Chapter Thirteen.
A Knotty Question.
“Tom Blunt,” said Richard Sharp, “I deny your premises, condemn your reasoning as illogical, and reject your conclusions with scorn!”
The youth who made this remark with very considerable assurance and emphasis was a student. His fellow-student received it with an air of bland good-nature.
“Dick,” said he, “your oratory is rotund, and if it were convincing might be impressive; but it fails to some extent in consequence of a certain smack of self-assertion which is unphilosophical. Suppose, now, that we have this matter out in a calm, dispassionate manner, without ‘tooth,’ or egotism, or prejudice, which tend so powerfully to mar human disputation and render it abortive.”
“With all my heart, Tom,” said the other, drawing close to the fire, placing one foot against the mantelpiece, as being a comfortable, though not elegant posture, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, and placing his hands in that position—with all the finger tips touching each other—which seems, from the universal practice of civilised society, to assist mental elucidation. “I am quite prepared. Come on!”
“Stay; while my mind is working I like to have my hands employed. I will proceed with my monkey while we talk,” said Blunt, taking up a walking-stick, the head of which he had carved into the semblance of a monkey. “Sweet creature!” he added, kissing the object of his affection, and holding it out at arm’s-length. “Silent companion of my solitary rambles, and patient auditor of my most secret aspirations, you are becoming quite a work of art. A few more touches of the knife, and something like perfection shall have been attained! Look here, Dick, when I turn it towards the light—so—isn’t there a beauty about the contour of that upper lip and nose which—”
“Don’t be a fool, Tom,” interrupted his friend, somewhat impatiently; “you seem to me to be growing more and more imbecile every day. We did not sit down to discuss fine art—”
“True, Richard, true; but there is a power in the consideration of fine art, which, when judiciously interpolated in the affairs of life, tends to soften the asperities, to round away, as it were, the ruggedness of human intercourse, and produce a tranquillity of mind which is eminently conducive to—to—don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see!”