Mr. Mystic invited Mr. Fax and his friends to step with him into the boat, and cross over his lake, which he called the _Ocean of Deceitful Form_, to the _Island of Pure Intelligence_, on which Cimmerian Lodge was situated: promising to give them a great treat in looking over his grounds, which he had laid out according to the _topography of the human mind_; and to enlighten them, through the medium of ‘darkness visible,’ with an opticothaumaturgical process of transcendentalising a _cylindrical mirror_, which should teach them the difference between _objective_ and _subjective reality_.[79] Mr. Forester was unwilling to remit his search, even for a few hours; but Mr. Fax observing that great part of the day was gone, and that Cimmerian Lodge was very remote from the human world; so that if they did not avail themselves of Mr. Mystic’s hospitality, they should probably be reduced to the necessity of passing the night among the rocks, _sub Jove frigido_, which he did not think very inviting, Mr. Forester complied; and with Mr. Fax and Sir Oran Haut-ton stepped into the boat. The reader who is deficient in _taste for the bombast_, and is no _admirer of the obscure_, may as well wait on the shore till they return. But we must not enter the regions of mystery without an Orphic invocation. ὙΠΝΕ ἀναξ, καλεω δε μολειν κεχαρηοτα ΜΥΣΤΑΙΣ· και δε, μακαρ, λιτομαι, Tανυδιπτερε, οὐλε ὈΝΕΙΡΕ· και ΝΕΦΕΛΑΣ καλεω, δροσοειμονας, ἠεροπλαγκτους· ΝΥΚΤΑ τε πρεσβιστην, πολυηρατον ὈΡΓΙΟΦΑΝΤΑΙΣ, ΝΥΚΤΕΡΙΟΥΣ τε ΘΕΟΥΣ, ὑπο κευθεδιν οἰκι έχοντας, ἀντρῳ ἐν ἠεροεντι, παρα ΣΤΥΓΟΣ ἱερον ὑδωρ· ΠΡΩΤΕΙ συν πολυβουλῳ, ὁν ὈΛΒΟΔΟΤΗΝ[80] καλεουσιν. Ο sovereign Sleep! in whose papaverous glen Dwell the dark Muses of Cimmerian men! O Power of Dreams! whose dusky pinions shed Primaeval chaos on the slumberer’s head! Ye misty Clouds! amid whose folds sublime Blind Faith invokes the Ghost of Feudal Time! And thou, thick night! beneath whose mantle rove The Phantom Powers of Subterranean Jove! Arise, propitious to the mystic strain, From Lethe’s flood, and Zeal’s Tartarian fane; Where Freedom’s Shade, ‘mid Stygian vapours damp, Sits, cold and pale, by Truth’s extinguished lamp; While Cowls and Crowns portentous orgies hold, And tuneful Proteus seals his eyes with gold!