History of the Adepts

[This 1850s map of the eastern Mediterranean depicts the areas visited by Randolph.]

PART VII.
BETSEY CLARK IN DREAM-LAND.

“Could I with ink the ocean fill, were all the earth of parchment made; Were every blade of grass a quill, And every man a scribe by trade—
To tell the love of God above would drain the briny oceans dry:
Nor would a scroll contain the whole, Though covering all the arching sky. [From the poem “Akdamut” by Meir b. Isaac Nehonai, c. 1060; this Jewish text later became the basis of a Christian hymn The Love of God.]

“I BELIEVE just as did the writer of these lines,” said the Rosicrucian, as he began his recital in the cabin of t “Uncle Sam,” after partaking of what the purveyors of that steamship line, in the rich exuberance of their facetious imaginations were pleased to call a supper

You have heard of Metempsychosis, Transmigration, of Reincarnation, and of Progress. Listen, and learn more: Not only the inhabitants of the countless myriads of worlds in this material and aromal universe, but also the material and aromal worlds themselves, are in a constant state of progressive movement. By aromal worlds I mean the aerial globes that attend each planet. They are places where souls rest awhile after death, before they commence in earnest the second stage of their career; and this state is an intermediate one, just like sleep, only that they are conscious and active while there; but it is an activity and consciousness, not like, but analogous to that’ of Dream. Every world, and assemblage of worlds, is periodically reduced, by exhaustion, but at enormously long intervals, into Chaos, and is then reformed, or created anew, still, however, being the same world. After this passage, each system and world becomes vastly more perfect than before; but, owing to the diminished quantity of Spirit or essence which has been consumed in giving birth to hosts of immortal armies, each system and world is vastly smaller than before. This is for two reasons, one of which I have just stated; the other is, in order to make room for new cosmi and new worlds, both of which are being constantly created from the material of the Wall; and the wall itself is the condensed effluence of the Maker—in short, it is God—Od, and therefore inexhaustible. The majority of those who have lived on any world are re-born in it after its restitution, they, in the meantime, having grown correspondingly clean and perfect. The same relative proportions between a world and its occupants is still preserved, and never varies; and, consequently, the six-foot man and the five-foot woman of one career, find themselves, in their next state, occupying five and four-foot bodies respectively. The present is our thirty-fourth Incarnation. Originally we were taller than many of our present trees, and coarser than our mountains. We are smaller and better than ever before, and our worst man is better than the best of the preceding state. The worst, in the next change, will be better than our best. To illustrate, let me say, that the following persons, viz.: Thurlow W —, Abraham L— ., Russel L. —, J. Gordon B .— , Henry J. R.— , Win. Cullen B— , Jefferson D——, John C. Fre—, James Buch—, Wigfall, Charles Su, Horace G, Fernando—W, George B. Mc—, Gen. J. H—k—r, Dr. H. F. G—d—r, Charles T—n—s, Lizzie D— and myself, respectively, were, previously to the last change: the first, a feudal lord; the second, an editor; the third, a Danish prince; the fourth, a court-jester; the fifth, a missionary; the sixth, a generalissimo; the seventh, a harpist; the eighth, a theatrical manager; the ninth, a knife— grinder; the tenth, a privateer; the eleventh, a preacher; the twelfth, a schoolmaster; the thirteenth, a trumpeter; the fourteenth, a politician; the fifteenth, a hunter; the sixteenth, a very little boy, died exceedingly young; the seventeenth, an emperor; the eighteenth, a born queen and the last, a barber’s clerk; so that it is evident, that though our progress is slow, still that we are ‘Coming up.’ Little as our actual worth may be, still we are better now, generally speaking, than in the former stage. Thus, we will grow smaller at every change. Some worlds, and their dwellers, in this universe have thus decreased, and being sometimes seen by people here, have been called Fays or Fairies. The world has yet to undergo some thousands of these changes, until at last we become very small indeed, which will occur when conception is no longer possible in the universe, either in the vegetable or animal worlds; and then will occur the change and transference beyond the wall. [Thurlow Weed, Abraham Lincoln, Russell Lowell, J. Gordon Bennett, Henry J Raymond, William Cullen Bryant, Jefferson Davis, John C. Fremont, James Buchanan, Louis Wigfall, Charles Sumner, Horace Greeley, Fernando Wood, George B. McClellan, General Joseph Hooker, Dr. H.F. Gardner. Charles Trinius, Lizzie Doten.]

[Each of the seven parts of the book is predominantly fiction, but some sections have much autobiographical and geographical detail that sheds light on Randolph and his times. Much of the autobiographical material includes diatribes against Spiritualist enemies, often unnamed, not helpful to the historical researcher. But in Part VII the tale becomes about the Civil War and eighteen historical figures enter the narrative.]

[John G. Downey, Los Angeles Democrat, was California governor from 1862 through 1864.]

PART VI.

WHAT BECAME OF THOMAS CLARK.

OUR entertainer ceased to speak, for the evening meal was nearly ready, and the golden sun was setting in the West, and he rose to his feet to enjoy the glowing scene. Never shall I forget the intense interest taken by those who listened to the tale— and doubtless these pages will fall in the hands of many who heard it reported from his own lips, on the quarter-deck of the steamer “Uncle Sam,” during the voyage begun from San Francisco to Panama, on the twenty-first day of November, 1861. At first his auditors were about ten in number, but when he rose to look at the crimson glories of the sky, fifty people were raptly listening. We adjourned till the next day, when, as agreed upon the night before, we convened, and for some time awaited his appearance. At last he came, looking somewhat ill, for we were crossing the Gulf of California, and Boreas and Neptune had been elevating Robert, or in plainer English, “Kicking up a bobbery,” all night long. We had at least a thousand passengers aboard, consisting of all sorts of people—sailors, soldiers, and divers trades and callings.

“There’s a tide in the affairs of men, which, Taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” SHAKSPEARE.

“There’s a tide in the affairs of women, which, Taken at the flood, leads—God knows where.” BYRON.

[The Shakespeare quote is from Act IV, Scene III of Julius Caesar, while the Byron quote is from Don Juan, Canto the Sixth.]

Monthly astrological profiles from the Brotherhood of Light Lessons will resume in May. For March I will conclude the series from Tom Clark and His Wife with the final chapter, and tie together all the chapters with an explanation of the entire book in light of its conclusion.

PART V.
THE ROSICRUCIAN’S STORY.
“
“And still the storm came down; and the yards bent before the gale, and then snapped asunder, like pipe-clay stems, and the billows leaped and dashed angrily at her sides, like a trained bloodhound at the throat of the mother, whose crime is being black— Chivalrous, well-trained bloodhounds! And the waves swept the decks of the bark—swept them
clean, and whirled many a man into the weltering main, and sent their souls to heaven by water, and their bodies to the coral caves of Ocean. Poor Sailors! The Storm-King’s spirit was roused, and his soul up in arms; and the angry waves danced attendance; the lightning held high revelry, and flashed its applause in the very face of heaven, and lit up the night with terrible, ghastly smiles; and the sullen growl of distant thunder was the only requiem over the dead upon that dismal deep. It was night. Day had long left the earth, and gone to renew his youth in his Western bath of fire—as we all must—for death is our West—ands the gloomy eidolon had usurped Day’s throne, arrayed in black garments, streaked with flaming red, boding no good, but only ill to all that breathed the upper air.And the turmoil woke the North, and summoned him to the wassail; and he leaped from, his couch of snow, with icebergs for his pillow, and he stood erect upon his throne at the Pole, and he blew a triumphant, joyous blast, and sent ten thousand icy deaths to represent him at the grand, tempestuous
revel. They came, and as if the waters leaped into the rigging, they lashed them there with frost—fetters; and they loaded the fated ship—withntastic robes of pearly, heavy, glittering ice— loaded her down as sin loads down the transgressor.

“Hark! he is whistling in the rigging; he is swinging on the snapping three ends of yonder loosened halliards if they strike you you are dead, for they are Whips, and Death is grapping them! He is calling you, Tom Clark; don’t you hear him? Balling from his throne, and his “throne is the Tempest, Tom Clark—the Tempest. Now he is watching you—don’t his glance trouble you?’ Don’t you know that he is gazing down into your eyes? How cold is his glance! how colder his breath! It is very, very cold. Ah! I shiver as I think—and Death is freezing you, Tom Clark; he is freezing your very heart, and turning your blood to ice. He is freezing you, an has tried to freeze me, in various ways. But I bade him stand back—to stay his breath—for, unlike you, Tom Clark, I am a Brother of the Rosie Cross, and I have been over Egypt, and Syria, and Turkey; on the borders of the Caspian, and Arabia’s shores; over sterile steppes, and weltered through the Deserts— and all in search of the loftier knowledge
of the Soul, that can only there be found; and I found what I sought, Tom Clark—the nature of the Soul, its destiny, and how it may be trained to any
end or purpose. And the History and Mystery of Dream, Tom Clark, from the lips of the Oriental Dwellers in the Temple—and Pul Ali Beg—Tom
Clark—our Persian Ramus and our lordly Chief— and I learned the worth of Will, and how to say, and mean, I will be well, and not sick—alive, and not deadly and achieve the purpose. How? That is our secret—the Rosicrucians—strange order of men; l

“Wheat and lentils I have seen in Egypt, taken from a mummy’s hand, where they had lain three thousand and four hundred years. Some of that
wheat I still possess; some of it I planted in a flower pot, and it forthwith sprung up, green and beautiful, into life and excellence. The mummy’s hand was crisp, the tombs of Beni-Hassan were not the places for wheat to grow, for they are very dry. Do you see the point, the place—the thing I am aiming at? It is to show that the ills of marriage life are to be corrected not by a recourse to law-courts and referees, but by each party resolutely trying to correct them in the heart, the head, the home. Another thing I aim at is to seal the lips—to strike to the earth the brawlers for Divorce—the breakers-up of families, who preach—or prate of—what they have neither brains to comprehend, nor manhood to appreciate—Marriage!

Thus thought the dying man, in the dreadful hour of his destiny—that solemn hour wherein the soul refuses to be longer enslaved or deceived by the specious warp and woof of the sophistical robe it may have voluntarily worn through man’s ear, all the while believing it to be Truth, as some people do Davis’ and Joe Smith’s ‘Philosophy.’ Clark had reached this crisis, and in an instant the scales fell from his eyes—the same that blinds so many of us during the heyday and vigor of life. [Andrew Jackson Davis’s three marriages were nearly as controversial as Joseph Smith’s polygamy and reflected badly on Spiritualism in Randolph’s view.]

https://luna.lib.uchicago.edu/luna/servlet/s/8mlkx6

PART IV.
THE DREAM OF BETSEY CLARK.
“MADAME, awake, it will be remembered, had come to the conclusion to settle Tom’s coffee— and hash, at the same time, with a dose or two of ratsbane, or some similar delicate condiment; and now, in her dream, she thought all her plans were so well and surely made as to defy detection, and laugh outright at—failure.

“In California there is a small but very troublesome rodent known to Science as ‘Pseudo—stoma bursarius,’ and to the vulgar world as ‘gopher’—a sort of burrowing rat, nearly as mischievous and quite as wicked, for the little wretches have a settled and special penchant for boring holes in the ground, particularly in the vicinity of fruit trees. My friend, Mr. Rumford, who has a very fine orchard in Fruit Vale, Contra Costa, just across the bay from Santa Blarneeo, recently assured me that the rascals make it a point to destroy young trees, not only without compunction, but even without saying, ‘By your leave.’ Now it so happened that Clark’s place was overstocked with the pestilent animals alluded to, and the proprietors had, time and again, threatened the whole race with extermination, by means of arsenic, phosphor- paste, or some other effective poison, but had never carried the resolution into practice. This fact was seized on by Mrs. Clark, as a capital point d’appui. Accordingly, with a dull hand-saw, the lady hacked a few dozen of the very choicest young trees, in such a way as to make them look like unmistakable gopher-work, thus subjecting the brutes to charges whereof they were as innocent as two unborn babes. Gophers and the Devil have to answer for a great deal that properly belong to other parties. Her act was a grand stroke of policy. She meant that Tom should voluntarily get the poison, which she intended he—not the gophers should take at the very earliest possible opportunity. She didn’t mean to purchase arsenic—oh, no, she knew too much for that! The ravage was speedily discovered by Clark. He raved, stamped his foot in his wrath, turned around on his heel, pulled his cap over his eyes, ejaculated, ‘Dod dern ’em! started for the city, and that very night returned, bearer of six bits’ worth of the strongest and deadliest kind of poison quite as deadly, almost as strong, as that which stupid fools drink in corner stores at six cents a glass. That night about half the poison was mixed and set. Twelve hours thereafter there was great tribulation and mourning in Gopherdom; for scores of the little gentry ate of it, liked the flavor, tried a little more—got thirsty—they drank freely (most fools do!) felt uncomfortable, got angry, swelled—with indignation and poisoned meal! and not a few of them immediately (to quote Mr. Clark), ‘failed in business’; that is to say, they burst —burst all to thunder: Alas, poor rodents!’ [Fruitvale, now a neighborhood in Oakland, had many orchards in the mid 19thc and Isaac B. Rumford of Brooklyn in neighboring Alameda County was listed in the 1860 census with Nursery as his occupation.]

“Next morning Tom’s coffee was particularly good. Betsey fairly surpassed herself, in fact she came it rather too strong. About ten-o’clock he felt thirsty, and inclined toward cold water; for the weather was hot, and so were his ‘coppers,’ to quote the Ancient Mariner. He would have taken much, water, only that Betsey dissuaded him, and said: ‘It was just like him, to go and get sick by drinking ever so much cold water! Why didn’t he take switchel, or, what was much better, cold coffee, with plenty of milk in it,—and sugar, of course; and so he (Tom) tried her prescription, liked it, took a little more, and that night followed the Gophers! “Three days afterwards a kindly neighbor handed Mrs. Clark a fresh copy of the ‘Santa Blarneeo Looking Glass,’ wherein she read, with tearful eyes, the following true and veracious account of

“‘A MOST DISTRESSING AND FATAL
SUICIDE!

“‘We regret to announce—the fearful suicide, while laboring under a fit of temporary insanity, caused by the bite of a gopher, of Mr. Thomas W. Clark. It appears, that in order to destroy the vermin, he purchased some arsenic, gave some to the animals, got bitten by them, ran stark mad in consequence, and then swallowed the balance (about a pound) himself. His unfortunate wife now lies at the point of death, by reason of the dreadful shock. She is utterly distracted by the distressing and heartrending event, which is all the more poignant from the fact, that probably no married pair that ever lived were more ardently and devotedly attached than were they. The coroner and a picked jury of twelve men sat for two hours in consultation, after which they found a verdict of “Death by his own act, while insane from the bite of a gopher!”

What’s genius without gold? They won’t—pay?’ No, no, Madame; in the game of life, diamonds are always trumps, and hearts are bound to lose. What’s the result—?

“‘Who knoweth the spirit of a man that it goeth upward; or of a beast that it goeth downward?’ The Spiritualists?— a pack of fanatics! I don’t believe in ghosts—but she shuddered as she gave utterance to the words, and her hair crawled upon her head as if touched with spectral fingers. No man disbelieves his immortality—the thing is impossible, per se; for although he may differ with that class of people who pretend to very extensive ghostly acquaintanceship and commerce, as many do—yet he doubtless always whistles as he passes a graveyard in the night! I certainly do! Why? Because I disbelieve in ghosts—of course.

“In spite of Reason, erring Reason’s spite, One truth is clear, whatever is is right.” [From “An Essay on Man,” a poem written 1733-34 by Alexander Pope, slightly misquoted by Randolph.]

“Tom was to die. The conditions that surrounded him were just such as had determined the results that followed. I was but the proxy of eternal Fate. Am I to blame? Certainly not, for I acted in precise accordance with the conditions that surrounded me—that made me do as I did— tempted me beyond my strength; and, for that reason, the crime, if crime it be, was a foregone conclusion from the foundation of the world! Hereafter?’

“Come from the grave tomorrow with that story, And I may take some softer path to glory. [From “Parrhasius and the Captive” by Nathaniel Parker Willis in his 1846 collected works.]

“‘Parrhasius was a true philosopher—or Willis. Pshaw—I guess I’ll take another drop of Angelica!’

“We are still in the little chamber, near the window, the little window at the foot of the bed whose upper sash was down.”

PART III.
THE MAGIC SPELL.
“In the Kingdom of Dream strange things are seen, And the Fate of’ the Nations are there, I ween.”
From “The Rosie Cross,” an unpublished Poem by
P.B. RANDOLPH

THE regal being was scarcely gone from the chamber ere Hesperina and the Shadow—which had once more become visible, approached the sleeping pair—drew nigh unto the woman and the man; and the Fay gently breathed upon their heads, as if to establish a magnetic rapport between herself and them. She then calmly took her stand, near the bedside, and folded her beautiful arms across her still more beautiful bosom and awaited—the action of the tempter. She had not long to wait, for straightway the Black Presence advanced, and hovered, over the bed—hovered scowlingly over then, glaring down into their souls, as doth the vampire upon the man she would destroy—the spirit of Wrong peering; wistfully at all beautiful, things, and true! Such was the posture of affairs.; and thus they remained: until the Thing had also established some sort of connection with the sleepers. It soon became evident, from their nervous, uneasy movements and postures, that the twain were rapidly crossing the mystic boundaries that divide our own from Dreamland— that they were just entering the misty mid-region—the Shadow, the Thing, the monstrous IT, ruling the hour, and guiding them through the strange realm—’That lieth sublime, out of Space and out of Time.’ [A quote from the poem Dream-Land by Edgar Allen Poe, his only poem published in 1844.]

The man who says that dreams are figments is a fool. Half of our nightly experiences are, in their subsequent effects upon us, far more real and positive than our daily life of wakefulness. Dreams are, as a general thing, save in rare instances, sneered at by the wise ones of this sapient age. Events, we of Rosicrucia hold, are pre-acted in other spheres of being. Prophetic dreaming is no new thing. Circumstances are constantly occurring in the outer life that have been previewed in Dream-land. Recently, while in Constantinople, I became acquainted with a famous Dongolese negro, near the Grand Mosque of St. Sophia, in one of the narrow streets on the left, as you enter the square from toward the first bridge, and this man had reduced the interpretation of dreams to a science almost; and many a long hour have I rapidly driven the pen, in the work of recording what was translated. to me from Dongolese and Arabic into Turkish and English, from his lips, obtaining in this way not merely the principles upon which his art was founded, but also explicit interpretations of about twenty-nine hundred different dreams. [Dongola was the ancient capital of Nubia in what is now Sudan. The book cover depicted appears on an annual report from the Polish Center for Mediterranean Archaeology at the University of Warsaw, ]

“Was Tom Clark mistaken? Was it Fancy? Was it Fear? . . .One night he went to a theatre, but left it in a hurry, when the actor, who was playing Macbeth, looked straight into his private box and said:

“‘The times have been that, when the brains were outt he man would die—and there an end; But now they rise again, with twenty mortal murders On their crowns, to push us from our seats!’ [Act 3, Scene 4, MacBeth.]

Abou Ben Adhem | The Poetry Foundation

PART II.
THE DOUBLE DREAM.

“and saw within the moonlight of his room——— An angel, writing in a book of gold. LEIGH HUNT.”

[These lines are from Abou Ben Adhem, a poem about a Sufi saint published in 1834 by English Romantic poet Leigh Hunt (1784-1859).] After two trips to southwest Missouri in search of traces of Thomas Moore Johnson, I learned that a major conference venue in Springfield honors the memory of this Sufi saint!

These are the Unloved ones; yet ought not to be, for are they not somebody’s sons and daughters? Yes! Then they have rights; and the first, greatest, highest right of all is the right of being loved—loved by the people of the land— our world-cousins, for what we do, are doing, or have done; and to be loved, for the sake of the dear soul within, by somebody else’s son or daughter.

“So think we of the Rosicrucian Order; so, one day, will think the world.

“‘Come down in thy profoundest gloom—Without one radiant firefly’s light, Beneath thine ebon arch entomb Earth from the gaze of Heaven, O Night. A deed of darkness must be done, Put out the moon, roll back the sun.’ [From the poem The Missionary’s Burial by James Montgomery, published 1824.]

Rosicrucian Emblem on the cover of Eulis, published 1874, from The Emancipatory Visions of a Sex Magician: Paschal Beverly Randolph’s Occult Politics — The Public Domain Review

TOM CLARK AND HIS WIFE
Their Double Dreams, and the Curious Things that Befell them Therein, being the Rosicrucian’s Story. Part I.
Paschal Beverly Randolph

This public domain book, first published in 1863, includes annotations added in this edition by K. Paul Johnson. The spelling and punctuation are those of the original, but fonts and spacing have been revised for modern readability. Annotations for the 2024 edition identifying names, places, and literary sources mentioned by Randolph are italicized and appear in brackets. This is from pages 16-26 in the print 2024 edition.

“Sleep came—sweet sleep—deep and strange; and in it I dreamed. Methought I still wandered gloomily beneath the vast arches of the grand old hall, until at last, after countless cycles of ripe years had been gathered back into the treasury of the Etre Supreme, I stood before a solid, massive door, which an inscription thereabove announced as being the entrance to the Garden of the Beatitudes. This door was secured by a thousand locks, besides one larger than all the rest combined. Every one of these locks might be opened, but the opener could not pass through unless he unfastened the master—lock having ten thousand bolts and wards.

“Once more despair seized on my soul, in this dream which was not all a dream; for to achieve an entrance through the gate without the master-key was a task, so said the inscription, that would defy the labors of human armies for periods of time utterly defying man’s comprehension—so many were the difficulties, so vastly strong the bolts.

“Sadly, mournfully, I turned away, when, as if by chance—forgetting that there is no such thing as Chance—my eye encountered a rivetless space upon the solid brazen door—a circular space, around the periphery of which was an inscription running thus: ‘MAN ONLY FAILS THROUGH FEEBLENESS OF WILL!’ Within this smooth circle was the semblance of a golden triangle, embracing a crystalline globe, winged and beautiful, crowned with a Rosicrucian cypher, while beneath it stood out, in fiery characters, the single word, ‘Try.’ The very instant I caught the magic significance of these divine inscriptions, a new Hope was begotten in my soul; Despair fled from me, and I passed into

THE SECRET OF GREATNESS.

“A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.”

“What a change! During my slumber it seemed that I had been transported to the summit of a very lofty mountain, yet still within the Temple. By my side stood an aged and saintly man, of regal and majestic presence. He was clad in an oriental garb of the long-gone ages, and his flowing robes were bound to his waist by a golden band, wrought into the similitude of a shining serpent—the sacred emblem of eternal wisdom. Around his broad and lofty brow was a coronet of silver, dusted with spiculae of finest diamond. On the sides of the centre were two scarabei, the symbol of immortality; and between them was a pyramid, on which was inscribed a mystical character which told, at the same time, that his name was Ramus the Great. [The same known historically as Thothmes, or Thotmor the Third, King of all Egypt, in the 18th dynasty, and sixty-ninth Chief or Grand Master of the Superlative Order of Gebel Al Maruk—since known, in Christian lands, as the Order of the Brethren of the Rosie Cross, and now known in America and Europe, where it still thrives, as the Imperial Order of Rosicrucia.]

“This royal personage spake kindly to me, and his soft tones fell upon the hearing of my soul like the words of pardon to the sense of sinners at the Judgment Seat. “Look, my son, said he, at the same time pointing toward a vast procession of the newly-risen dead—a spectral army on the sides of the mountain, slowly, steadily, mournfully wending their way toward the part of the temple I had quitted previous to the commencement of this dream within a dream. Said the man at my side: ‘Yonder host of pilgrims are men and women who are seeking, as thou hast sought, to unbar the Gates of Glory, that they may pass through them into the delightful Garden of the Beatitudes. It is one thing to be endowed with Intellectual Strength, Knowledge and Immortality; it is another to be Wise and Happy. The first is a boon granted to all the children of earth alike; the last can only be attained by integral development—by self endeavor by innate goodness and God-ness continually manifested—and this in material and aromal worlds alike. Man is man and woman is woman, wherever they may be! The true way to the garden lies not through Manifestation Corridor, but through the Hall of Silence! and each Aspirant must open the door for himself alone. Failing to enter, as thou hast failed, each must turn back, and, like thee, come hither to Mount Retrospect, and entering into the labyrinths within its sides, must search for the triple key, which alone can unbar the Gate, and admit to the Beautiful Garden I Remember! Despair not! Try! and in an instant the Phantom—man turned from me, and with outstretched arms, and benignance beaming from every feature, hied him toward the ascending army.

“Again I stood alone, not now in despondency and gloom, but in all the serene strength of noble, conscious Manhood—not the actual, but the certain and glorious possibility thereof. My soul had grown. It was aware of all its past short-comings, failures, and its hatreds toward two me who had done me deadly wrong. This feeling still survived, stronger than ever, now that I was across the Bridge of Hours, and had become a citizen of the inner land—a wanderer through Eternity. That hate was as immortal as my deathless soul. Will it ever be? And yet I had ever meant well. All was calm in my spirit, save this single awful thing. In this spirit, with this consciousness—not of deep malignance, but of outraged Justice—I began to look for the mysterious key; and as I looked, an instinct told me that the key must consist of certain grand human virtues, and corresponding good deeds, held and done before I left the shores of time and embarked upon the strange and mystic sea whereon my soul’s fortunes were now cast.

“And so I searched, and at last seemed to have found what I sought; and thereupon I wished myself once more before the brazen Gate. Instantly, as if by magic, the wish was realized, and I stood before it, on the same spot formerly occupied. The first inscription, the symbols and circle had disappeared, and in their stead was another circle, containing these lines: ‘Speak, for thou shalt be heard! Tell what thou hast done to elevate thy fellow men, and to round out the angles of thine own soul. Whom hast thou uplifted, loved, hated? Speak, and when the words containing the key are spoken, the door will yield, and thou mayest pass the Threshold.’

“The writing slowly faded, and left naught but a surface, but that surface as of molten gold. I spoke aloud my claim to entrance, and, to my astonishment, my voice rang out shrill and clear, through the vaults and arches of the mighty dome towering far above my head. ‘I have suffered from infancy—been opposed from the cradle to maturity—been hated, robbed, slandered on all sides, yet pushed forward in defiance of all, until I reached all that I desired—all that earth could give me. Self-educated, I achieved triumphs where others failed; have reaped laurels and grasped the keys of fame, and laughed at my folly afterwards, because what is fame? A canker, gnawing out one’s life when living, disturbing his repose when dead— not worth a straw! But, in all this, despite the ending, I have set an example, by following which man might elevate himself, society be improved, and its constituents realize the bliss of moving in loftier spheres of usefulness!’ While giving voice to these truths, I firmly expected to see the gate fly open at their conclusion. But what was my horror and dismay to see that it moved not at all, while the echoes of my speech gave back in frightfully resonant waves of sound the last word, ‘USEFULNESS!’

“Not being able to think of any nobler achievements, I cast my eyes groundward, and, on again raising them, I beheld, across the clear space on the door, the single word TRY.

“Taking heart again, I said, Paschal, my beloved—lone student of the weary world—I await thy entrance here. But thou mayest not enter now, because no hatred can live inside these gates of Bliss. Wear it out, discard it. Thou art yet incomplete, thy work is still unfinished. Thou hast found the keys! Go back to earth, and give them to thy fellow-men. Teach, first thyself, and then thy brethren, that Usefulness, Love, Labor, Forgiveness, Faith and Charity, are the only keys which are potent to cure all ill, and unbar the Gates of Glory.’

“‘Lara! Beautiful Lara, I obey thee! Wait for me, love. I am coming soon!’ I cried, as she slowly retreated, and the gate closed again. ‘Not yet, not yet,’ I cried, as with extended arms I implored the beauteous vision to remain—but a single instant longer. But she was gone. I fell to the ground in a swoon. When I awoke again, I found the night had grown two hours older than it was. Then I sat down in the chair in my little chamber in Bush Street, the little chamber which I occupied in the goodly city of the Golden Gate.

“Thus spake the Rosicrucian. We were all deeply moved at the recital, and one after the other we retired to our rooms, pondering on the story and its splendid moral. Next day we reached Acapulco, and not till we had left and were far on our way toward Panama, did we have an opportunity of listening to the sermon to the eloquent text I have just recounted. At length he gave it, as nearly as it can possibly be reproduced, in the following words:
END OF THE PROEM

PS the first three sections of Tom Clark take up only 26p of the 178p text, so the following six sections of about 25p each will just be excerpted, annotated, commented on in 2026.

John Steven McGroarty Poems > My poetic side

He served two terms as a Democratic congressman, representing California’s 11th district from 1935 to 1939. This continues to include San Francisco.

The steamship Uncle Sam, built 1852, from the National Park Service

This is from pages 7-15 of the 2024 print edition

THE MAN.
HE used to pace rapidly up and down the deck for a minute or two, and then, suddenly striking his forehead, as if a new thought were just pangfully coming into being at the major foci of his soul, he would throw himself prone upon one of the after seats of the old “Uncle Sam,” the steamer in which we were going from San Francisco to Panama, and there he would lie, apparently musing, and evidently enjoying some sort of interior life, but whether that life was one of reverie, dream, or disembodiedness, was a mystery to us all, and would have remained so, but that on being asked, he very complaisantly satisfied our doubts, by informing us that on such occasion he, in spirit, visited a place not laid down in ordinary charts, and the name of which was the realm of “Wotchergifterno,” which means in English, “Violinist’s Meadow” (very like “Fiddler’s Green”). When not pacing the deck, or reclining, or gazing at the glorious sunsets on the sea, or the still more gorgeous sun-risings on the mountains, he was in the habit of—catching flies; which flies he would forthwith proceed to dissect and examine by means of a microscope constructed of a drop of water in a bent broom wisp. Gradually the man became quite a favorite with both passengers and officers of the ship, and not a day passed but a crowd of ladies and gentlemen would gather around him to listen to the stories he would not merely recite, but compose as he went along, each one containing a moral of more than ordinary significance. It was apparent from the first that the man was some sort of a mystic, a dreamer, or some such out-of-the-ordinary style of person, because everything he said or did bore an unmistakable ghostly impress. He was sorrowful withal, at times, and yet no one on the ship had a greater or more humorous flow of spirits. In the midst, however, of his brightest sallies, he would suddenly stop short, as if at that moment his listening soul had caught the jubilant cry of angels when God had just pardoned some sinful, storm-tossed human soul. [The steamship Uncle Sam was built in 1852 in New York and carried San Francisco passengers to Mexico and Central America throughout the 1850s and 60s under various ownerships.]

One day, during the progress of a long and interesting conversation on the nature of that mysterious thing called the human soul, and in which our fellow passenger had, as usual, taken a leading part, with the endeavor to elicit, as well as impart, information, he suddenly changed color, turned almost deathly pale, and for full five minutes, perhaps more, looked straight into the sky, as if gazing upon the awful and ineffable mysteries of that weird Phantom-land which intuition demonstrates, but cold reason utterly rejects or challenges for; tangible proof. Long, and steadily gazed the man; and then he shuddered—shuddered as if he had just received some fearful, solution of the problem near his heart. And I shuddered also— in pure sympathy with what I did not fairly understand. At length he spoke; but with bated breath, and in tones so low, so deep, so solemn, that it seemed as though a dead, and. not a living man, gave, utterance to the sounds: “Lara! Lara! Ah, Lovely I would that I had gone then—that I were with thee now!” and he relapsed into silence.

Surprised, both at his abruptness, change; of manner and theme—for ten minutes before, and despite the solemnity of the conversational topic, he had been at a fever—heat of fun and hilarity—I asked him what he meant. Accustomed, as we had been, to hear him break in upon the most grave and dolorous talk with a droll observation which instantly provoked the most unrestrainable, hilarious mirth; used, as we had been to hear him perpetrate a joke, and set us all in roar in the very midst of some heart-moving tale of woe, whereat our eyes had moistened, and our pulses throbbed tumultuously, yet I was not, even by all this, prepared for the singular characteristic now presented. In reply to my question, he first wiped away an involuntary tear, as if ashamed of his weakness; then raised his head, and exclaimed: “Lara! Lara! The Beautiful One!”

“What of her?” asked Colbert, who, sat opposite him and who was deeply moved .at his evident distress, and whose curiosity, as that of us all, was deeply piqued.

“Listen” said he, “and I will tell you;” and then, while we eagerly drank in his words, and strove to drink in their strange and wondrous meaning (first warning us that what he was about to say was but the text of something to be thereafter told), he leaned back upon the taffrail, and while the steamer gently plowed her way toward Acapulco and far-off Panama, said:

“Fleshless, yet living, I strode through the grand old hall, of a mighty temple. I had been compelled to climb the hills to reach the wall that bars the Gates of Glory, and now within my heart strange pulses beat the while. I found myself upon the verge of a vast extended plain, stretching out to the Infinitudes, as it seemed, through the narrow spaces wherein the vision was not obstructed by certain dense, convolving vapor-clouds that ever and anon rose from off the murky breast of the waters of the river of Lethe, that rolled hard by and skirted the immense prairie on and over which I proposed to travel, on my way from Minus to Plus—from Nothing to Something, from Bad to Good, and from Better to BEST—travelling toward my unknown, unimagined Destiny— travelling from the Now toward the Shall Be. And I stood and mutely gazed—gazed at the dense, dark shadows rolling murkily, massily over the plain and through the spaces—dim shadows of dead worlds. No sound, no footfall, not even mine own—not an echo broke the Stillness. I was alone!—alone upon the vast Solitude—the tremendous wastes of an unknown, mysterious, unimagined Eterne— unimagined in all its fearful stillitude! Within my bosom there was a heart, but no pulse went from it bounding through my veins; no throb beat back responsive life to my feeling, listening spirit. I and my Soul were there alone; we only— the Thinking self, and the Self that ever knows, but never thinks—were there. My heart was not cold, yet it was more: it was, I felt, changed to solid stone— changed all save one small point, distant, afar off, like unto the vague ghost of a long-forgotten fancy; and this seemed to have been the penalty inflicted for things done by me while on the earth; for it appeared that I was dead, and that my soul had begun an almost endless pilgrimage—to what?—to where? A penalty! And yet no black memory of redhanded crime haunted me, or lurked in the intricacies of the mystic wards of my death- defying soul; and I strode all alone adown the uncolumned vistas of the grand old temple—a temple whose walls were builded of flown Seconds, whose tesselated pavements were laid in sheeted Hours, whose windows on one side opened upon the Gone Ages, and on the other upon the Yet to Be; and its sublime turrets pierced the clouds, which roll over and mantle the hoary summits of the grey Mountains of Time! And so I and my Soul walked through this temple by ourselves—alone!

“With clear, keen gaze, I looked forth upon the Vastness, and my vision swept over the floors of all the dead years; yet in vain, for the things of my longing were not there. I beheld trees, but all their leaves were motionless, and no caroling bird sent its heart—notes forth to waken the dim solitudes into life and music—which are love. There were stately groves beneath the arching span of the temple’s massy dome, but no amphian strains of melody fell on the ear, or filled the spaces from their myriad moveless branches, or from out their fair theatres. All was still. It was a palace of frozen tones, and only the music of Silence (which is vocal, if we listen well) prevailed; and I, Paschal the Thinker, and my Thought—strange, uncouth, yet mighty but moveless thought—were the only living things beneath the expansive dome. Living, I had sacrificed all things—health, riches, honor, fame, ease, even Love itself, for Thought, and by Thought had overtopped many who had started on the race for glory long ere my soul had wakened to a consciousness of itself—which means Power. In life I had, so it seemed, builded stronger than I thought, and had reached a mental eminence— occupied a throne. So lofty—that mankind wondered, stood aloof, and gazed at me from afar off; and by reason of my thought had gathered from me, and thus condemned the Thinker to an utter solitude, even in the most thronged and busy haunts of men and I walked through earth’s most crowded cities more lonely than the hermit of the desert, whose eyes are never gladdened by the sight of human form, and through the chambers of whose brain no human voice goes ringing. Thus was it on earth; and now that I had quitted it forever, with undaunted soul, strong purpose, and fearless tread, assured of an endless immortality, and had entered upon the life of Thinking, still was I alone. Had my life, my thinking, and my action on thought been failures? The contemplation of such a possibility was bitter, very bitter—even like unto painful death—and yet it seemed true that failure had been mine—failure, notwithstanding men by thousands spoke well of me and of my works—the children of my thought—and bought my books in thousands. Failure? My soul rejected the idea in utter loathing. For a moment the social spirit, the heartness of my nature over-shadowed Reason, and caused me to forget that, even though confined by dungeon walls, stricken with poverty, deformity, sin or disease—even though left out to freeze in the cold world’s spite—yet the thinker is ever the world’s true— and only King. I had become, for a moment, oblivious of the fact that failure was an impossibility. Rosicrucians never fail!”

“But now, as I slowly moved along, I felt my human nature was at war with the God-nature within, and that Heart for a while was holding the Head in duress. I longed for release from Solitude; my humanity yearned for association, and would have there, on the breast of the great Eterne; given worlds for the company of the lowliest soul I had ever beheld—and despised, as I walked the streets of the cities of the far-off earth. I yearned for human society and—affection, and could even have found blissful solace with—a dog just such a dog as in times past, I had scornfully kicked in Cairo and Stambol— Even a dog was denied me now— all affection withheld from me—and in the terrible presence of its absence I longed for death, forgetting again that Soul can never die. I longed for that deeper extinguishment which should sweep the soul from being, and crown it with limitless eternal Night forgetful, again, that the Memories of Soul must live, though the rememberer cease to be, and that hence Horrors would echo through the universe—children mourning for their suicidal parent, and that parent myself!

“And I lay me down beneath a tree in despair—a tree which stood out all alone from its fellows in a grove hard by—a tree all ragged and lightning- scathed—an awful monument, mute, yet eloquently proclaiming to the wondering onlooker that God had passed that way, in fierce, deific wrath, once upon a time, in the dead ages, whose ashes now bestrewed the floors of the mighty temple of Eterne.

“It was dreadful, very dreadful, to be all alone. True, the pangs of hunger, the tortures of thirst, the fires of ambition, and the raging flames of earthly passion no longer marred my peace. Pain, such as mortals feel, was unknown; no disease racked my frame, or disturbed the serenity of my external being—for I was immortal, and could laugh all these and Death itself to scorn; and yet a keener anguish, a more fearful suffering, was mine. I wept, and my cries gave back no outer sound, but they rang in sombre echoes through the mighty arches, the bottomless caverns, the abyssmal deeps of Soul—my soul—racking it with torments such as only thinking things can feel. Such is the lot, such the discipline of the destined citizens of the Farther Empyrean—a region known only to the Brethren of the Temple of Peerless Rosicrucia!

More information about the Uncle Sam is available here from the Maritime Heritage Project.

The Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor book series now consists of the works of Sarah Stanley Grimke, Norman Astley, and Hurrychund Chintamon. The ebook of Letters to the Sage, Volume Two: Alexander Wilder the Platonist is a “related title.” I had reprinted Tom Clark and His Wife last year with new annotations but there are multiple other editions available in print and digital form, so I unpublished the print edition and will serialize the book as blog posts, adding illustrations.

https://www.nps.gov/articles/the-civil-war-at-golden-gate.htm

From pages 5- 6 in the 2024 print edition:

Dear Charles T s:
Since we parted at the “Golden Gate,” the weight of a world has rested on your shoulders, and I have suffered much, in my journeyings up and down the world, as wearily I wandered over Zahara’s burning sands and among the shrines and monuments of Egypt, Syria, and Araby the blessed; separated in body, but united in soul, we have each sought knowledge, and, I trust, gained wisdom. Our book is just begun. One portion of that work consists ln the endeavor to unmask villainy, and vindicate the sanctity and perpetuity of marriage. In this little work I have tried to do this, and believe that if the magic talisman herein recommended as a sovereign balm for the strifes and ills of wedlock, be faithfully used, that the great married world will adopt your motto and my own, and become convinced that in spite of much contrary seeming “WE MAY BE HAPPY YET!”

[Charles Trinius of Stralsund was Grand Guard of the San Francisco Supreme Grand Lodge founded by Randolph in 1861].

To you, and to such this book is

Affectionately dedicated by your friend and the world’s,
P. B. RANDOLPH.

Following posts into 2026 will serialize the book with illustrations and historical annotations; here is a first installment.

Dewey became New York governor in 1943 and was the Republican presidential candidate in 1944 against Roosevelt and in 1948 against Truman, losing each contest but remaining governor until 1954.

Dr. John Ballou Newbrough

This 1988 book arrived as a gift from Oregonian friends who recently visited the site:

https://epcc.libguides.com/c.php?g=754275&p=5406002

Ellora Cave photo from the 1864 edition of James Ferguson’s The Rock-cut Temples of India. The first edition was published in 1843 soon after the photos were taken.

From Emma Hardinge Britten:

Page 382:

Page 547:

Page 600:

From Marc Demarest:

Page 628:

Page 629:

These quotes are from the Kindle edition of 760 pages and page numbers are different from those of the 458 page printed book.

excerpted from Marc Demarest’s opening pages

Marc writes with clarity and conciseness that I envy and try to emulate. Here he “cuts to the chase” explaining the historical uniqueness of Ghost Land, whose Spiritualist author was the inventor of much of what we now call occultism and Theosophy. The practice of writing occult fiction and calling it genuine history did not start with Britten and Blavatsky; Freemasons and Rosicrucians did this centuries before Spiritualists and Theosophists added to the confusion. Britten’s emphatic repudiation of Theosophy in the 1890s was not a disavowal of the 1870s alliance between Spiritualists and Theosophists, but a protest against what Theosophy became in the 1880s. Demarest explains her motive for a turf war between Spiritualist Adepts and Theosophical Mahatmas, claiming credit where due and counteracting Theosophical disinformation: Ghost Land does so in print, some number of years or months (depending on how one counts) before any public description of a Great White Brotherhood by Theosophists (HPB’s claims notwithstanding.) For the rest of 2025 there will be one blog post per month from the astrological profiles in the BOL Lessons, followed by another about two weeks later that excerpts Ghost Land. This alternation might illuminate the connections between 19th century British occultism and that of the 20th century in California.

As the Sun enters Aquarius today, here is one of the most famous Aquarians of his time, born 11:38 pm, 2/11/1847 in Milan, Ohio. Edison was associated with Alexander Wilder and Helena Blavatsky when he joined the Theosophical Society in April 1878. By the end of 1877 William and Emma Hardinge Britten had left for Australia and in late 1878 Helena Blavatsky and Henry Olcott departed for India, but possibly Edison continued to be acquainted with Wilder who stayed in the New York area.

A series of monthly Ghost Land excerpts with commentary will appear through 2026; for 2025 there are nine more astrological profiles of important people to share from the BOL Lessons. Changes may be made in this 2025 schedule, but here is the plan: Piscean Luther Burbank, Arian Harry Houdini, Taurean Alice Faye, Geminian Abdul Baha, Leo Amelia Earhart, Virgoan Jesse James, Libran Mohandas Gandhi, Scorpio Billy Sunday, Sagittarian Noel Coward. (Cancerian Nikola Tesla was the first one featured, Aquarian Edison the second.) The BOL Lessons have much to say about Decanates and aspects, Moon and ascendant positions of the same historical figures, so categorizing them by sun signs is only one of many ways to look at their charts.

In March 1937, World Astrology featured an article by Elbert, Nikola Tesla and the Death Ray that goes into more detail.

The entire March 1937 issue is available at IAPSOP here.

PS– There is a lot of noise, online and in print, and with a recent documentary, about Tesla’s Death Ray and his own mysterious death. Here is a credible account from the Science History Institute Museum in Philadelphia, now closed for renovations but due to reopen soon.

Destroyed by the Eaton fire in Altadena this week:

From the website of the Altadena Historical Society.

top photo, Theosophical Library Center on Lake Avenue bottom photo, TS headquarters on Mariposa Street

My first experience with writing for publication occurred in September 1981 with Sunrise Magazine on my first visit to Altadena. I returned repeatedly through the 1980s and contributed regularly to Sunrise on international occult history topics. In 1995 my research interests became US local history/genealogy focused as I started work on what became Edgar Cayce in Context (1998) and continued in that direction with Pell Mellers, Carolina Genesis, and Letters to the Sage.

The Eaton fire is not the first disastrous incident in southern California involving a Theosophical publisher I knew. Another periodical for which I wrote in the 80s was The Eclectic Theosophist, edited by Emmett Small who owned Point Loma Publications, a small specialty press. After his passing, their entire book and archival inventory was destroyed by fire in October 2007 in San Diego County. The event was called the Witch Fire. Here is Marc Demarest’s post about the implications of the devastating fire in Altadena that destroyed both the TS library and their nearby headquarters, which was also home to the staff. So much to think and talk about re historic preservation as we enter the second quarter of the 21st century.

Books by Randolph (1863), Chintamon (1874), Grimke (1900), and Astley (1913) are linked through fifty years of literary history to the same small organization. The History of the Adepts book series is now renamed as Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor to make the description more informative about how these four books are related. (The blog title is unchanged.) Randolph’s and Chintamon’s books predated the 1884 formation of the HBL; Astley’s was published after the organization collapsed in Colorado in 1909 and Benjamin Williams was invited by some of its leaders to author a new set of lessons that would be published by a new organization in California, the Brotherhood of Light. Grimke is the central figure in the series timeline, whose chronology connects with all the others in various ways: philosophical, political, spiritual, and personal.

from the Santa Cruz Museum of Natural History

The complete edition of Ghost Land includes the first publication in book form of Volume Two, set in the 1880s and 90s but featuring experiences the author Britten had in the 1850s and 60s in the US as “Mrs. Hardinge.” She has become allied with Thomas H. Burgoyne and the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor by the time the second volume appears. He resides in the Monterey Bay region from 1886 through 1889, then is found in Mendocino County by 1891 as a ranch owner. This illuminates the California connections between Ghost Land and The Light of Egypt.

This Santa Cruz County tourism website provides photos and information about the stretch of coast described in Volume Two of Ghost Land. Britten had not been in California in years by this point but Burgoyne had lived there for several years and was enthralled by the scenery, as was Elbert Benjamine years later.

Since Art Magic was published in 2011, there have been many signs of increasing interest in the life and works of Emma Hardinge Britten from publishers, but few from authors and editors. Here is the timeline of reprints of Ghost Land with no new editorial content, presumably inspired by the first reappearance of Art Magic in a century. In each case the hardcover price precedes that of the paperback:

2014, $49.95, $31.95; 2016, $39.95, $28.95; 2018, $39.57, $30.27; 2019, $30.95, $24.95; 2022, $39.95, $28.95.

None offers any new research; the reprints were attributed to Emma as editor in 2018 and to William Britten as author in 2016, 2019, and 2022. No evidence of William’s authorship has ever been presented yet the majority of recent reprints spread this misinformation. All the previous editions and source materials are available free of charge at the publisher’s IAPSOP website.

Not since Art Magic was published in 2011 has a new book felt so meaningful for the purposes of this blog. Marc was sole editor of Art Magic, but Ghost Land has been as rewarding a collaboration for me as Letters to the Sage was with Patrick Bowen and Ronnie Pontiac in 2016 and 2018. It is now available as a Kindle e book ($9.99) and an Amazon paperback ($16.99).

These are the views this blog has received over the last five years. (Initially I thought these numbers were from twelve years, but they did not start counting until the end of 2019.)

My Amazon review of this 2024 book from Cornell University press has now gone live so I will share it here:

Authors who remain totally subjective with praise or totally objective with condemnation invalidate their credibility with propaganda and polemics. Having always struggled to be objective in criticism and subjective in appreciation, I salute this as a masterpiece of honest self-critical inquiry among coauthors always questioning themselves and one another.

PS– Best to add this as an unobtrusive end of year explanation rather than a beginning of year declaration. Henceforth when I refer to a new book, I will refer readers to the publisher’s website; when I refer to an old book I will refer them to IAPSOP or Google Books. No more links to Youtube and Amazon where misinformation and disinformation reign supreme and AI bots hijack all searches with “what you are looking for might be something we robots think you OUGHT to be looking for.” Even with all the Hollywood movie stars in Elbert’s astro database, there are always books about them to cite and original publisher websites or independent databases to link to.

This 1994 chapter includes what I now recognize as misinformation, based on other researchers and superseded by subsequent research. Corrections are below the chapter.

1. Peter Davidson was Scottish but d’Alton/Burgoyne was English, as was Theon’s wife.
2. In thirty years I have found no documentary evidence of the existence of the Coptic magician Paolos Metamon, nor of Ooton Liatto, an alleged Cypriot magician.
3. The most significant sources of HBofL doctrines were Emma Hardinge Britten and Edward Bulwer-Lytton rather than any of the sources named in the chapter.

Theon’s natal chart can be found on this website:

https://astrologify.com/people/max-theon/

As the Sun enters Scorpio I share this profile of the most mysterious Scorpio native encountered in decades of historical investigation.