ity to see how
Teufelsdroeckh, in this for him unexampled predicament, demeans
himself; with what specialties of successive configuration, splendour
and colour, his Firework blazes-off. Small, as usual, is the
satisfaction that such can meet with here. From amid these confused
masses of Eulogy and Elegy, with their mad Petrarchan and Werterean
ware lying madly scattered among all sorts of quite extraneous matter,
not so much as the fair one's name can be deciphered. For, without
doubt, the title _Blumine_, whereby she is here designated, and which
means simply Goddess of Flowers, must be fictitious. Was her real name
Flora, then? But what was her surname, or had she none? Of what
station in Life was she; of what parentage, fortune, aspect?
Specially, by what Pre-established Harmony of occurrences did the
Lover and the Loved meet one another in so wide a world; how did they
behave in such meeting? To all which questions, not unessential in a
Biographic work, mere Conjecture must for most part return answer. 'It
was appointed,' says our Philosopher, 'that the high celestial orbit
of Blumine should intersect the low sublunary one of our Forlorn; that
he, looking in her empyrean eyes, should fancy the upper Sphere of
Light was come down into this nether sphere of Shadows; and finding
himself mistaken, make noise enough.'

We seem to gather that she was young, hazel-eyed, beautiful, and some
one's Cousin; highborn, and of high spirit; but unhappily dependent
and insolvent; living, perhaps, on the not-too-gracious bounty of
monied relatives. But how came 'the Wanderer' into her circle? Was it
by the humid vehicle of _AEsthetic Tea_, or by the arid one of mere
Business? Was it on the hand of Herr Towgood; or of the Gnaedige Frau,
who, as ornamental Artist, might sometimes like to promote flirtation,
especially for young cynical Nondescripts? To all appearance, it was
chiefly by Accident, and the grace of Nature.

'Thou fair Waldschloss,' writes our Autobiographer, 'what stranger
ever saw thee, were it even an absolved Auscultator, officially
bearing in his pocket the last _Relatio ex Actis_ he would ever write,
but must have paused to wonder! Noble Mansion! There stoodest thou, in
deep Mountain Amphitheatre, on umbrageous lawns, in thy serene
solitude; stately, massive, all of granite; glittering in the western
sunbeams, like a palace of El Dorado, overlaid with precious metal.
Beautiful rose up, in wavy curvature, the slope