My friend Dr. Thorn[661] sees deeper into my mystery. By the way, he still sends an occasional touch at the old {361} subject; and he wants me particularly to tell my readers that the Latin numeral letters, if M be left out, give 666. And so they do: witness DCLXVI. A person who thinks of the origin of symbols will soon see that 666 is our number because we have five fingers on each hand: had we had but four, our mystic number would have been expressed by 555, and would have stood for our present 365. Had n been the number on each hand, the great number would have been
(n + 1) (4n^2 + 2n + 1)
With no finger on each hand, the number would have been 1: with one finger less than none at all on each hand, it would have been 0. But what does this mean? Here is a question for an algebraical paradoxer! So soon as we have found out how many fingers the inhabitants of any one planet have on each hand, we have the means of knowing their number of the Beast, and thence all about them. Very much struck with this hint of discovery, I turned my attention to the means of developing it. The first point was to clear my vision of all the old cataracts. I propose the following experiment, subject of course to the consent of parties. Let Dr. Thorn Double-Vahu Mr. James Smith, and Thau Mr. Reddie: if either be deparadoxed by the treatment, I will consent to undergo it myself. Provided always that the temperature required be not so high as the Doctor hints at: if the Turkish Baths will do for this world, I am content.
The three paradoxers last named and myself have a pentasyllable convention, under which, though we go far beyond civility, we keep within civilization. Though Mr. James Smith pronounced that I must be dishonest if I did not see his argument, which he knew I should not do [to say nothing of recent accusation]; though Dr. Thorn declared me a competitor for fire and brimstone--and my wife, too, which doubles the joke: though Mr. Reddie {362} was certain I had garbled him, evidently on purpose to make falsehood appear truth; yet all three profess respect for me as to everything but power to see truth, or candor to admit it. And on the other hand, though these were the modes of opening communication with me, and though I have no doubt that all three are proper persons of whom to inquire whether I should go up-stairs or down-stairs, etc., yet I am satisfied they are thoroughly respectable men, as to everything but reasoning. And I dare say our several professions are far more true in extent than in many which are made under more parliamentary form. We find excuses for each other: they make allowances for my being hoodwinked by Aristotle, by Newton, by the Devil; and I permit them to feel, for I know they cannot get on without it, that their reasons are such as none but a knave or a sinner can resist. But _they_ are content with cutting a slice each out of my character: neither of them is more than an uncle, a Bone-a-part; I now come to a dreadful nephew, Bone-the-whole.
I will not give the name of the poor fellow who has fallen so far below both the _honestum_ and the _utile_, to say nothing of the _decorum_ or the _dulce_.[662] He is the fourth who has taken elaborate notice of me; and my advice to him would be, _Nec quarta loqui persona laboret_.[663] According to him, I scorn humanity, scandalize learning, and disgrace the press; it admits of no manner of doubt that my object is to mislead the public and silence truth, at the expense of the interests of science, the wealth of the nation, and the lives of my fellow men. The only thing left to be settled is, whether this is due to ignorance, natural distaste for truth, personal malice, a wish to curry favor with the Astronomer Royal, or mere toadyism. The only accusation which has truth in it is, that I have made myself a "public scavenger of science": the assertion, which is the {363} most false of all is, that the results of my broom and spade are "shot right in between the columns of" the _Athenaeum_. I declare I never in my life inserted a word between the columns of the _Athenaeum_: I feel huffed and miffed at the very supposition. I _have_ made myself a public scavenger; and why not? Is the mud never to be collected into a heap? I look down upon the other scavengers, of whom there have been a few--mere historical drudges; Montucla, Hutton, etc.--as not fit to compete with me. I say of them what one crossing-sweeper said of the rest: "They are well enough for the common thing; but put them to a bit of fancy-work, such as sweeping round a post, and see what a mess they make of it!" Who can touch me at sweeping round a paradoxer? If I complete my design of publishing a separate work, an old copy will be fished up from a stall two hundred years hence by the coming man, and will be described in an article which will end by his comparing our century with his own, and sighing out in the best New Zealand pronunciation--
"Dans ces tems-la C'etait deja comme ca!"[664]
