in subsequent returns, so that the second education can be taken up at the point at which it was lost, and progress be made.  This alternation of conditions has in some instances gone on for years, the patient living, as it were, two lives at broken intervals.  This condition, usually called double consciousness, is not double consciousness at all, but, if the term may be allowed, double memory.  It is evidently allied in its nature to the loss of the sense of personal identity.  Certain phenomena of remembrance seen frequently in exhausting diseases, and especially in old age, show the permanence of impressions made upon the higher nerve-centres, and are also very similar in their nature to this so-called double consciousness.  Not long since a very aged lady of Philadelphia, who was at the point of death, began to talk in an unknown tongue, soon losing entirely her power of expressing herself in English.  No one could for a time make out the language she was speaking, but it was finally found to be Portuguese; and in tracing the history of the octogenarian it was discovered that until four or five years of age she had been brought up in Rio Janeiro, where Portuguese is spoken.  There is little difference between the nature of such a case and that of the so-called double consciousness, both involving the forgetting of that which has been known for years.

There is a curious mental condition sometimes produced by large doses of hasheesh which might be termed double consciousness more correctly than the state to which the name is usually applied.  I once took an enormous dose of this substance.  After suffering from a series of symptoms which it is not necessary here to detail, I was seized with a horrible undefined fear, as of impending death, and began at the same time to have marked periods when all connection seemed to be severed between the external world and myself.  During these periods I was unconscious in so far that I was oblivious of all external objects, but on coming out of one it was not a blank, dreamless void upon which I looked back, a mere empty space, but rather a period of active but aimless life, full, not of connected thought, but of disjointed images.  The mind, freed from the ordinary laws of association, passed, as it were, with lightning-like rapidity from one idea to another.  The duration of these attacks was but a few seconds, but to me they seemed endless.  Although I was perfectly conscious during the intermissions between the paroxysms, all power of measuring time was lost:  seconds appeared to be hours—­minutes grew to days—­hours stretched out to infinity.  I would look at my watch, and then after an hour or two, as I thought, would look again and find that scarcely a minute had elapsed.  The minute-hand appeared motionless, as though graven in the face itself:  the laggard second-hand moved so slowly that it seemed a hopeless task to watch it during its whole infinite round of a minute, and I always gave