IN that wholly delightful book of maxims and reflections by William Penn, which he called Some Fruits of Solitude, there is a phrase which, in the reading of new books, continually haunts me as a counsel of perfection, at once a guide and a solace. It is this: If Man be the Index or Epitome of the world, as Philosophers tell us, we have only to read our selves well to be learned in it. But because there is nothing we less regard than the characters of the Power that made us, which are so clearly written upon us and the World he has given us and can best tell us what we are and should be, we are even strangers to our own Genius.
There are some writers who more or less approach this ideal. Montaigne, for instance, almost entirely; Amiel, partially; Marie Bashkirtseff, with much qualification v: possibly Marcus Aurelius; and most certainly Paul the Apostle. Of course, there are others, many others, but these are the first five that spring to my recollection.
The essence of the thing is not a matter of mere frankness, neither is it that Shibboleth of the superficial, self-introspection (a typical tautological redundancy); still less is it a precipitation of ones self into the inkpot, with a subsequent transmutation to the typewriter. It is rather a suspension of the soul than a pose of the intellect. Roughly indicated it is the Contemplative Attitude.
The monkish fathers possessed it in the highest degree, and, in truth, it is barely conceivable apart from a sincere religious belief. There is much of it in Buddhism; the subjective isolation, the clarity of vision, the detachment of self, the comparative negligence of the personal equation.
This attitude, or something very nearly akin to it, is the dominant note of the collection of a score or so of papers by John Oliver Hobbes. The title of the book, From a Silent Study, indicates their point of view, and the prefixed note -- The writer wished to tell the truth -- a desire which may be regarded as a legitimate claim to any readers consideration and indulgence -- disarms criticism with an almost aggressive naivete which serves as a gentle reminder that it is neither fair nor pretty to argue with a woman. She expects, deserves and receives the last word, which is usually an illogical clincher. That is perhaps not quite fair, because there is really little or nothing to suggest contradiction in these papers. The calm dispassionate referee-like tone in which matters such as Tragedy and Seriousness, Passion at Parties, Proper Pride and Art by the Inch are discussed leaves little room for argument. They are just shorthand brain-notes on things as they are and ought not to be; but their value -- literary and, sociological -- lies less in their matter than in their manner and in the little side-issues of life, experience and reading....
--The Academy and Literature, Vol. 67