Tea and coffee were brought in. ‘I divide my day,’ said Mr. Mystic, ‘_on a new principle_: I am always poetical at breakfast, moral at luncheon, metaphysical at dinner, and political at tea. Now you shall know my opinion of the hopes of the world.—General discontent shall be the basis of public resignation![83] The materials of political gloom will build the steadfast frame of hope.[84] The main point is to get rid of analytical reason, which is experimental and practical, and live only by faith,[85] which is synthetical and oracular. The contradictory interests of ten millions may neutralise each other.[86] But the spirit of Antichrist is abroad:[87]—the people read!—nay, they think!! The people read and think!!! The public, the public in general, the swinish multitude, the many-headed monster, actually reads and thinks!!!![88] Horrible in thought, but in fact most horrible! Science classifies flowers. Can it make them bloom where it has placed them in its classification![89] No. Therefore flowers ought not to be classified. This is transcendental logic. Ha! in that cylindrical mirror I see three shadowy forms:—dimly I see them through the smoked glass of my spectacles. Who art thou?—MYSTERY!—I hail thee! Who art thou?—JARGON—I love thee! Who art thou?—SUPERSTITION!—I worship thee! Hail, transcendental TRIAD!’ Mr. Fax cut short the thread of his eloquence by saying he would trouble him for the cream-jug. [Illustration: _Sir Oran Haut-ton ascending the stairs with the great rain-water tub._] Mr. Mystic began again, and talked for three hours without intermission, except that he paused a moment on the entrance of sandwiches and Madeira. His visitors sipped his wine in silence till he had fairly talked himself hoarse. Neither Mr. Fax nor Mr. Forester replied to his paradoxes; for to what end, they thought, should they attempt to answer what few would hear and none would understand? It was now time to retire, and Mr. Mystic showed his guests to the doors of their respective apartments, in each of which a gas-light was burning, and ascended another flight of stairs to his own dormitory, with a little twinkling taper in his hand. Mr. Forester and Mr. Fax stayed a few minutes on the landing-place, to have a word of consultation before they parted for the night. Mr. Mystic gained the door of his apartment—turned the handle of the lock—and had just advanced one step—when the whole interior of the chamber became suddenly sheeted with fire: a tremendous explosion followed; and he was precipitated to the foot of the stairs in _the smallest conceivable fraction of the infinite divisibility of time_.