“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. CHAPTER XXXII. You blame Marcius for being proud.--Coriolanus. Here is another fellow, a marvellous pretty hand at fashioning a compliment.-The Tanner of Tyburn.