And here the literary lady shook her head in so mysterious a way that if she intended to be incomprehensible, she certainly was most successful in the endeavour.
"Who is that lady?" inquired the Bishop of Lord Rossville.
"Miss Blewstocken, the celebrated authoress," was the reply.
"Oh!" said the Bishop, in a dry laconic way, which proved that, however celebrated Miss Blewstocken might be, the trumpet of her renown had never sounded in his ears before.
"Talk of de poetry and de novel," exclaimed the German Baron, "what are all dem to de researches of de philosoph? Was your lordship ever read my von grand vork on de 'Ideality of de Universe?'"
"I cannot say that I have ever read it, sir," answered the Bishop, with a frown. "I have heard of it, sir—and I consider its doctrines to be opposed to the Bible, sir. I believe it is in fourteen large volumes, sir? Well, sir—then all I have to observe upon it is that so many quartos are themselves too substantial to be a mere idea."
"But dey are von idea!" exclaimed the Baron, angrily. "Dey do not really exist, milor—in spite of what your lordship shall say. Every ting is de idea—we be ourselves all de walking, moving idea: dere no such ting as joy—no such ting as pain—dey mere sensation—"
At this moment the learned philosopher started from his seat with a yell of agony, and began stamping on the floor in a furious manner.
The fact was that while he was gesticulating in order to bestow additional emphasis on the enunciation of his principles, his hand, raised in the air, came in contact with a cup of coffee which a domestic was about to place before the young clergyman; and the scalding fluid was poured forth on the bald head and down the back of the philosopher.
"Pray do not mind it, sir," said the Bishop, drily: "it is merely an idea."