'but never had he named it Love: existence was all a 'Feeling, not yet shaped into a Thought.'

Nevertheless, into a Thought, nay into an Action, it must be shaped; for neither Disenchanter nor Disenchantress, mere Children of Time,' can abide by Feeling alone. The Professor knows not, to this day, how in her soft, fervid bosom, the Lovely found determina-. 'tion, even on hest of Necessity, to cut asunder these 'so blissful bonds.' He even appears surprised at the 'Duenna Cousin,' whoever she may have been, in whose meagre, hunger-bitten philosophy, the religion of young hearts was, from the first, faintly approved 'of.' We, even at such distance, can explain it without necromancy. Let the Philosopher answer this one question: What figure, at that period, was a Mrs. Teufelsdröckh likely to make in polished society? Could she have driven so much as a brass-bound Gig, or even a simple iron-spring one? Thou foolish absolved Auscultator,' before whom lies no prospect of capital, will any yet known 'religion of young hearts' keep the human Kitchen warm? Pshaw! thy divine Blumine, when she resigned herself to wed some richer,' shews more philosophy, though but a woman of genius,' than thou, a pretended man.

Our readers have witnessed the origin of this Lovemania, and with what royal splendour it waxes, and rises. Let no one ask us to unfold the glories of its dominant state; much less the horrors of its almost instantaneous dissolution. How from such inorganic

masses, henceforth madder than ever, as lie in these Bags, can even fragments of a living delineation be

organised? Besides, of what profit were it? We view, with a lively pleasure, the gay silk Montgolfier start from the ground, and shoot upwards, cleaving the liquid deeps, till it dwindle to a luminous star: but what is there to look longer on, when once, by natural elasticity, or accident of fire, it has exploded? A hapless airnavigator, plunging, amid torn parachutes, sand-bags, and confused wreck, fast enough, into the jaws of the Devil! Suffice it to know that Teufelsdröckh rose into the highest regions of the Empyrean, by a natural parabolic track, and returned thence in a quick perpendicular one. For the rest, let any feeling reader, who has been unhappy enough to do the like, paint it out for himself; considering only that if he, for his perhaps comparatively insignificant mistress, underwent such agonies and frenzies, what must Teufelsdröckh's have been, with a fire-heart, and for a nonpareil Blumine! We glance merely at the final scene:

'One morning, he found his Morning-star all dimmed 'and dusky-red; the fair creature was silent, absent, 'she seemed to have been weeping. Alas, no longer a 'Morning-star, but a troublous skyey Portent, an'nouncing that the Doomsday had dawned! She said, ' in a tremulous voice, they were to meet no more.' The thunderstruck Air-sailor is not wanting to himself in this dread hour: but what avails it? We omit the passionate expostulations, entreaties, indignations, since all was vain, and not even an explanation was conceded him; and hasten to the catastrophe. Farewell, then, 'Madam! said he, not without sternness, for his stung 'pride helped him. She put her hand in his, she looked

' in his face, tears started to her eyes in wild audacity 'he clasped her to his bosom; their lips were joined, their two souls, like two dew-drops, rushed into one, 'for the first time, and for the last!' Thus was Teufelsdröckh made immortal by a kiss. And then? Why, then thick curtains of Night rushed over his 'soul, as rose the immeasurable Crash of Doom; and 'through the ruins as of a shivered Universe, was he 'falling, falling, towards the Abyss.'

CHAPTER VI.

SORROWS OF TEUFELSDRÖCKH.

WE have long felt that, with a man like our Professor, matters must often be expected to take a course of their own; that, in so multiplex, intricate a nature, there might be channels, both for admitting and emitting, such as the Psychologist had seldom noted; in short, that on no grand occasion and convulsion, neither in the joy-storm nor in the woe-storm, could you predict his demeanour.

To our less philosophical readers, for example, it is now clear that the so passionate Teufelsdröckh, precipitated through a shivered Universe' in this extraordinary way, has only one of three things which he can next do Establish himself in Bedlam; begin writing Satanic Poetry; or blow out his brains. In the progress towards any of which consummations, do not such readers anticipate extravagance enough: breast-beating, brow-beating (against walls), lion-bellowings of blasphemy and the like, stampings, smitings, breakages of furniture, if not arson itself?

Nowise so does Teufelsdröckh deport him. He quietly lifts his Pilgerstab (Pilgrim-staff), 'old business being soon wound up;' and begins a perambulation and circumambulation of the terraqueous Globe! Curious it is, indeed, how with such vivacity of conception, such in

tensity of feeling; above all, with these unconscionable habits of Exaggeration in speech, he combines that wonderful stillness of his, that stoicism in external procedure. Thus if his sudden bereavement, in this matter of the Flower-goddess, is talked of as a real Doomsday and Dissolution of Nature, in which light doubtless it partly appeared to himself, his own nature is nowise dissolved thereby; but rather is compressed closer. For once, as we might say, a Blumine by magic appliances has unlocked that shut heart of his, and its hidden things rush out tumultuous, boundless, like genii enfranchised from their glass phial: but no sooner are your magic appliances withdrawn, than the strange casket of a heart springs-to again; and perhaps there is now no key extant that will open it; for a Teufelsdröckh, as we remarked, will not love a second time. Singular Diogenes! No sooner has that heart-rending occurrence fairly taken place, than he affects to regard it as a thing natural, of which there is nothing more to be said. 'One highest Hope, seemingly legible in the eyes of an 'Angel, had recalled him as out of Death-shadows into 'celestial Life: but a gleam of Tophet passed over the 'face of his Angel; he was rapt away in whirlwinds, and heard the laughter of Demons. It was a Calenture,' adds he, whereby the Youth saw green Paradise-groves ' in the waste Ocean-waters: a lying vision, yet not wholly 'a lie, for he saw it.' But what things soever passed in him, when he ceased to see it; what ragings and despairings soever Teufelsdröckh's soul was the scene of, he has the goodness to conceal under a quite opaque cover of Silence. We know it well; the first mad paroxysm past, our brave Gneschen collected his dis