of a new kind. To escape ineffable dulness is the privilege of the
lunatic; the lunatic, who is the true aristocrat of nature--the unique
man in a tower of ivory, the elect, who, in samite robes, traverses
moody gardens. Really, I shudder at the idea of ever living again in
yonder stewpot of humanity, with all its bad smells. To struggle with
the fools for their idiotic prizes is beyond me. The lunatic asylum--"

"Can't you find some other word?" asked Quell, dryly.

"--is the best modern equivalent for the tub of Diogenes--he who was the
first Solitary, the first Individualist. To dream one's dreams, to be
alone--"

"How about McKracken and the keepers?"

"From the volatile intellects of madmen are fashioned the truths of
humanity. Mental repose is death. All our modern theocrats,
politicians,--whose minds are sewers for the people,--and lawyers are
corpses, their brains dead from feeding on dead ideas. Motion is
life--mad minds are always in motion."

"Let up there! You talk like the doctor chaps over at the crazy crib,"
interrupted Quell.

"Ah, if we could only arrange our dreams in chapters--as in a novel.
Sometimes Nature does it for us. There is really a beginning, a
development, a dénouement. But, for the most of us, life is a crooked
road with weeds so high that we can't see the turn of the path. Now, my
case--I'm telling you my story after all--my case is a typical one of
the artistic sort. I wrote prose, verse, and dissipated with true