them, and they begin to say--I want this, I like that. I trust
that I shall not seem to you as one who dreams when I say that I believe
that is a revelation from God to each child, and just what makes the
difference between him and an animal; that God teaches each child to say
I; to know that it is not a mere thing, but a person, a living soul, with
a will of its own, and a duty of its own; responsible for itself; which
ought to do some things, and ought not to do other things. And what a
solemn and awful revelation that is, we shall see more clearly, the more
we think of it.

It may be a very dreadful and tormenting thought. It does not torment
the mere savage, who has no sense of right and wrong; who follows his own
appetites and passions, and has never learnt to say, "I ought," and "I
ought not." But it does torment the heathen when they begin to be
civilized, and to think; it has tormented them in all ages. It tormented
the old Greeks and Romans; it torments some Eastern peoples still--that
terrible thought--I am I myself, and cannot be any one else. I am
answerable for all that I ever did, or shall do; and no one can be
answerable for me. All the bad deeds I ever did, the bad thoughts I ever
thought, are mine, parts of me, and will be for ever. I can no more
escape from them than I can spring off my own shadow. But men have been
always trying to escape; to escape from the burden of their own self, and
the dread of an evil conscience; and have invented religion after
religion, often fantastic enough, often pathetic enough likewise, in
hopes of hiding from themselves the secret thought--I am I, and must be
myself for ever. But I am not what I ought to be, and therefore I may be
wrong, and miserable for ever. And how many people, in this Christian
land, are saying at this very moment to themselves, "Oh that I could get
rid of this I myself in me, which is so discontented and unhappy! Oh
that I had no conscience! Oh that I could forget myself!" And they try
to forget themselves by dissipation, by gaming, by drinking, by taking
narcotic drugs, even sometimes by suicide, as a last desperate attempt to
escape from themselves, they know not and care not whither. It is all in
vain. There is no escape from self. As the pious poet whose bust stands
beneath yonder tower has said:

Each in his separate sphere of joy and woe
Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart.

I must be I, thou must be thou, he