There is a great difference between seeking to raise a laugh from
everything, and seeking in everything what justly may be laughed at.
LORD SHAFTESBURY.
Behold our hero, now in the zenith of distinguished dissipations!
Courteous, attentive, and animated, the women did not esteem him the
less for admiring them rather than himself; while, by the gravity of
his demeanour to men,--the eloquent, yet unpretending flow of his
conversation, whenever topics of intellectual interest were discussed,
the plain and solid sense which he threw into his remarks, and the
avidity with which he courted the society of all distinguished for
literary or political eminence,--he was silently but surely
establishing himself in esteem as well as popularity, and laying the
certain foundation of future honour and success.
Thus, although he had only been four months returned to England, he
was already known and courted in every circle, and universally spoken
of as among "the most rising young gentlemen" whom fortune and the
administration had marked for their own. His history, during the four
years in which we have lost sight of him, is briefly told.
He soon won his way into the good graces of Lord Aspeden; became his
private secretary and occasionally his confidant. Universally admired
for his attraction of form and manner, and, though aiming at
reputation, not averse to pleasure, he had that position which fashion
confers at the court of ----, when Lady Westborough and her beautiful
daughter, then only seventeen, came to ----, in the progress of a
Continental tour, about a year before his return to England. Clarence
and Lady Flora were naturally brought much together in the restricted
circle of a small court, and intimacy soon ripened into attachment.
Lord Aspeden being recalled, Clarence accompanied him to England; and
the ex-minister, really liking much one who was so useful to him, had
faithfully promised to procure him the office and honour of secretary
whenever his lordship should be reappointed minister.
Three intimate acquaintances had Clarence Linden. The one was the
Honourable Henry Trollolop, the second Mr. Callythorpe, and the third
Sir Christopher Findlater. We will sketch them to you in an instant.
Mr. Trollolop was a short, stout gentleman, with a very thoughtful
countenance,-that is to say, he wore spectacles and took snuff.
Mr. Trollolop--we delight in pronouncing that soft liquid name--was
eminently distinguished by a love of metaphysics,--metaphysics were in
a great measure the order of the day; but Fate had endowed Mr.
Trollolop with a singular and felicitous confusion of idea. Reid,
Berkeley, Cudworth, Hobbes, all lay jumbled together in most edifying
chaos at the bottom of Mr. Trollolop's capacious mind; and whenever he
opened his mouth, the imprisoned enemies came rushing and scrambling
out, overturning and contradicting each other in a manner quite
astounding to the ignorant spectator. Mr. Callythorpe was meagre,
thin, sharp, and yellow. Whether from having a great propensity for
nailing stray acquaintances, or being particularly heavy company, or
from any other cause better known to the wits of the period than to
us, he was occasionally termed by his friends the "yellow hammer."
The peculiar characteristics of this gentleman were his sincerity and
friendship. These qualities led him into saying things the most
disagreeable, with the civilest and coolest manner in the world,--
always prefacing them with, "You know, my dear so-and-so, I am your
true friend." If this proof of amity was now and then productive of
altercation, Mr. Callythorpe, who was ha great patriot, had another and
a nobler plea,--"Sir," he would say, putting his hand to his heart,--
"sir, I'm an Englishman: I know not what it is to feign." Of a very
different stamp was Sir Christopher Findlater. Little cared he for
the subtleties of the human mind, and not much more for the
disagreeable duties of "an Englishman." Honest and jovial, red in the
cheeks, empty in the head, born to twelve thousand a year, educated in
the country, and heir to an earldom, Sir Christopher Findlater piqued
himself, notwithstanding his worldly advantages, usually so
destructive to the kindlier affections, on having the best heart in
the world, and this good heart, having a very bad head to regulate and
support it, was the perpetual cause of error to the owner and evil to
the public.
One evening, when Clarence was alone in his rooms, Mr. Trollolop
entered.
"My dear Linden," said the visitor, "how are you?"
"I am, as I hope you are, very well," answered Clarence.
"The human mind," said Trollolop, taking off his greatcoat,--
"Sir Christopher Findlater and Mr. Callythorpe, sir," said the valet.
"Pshaw! What has Sir Christopher Findlater to do with the human mind?"
muttered Mr. Trollolop.
Sir Christopher entered with a swagger and a laugh. "Well, old
fellow, how do you do? Deuced cold this evening."
"Though it is an evening in May," observed Clarence; "but then, this
cursed climate."
"Climate!" interrupted Mr. Callythorpe, "it is the best climate in the
world: I am an Englishman, and I never abuse my country."
"'England, with all thy faults, I love thee still!'"
"As to climate," said Trollolop, "there is no climate, neither here
nor elsewhere: the climate is in your mind, the chair is in your mind,
and the table too, though I dare say you are stupid enough to think
the two latter are in the room; the human mind, my dear Findlater--"
"Don't mind me, Trollolop," cried the baronet, "I can't bear your
clever heads: give me a good heart; that's worth all the heads in the
world; d--n me if it is not! Eh, Linden?"
"Your good heart," cried Trollolop, in a passion (for all your self-
called philosophers are a little choleric), "your good heart is all
cant and nonsense: there is no heart at all; we are all mind."
"I be hanged if I'm all mind," said the baronet.
"At least," quoth Linden, gravely, "no one ever accused you of it
before."
"We are all mind," pursued the reasoner; "we are all mind, un moulin a
raisonnement. Our ideas are derived from two sources, sensation or
memory. That neither our thoughts nor passions, nor our ideas formed
by the imagination, exist without the mind, everybody will allow;
[Berkeley, Sect. iii., "Principles of Human Knowledge."] therefore,
you see, the human mind is--in short, there is nothing in the world
but the human mind!"
"Nothing could be better demonstrated," said Clarence.
"I don't believe it," quoth the baronet.
"But you do believe it, and you must believe it," cried Trollolop;
"for 'the Supreme Being has implanted within us the principle of
credulity,' and therefore you do believe it!"
"But I don't," cried Sir Christopher.
"You are mistaken," replied the metaphysician, calmly; "because I must
speak truth."
"Why must you, pray?" said the baronet.
"Because," answered Trollolop, taking snuff, "there is a principle of
veracity implanted in our nature."
"I wish I were a metaphysician," said Clarence, with a sigh.
"I am glad to hear you say so; for you know, my dear Linden," said
Callythorpe, "that I am your true friend, and I must therefore tell
you that you are shamefully ignorant. You are not offended?"
"Not at all!" said Clarence, trying to smile.
"And you, my dear Findlater" (turning to the baronet), "you know that
I wish you well; you know that I never flatter; I'm your real friend,
so you must not be angry; but you really are not considered a
Solomon."
"Mr. Callythorpe!" exclaimed the baronet in a rage (the best-hearted
people can't always bear truth), "what do you mean?"
"You must not be angry, my good sir; you must not, really. I can't
help telling you of your faults; for I am a true Briton, sir, a true
Briton, and leave lying to slaves and Frenchmen."
"You are in an error," said Trollolop; "Frenchmen don't lie, at least
not naturally, for in the human mind, as I before said, the Divine
Author has implanted a principle of veracity which--"
"My dear sir," interrupted Callythorpe, very affectionately, "you
remind me of what people say of you."
"Memory may be reduced to sensation, since it is only a weaker
sensation," quoth Trollolop; "but proceed."
"You know, Trollolop," said Callythorpe, in a singularly endearing
intonation of voice, "you know that I never flatter; flattery is
unbecoming a true friend,--nay, more, it is unbecoming a native of our
happy isles, and people do say of you that you know nothing
whatsoever, no, not an iota, of all that nonsensical, worthless
philosophy of which you are always talking. Lord St. George said the
other day 'that you were very conceited.'--'No, not conceited,'
replied Dr. ----, 'only ignorant;' so if I were you, Trollolop, I
would cut metaphysics; you're not offended?"
"By no means," cried Trollolop, foaming at the mouth.
"For my part," said the good-hearted Sir Christopher, whose wrath had
now subsided, rubbing his hands,--"for my part, I see no good in any
of those things: I never read--never--and I don't see how I'm a bit
the worse for it. A good man, Linden, in my opinion, only wants to do
his duty, and that is very easily done."
"A good man; and what is good?" cried the metaphysician, triumphantly.
"Is it implanted within us? Hobbes, according to Reid, who is our
last, and consequently best, philosopher, endeavours to demonstrate
that there is no difference between right and wrong."
"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.
"Exactly so!" rejoined Mr. Callythorpe.
"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.