Has it ever happened to any but myself, to listen to I, I, I, in
conversation, till, wearied with the monotony of the sound, I was fain
to quarrel with the useful little word, and almost wish I could portray
its hydra head, and present it in a mirror to my oracles, that they
might turn away disgusted for ever with its hideous form.
I took up my abode for some time with a lady, whose habits of
benevolence were extensive, and of whose true philanthropy of heart I
had heard much. I expected to follow her to the alms-house, the
hospital, and the garret, and I was not disappointed. Thither she went,
and for purposes the kindest and most noble. She relieved their pressing
wants; ministered consolation in the kindest tone; and gave religious
instruction wherever needed. But, then, she kept a strict calendar of
all these pious visitings; and that, too, for the entertainment of her
company. All were called upon to hear the history of the appalling
scenes she had witnessed; the tears of gratitude that had fallen on her
hands; the prayers--half articulate--that had been offered for her by
the dying; and to hear her attestations of disregard to the opposition
she had to encounter in these her labors of love. Who, with such an
appeal, could withhold their commendations? I, therefore, of course, as
I listened again and again to the same tale to different auditors, heard
many pretty complimentary speeches about magnanimity, &c.; and, getting
somewhat weary, I drew nearer to the lady's guests, till I actually
thought I heard from one--he was a clergyman, I believe--an inward
whisper that he would like to refer his friend to the four first verses
of the sixth chapter of Matthew, but that it would be impolite. If my
listening powers were too acute when I heard this, let me turn monitor
at once, and assure my young friends, if they would have their
conversation listened to with pleasure, they must be economists with
_self_ as their subject.
On behalf of the very young, we certainly have it to plead, that they
know very little of any thing but what is, in some sense, their own. If
they talk of persons, it must be their parents, their brothers and
sisters, because they are the only people they know; if they talk of any
body's affairs, it must be their own, because they are acquainted with
no other; if of events, it must be what happens to themselves, for they
hear nothing of what happens to any body else. As soon, therefore, as
children begin to converse, it is most likely to be about themselves, or
something that belongs to them; and to the rapid growing of this
unwatched habit, may probably be attributed the ridiculous and offensive
egotism of many persons in conversation, who, in conduct, prove that
their feelings and affections are by no means self-engrossed. But the
more indigenous this unsightly weed, the more need is there to prevent
its growth. It has many varieties; the leaf is not always of the same
shape, nor the flower of the same color, but they are all of one genus;
and our readers who are botanists will have no difficulty in detecting
them, however much affected by the soil they grow in. The _I's_ and
_my's_ a lady exhibits in conversation, will bear such analogy to her
character, as the wares on the stall of the bazaar bear to the trade of
the vender. Or, if she have a great deal of what is called tact, she
will, perhaps, vary the article according to the demands of the market.
In fashionable life, it will be _my_ cousin Sir Ralph, _my_ father the
Earl, and _my_ great uncle the Duke; the living relatives and the
departed fathers; the halls of her family, their rent-rolls, or their
graves, will afford abundant materials for any conversation she may have
to furnish.
Among those who, having gotten into the world they know not how, are
determined it shall, at least, be known that they are there, it is _my_
houses, _my_ servants, _my_ park, _my_ gardens; or, if the lady be too
young to claim in her own behalf, _my_ father's houses, &c., &c., will
answer all the purpose. But, happily for the supply of this kind of
talk, rank and wealth, though very useful, are not necessary to it.
Without any ostentation whatever, but merely from the habit of occupying
themselves with their own individuality, some will let the company
choose the subject; but, be it what it may, all they have to say upon it
is the _I_, or the _my_. Books, travel, sorrow, sickness, nature, art,
no matter, it is _I_ have seen, _I_ have done, _I_ have been, _I_ have
learned, _I_ have suffered, _I_ have known. Whatever it be to others,
the _I_ is the subject for them; for they tell you nothing of the matter
but their own concern with it. For example, let the city of Naples be
spoken of: one will tell you what is seen there--what is done
there--what happens there--and making her reflections on all without
naming herself; you will only perceive, by her knowledge and remarks,
that she has been in Naples. Another will tell you how she came there,
and why she went, and how long she staid, and what she did, and what she
saw; and the things themselves will appear but as incidents to the idea
of self.
Some ladies I have known, who, not content with the present display of
their powers, are determined to re-sell their wares at second-hand. They
tell you all the witty things they said to somebody yesterday, and the
wise remarks they made to a certain company last night. _I_ said--_I_
remarked. The commodity should be valuable indeed to be thus brought to
market a second time. Others there are, who, under pretext of
confidence--little complimentary when shown alike to all--pester people
with their own affairs. Before you have been two hours in their company,
you are introduced to all their family, and to all their family's
concerns, pecuniary affairs, domestic secrets, and personal feelings--a
sort of bird's-eye view of every thing that belongs to them--past,
present, and to come; and woe to the secrets of those who may chance to
have been in connection with these egotists; in such a view, you must
needs see ten miles around.
There is an egotism, of which we must speak more seriously. Faults, that
in the world we laugh at, when they attain the dignity and purity of
sacred things, become matter of serious regret. I speak nothing further
of the ostentatious display of pious and benevolent exertion. We live at
a time when religion, its deepest and dearest interests, have become a
subject of general conversation. We would have it so; but we mark, with
regret, that self has introduced itself here. The heartless
loquacity--we must say heartless, for, in a matter of such deep
interest, facility of speech bespeaks the feelings light--the
unshrinking jabber with which people tell you their soul's
history--their past impressions and present difficulties--their
doctrines and their doubts--their manifestations and their
experiences--not in the ear of confidence, to have those doubts removed
and those doctrines verified; not in the ear of anxious inquiry, to
communicate knowledge and give encouragement, but any where, in any
company, and to any body who will listen, the _I_ felt--_I_ thought--_I_
experienced. Sorrows that, if real, should blanch the cheek to think
upon; mercies that enwrap all hearers in amazement, they will tell as
unconcernedly as the adventures of the morning. The voice falters not;
the color changes not; the eye moistens not. And to what purpose all
this personality? To get good, or do good? By no means; but that,
whatever subject they look upon, they always see themselves in the
foreground of the picture, with every minute particular swelled into
importance, while all besides is merged in indistinctness.
We may be assured there is nothing so ill-bred, so annoying, so little
entertaining, so absolutely impertinent, as this habit of talking always
with reference to ourselves; for every body has a self of their own, to
which they attach as much importance as we to ours, and see all others'
matters small in the comparison. The lady of rank has her castles and
her ancestors--they are the foreground of her picture. There they stood
when she came into being; and there they are still, in all the magnitude
of near perspective; and, if her estimate of their real size be not
corrected by experience and good sense, she expects that others will see
them as large as she does. But that will not be so. The lady of wealth
has gotten her houses and lands in the foreground. These are the larger
features in her landscape; titles and the castles are seen at a smaller
angle. Neither lady will admire the proportions of her neighbor's
drawing, should they chance to discover themselves in each other's
conversation. She, again--whether rich or poor--whose world is her own
domesticity, sees nothing so prominent as the affairs of her nursery or
her household; and perceives not that, in the eyes of others, her
children are a set of diminutives, undistinguishable in the mass of
humanity, in which that they ever existed, or that they cease to exist,
is matter of equal indifference.
It is thus, that each one attributes to the objects around him, not
their true and actual proportion, but a magnitude proportioned to their
nearness to himself. We say not that he draws ill who does so: for, to
each one, things are important, more or less, in proportion to his own
interest in them. But hence is the mischief. We forget that every one
has a self of his own; and that the constant setting forth of ours is,
to others, preposterous, obtrusive, and ridiculous. The painter who
draws a folio in the front of his picture, and a castle in the distance,
properly draws the book the larger of the two: but he must be a fool, if
he therefore thinks the folio is the larger, and expects every body else
to think so too. Yet, nothing wiser are we, when we suffer ourselves to
be perpetually pointing to ourselves, our affairs, and our possessions,
as if they were as interesting to others as they are important to us.