to the loftier realm where the pure dwellers are

“Ha, ha!— you are caustic. Well, you have a right. Sir, we shall meet again.” “AGAIN!” muttered the stranger, and his brow darkened. He hastened to his chamber; he passed the day and the night alone, and in studies, no matter of what nature,— they served to increase his gloom. What could ever connect his fate with Rene Dumas, or the fugitive assassin? Why did the buoyant air of Paris seem to him heavy with the steams of blood; why did an instinct urge him to fly from those sparkling circles, from that focus of the world’s awakened hopes, warning him from return?— he, whose lofty existence defied — but away these dreams and omens! He leaves France behind. Back, O Italy, to thy majestic wrecks! On the Alps his soul breathes the free air once more. Free air! Alas! let the world-healers exhaust their chemistry; man never shall be as free in the marketplace as on the mountain. But we, reader, we too escape from these scenes of false wisdom clothing godless crime. Away, once more “In den heitern Regionen Wo die reinen Formen wohnen.” Away, to the loftier realm where the pure dwellers are. Unpolluted by the Actual, the Ideal lives only with Art and Beauty. Sweet Viola, by the shores of the blue Parthenope, by Virgil’s tomb, and the Cimmerian cavern, we return to thee once more. Part 1 Chapter 9 Che non vuol che ‘l destrier piu vada in alto, Poi lo lega nel margine marino A un verde mirto in mezzo un lauro E Un Pino. “Orlando Furioso,” c. vi. xxiii. (As he did not wish that his charger (the hippogriff) should take any further excursions into the higher regions for the present, he bound him at the sea-shore to a green myrtle between a laurel and a pine.) O Musician! art thou happy now? Thou art reinstalled at thy stately desk,— thy faithful barbiton has its share in the triumph.