Mr. Snodgrass is a man who, without any injustice to him, may be referred to as an egotist.
I once waited upon him to consult him in his professional capacity respecting a matter in which I had a deep interest. But ere I could possibly reach the question, he occupied the greater part of the time I was in his company in making known to me the multiplicity of his labours in the past; his engagements for the time to come; what invitations he was obliged to decline; how for years he had kept up his popularity in one particular town; how he was busy studying the mathematics; how he had succeeded in a critical case, in which the most eminent men in the city had failed; how he had been written to concerning questions of the most vital importance. In fine, his great I stood out so full and prominent that my little i was scarcely allowed to make its appearance, and when it did it was despatched with an off-handedness which amounted to, “Who are you to presume to stand in the way of Me, so much your superior?” Of course my little i had to be silent until his great I was pleased to give permission for him to speak.
I have been with him in company when he has spoken in such tones of egotism as have made me feel pity for him. He had acquirements which no one else could lay claim to. He had attained professional honours which put every one of his class in the shade. He could give information which no one present had heard before from any of their ministers or teachers. He criticised every one, but no one could criticise him. He put every one right in politics, divinity, medicine, exegesis of Scripture. What had he not read? Where had he not been? Was not he a philosopher? an historian? a theologian? a physician? In fact, was not he the wise man from the East? and when he died, would not wisdom die with him?
Mr. Fidler is a young man given to egotism in his own peculiar way. He is fond of putting himself forward in company by telling tales and repeating jests as original and of his own creation, when they had an existence before he was born, and are perhaps as well or better known by some to whom he repeats them than they are to himself. It would not be so objectionable did he not exhibit himself in such airs of self-conceit, and speak in a manner which indicated that he was in his own estimation the chief personage of the company. On one occasion he was apparently gulling his hearers with a tale as new to them, with all the egotism he could command, when, as soon as he had done, one present, disgusted with his vanity, quietly observed, “That is an old thing which I remember hearing in my childhood.” But, nothing daunted by this, he still went on with his egotistic talk and manner, until another gentleman well read in books recommended him when he reached home to procure a certain book of jests and read it, and he would find every one of his pleasantries which he had told on that occasion there inserted. This advice being taken, he found that all his jokes and puns which he thought were new, or wished to pass as new, had been published and gone through several editions before he or his friends were ever heard of.
When a man’s conversation is principally about himself, he displays either ignorance of men and things, or is inflated with vanity and self-laudation. He must imagine himself and his doings to be of such consequence that if not known it will be an irreparable loss to the world. He shows himself in the social circle in an air which indicates that he would, were he able, either compel others to retire, or eclipse them with his own moonshine glare.
Such a talker must necessarily be a person at great discount in all well-informed and respectable society. They resent his disgusting trespasses upon their general rights; and they are just in so doing. What authority has he for his intrusions? He has none, either in himself or in his associations. His inventions, of which he speaks, will not sustain the test of examination. His great and numerous acquaintances of which he boasts are not all of the genuine stamp. The cards which lie on his table, thick as autumnal leaves, and to which he points for your particular observation, are not of the kind he would lead you to believe.
“I was to dine with the Admiral to-night,” said a naval lieutenant once; “but I have so many invitations elsewhere that I can’t go.”
“I am going, and I’ll apologise,” said a brother officer.