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 every event of my life, no matter how trivial, was clearly represented. Not a good "thought or deed, no matter how private—not a single sin, no matter how venial—but was there reproduced for my inspection and instruction—moving, with all their foregone accessories, across the walls of that magic globe. They were living icons, perfect rescripts, of all foredeeds, thoughts, actions—and transcripts, all too faithful, of the volumes of my memory. Soon all this passed along—the last scene being that of my death within the chamber of the house upon the hill. Scarcely had it vanished, whither I knew not, than a blank section moved across 'the line of vision, almost instantly succeeded by a Phantorama still more wondrous and imposing. Instead of representing myself alone, this second picture revealed the results, both direct and indirect, of my personal influence upon Others, whether exerted in a domestic, social, or professional capacity. I could not help being particularly struck with one tableau, which, as it embodies a moral lesson, I will here stop to briefly describe: I saw myself in the act of warm disputation with a friend, on a subject well calculated to elicit the best thought of the best thinker. I had the right of the argument, and this was so apparent that my friend with whom I was arguing lost temper. At the time of the occurrence, I took but little note of the matter, not deeming it a subject of very great importance. Now, however, I saw, what surprised me greatly, that this mental excitement had reacted physically, and, in running its course, brought on a slight inflammation of the brain—a sort of slow but positive fever, which, while not confining the patient, yet affected both soul and