and semantic figuration
to incarnate a powerful and prevailing mood that can transport the sensitive
heart (suhṛdaya). Let us begin this pilgrimage of imagination by traveling
through the poem itself and then looking into the rich theoretical discourse
of Sanskrit poetics to have some frame of reference for Kālidāsā’s project.
What follows is a translation of 111 verses of the Meghadūta. There may
indeed be more (or less) verses, as S. K. De enumerates in his critical edition
of the text. I am following the lineage of Western translators here (Edgerton,
Nathan) for the sake of consistency. Some versions of the text separate the
pūrva and uttara Megha, “early” and “later” sections. I have (again following
recent translators) kept one unified work. Each verse of Kāvya is sometimes
referred to as a flawless pearl, and I have done my best to convey this sense
in the translation. Here, I offer the Meghadūta, the voyage by a cloud over
landscapes of India, as imagined by a lovelorn Yaksha in the anguish of sepa-
ration from his beloved.
 1
The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa

A Yaksha, banished in grievous exile from his beloved for a year,

his power eclipsed by the curse of his Lord for having swerved from his duty,
made his dwelling among the hermitages of Rāmagiri,
whose waters were hallowed by the ablutions of Janaka’s daughter
and whose trees were rich with shade.1

On that hill, lovelorn and months from his mate;

his wrist so wasted that it had shed its golden bracelet,
he saw during the full moon of Āṣāḍha, a Cloud nuzzling a mountain ridge
like a handsome elephant playfully butting the side of a hill.2

Standing up, somehow, before the source of his kindled longing,

this follower of Kubera pondered deeply, his tears held back.
The sight of a cloud moves the mind of even a happy man;
what then of one who longs for his far distant lover’s embrace?

The rains now at hand, longing to sustain his beloved’s life,

and wishing the life-​giving Cloud to carry news of his welfare,
he performed the argha offering with fresh kuṭaja blossoms,
and turning toward it in delight, spoke pleasing words of welcome.3

The Cloud of Longing. E.H. Rick Jarow, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566633.003.0002
12 The Cloud of Longing

What does a cloud, blend of smoke, flame, water, and wind, have to do
with meaningful messages meant to be conveyed by the fit senses of the living?
Heedless of this from ardent fervor, the Yaksha made his request.
For lovers afflicted by passion can no longer tell the aware from the inert.

I know you as the chief minister of Indra,

born into a line of great swirling thunderclouds
renowned throughout the world, able to take any form at will.
So, I, far from my beloved by a decree of fate, come to you as a supplicant:
Better a vain plea to the qualified, than a fruitful one to the vulgar.4

O Cloud, refuge of those who burn in torment, take a message for me

cut off from my beloved by Kubera’s fury. Go to the abode known as Alakā,
where the mansions of the Yaksha lords are rinsed by moonbeams
from the crest of Śiva’s brow, who resides in an outlying pleasure grove.5

The wives of travelers, the ends of their hair blown undone, will behold
you, risen on the path of the wind, and will take heart in your promise.
Who, when you are ready to rain, would overlook his beloved suffering alone,
were it not someone like me whose life is bound to the will of another?6

Ever gently, a favorable breeze wafts you

as on your left, your kin the cātaka sweetly sings,
and the cranes, knowing it is just mating time,
will serve you as stunning garlands in the sky.7
 The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 13

10

Surely, my Brother, on your clear way, you will see

your brother’s wife, my true love, still alive and eagerly counting the days.
The love-​filled heart of a woman, like a tender flower
fast to fall in despair, is sustained by the bond of hope.8

11

And hearing that blessed thunder

filling the earth to overflow with kandalī flowers, the royal swans
who long for Lake Mānasa, holding bits of lotus stalks as provisions
for their journey, will become your companions in the sky.9

12

Having embraced your dear friend, the mountain, whose girded

slopes are marked by Rāma’s blessed feet (praised by men)
bid farewell to this lofty peak, which, reuniting with you in every season
shows its love, born of long absence, by shedding hot tears.

13

Listen now, O Water Giver, while I tell you the right way to set out
on your path. You shall hear my message, so sweet to the ear
Take this path, resting your foot on mountains when worn with fatigue
and enjoying the pure water of streams whenever weary.10

14

Fly up from this place of sap-​laden nicula stalks to the north sky,
your steady advance witnessed in amazement by simple siddha women,
their faces turned upward to see if the wind has carried off the mountain peak,
avoiding on your way the insolent brush of the sky-​elephant’s coarse trunks.11
14 The Cloud of Longing

15

There, before you, risen from the top of an ant-​hill, is a piece of Indra’s bow
like a splendid blend of gleaming gems; by which your dark body
will take on a charm, like Vishnu in the guise of Krishna the cowherd,
with his peacock feather of shimmering luster.12

16

Drunk in by the love-​moistened eyes of country women, unschooled

in the art of flirting, who think the success of the crop depends upon you,
soar to the high field of Māla, fragrant from the fresh furrows of the plow.
Then, after backing up westward, take a lighter stride and go farther north.13

17

Its forest fires quenched by your downpour, the mango tipped mountain
Āmrakūṭa, will gladly carry you, weary from your journey, onto its lofty peak.
Not even a low life, remembering past favors, would turn his face
away from a friend seeking shelter, how much less one who is lofty.

18

When you, glistening as a darkly oiled braid of hair, have climbed

the mountain peak, its slopes covered by the glow of ripening mango forests,
like a great breast of earth, dark at its center and pale gold around the crest,
surely you will entrance the gaze of the enrapt celestial couples.14

19

Staying awhile on that mountain, whose groves gladden the women of the
forest
and having thereafter crossed the path beyond it at a quickened pace,
your waters released, you will see at the jagged foot of the Vindhya
Mountains
the Revā River scattered like streaks of ash painted on the limbs of an
elephant.15
 The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 15

20

Having shed your rain and taken her water, its course clogged
by rose-​apple bowers and fragrant with the rut of wild elephants, go now,
O Cloud, filled so thick with delicious water that the wind cannot bear you.
Indeed, the empty is always light while the full is heavy.

21

Seeing the russet and green nīpa flower with half-​grown shoots
and the kandalī’s first buds appearing on every bank, scenting
the richly fragrant earth in charred forests, the dappled deer
will trace the path of your falling rain.16

22

I foresee, Friend, that though you want to go quickly for the sake of my beloved,
you may dally on this or that mountain peak, fragrant with kakubha flowers.
Welcomed by peacocks with moistened eyes, their cries risen to greet you,
I pray that you somehow find the will to quickly move on.17

23

When you come into the vicinity of the Daśārṇa country,

its garden groves bursting white with fully blown ketaka blossoms
and its village trees overwhelmed by the nest-​building clamor of crows,
the rims of the rose apple forests will be dark with ripening fruits,18
while the approaching swans linger there for a few days.

24

Coming toward the stretch of the royal city, Vidiśā,

whose name is everywhere renowned,
you will quickly gain the full fruit of your longing
as you drink the savory water of the Vetravatī,
her rippling waves like knit brows on a frowning face
at your soft rumbling thunder along her banks.19
16 The Cloud of Longing

25

You should stop to rest, there, on the low peak of Nīcais

with kadamba flowers sprung to full blossom like thrilled hairs at your touch,
and with stone grottos exuding the love perfume of bought women,
which heralds the wild youth of the townsmen.20

26

Being restored, go forth, sprinkling with fresh water droplets

the clusters of jasmine buds that grow by the forest streams and pleasure
groves
offering your fleeting shade to the faces of flower girls, whose lotus
ear-​clasps
fade in anguish when they brush sweat from their cheeks.

27

Although the path swerves from your northward course, do not turn
away from the friendly white-​roofed mansions of Ujjayinī. If you are not
delighted there by the eyes of the townswomen their restless corners
startled by your quivering flashes of lightening, then you have been
cheated.21

28

Coming to the course of the Nirvindhyā, whose waistband is a row of

birds
resounding at her tremoring waves as she glides along in lovely curves
that reveal the whirlpool curl of her naval, be suffused with the bliss of her
liquid essence, for women’s first expressions of love are a playful allure
before their lovers.22
 The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 17

29

Having gone by her, O Fortunate One, you alone will have to find
the means to relieve the river of her exhaustion. Her lovelorn state
indicating
your good fortune, her stream like a slim braid of hair with a pale
complexion
of faded leaves fallen from the trees arisen along her banks.

30

Reaching the land of Avantī, whose village elders know well the story of
Udayana,
go toward the illustrious city of Viśālā (whose glory I have spoken of),
which is like a splendid fragment of heaven brought down by the
lingering merits
of celestial denizens fallen to earth, the fruits of their virtue exhausted.23

31

Where, at daybreak, the breeze from Śiprā that lengthens the dazzling,
sweet cooing of cranes, is perfumed by the fragrant touch of burst-​open
lotuses,
like a lover’s pleading enticements gladdening the body
and driving away the languor of love-​withered women.24

32

The aromatic powder that women use to dress their hair drifts up
through lattice windows and swells your body. The peacocks
out of great love for you, their friend, welcome you with dance offerings.
Weary from the long road, pass the night on palace rooftops, scented
with flowers and stained with red lac from the feet of lovely women.25
18 The Cloud of Longing

33

Gazed upon with wonder by the minions of Śiva, who see you
as having the same hue as their Lord’s throat, you may come to the holy
abode of the Master of the Three Worlds and Lord of the fierce goddess,
Caṇḍī. Its pleasure groves, stirred by the breezes of the Gandhavatī,
are heavy with lotus pollen and pungent from the bathing perfume
of delighted young women frolicking in the water.26

34

Even having set down at Mahākāla at another time, O Water Bearer,

you should stay there until the bright sun has moved beyond your vision,
performing the evening worship of the trident bearing Śiva as his
celebrated drum.
You will thus attain the full reward of your deep and mellow thunder.27

35

The dancing girls, there, belts tinkling with their dance steps,
hands weary
from the yak tail fans with sparkling gem-​studded handles they playfully
wave
receiving the first drops of your rain, so soothing to their nail-​scratched
skin,
will cast sidelong glances at you like a long row of bees.

36

Then, overspread as a circle on the lofty forests of his arms,

taking on the glow of twilight, red as the fresh bloom of the china rose,
fulfill the Lord of Beast’s wish for the bloody elephant hide drum
as he begins his dance, your devotion seen by Bhavānī
with steady eyes, her trembling now calmed.28
 The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 19

37

There, with the gleam of your lightning like a streak of gold on

touchstone;
where the royal highway is so sealed by darkness that a pin could
pierce it;
light the way by night for young women off to the abodes of their lovers,
withhold your thunder and downpour, for they are timid ones.

38

Having spent the night on the turret of some house where pigeons are
asleep,
your consort the lightning exhausted from long flashes of love,
complete the rest of your journey when the sun again rises.
Those who make their friends’ needs their sworn duty surely do
not tarry.

39

At that time, the tears of spurned women should be soothed by their

lovers.
So quickly abandon the sun’s path, for he too returns to wipe away the
tears of dew
from the face of the red lotus and would be greatly incensed if you hin-
dered his rays.

40

The mirrored shadow of your-​self, still pleasing by nature, will find

entrance into the waters of the deep Gambhīrā as into a gracious heart.
Do not therefore, out of stoic reserve, dismiss her glances—​
flirting flashes of leaping minnows bright as water lilies.29
20 The Cloud of Longing

41

Taking her blue water garment, slipped down from her resisting
curved banks, whose cane branches are like hands clutching what is left,
how will you, hanging over her, friend, take your leave? Who—​having
known such a taste—​could leave behind a girl with her hips unveiled?

42

A low wind, ripening wild fig forests, will gently urge you toward Devagiri,
the Mount of the Gods, so sweet from the earth’s fragrant touch,
swollen from your showers, and drunk in by elephants
with gentle rumblings from their trunks.

43

There, having turned yourself into a cloud of flowers, bathe divine Skanda
(who has taken a permanent abode there) with a shower of blossoms
moist from heavenly Gaṅgā water. For he was that shining seed
surpassing
the sun, cast into the mouth of Agni by Śiva, the bearer of the crescent,
to protect the armies of Indra.30

44

Then with your thunder caught and echoed out by the mountain, you may
inspire
Skanda’s peacock to dance, the corners of his eyes rinsed with the
gleaming
light of Hara’s moon and his molted tail ringed with streaks of light.
Bhavānī,
for love of her son, places a feather on her ear, by the blue lotus there.31
 The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 21

45

This much of your journey done,

having propitiated the God Born of the Reeds,
as lute -​bearing siddha couples fearing your raindrops escape your path,
drop down to honor the glory of Rantideva, sprung from the sacrifice
of cows
and changed into the form of a river on earth.32

46

When you stoop down to take the water, stealing the Bow Wielder’s hue,
the sky-​goers, their gaze focused, will surely see the course
of the broad river from afar as narrow as the earth’s
lone string of pearls with a thick sapphire in the middle.33

47

Crossing that river, go on making your orb-​like self the target

of the curious glances of the Daśapura women—​who are well versed
in playful movements of their eyebrow creepers and whose dark
and radiant pupils flash upward through their raised lashes
rivaling the beauty of black bees swaying on white jasmine.34

48

Plunging then, with your shadow upon the land of Brahmāvarta,

You’d do well to worship the Field of the Kurus, which still echoes
the epic
battle, where Arjuna, wielder of the Gāṇḍīva bow, rained down
piercing arrows by the hundreds upon the faces of the warrior kings
as you do on lotuses with your torrential showers.35
22 The Cloud of Longing

49

Having taken the waters of the Sarasvatī, my Gentle Friend,

which plough-​bearing Balarāma took, turning away from battle for love of
his kin,
and letting go of the savory wine marked by the eyes of his beloved Revatī,
you too shall become pure within, being only dark in hue.36

50

From there you should go toward Kanakhala, where the daughter

of Jahnu descending from the mountain-​king, Himālaya, formed a
heavenward
stairway for Sagara’s sons. And who, as if laughing with her foam
at the frown set on Gaurī’s face, seized Śiva’s hair, her hand-​waves
clinging to his crescent moon.37

51

With your fore-​part swaying sidelong in the sky like the divine elephant,
Airāvata,
if you might think to drink her water, brilliant as clear crystal, gliding into
her
current, suddenly so lovely by your reflected shadow, she will be enrapt
in delight, as if her merging with Yamunā occurred at another place.38

52

Having attained the lofty unmoving source of that river, gleaming

with frost, its rocks scented by the musk from their seated deer, nestled
on its peak to lighten the weariness of your way, you will assume a beauty
like the soft mud dug up by the White Bull of Śiva, the Three-​Eyed One.39
 The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 23

53

If, when the wind stirs, a forest fire should threaten that mountain
born from the chafing pine branches, scorching the thick tails of yaks with
flame,
you should fully extinguish it with a thousand torrents of water.
For the wealth of the lofty lies in allaying the pain of the afflicted.

54

There, the Śarabhas might suddenly attack you, leaping up

in fury at the release of your thunder, only to shatter their own limbs.
Scatter them apart with heavy showers of hard hail.
Who, if their efforts are fruitless, would not be an object of ridicule?40

55

There, bowed in devotion, you should circle round the footprint

of moon-​crested Śiva, manifest in a stone, ever overflowing
with offerings by the perfected Siddhas. The faithful, when they see it,
are shaken free of their sins, and are free to attain his abode
as his eternal attendants once their bodies fall away.

56

Hollow bamboos filled with breezes pulsate sweetly.

Celestial Kinnara women passionately sing of the conquest of Tripura.
If your rumbling thunder should sound in the glens there like a Tabor
drum
the great concert of Śiva, Lord of the Beasts, would surely be
complete.41
24 The Cloud of Longing

57

Passing over so many sights on the slopes of the Snow Mountain,

you should follow the northern way by the Gate of Wild Geese
through the gap blasted into in Mount Krauñca, the road to the glory
of Bhṛgu’s Lord, beautiful in your form extended downward
like the dark foot of Vishnu about to vanquish Bali.42

58

And rising higher, you could be the guest of Mount Kailāsa,

the mirror of celestial nymphs; where the ten-​headed Rāvaṇa’s cracked
the joints of its lofty peaks. It spread open like gleaming pure-​white
lotuses
spanning the sky, as if the howling-​snow laughter of the Three-​Eyed God
is heaped up in all directions.43

59

At that very moment when you rest on its slopes; sporting the glossy hue
of finely cut collyrium, I foresee that the mountain, white as a fresh cut
ivory tusk,
will attain a beauteous splendor like Balarāma, the Plough Bearer,
when he throws his rich dark cloak over his shoulder,
fit to be seen with enrapt eyes.

60

And if Gaurī should stroll by the foot of that pleasure-​mountain, her hand
held by Śiva who has tossed aside his serpent armlet; go before her
and make yourself into a stairway with your inner floodwaters frozen
into wavelike steps for her to mount the jeweled slope.
 The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 25

61

There, celestial women will surely turn you into their bathing room,
your showers released through the striking of their thunderbolt-​diamond
bracelets.
If, friend, you are unable to free yourself from them in the hot season,
you should frighten them, who are so eager for play, with your jarring
thunder.

62

Taking the water of Lake Mānasa from which the golden lotus springs,
making for a moment at will, a pleasing veil for the divine elephant
Airāvata,
then with water dappled breezes shaking the fine garments hung
on the wish-​fulfilling tree there, you may enjoy that Best of the Mountains,
your shadow reflected in double on his shining crystals.44

63

O Cloud who wanders at your own sweet will, seeing Alakā once again,
you will not fail to recognize her, her fine Ganges gown slipped off
her slope as from a lover’s lap, bearing with her lofty mansions,
masses of clouds shedding their rain in your season
like a loving woman whose hair is woven with a string of pearls.45

64

The towering palaces there can equal your own in so many fine ways:
for lightning—​they have the flash of dazzling women, for your
rainbow—​colored
paintings, for your deep and soothing thunder—​muraja drums beating
for song and dance, for your inner waters—​floors set with jewels,
and for your loftiness—​summits that lick the sky.
26 The Cloud of Longing

65

Where young women toy with lotuses in their hands their locks
adorned with fresh jasmine, the luster of their faces made fair by the
pollen of
lodhra blossoms. In their crowning braids is the fresh kuravaka flower,
the lovely śirīṣa flowers in their ear, and the nīpa blossom,
which arises at your approach, is set in the parting of their hair.46

66

Whose Yakshas having come with the best of their women to the palace
roofs made of brilliant crystal with flower arrangements of reflected stars,
enjoy the sweet elixir of love made from the wish-​granting trees, while
pulsating puṣkara drums sound softly, like your deep muffled
rumblings.

67

Where, at midnight, moonstones hung from a network of threads,

shed clear drops of water by the moon’s rays, aglow, since your heavy
presence has vanished, remove the languor of women exhausted by
pleasure, just freed from the embrace of their lovers’ arms.

68

Where led on by the ever-​moving wind to the upper terraces

of its seven-​storied mansions and marring their paintings with droplets
of water,
Clouds like you, as if seized by fear, hasten off, rising through the
pathways of
lattice windows in frayed shreds, skilled at miming spewing smoke.
 The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 27

69

There as the lovers of the ripe-​lipped Yaksha women draw off their
loosened
silk dresses with brazen hands in crazed delight. In bashful confusion,
their knots and clasps undone. Those women throw handfuls of scented
powder
right onto the high shining jewel-​lamps, but to no avail.

70

Where the nightly path of love-​stricken women is traced at sunrise

by fallen coral blossoms shaken loose from their hair by their hurried gait,
by golden lotus flowers shed from their ears—​their petals split open,
and by necklaces of strung pearls—​
their threads snapped by the expanse of their breasts.

71

Knowing that the divine friend of Kubera is himself dwelling there,

the mind-​bewildering God of Love, through fear of him,
does not generally wield his bee-​strung bow, his work accomplished
by the flirting of clever women alone, who never fail
to hit their lover-​targets with glances cast by their arched brows.47

72

There, north of Kubera’s abode is our own home,

marked from afar by an arched gateway lovely as Indra’s rainbow,
In the midst of which is a young Mandāra Tree
raised by my beloved like her own son,
bent low from clusters of flowers that can be reached by hand.
28 The Cloud of Longing

73

And an oblong lotus pool is there, its stairway formed of emerald

gemstones covered with golden lotus buds on glossy stalks of lapis.
Residing in its waters, the wild geese, their burning grief all gone
upon seeing you, no longer pine for nearby Lake Mānasa.

74

On its bank is a pleasure hill so dear to my mate, its peak embossed

with dazzling sapphires and beautifully hedged by golden plantain trees.
Seeing you, O Friend, with lightning flashing all about your borders,
I remember it indeed with a troubled heart.

75

A deep red Aśoka, its shoots trembling, and a lovely Kesara tree are here,
and nearby, a bower of Mādhavī Vines bordered by red Amaranth:
the one longs with me for the touch of your friend’s left foot,
the other craves the wine from her mouth, feigning the need to blossom.48

76

And between them there is a golden perch, the base of its crystal slab
inlaid with precious gemstones—​aglow like young bamboo,
on which your friend, the blue-​necked peacock, settles in at the end
of the day
stirred to dance by the sweet tinkling bangles of my love as she claps in
time.
 The Meghadūta of Kālidāsa 29

77

By these signs stored up in your heart, O Good Cloud, and by seeing

on the sides of the doorway two painted figures, a conch and a lotus,
you may surely recognize the house now, its luster dimmed in my absence.
Does not the lotus indeed lose its own splendor when the sun goes down?

78

Instantly becoming small as an elephant cub for quick access

onto the pleasure hill I spoke of, landed on its charming crest,
you should flash your lightning glance down into the house—​
but only the slightest gleam—​a playful glint of a swarm of fireflies.

79

There she may be, slim, dark, with pointed teeth, her lower lip like
a ripened bimba fruit, slender-​waisted, with a glance like a timid doe,
her navel deeply set, her gait burdened by full hips,
slightly bent forward from her two breasts
She among women is the first work of the creator.49

80

You may know her, my second life, scant of speech,

while I, her mate, am far away like a lone cakravākī bird.
As these heavy days pass, I imagine that young girl, deep in her longing,
has changed in form like a lotus blighted by the winter cold.

81

Surely the eyes of my beloved are swollen from so much weeping;

the blush of her lower lip split open from the heat of her sighs.
Resting on her hand, her face, half hidden by her hanging tresses,
wears the sad, pale look of the moon when its loveliness is eclipsed
by your approach.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Practical
school discipline
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Title: Practical school discipline

Applied methods, part 2

Author: Ray Coppock Beery

Release date: September 27, 2023 [eBook #71746]

Language: English

Original publication: Pleasant Hill: International Academy of

Discipline, 1917

Credits: Richard Tonsing, MFR, Missing pages were produced

from images generously made available by University
of Victoria Libraries, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book
was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRACTICAL

SCHOOL DISCIPLINE ***
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is
granted to the public domain.
PRACTICAL SCHOOL
DISCIPLINE
Applied Methods
PART II

By
RAY C. BEERY
A. B. (Columbia), M. A. (Harvard)

President of
International Academy of Discipline
PLEASANT HILL, OHIO, U. S. A.
 Copyrighted, 1917, by
RAY C. BEERY

Copyrighted in Great Britain, 1917

All Rights Reserved
 PREFACE

The present volume, the third on “Practical School Discipline” (the

second on “Applied Methods”), completes the series of books
designed for the I. A. D. Correspondence Course for Teachers.
Some of the members of our Teachers’ Club may be interested to
know that a similar course of correspondence and study has been
prepared for parents. Possibly some of your own “hard cases” can
best be reached indirectly, i. e., by introducing these volumes for the
parents into the home of the hard case. If you know a parent who has
failed to discipline his child properly, why not mention the
Correspondence Course for Parents in your next Parents’ meeting!
Take along your teachers’ book to illustrate the sort of practical
treatment the various “cases” receive in the parents’ books. In
helping the father or the mother, you are also helping the child, the
school, and yourself.
Regarding the present volume our readers will note that in
accordance with the statement contained in Part I, Part II is a
continuation of that book. Partly to emphasize this fact of continuity,
but also to avoid repetition in the complete index in Part II, the
pagination and the numbering of the cases follow in consecutive
order the two similar series of numbers in Part II. The division
between the two volumes is made between topics, however, so that
except for the very close relation between the two books, each of
them may be regarded as complete in itself.
Finally, permit us to express our hearty appreciation of the cordial
responses which are coming from the members of the Teachers’
Club, and again to assure them that their interests are ours.
 CONTENTS

DIVISION V
PAGE
Cases Arising Out Of The Adaptive Instincts 361

DIVISION VI
Cases Arising Out Of The Expressive Instincts 577

DIVISION VII
Cases Arising Out Of The Social Instincts 671

DIVISION VIII
Cases Arising Out Of The Regulative Instincts 745

DIVISION IX
Cases Arising Out Of The Sex Instincts 829

DIVISION X
An Illustrative Contrast Between Failure and Success 859
 DIVISION V

Adaptation may serve either of two ends. It may fix the child in a life of
indifference, of inefficiency, of crime, or it may fit him into a world of noble acts
and lofty endeavor.
 CASES ARISING OUT OF THE ADAPTIVE
INSTINCTS

What are the adaptive instincts? By the adaptive instincts is

meant the power that an individual possesses of fitting himself, more
or less easily, into the situation in which he finds himself. Such
power of adaptability is of the greatest possible value to the human
infant, coming as he does into an extremely complex environment,
physical and social, and with the further certainty before him of
extremely complex activities in adult life.
Fortunately the long period of plastic infancy offers constant
opportunity for readjusting one’s habits, tastes, accomplishments,
etc. Three chief means for making such readjustments are found in
the child’s tendencies, (1) to imitate, (2) to play, (3) to satisfy his
curiosity.
“Example is usually far better than rule and imitation more effective than
explanation....”

—Thorndike.

1. Imitation—of Acts; of Habits; of Social Ideals

Betts[1] defines imitation as “the instinct to respond to a suggestion
from another by repeating his act.” This is simple and entirely covers
the ground. He goes on to say that the instinct is one of the earliest to
appear, being very plainly discernible before the normal child has
reached the age of one year. It often reaches its height by the time the
baby is two or three years old, but is never lost and sometimes
persists strongly into old age. When a child imitates the same thing
several times his imitation becomes a habit, and so two powerful
factors unite to form a customary type of behavior.
1. The Mind and Its Education, 170.
One might think that imitation, being Appealing to the
strongest in young children, would appear Imitative Instinct
almost exclusively in the lower grades of school; but in fact it plays
an important part all the way through the high school. The things
imitated change, but the instinct remains. In treating cases which are
caused or influenced by this powerful instinct, which the great
French sociologist Tarde considers the greatest factor in human
conduct, there are four methods which can be used:

1. The expression of strong disapproval of the acts and their

results.
2. Forceful repression—punishment.
3. Changing the nature of the example imitated.
4. The substitution of another and better example for the one
imitated.
The first and second of these four methods are two degrees and
modes of the general means of opposition. They are sometimes
effective, and they are sometimes necessary and wise. If a very great
evil is going on, for instance, it is fully justifiable to use any means to
stop it, before its harmful effects cause too great suffering and
injustice. If a teacher finds a bully imposing on a small child, even
although he may know that a good example to the bully is the means
for his ultimate conversion to kindness and justice, he should stop
the bullying first by the best means at hand, and afterward set about
the character conversion of the bully.
Moreover, with very young children, in whom habitforming is
largely a matter of pleasure and pain in the reactions of their deeds,
punishment that is swift, sure and wise should follow the imitation of
a bad act after its evil nature has been made clear. With older
children, however, who have passed this early stage, the third and
fourth means are usually more effective. Common sense,
supplemented by a fair knowledge of child nature and the rudiments
of psychology, will dictate where one set of methods ends and the
higher set, which trusts more to the child’s developing judgment,
begins.
Imitation begins, as has been said, in infancy. Its forms will be
found to belong to one or another of the following types:
Types of
1. Imitation of commonly observed acts, Imitation
such as shaking hands, eating with a
spoon, making faces.
 2. Imitation of a strong personality, or of strong mannerisms in
any personality, which catch attention and command
admiration or disapproval.
3. Imitation of an imaged ideal, brought to the imitator through
fiction, vivid history instruction, seeing a play, etc.
4. Imitation which is unconscious, usually under stress of high
emotion—mob action.
Of course the most common of these types of imitation is that of
the common customs of the people who surround the young child.
Otherwise it would mean little to a child to be born into a family in
which gentle manners and kind deeds set a daily example fit to be
followed closely. The manners of most children are those of their
homes; only with a certain degree of maturity will they see the
manners of other homes and elect to imitate them instead. Next in
importance to this imitation of the social example, is that of some
strong personality.
This imitation usually comes through admiration, although most
people will also recall the disgust with which they have realized that
they have unconsciously imitated some mannerism of an
acquaintance, of which they heartily disapproved. This shows that it
is not necessary to admire an act in order to repeat it. It is necessary
only that the act make a vivid impression on one, an impression
which may be received by some persons just as readily through
strong repugnance as through strong liking. Twists in pronunciation
are thus imitated in spite of one’s dislike of them, as an involuntary
tribute to the strength of the impression made upon the hearer.
Another strong stimulus to imitation is the desire for the praise of
others. John wins father’s enthusiastic praise for the thorough way in
which he cleaned the motor-car, and his brother Carl cleans it the
next time it is muddy, not because he likes the work but because he
wants to be praised also. Winnie makes a face at the teacher and
wins the praise of her schoolmates in the shape of an approving
laugh, and Jennie imitates her at the first opportunity in the hope of
winning a laugh also. That is one reason why successful people are so
much imitated; in addition to what comes to them through the
admiration of the crowd, there are many who hope to win similar
rewards through similar efforts.
 And then there are those who imitate others because they want to
surpass them at their own game. This is emulation, usually classed as
a distinct instinct by psychologists, and yet so closely related to
imitation that the same general principles of treatment apply to both.
Faults which have been learned by imitation can rarely if ever be
cured by didactic instruction. They have been learned in a far more
vivid way, and their unlearning is best accomplished through the
substitution of other habits, imitated from some attractive and vivid
model. If the process of substitution can be made a pleasant one, the
work goes faster. In general, the dramatizing of the proposed new
order of things is the surest and quickest way of teaching it, with
children who are young enough for this method. Merely to condemn
old habits, without suggesting a new and better way, is usually pure
waste of time.
(1) Mimicry. “The young child imitates mainly the simpler bodily
attitudes and vocal and facial expressions of those with whom he is
in vital contact. As he develops he imitates ever more complex
activities of a social, political, ethical, æsthetic and industrial
character. In the beginning it is the doing of an act, not the results
thereof, that interests the individual; the reverse is usually true in
maturity.”[2] Not infrequently, however, does the child fail to
distinguish between the act that is suitable to imitate and that which
is not. Like every other instinct, although of great value to the
individual when properly directed, yet if not guided into legitimate
channels, it becomes often a source of great annoyance.
2. O’Shea, Social Development and Education, p. 422. Houghton, Mifflin.

CASE 62 (SIXTH GRADE)

Miss Burch was from Massachusetts, and Mimicry of

had an exquisitely soft voice and Speech
unimpeachable pronunciation. She came to Peoria, Illinois, to teach
in the public schools, and found these two assets very much in the
way. Mabel Gulliver, a little girl whose cleverness was largely the
product of much running of streets, turned both to account in a
series of imitations that “delighted crowded houses” whenever she
chose to hold forth. As she did this frequently, poor Miss Burch soon
found herself helpless and ridiculous in her own school-room.
“Authah, will you ausk the janitah to give us a little moah heat?”
Mabel would flute, with inimitable saccharinity. “And I want you all
to cease lawfing at once, foah this is the clauss in correct
pronunciation, and if youah to be cleavah like me you’ll learn how to
do it properly.” Miss Burch’s manner was the perfection of
simplicity, but in Mabel’s imitation it appeared with a simpering
ingenuousness both funny and untrue.
Miss Burch realized the situation and wept over it. She did not
know what to do. Realizing she was the subject of ridicule, she
became self-conscious and timid, and her discipline grew worse and
worse.

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

Things were in this bad shape when Mr. Nearing, the

superintendent, came to visit her one day. He was so kind and
sympathetic that after school Miss Burch told him the whole story,
and asked his advice.
“The trouble with you is,” he said, “that your most prominent
characteristic is one which lends itself to ridicule here in the Middle
West, where we don’t know an Italian “a” from a mud-pie. Now,
don’t think of changing your pronunciation; to do so consciously
would be to be affected. But make the children forget it in something
more exciting. If you’d start a museum for your nature study, or get
up a little play for Christmas, and make Mabel its chief factotum,
she’d have an outlet for her energies, she would still lead her crowd
and have their admiration, and your pronunciation would fade into
the background of the Things That Are. It’s all a matter of relative
emphasis.”
Miss Burch did try this plan. She had her room dramatize and then
play The Birds’ Christmas Carol, and in the intense interest of this
project the teacher-mocking was forgotten. When Mabel
remembered it again, she and Miss Burch were such good friends
that it was out of the question.
COMMENTS

When the imitation takes place in the school-room the matter is

much more under the teacher’s control, for there is no end of ways in
which the child can be kept too busy to indulge in histrionic
performances. But whatever is done, the teacher should not appear
to notice that a pupil is disrespectful to her.

ILLUSTRATION (SEVENTH GRADE)

George Henderson was dubbed by his classmates “the clown”

because he was always doing something laughable. Usually his fun
was of a harmless type, but occasionally his pranks overstepped the
bounds of propriety.
His teacher, Miss Stanton, had Mimicry of
unconsciously fallen into the habit of Gesture
making nervous little gestures when she was explaining lessons to
the pupils, and, indeed, when she was talking with the pupils outside
of school. Several times during recitations she had noticed George
entertaining the pupils near him by imitating, under the shelter of
the desk, of course, all the little movements of her nervous, energetic
hands. She resolved to overcome the habit of emphasizing her words
by gesture, but the more absorbed she became in her teaching, the
less could she think about her hands. If she concentrated attention
upon her hands, her teaching suffered and the whole class became
listless. Resolved not to sacrifice the class for the sake of one fun-
loving boy, Miss Stanton next tried another plan.
“Mary, you may name all the capitals of the countries of Europe,”
she said.
When Mary was about half through with her list of capitals, Miss
Stanton interrupted her with,
“That is far enough, Mary; George may finish.”
Now George knew the capitals perfectly, but he had been busy
behind the desk with a particularly successful imitation of Miss
Stanton’s movements, and suddenly surprised, could not recall
where Mary had left off.
 Miss Stanton waited just a moment, then said, gravely, but without
any indication of resentment,
“I am sorry to have you fail on anything so important as this,
George. Jack may go on.”
George sat quite demurely for several minutes, for he was a little
disappointed at losing a chance to recite a lesson which he had really
prepared with considerable care. However, he comforted himself by
thinking: “Well, she called on me once. She won’t do so again,” and
after a short time he went serenely on with his dramatics.
Miss Stanton also went on apparently oblivious to what was taking
place behind the desk. After a few minutes she said,
“Stephen, beginning with the northern countries, tell us what the
farmers raise in each of these countries.”
Again she stopped the recital in the midst of it, with
“That will do. George, go on.”
Again George lost his chance to recite, not because he did not
know the lesson, but because he had not been listening to Stephen.
In his confusion his face flushed, especially when Miss Stanton said,
in a low tone:
“How is this, George? Two failures in one day? I shall expect a
better lesson than this tomorrow. Wilbur, will you finish the
recitation?”
George sat quietly for the remainder of the recitation, thinking to
himself:
“Well, if she has called on me twice, she may get around again.
Gee! I knew all that.”
Miss Stanton did not call upon him again, however, that day. On
the following day George decided that it would be well to give enough
attention to the recitation, at least to “keep tab” on what the others
were reciting, and gradually he learned that he was likely to be called
up at any time that he allowed his attention to wander far away from
the work of the hour. Not a word had been said about his pranks, but
they ceased to be troublesome to teacher or class.
Some children are natural actors. They mimic grown-ups in a
ludicrous way. This may be done unconsciously, but sometimes
pupils purposely imitate a teacher’s walk, attitude, voice or
phraseology, just out of a desire to raise a laugh at the teacher’s
expense.

CASE 63 (FOURTH GRADE)

George had an unusual gift of ability to Mimicry of Walk

mimic others. Even at the age of nine years
he could easily entertain his classmates by imitating various men of
the town. His teacher, Miss Giles, was a stout little woman whose
arms seemed not to hang closely enough to her body, and as she
walked she swung them as if they propelled her through the air. Her
voice was fretful whenever she repeated a command, which was
often, or whenever she expected disobedience. One day as he
followed Miss Giles across the room, the impulse seized him to
mimic her gait. This he did, with marked success. When he returned
to his seat he began to study her mannerisms with a view to
entertaining others. At recess he showed the boys how she held her
hands and nodded her head while she talked. The next step was to
imitate her voice. This he did successfully.
One day, about ten minutes before the afternoon session began,
Miss Giles was sitting at her desk, grading penmanship papers, when
Marie Allbaugh rushed in and said: “Miss Giles, come out here and
listen to George. He’s playin’ like he was you.”
Miss Giles hardly understood what Marie wished to tell her, but
she followed the child to the front yard where a crowd of children
were around George. Unnoticed by most of them, she joined in the
circle in time to hear George say in a very good imitation of her voice,
“Children, quietly take your books,” then in a fretful tone with a
frown, “I said quietly.” “Whoo-ee,” shouted one of the listeners, and
all joined in a laugh when suddenly they noticed Miss Giles standing
there.
“George, march right into the house,” said she in her harshest
tones. “You shall not have another recess until you have apologized
to me for this.”
Soon the bell sounded for the afternoon session. When the recess
period came, George started to walk out with the other children.
Miss Giles saw him, and said, “George, take your seat.”
 After the other children had all left the room, she went to George’s
seat and said, “Are you ready to apologize?” Just then a shout came
through the window from the children at play. George wanted badly
to join them. He said, “I don’t know how.”
“Say, ‘Miss Giles, I’m sorry I mocked you at noon,’” said she.
George considered. If he said he was sorry he would be telling a
falsehood. He would try to be excused without that so he said:
“Mother lets me play like I was other people. She don’t care, so I
thought you wouldn’t.”
“But, George, you must always show respect for your teacher.”
George meditated again. The shouts of the children at play gave
him an idea. Wasn’t he sorry he did it? Wasn’t that just what was
keeping him indoors while others were at play? Of course, he didn’t
want to stay in, so of course he was sorry he had done the thing that
kept him in. With a bright, smiling look at Miss Giles, he said: “I am
sorry, Miss Giles, that I mocked you at noon.” It looked like a sincere
apology and it passed for such.
“You may go,” said she. She considered the case well handled.

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

Miss Giles would do well to join in the laugh at her own expense.
She should supervise every moment of the children’s play period.
George will not then have an opportunity to use his imitative powers.
He will be swept into active games and be only one of a crowd.
An apology should not be demanded of a pupil for any mark of
disrespect toward the teacher. Respect can not be developed by force.
If, in spite of these precautions, you sometimes find yourself the
butt of the children’s sport, quietly drop into the play school, take a
seat as one of the play pupils and carry off your part as a naughty
child. “Take off” the troublesome child so well—(not any particular
one, however)—that the children will laugh with you and the whole
thing will pass off as play, nothing more.

COMMENTS