By Gerald B. Bryan
In A.D. 1934 the metaphysical world was startled by the
appearance of an occult thriller, entitled Unveiled Mysteries, copyrighted by Saint
Germain Press, P.O. Box 1133, Chicago, Illinois. In it is narrated a series of
fantastic occult adventures of one Godfre Ray King (Guy Ballard), which adventures, the
foreword says, are as “Real and True as mankind’s existence on this earth
today.”
The first page of this “true account” of the adventures
of Godfre Ray King informs us that he “knew through travels in the Far East,
that most rumors, myths, and legends have, somewhere as their origin, a deep
underlying Truth.”
And then with himself as the living hero of it all, he
proceeds to bring the adventures of Sindbad the Sailor, the incredible tales of
Baron Munchausen, the travels of Gulliver, and other “rumors, myths, and
legends” together as the one “deep underlying Truth.” All story tellers have a
way with them. It is said that the estimable old gentleman, the Baron
Munchausen, would never crack a smile as he related the most incredible of his
tales, and he did it so well that some of his hearers were even persuaded to
believe he meant his fantastic stories to be taken seriously!
Perhaps he did. One’s wildest imaginings assume a
semblance of reality if they are recreated often enough. At any rate, the
genial old Baron, or his narrator, in an effort to vindicate his stories and
his own veracity, attached to his manuscript a notice to the public affirming
the absolute truth of his stories. It was signed by Gulliver, Sindbad, and
Aladdin, and to the effect that they personally attested that the adventures of
their friend, the Baron Munchausen, were “positive and simple facts” — the
affidavit being duly sworn at the City of London, England, before “John the
Porter” in the absence of the Lord Mayor.
Similarly, the modern author of fabulous literature,
Godfre Ray King, like the truth-loving old Baron, attests to his own veracity
by saying in his foreword that his adventures are “Real and True.” But he goes
the Baron one better by bringing forth, instead of the reputable Gulliver,
Sindbad, and Aladdin, no less a personage than the credible “Saint Germain,”
who swears to the truth in these books in his own vehement way; and, as though
his word were not sufficient, proceeds to bring forth the whole “Cosmic Host”
to back him up.
Assured by this testimony we can now with more confidence
follow the narrator through his series of surprising adventures beginning on
the slanting slopes of Mt. Shasta, California, and ending in a marvelous cave
in the Grand Teton Mountain in Wyoming, where a tall golden-haired gentleman
from our sister planet Venus gives him some sage advice.
The very first day that Godfre met the mysterious Count
St. Germain on a California mountain side, time passed all too quickly, as you
can imagine it would if a great Master showed you your past embodiments,
including one where you were a priest and your present wife a “vestal virgin
guarding the Sacred Fire.” (p. 25, U.M.)
So as Godfre was ten miles away from his lodge at the
foot of the mountain and it would be nearly midnight before he could return on
foot, the great “Master” obligingly offered him another means of locomotion.
“Place your arm about my shoulder,” said he, “and close
your eyes.” “I felt my body lifted from the ground,” relates Godfre in telling
of this amazing transportation of his actual physical body through space, and
added: “Presently, my feet touched the floor and opening my eyes — I stood in the lodge.”
Commenting on Godfre’s question as to how it was possible
to come back in this manner without attracting the attention of others, the
great “Master” explains:
“We many times draw about our bodies the cloak of
invisibility when moving among those in physical form.” And the next second,
Godfre writes, “he was gone.” (pp. 27-28, U.M.)
We can imagine the humorous old Baron sitting around the
tavern table with congenial spirits telling such a tale as this, and we can
hear the laughter of those around him while the old fellow snorts at their
disbelief. But, alas, in this modern age, strange as it may seem, disbelief in
such fabulous narratives has turned to belief in the case of many hundreds of
thousands of adult Americans!
Godfre’s book might well have been entitled: “A
Continuation of the Surprising Adventures of Baron Munchausen” or “The Occult
Adventures of Sindbad the Sailor.”
However, some of the tales are hardly suitable as bedtime
stories.
One of them, at least, is the thriller type, and red
blood is spilled.
One day while walking along a mountain trail at Mt.
Shasta, our hero is attacked successively by a “vicious-eyed panther” and a
“considerably heavier mountain lion.” The former he has calmed by looking
commandingly into its eyes, and before the latter could rend him in its leap,
the panther whom he had tamed by the magnetism of his eyes protects him by
leaping upon the mountain lion. Then both animals die in a terrific struggle,
but Godfre, the hero, is saved.
Baron Munchausen in his own surprising adventures tells a
somewhat similar story. He is attacked successively, but not successfully, by a
ferocious lion and a forty-foot crocodile. The lion springs at him, but at the
right moment the Baron ducks, causing the lion to leap into the gaping jaws of
the crocodile who is attacking the Baron from the rear. Both animals die in the
resulting terrific struggle, and Munchausen escapes with his skin — he taking
the lion’s skin instead! Incredible as this crocodile story of the Baron’s may
seem to the unenlightened, we have in America stories just as thrilling, which,
although they may be rejected and scoffed at by the uninformed, are
nevertheless believed by enlightened I AM-ers who read and re-read Godfre Ray
King’s amazing books.
Perhaps the most thrilling of the tales in Godfre’s first
book is the one in which he tells how he got back into his embalmed body of
seventy thousand years ago!
This body had been miraculously preserved all those seven
hundred centuries, but instead of it having the cadaveric appearance of a
mummified Ramses II, it had retained all its original state of youth and
beauty, looking most lifelike with its long “wavy golden hair” and dressed in
“golden fabric” of marvelous beauty. In this body, which had all the youthful
appearance of a golden-haired Apollo, the then fifty-two year old Godfre
functioned for an hour or so, until the clock struck twelve at the Palace of
the Masters, at which time, like Cinderella of the fairy tales, he slipped back
into his old garments of flesh, to become once again the most famous of
twentieth-century occult adventurers and story tellers.
This midnight cadaveric experience of Godfre Ray King was
not quite so ghostly as one would think. It was really a gala event not only
for Godfre but for the entire Ray King family. Edna Lotus Ray King and Edona
Eros Ray King (then a boy of twelve) arrive also for the event. And not to be
outdone by Godfre, they have beautifully embalmed bodies of their own, which
they succeed in raising from their “crystal caskets” after 70,000 years of
sleep. Then the three Kings walk around admiring and complementing one another.
(p. 249, U.M.)
In such matters as these, there is certainly safety and
security in numbers, as those of us well know, who, in the old days, walked
through the churchyard cemetery on a dark night with the ancestral dead all
about us. Still, as a conscientious reviewer, we would not advise some of
Godfre’s tales as strictly bedtime stories for children.
The Magic Presence is a continuation of Godfre’s
marvelous experiences. It starts with his visit to the Diamond K Ranch in
Wyoming, and from then on he makes almost as many voyages as did Sindbad the
Sailor, eventually landing in far-away India, where he brings to life the old
Arabian Nights Entertainment tale of “The Magic Carpet.”
Actually —literally and corporeally— he gets on one with
his two physical feet, which he describes as a “gorgeous Persian silk rug of a
most wonderful golden yellow.”
And away he flies, off into the Himalayan stratosphere on
a non-stop, no-gasoline flight, just as easily as you please, and comes down
without mishap from “eleven thousand feet above the palace!” (p. 381, M.P.)
Having had considerable experience in sailing off the
side of Mt. Shasta on Saint Germain’s power and landing in his lodge at the
foot of the mountain, as well as sailing off Himalayan mountain tops on “Magic
Carpets” to the ambient air above, he was offered the opportunity while in
India of making one last voyage. In other words, the opportunity of making his
“Ascension” — soaring off physically and
permanently into the “Seventh Octave of Light,” thereby becoming an “Ascended
Master.”
But, as we have seen, he decided against it, saying that
his “I AM” wanted him to come back to the world and serve.
And so Godfre came back to America again, but rides no
longer upon magic carpets. Alas, in this mundane occidental land, the nearest
thing to a magic carpet is a transcontinental airline plane, but most of the
time it is the gas and steam car for this most famous of world travelers.
It is seldom that a weaver of fantastic yarns gets away
with so much true-story acclaim as has Godfre Ray King. Yet, there have been some
historic examples of this kind of thing, and each age seems to have them. The
people of one generation revolt at learning the lessons of the preceding
generation, and must, it seems, experience the whole thing over again.
As example of this, we shall quote one from the past,
which, in a sense, may remind us of the amazing adventures of Godfre Ray King.
Just at the tail-end of the 19th century, the famous
traveler and adventurer, Louis de Rougemont, appeared in London fresh from the
cannibalistic wilds of Australia. He astounded the scientific circles of that
day by his erudite knowledge of aboriginal life, for he had actually lived for
thirty years among the savages of the Australian bush, and had in fact become
their cannibal chief. However, making his escape, he presented himself before
certain scientific societies and made the acquaintance of the editor of a
British journal, all of whom listened with attentive ear to his adventures.
The Wide World Magazine of August, 1898, wrote up the
story, which was described as “the most amazing story a man ever lived to
tell.” As a result, they received “shoals of letters” daily asking whether the
adventurer would “afford the British public an opportunity of seeing him in the
flesh.”
Meanwhile, letters had been pouring in to the British
paper, the Daily Chronicle, voicing a rising skepticism. But M. de Rougemont
answered his critics with the certain conviction gained through his thirty
years experiences among the cannibals, and at his public lectures denounced his
detractors in no uncertain terms. The sequel to this amazing story of the
adventures of Louis de Rougemont in the wilds of Australia will now, with
regret, have to be given. We quote directly, in part, from its sad ending, as
published by Frederick A. Stokes Company in their book, “Sober Truth — A
Collection of Nineteenth-century Episodes, Fantastic, Grotesque and
Mysterious,” compiled and edited by Margaret Barton and Osbert Sitwell:
“Then the Daily Chronicle, after having made exhaustive
enquiries, published what it claimed (and proved) to be the true story of de
Rougemont’s life. Alas, he had never been a cannibal chief, for the loftiest
position he had ever occupied was that of butler to a Lady Robinson in
Australia . . . In the spring of 1898 he landed in this country [England], and
after spending some weeks in the reading room of the British Museum, studying,
no doubt, books of travel and adventure, presented himself to the Editor of the
Wide World Magazine as ‘Louis de Rougemont,’ the cannibal chief. He was
received with open arms, and for a brief space enjoyed fame and prosperity as a
nineteenth-century Robinson Crusoe. After his exposure, he fled to Suchy, and
oblivion descended on him from the day he was seen there, sitting in a cafe,
apparently wrapped in gloomy contemplation.”
It is to be expected from what is known of human nature
that as the twentieth century fades into oblivion and a new century dawns, we
shall still have adventurers and narrators such as Godfre Ray King, Louis de
Rougemont, Munchausen, et al, telling strange and amazing stories of their
adventures into the Land of Make-Believe.
Is it too much to hope, however, that the public of that
day will be better able to discern fact from fiction than has apparently the
large number of people who have lived in the preceding and present centuries?
(Psychic Dictatorship in America, chapter 11)
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