phrase I mean never thinking at all about
one's-self, any more than if there was no such person in existence.
The character I speak of is as little of an egotist as possible:
Richardson's great favourite was as much of one as possible. Some
satirical critic has represented him in Elysium "bowing over the
_faded_ hand of Lady Grandison" (Miss Byron that was)--he ought to
have been represented bowing over his own hand, for he never admired
any one but himself, and was the god of his own idolatry. Neither do I
call it living to one's-self to retire into a desert (like the saints
and martyrs of old) to be devoured by wild beasts, nor to descend into
a cave to be considered as a hermit, nor to get to the top of a pillar
or rock to do fanatic penance and be seen of all men. What I mean by
living to one's-self is living in the world, as in it, not of it: it
is as if no one knew there was such a person, and you wished no one to
know it: it is to be a silent spectator of the mighty scene of things,
not an object of attention or curiosity in it; to take a thoughtful,
anxious interest in what is passing in the world, but not to feel the
slightest inclination to make or meddle with it. It is such a life as
a pure spirit might be supposed to lead, and such an interest as it
might take in the affairs of men, calm, contemplative, passive,
distant, touched with pity for their sorrows, smiling at their follies
without bitterness, sharing their affections, but not troubled by
their passions, not seeking their notice, not once dreamt of by them.
He who lives wisely to himself and to his own heart, looks at the busy
world through the loop-holes of retreat, and does not want to mingle
in the fray. "He hears the tumult, and is still." He is not able to
mend it, nor willing to mar it. He sees enough in the universe to
interest him without putting himself forward to try what he can do to
fix the eyes of the universe upon him. Vain the attempt! He reads the
clouds, he looks at the stars, he watches the return of the seasons,
the falling leaves of autumn, the perfumed breath of spring, starts
with delight at the note of a thrush in a copse near him, sits by the
fire, listens to the moaning of the wind, pores upon a book, or
discourses the freezing hours away, or melts down hours to minutes in
pleasing thought. All this while he is taken up with other things,
forgetting himself. He relishes an author's style, without thinking of
turning author. He