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!'"