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 alone with eyes, for the simulacra of the objects witnessed within that sphere, even the faint outlines of the most far-off memograph, seemed to stream in upon me through a thousand new doors, and I appeared to acquire knowledge by two opposite methods: first by going out involuntarily to whatever was to be known; and second, by absorbing the images of things,—just as the eye absorbs a landscape. A person beholding me at that moment, would have concluded, and rightly too, that I had just arisen from off a sort of cloud-couch near the center of the sphere, toward which my face was turned. On that couch I beheld the exact image, not of my person, but of the clothes, the resemblance of which to those once worn on earth, it will be remembered, had so greatly surprised me in the earlier part of this experience. While yet I gazed upon that ghost of a dress, it slowly faded into nothingness. Desiring to know the rationale of this occurrence, it came to me that the worlds are not only full of objects, but must necessarily be still more full of the images thereof,—images which fix themselves more or less permanently, on whatever plastic material which they may chance to come in contact with. Sometimes the lightning will pass over a body or object; and in passing will fix and bring out into visibility the images of things already there. Nature is full of mirrors. This is the memory of Matter—the Photography of the substantial universe. Memory is but the photography of soul Everything that strikes the eye, or the senses in anyway, leaves an exact image of itself upon the cylinder of Retention, which cylinder winds and unwinds, according as it takes on or gives off the