The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gay Gnani of Gingalee, by Florence Huntley This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Gay Gnani of Gingalee or Discords of Devolution A Tragical Entanglement of Modern Mysticism and Modern Science Author: Florence Huntley Release Date: May 24, 2013 [EBook #42799] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAY GNANI OF GINGALEE *** Produced by Charlene Taylor, Matthew Wheaton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) THE GAY GNANI OF GINGALEE THE GAY GNANI OF GINGALEE OR DISCORDS OF DEVOLUTION A T RAGI CAL E NTANGL E ME NT OF MODE RN MYST I CI SM AND MODE RN SCI E NCE BY FLORENCE HUNTLEY, Author of “Harmonics of Evolution” and “The Dream Child” HARMONIC FICTION SERIES VOL. II CHICAGO INDO-AMERICAN BOOK CO. 1908 Copyright 1908 By FLORENCE HUNTLEY Published 1908 DEDICATED to Those who are wise enough to be foolish—at intervals PRELUDE. Mother Nature contributes the elements and qualities and “temperament” of the individual; and no matter what the education, occupation, position or experience, those native tendencies persist. One who is born with the disposition for mental frivoling and a keen sense of nonsense discovers that these tendencies persist with far greater tenacity than any impulses of anger or fear or other destructive elements. The writer of this little book has found them subordinate only to the thirst for knowledge and the love of truth. When the author of this “romance” finally renounced the small gods of her personal ambitions, and surrendered the diverting occupation of newspaper work for serious instruction in the School of Natural Science, she merely restrained but never eliminated that Sense of Nonsense. The native tendency toward intellectual badinage and literary travesty persisted—and even to the present time it furnishes relaxation from the absorbing duties in connection with The Great Work. Science, if it be Science, must take into account all of the facts of Human Nature; and Philosophy, if it be Philosophy, must include and assign to place every intellectual, native and normal tendency of the Soul. Science and Philosophy that have no room for the incongruities of life and the frivolings of the intelligence are only partial mentors and masters. The workshop occupies so much of life, thought and energy, that no one should refuse an occasional hour in the play room. Confidence in the good sense of the readers of the Harmonic Series forbids the thought that this little satire should be mistaken for a reflection upon the Verities of the School of Natural Science, or that it could be so misinterpreted as to discredit the Harmonic Philosophy. In so far as it is a travesty it deals, not with the facts of Science and the Truths of Philosophy, but with the people and the things which discredit both. “The Dream Child” and the first sketch of “Discords of Devolution” were written at the same time and place, but at different desks. This was done in Washington City, at the time of my separation from newspaper life. The one stands for that earliest concept and ideal of the Great Law, while the other represents the undertone of nonsense which instruction, experience and self-denials have subdued but never eliminated. The manuscript of this little volume has been read, from time to time, by friends who have urged its publication. This, however, was never seriously intended until the “Interlude” (Chapter XII.), was contributed by the TK, which interlude gives to the whole a definite meaning and purpose but vaguely suggested by my own work. Except for this masterly arraignment of The Gay Gnani of Gingalee the author of this tale would have lacked the courage to publish it. With this addition, however, the writer reconsidered, reread and retouched the Ms., and consented to an Experiment. With this explanation, excuse and apology for the writing of the romance in the first place, and now for its publication, the author commits it to criticism—with a certain conviction that it has a mission of its own to perform. Florence Huntley. INGREDIENTS. Chapter Page Prelude 5 I Prophet and Profit 13 II Miss Sheets Is She 21 III In Primordial Biogen 30 IV The Mansard Roof 49 V In the Highest Degree 65 VI The Gay Gnani of Gingalee 75 VII The Book and the Bagdad 87 VIII The Man in the Cellar 110 IX Drawing a Cork 130 X A Private Exhibit 140 XI Up Against It 158 Interlude 176 XII “The Wages of Sin Is Death” (By a Member of the Ancient Order of the Brotherhood of India.) 177 XIII Phlogiston is Restored 189 Postlude 204 “For what shall it profit a man if he gain a whole Drug Store and jar his Higher Self?” —Aphorism of the One Hi----. CHAPTER I. “Philosophers Deride, Fools Investigate.” PROPHET AND PROFIT. “But my profession,” pleaded the slim and pallid youth who stood wistfully eyeing the Soda Fountain. “You forget, my friend, that the vows of a Guru forbid such diffusion of force and waste of magnetism as occur in meeting those not of The Path.” “Tommy-rot!” bawled young Mr. Vanderhook as he continued to polish the already glittering faucet. “You’ve not seen her, and you hear me, there is only one in the box and what’s more she can give cards and spades to any old band of mystical misfits on the top side the Earth.” “But my profession, William, the obligations of One—Who—Aspires—To—Know are—are—simply immense, and in my profession—” “O, hang your profession—a couple of minutes anyway,” interrupted the man at the fountain, “and come along. You’re not going to shake Kankakee till you’ve seen my Very Best—the finest Chicago brand, the highest flyer this side your celestial belt. What d’ye say, and what’ll you have?” and Bill Vanderhook looked anxiously into the other’s face while his hand sought the “sweet cream” spigot. “And if I consent,” finally murmured the Occultist, now toying mechanically with the long handled spoon, “If I consent,” he repeated in a weird monotone—his eyes following the process of a Lowball—“and look upon WOMAN—should I look upon her you would call your own, remember, Bill, that you assume my responsibility, and that upon your head will rest the consequences of my mad act. Upon you must descend the penalties of my violation of the First Degree.” “I’ll go you,” recklessly responded the young druggist, as he shoved the frothing fluid across the marble slab—“only let’s get a move.” Alonzo Leffingwell’s right hand closed vaguely but firmly upon the handle of the drinking-cup. With an air of utter indifference he poured the questionable compound into his system. Then his left hand sought his vest pocket—tentatively. The Vanderhook drug store once more stood the treat. Since infancy these two young men had been inseparable chums. The law of opposites had been satisfied. It had attracted and welded the affections of the stout, stocky, rosy and roystering Bill Vanderhook and the pale, pensive and passive Alonzo Leffingwell. Bill’s voice in babyhood was loud, resonant and cheerful, while Lonnie’s was low, limpid and languid. In youth Bill’s eyes, big, bold and black, had seemed continually searching for the hidden and forbidden things of fruit closet and melon patch. Contrawise, Lonnie’s orbs, mild, misty and luminous, seemed forever scanning the unsatisfying deeps of space. While nature seemed to have constructed Bill Vanderhook for a short-stop or a half-back, it had reserved Alonzo Leffingwell for the higher arts of mystical mysteries. On attaining his majority Bill consulted with his father and accepted a partnership in the paternal pharmacy. Alonzo consulted with himself, determined upon mysticism and cut loose from parental guidance. Upon this he resigned, as humorist of the Daily Clarion, and set out upon the path of wisdom. About the same time that Bill turned from bats to bottles and gave up the kicking of balls for the rolling of pills, Alonzo laid down his pen, took up his crystal and immured himself in his bedroom. Naturally, the exactions of these widely differing occupations tended more and more to separate the two young men. To Bill Vanderhook it meant an active daily life and a perpetual hustle in holding his father’s trade and reaching out for the increase. It meant for him a frequent dip in the social swim, and great popularity among those who attended “functions” and presided at Chafing Dishes. To Alonzo, his decision to become a “Wise Man” cut him out of pretty nearly everything in the town. It meant renunciation of all social and sentimental diversions of Kankakee. While upon the Druggist were fixed the obligations of citizenship which rooted him in his ancestral home, to the Mystic it meant only obscuration and retirement. While Bill was now joyously “taking stock” and setting up new show cases, Mr. Leffingwell, in obedience to his “Higher Self,” was packing his grip for India. For he who aspires to the state of Gnanum must seek a more adequate asylum than that of Kankakee. Alonzo was now well up in Yogum. He approached Gnanum. He apprehended the ALL. Against all this Bill had violently protested. “Cut out this foolishness, and get the bats out of your belfry. Come,” he implored, “and clerk for me. This is the Leader in Kankakee, and when you learn the business I’ll make you my Pardner. Now what’s the matter with THAT?” “Pouf! Piff! PELF!”—and Alonzo had shuddered as he thus expressed in a musical crescendo his repulsion for trade. At the mere mention of the Drug Store, or the Stock, this Prophet’s apprentice might have been seen to curl his mustache with disdain. He was strangely indifferent to the possible profits of the show-case and the soda fountain. Once he had asked, with something akin to vitality in his tone, “How can you, Bill, consent to spend the whole of your earthly life in the weighing, measuring and compounding of cold, inert forms of matter?” “And how can you,” Bill had retorted in immeasurable disgust, “how can you consent to spend your life in heathendom, roosting on top of a post for forty years, till your fingers grow through your fists? And more,” he continued loudly, “I’ll have you remember that these same cold, inert forms of matter stand for big, warm and lively DOLLARS. D’ye hear me, Mr. Dyanzy Chooanzy? While you’re munchin’ raw fodder and meditatin’ in mouldy caves on the manifold mysteries of mankind, I’ll be livin’ up to the Queen’s taste in Kankakee—swell front—mansard roof—stunning wife—bank stock—and—who knows—but the legislature or Congress or even”— and Bill paused modestly before nominating himself to the Presidency. Alonzo vouchsafed no reply. He only gazed at his companion with the wide, meaningless smile of one who Knows—he—Knows. Then, shaking his head with vast, prophetic solemnity, he waved adieu and passed out—in impenetrable silence. This devotee had learned, as do all those who delight in the name “Mystic,” that nothing is more effective than this vague, superior silence, when confronted with the crude practicalities of the “Unillumined.” Then a truce prevailed between these erstwhile comrades until—the ever to be expected—the Unexpected—happened. CHAPTER II. MISS SHEETS IS SHE. She was radiantly, ‘wilderingly beautiful. She was tall and lissom, leopard-jointed and swift. She was one of those dulcet-toned, tawny peroxides, an houri, for whom the synonym is “havoc.” Chicago spoke in her every tone and gesture. Her movements were meteoric. Her eyes were X-rays. Her smile was sheet- lightning. She was alert, trim and tailor-made. Her very presence breathed the richness and aroma of her stock-yards training. The Spirit of Chicago, “I WILL,” pulsed through her veins. “Push and Pull” was her motto. “Get there” was her creed. Whoever is familiar with the fatal fascinations of a Chicago Typewriter can gauge the gait of the Kankakee pulse when Miss Imogene Silesia Sheets, late of the great packing house of Harmor & Co., was precipitated into the midst of that suburban society. The advent of this loveliest of her Type was brought about through the courteous solicitations and higher salary offered by Slaughter & Steers, a rival firm of the great hog magnate of Chicago. From the very multiplicity of her attractions and accomplishments, Miss Sheets was indescribable. Life in Chicago is of itself an education, and our heroine was rich in the accumulation of her experiences. Her years of service in the greatest pork mart of the world had developed a keen discrimination as to the relative coincidences and differences among hogs and men. She was never deceived as to either. She valued each after his kind, in his own place and for his own proper purposes, as becomes a broadminded woman. Miss Sheets’ accomplishments ranged from office to drawing room. She pounded the typewriter and the piano with equal facility, and it was said that she rendered her stenographic notes in rag-time rhythm. Within a week of her arrival, Mrs. Astor’s boarding house became a social center, and Mrs. Astor appreciated a guest who at the same time became a social feature and paid in advance. Before a month had elapsed this artless girl had completely won her hostess’ heart, and as they nibbled nuts and nougats at Imogene’s expense, that unsuspecting lady had disclosed to Miss Sheets about all she knew of the “Eligible List” of Kankakee. From this time forward, as if by intuition, the lovely Typewriter seemed to know that she preferred Bill Vanderhook’s attentions. As for Bill, he had been victimized from the start. Three times a day he walked an extra mile to pass her boarding house or place of business. He trod the air. He jollied every customer, and set up the soda water recklessly. He beamed on the very bottles behind the counter. He racked his brain and rifled his Father’s show-cases to do her homage. “Be mine, Sweet Thing,” he implored, the third Sunday after their introduction. This he said as they sat in his new, red automobile, four miles from town, while they waited for a gasoline man. But the maiden demurred. “Oh, Mr. You’ve got sand in your gear box,” she said shyly; then she smiled alluringly and purred softly. The brim of her cartwheel hat grated along his Derby, and they drew as close as fashion permitted. Still her rosy lips withheld the answer. “Not,” she murmured to her inmost self, “until I know whether there’s an electric cart and a trip to Europe coming along with the big diamond and the sealskins.” But Bill, stupid after the manner of men, was sorely tried by her evasiveness. He was not a Mind Reader. He just made plain Love, without the modern conveniences. Then came the gasoline man, and it was dark before they started. As both were very hungry, nothing more was said. Bill Vanderhook looked like a blue print, when he handed her out to Mrs. Astor. He felt he had lost his opportunity. He feared he had lost the girl. It was at this critical stage of Cupid’s campaign that our story opens. It was during this momentous interlude that the over-anxious Bill had dragged the reluctant Alonzo, the unwilling Mystic, from his professional seclusion and led him, unprepared, into temptation. Unconfessed to himself, Bill had a considerable faith in Alonzo’s occult powers. He meant to induce the Guru to aid his suit with the tantalizing Typewriter. Having finally decided to break his vow, Mr. Leffingwell went out of the drug store, sustained by the lowball and a shadowy hope that he would not be found out. He realized his departure from the fifty-seven Paths, but he did not dream that as yet he had come up to his Karmic Destiny. He did not suspect that he and Bill were strolling down Asylum Avenue, arm in arm, for the last time. A little later Alonzo is seated with Bill in Mrs. Astor’s parlor, on the very davenport where Bill had first seen HER. Silently they awaited the appearance of the maiden of whom Bill talked all day, whom he visited every evening, and of whom he dreamed all night. The face of the Mystic was set and stern. His body was erect and rigid. His gaze was abstracted, cold and indifferent. To his innermost Inner he was steeled against Woman. Presently there was a swish and a swirl of nearby silk and heatherbloom, a faint but intoxicating odor of patchouli, and then—and then—a face, a bewildering flash of the rose and the lily, a sunburst of radiant loveliness. The up-to-date maiden and the up-to-date Mystic stood face to face. On that instant the tragic entanglement of Mysticism and Materialism, which had been recorded in the stars, now took on its initial expression. The effect upon the Occultist was instantaneous and overpowering. On the instant his face, form and expression lost their hauteur, rigidity and disdain. Rising, but unheeding the formal introduction by his proud and awkward chum, Alonzo Leffingwell paled, trembled and swayed. For one unutterable moment he gazed upon that dazzling vision with rapt ecstasy, and then raising his delicate white hand and pointing at random in the air, he shrieked in a loud voice, “Aha!—Ah-ha! ’tis SHE! ’Tis SHE!—MISS SHEETS IS SHE!” and fell in convulsions at the feet of the lovely stranger. Then Miss Sheets shrieked like it was a mouse, and Bill growled his astonishment. “Well! wouldn’t that jar you?” cried the girl. But collecting himself, Bill rather enjoyed the impression his Imogene had made. “You’ve paralyzed him sure,” he said, contempt for Alonzo and admiration for the Lady struggling for expression. “Don’t you think it,” she said gaily, giving her pompadour a twist—“but what are we going to do?” “Why, I’ll telephone for the auto and rush him around to the drug store. No, not a doctor—I know how to fix him. A good stiff Hi-lowball”—and Bill winked—“will start his vibrations again.” Then the lovers, momentarily distracted from themselves, resumed where they had left off, and so successfully did Mr. Vanderhook Jr. press his claims that before the auto came smelling around the corner—and while the unconscious Alonzo lay cold and mute—Imogene had received the huge solitaire she had admired so prettily the last time she and Bill passed the Jeweler’s together. Late that night, when Bill slipped noiselessly out of Mrs. Astor’s parlor, a golden hair was curiously entangled in the coils of his cameo shirt-stud. And the Recluse, what of him? What of him who had violated the First Degree? After regaining his equilibrium he withdrew to his father’s house and, locking himself in his apartments, he there remained for one month, during which time he tasted neither food nor drink. CHAPTER III. IN PRIMORDIAL BIOGEN. His penance done, the Mystic of Kankakee presented himself once more at the soda fountain. He was paler, slimmer and altogether more effective than before. He was faultlessly groomed in pearl gray. His head was held high—by an immaculate collar. He was shod in patent leathers, and white spats peeped chastely below his upturned trousers. His gloved hand grasped the middle of a large cane for support. “Do you, William K. Vanderhook, hope or expect to marry Imogene Silesia Sheets?” Young Mr. Vanderhook, who was replenishing the soda fountain, startled for the moment, dropped a large chunk of ice, thereby overturning several bottles of syrup. “If—So—You—Must—Re—lin—quish—Her.” “Now, what are you givin’ me?” growled Bill, as he turned upon his chum, and as he did so snapped the cover of the soda fountain with unnecessary violence. “Merely this,” said Alonzo Leffingwell, slightly raising his monotone,—“You persuaded me to break my vow. You inveigled me into looking upon woman. I had warned you, pleaded with you to let me out of this. You heeded not. I hinted at penalties. You sneered. You did not believe me. You insisted. I yielded. But you have assumed the consequences. You have defied Destiny. But my unsophisticated friend, you have bound yourself to accept the results. You played with Fate. The law is relentless. Rash boy, you have invoked dire karmic consequences.” “Well, what in the name of—the higher foolology—are you driving at?” snapped Bill, quite out of patience. “This, my once friend, this”—and Lonnie now well started, talked straight on. “Through my higher comprehension of primordial principles, and by my occult manipulations of certain astral forces (quite unknown to such as you), I erstwhile learned the most profound fact in nature. I was, as we say in our cult, able to visionize my Soul Mate. The doors of the future, as it were, lifted from their hinges, and—Aha! you start. You tremble. You sense my secret. You perceive the mystical meaning of my metaphysical meanderings.” Alonzo Leffingwell paused, gazing fixedly at Bill, who was now nervously rinsing the glasses. “You have guessed,” and the Mystic’s voice fell to a sharp whisper. “Miss Sheets is SHE,—she whom I cognized in the astral. She is not your affinity, but mine. Did you not perceive that we needed no introduction? Our higher selves responded to the law; hence my agitation, and your—your—KARMA.” Bill Vanderhook stopped short, straightened himself. He quit tinkering with the stock. Continued Lonnie remorselessly,— “Knowing, as I do, that our union is inevitable in the course of evolutionary processes, I thought best so to inform you, and as it were, take her off your hands. You are, I trust, too wise to attempt any interference with the immutable.” Bill Vanderhook stared at his chum for a minute, and then broke into a big, loud laugh. “Well, at least you’re candid,” he said —“more so than most fellows who find their affinities,”—and he carelessly mopped off the marble slab. “At the same time,”—and his voice roughened—“you’ll excuse me for saying that you’re off your base, and that I hold the age over your astral informant, whatever his degree of asininity.” “And you mean to say that you will not relinquish her? That you will defy the decrees of nature? That you will violate the principles of primordial biogen? That you will ignore the ‘Harmonics of Evolution?’” And Alonzo’s eyes again rested on the labels of the soda fountain. “To the first,—Nit. To the secondly, thirdly and fourthly,—Yep. Now, you get it?”—and Bill looked very tired. “O, earthy and unillumined!” murmured the pale, young enthusiast,—“would that I could but for a moment open up to your clouded understanding the mystical and unintelligible explications of one whom I, even I, acknowledge to be a deeper, more profound and more mysterious Mystic than MYSELF. “What you need, O, dense, chaotic soul, is—EX-PLI-CA-TION, Explication that will Explain. Hear me, poor groveler amid the rudimentary manifestations of matter. Harken to me ere it be too late. Hear me, O, my boyhood’s chum. Hear the words of misty meaning which have flowed in boundless streams from this modern Mystic, that Far-Off-One in Manhattan Isle. These are the words of one upon whose wisdom I feed, the words of one who KNOWS, and—and—I whisper to you in secret, one who admits that he is —a—Mystic. “Hear him, William—you who trifle with solemn things—you who deny these primordial, protoplasmic affinities. Hide your head in confusion. Hear him whose utterances no man can interpret. Hear him whose explications are as explicit, as limpid, as lucid, as crystalline, as clear, as the broad light of day at midnight’s holy hour. “Turn with me to our most luminous and incomprehensible text book. You will find at page numbered 288, commencing, I think, near the middle of the page, the following inspired words, viz.,— [1]“‘The spiritual espousal, wherein humanity is united with the Lord, is not only catholic, including all the elements in a human word, but, whatever may be its heavenly consummation, is, in its earthly expression and as a visible manifestation, a limited estate, involving conditions such as attend all other espousals: on the Bride’s part a destination separating her from the Bridegroom, and in many ways seeming a contradiction of her inmost desire for Him, so that she becomes a poor starveling, a distraught and desolate Psyche, bereft of Love; and on the part of the Bridegroom a running after her, as if in answer to some great need and hunger developed in her desolation, as if He had indulged her aversion that He might follow her into her darkest hiding, standing at her door and knocking while His locks are wet with the cold dews of her night—He also having veiled His essential might and brightness lest she should be dismayed at His coming, yet retaining enough of his original majesty that she may see Him as the one altogether lovely, the wonderful.’ [1] “A Study of Death,” by Henry Mills Alden; late editor Harper’s Magazine. “Here in this one simple sentence of only one hundred and eighty-four short, brief, curt, compact, concise, terse, pithy, diffuse, verbose, prolix, copious, flowing, digressive, excursive, discursive, pleonastic and periphrastic words, with at least nine out of every ten of which you should be familiar, there are enough possibilities of meaning, and lack of meaning, to keep your benighted intellect busy guessing for the balance of your natural life. “But dark as is your intellectual vision, you can not fail to note the frequent occurrence of such significant words as ‘Bride,’ ‘Bridegroom,’ ‘espousal,’ ‘united,’ ‘heavenly consummation,’ ‘destination,’ ‘desolate Psyche,’ ‘Love,’ ‘indulged,’ ‘original majesty,’ ‘altogether lovely,’ and ‘wonderful.’ “You can not fail to note that in this wonderful revelation of the possibilities of a single sentence, the personal pronouns ‘He’ and ‘Him’ always begin with a capital ‘H.’ Can you further doubt that this refers to ME? Can you further protest that this union of ME and MINE is not an essential part of the great plan and purpose of the Cosmic Intelligence to whom alone I acknowledge equality? “But if, perchance, there yet remains a lingering doubt, then listen once more to this inspired Mystic; for at page 197 he says,— “‘In the ascent of life, desire seems to compel its cosmic partner, as hunger its victim, suspending that operation of physical and chemical forces proper to them outside of this dominion of vitality; in its descent these forces more and more tend to resume their proper action, until finally they bring into their own domain the structure they have served; their hardening of the walls of life’s outward temple, begun for protection, has gone on to the extreme of fragility and destruction—an office as kindly as any they have performed.’ “And once more, O, my benighted friend, at page 185 he again says,— “‘In this complex hierarchy of Nature discrete accords are sustained, so that they fall not into indifference and confusion; degrees of excellence are marked—of truth, beauty and goodness; individual sequestration and tranquillity are secured, and for each life a way —its own that no other can take, and yet open to accordant intimacies and correspondences; and in the psychical involvement life acquires a feeling of itself and a conscious control, the liberty of its dwelling.’ “And yet again at page 108,— “’As these organic capacities are deepened inwardly, representing in their sphering and involution and convolution the synthetic action of cosmic envelopment from the beginning, the desire which has thus shaped itself by intussusception, expressing its postulation, is outwardly a flame of increase, ascending also while it is crescent until it reaches the culminant point of its physiological term, where it —’” “Hold up there. Close that valve a minute. Put on the lid,” roared Bill, “and tell me in the name of all specialized idiocy what you’re at. If you can’t untangle yourself with four thousand languages dead and alive, then you better go chase yourself into cosmic nebulosity. “If this is your Ex—pli—ca—tion—, and if this is your only excuse for involuting yourself into an introconvertible, double-back- action dictionary, then, says I, t’mud with your mysticism. And now hereafter, when you want to ‘explicate’ you go out to the harmless ward where they’ve got whole bunches of just such as your old Manhattan misfit mutt. “You go out there and talk to your own brand of mystics. Don’t you talk shop here. I’m in the drug business and I know a little bit about medicine, but I’ll be everlastingly lost in a cosmological fog if I’d know how to prescribe for symptoms like yours. The kind of microbes that manifest through the gray matter of a mystic are not identified in these mundane dispensatories. “Now, you hear me a minute, Mr. Alonzo Leffingwell—INEXPLICABLE mystic and all around D—P—of every old degree, you want to get right out of Kankakee and lose no time. The state of Illinois makes our city the center of only ordinary aberrations; it does not provide wards for such illuminated inanities as you at this minute have been explicating. “I say, my friend, you go get some bars and lock yourself up. Go sink yourself in a tank of formaline and then will the tank to the scientific department of the institution. This, I say, would never be misunderstood by anybody who knew you. It would be a contribution to science, an aid to education, and an example to the young. And this would be the only good excuse you could ever give to society for having been on the top side of the earth.” “Unhappy trifler, you will regret your selfishness,” murmured the occultist, less in anger than sorrow. “But I have done. I leave you to your destiny. I leave you to your own conscience. This will cost you cycles of expiation. You have forfeited your possibilities. Had you resigned her in accordance with the law, all had been well. But your persistence shall react upon your own head,—and now farewell. I leave you, to return no more,—at least not this afternoon. I shall seek the lady. It rests with her. If possible I shall save her from the sad error of marrying you. I shall save her from herself. I shall lift her up to ME, and in this wise I may perhaps save her from other and very disagreeable reincarnations.” Bill Vanderhook picked his hat off the peg, carefully selected a big cigar, lighted it, took a whiff and then replied sardonically, —“Well, Mr. Dianzy Chooanzy, and suppose she won’t affin, what then?” “Then, O, then,”—lisped Lonnie as he leaned upon the show-case as if for support,—“I shall be compelled to wait through several cycles, perhaps, until she has worked out the necessary karma and attained to ME.” “But see here,” persisted Bill. “I thought that you gurus and gnanis and you astral fellows generally took the bachelor’s degree the very first inning. I thought you were clean off the market. I’ve always heard that matrimony was quite outside the mystic foul lines.” “Right,”—answered Lonnie,—“that is, as you understand mysticism, marriage is forbidden, except a gentleman discovers his very own. And even then,”—and his voice quavered,—“he must not even get engaged until she who is his in primordial biogen shall attain to an equal illumination. This frequently postpones the happy day for ages.” “Well, now, that’s a horse of another color,”—and Bill heaved a sigh of relief. “This is most likely one of those postponed cases. Anyway, I was solid up to last night, but if you don’t mind waiting a couple of thousand years I haven’t any objections,”—and the generous young druggist let fizz a glass of mineral water. “Thanks, awfully,”—murmured Lonnie, but whether for the permission or the apollinaris was not quite clear. He sipped the sparkling water with suggestive mournfulness. “Being chained to the material,” he added, “it is very possible she may even prefer you to ME. The fleshly veil which yet so thickly clothes her higher principles, may obscure ME to her inner consciousness; in which case I must temporarily resign her. I may not claim her for several brief earth lives yet. For all this I am fully prepared. And should she not cognize ME for what I AM, I shall hence to India, and there, by contemplation in the sacred cave I shall astralize. I shall return again, and keep watch over her.” “Well, well, well,—that’s quite an idea, isn’t it!”—responded Bill. “No,”—as Lonnie felt in his vest pocket—tentatively,—“it’s my treat. The plan you mention isn’t more’n half bad—kind o’ lets us all out without any hard feelings. I know it will suit Imogene to a T. Come back from India any time—in the astral. You’ll find the latch-string out.” “You forget,” returned the Mystic mildly, even sadly, “that ONE—WHO—KNOWS requires neither latch-string nor pass key. “Such an one, as I AM—TO—BECOME, neither asks admission nor visits by invitation. These are they who function in the Universal and whose atomic particles respond to the WILL. These are they whose levitations are uncircumscribed, who moveth by Desire and where they listeth. If I go shall I return again? And if so, from whence and for why? And who shall let me in? Aha! Ah-ha!” Saying which the wise man of Kankakee turned, went softly out the door and gliding down Asylum Avenue sought the abode of the fascinating Typewriter. A Maiden so fair and a Guru so slight Conversed as they sat on the green: Alonzo the Seer was the name of the wight, And the maid was the Fair Imogene. CHAPTER IV. THE MANSARD ROOF. Again, for the second time, the student of the occult gazed upon his affinity; and again the lovely Typewriter, versed in the higher criticism of Chicago social life, sized up her caller with cosmopolitan grace. The meeting was relieved of embarrassment by the spontaneous interrogation of the city-bred business woman. “And what can we do for you today, Mr. Leffingwell?”—sweetly. “I have come, Miss Sheets,”—murmured Mr. Leffingwell, and he looked directly through the maiden at the wall paper,—“I have come to invite you, to implore you, to go with me to—to—to—stroll with me. Walls—walls—that is, some of them, have ears. I would be alone with you. There is much of moment to impart to you—to you alone. There is a secret—” “That catches me,”—broke in the beauty, and she rose, donning her picture hat hastily, and grabbing her long-handled umbrella and many-buttoned kids. “Well, come along, Mr. Leffingwell; I’m ready”—and the dear girl’s hand was on the hall door-knob. And the man and the maiden passed on down Asylum Avenue. The Mystic appeared actually to know where he wanted to go. After conducting her to the outskirts he led her upward to the summit of a bluff overlooking the City, the Asylum and the Vanderhook drug store. Then he became strangely silent. Indeed, he had spoken but once in their long walk, and then only when his companion halted suddenly, dropping a few paces behind him. “What is it, dear Miss Sheets, art weary?”—he had murmured softly, and he anxiously contemplated her listless expression. “It’s nothing,” the lady replied, and then she smiled bravely. But it was something, very unpleasant and very painful. Miss Sheets was breaking in a new pair of boots—an immense feat, as any Chicago girl knows. It made her very tired. Finally they reached and paused upon the summit. It was the hour when the sun is apparently sinking. Kankakee lay bathed in that rosy afterglow. “Is not this inspiring—uplifting? Is not this Realization? Let us VIBRATE.” His large, round, blue eyes were fixed steadfastly upon nothing. He wore an expression of ineffable self-satisfaction. But the lady was silent. She seemed not to hear. She was busy with some burrs on her gown. Her gaze lingered fondly upon her new sparkling diamond. “Still silent,” he murmured, “still wrapped in your own thoughts. Why that disturbed expression, why no response? You frown; alas, what does this portend?” and Alonzo, the Guru, momentarily diverted from contemplation of Himself, clasped his hands, cast his eyes upward and bent as if he might kneel. “It isn’t anything,” indifferently. “Alas, and alas!” ejaculated her escort. “Not anything you say; yet we who walk the Path are taught that everything Objective is the outcome of something which is Subjective, and therefore nothing is something and ‘not anything’ is everything to me, when it disharmonizes YOU. Tell me, fair one, what and why?” “O, well, if you must know,” and Miss Sheets sniffed, “I was just wondering if I could ever tie up to these dreadful, grassy smells of the country. One gets so used to City odors, you know. And Chicago has more of ’em, especially about the Yards, and better mixed than in any city in the world. When you’re in Chicago you know what’s a-coming”—and the city-bred girl held up her dainty “mouchoir” to ward off the scent of new mown hay. A wave of perplexity, of doubt over-swept the solemn countenance of the Mystic. “Then you would tell me—” “Yes, that I don’t like the odors, and I don’t like this dead-and-alive stillness. Why, anybody who comes from the Yards, and is used to the roar and crash and squealing, gets nervous prostration in a cemetery like this.” Alonzo contemplated her, wonderingly; then, as if dismissing the whole thing, he said in a tone that hinted of impetuosity, “Let us not talk of Chicago, nor the Yards. Let us forget the smelly things and the dead ones. Let us only think of each other, Miss Sheets,” and he drew closer to her. “Miss Sheets, Imogene, my own, my very own, tell me, tell me now that you feel a subtle something drawing you to ME!” The sharp, bright eyes of the Typewriter opened with astonishment. It was the lady’s turn to look bewildered. She gazed blankly at the smitten Seer who had already dropped on one knee. She gazed upon him in wonderment. It was the look of mingled awe and admiration a child bestows upon a circus Poster. “I—I—don’t catch on,” she said simply. The rapt lover smiled. It was a pale, luminous ripple of compassion. He lifted himself to the perpendicular—drawing still closer. He gazed upon her. He seemed almost ready to take her hand. “Most perfect of mortals,” he began. “Let me explain: “As you may have heard, I am under orders for Gnaniship. To accomplish this I must soon go from the sophomore grade of Illinois to the senior course in far off Hindustan. In the line of my profession I come to know pretty much everything. I am as familiar with the IS, as with the APPARENT. The NOTHINGNESS of the IS NOT I have demonstrated several times. The oneness of UNITY and the ISNESS of BEING I have already mastered. And by a patient pursuit of the WHITHER and WHENCE, I have anticipated my contemporaries by thousands of years. I have distanced posterity by many a lap.” The Mystic paused to note the impression he was making. Then he went on;—“Through the esoteric fundaments of nature and through certain occult experiments in primordial polarity, I was enabled to apprehend, to comprehend, to cognize the great law of affinity. I discovered that somewhere there was a ONE, a particular ONE, a dear, sweet, beautiful SHE to whom I was bound in protoplasmic energies and biological consequences. “And there came a time when she whom I sought was visioned in the astral light. I saw her—SHE—that one, essential, correlated SHE,—SHE that was my other half—that satisfying SHE—that only SHE—was none other than your own sweet self, Miss Sheets. “Nay, do not interrupt me. It was not until you realized in material substance this ethereal vision that I had, as it were, solved the problem. I had proved the law. Though as yet far beneath MYSELF in physical refinement, mental acquirements and spiritual illumination, I am yet resolved to accept you as my own and wait until you do attain. I am patient. I can and will wait until you have been instructed in the Path of Yog, and attain to ME. And now, my own, speak to me. Express your joy. Speak, ah, speak!” Mr. Leffingwell paused. There was something almost akin to human desire in his voice, but there was no reply. Miss Sheets was silent. She seemed to be only half listening. In her eyes was now that far-offness, so habitual to mystics, gnanis and gurus. It was now the lady who was abstracted. Her glance traveled down and backward along the avenue. She was looking in the direction of the drug store. “Hear me again, fair one”—whispered the occultist. “I am yours only. You are mine only. I co-ordinate with you, not as Bill does on the earth plane. Mine is a love not desecrated by thoughts of diamond rings, sealskin sacques, oyster suppers, pink candies and frozen mushes. Mine is the primordial passion that vibrates in the etheric spaces of the universe. It is a passion which scorns material bribes. Mine is a devotion that looks only to soul communion, and the solemn absorption of OURSELF back into Nirvanic nothingness. The hour is come and now is. Imogene, my onliest, sweet bird of paradise, it is your mate who calls. Come, O come, this day, this hour, and we will fly-by-night to Hindustan.” Miss Sheets started—but not to Hindustan. She was roused from her reverie of drugs, drug stores and druggists. She had but mistily sensed the monologue of the Mystic. But the last proposition penetrated her inner consciousness. His reference to birds had recalled her to herself, for she was a member of the Audubon Society and quite up on birds. She now realized that she had been indifferent and almost rude to one whom Kankakee regarded as harmless. Her Chicago good nature asserted itself. “Well, you do just talk to beat the band”—politely—“as we girls say at the Yards. Now what was that you were just saying about birds and flies?” “I was trying to say this”—gasped the Mystic huskily, as he reached out, touching the border of her belt ribbon to hold her attention. “I was saying that you must be mine. Listen,—this secret shall not be mine alone, but ours henceforth. Together in aeons past you and I, sweet creature, proceeded from primordial One-Substance. From the remote to the now, from the now to the ultimate we have been and shall be one. As we hereinbefore evolved ourselves from the potentialities of the duplex soul, so shall we together involve ourselves hereinafter in the blessedness of nothing. Though you have not reached my own karmic height, you may Aspire. Though you do not cognize the immutable from my own lofty perch of perfect attainment, I will wait, calmly wait, until you by long self- unfoldment shall rise to the state of being of ME.” “O, come off!”—ejaculated the fair girl, at last losing patience. “You make me tired. I say, let’s get a move”—and emphasizing her speech with a yawn, she gathered up a handful of back draperies and turned away. “Alas, and alas,”—mournfully murmured the mystic. “It is as I was warned by the Director of our division. You have not as yet cognized your higher self, hence have not perceived ME. You have not as yet sensed this fair fleshly veil as but the vehicle of your higher principles and quite separate from your ultimate ego. All the same, you’re mine. I will not repudiate you. You are the feminine principle co-ordinating with myself, and though you may ignore this only opportunity, yet I will bide your awakening and your renunciation of error. Though you may defeat your own illumination by renouncing ME, yet will I continue to walk the fifty-seven Paths-of-Self and wait. It rests with you, girl, to fix the happy day now, or to postpone it through tedious incarnations. It is for you to say now whether you will fly with me to India and share with me in the coming centuries in the ecstatic contemplation of the One- Horned-Hair of the Sacred-Rabbit. Are you ready to aspire for aeons? Are you prepared to meditate for cycles upon the oneness of substance and the Be-Ness of Being; attaining thereby to the ultimate exaltation of Nirvanic vacuity? Speak, bright one, sweet spirit of Chicago, say,—I WILL. Delay not. Your consent I implore. Miss Sheets, Imogene, what is your answer?” “R—a—a—t—,” but the maiden checked herself with a little scream, for unheard and unperceived came Nemesis. Bill Vanderhook stood face to face with the importunate Mystic and the ruffled Typewriter. And the druggist, fresh, rosy and sleek, from the best of barbers and haberdashers, loomed up handsomely by contrast with the now weary, wilted and woebegone Lonnie. “Imogene Sheets”—and the words cut the air like a whip cracker,—“and I also say that the day and the hour is now. There’s to be no more fooling. Business is business. Here’s where we change the score. Here’s where we decide who’s captain of this game. I’m up to all sorts of games, and I’m going to know now which of us rooters is IT. I’m a kicker and a catcher and a shortstop and a batter all in one.” Miss Sheets turned deadly pale as Bill continued: “Now, which is it, the Yogy cave with him in India, or the two-story— basement—brown stone—swell front—modern conveniences and mansard roof with Bill Vanderhook in Kankakee? Speak, girl.” “The—the—man—sar-r-d roof.” The words came faintly from the trembling lips of the agitated girl. But the rivals caught the import. Had they been inaudible the rejected lover would have sensed the thought and perceived her answer. But he made no protest. Philosophers never do. He did not speak. He did not even cast upon her a reproachful look, nor one of anger upon his rival. He only made one little moan with a faint far-offness in the vibration, and then for the second time the unhappy Mystic lay as one dead at the feet of his affinity. “Well, isn’t that fierce?” and Imogene looked on with sweet womanly sympathy while Bill, the now triumphant lover, lifted Lonnie like he was a pigskin and hoisted him into the auto. “Sure thing,” said Bill, joyously. “He got it in the neck that time. Come, Petsy, we’ve got to honk some. We must revive him on the Q. T. “I’ll take him home with me and give him about four fingers with ginger on the side. That’ll fetch him.” Imogene looked her admiration of Bill’s generosity, and then, gathering her draperies and snuggling down by her future Chauffeur, she sighed a little as she looked upon the inert gentleman on the back seat—saying more to herself than to Bill, “Isn’t it a pity he has fits?” Oh, wild and wooly Wizard of the West; Worthy, winsome worker of the Test; Wakeful, watchful, wise one, whiskerless; Weird and woozy wight, all unexpressed. CHAPTER V. IN THE HIGHEST DEGREE. Five long and fateful years had rolled up the self-inflicted sacrifices of the man from Kankakee. In the remote glades of Gingalee lonely Alonzo Leffingwell has finally completed the curriculum of the fifty-seven Paths in accordance with schools of Hindustan. The Western Votary of “Meditation” had attained to the Highest Degree of “the first Discipline.” He is now descended from the inaccessible mountain upon which he received his education in the Lesser Attainments. He is now released from the “Cave of the Happy Musings of Misery.” His pilgrimages, penances and prostrations are suspended. He is temporarily absolved from the Wheel of Chance. He has, as it were, cut out the “Circle of Transmigration.” He is taking a vacation. And just here (as Alonzo afterward explained in Kankakee) should be made some explanation of the wide difference and distinction between the mystico-theosophic-scholastic courses of Illinois and India. In the Eastern branch TIME is the essential. In the Western school Hustle is the key. In the East forty to fifty years are consumed in mere preparation in initiatory contemplation, abstraction, introspection and absorption. Oriental methods call for time without dates, and a hundred years in the achievement of Gnanum is considered excellent work. The practice of doubling or “ponying,” which obtains not merely in Illinois, but which distinguished Western scholarship generally, is unknown in India. These methods are, however, invaluable when the American seeks wisdom in the Indian schools. By thus doubling or doing extra time Alonzo Leffingwell broke the record. At first the deprivation of soap, towels and other civilized accessories appeared important. At times he yearned for a fine-tooth comb and a safety razor. However, when he had sat for six months without a change of position, and after he had held up his hands for several weeks at a stretch, he ceased to feel the need of these things. Thus he conquered the Material and attained to the first stages of Nothingness in five brief years. These years of Mounting the Spiral were, however, very trying to the Occidental Man, who had been used to the Spirit of Chicago and the Push of Illinois. His Oriental education wholly lacked the stimuli of association and competition. For months he would have no other company than his own image in the Sacred Lake by day, and his own reflection in the night time. For weeks together he heard no sounds nor had any news of outside life except the growl of a tiger or the laugh of some hyena in the mountain fastnesses. This was especially depressing to one who had been reared on the Morning and Evening editions and to whom yellow journalism was food and drink. Anything like a “Scoop” is not likely to occur in Mystic Circles in a thousand years. For a long time the life in Gingalee seemed unutterably slow. He found himself where advertising as an art had not opened up. There was nothing to “exploit” and nobody to exploit it. He found that men of his chosen profession were not expected to talk about themselves nor boast of their successes. At first this was so oppressive to the Seer from the States that he almost regretted leaving Kankakee. For,...