It immediately occurred to him that the best mode he could adopt of elucidating the mystery would be to call on Miss Melincourt, whom, besides, Sir Telegraph’s enthusiastic description had given him some curiosity to see; and the present appeared a favourable opportunity to indulge it. He therefore asked Mr. Fax if he were disposed for a very long walk. Mr. Fax expressed a cordial assent to the proposal, and no time was lost in preparation. Mr. Forester, though he had built stables for the accommodation of his occasional visitors, kept no horses himself, for reasons which will appear hereafter. They set forth accordingly, accompanied by Sir Oran, who joined them without waiting for an invitation. ‘We shall see Sir Telegraph Paxarett,’ said Mr. Forester, ‘and, perhaps, his phoenix, Miss Melincourt.’ _Mr. Fax._ If a woman be the object, and a lover’s eyes the medium, I should say there is nothing in nature so easily found as a phoenix. _Mr. Forester._ My eyes have no such magical property. I am not a lover, it is true, but it is because I have never found a phoenix. _Mr. Fax._ But you have one in your mind, a _beau ideal_, I doubt not. _Mr. Forester._ Not too ideal to exclude the possible existence of its material archetype, though I have never found it yet. _Mr. Fax._ You will, however, find a female who has some one at least of the qualities of your imaginary damsel, and that one quality will serve as a peg on which your imagination will suspend all the others. This is the usual process of mental hallucination. A little truth forms the basis, and the whole superstructure is falsehood. _Mr. Forester._ I shall guard carefully against such self-deception; though, perhaps, a beautiful chimera is better than either a hideous reality or a vast and formless void. _Mr. Fax._ As an instrument of transitory pleasure, probably; but very far from it as a means of permanent happiness, which is only consistent with perfect mental tranquillity, which again is only consistent with the calm and dispassionate contemplation of truth. _Mr. Forester._ What say you, then, to the sentiment of Voltaire?— Le raisonneur tristement s’accrédite: On court, dit-on, après la vérité, Ah! croyez-moi, l’erreur a son mérite. _Mr. Fax._ You will scarcely coincide with such a sentiment, when you consider how much this doctrine of happy errors, and pleasing illusions, and salutary prejudices, has tended to rivet the chains of superstition on the necks of the grovelling multitude. _Mr. Forester._ And yet, if you take the colouring of imagination from the objects of our mental perception, and pour the full blaze of daylight into all the dark recesses of selfishness and cunning, I am afraid a refined and enthusiastic benevolence will find little to interest or delight in the contemplation of the human world.