for the night. "Of which dialectic marauder," writes our hero, "the
discomfiture was visibly felt as a benefit by most: but what were all
applauses to the glad smile, threatening every moment to become a laugh,
wherewith Blumine herself repaid the victor? He ventured to address her
she answered with attention: nay what if there were a slight tremor
in that silver voice; what if the red glow of evening were hiding a
transient blush!

"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withdrawn."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 discerni