ike dew on thirsty
grass; all better feelings in his soul seemed to whisper: It is good
for us to be here. At parting, the Blumine's hand was in his: in the
balmy twilight, with the kind stars above them, he spoke something of
meeting again, which was not contradicted; he pressed gently those
small soft fingers, and it seemed as if they were not hastily, not
angrily withdrawn.'

Poor Teufelsdroeckh! it is clear to demonstration thou art smit: the
Queen of Hearts would see a 'man of genius' also sigh for her; and
there, by art-magic, in that preternatural hour, has she bound and
spell-bound thee. 'Love is not altogether a Delirium,' says he elsewhere;
'yet has it many points in common therewith. I call it rather a
discerning of the Infinite in the Finite, of the Idea made Real; which
discerning again may be either true or false, either seraphic or
demoniac, Inspiration or Insanity. But in the former case too, as in
common Madness, it is Fantasy that superadds itself to sight; on the
so petty domain of the Actual plants its Archimedes-lever, whereby to
move at will the infinite Spiritual. Fantasy I might call the true
Heaven-gate and Hell-gate of man: his sensuous life is but the small
temporary stage (_Zeitbuehne_), whereon thick-streaming influences from
both these far yet near regions meet visibly, and act tragedy and
melodrama. Sense can support herself handsomely, in most countries, for
some eighteenpence a day; but for Fantasy planets and solar-systems
will not suffice. Witness your Pyrrhus conquering the world, yet
drinking no better red wine than he had before.' Alas! witness also
your Diogenes, flame-clad, scaling the upper Heaven, and verging
towards Insanity, for prize of a 'high-souled Brunette,' as if the
earth held but one and not several of these!

He says that, in Town, they met again: 'day after day, like his
heart's sun, the blooming Blumine shone on him. Ah! a little while
ago, and he was yet in all darkness; him what Graceful (_Holde_) would
ever love? Disbelieving all things, the poor youth had never learned
to believe in himself. Withdrawn, in proud timidity, within his own
fastnesses; solitary from men, yet baited by night-spectres enough, he
saw himself, with a sad indignation, constrained to renounce the
fairest hopes of existence. And now, O now! "She looks on thee," cried
he: "she the fairest, noblest; do not her dark eyes tell thee, thou
art not despised? The Heaven's-Messenger! All Heaven's