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.