Soul or Ego?

This passage comes from Mary Ann Shaffer's The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society:

Does it ever give thee pause, that men used to have a soul--not by hearsay alone, or as a figure of speech; but as a truth that they knew, and acted upon! Verily it was another world then... but yet it is a pity we have lost the tidings of our soul... we shall have to go in search of them again, or worse in all ways shall befall us. (Thomas Carlyle, Past and Present)

Isn't that something--to know your own soul by hearsay, instead of its own tidings? Why should I let a preacher tell me if I had one or not? If I could believe I had a soul, all by myself, then I could listen to its tidings all by itself.
...
"Did any of you ever think that along about the time the notion of a SOUL gave out, Freud popped up with the EGO to take it's place? The timing of the man! Did he not pause to reflect? Irresponsible old coot! It is my belief that men must spout this twaddle about egos, because they fear they have no soul! Think upon it!"

Ode to a walled garden

From That Hideous Strength:

Freud said we liked gardens because they were symbols of the female body. But that must be a man's point of view. Presumably gardens meant something different in women's dreams. Or did they? Did men and women both feel interested in the female body and even, though it sounded ridiculous, in almost the same way? A sentence rose to her memory. "The beauty of the female is the root of joy to the female as well as to the male, and it is no accident that the goddess of Love is older and stronger than the god."

Only one cure

From Care of the Soul (Ch. 4):

"A general principle we can take from Freud is that love sparks imagination to extraordinary activity. Being 'in love' is like being 'in imagination.' The literal concerns of everyday life, yesterday such a preoccupation, now practically disappear in the rush of love's daydreams. Concrete reality recedes as the imaginal world settles in. Thus, the 'divine madness' of love is akin to the mania of paranoia and other dissociations.

Does this mean that we need to be cured of this madness? Robert Burton in his massive self-help book of the seventeenth century, The Anatomy of Melancholy, says there is only one cure for the melancholic sickness of love: enter into it with abandon."