er; but at least half of the intestines might be dispensed with, and
of course all of the limbs. And as to the nervous system, the only parts
really necessary to life are a few small ganglia. Were the rest absent
or inactive, we should have a man reduced, as it were, to the lowest
terms, and leading an almost vegetative existence. Would such a being, I
asked myself, possess the sense of individuality in its usual
completeness,--even if his organs of sensation remained, and he were
capable of consciousness? Of course, without them, he could not have it
any more than a dahlia, or a tulip. But with it--how then? I concluded
that it would be at a minimum, and that, if utter loss of relation to
the outer world were capable of destroying a man's consciousness of
himself, the destruction of half of his sensitive surfaces might well
occasion, in a less degree, a like result, and so diminish his sense of
individual existence.

I thus reached the conclusion that a man is not his brain, or any one
part of it, but all of his economy, and that to lose any part must
lessen this sense of his own existence. I found but one person who
properly appreciated this great truth. She was a New England lady, from
Hartford,--an agent, I think, for some commission, perhaps the Sanitary.
After I had told her my views and feelings, she said: "Yes, I
comprehend. The fractional entities of vitality are embraced in the
oneness of the unitary Ego. Life," she added, "is the garnered
condensation of objective impressions; and, as the objective is the
remote father of the subjective, so must individuality, which is but
focused subjectivity, suffer and fade when the sensation lenses, by
which the rays of impression are condensed, become destroyed." I am not
quite clear that I fully understood her, but I think she appreciated my
ideas, and I felt grateful for her kindly interest.

The strange want I have spoken of now haunted and perplexed me so
constantly, that I became moody and wretched. While in this state, a man
from a neighboring ward fell one morning into conversation with the
chaplain, within earshot of my chair. Some of their words arrested my
attention, and I turned my head to see and listen. The speaker, who
wore a sergeant's chevron and carried one arm in a sling, was a tall,
loosely made person, with a pale face, light eyes of a washed-out blue
tint, and very sparse yellow whiskers. His mouth was weak, both lips
being almost alike, so that the