Morning-star; did not her presence bring
with it airs from Heaven? As from AEolian Harps in the breath of
dawn, as from the Memnon's Statue struck by the rosy finger of Aurora,
unearthly music was around him, and lapped him into untried balmy Rest.
Pale Doubt fled away to the distance; Life bloomed up with happiness and
hope. The past, then, was all a haggard dream; he had been in the Garden
of Eden, then, and could not discern it! But lo now! the black walls
of his prison melt away; the captive is alive, is free. If he loved his
Disenchantress? _Ach Gott_! His whole heart and soul and life were hers,
but never had he named it Love: existence was all a Feeling, not yet
shaped into a Thought."

Nevertheless, into a Thought, nay into an Action, it must be shaped; for
neither Disenchanter nor Disenchantress, mere "Children of Time," can
abide by Feeling alone. The Professor knows not, to this day, "how in
her soft, fervid bosom the Lovely found determination, even on hest
of Necessity, to cut asunder these so blissful bonds." He even appears
surprised at the "Duenna Cousin," whoever she may have been, "in whose
meagre hunger-bitten philosophy, the religion of young hearts was, from
the first, faintly approved of." We, even at such distance, can explain
it without necromancy. Let the Philosopher answer this one question:
What figure, at that period, was a Mrs. Teufelsdrockh likely to make in
polished society? Could she have driven so much as a brass-bound Gig,
or even a simple iron-spring one? Thou foolish "absolved Auscultator,"
before whom lies no prospect of capital, will any yet known "religion
of young hearts" keep the human kitchen warm? Pshaw! thy divine Blumine,
when she "resigned herself to wed 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 splendor 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 organized? 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
elast