“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.
You blame Marcius for being proud.—Coriolanus.
Here is another fellow, a marvellous pretty hand at
fashioning a compliment.-The Tanner of Tyburn.
There was a brilliant ball at Lady T——’s,
a personage who, every one knows, did in the year
17— give the best balls, and have the best-dressed
people at them, in London. It was about half-past
twelve, when Clarence, released from his three friends,
arrived at the countess’s. When he entered,
the first thing which struck him was Lord Borodaile
in close conversation with Lady Flora.
Clarence paused for a few moments, and then, sauntering
towards them, caught Flora’s eye,—coloured,
and advanced. Now, if there was a haughty man
in Europe, it was Lord Borodaile. He was not
proud of his birth, nor fortune, but he was proud
of himself; and, next to that pride, he was proud
of being a gentleman. He had an exceeding horror
of all common people; a Claverhouse sort of supreme
contempt to “puddle blood;” his lip seemed
to wear scorn as a garment; a lofty and stern self-admiration,
rather than self-love, sat upon his forehead as on
a throne. He had, as it were, an awe of himself;
his thoughts were so many mirrors of Viscount Borodaile
dressed en dieu. His mind was a little Versailles,
in which self sat like Louis XIV., and saw nothing
but pictures of its self, sometimes as Jupiter and
sometimes as Apollo. What marvel then, that Lord
Borodaile was a very unpleasant companion? for every
human being he had “something of contempt.”
His eye was always eloquent in disdaining; to the
plebeian it said, “You are not a gentleman;”
to the prince, “You are not Lord Borodaile.”
Yet, with all this, he had his good points.
He was brave as a lion; strictly honourable; and though
very ignorant, and very self-sufficient, had that
sort of dogged good sense which one very often finds
in men of stern hearts, who, if they have many prejudices,
have little feeling, to overcome.
