“I have no idea of what you mean,” cried Sir Christopher.
“Idea!” exclaimed the pious philosopher. “Sir, give me leave to tell you that no solid proof has ever been advanced of the existence of ideas: they are a mere fiction and hypothesis. Nay, sir, ‘hence arises that scepticism which disgraces our philosophy of the mind.’ Ideas!--Findlater, you are a sceptic and an idealist.”
“I?” cried the affrighted baronet; “upon my honour I am no such thing. Everybody knows that I am a Christian, and--”
“Ah!” interrupted Callythorpe, with a solemn look, “everybody knows that you are not one of those horrid persons,--those atrocious deists and atheists and sceptics, from whom the Church and freedom of old England have suffered such danger. I am a true Briton of the good old school; and I confess, Mr. Trollolop, that I do not like to hear any opinions but the right ones.”
“Right ones being only those which Mr. Callythorpe professes,” said Clarence.
“The human mind,” commenced Mr. Trollolop, stirring the fire; when Clarence, who began to be somewhat tired of this conversation, rose. “You will excuse me,” said he, “but I am particularly engaged, and it is time to dress. Harrison will get you tea or whatever else you are inclined for.”
“The human mind,” renewed Trollolop, not heeding the interruption; and Clarence forthwith left the room.
You blame Marcius for being proud.--Coriolanus. Here is another fellow, a marvellous pretty hand at fashioning a compliment.-The Tanner of Tyburn.
There was a brilliant ball at Lady T----‘s, a personage who, every one knows, did in the year 17-- give the best balls, and have the best-dressed people at them, in London. It was about half-past twelve, when Clarence, released from his three friends, arrived at the countess’s. When he entered, the first thing which struck him was Lord Borodaile in close conversation with Lady Flora.
Clarence paused for a few moments, and then, sauntering towards them, caught Flora’s eye,--coloured, and advanced. Now, if there was a haughty man in Europe, it was Lord Borodaile. He was not proud of his birth, nor fortune, but he was proud of himself; and, next to that pride, he was proud of being a gentleman. He had an exceeding horror of all common people; a Claverhouse sort of supreme contempt to “puddle blood;” his lip seemed to wear scorn as a garment; a lofty and stern self-admiration, rather than self-love, sat upon his forehead as on a throne. He had, as it were, an awe of himself; his thoughts were so many mirrors of Viscount Borodaile dressed en dieu. His mind was a little Versailles, in which self sat like Louis XIV., and saw nothing but pictures of its self, sometimes as Jupiter and sometimes as Apollo. What marvel then, that Lord Borodaile was a very unpleasant companion? for every human being he had “something of contempt.” His eye was always eloquent in disdaining; to the plebeian it said, “You are not a gentleman;” to the prince, “You are not Lord Borodaile.”
