asion, 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 ear-shot 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 organ might have been turned upside down without
affecting its expression. His forehead, however, was high and thinly
covered with sandy hair. I should have said, as a phrenologist, will
feeble; emotional, but not passionate; likely to be an enthusiast or a
weakly bigot.

I caught enough of what passed to make me call to the sergeant when the
chaplain left him.

"Good morning," said he. "How do you get on?"

"Not at all," I replied. "Where were you hit?"

"Oh, at Chancellorsville. I was shot in the shoulder. I have what the
doctors call paralysis of the median nerve, but I guess Dr. Neek and
the lightnin' battery will fix it. When my time's out I'll go back to
Kearsarge and try on the school-teaching again. I've done my share."

"Well," said I, "you're better off than I."

"Yes," he answered, "in more ways than one. I belon