figure, harm it in the least degree, because it is not substance, although it is substantial. It is not a shadow, for it is real,—which latter fact is proved daily by those who first coax this image to enter a camera, and no sooner does it get fairly in than the clever artist impales it against a tablet of glass, or ivory, and lo! everybody carries the chained image to his home for everybody else to look at, who chooses so to do. This is Photography.
Now, the wind and rain, cold and heat, are as powerless and inefficient to act upon a spirit as they are upon the image in the camera, or a mirror. In other words, the spiritual body is a projected image of the soul,—is a sort of objectified subjective state; or is a fixed idea—an out-creation.[1]
The image in the glass is not made up of parts,—it is a unit,—an entity,—is homogeneous. "If so, how can it be scientifically true that the rain passes through it? If it does so pass, it must make holes through it; and if holes are made through it, then its homogeneity is at an end for evermore."
This is a fair, as it certainly is the strongest objection that can be urged against the position assumed. But the answer, which forever sets it at rest, is this: "Spirit is not matter."
The subject may be further illustrated, thus: Suppose a large sheet of flame issuing, not from a jet, but from the edge of a hollow disk, and that the rush of gas is great enough to impel the sheet of flame six feet into the air. Now, try to wet this flame; it will take some time before you succeed in the enterprise. Take a watering
- ↑ This sublime truth will be elaborated at length in the second volume, of which this is the first.—Pub.
