Henry Ridgely Evans Cagliostro & The Egyptian Rite Of Freemasonry

YOU Only Need To Read Page One, And See The Masonic Threat Of Shhhh
Henry Ridgely Evans 33° Grand Tiler of the Supreme Council of Freemasonry for the Southern Jurisdiction of the United States.
Exposition of the First Degree of the Egyptian Rite
CAGLIOSTRO AND HIS EGYPTIAN RITE OF FREEMASONRY INTRODUCTION
“Unparalleled Cagliostro ! Looking at thy so attractively decorated private theater, wherein thou acted and lived , what hand that itches to draw aside thy curtain and, turning the whole inside out, find thee in the middle thereof ?
In the Rue de Beaune, Paris, a few doors from the house where Voltaire died, is a shabby genteel little hostelry, dating back to pre-revolutionary times; to the old regime of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. You ring the bell of the concierge's office, and the wrough iron gates open with a clang. Mine host welcomes you at the portal and, with the airs and graces of an aristocrat of the eighteenth century, ushers you up to the state bedroom.
Ah, that bedroom, so old and quaint, with its huge four-post bed, garnished with faded red curtains and mounted upon a raised dais. The chimney-piece is carved and hears the half -obliterated escutcheon of the builder of the mansion— a noble of the old regime.
Over the mantle hangs a large oval mirror set in a tarnished gilt frame. Think, dear reader, of the hundreds of human faces that have peered into that ancient glass, and then passed forever into the land of sahdows. From everyone, say the occultists, issues an aura, a subtle, magnetic force that attracts or repels other souls and exercises an influence on inanimate things.
If this be so, then everything must be affected by it and why not the sensitive surface of a mirror, just as the photographer's negative is affected?
Think of the psychic impressions that must be stored up in an old looking-glass of the kind described above. In the summer of 1893 I was in Paris on business and pleasure bent, and I found a lodging at the little hotel of the Rue de Beaune an old street, once aristocratic, but now fallen into decay, and silent as the grave. The hum of Paris is but faintly heard here. By good fortune I was assigned to the state bedroom. A sultry evening was closing in. Storm clouds hung low in the heavens, presaging rain before morning. I had picked up on the Quai Voltaire a battered volume of Dumas’ Memoirs of a Physician , and sat down to read it by the light of wax candles stuck into an antiquated candelabrum.
The book is fascinating. I first read it when a boy, and implicitly believed every word of it. It is replete with magic and mystery. In rapid succession Dumas passes before you pictures of Louis XV, the Countess du Barry, the Dauphin and his beautiful consort, the unfortunate Antoinette; the brilliant prime minister, Choiseul ; the Cardinal de Rohan; and towering above all, Cagliostro, the necromancer of the ancient regime.
I read Dumas’s delightful novel until midnight and then retired to rest in the antique four-poster. The storm broke and the rain fell in torrents outside, splashing against the window panes like the dashing of the sea against the closed ports of an ocean liner. The thunder rolled over the house, and the lightning flashed vividly. Gradually the storm died away and nothing was heard but the soothing drip, drip, drip of the rain drops falling from the eaves of the house upon the flagged courtyard below, like the drip of the rain upon the Ghost’s Walk of Chesney Wold -the haunted mansion of the lock family of Charles Dickens’ Bleak House.
With my mind filled with strange fancies about Cagliostro and that old Paris of long ago, 1 dropped off to sleep and was soon in the land of dreams that crepuscular country, midway between this mortal life of ours and the realm of spirit, where the soul revels amid such fantastic scenes.
CAGLIOSTRO AND HIS EGYPTIAN RITE OF FREEMASONRY
I seemed to be standing before the mirror, gazing earnestly into its crystal depths. The reflection of my own face was no longer seen, but a strange phan- tasmagoria passed before my entranced gaze. Let me see if i can recall it. It is night. The lanterns swung in the streets of old Paris glimmer fitfully, Silence broods over the city with shadowy wings. No sound is heard save the clank of the patrol on its rounds. The Rue Saint Claude, how- ever, is all bustle and confusion. A grand soiree magiquc is being held at the house of Monsieur le Comte de Cagliostro. I can see heavy, old-fashioned carriages standing in front of the door, with coachmen lolling sleepily on the boxes, and link boys playing rude games with each other in the kennel. A rumble in the street— ha, there, lackeys! out of the way!
Here comes the coach of my Lord Cardinal, Prince Louis de Rohan. There is a flash of torches. Servants in gorgeous liveries of red and gold, with powdered wigs, open the door of the vehicle, and let down the steps with a crash. Monseigneur le Cardinal, cele- brant of the mass in the royal palace at Versailles, a man of pleasure and alchemist, descends. He is enveloped in a dark cloak as if to court disguise, but it is only a polite pretense. He enters the mansion of his bosom friend, Cagliostro, the magician. Within, all is a blaze of light. Visitors are received in a handsomely furnished apartment on the second floor. Beyond that is the seance-room, a mysterious chamber hung with somber draperies. Wax candles in tall silver sconces, arranged about the place in mystic pentagons and triangles, illuminate the scene.
In the center of the room is a table with a black cloth, on which are embroidered in red the symbols of the highest degree of the Rosicrucians. Upon this strange shekinah is placed the cabalistic apparatus of the necromancer- odd little Egyptian figures, of Isis and Osiris, vials of lustral waters, and a large globe full of clarified water. It is all very uncanny. Presently the guests are seated in a circle about the altar, and form a magnetic chain, Cagliostro, the Grand Kophta, enters. He is habited in gorgeous robes like the arch -hierophant of an ancient Egyptian temple. The clairvoyants is now brought in, a child of angelic purity, horn under a certain constellation, of delicate nerves, great sensitiveness, and withal, blue eyes. She is hidden to kneel before the globe, and relate what she sees therein.
Cagliostro makes passes over her, and commands the genii to enter the water. The very soul of the seeress is penetrated with the magnetic aura emanating from the magician. She becomes convulsed, and declares that she sees events taking place that very moment at the court of Versailles, at Vienna, at Rome,
MASTER OF MAGIC
Enough ill has been said of Cagliostro. I intend to speak well of him, because I think his is always preferable, providing one can. Baron de Geek'hen
YOU Only Need To Read Page One, And See The Masonic Threat Of Shhhh
Henry Ridgely Evans 33° Grand Tiler of the Supreme Council of Freemasonry for the Southern Jurisdiction of the United States.
Exposition of the First Degree of the Egyptian Rite
CAGLIOSTRO AND HIS EGYPTIAN RITE OF FREEMASONRY INTRODUCTION
“Unparalleled Cagliostro ! Looking at thy so attractively decorated private theater, wherein thou acted and lived , what hand that itches to draw aside thy curtain and, turning the whole inside out, find thee in the middle thereof ?
In the Rue de Beaune, Paris, a few doors from the house where Voltaire died, is a shabby genteel little hostelry, dating back to pre-revolutionary times; to the old regime of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. You ring the bell of the concierge's office, and the wrough iron gates open with a clang. Mine host welcomes you at the portal and, with the airs and graces of an aristocrat of the eighteenth century, ushers you up to the state bedroom.
Ah, that bedroom, so old and quaint, with its huge four-post bed, garnished with faded red curtains and mounted upon a raised dais. The chimney-piece is carved and hears the half -obliterated escutcheon of the builder of the mansion— a noble of the old regime.
Over the mantle hangs a large oval mirror set in a tarnished gilt frame. Think, dear reader, of the hundreds of human faces that have peered into that ancient glass, and then passed forever into the land of sahdows. From everyone, say the occultists, issues an aura, a subtle, magnetic force that attracts or repels other souls and exercises an influence on inanimate things.
If this be so, then everything must be affected by it and why not the sensitive surface of a mirror, just as the photographer's negative is affected?
Think of the psychic impressions that must be stored up in an old looking-glass of the kind described above. In the summer of 1893 I was in Paris on business and pleasure bent, and I found a lodging at the little hotel of the Rue de Beaune an old street, once aristocratic, but now fallen into decay, and silent as the grave. The hum of Paris is but faintly heard here. By good fortune I was assigned to the state bedroom. A sultry evening was closing in. Storm clouds hung low in the heavens, presaging rain before morning. I had picked up on the Quai Voltaire a battered volume of Dumas’ Memoirs of a Physician , and sat down to read it by the light of wax candles stuck into an antiquated candelabrum.
The book is fascinating. I first read it when a boy, and implicitly believed every word of it. It is replete with magic and mystery. In rapid succession Dumas passes before you pictures of Louis XV, the Countess du Barry, the Dauphin and his beautiful consort, the unfortunate Antoinette; the brilliant prime minister, Choiseul ; the Cardinal de Rohan; and towering above all, Cagliostro, the necromancer of the ancient regime.
I read Dumas’s delightful novel until midnight and then retired to rest in the antique four-poster. The storm broke and the rain fell in torrents outside, splashing against the window panes like the dashing of the sea against the closed ports of an ocean liner. The thunder rolled over the house, and the lightning flashed vividly. Gradually the storm died away and nothing was heard but the soothing drip, drip, drip of the rain drops falling from the eaves of the house upon the flagged courtyard below, like the drip of the rain upon the Ghost’s Walk of Chesney Wold -the haunted mansion of the lock family of Charles Dickens’ Bleak House.
With my mind filled with strange fancies about Cagliostro and that old Paris of long ago, 1 dropped off to sleep and was soon in the land of dreams that crepuscular country, midway between this mortal life of ours and the realm of spirit, where the soul revels amid such fantastic scenes.
CAGLIOSTRO AND HIS EGYPTIAN RITE OF FREEMASONRY
I seemed to be standing before the mirror, gazing earnestly into its crystal depths. The reflection of my own face was no longer seen, but a strange phan- tasmagoria passed before my entranced gaze. Let me see if i can recall it. It is night. The lanterns swung in the streets of old Paris glimmer fitfully, Silence broods over the city with shadowy wings. No sound is heard save the clank of the patrol on its rounds. The Rue Saint Claude, how- ever, is all bustle and confusion. A grand soiree magiquc is being held at the house of Monsieur le Comte de Cagliostro. I can see heavy, old-fashioned carriages standing in front of the door, with coachmen lolling sleepily on the boxes, and link boys playing rude games with each other in the kennel. A rumble in the street— ha, there, lackeys! out of the way!
Here comes the coach of my Lord Cardinal, Prince Louis de Rohan. There is a flash of torches. Servants in gorgeous liveries of red and gold, with powdered wigs, open the door of the vehicle, and let down the steps with a crash. Monseigneur le Cardinal, cele- brant of the mass in the royal palace at Versailles, a man of pleasure and alchemist, descends. He is enveloped in a dark cloak as if to court disguise, but it is only a polite pretense. He enters the mansion of his bosom friend, Cagliostro, the magician. Within, all is a blaze of light. Visitors are received in a handsomely furnished apartment on the second floor. Beyond that is the seance-room, a mysterious chamber hung with somber draperies. Wax candles in tall silver sconces, arranged about the place in mystic pentagons and triangles, illuminate the scene.
In the center of the room is a table with a black cloth, on which are embroidered in red the symbols of the highest degree of the Rosicrucians. Upon this strange shekinah is placed the cabalistic apparatus of the necromancer- odd little Egyptian figures, of Isis and Osiris, vials of lustral waters, and a large globe full of clarified water. It is all very uncanny. Presently the guests are seated in a circle about the altar, and form a magnetic chain, Cagliostro, the Grand Kophta, enters. He is habited in gorgeous robes like the arch -hierophant of an ancient Egyptian temple. The clairvoyants is now brought in, a child of angelic purity, horn under a certain constellation, of delicate nerves, great sensitiveness, and withal, blue eyes. She is hidden to kneel before the globe, and relate what she sees therein.
Cagliostro makes passes over her, and commands the genii to enter the water. The very soul of the seeress is penetrated with the magnetic aura emanating from the magician. She becomes convulsed, and declares that she sees events taking place that very moment at the court of Versailles, at Vienna, at Rome,
MASTER OF MAGIC
Enough ill has been said of Cagliostro. I intend to speak well of him, because I think his is always preferable, providing one can. Baron de Geek'hen
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