d by ideas which now and here
arise within me.... This not-me character of my recollections and
expectations does not imply that the external objects of which I am
aware in those experiences should necessarily be there also for others.
The objects of dreamers and hallucinated persons are wholly without
general validity. But even were they centaurs and golden mountains, they
still would be 'off there,' in fairy land, and not 'inside' of
ourselves."[13]

This certainly is the immediate, primary, naif, or practical way of
taking our thought-of world. Were there no perceptual world to serve as
its 'reductive,' in Taine's sense, by being 'stronger' and more
genuinely 'outer' (so that the whole merely thought-of world seems weak
and inner in comparison), our world of thought would be the only world,
and would enjoy complete reality in our belief. This actually happens in
our dreams, and in our day-dreams so long as percepts do not interrupt
them.

And yet, just as the seen room (to go back to our late example) is
_also_ a field of consciousness, so the conceived or recollected room is
_also_ a state of mind; and the doubling-up of the experience has in
both cases similar grounds.

The room thought-of, namely, has many thought-of couplings with many
thought-of things. Some of these couplings are inconstant, others are
stable. In the reader's personal history the room occupies a single
date--he saw it only once perhaps, a year ago. Of the house's history,
on the other hand, it forms a permanent ingredient. Some couplings
have the curious stubbornness, to borrow Royce's term, of fact; others
show the fluidity of fancy--we let them come and go as we please.
Grouped with the rest of its house, with the name of its town, of its
owner, builder, value, decorative plan, the room maintains a definite
foothold, to which, if we try to loosen it, it tends to return, and to
reassert itself with force.[14] With these associates, in a word, it
coheres, while to other houses, other towns, other owners, etc., it
shows no tendency to cohere at all. The two collections, first of its
cohesive, and, second, of its loose associates, inevitably come to be
contrasted. We call the first collection the system of external
realities, in the midst of which the room, as 'real,' exists; the
other we call the stream of our internal thinking, in which, as a
'mental image,' it for a moment floats.[15] The room thus again gets
counted twice over. It plays t