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548 How then does man become "I?" how does he become percipient of an external universe? We answer, not through sensation, but by and through an act of discrimination, or virtual negation. This negation is not, and need not be, expressed in words. It is a silent but deep deed, making each man an individual person; and it is enough, if the reality of it be present, even although the expression and distinct conception of it should be absent. But, if the reality were actually absent, then there would be a difference indeed. If "no," in thought, and in deed, were taken out of the world, man would never become "I," and, for him, the external universe would remain a nonentity. Sensation, passion, &c., would continue as strong and violent as ever, but consciousness would depart; man and nature, "I" and "not I," subject and object, lapsing into one, and everything merging in a great unity, would be as though they were not. Indeed, the consequences of the disappearance of this small and apparently insignificant element are altogether incalculable.

An illustrative view will help to render our meaning more distinct, and our statement more convincing. Let us suppose man to be visited by particular sensations of sight, of smell, of touch; and let us suppose these induced by the presence of a rose. Now, it is evident that, in this process, the rose contributes nothing except the particular sensations mentioned. It does not contribute the element of negation. Yet, without the element of negation, the rose could never be an object to the man (and unless it were an object to him, he of course would never perceive it); neither without this element could the man ever become "I." For let us suppose this element to be absolutely withdrawn—to have no place in the process, then "I" and the rose, the subject and object, being undiscriminated, a virtual identification of them would prevail. But an identification of the subject and object, of the Being knowing and the Being known, would render perception, consciousness, knowledge inconceivable; for these depend upon a setting asunder of subject and object, of "I" and "not I." But a setting asunder of subject and object depends upon a discrimination laid down between them. But a discrimination laid down between them implies the presence of the element of negation; that is to say, knowledge, consciousness, perception, depend upon the restoration of the element we supposed withdrawn, and are inconceivable and impossible without it. It is therefore evident, that if man, in sensation, were virtually identified with the object, were the same as it, he would never perceive it,—it would never be an object to him, and just as little would he be "I." But the only way in which this virtual identification is to be avoided is by and through an implied discrimination. Then only do the "I" and "not I" emerge, and become the "I" and the "not I." But an implied discrimination involves an act of negation, either implicitly or explicitly. Therefore, an act of negation, actual or virtual, is the fundamental act of humanity—is the condition upon which consciousness and knowledge depend—is the act which makes the universe an object to us—is the ground and the placer of the "I" and the "not I."

Do metaphysicians still desire information with respect to the "nature of the connexion," the "mode of communication," which subsists between matter and what they term "mind"? or do they continue to regard this question as altogether insoluble? About "mind" we profess to know nothing. But if they will discard this hypothetical substance, and consent to put up with the simple word and reality "I" instead of it, we think we can throw some light on what takes place between matter and "me," and that the foregoing observations have already done so. The point at which all preceding philosophers have confessed the hiatus to be insurmountable, the hitch to be inscrutably perplexing, was not the point at which the impression was communicated to the organ of sense—was not the point where the organ communicated the impression to the nerves—was not the point where the nerves transmitted it to the brain,—but was the point where the brain, or ultimate corporeal tissue, conveyed it to the "mind." Here lay the gap which no philosophy ever yet intelligibly cleared; here brooded the mist which no breath of science ever yet succeeded in dispersing. But, repudiating the hypothesis of "mind," let us use the word, and attend to the