For this truly weird power—­since “the weird sisters” in “Macbeth” means only the sisters who foresee—­is, in fact, the energy which projects itself in some manner, which physiology can as yet only very weakly explain, and even if the explanation were perfect, it would amount in fact to no more than showing the machinery of a watch, when the main object for us is that it should keep time, and tell the hour, as well as exhibit the ingenuity of the maker—­which thing is very much lost sight of, even by many very great thinkers, misled by the vanity of showing how much they know.

Yes, Foresight or Forethought projects itself in all things, and it is a serious consideration, or one of such immense value, that when really understood, and above all subjected to some practice—­such as I have described, and which, as far as I can see, is necessary—­one can bring it to bear intelligently on all the actions of life, that is to say, to much greater advantage than when we use it ignorantly, just as a genius endowed with strength can do far more with it than an ignoramus.  For there is nothing requiring Thought in which it cannot aid us.  I have alluded to Poetry.  Now this does not mean that a man can become a SHAKESPEARE or SHELLEY by means of all the forethought and suggestion in the world, but they will, if well developed and directed, draw out from the mystic depths of mind such talent as he has—­doubtless in some or all cases more than he has ever shown.

No one can say what is hidden in every memory; it is like the sounding ocean with its buried cities, and treasures and wondrous relics of the olden time.  This much we may assume to know, that every image or idea or impression whichever reached us through any of our senses entered a cell when it was ready for it, where it sleeps or wakes, most images being in the former condition.  In fact, every brain is like a monastery of the Middle Ages, or a beehive.  But it is built on a gigantic scale, for it is thought that no man, however learned or experienced he might be, ever contrived during all his life to so much as even half fill the cells of his memory.  And if any reader should be apprehensive lest it come to pass with him in this age of unlimited supply of cheap knowledge that he will fill all his cells let him console himself with the reflection that it is supposed that Nature, in such a case, will have a further supply of new cells ready, she never, as yet, having failed in such rough hospitality, though it often leaves much to be desired!

Yes, they are all there—­every image of the past, every face which ever smiled on us—­the hopes and fears of bygone years—­the rustling of grass and flowers and the roar of the sea—­the sound of trumpets in processions grand—­the voices of the great and good among mankind—­or what you will.  Every line ever read in print, every picture and face and house is there.  Many an experiment has shown this to be true; also that