ed some
richer,' shows more philosophy, though but 'a woman of genius,' than
thou, a pretended man.

Our readers have witnessed the origin of this Love-mania, 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
air-navigator, plunging amid torn parachutes, sand-bags, and confused
wreck, fast enough into the jaws of the Devil! Suffice it to know that
Teufelsdroeckh 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 Teufelsdroeckh'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,
announcing that the Doomsday had dawned! She said, in a tremulous
voice, They were to meet no more.' The thunder-struck 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 Teufelsdroeckh made immortal by a kiss. And then? Why,
then--'thick curtains of Night rushed over his soul, as rose the
immeasurable Cra