"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."