A spectre is concealed on a silver or glassy surface until, by our necromancy, we make it come forth into the visible world.

Upon the walls of our most private apartments, where we think the eye of intrusion is altogether shut out and our retirement can never be profaned, there exist the vestiges of all our acts, silhouettes of whatever we have done.
If, after the eyelids have been closed for some time, as when we first awake in the morning, we suddenly and steadfastly gaze at a brightly-illuminated object and then quickly close the lids again, a phantom image is perceived in the indefinite darkness beyond us.

We may satisfy ourselves that this is not a fiction, but a reality, for many details that we had not time to identify in the momentary glance may be contemplated at our leisure in the phantom.

We may thus make out the pattern of such an object as a lace curtain hanging in the window, or the branches of a tree beyond.

By degrees the image becomes less and less distinct; in a minute or two it has disappeared.