A thousand years of yesterdays : a strange story of mystic revelations

Preface

One may or may not believe in the strange theories of continuous existence of personality, and one may reject the more or less unscientific theories regarding the probability of reincarnation, but one cannot reject with the same absoluteness the apparent completeness of memory's -records. Almost every one has experienced the sudden conscious realization of facts released from the storehouse of the memory involving incidents long forgotten in the conscious recollection ; and coupled with the release of such facts as one knows were stored away within the present span of earthly life, there comes an array of incidents, associated and unassociated, which could not have been stored in the memory through any experience in this life.

Psychology offers as an explanation for the possession of such seemingly inexperienced facts, the theory that in our dreams we charge our minds w T ith experiences which are not consciously realized at the time or possibly forgotten in our waking state, but which return to consciousness by association of ideas. Another theory offered attempts to explain the mass of inexperienced incidents and ideas as come from the subconscious mind, as being the result of the processes of imagination.

Shakespeare wrote :

And as imagination bodies forth The Form of things unknown — the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.

But, such theories leave the cause and nature of dreams and imagination unexplained. To conceive of the mind mechanically

creating from nothing those wondrous things which the imagination of man has given us in the past and present, is more difficult than to conceive of unconscious experiences — or experiences of the mind, stored away in the memory, resulting from forgotten realizations. Leaving aside the prophetic nature of some dreams and likewise the prophetic nature of many things seemingly drawn from the imagination, we still have a great mass of facts and incidents resulting from dreams and imagination, which coincide with experiences, facts and incidents which have had actuality in the past, outside of our conscious knowledge. And very often these actualities were in the remote past, in a period beyond one's present span of life. How came these facts and incidents to be stored away in the memory to be recalled, reviewed, analyzed, in the present span of life? This is the question which confronts the scientist today.

The present story attempts to throw some light on this question and its possible answer. That the matter is presented in story form rather than in heavy, scientific arguments, does not argue that the principles involved are without scientific foundation, or that the process whereby the "Yesterdays" are revealed is an unnatural, uncommon, or unscientific process. It is, in fact, typical of the experiences of many individuals and may find its similitude in some experiences of the reader.

With the sole idea that, in a pleasant, or at least fascinatingly strange story, some will be brought to the threshold of realization that the partially explored activities and functions of the mind contain many profound mysteries and principles of considerable import, and that those so illumined may be tempted to seek for more light in the Chamber of the Unknown — this book is offered to those constantly asking for the unusual in fiction and the mystical in romance.

THE AUTHOR.

Temple of Alden,

Valley of Amorc, California,

November 25, 19 19.

Contents

Introduction - -

Chapter I — The Strange Diary Chapter IJ — Through the First Veil - Chapter J II — Beyond the First Veil

Chapter IV — Ix the Shadows of the Past

Chapter V — Transition

Chapter VI — Resurrection

Chapter VII — The Threshold -

Chapter YIII — Illumination

The Rosicrucians (Publisher's Note)

PAGE

11 16 22 29 43 49 58 71 78

Introduction

Yesterday the idea commonly prevailed that Religion and Science were antagonistic. Today they are thought to be essentially dissociated. Tomorrow they will be known to be one.

The basal reason for present-day dissociation is found in the fact that religion in its inception is understood to be revelation, and in its individual experience, subjective. While on the other hand science is considered as a matter of research with a minimum of inspiration or revelation and as objective in its realm. Psychology being the one effort at reconciliation of the two.

It is not generally known that for thousands of years there are those who have taught the unity of truth. This body of students reveals in the present volume that which may be accepted as a more popular expression of their teachings, and as the pioneer of others which will be forthcoming. It is presented as evidence that science is a matter of inspiration and revelation, as is religion.

Granted then, that science is to be deductively realized and then found to be true by an inductive process of investigation, the consummate skill revealed in the story of dealing with the science of psychology in the law T s of consciousness will be recognized in their presentation as experience in the form of a story. The understanding student may discover very many laws and principles other than psychological hidden in the text which are also contributory to the clearness and force of its message.

As a Priest of the Church, remembering that whenever the Church was able to foresee any fact of science, or science anticipated the Church, it has been necessary to reconcile the one to the other, I rejoice in the possibility of a better understanding here presented as an occasion for readjustment, answering to the demand of the present-day growing insistence upon the unity of Truth.

Among the many points for readjustment which constitute the problem of today, both Theological and Psychological, are the following:

(i) That which is known as Metapsychosis or Reincarnation. Theologically unnecessary today, it must be reckoned with tomorrow. For, reincarnation is demonstrable. It may be discovered in the teachings of the early Church and is found in the scriptures of the Old and New Testaments bv those who will read the words in

IO A THOUSAND YEARS OF YESTERDAYS

the light of their most apparent meaning rather than by the dimness of individual precedent and prejudice.

(2) To read and understand scripture just as it is, is not the least of the problems of today as is understood by the reference in the present story to "And God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living Soul." Together with this may be mentioned the problem of bringing into popular appreciation the complete Bible including the so-called Apocrypha. And the full recognition of other Sacred Writings as subsidiary.

(3) The problem of apprehending Immortality as a present consciousness and not necessarily as a dogmatic statement or the conclusion of a rational process.

(4) The problem of bringing into popular acceptance the unencumbered mystical appreciation of prayer as the story in this book makes clear. This understanding has been within the consciousness of many an earnest and devout thinker in a theology of experience which, however, has fallen short of expression by pen or speech.

(5) The problem of duly recognizing the holiness of birth apart from any glaring unconventionalities.

And there are many others. Most of them are beautifully set forth in the following pages.

I cannot refrain from calling attention to St. John, 1 :g (Revised Version) as a most remarkable corroboration of the author's elucidation of Light in connection with birth: "There was the true Light, even the Light which lighteth every man coming into the world."

Interesting as is the story, it is not intended for light reading. It is to stir the depths of most profound thought, and urge to the most thorough investigation. Let the merely curious beware of disappointment. Here the sincere soul will rejoice.

GEORGE R. CHAMBERS.

St. Paul's Parish,

Harlan, Iowa.

CHAPTER I The Strange Diary

To the man of iron nerve, steel business sharpness and intense concentration to business — like William Howard Rollins — the ending of a business year is like the ending of a segment of life.

The closing of a fiscal year brings with the closing hours the summary, the review, of acts done and undone, profits made and lost, prestige and power gained or decreased, greater success attained or unattained. The closing of the fiscal year marks a milestone in the cycle of the business; it is an entity, a thing unto itself, and must be considered as an independent lifetime in the evolution of the business.

To William Howard Rollins, it meant all this, and more. The fiscal years of his business began and ended at midnight of the calendar years. To him January first was the day of rebirth, personally and in every business sense. To his associates, his closest friends, this meant, socially also, for Rollins was reputed to be all business, with nothing but business to interest him. It was his whole world; with it the day began and ended, life's activities came and went. There was no other world for him, they said.

There was reason to believe this. Rollins was not only a mighty power in the commercial world, an attractive figure in the business circles of the largest American cities, but he had no club life but with business clubs, he attended no social dinners except those given by the Rotary and other commercial clubs, he had no pleasures except those which afforded, through relaxation, increased power for business — and he was not married. He lived In an unpretentious home with his mother, and avoided all attempts on the part of his social equals to interest him in the charms of their daughters.

His bachelor home, presided over by an adoring mother, was ideal to this man of peculiar ideas. Naturally he had but few visitors and never entertained in his home, if he entertained at all But those who knew his home life, or those little phases of it snatched from short visits, said that neither luxury nor indifference manifested itself in any of the rooms except the private study. Here there were many paintings and one would judge that Rollins was especially fond of landscapes and etchings of rural scenery.

Yet no one could recall having found Rollins even motoring into the open country to admire nature in all its unpainted splendor. Books were not his hobby, for there was but one small bookcase in his study, and this had frosted glass doors which were always locked. What books were thus hidden and what their natures might be, not one of his intimate friends knew. A large safe, enclosed in a mahogany cabinet, and a large wooden chest bound with ornamented brass bands and corner-pieces, were the only other interesting or odd furnishings of the room. The large easy chair, the broad reading table, the standing reading light, the standing ash-tray, the pillowed footstool — these merely suggested that at times Rollins relaxed and read. But what he read in addition to the New York Times and the Literary Digest, none, except possibly his mother, knew.

But on this evening, the last hours of the closing fiscal year, the hours just before midnight when the New Year, 191 7, would be ushered in, Rollins was reading in his study and . he was reading his diary.

His mother had retired, the house was still and Rollins was in a world alone. The gas logs in the open fire-place of the study were entwined by the blue and yellow flames that dimly lighted the shadows surrounding the end of the room, while near by, seated in his large chair, dressed in his very plain smoking jacket, Rollins was reading by the direct rays of the movable reading lamp, which cast but little light about the room.

The Diary seemed to be his book-of-all-books. With the same regularity that he conducted each affair of his daily business routine, he made his notations in this book nightly before retiring. For years, in fact, since his college days, he had kept these daily records of the day's activities. Naturally, the twenty or more books, covering over twenty years' business career, contained notes and comments almost exclusively of business affairs. Each of these books had become, in its turn, his daily guide, his bible, his record of thoughts, of things to do and of things done — with occasionally a thing left undone.

And tonight he was to close the 19 16 diary! As was his custom, he must pass over the pages one by one and see, by the check marks opposite each notation, what important things had been accomplished and especially what others had been left unaccomplished, that he might enter them in the new diary and plan to accomplish them in the next year. This was the task he had set for himself this New Year Eve, while outside the city was celebrating as only New York City can, the last hours of the old year.

As page after page was turned backward from December to the previous month, and from that to October, and on back to September, he tell into reveries. In retrospection he was living over again each day of each month. Once in a while a smile would pass over his tense expression and at other times a stern look would come, as though he were about to issue some serious command, or make some weighty decision.

Then came the date of September 12th. Hut one notation appeared on the page. Like many others, it was a command unto himself. It read, briefly: "Find out who painted the Spring

landscape signed Raymond ." Immediately the entire tense

attitude of Rollins changed. He was plunged by this short notation into another world, a world of speculation, curiosity, pleasantness and — challenge. The smile passed from his face and there came the look of defiance. Why has it been impossible to learn the painter's last name? Why is it so obliterated when the picture is otherwise so well preserved ? These were the questions that passed through his mind.

The painting referred to hung upon the walls of his study. It was an old masterpiece, a very old and costly painting. Its age and its masterful work were testified to by its technic, by all the signs and earmarks that constitute a real old master-work, despite the fact that the dealer who sold it to him could not name the creator of it. The dealer had promised to find out; other experts in the valuation of paintings had examined it and had agreed that it was the work of a master unknown, for there was not know T n to be any other large landscape signed by a similar name. Not even the first initial of the last name could be deciphered, though apparently it had been signed there. The first name of Raymond, however, gave no clue. No such name was known among those of the old Masters in connection with landscapes of such rare work. It could not have been the first or only work produced by the painter; such skill as was shown in it is not attained except by long experience and much work in evolving a personality of technic.

For five years the diaries contained on the pages dated September 12th — the date on which the painting was purchased — the command: "Find out who painted the Spring landscape." Yet, with the money to pay for research work, with dealers ready to please Rollins with every favor that might lead to other sales, with a friend in Paris who connived with artists of repute, with all his sincere interest, unrelenting desire, and intense curiosity, he could not learn the painter's name. To him it was no longer a mystery, it was a challenge; the secret name defied him, and defiance annoyed. Rollins was known as a man who cherished a challenge and laughed at defiance in the business world. But in this world of art, to which he seemed a stranger, he was defied by a simple little thing which even a student of art might wipe out of existence through a casual investigation.

"How many more years will I carry this notation in my diaries?" asked Rollins of the spectres of dealers who loomed up before him in his reverie. "Five years have passed since I sought this knowledge first, and each year adds only to the age of the picture and possibly to the occultness of the answer to my question. If all trace of the painter is lost now, why hope that future years will bring him to light? Time only cloaks mystery and makes it more profoundly obscure. Years enhance the arcane and thicken the veil that hangs between the known and the unknown. If the painting was a thousand years old when I purchased it, it is now a thousand and five years old, and next September it w T ill be a thousand and six! Before my life is ended and that painting passes on to others, it may be — why even a thousand and forty years old — for I hope to live at least forty years more. And then, what? Will the question, who is the painter, be any nearer answering than it is now? The dealer who sold the painting to me and many of his associates will be gone then, and, even now the man who sold him the painting may be beyond the veil and can no longer assist in learning the painter's name. No, the future holds no encouragement in my search. I must go back to the past, to the days when the painting was new, when it hung upon the wall of some old castle, when the name was still readable, when — the painter was still living!

Such were the thoughts that passed through Rollins' mind as his eyes wandered from the page of the diary to the blue and yellow flames of the gas logs, and he relaxed into speculation as to where the painting may have been made and when. The name suggested a Frenchman and France, and France suggested a world of life and living so alluring! "Why does France appeal so and why have I never taken the time to wander through its peaceful old towns and quaint old provinces?" The words were almost audible in the stillness of the room. And then Rollins' mind speculated again. "The war makes it impossible to visit France now even though the escape from business were possible. But there were days when neither business or other affairs would have prevented a summer-time vacation trip to France, when all the strange longing for the environment, atmosphere and life of the southern provinces would have been wonderfully appeased by such a trip, and yet France remains but a dream of the mind."

Rollins did not know that his thoughts were identical with those of many others who have a strange longing for an unseen place which seems to be so familiar, so much a part of themselves and yet remains but a dream, a picture or condition of the mind.

The lateness of the night, the sudden consciousness that he was slipping off into wild and unfruitful dreaming, brought /

Rollins back to the diary in his hand, and to where his fore- #/ finger still held the place at the page dated September 12th, 1916. He w T ould check that to be reentered in the next diary, as usual! There was nothing else to do but turn it over to the future, to place his question on a future page.

And then, as he turned back a page in the diary to that dated September nth, the strangest thought of all occurred to him : why not turn backward and backward the pages of the yesterdays to the past and find the great answer there? "If I could only turn backward the pages one by one of a thousand years of yesterdays as easily as I turn backward the pages of a year of yesterdays in this book, I could easily learn about that painting." The possibilities astounded him; and as he thought, he fell into a light sleep in which he was fully conscious of his position before the warm fire of the gas logs, and that he was just dreaming a day dream; but the diary in his hand now seemed to be an index to pages of the past, to consecutive yesterdays of many years, and as he dreamed the scenes that came into life-like existence in the fireplace, he felt the pages turning one by one in the great book in his hands.

And then came the hour of midnight; the old grandfather's clock in the hall outside the room struck its twelve bold strokes and before the last had sounded, the city was stirred with the bells and chimes, the horns and shrill whistles, announcing the birth of another year; and though the sounds did not disturb Rollins or arouse him from his dream world, he was conscious of the fact that another period of life's cycle was at hand, and he turned backward to the first yesterday of the past, in the world that lies beyond the veil.

CHAPTER II Through the First Veil

As his concentration centered upon the open, black space above the flames of the fire, his consciousness also entered the vacuum of that space as though it were a world to dwell in and be a part of its limitless possibilities. And, as the strange sensation of entering that miniature world passed over his realization, he felt that he had just passed through a great veil which separated the past from the present. Thus, the turning of a page in the great book brought with it a peculiar lightness of spirit and an awakened state of subconscious reality. Physically, his body was still in the chair of the present, but mentally, self-ly, he was in the yesterday that was now being created in the little world beyond the veil.

Slowly he realized the story unfolded around him. What a strange room there was, yet seemingly familiar. The mahogany bed — ah, yes, the little woman, so young and — suffering! There are others there — the man with the little satchel, a nurse, and another woman. There is sobbing, excitement, expectation. What does it mean? Now there come the agonizing cries of the young woman, the pleading for relief, the quiet gentle assurances of the man with the satchel — yes, a physician — tender and considerate. The nurse goes to the door and opens it — and there enters a tall, fine-looking young man, excited, questioning, hurriedly dropping his hat on a table and rushing toward the bedside, but gently stayed by the physician who warns him to move slowly and carefully. Tears come to his eyes — his darling is suffering — the words so softly said are words of tender love. The wife suffers, the pain is agonizing, it lifts her body from the bed in paralyzing spasms. The physician holds his watch and waits. Can't something be done? The question, inaudibly spoken, comes from the mind of the lover, the husband. The nurse says kindly: "Time alone will end it all!" The wife is frantic now, the pain intense, the suffering beyond reason or human endurance; and now she falls back upon her pillow, exhausted. She is quiet. The physician is again concerned and lifts her left hand; he times her pulse. She moves again. She is assisted to her feet; she tries to walk, but she is so weak. She cries: "Harold, Harold, if I had only known, if I had onlv known — now I want to die ... it would he hetter . . . better than this! Please, Harold, can't you help me? I am so weak, I cannot stand the pain again!"

And then Rollins discovers himself in this scene. He feels that he wants to help this poor woman, and he looks to find where and what he is in this incident of some past day, some yesterday of his life. But he is not there, yet he sees, he hears, he knows. How is this? He is in every part of that room, yet the others do not see him and he is conscious of the fact that his mind, his innerself, his soul — that is i t _his soul t IS THERE WITHOUT A BODY. What, then, is he? and where is this incident or where was it? He lifts his soul-eyes about to see more of his environment. Above him space and — other souls like unto himself, without bodies. Each is busily moving in some direction, but he is hovering here. Where? Over and in the little house in the country. It is early morning, the winds are swaying the trees and whistling a continued murmur. The fields are cold and the flowers have been touched by frost; fog veils the distant hills and the rising sun just tints the heavens above and all is quiet and still without, while within the humble home pain and suffering, fear and hope, anxiety and expectation intermingle w T ith intensity, while casting its shadows across the threshold of life stands the big black figure of death.

And Rollins is but a Soul, waiting and watching! Why waiting? Cannot the records of yesterday answer the whys and hows of this- sad scene? And then there comes a light! It forms a doorway and beyond it a channel. The Channel of Life! The words were written in blood over its archway. Through that passageway enters the Light of a little Soul.

The little woman is again stricken. Once more she falls to her knees and cries for relief and drops over exhausted. Gently she is lifted to the bed while the physician and nurse tenderly soothe her hands and brow.

Spasm after spasm, agonizing screams, heart-rending suffering, hour after hour until the sun is high and the day is half spent. Through all this the little Soul waited and watched, knowing and realizing, hoping, and wanting to ease the hours and minutes— but the law! THE LAW MUST BE FULFILLED!

Then the little Soul, bathed in Light, hovered more closelj and contacted the Soul of the suffering woman. The Souls communed and their inner minds spoke what words could not express.

The Soul of the woman, the young wife, longed for the home of love, the giving of great happiness to the man she loved, the Harold who had always been a tender lover, a considerate husband. Together they hoped to spend their lives sharing each other's jo)^s and" sorrows, and now, perhaps, the end had come. The body was slowly losing its strength, the brain was terrified with the intensity of the suffering of the flesh, the spirit walked in the valley of death while the Soul within longed to soothe the aching heart. Bravely had the little woman looked forward to the hour when greater joy should come into their lives, when their home should be blessed with the cries and laughter of the little child. Thoughtfully had the husband eased her mind and allayed all fears by his assurances that he would be near when the hour came to walk through the land of unknown grief and pain. Yet, now he was helpless to do more than touch her lips with a kiss and smooth back her loosened hair. What if death were to end all their hopes? Even in her minutes of intense suffering she could think of him ; and the thoughts of how he would suffer if death should end it all and if the hopes they had should prove futile, made her strive to bear the tests and trials and gave her strength to fortify the weakened constitution for each periodic spell. The hour must surely come when weakness and ease from pain would let her rest and perhaps dream and then — the long cherished sound of a babe's little cry would be joyous music to lull the senses of the new mother into the forgetfulness of motherhood's first long sleep.

And then the little Soul blended into the. Soul of the expectant mother and quickened it with its divine life, and the little woman knew that God was near and that the moment was here for the supreme trial of her life.

Communing, consoling, trusting in the faith of each other, knowing full well the infallibility of the law, the weakness of human flesh, the temptations of earthly desires — these two Souls clung intimately throughout the minutes of closing travail. The little Soul looked to the woman in her joyous sorrow to bring to the world the body in all its perfect completeness, which would serve as the material cloak for its welcome visit to this loving home. The little woman, on the other hand, clung with outstretched arms to the little Soul and, with the instinct of motherhood already born, tried to warm the little Soul into staying there that her child might have soul and life, even if she should pass on into the mists of the heavens in her supreme sacrifice.

What a relationship! Nowhere in all the wondrous processes of nature, nowhere in all the principles of creation, was the law of God, the marvels of His ways, so beautifully, sacredly and simply exemplified.

Then came the crucial moment. Life in the little woman's body seemed to be at its lowest ebb. The suffering was pitiful. Husband, physician, nurse, the woman friend and the little Soul in waiting, all felt the sadness, the terrible sorrow that pervaded the room. Eyes were wet and hearts were heavy as, helplessly, the little woman tried bravely to co-operate w T ith nature and fulfill the decree of God that in sorrow and in pain shall woman bear the fruit of love!

Then a gasp! The little woman was lifted high upon the mountain-top adjoining the valley of death, and for one moment she saw a glimpse of the Heaven of God — and even God and the Angels appeared to her and she knew — that — the baby's cry — it lived ! — and she was back again in the valley, asleep. But where the shadows had been there now sported the little spots of sunbeams that forced their way through the foliage of the green trees, and they danced upon the green lawns of the valley like fairies in the spring-time dance, all jubilant with the joy of living.