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the attention of psychologists was first distinctly directed to the only known instance in which a notion and a reality are identical and coincident-in which a thought is the same as a thing.

But, by means of the dogma, cogito ergo sum, was it not the design of Des Cartes to prove his own existence? Take our word for it, no such miserable intention ever entered into his head. His great object, in the first place, was emphatically to signalize the very singular and altogether anomalous phenomenon we have spoken of, namely, the identity in man of thought and reality, and then to found upon this point as on a rock which no conceivable scepticism could shake; and, in the second place, he attempted to point out the genesis of the ego, in so far as it admitted of logical exposition. Cogito ergo sum-I am conscious, therefore, I am-that is-consciousness or the notion of "I," takes place in a particular Being-and the reality of "I" is the immediate result. The ergo here does not denote a mere logical inference from the fact of consciousness, but it points to a genetic or creative power in that act.

"Consciousness created you that is to say, you created yourself-did you?" we may here imagine an opponent of Des Cartes to interpose. "No," replies Des Cartes; "I did not create myself, in so far as my mere

existence is concerned. But, in so far as I am an ego, or an existence as a self, I certainly did create myself. By becoming conscious, I, in one sense, actually created myself."

"But," says the other, "must you not have existed before you could become conscious, and in order to become conscious."

"Certainly," answers Des Cartes, "some sort of being must have existed before my consciousness, but it was only after consciousness that that being became I."

"Do you then cease to be whenever you cease to be conscious?"

To this question Des Cartes answers both yes and no. "As an existing being," says he, "fulfilling many purposes of creation, I certainly do not cease to exist when I cease to be conscious; but as an I' (ego), I certainly am no more the moment consciousness leaves me. Consciousness made me from a thing, a self; that is, it lifted me up from existing merely for others, and taught me to exist also for myself. My being as an ego depends upon, and results from my consciousness, and, therefore, as soon as my consciousness is taken away, my existence as an ego or self vanishes. being heretofore called 'I' still exists, but not as I.' It lives only for others--not for itself-not as a self at all, either in thought or in deed."

CHAPTER V.

But though we have seen that consciousness is the genesis or origin of the ego, and that without the former the latter has no existence, we have yet to throw somewhat more light on consciousness itself, and the circumstances in which it arises.

Let thyself float back, oh reader! as far as thou canst in obscure memory into thy golden days of infancy, when the light of thy young life, rising out of unknown depths, scattered away death from before its path, beyond the very limits of thought; even as the sun beats off the darkness of night into regions lying out of the visible boundaries of space. In those days thy light was single and without reflection. Thou wert one with nature, and, blending with her bosom, thou didst drink in inspiration from her

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thousand breasts. Thy consciousness was faint in the extreme; for as yet thou hadst but slightly awakened to thyself; and thy sensations and desires were nearly all-absorbing. Carry thyself back still farther, into days yet more "dark with excess of light," and thou shalt behold, through the visionary mists, an earlier time, when thy consciousness was altogether null-a time when the discrimination of thy sensations into subject and object, which seems so ordinary and inevitable a process to thee now, had not taken place, but when thyself and nature were enveloped and fused together in a glowing and indiscriminate synthesis. In these days, thy state was indeed blessed, but it was the blessedness of bondage. The earth flattered thee, and the smiling heavens flattered

thee into forgetfulness. Thou wert nature's favourite, but at the same time her fettered slave.

But thy destiny was to be free; to free thyself to break asunder the chains of nature-to oppose thy will and thy strength to the universe, both without thee and within thee-to tread earth and the passions of earth beneath thy feet; and thy first step towards this great consummation was to dissolve the strong, primary and natural synthesis of sensation. In the course of time, then, that which was originally one in the great unity of nature, became two beneath the first exercise of a reflective analysis. Thy sensation was now divided into subject and object; that is, thyself and the universe around thee. Now, for the first time, wert thon" I."

Wouldst thou re-examine thy sensation as it exists in its primary synthetic state ?—then look at it—what is it but a pure unmixed sensation-a sensation, and nothing more? Wouldst thou behold it-in thy own secondary analysis of it?-then, lo! how a new element, altogether transcending mere sensation, is presented to thee-the element or act of negation; that is, as we shall show, of freedom.

Sensation in man is found to be, first of all, a unity-and at this time there is no ego or non-ego at all in the case; but afterwards it becomes a duality, and then there is an ego and a non-ego. But, in the latter case, it is obvious that very different circumstances are connected with sensation, and very different elements are found along with it, than are found in it when it is a unity: there is, for instance, the fact of negation, the non which is interposed between the subject and the object and there are also, of course, any other facts into which this one may resolve itself.

Moreover, it is evident that, but for this act of negation or division, there would be no ego, or non-ego. Take away this element, and the sensation is restored to its first unity, in which these, being undiscriminated, were virtually non-existent. For it is obvious that, unless a man discriminates himself as "I" from other things, he does not exist as " I." The ego and the non-ego, then, only are by being discriminated, or by the one of them being denied (not in thought or word only, but in a primary and vital act)

of the other. But consciousness also is the discrimination between the ego and the non-ego; or, in other words, consciousness resolves itself, in its clearest form, into an act of negation. In order, then, to throw the strongest light we can on consciousness, we must ascertain the value and import, and, if possible, the origin of this act of negation this fundamental energy and vital condition upon which the peculiar being of humanity depends. And, first of all, we must beg the reader (a point we have had occasion to press upon him before) to banish from his mind the notion that this negation is a mere logical power, or form, consisting of a thought and a word. Let him endeavour to realize such a conception of it as will exhibit it to him as a vital and energetic deed by which he brings himself into existence-not indeed as a Being-but as that which he calls " I." Let him consider that, unless this deed of negation were practised by him, he himself would not be here-a particular Being would, indeed, be here; but it is only by deny. ing or distinguishing itself from other things that that Being becomes a self

himself. Unless this discrimination took place, the Being would remain lost and swallowed up in the identity, or uniformity of the universe. It would be only for others, not for itself. Self, in its case, would not emerge.

Am I, then, to say that "I" have been endowed by some other Being with this power of sundering myself, during sensation, from the objects causing it am I to say that this capability has been given "me?" Given me! Why, I was not "I" until after this power was exerted, how then could it have been given “me?” There was no "me" to give it to. I became "I" only by exercising it; and after it had been exerted, what would be the advantage of supposing it given to me then, I having it already? If, then, I suppose this power given to "me" before it is exerted, I suppose it given to that which does not as yet exist to receive it; and if I suppose it given to me after it is exerted-after I have become "I," I make myself the receiver of a very superfluous and unnecessary gift.

But suppose it should be said that this power, though not, properly speaking, given to "me," is yet given to that

particular Being which afterwards, in consequence of exercising it, becomes "I," then we answer, that in this case it is altogether a mistake to suppose that this particular Being exercises the power. The power is, truly speaking, exercised by the Being which infused it, and which itself here becomes "I;" while the particular Being supposed to become "I" in consequence of the endowment, remains precisely what it was, and does not, by any conceivability, become "I." One Being may, indeed, divide and sunder another Being from other objects; but this does not make the latter Being "I." In order to become "I" it must sunder itself from other things by its own act. Finally, this act of negation, or, in other words, consciousness, is either derived or underived. If it is derived, then it is the consciousness of the Being from whom it is derived, and not mine. But I am supposing it, and it is admitted to be, mine, and not another Being's, therefore it must be underived; that is to say, selforiginated and free.

out his will it would be the act of another Being. In this act of negation, then, or, in other words, in perception and consciousness, Will has place. Thus, though man is a sentient and passionate creature, without his will, he is not a conscious, or percipient being, not an ego, even in the slightest degree, without the concurrence and energy of his volition. Thus early does human will come into play-thus profoundly down in the lowest foundations of the ego is its presence and operation to be found.

A particular Being becomes "I" in consequence of exercising this act of negation. But this act must be that Being's own; otherwise, supposing it to be the act of another Being, it would be that other Being which would become I, and not the particular Being spoken of. But it was this particular Being, and no other, which was supposed to become I, and therefore the act by which it became so must have been its own; that is, it must have been an act of pure and absolute freedom.

In this self-originated act there is no passivity. Now every pure and underived act, of course, implies and involves the presence of will of the agent. If the act were evolved with

It is curious to observe how completely these views, in which we identify perception with a primary act of negation, are borne out by certain philological coincidences, which are, assuredly, not accidental, but based upon deeper reflection than we well know how to fathom. Thus, in Greek, there is the verbs, I am: then, anterior to this, in the order of thought, there is vo- (primary meaning), I am-with a negation. (Secondary meaning) I perceive; showing how sensible the founders of the Greek language were, that all perception is ultimately founded on negation and identical with it; that an act of negation is, in fact, the very condition upon which perception depends. Our own word "know" also clearly betokens this it is nothing but "no," and knowledge, from lowest to highest, is merely the constant alleging “no” of things, or, in other words, a continual process of denying them, first of ourselves, and then of one another:-of course we mean not only in word, but also in thought and in deed. Besides yox, in Greek, there is, in Latin, nosco, or nonsco-all words denoting knowledge, and all carrying negative signs upon their very fronts.

THE LACE-MERCHANT OF NAMUR.

He

In the beautiful city of Namur, in Flanders, there lived an old widow, whose very existence was unknown, unless to those who saw her in church, which she frequented every day, or in her small shop, where she carried on a trade in silks and laces. Perhaps poor Madame Le Blond might have died as unknown as she had lived, if she had not had the good fortune to have a son, who, as he grew to man's estate, attracted a good deal of observation among his towns-people, particularly the fairer portion of them. was now in his two-and-twentieth year; a modest, sedate, young man, who did great credit to the training of his mother, unknowing of evil, and, indeed, having no acquaintance beyond the small circle of devout and respectable old ladies who formed the society of his parent. Of money he had no great store, as his father, who, however, was an officer high in the army, had died without fortune, and the small trade in lace did little more than keep the widow and her son alive. But the virtues and good qualities of young Le Blond would never have made him a reputation in Namur, if he had not been the handsomest young fellow that all Flanders, or perhaps all Europe, had to boast of. In what his good looks consisted, or from what collocation of limbs and features his excessive handsomeness arose, we find it impossible to describe. Suffice it to say, that there was a something whatever that something might bethat made his form and face a study for the painter, and, as was soon sufficiently proved, when he began to assist his mother in her trade-there were a good many painters in the fair town of Namur, of the softer sex, who were in search of such a model. For instantly on young Le Blond commencing business, there was such a rush upon his shop, as if his silks were the richest that India had ever sent home, and his laces finer than those of Malines. Trade prospered so strangely under his management, that the old lady could find no means of accounting for it but the interposition of two or three of the saints, to whose service she accordingly devoted herself with more energy than ever;

leaving the young man in the shop to profit by their favour. The admiration of his visiters was not created by any splendour of dress or decoration. At that time it was the fashion for young gallants to shine forth in all the splendour of a huge periwig and a long sword. But the widow's parsimony-or indeed her poverty-forbade any such ornaments,-and the poor youth was left to the natural simplicity of his rich brown hair, that waved in long curls over his snowwhite collar,-and to the unadorned plainness of a tight-fitting coat and pantaloons, to which was appended neither sword nor dagger. As to Le Blond himself, he did not take any notice whether people wondered at his wiglessness or not. He was totally unconscious of any thing peculiar either in his dress or appearance; and had not the remotest idea what exact note was taken of both by the fairest and loftiest ladies in Namur. When the shop was filled with the beauty and fashion of the whole city-buying, as if in emulation-and smiling condescendingly on the attentive laceman, "see, my son!" whispered the good widow, as she took her rosary and hurried off to church, "see how the saints have blest our piety—our zeal-our industry!" The son bent religiously as she passed by, and thanked the saints for their goodness.

But when, after some time, it became evident, even to the old lady, that the saints were somewhat arbitrary in their favours, and in fact only rewarded piety, and zeal, and industry in the person of the son-leaving the poor widow, as often as she took charge of the business, without any customers whatsoever, she addressed him one day in a more serious manner than usual. "Alas, alas, I am an old and feeble woman, and have not the way of talking to customers as you have; 'twere better for me to give up. I have laboured and kept house, and saved and scraped long enough. Work now for yourself; take a wife, and I will live with you peaceably till I die."

The son, who was never known to disobey an injunction of his mother, found this very reasonable. He knew that it was usual when a man reached

a certain age for him to take a wife; and why should he trouble his head about what was the object of such a proceeding?

"But where shall I get a wife, mother?" said the son.

"Leave that to me," replied the widow, "I'll manage every thing."

"How if I were to take Maria, my godfather's daughter?" enquired Le Blond "she is a well-behaved girl. I recollect when we were children, we used to play at man and wife. My godfather spoke of it to me last week. "He spoke to me too," said the mother "but that can never be-and for a hundred and fifty reasons. I will only mention to you half a dozen of them. First, as long as we did not get on in our trade, your godfather looked at us over his shoulder-now, when he sees we are prospering, he tries to be civil. I can't bear the old fox. Second, Maria is good and tidy, and active-but she has nothing. A merchant, my dear son, must not ask what a wife is, but what she has. Nothing multiplied by nothing produces nothing. Third, there are objections to it which I am acquainted with, and even if there were none, I would never give my consent to it while I live. Fourth".

"Enough, enough, mother," interrupted the young man. "It was nothing but a suggestion of my own. Choose another for me yourself."

The

In a very few days the careful mother had fixed upon another, the daughter of Paulet the silversmith. girl was rich, but hideously ugly. A hump on her back, and an eye closed up by the small-pox, were the smallest of the unlovelinesses of the selected bride. It was from these causes she had not obtained a husband, though her wealth was enough to have tempted a dozen. Master Paulet the silversmith agreed with the old lady in a moment; and the young damsel, who

had never ventured to hope that any of the four known quarters of the globe would have produced her a wooer, blushed so celestially when she heard of Le Blond's proposal, that her countenance actually became blue. But the good Le Blond, when he heard of his acquisition, looked exactly of the same colour. When he had recovered a little from his first surprise, he held out all his ten fingers, and said, "see, mother, I will count you not one reason, but two hundred and fifty-on these fingers, why young Mademoiselle Paulet can never be my wife. First, when I only think of it, it gives me the scarlet fever; secondly, influenza; thirdly, giddiness in the head-fourthly, Asiatic cholera ; fifthly"-

"Hold!" exclaimed Madame Le Blond, who did not wish to hear the remaining two hundred grounds of dissent; "You speak like an apothecary, not a merchant. Let us calculate, if we turn over the lady's portion ten times in the year, how much our gains will be.”

But the mother and son never brought their reckonings to the same

sum.

This produced a little bitterness between them; the lady stood on the oldness and wisdom of her headthe young man on the youth and warmth of his heart; and when head and heart are at variance, there can be no great comfort till their discrepancies are reconciled. Home became uncomfortable to even the best and most unsophisticated of sons. If it had not been for the strong filial affection he retained he would have left the poor old lady to herself, As it was, he went more frequently abroad than he had ever done in his life, in order to hear no more of his pestilencecreating bride. Once, indeed, he was nearly off altogether, and it was on the following occasion.

THE APPARITION.

One morning he had gone to mass, as was his custom, and he observed kneeling, not far from him, a female figure in a rich, yet simple travelling dress, with her face hidden by a goldspangled veil. The worshipper, although the golden balls of her rosary fell quickly through her fingers, did

not seem to be very deep in her devotions. She appeared to regard Le Blond with great attention, and then she whispered to her neighbour, and then both of them looked at him. Le Blond saw their proceedings, but took little notice. The thought only crossed him, "Ah! they are not so hide

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