[To THE EDITOlt OP " SPECTATOIL.1
can well remember the first realisation of my own personality. I was about six years old, kneeling at family prayers, thinking of nothing in particular, when the sensation came to me of being shut up away from every one else in me, as I phrased it to myself. With this came the same awful sense of isolation expressed by S— in Mr. Sherlock's letter in the Spectator of May 10th. When prayers were over, I said to my eldest sister, hoping to find comfort in sympathy, "Isn't it odd to think you are you, and nobody else can ever get inside you P" and was laughed at for my pains. One of my friends remembers the same experience coming to her as she played with bricks on the nursery floor. Children often think more philosophically than their elders give them credit for.—I am,
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