"'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. * * *
"Who art thou?—Mystery!—I hail thee! Who art thou?—Jargon!—I love thee! Who art thou?—Superstition!—I worship thee! Hail, transcendental Triad!'"
Later while his companions are concerned practically
over the catastrophe of an explosion of gas in his room,
he bewails it as—[1]
"* * * an infallible omen of evil—a type and symbol
of an approaching period of public light—when the smoke of
metaphysical mystery, and the vapours of ancient superstition,
which he had done all that in him lay to consolidate in the spirit
of man, would explode at the touch of analytical reason, leaving
nothing but the plain common sense matter-of-fact of moral
and political truth—a day that he earnestly hoped he might
never live to see."
Mr. Floskey is thus described:[2]
"He had been in his youth an enthusiast for liberty, and had
hailed the dawn of the French Revolution as the promise of a
day that was to banish war and slavery, and every form of
vice and misery, from the face of the earth. Because all this
was not done, he deduced that nothing was done, and from this
deduction, according to his system of logic, he drew a conclusion
that worse than nothing was done, * * * " etc.
And thus he describes his opinion of current literature:[3]
"This rage for novelty is the bane of literature. Except my
works and those of my particular friends, nothing is good that
