“The conversation took a higher tone, one fine thought called forth another:  it was one of those rare seasons, when the soul expands with full freedom, and man feels himself brought near to man.  Gayly in light, graceful abandonment, the friendly talk played round that circle; for the burden was rolled from every heart; the barriers of Ceremony, which are indeed the laws of polite living, had melted as into vapor; and the poor claims of Me and Thee, no longer parted by rigid fences, now flowed softly into one another; and Life lay all harmonious, many-tinted, like some fair royal champaign, the sovereign and owner of which were Love only.  Such music springs from kind hearts, in a kind environment of place and time.  And yet as the light grew more aerial on the mountaintops, and the shadows fell longer over the valley, some faint tone of sadness may have breathed through the heart; and, in whispers more or less audible, reminded every one that as this bright day was drawing towards its close, so likewise must the Day of Man’s Existence decline into dust and darkness; and with all its sick toilings, and joyful and mournful noises, sink in the still Eternity.

“To our Friend the hours seemed moments; holy was he and happy:  the words from those sweetest lips came over him like 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not contradicted; he pressed gently those small soft fingers, and it seemed as if they were not hastily, not angrily withdrawn.”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 Teufelsdrockh! 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 (Zeitbuhne), 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!