THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF SELF. 299 



Trans cendentalists say it is, and all that Empiricists say it 

 is into the bargain, but it is at any rate no mere ens rationis, 

 cognized only in an intellectual way, and no mere summation 

 of memories or mere sound of a word in our ears. It is some- 

 thing with which we also have direct sensible acquaintance, 

 and which is as fully present at any moment of conscious- 

 ness in which it is present, as in a whole lifetime of such 

 moments. When, just now, it was called an abstraction, 

 that did not mean that, like some general notion, it could 

 not be presented in a j)articular experience. It only meant 

 that in the stream of consciousness it never Avas found all 

 alone. But when it is found, it is felt; just as the body is 

 felt, the feeling of which is also an abstraction, because never 

 is the body felt all alone, but always together with other 

 things. Now can ice tell more precisely in ivhat the feeling of 

 this central active self consists, — not necessarily as yet what 

 the active self is, as a being or princi23le, but what we feel 

 when we become aAvare of its existence? 



I think I can in my own case ; and as what I say will 

 be likely to meet with opposition if generalized (as indeed 

 it may be in j^art inapplicable to other individuals), I had 

 better continue in the first person, lea\ing my description 

 to be accepted by those to whose introspection it may com- 

 mend itself as true, and confessing my inability to meet the 

 demands of others, if others there be. 



First of all, I am aware of a constant play of furtherances 

 and hindrances in my thinking, of checks and releases, ten- 

 dencies which run with desire, and tendencies which run the 

 other way. Among the matters I think of, some range them- 

 selves on the side of the thought's interests, whilst others 

 play an unfriendly part thereto. The mutual inconsisten- 

 cies and agreements, reinforcements and obstructions, which 

 obtain amonst these objective matters reverberate back- 

 wards and produce what seem to be incessant reactions of 

 my spontaneity upon them, welcoming or opposing, appro- 

 priating or disowning, striving with or against, saying yes 

 or no. This palpitating inward life is, in me, that central 

 nucleus which I just tried to describe in terms that all men 

 might use. 



But when I forsake such general descriptions and grap- 



