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Letters from a Living Dead Man


LETTER

 

Introduction

I.

The Return

II.

Tell No Man

III.

Guarding the Door

IV.

A Cloud on the Mirror

V.

The Promise of Things Untold

VI.

The Wand of Will

VII.

A Light behind the Veil

VIII.

The Iron Grip of Matter

IX.

Where Souls go up and down.

X.

A Rendezvous in the Fourth Dimension

XI.

The Boy–Lionel

XII.

The Pattern World

XIII.

Forms Real and Unreal

XIV.

A Folio of Paracelsus

XV.

A Roman Toga

XVI.

A Thing to be forgotten

XVII.

The Second Wife over there

XVIII.

Individual Hells

XIX.

A little Home in Heaven

XX.

The Man who found God

XXI.

The Leisure of the Soul

XXII.

The Serpent of Eternity

XXIII.

A Brief for the Defendant

XXIV.

Forbidden Knowledge

XXV.

A Shadowless World

XXVI.

Circles in the Sand

XXVII.

The Magic Ring

XXVIII.

Except ye be as Little Children

XXIX.

An Unexpected Warning

XXX.

The Sylph and the Magician

XXXI.

A problem in Celestial Mathematics

.XXXII.

A Change of Focus

XXXIII.

Five Resolutions

XXXIV.

The Passing of Lionel

XXXV.

The Beautiful Being

XXXVI.

The Hollow Sphere

XXXVII.

An Empty China Cup

XXXVIII.

Where Time is not

XXXIX.

The Doctrine of Death

XL.

The Celestial Hierarchy

XLI.

The Darling of the Unseen

XLII.

A Victim of the Non-existent

XLIII.

A Cloud of Witnesses

XLIV.

The Kingdom Within

XLV.

The Game of Make-believe

XLVI.

Heirs of Hermes

XLVII.

Only a Song

XLVIII.

Invisible Gifts at Yuletide

XLIX.

The Greater Dreamland

L.

A Sermon and a Promise

LI.

The April of the World

LII.

A Happy Widower

LIII.

The Archives of the Soul

LIV.

A Formula for Mastership


 

 

LETTER XXXV

THE BEAUTIFUL BEING

Yes, I have seen angels, if by angels you mean spiritual beings who have never dwelt as men upon the earth
     As a man is to a rock, so is an angel to a man in vividness of life. If we ever experienced that state of etheric joy, we have lost it through long association with matter. Can we ever regain it? Perhaps. The event is in our hand.
     Shall I tell you of one whom I call the Beautiful Being? If it has a name in heaven, I have not heard it. Is the Beautiful Being man or woman? Sometimes it seems to be one, sometimes the other. There is a mystery here which I cannot fathom.

     One night I seemed to be reclining upon a moonbeam, which means that the poet which dwells in all men was awake in me. I seemed to be reclining upon a moonbeam, and ecstasy filled my heart. For the moment I had escaped the clutches of Time, and was living in that etheric quietude which is merely the activity of rapture raised to the last degree. I must have been enjoying a foretaste of that paradoxical state which the wise ones of the East call Nirvana.
     I was vividly conscious of the moonbeam and of myself, and in myself seemed to be everything else in the universe. It was the nearest I ever came to a realisation of that supreme declaration, “I am.”
     The past and the future seemed equally present in the moment. Had a voice whispered that it was yesterday, I should have acquiesced in the assertion; had I been told that it was a million years hence, I should have been also assentive. But whether it was really yesterday or a million years hence mattered not in the least. Perhaps the Beautiful Being only comes to those for whom the moment and eternity are one. I heard a voice say:
     “Brother, it is I.”
     There was no question in my mind as to who had spoken. “It is I” can only be uttered in such a voice by one whose individuality is so vast as to be almost universal, one who has dipped in the ocean of the All, yet who knows the minute by reason of its own inclusiveness.

     Standing before me was the Beautiful Being, radiant in its own light. Had it been less lovely I might have gasped with wonder; but the very perfection of its form and presence diffused an atmosphere of calm. I marvelled not, because the state of my consciousness was marvel. I was lifted so far above the commonplace that I had no standard by which to measure the experience of that moment.
     Imagine youth immortalised, the fleeting made eternal. Imagine the bloom of a child’s face and the eyes of the ages of knowledge. Imagine the brilliancy of a thousand lives concentrated in those eyes, and the smile upon the lips of a love so pure that it asks no answering love from those it smiles upon.
     But the language of earth cannot describe the unearthly, nor could the understanding of a man grasp in a moment those joys which the Beautiful Being revealed to me in that hour of supreme life. For the possibilities of existence have been widened for me, the meanings of the soul have deepened. Those who behold the Beautiful Being are never the same again as they were before. They may forget for a time, and lose in the business of living the magic of that presence; but whenever they do remember, they are caught up again on the wings of the former rapture.

     It may happen to one who is living upon the earth; it may happen to one in the spaces between the stars; but the experience must be the same when it comes to all; for only to one in the state in which it dwells could the Beautiful Being reveal itself at all.

A SONG OF THE BEAUTIFUL BEING

When you hear a rustling in the air, listen again: there
       may be something there.

When you feel a warmth mysterious and lovely in the
       heart, there may be something there, something
       sent to you from a warm and lovely source.

When a joy unknown fills your being, and your soul
       goes out, out … toward some loved mystery, you
       know not where, know that the mystery itself is
       reaching toward you with warm and loving, though
       invisible, arms.

We who live in the invisible are not invisible to each
       other.

There are tender colours here and exquisite forms, and
       the eye gloats on beauty never seen upon the earth.

Oh, the joy of simple life to be, and to sing in your soul
       all day as the bird sings to its mate!

For you are singing to your mate whenever your soul
       sings.

Did you fancy it was only the spring-time that thrilled
       you and moved you to listen to the rustling of
       wings?

The spring-time of the heart is all time, and the autumn
       may never come.

Listen! When the lark
       sings, he sings to you. When
       the waters sing, they sing to you.

And as your heart rejoices, there is always another heart
       somewhere that responds; and the soul of the lis-
       tening heavens grows glad with the mother joy.

I am glad to be here, I am glad to be there. There is
       beauty wherever I go.

Can you guess the reason, children of earth?

Come out and play with me in the daisy fields of space.
       I will wait for you at the corner where the four
       winds meet.

You will not lose your way, if you follow the gleam at
       the end of the garden of hope.

There is music also beyond the roar of the earth as it
       swishes through space:

There is music in keys unknown to the duller ears of
       the earth, and harmonics whose chords are souls
       attuned to each other.

Listen…. Do you hear them?

Oh, the ears are made for hearing, and the eyes are
       made for seeing, and the heart is made for loving!

The hours go by and leave no mark, and the years are
       as sylphs that dance on the air and leave no foot-
       prints, and the centuries march solemn and slow.

But we smile, for joy is also in the solemn tread of the
       centuries.

Joy, joy everywhere. It is for you and for me, and for
       you as much as for me.

Will you meet me out where the four winds meet?

LETTER XXXVI

LETTER XXXIV