sh of Doom; and through the ruins as of a shivered
Universe was he falling, falling, towards the Abyss.'

CHAPTER VI

SORROWS OF TEUFELSDROeCKH

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 Teufelsdroeckh, 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 Teufelsdroeckh 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
intensity 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glass phial: but no sooner are your magic appliances withdrawn, than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 Teufelsdroeckh, 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