The Disowned — Complete

“Ah!” cried Talbot,—

“‘Old as I am, for riding feats unfit,
The shape of horses I remember yet’”

“And now let us hear how you like Ranelagh; and above all how you liked the ball last night.”

And the vivacious old man listened with the profoundest appearance of interest to all the particulars of Clarence’s animated detail. His vanity, which made him wish to be loved, had long since taught him the surest method of becoming so; and with him, every visitor, old, young, the man of books, or the disciple of the world, was sure to find the readiest and even eagerest sympathy in every amusement or occupation. But for Clarence, this interest lay deeper than in the surface of courtly breeding. Gratitude had first bound to him his adopted son, then a tie yet unexplained, and lastly, but not least, the pride of protection. He was vain of the personal and mental attractions of his protege, and eager for the success of one whose honours would reflect credit on himself.

But there was one part of Clarence’s account of the last night to which the philosopher paid a still deeper attention, and on which he was more minute in his advice; what this was, I cannot, as yet, reveal to the reader.

The conversation then turned on light and general matters,—the scandal, the literature, the politics, the on dits of the day; and lastly upon women; thence Talbot dropped into his office of Mentor.

“A celebrated cardinal said, very wisely, that few ever did anything among men until women were no longer an object to them. That is the reason, by the by, why I never succeeded with the former, and why people seldom acquire any reputation, except for a hat, or a horse, till they marry. Look round at the various occupations of life. How few bachelors are eminent in any of them! So you see, Clarence, you will have my leave to marry Lady Flora as soon as you please.”

Clarence coloured, and rose to depart. Talbot followed him to the door, and then said, in a careless way, “By the by, I had almost forgotten to tell you that, as you have now many new expenses, you will find the yearly sum you have hitherto received doubled. To give you this information is the chief reason why I sent for you this morning. God bless you, my dear boy.”

And Talbot shut the door, despite his politeness, in the face and thanks of his adopted son.

CHAPTER XXXI

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.”