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TOM CLARK AND HIS WIFE,
THEIR DOUBLE DREAMS, AND THE CURIOUS THINGS THAT BEFELL THEM THEREIN;
BEING THE ROSICRUCIAN'S STORY.
BY DR. P. B. RANDOLPH,
"THE DUMAS OF AMERICA,"
AUTHOR OF "WAA, GU-MAH," "PRE-ADAMITE MAN," "DEALINGS WITH THE DEAD,"
"IT ISN'T ALL RIGHT," "THE UNVEILING OF SPIRITISM," "THE GRAND SECRET,"
"HUMAN LOVE--A PHYSICAL SUBSTANCE," ETC., ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK:
SINCLAIR TOUSEY, 121 NASSAU STREET.
1863.
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 work_ is just begun. One portion of
that work consists in 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!"
To you, and to such this book is
Affectionately dedicated by your friend and the world's,
P. B. RANDOLPH.
THE ROSICRUCIAN'S STORY.
PART I.
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.
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 could 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! 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 a 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 red-handed 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 Stamboul. 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 on-looker 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!"
* * * *
"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
"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.[1]
[Footnote 1: 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! 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 men 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 at, 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, 'Alone I sought the secret of restoring
health to the sick, and gave it freely to the world, without money,
without price. I have made grand efforts to banish sloth, sin,
ignorance; have ever upheld the honor of the Cross, and the sweet
religion it symbolizes. Striving ever to upraise the veil that hides man
from himself, in the effort I have been misapprehended, my motives
impugned, and my reward has been poverty, slander, disgrace. In the
strife, I have been heedless to every call save that of human duty,
and, in obeying the behests of a nobler destiny, have been regardless of
all worldly distinction; have ignored wealth, fame, honorable place in
the world's esteem, and even been deaf to the calls of love!'
"I ceased, and again the vault threw back my last word, and all the
arches echoed 'LOVE!'
"The gate moved not, but once more appeared upon the golden lozenge on
the door the word 'TRY!' in greater brightness than before, while it
seemed to the hearing sense of my spirit that a thousand velvet
whispers--low, _so_ low, gently cadenced back 'LOVE!'
"'I have rebuked the immoral, humbled the lofty and overbearing, exposed
deception, comforted the mourner, redeemed the harlot, reformed the
thief, fed the orphan and upheld the rights and dignity of Labor!'
"Still the door moved not, but again the echoes gave back the last word,
'LABOR!'
"'I have preached immortality to thousands, and prevailed on them to
believe it; have written of, and everywhere proclaimed its mighty
truths. I have beaten the sceptic, confirmed the wavering, reassured the
doubting, and through long and bitter years, in both hemispheres of the
globe, have declared that if a man die, he shall live again; thus
endeavoring to overthrow error, establish truth, banish superstition,
and on their ruins lay the deep and broad foundations of a better
faith!'
"As if a myriad voices chimed out my last syllable, there rang through
the spacious halls and corridors of the Temple, the sublime word,
'FAITH!' and instantly the bolts appeared to move within their iron
wards. Continuing, I said: 'I have ever endeavored, save in one single
instance, to foster, and in all cases have a spirit of forgiveness.'
"This time there was no mistake. The thousand bolts flew back, the
ponderous brazen gate moved forward and back, like a vast curtain, as if
swayed by a gentle wind; while a million silvery voices sang gloriously,
'IN ALL CASES HAVE A SPIRIT OF FORGIVENESS!'
"Joyously I tried again, intuition plainly telling me that only one
thing more was necessary to end my lonely pilgrimage, and exalt me to
the blessed companionship of the dear ones whom I so longed to join in
their glory-walks adown the celestial glades and vistas of God's Garden
of the Beatitudes. I spoke again:
"'I have fallen from man's esteem in pursuance of what appeared to be my
duty. A new faith sprung up in the land, and unwise zealots brought
shame and bitter reproach against and upon it. Lured by false reasoning,
I yielded to the fascinations of a specious sophistry, and for awhile my
soul languished under the iron bondage of a powerful and glittering
falsehood. At length, seeing my errors, I strove to correct them, and to
sift the chaff from the true and solid grain; but the people refused to
believe me honest, and did not, would not understand me; but they
insisted that in denouncing Error, I ignored the living truths of God's
great economy; yet still I labored on, trying to correct my faults, and
to cultivate the queen of human virtues, Charity!' Scarcely had this
last word escaped my lips, than the massive portals flew wide open,
disclosing to my enraptured gaze such a sight of supernal and celestial
beauty, grandeur, and magnificence, as human language is totally
inadequate to describe; for it was such, as it stood there revealed
before my ravished soul; and I may not here reveal the wondrous things I
saw and heard.... Lara, Lara, my beautiful one, the dear dead maiden of
the long agone, stood before me, just within the lines of Paradise. She
loved me still--aye, the dear maiden of my youth had not forgotten the
lover of her early and her earthly days--
"'When I was a boy, and she was a girl,
In the city by the sea,'
ere the cruel Death had snatched her from my arms, and love, a long,
long time ago; for the love of the Indian, as _his hatred, survives the
grave_.... And she 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 when 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: