Theos-Talk Archives (May 2002 Message tt00012)

Friday, May 03, 2002

Dear Friends:

among the "stories" Mr. Judge wrote is one that illustrates the
marvelous quality of the Akasa -- the highest aspect of the Astral
Light to record the thoughts, feeling and character of all of us.

In one place it is said that no none approaches Theosophy but does not
establish a living link with one of these marvelous "galleries".

No one is given an idea of where they are located, but all those (it
is said) who work for the progress of the world and of humanity in
brotherhood, are recording there, moment by moment, their motives and
the nature of their work and search.

This story ought to give us all cause for a pause, and a deep thought
as to the importance of our permanent selves and the work we carry on
from life to life.

Best wishes



Dallas



=====================================


THE TELL-TALE PICTURE GALLERY

A Tale by W. Q. Judge


Although the gallery of pictures about which I now write has long ago
been abandoned, and never since its keepers left the spot where it was
has it been seen there, similar galleries are still to be found in
places that one cannot get into until guided to them. They are now
secreted in distant and inaccessible spots--in the Himalaya mountains;
beyond them, in Tibet; in underground India; and such mysterious
locations. The need for such reports by spies or for confessions by
transgressors is not felt by secret fraternities which possess such
strange recorders of the doings, thoughts, and conditions of those
whom they portray. In the brotherhoods of the Roman Catholic Church,
or in Free-masonry, no failure to abide by rules could ever be dealt
with unless some one reported the delinquent or he himself made a
confession. Every day mason after mason breaks both the letter and
spirit of the vows he made, but, no one knowing or making charges, he
remains a mason in good standing. The soldier in camp or field
oversteps the strictest rules of discipline, yet it if done out of
sight of those who could divulge or punish he remains untouched. And
in the various religious bodies, the members continually break, either
in act or in thought, all the commandments, unknown to their fellows
and the heads of the Church, with no loss of standing. But neither
the great Roman Church, the Free-masons, nor any religious sect
possesses such a gallery as that of which I will try to tell you, one
in which is registered every smallest deed and thought.

I do not mean the great Astral Light that retains faithful pictures of
all we do, whether we be Theosophists or Scoffers, Catholics or
Free-masons, but a veritable collection of simulacrae deliberately
constructed so as to specialize one of the many functions of the
Astral Light.

It was during one of my talks with the old man who turned into a
wandering eye that I first heard of this wonderful gallery, and after
his death I was shown the place itself. It was kept on the Sacred
Island where of old many weird and magical things existed and events
occurred. You may ask why these are not now found there, but you
might as well request that I explain why Atlantis sank beneath the
wave or why the great Assyrian Empire has disappeared. They have had
their day, just as our present boasted civilization will come to its
end and be extinguished. Cyclic law cannot be held from its
operation, and just as sure as tides change on the globe and blood
flows in the body, so sure is it that great doings reach their
conclusion and powerful nations disappear.

It was only a few months previous to the old man's death, when
approaching dissolution or superior orders, I know not which, caused
him to reveal many things and let slip hints as to others. He had
been regretting his numerous errors one day, and turning to me said,

"And have you never seen the gallery where your actual spiritual state
records itself?"

Not knowing what he meant I replied: "I did not know they had one
here."

"Oh, yes; it is in the old temple over by the mountain, and the
diamond gives more light there than anywhere else."

Fearing to reveal my dense ignorance, not only of what he meant but
also of the nature of this gallery, I continued the conversation in a
way to elicit more information, and he supposing I had known of
others, began to describe this one. But in the very important part of
the description he turned the subject as quickly as he had introduced
it, so that I remained a prey to curiosity. And until the day of his
death he did not again refer to it. The extraordinary manner of his
decease, followed by the weird wandering eye, drove the thought of the
pictures out of my head.

Nut it would seem that the effect of this floating, lonely,
intelligent eye upon my character was a foretoken of my introduction
to the gallery. His casual question, in connection with his own
shortcomings and the lesson impressed on me by the intensification and
concentration of all his nature into one eye hat ever wandered about
the Island, mad me turn my thoughts inward so as to discover and
destroy the seeds of evil in myself. Meanwhile all duties in the
temple where I lived were assiduously performed.

One night after attaining to some humility of spirit, I feel quietly
asleep with the white moonlight falling over the floor, and dreamed
that I met the old man again as when alive, and that he asked me if I
had yet seen the picture gallery.

:No," said I in the dream, "I had forgotten it," awakening then at
sound of my own voice.

Looking up, I saw in the moonlight a figure of one I had not seen in
any of the temples. This being gazed at me with clear, cold eyes, and
afar off sounded what I supposed its voice.

"Come with me."

Rising from the bed I went out into the night, following this laconic
guide. The moon was full, high in her course, and all the place was
full of her radiance. In the distance the walls of the temple nearest
the diamond mountain appeared self-luminous. To that the guide
walked, and we reached the door now standing wide open. As I came to
the threshold, suddenly the lonely, grey, wandering eye of my old dead
friend and co-disciple floated past looking deep into my own, and I
read its expression as if it would say,

"The picture-gallery is here."

We entered, and, although some priests were there, no one seemed to
notice me. Through the court, across a hall, down a long corridor we
went, and then into a wide and high roofless place with but one door.
Only the stars in heaven adorned the space above, while streams of
more than moonlight poured into it from the diamond, so that there
were no shadows nor any need for lights. As the noiseless door swung
softly shut behind us, sad music floated down in one spot, but was
quickly swallowed in the light.

"Examine with care, but touch not and fear nothing," said my taciturn
companion. With these words he turned and left me alone.

But how could I say I was alone ! The place was full of faces. They
were ranged up and down the long hall; near the floor, above it;
higher, on the walls; in the air; everywhere except in one aisle;
but not a single one moved from its place, yet each was seemingly
alive. And at intervals strange watchful creatures of the elemental
world moved about from place to place. Were they watching me or the
faces? Now I felt they had me in view, for sudden glances out of the
corners of their eyes shot my way; but in a moments something
happened showing they guarded or watched the faces.

I was standing looking at the face of an old friend about my own age
who had been sent to another part of the island, and it filled me with
sadness unaccountably. One of the curious elemental creatures moved
silently up near it. In amazement I strained my eyes, for the picture
of my friend was apparently discoloring. Its expression altered every
moment. It turned from white to grey and yellow, and back to grey,
and the suddenly if grew all black as if with rapid decomposition.(*)
Then again that same sad music, I had heard on entering floated past
me, while the blackness of the face seemed to cast a shadow, but not
for long. The elemental pounced upon the blackened face, now
soulless, tore it in pieces and by some process unknown to itself
dissipated the atoms and restored the brightness of the spot. But
alas ! my of friend's picture was gone, and I felt within me a heavy,
almost unbearable gloom as of despair.
[(*) FN: Compare with Mr. Judge's "Culture of Concentration" article,
where the several vices are described. -- W. Q. J Articles Vol. I, p.
319.]

As I grew accustomed to the surroundings, my senses perceived every
now and then sweet but low musical sounds that appeared to emanate
from or around these faces. So, selecting one, I stood in front of it
and watched. It was bright and pure. Its eyes looked into mine with
the half-intelligence of a dream. Yet it grew now and then a little
brighter, and as that that happened I heard the gentle music. This
convinced me that the changes in expression were connected with the
music.

But fearing I would be called away, I began to carefully scan the
collection, and found that all my co-disciples were represented there,
as well as hundreds whom I had never seen, and every priest high or
low whom I had observed about the island. Yet the same saddening
music every now and then reminded me of the scene of the blacking of
my friend's picture. I knew it meant others blackened and were being
destroyed by the watchful elementals who I could vaguely perceive were
pouncing upon something whenever those notes sounded. They were like
the wails of angels when they see another mortal going to moral
suicide.

Dimly after a while there grew upon me an explanation of this gallery.
Here were the living pictures of every student or priest of the order
founded by the Adepts of the Diamond Mountain. These vitalized
pictures were connected by invisible cords with the character of those
they represented, and like a telegraph instrument they instantly
recorded the exact state of the disciple's mind; when he made a
complete failure, they grew black and were destroyed; when he
progressed in spiritual life, their degrees of brightness or beauty
showed his exact standing.

As these conclusions were reached, louder and stronger musical tones
filled the hall. Directly before me was a beautiful, peaceful face;
its brilliance outshone the light around, and I knew that some unseen
brother--how far or near was unknown to me--had reached some height or
advancement that corresponded to such tones.

Just then my guide reentered; I found I was near the door; it was
open; and together we passed out, retracing the same course by which
we had entered. Once outside the setting of the moon showed how long
I had been in the gallery. The silence of my guide prevented speech,
and he returned with me to the room I had left. There he stood
looking at me, and once more I heard as it were from afar his voice in
inquiry, as if he said but

"Well ?"

Into my mind came the question, "How are those faces made ?" From
all about him, but not from his lips, came the answer,

"You cannot understand. They are not the persons, and yet they are
made from their minds and bodies."

"Was I right in the idea that they were connected with those they
pictured by invisible cords along which the person's condition was
carried?"

"Yes, perfectly. And they never err. From day to day they change for
better or worse. Once the disciple has entered this path his picture
forms there; and we need no spies, no officious fellow disciples to
prefer charges, no reports, no machinery. Everything registers
itself. We have but to inspect the images to know just how the
disciple gets on or goes back."

"And those curious elementals," thought I, "do they feed on the
blackened images?"

"They are our scavengers. They gather up and dissipate the decomposed
and deleterious atoms that formed the image before it grows black--no
longer fit for such good company."

"And the music--did it come from the images?"

"Ah, boy, you have much to learn. It came from them, but it belongs
also to every other soul. It is the vibration of the disciple's
thoughts and spiritual life; it is the music of his good deeds and
his brotherly love."

Then came to me a dreadful thought, "How can one--if at all--restore
his image once it has blackened in the gallery?"

But my guide was no longer there. A faint rustling sound was all--and
three deep notes as if upon a large bronze bell.

-- Bryan Kinnevan
(W. Q. Judge)

PATH June 1889

=====================================================================