Theos-Talk Archives (March 2005 Message tt00561)

Mar 24 2005

Re: ASTRAL and AKASHIC RECORDS
A Spiritual Progress Register


Dear Friends:

In the past days some inquiries have focussed on the karmic record of choice
that exists in the astral light and the Akasa as a permanent record.

The following tale will illustrate this in a very persuasive way.

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.

Now 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 that ever wandered about the Island, made 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 the sound
of my own voice, and 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 was 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
it we saw 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
moment 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 this with Mr. Judge's "The Culture of Concentration"
article, where 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 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

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Dallas