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 Teufelsdroeckh'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 dismembered philosophies, and buttoned himself together;
he was meek, silent, or spoke of the weather and the Journals: only by
a transient knitting of those shaggy brows, by some deep flash of
those eyes, glancing one knew not whether with tear-dew or with fierce
fire,--might you have guessed what a Gehenna was within; that a whole
Satanic School were spouting, though inaudibly, there. To consume your
own choler, as some chimneys consume their own smoke; to keep a whole
Satanic School spouting, if it must spout, inaudibly, is a negative
yet no slight virtue, nor one of the commonest in these times.

Nevertheless, we will not take upon us to say, that in the strange
measure he fell upon, there was not a touch of latent Insanity;
whereof indeed the actual condition of these Documents in
_Capricornus_ and _Aquarius_ is no bad emblem. His so unlimited
Wanderings, toilsome enough, are without assigned or perhaps
assignable aim; internal Unrest seems his sole guidance; he wanders,
wanders, as if that curse of the Prophet had fallen on him, and he
were 'made like unto a wheel.' Doubtless, too, the chaotic nature of
these Paper-bags aggravates our obscurity. Quite without note of
preparation, for example, we come upon the following slip: 'A peculiar
feeling it is that will rise in the Traveller, when turning some
hill-range in his desert road, he descries lying far below, embosomed
among its groves and green natural bulwarks, and all diminished to a
toybox, the fair Town, where so many souls, as it were seen and yet
unseen, are driving their multifarious traffic. Its white steeple is
then truly a starward-pointing finger; the canopy of blue smoke seems
like a sort of Life-breath: for always, of its own unity, the soul
gives unity to whatsoever it looks on with love; thus does the li