Chapter VIII.——Of the Nature
and the Amazing Power of Memory.
12. I will soar, then, beyond this power of my
nature also, ascending by degrees unto Him who made me. And I enter
the fields and roomy chambers of memory, where are the treasures of
countless images, imported into it from all manner of things by the
senses. There is treasured up whatsoever likewise we think, either
by enlarging or diminishing, or by varying in any way whatever
those things which the sense hath arrived at; yea, and whatever
else hath been entrusted to it and stored up, which oblivion hath
not yet engulfed and buried. When I am in this storehouse, I demand
that what I wish should be brought forth, and some things
immediately appear; others require to be longer sought after, and
are dragged, as it were, out of some hidden receptacle; others, again, hurry forth in crowds, and while another thing is sought and inquired for, they leap into view, as if to say, “Is it not we, perchance?” These I drive away with the hand of my heart from before the face of my remembrance, until what I wish be discovered making its appearance out of its secret cell. Other things suggest themselves without effort, and in continuous order, just as they are called for,—those in front giving place to those that follow, and in giving place are treasured up again to be forthcoming when I wish it. All of which takes place when I repeat a thing from memory.
13. All these things, each of which entered by its
own avenue, are distinctly and under general heads there laid up: as, for example, light, and all colours and forms of bodies, by the eyes; sounds of all kinds by the ears; all smells by the passage of the nostrils; all flavours by that of the mouth; and by the sensation of the whole body is brought in what is hard or soft, hot or cold, smooth or rough, heavy or light, whether external or internal to the body. All these doth that great receptacle of memory, with its many and indescribable departments, receive, to be recalled and brought forth when required; each, entering by its own door, is hid up in it. And yet the things themselves do not enter it, but only the images of the things perceived are there ready at hand for thought to recall. And who can tell how these images are formed, notwithstanding that it is evident by which of the senses each has been fetched in and treasured up? For even while I live in darkness and silence, I can bring out colours in memory if I wish, and discern between black and white, and what others I wish; nor yet do sounds break in and disturb what is drawn in by mine eyes, and which I am considering, seeing that they also are there, and are concealed, laid up, as it were, apart. For these too I can summon if I please, and immediately they appear. And though my tongue be at rest, and my throat silent, yet can I sing as much as I will; and those images of colours, which notwithstanding are there, do not interpose themselves and interrupt when another treasure is under consideration which flowed in through the ears. So the remaining things carried in and heaped up by the other senses, I recall at my pleasure. And I discern the scent of lilies from that of violets while smelling nothing; and I prefer honey to grape-syrup, a smooth thing to a rough, though then I neither taste nor handle, but only remember.
14. These things do I within, in that vast chamber
of my memory. For there are nigh me heaven, earth, sea, and
whatever I can think upon in them, besides those which I have
forgotten. There also do I meet with myself, and recall
myself,—what, when, or where I did a thing, and how I was
affected when I did it. There are all which I remember, either by
personal experience or on the faith of others. Out of the same
supply do I myself with the past construct now this, now that
likeness of things, which either I have experienced, or, from
having experienced, have believed; and thence again future actions, events, and hopes, and upon all these again do I meditate as if they were present. “I will do this or that,” say I to myself in that vast womb of my mind, filled with the images of things so many and so great, “and this or that shall follow upon it.” “Oh that this or that might come to pass!” “God avert this or that!” Thus speak I to myself; and when I speak, the images of all I speak about are present, out of the same treasury of memory; nor could I say anything at all about them were the images absent.